by Lee Goldberg
He came in just as the A.D. ran the bell and the director yelled "Action!"
Peter Pan and Dixon Drew were standing in a warehouse, confronting two thugs who held sawed-off shotguns at their sides. Peter Pan glared at the thugs from underneath his pointy hat. Drew stood beside him in leather pants and tight, black shirt, and stroked his goatee.
"I'm looking for the scum-bucket, bat load of pizza trash who high handled my goatee," Drew said, speaking dialog that Burley could only have written for himself, since he was the only one who understood it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," the thug grunted.
Truth was, neither did Eddie. But neither he, nor anyone else at the studio, had the guts to tell Jackson Burley that.
"Run that line on someone else's knuckles," Drew said, "because that sticker-jive doesn't sing the song with me."
The thug whipped up his shotgun, and Peter Pan threw fairy dust in his eyes, blinding him. Drew decked the thug. The other thug turned to shoot Peter, but the fairy cop flew into the air, did a somersault, and kicked the thug in the back, sending him flying.
"These two are going to never-never land," Peter said, "for fifteen years-to-life."
Dixon Drew nodded. "You can take that to the bank and smoke it, but not on my astro-turf, pal."
And after a significant moment, and a couple macho nods and grimaces, the director yelled "Cut, print. Moving on, folks. Scene 42."
A bell rang and Burley strode off the set to see Eddie, who stood to one side in the darkness behind the cameras.
"What did you think, Eddie?"
Eddie shook his head, feigning amazement. "Powerful stuff, incendiary performance. Pacino could take some pointers from you. You've got so much presence, you're almost two people."
"You're out there with your ass in the wind if you don't have the words." Burley said.
"Damn straight, Jack," Eddie was only half-certain he understood what Jackson Burley said, but he had a safe comeback in mind. "It's a good thing you took a pass at the material, because you really understand the language of the mean streets. You're plugged into the dark underbelly of society the way no one else in this town is."
"Yeah," Burley nodded in agreement. "It's a shame I couldn't rewrite this show from the start."
"There's always the back nine," Eddie said, referring the number of episodes the network would order if it picked up the series for the rest of the season.
"No, there isn't." Burley headed for the door. Eddie scurried after him.
"Of course there is, Jack. This show is on a roll."
"Straight off a cliff," Burley opened the stage door, pulled out his keys, and hit a button on his keychain. His golf cart alarm beeped off. "If I didn't have seven dramas on the networks, I'd write this show myself and save it. But I'm a studio executive now, I've got eight series to oversee and we're launching our own network. I just don't have the time."
"This show could be a major hit," Eddie said. "As a studio executive, you have to see the potential."
"It was canceled this morning, Eddie. Morrie Lustig called me at the periodontist," Burley got into his cart and plucked a mineral water out of the frig in the back. "Two more episodes, and it's off MBC."
Eddie couldn't let it go at that. There had to be a way to make this a good thing, to somehow turn a death sentence into a plus. Suddenly, it hit him.
"Which frees Peter Pan up for the Big Network," Eddie shot back. "Brilliant move, Jack. You're a visionary. By not putting up a fight, you got them to release the show so you could program it against them. Those jerks at MBC don't even realize they walked right into your trap."
"Peter Pan doesn't fit into the Big Network picture, it's old-style television."
"I see," Eddie said. "So what do you call a rehash of Beyond the Beyond?"
"Progressive television," Burley snapped back, his face tight.
"Me too," Eddie quickly replied, forcing a smile. "I was just searching for the right words, and those would be the ones."
So Peter Pan was dead. It wasn't good news, but the blow was softened by the knowledge he still had three months left in his overall deal.
Jackson Burley started up the cart and backed out of his spot with a screech. Before shifting into drive, he glanced back at Eddie, who slouched sadly towards his cart.
"You've been working awfully hard, Eddie. If I were you, I'd take the next few weeks and relax. Regroup. Center yourself."
Burley smiled and sped off. Eddie stared after him, shocked. Take the next few weeks off? Regroup? There it was, flat out. Pinnacle wasn't going to renew his deal. Eddie's bowels seized up.
He staggered to the nearest guest-star trailer, opened the door, and commandeered the toilet for what was sure to be 45 minutes at best. If Greg Evigan came back and had a problem with it, fuck him. He was still Eddie Planet, at least for three more months, and he needed to think.
Chapter Three
Before she became an actress, Patty Lok was an international swimsuit model. Jeans and a t-shirt did little to diminish her astonishing beauty.
Actor Vaughn Bryant's boyish, classic handsomeness first got him noticed as the young Robert Redford in The Way We Were Before We Were.
Together, they looked like the perfect couple. In fact, all it took was a poster featuring the two of them to pre-sell Pinnacle's $25 million romance Love's Lustful Drumbeat internationally. Before a frame of film was even shot, the movie had already broken even.
They looked so good together, rumors were already flying that they were a couple off-screen as well. People magazine called them "Barbie and Ken" and they were dubbed "Hollywood's new royal couple" by the swishy gossips at Movieline.
The studio flacks didn't go out of their way to discourage the rumors because they were actually the ones spreading them.
So it was with considerable concern that Alison Sweeney sped down to stage 11 in her golf cart. Word had already spread from the stage to the tower that Vaughn Bryant was refusing to do a party scene, and that Patty Lok had run crying to her trailer.
It was a major crisis. If the slightest hint of disharmony between the two actors leaked off the lot, or it could kill the movie.
Alison pulled up outside the stage. She looked very little like the typical studio exec, casually dressed in jeans and an oversized, untucked denim shirt and a suit vest, her ponytail sticking out the back of her Pinnacle Studios baseball cap. It was one reason everyone felt comfortable with her right away. She was non-threatening.
She took a quick sip of flat Sprite, set the can back in the beverage holder, and hurried over to the production office trailer.
The director, Anson Costo, was waiting for her, a sheepish smile on his face, the same one he'd been trading on his entire career. Fifteen years, two face-lifts, and a head of hair ago, he was one of the kid stars of the sitcom The Wacky Wackersons. When the series ended, all his sheepish smile could get him were gigs as the celebrity contestant on bad game shows. So he became a director.
"I appreciate you coming down, Ms. Sweeney," Costo said, shaking her hand. "I've got eight pages to shoot today."
"What's the problem?"
"Fucking actors, that's the problem. If they were any good, they'd be directors."
Costo walked with her around the soundstage to the actors' trailers, large mobile homes that doubled as dressing rooms.
"Vaughn Bryant was supposed to bump into Patty at the party and say, 'hey, you look terrific.' Only he wouldn't. I ask him why not, and he goes, 'cause she looks like a moose,'" Oscar said. "So now Patty Lok is sobbing in her trailer, I'm an hour behind, and some idiot extra in the party scene nearly chokes to death trying to eat one of the prop shrimp."
Alison chewed on her pony tail, a nervous habit she'd been trying to kick since high school. She didn't know what to say. Patty Lok was one of the most beautiful women in the world, and therefore, one of the most insecure. Patty probably believed Vaughn, and was no doubt jamming her fingers down her throat right now in a des
perate bid to lose the offending pounds.
"Our line producer told me to give you a call," Costo said. "Don't take this personally, but what do you do?"
"I'm talent liaison for Pinnacle Pictures." She said. "I interface with the talent on behalf of the studio."
He looked at her. She looked back at him.
"It means I do whatever is necessary to keep the actors, writers, directors and producers happy so there won't be trouble."
Costo nodded. "And what happens when there's trouble?"
I call Charlie Willis, she thought, then felt a pang of loneliness. She missed him.
"There won't be. I'll take care of it. You just get Patty Lok on the set." Alison spun on her heels, inadvertently swatting Costo with her wet pony tail, marched over to Vaughn's trailer and knocked on the door.
Vaughn opened on the first knock. "Is the prima donna ready yet?"
"I'm afraid not, Vaughn. Could I talk to you for a sec?" she asked.
He motioned her inside. "I hope you're going to do something about her, Alison. She's holding the entire company up. Espresso?"
"No thanks," Alison sat down on the couch and watched Vaughn futz with the espresso machine, a hissing, burping, $5000 contraption that was flown in from Italy, as specified in his contract. "I understand you have a problem with the script."
"There's one line I can't get behind."
"'Hey, you look terrific.'" she said.
"I'm sure when the writers wrote it, they didn't have that cow in mind," Vaughn held his cup under the machine, which sprayed out the most expensive espresso-per-cup in Los Angeles.
"She's looks pretty good to me." Alison replied.
"Get real," Vaughn said. "She's a hag."
"But not to your character, a country boy in the big city." Alison said. "To him, she's stunning."
"To him, she's a pig."
Alison had seen this happen with actors before - he was afraid he was no longer the prettiest face on the set. This was his way of asserting his attractiveness.
"Surely, there's something nice your character can say." Alison said.
He sipped his espresso and shrugged.
"How about her eyes?" she offered, but he shook his head. "Her smile? Her hair? Her skin?"
He stared at her blankly. In desperation, Alison suggested, "What about her clothes?"
* * * * * *
Ten minutes later, Vaughn and Patty were back on the set and ready to do the party scene. Anson Costo yelled "Action!"
Willie wandered through the party, a country boy lost and self-conscious among the creme of high-society.
"Hello, Willie."
Willie whirled around, and awkwardly faced Savannah, a woman he loved fiercely, but who was engaged to marry a rich lawyer. What could he possibly say to convince a debutante like her to fall for simple Nebraska farmer like him? He smiled awkwardly and said:
"Hey, nice pants."
Alison had no way of knowing, as she slipped quietly out of the soundstage, that those three words would become famous, studied for generations by film historians who would marvel at their economy, subtlety, and profound emotional impact.
She was barely out the door when a production assistant ran up to her. "The tower is looking all over for you. They need you right away. There's a major crisis."
Alison shook her head wearily. They were all major crises.
"The story of my life," she said.
* * * * * *
The weeds in front of Guy Goddard's deteriorating, ranch-style house were at least three feet high, and since Eddie Planet hadn't brought along a machete, he didn't bother trying the front door.
Instead, he parked his Lexus behind "Shuttle Craft One" under the carport and knocked on the screen door, which hung onto the house by one rusty hinge.
The door behind the screen opened enough to let out the barrel of a gun. Eddie took a big step back.
"Identify yourself," Guy said from behind the door.
"I'm Eddie Planet," he said, pronouncing his name the way it looked for the first time. "Named for my deep, abiding love of the cosmos."
The door opened a little further, enough for Eddie to see Guy's suspicious eyes. "State your business."
Getting Conrad Stipe booted from the show so Eddie could move in. It had occurred to Eddie, as he sat on Greg Evigan's toilet, that the only reason Stipe was running the show was because the studio thought the fans wouldn't accept anyone else. But if he had Guy Goddard and the fans on his side, that could change.
"I'm an acclaimed writer producer with a deal at Pinnacle and when I, your biggest fan in the universe, came across this," Eddie held up a shrink-wrapped piece of paper, collected from Stipe's trash, for Goddard to see. "I was just sickened to the very core of my being. It's a memo from Conrad Stipe to Jackson Burley, president of Pinnacle Television, outlining his plan for Beyond the Beyond."
Eddie turned the memo back towards him so he could read from it. "`The appeal of Beyond the Beyond is the characters, not the actors who play them. The biggest mistake we can make is bringing back the original cast. Time has not been kind to any of them, particularly bovine Guy Goddard, a flatulent, incontinent has-been who—"
Before he could get out another word, Guy burst out of the house and jammed the gun against Eddie's forehead, cocking the trigger.
"I'm on your side," Eddie stammered, looking cross-eyed at the gun. "As far as I'm concerned, you're Captain Pierce. Anyone else is just a bad imitation."
The Captain narrowed his eyes at Eddie. "So you know about the evil doubles."
Guy Goddard was further gone than Eddie even imagined. Eddie took a deep breath. "Oh yes."
Guy was relieved to know there was at least one other person beside himself left in the Confederation who saw what was happening. He lowered the gun.
"How many others in the Confederation high command know what's going on?"
Eddie assumed Guy meant the studio.
"No one," Eddie said as gravely as he could. "But it's not too late to save the show. You have to convince the fans to rise up against Stipe and what he's doing. If you don't, the show will be ruined forever."
"You're suggesting that I lead a rebellion against the Confederation."
"No, Captain, I'm asking you to save it."
Eddie knew that if he kept talking, he ran the danger of saying the wrong thing and getting himself shot. He also knew he couldn't top that line. It was the perfect act ending. So he abruptly turned on his heels and marched back to his car, feeling Guy Goddard's insane eyes on him the whole way.
* * * * *
Charlie Willis didn't know much about Southern California history, but he figured when Canoga Park was founded, it at least resembled its name. At one time, it must have been a community of grassy slopes and gentle streams, not the cement and asphalt wasteland of bleak warehouses it was now.
Canoga Park was smack on the industrial, western boundary of the San Fernando Valley, in the flat, smoggy pocket between the hillside, gated estates of Encino and Tarzana, and the housing developments spreading over the San Gabriel Mountains.
He steered his rented Ford Contour down a boulevard lined with junk yards, lumber yards, masonry yards, everything but green yards. The only people who lived here, in the run-down apartment buildings tucked between the warehouses, were poor, predominantly Hispanic workers who milled around on the street corners, hoping to be hired as day-laborers.
And Charlie Willis.
He took a left onto the sidestreet beside Home Depot hardware and parked at the curb in front of Canoga Stor-All, a prison camp for memories and life's unwanted clutter.
A tall, wrought-iron fence surrounded six, long, gray, cinder-block buildings containing about 30 storage units with orange-painted, corrugated metal, roll-up, garage doors. Each storage unit was secured by one, or more, padlocks and an occasional chain. At the front of the complex, beside the code-key gate, was the main office, a cinder-block building with mini-blinds on the windows and a flat, tar-
paper roof. A golf cart was parked out front.
It wasn't an establishment that would be on the cover of Architectural Digest any time soon. But it was home, ever since the Northridge quake flattened his house in Reseda. His uninsured house.
Hours after the quake, Charlie rented a U-Haul, took what was left of his belongings and put them in storage at Canoga Stor-All. He arrived just as the resident managers, terrified by the aftershocks, were leaving to catch the next plane back to Israel.
So he, and his belongings, stayed. Canoga Stor-All became his home, and his job, until Pinnacle Studios offered him a job as their "trouble shooter."
Charlie popped the trunk, unloaded his suitcase, and trudged towards the front office, pausing on his way to watch two guys lug a garden statuary version of Michaelangelo's David from their Toyota into one of the units. In the next row, a weary looking fellow was trying to cram a crib into his Volvo, while his two kids threw french fries at each other in the back seat.
The place was hopping.
He threw open the screen door and stepped up to the scratched, wood-grain Formica counter. There was nobody at the old IBM PC, which had been left on so long, the image of the Stor-All lease was burned into the amber computer screen.
"If you're a vicious gang member with an automatic weapon, help yourself to the computer 'cause we got no cash," called out Lou LeDoux through the half-open door that separated the office from Charlie's apartment. "You can also have the half-eaten sugar cookie on the counter."
Charlie squeezed around the counter and nudged open the door to his apartment with the toe of his shoe.
"Glad to see you're watching out for the place," Charlie said to his brother-in-law. "I feel so secure knowing it's safe in your hands while I'm gone."
Lou sat in Charlie's recliner in a yellow tank top and purple sweats, the latest issue of Big Hooters open on his lap, a beer in his hand, and a football game on the television. He didn't look much like an LAPD detective.
"What you got here, Charlie, is a slice of heaven."
