by Lee Goldberg
On a sunny day, tanned, perfect babes and tanned, perfect hunks jogged up and down the median, from Barrington in Brentwood to Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, hoping to get noticed. And they were, according to insurance company statistics. Parked cars, pedestrians, and other vehicles were routinely sideswiped, crushed and smashed by drivers craning their necks for one more peek of perfect pecs or bouncing buns.
The median was one of the great, unpublicized short-cuts into the entertainment industry. If you distracted an agent, producer, or director long enough to get them involved in a major traffic accident, you were on your way to a walk-on role in a series or a weekend read of your spec script.
Spring Dano already had a series job, but old habits are hard to break. Besides, she'd become accustomed to the screech of twisted metal, and the cries of mowed down pedestrians, when she jogged. Knowing her beauty could cause such turmoil and destruction gave her the motivation to keep those Nikes moving.
Already today, while lying in wait for her, Thrack witnessed two collisions and a hit-and-run. Now he was about to stage an accident of his own.
Spring Dano was jogging off the median, across San Vicente, and onto Gretna Green Drive, where Thrack was waiting for her behind an enormous juniper bush, his taser ready. He was going to zap her with a couple hundred volts, drag her into his van, and let her experience his majestic, super-warp, plasma pleasure warhead before he strangled her. That way, she could die happy, and he could say he did something to Dr. Kelvin that Mr. Snork only dreamed about.
The moment she passed the bush, he leaped out, taser crackling with electricity. Not a wise move. Had he studied her resume, he would have noticed that under "other skills," right between "clog collecting" and "aura masseuse," she had earned a black belt from the Pat Morita School of Self-Defense and Method Acting.
She grabbed his wrist, wrenched down his arm, and jammed the taser into his super-warp plasma pleasure warhead. He was zapped backwards, deep into the juniper bush, the entire plant shaking like it was digesting him.
Spring jogged in place for a moment, staring into the vibrating bush, but saw no sign of her attacker.
"Thanks for the workout, sleazebag," she said, then jogged on.
* * * * * *
Kim shook Charlie's shoulder and before she could get out the words "wake up," he grabbed her by the arm, flipped her on her back on the bed, and straddled her, his clenched fist poised to strike over her face.
"Go ahead, hit me," she said. "It couldn't make things any worse."
"Don't ever startle me like that," Charlie lowered his fist and relaxed. "What is it?"
"I'm ruined."
Charlie fell back on the bed and closed his eyes. "Kim, as far as I'm concerned, last night never happened. Forget about it."
"I wish I could," she said, "but last night the creator and stars of Beyond the Beyond were murdered. I just got the call from Jackson Burley."
Charlie sat up in bed. The Company. It had to be.
"What am I going to do, Charlie?" she asked.
"You?" He looked down at her. "Three people are dead."
She glared at him. "And a network, don't forget that."
Charlie couldn't get out of bed fast enough.
* * * * * *
Conrad Stipe was lying naked on a metal table, his eyes and his mouth wide open, his nose flattened, dried blood on his lips and chin. But he was in far better shape than the person being re-assembled, bit by charred bit, by a couple coroners on another table across the room. One of them was whistling.
Detective Lou LeDoux grimaced. "How can they stand it?"
"Somebody had to put Humpty Dumpty back together again," Dr. Chapman said, examining Stipe's testicles. "Or how would they have known exactly how he fell?"
Asshole, Lou thought, sharing a glance with his brother-in-law Charlie, who was thinking the same thing.
Dr. Chapman snortled to himself and moved down the length of Stipe's leg with a magnifying glass. "He had sex before he died, there are traces of seminal fluid on his thighs."
Charlie glanced at his watch and wondered how much longer this would take. Alison and Burley were waiting at the studio for news.
"I have a keen eye for the cinematic moments in every day life," Dr. Chapman said.
"Excuse me?" Charlie asked.
Dr. Chapman looked up from his examination of Stipe's toes. "Take this room for instance. Each body tells a story. I think it would make a hell of an anthology series."
"Yeah," Lou said, "maybe get that Cryptkeeper guy to host."
Charlie should have known by now not to mention to anyone that he worked for a studio, unless he absolutely had to. The problem with LA, on top of everything else, was that everyone had a story to pitch.
"I'm not in development," Charlie said. "I'm in security."
"Oh," Dr. Chapman tried to cover his disappointment with a shrug. "Do you know anyone in development?"
"Afraid not," Charlie said.
Behind Dr. Chapman, two coroner's assistants came in lugging body bags. "More pieces," one of them said to the Whistler.
They hefted the bags onto an empty table next to the Whistler, who unzipped the bag, and reached inside, pulling out a charred bone shard. He tried to place it into the puzzle without luck and tossed it back in the bag. Whistler reached in for a new piece and came out with a burnt ear, which was surprising, since the corpse already had two.
"What's the story on that one?" Lou asked Dr. Chapman.
"Opened the door to his house and it blew up," Dr. Chapman examined Stipe's fingers. "Not a good day to live on Ardwyn street."
"Why do you say that?" Charlie asked.
Dr. Chapman poked Stipe in the belly. "He lived on the same street, opposite side of Ventura Boulevard. See, that's a story right there."
Why was everyone in LA a writer, director or actor waiting to be discovered? Charlie wondered if everyone who lived in Washington DC was a closet politician, or if every Detroit resident harbored dreams of designing the car of the future.
Dr. Chapman peered into Stipe's open mouth and smiled. Using a pair of tweezers, he plucked a long, pink thing out of Stipe's mouth and held it in front of his eyes. "Cool."
"What is it?" Lou asked.
"A nipple," Dr. Chapman held the severed flesh up to Charlie's face. "Now you tell me there isn't a great story in this."
* * * * * *
The brass plaque on a window table at Kenny Rogers' Roaster said "Reserved for Eddie Planet." Eddie stuck it there right before he grabbed a tray and went to the chicken line.
In his heyday, the plaque used to rest on tables of distinction at places like Pinot, La Serre, The Bistro, Jimmy's, and Ma Maison, courtesy of the management, who were always glad to have a producer of his stature grace their restaurants.
In the more recent, mediocre days, he used to slip the maitre'd at Le Guerre a couple Abe Lincolns to put his plaque on the power table by the men's room, a few minutes before he arrived. It wasn't a window seat, but anyone with a bladder and bowels couldn't avoid running into him eventually.
But now, in the dark, waning days of his production deal, he found himself unable to get a reservation at Le Guerre. So he squeezed behind a Formica table at Kenny Rogers, his window seat facing the front entrance of Le Guerre, where he could see the industry players arriving for lunch.
UBC President Don Debono rode up in his '59 Caddy with Monroe Mooney. Two years ago, Monroe was a droopy-faced, chubby character actor. Then he hocked everything he had to overhaul his body. Dr. Himmelstein sucked the fat out of his buttocks and his gut, then injected into his pecs, penis, and chin to give him all the attributes God forgot. Any blemishes or wrinkles were wiped away with an all-body chemical peel. Overnight he went from a day-player to series lead, if today's lunch meant anything.
Eddie's wife Shari tried the same overhaul, only not with Dr. Himmelstein. Now her buttocks were lopsided, her skin was pasty, and her mouth looked like a suction cup. As long as the lights were
low, and the suction cup was applied to his groin, he didn't care. Of course, that was happening less and less often. His sex life, as well as his career and his luncheon reservations, seemed to ride on the ratings.
He glanced to see who was sitting at the four, prime, window seats. Super agent Clive Odett shared Martinis with Sean Connery. Aaron Spelling and Tori were fighting over the breadsticks. Brad Pitt and director Fred Schepsi were hunched seriously over their salads. Writer/producer Stephen J. Cannell was arm-wrestling with Robert Blake.
Eddie could remember twenty years ago when Cannell was begging for a Hollywood and Vine writing assignment. Eddie didn't think Cannell was sophisticated enough for the job. Now the guy had his name on a building.
The business was funny that way. One minute you're on top, next minute on the bottom. Eddie saw fate as a fat guy in a recliner, stuffing his maw with cheese doodles, aiming his remote at the TV like a gun. Every producer's career took a bullet, the trick was avoiding the fatal shots. Eddie's career just had its head blown off.
Still, he had survived worse. It was all in the spin. Never let them think you're down. Always look for the angle.
Eddie would go back to the studio and say he was at Kenny Roger's place, developing projects, tossing around ideas. It was the truth, but people would read a lot more into it.
If only more stars had their own restaurants, he'd be set.
Eddie started to make a list of celebrity restaurateurs on his napkin, but all he could come up with was Roy Rogers Chicken. He couldn't even remember if Roy Rogers was still alive. So he widened his list to include celebrity food labels. Paul Newman sold salad dressing. That had promise, he could say "I grabbed a salad with Paul Newman."
He was struggling to make Jimmy Dean sausage into something positive when his cell phone rang. It was the fat guy with the cheese doodles, clicking his remote again.
Chapter Fifteen
The walls of Jackson Burley's office served as his resume. His writer/producer credits, photographed off the TV screen, were all framed, along with cast photos, reviews, and yellowed advertisements for his shows.
Whenever he felt insecure, all he had to do was take a gander at his wall to confirm he knew what he was doing. Burley spent a lot of time looking at the wall the last few hours.
Burley paced in front of his cluttered desk, the heels of his $350 tennis shoes lighting up with each step.
Alison sat on the leather couch, legs drawn up under her, dark circles under her blood-shot eyes, chewing on her ponytail.
Charlie stood between the two of them, giving his report.
"I met with some of my LAPD contacts," Charlie didn't think it would sound half as good if he said his brother-in-law was handling the case. "Chad Shaw was killed by muggers in the garage of his apartment building. Leigh Dickson was mowed down by a hit-and-run driver. And Conrad Stipe was murdered in bed. Spring Dano was attacked, but she escaped and I have her on the lot, under 24 hour guard."
"Jesus Christ," Burley said. "This is the worst blood bath in TV since My Gun Has—" He abruptly caught himself when he realized who he was talking to. "I'm sorry, Charlie, I didn't mean that."
"It's okay," Charlie said. Besides, Burley was right. "The only physical evidence they have to go on is a piece of nipple removed from Conrad's mouth."
"A nipple?" Alison shivered, sickened.
"The killer seduced Stipe," Charlie said, "then smothered him with her breast."
"Murder by hooter," Burley muttered. "That's a new one. I wonder if I could ever get it past the network censors."
Charlie pressed on, ignoring the remark.
"None of the witnesses to Leigh Dickson's death could give a usable description of the hit-and-run driver," Charlie said. "Spring Dano says everything happened so fast, she never actually saw her attacker."
Alison sighed. "I don't suppose the police have any idea who did this."
"No," Charlie said. "But I do."
They both looked at him. "I think the Company is responsible."
"Why?" Alison asked.
"It's Clive Odett's style," Charlie said. "Look what he tried with Spike Donovan in Vancouver, and what happened to Javier Grillo in Hawaii."
"There's just one problem with your theory, Charlie." Alison said. "They were all Company clients, except for Chad Shaw."
But it was Odett's style. It had to be Odett. He wanted it to be Odett.
Alison could see the disappointment on Charlie's face. He really wanted to go after the Company. Her guess was he still felt responsible for what happened to Javier Grillo, and he would look for any opportunity to go after them.
"You want to know who's behind this?" Burley asked rhetorically. "UBC, MBC, and DBC. They're afraid The Big Network is going to steal the entire 18-35 demographic from them. They figured if they killed Beyond the Beyond, they could bring down the network before it's even launched."
Charlie shook his head. "I don't buy it."
"Trust me, Charlie. I know how the criminal mind works," Burley swept his arm over his credits. "I've written more cop shows than anybody in this town. The Company has no motivation. The networks have plenty. And I'm not going to give in to their terrorism. I've decided, in consultation with Kim Woodrell, to keep Beyond the Beyond in production. We're going to start recasting as soon as the new show runner is in place."
"Whoever is responsible for what happened will come after them next," Charlie said. "They'll all be in grave danger."
"We're counting on you to protect them," Burley said. "And we've found the perfect guy to take over Beyond the Beyond. He's a proven show-runner, and we know from experience he won't be intimidated by these killers."
"I'd like meet him," Charlie said. "As soon as possible."
Burley opened his door and stuck his head out. "Come on in," he said to someone outside, then stepped aside to let him in.
Charlie's worst fear was that the producer would be represented by The Company. But Charlie didn't get much sleep after last night's escapade at Kim's place, and could be forgiven for not imagining an even more horrifying possibility.
Eddie Planet strode into the room like he was coming on stage to accept an Emmy. "Hey, Charlie, my man. How's it hanging?"
Charlie stared at him in shock.
"You look terrific," Eddie pointed at him, as if there was some doubt who he was talking to. "Have you lost a few pounds?"
Charlie slugged him.
Eddie fell against the wall, dragging down the cast photo of Dracula M.D., an Edgar award, and three positive reviews for The Missionary Mercenary as he slid to the floor.
Alison bolted up off the couch, shocked. Burley moved a safe distance away.
It was the second time in two days that Charlie had punched someone in anger, and it felt great. In fact, he wanted to do it again.
Charlie took a step towards Eddie, who immediately scrambled on his hands-and-knees behind Burley's desk. Alison quickly threw herself in front of the desk, blocking Charlie's path.
She yelled: "Enough!"
He glared past her at Eddie, peeking up from the other side of the desk, holding his bloody nose and had to laugh. "You expect me to protect him?"
"Why not?" Alison replied, genuinely confused.
He glanced incredulously at Jackson Burley, who took another step back, holding up his hands in surrender.
Charlie shook his head, disgusted, and walked out of the office.
* * * * * *
Clive Odett was stuck in traffic on the Ventura Freeway when news reached him on his mobile fax, cellular phone, in-dash TVs and radios, that two Company clients were dead and that Eddie Planet was the new executive producer of Beyond the Beyond.
How could a showrunner get hired without The Company being consulted first? Odett gripped the steering wheel, not that he had any reason to use it in the last twenty minutes. Something wasn't right. He was losing control of the situation. That had never happened before. He couldn't let it continue.
"I want to know w
ho's muscling in on our client list," Odett barked at Zita over his cell phone. "I want every one of our agents on this. I have to know which agency benefits from pulling our clients out of play."
"What makes you think it's another agency?" Zita asked.
"It has to be," Odett said. "No one else has the guts."
He hung up and stared at the ribbon of idling cars between him and the Coldwater Canyon exit. This was what they called a freeway in Los Angeles. Using that logic, a parking lot should be called a race track.
In twenty minutes, he hadn't moved half-a-mile, more or less mirroring his progress, or more precisely, lack of progress, acquiring control of Beyond the Beyond and the Big Network the last few days. The traffic offended him.
He stomped on the gas. The Hummer surged forward, slammed into a Honda Accord and climbed over it, crushing it like a Japanese beer can. And he just kept going. The trapped cars on the Ventura Freeway became Clive Odett's private pavement, the Hummer effortlessly flattening all makes and models on his way to the exit.
* * * * * *
Eddie held an ice pack to his nose and did something he'd never done before. He left his golf cart behind at the Tower and walked to his bungalow.
He needed to think, to analyze all the angles.
Eddie knew this was his big chance, maybe even his last chance, to get his career back on track. He wasn't going to blow it again. His broken nose was a painful reminder of the mistakes made the last time he had a real shot at a come back.
Charlie Willis still wrongly blamed Eddie for all the murders committed by the mob to keep Frankencop on the air, just because Eddie happened to produce the show. Couldn't he see that Eddie was a victim, too? The mob made him clear every creative decision through them first, they even forced a star on him, a guy who couldn't act unless he knew was his "dick motivation" was first.
Because of the mob, he wasn't allowed to work his TV magic, and lost the chance to turn Frankencop into his biggest hit since Saddlesore, twenty years ago. What did Charlie Willis lose? A TV career he never had to begin with. Fuck him.
Eddie had bigger concerns.
Obviously, Guy Goddard and his lunatic Beyonders killed Stipe, but why did he gave to kill Chad Shaw and Leigh Dickson, too?
