But now his mood had lifted. Success had returned from the grave like a zombie from one of his horror pictures. His life story had found a fresh romantic subplot. Rachel Stoller stirred his heart in new and exciting ways. She could heal the wounds from a broken marriage.
Even though Rachel had asked Harry out, he insisted on picking her up. She said fine, as long as she could pick the restaurant.
At six, Harry drove to Rachel’s West Hollywood apartment building, circling the block four times for a space before finally double parking with flashing blinkers.
When Harry knocked on her apartment door and she opened up, he nearly said “Whoa” out loud. She wore a low-cut white top, with dark blue slacks and heels. Her blond hair, tossed forward, cascaded in clean sheets to her shoulders. The smile, just as he remembered it, was genuine and warm.
As Rachel disappeared for a moment to retrieve her purse, Harry met her Hispanic roommate, Maria, who gushed, “Mr. Tuttle, I loved every minute of Deadly Desires.” She continued to fawn over him until Rachel playfully pushed her away and said, “Go get your own date.”
In the car, Harry chatted with Rachel about the weather and potential for rain later in the week, silently cursing his banal dialogue even as he delivered it. As he drove to the restaurant, her perfume tickled his nose and his head swam laps, distracting him to the point that he could barely focus on the road.
On his car stereo, he played a CD by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, a disc recommended by a shaggy clerk with a nose ring at Amoeba Music. Harry had asked for something hip and happening to help counter the fact that he was nearly 15 years older than his date.
As it turned out, Rachel had never heard of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs; and the restaurant she had chosen —a classic steak-house —featured an older crowd and a live jazz band playing old standards.
“I love this music,” she told Harry after they had been seated and handed menus. “It takes me to another era, when times were simpler, you know?”
They ordered cocktails, which loosened up the mood; and before long, they became so deeply engaged in conversation that the waitress had to return five times before they finally opened their menus.
“Where do you get your ideas for your movies?” she asked him.
“My mind is always ticking,” said Harry. “I write things down on Post-it Notes. I have them plastered all over the house. Sometimes I’ll brainstorm when I’m stuck in traffic. I keep a notepad by the bed in case I wake up with an idea in the middle of the night, but usually by morning, I can’t make any sense out of what I’ve scribbled. It’ll say something like ‘Purple monkey doorknob’ and I’ll wonder, what the heck does that mean?”
She laughed and asked if he had always wanted to be a filmmaker. “Ever since I was old enough to watch movies,” he responded. He told her anecdotes from his youth about making Super 8 movies with monsters and superheroes. He confessed to triggering a false fire alarm once at his high school, to get footage of the arriving fire trucks and police cars for one of his mini-epics.
“Have you always done horror movies?” she asked.
“That was my big interest when I was a kid, and I guess I’ve never grown up. That’s how I got my start in Hollywood. Now I’ve done so many of them that I’m typecast. I’ve painted myself into a corner —with blood.” Then he conceded, “Horror movies are just a good way to break into the business and make a mark. There’s always a steady market for them, and you don’t need big-name stars or big budgets to attract an audience. You can get away with being cheap.”
He took another sip of his drink and felt a warmth wash over him. He confided, “But I’ll let you in on a little secret... One day, I want to do a love story. I’ve got a script stashed away that I think is pretty good. I bring it out now and then to, you know, polish the dialogue.”
“You should film it,” urged Rachel.
“Audiences want action and violence and a lot of noise. Nobody’s going to pay to see a love story.”
“I would.”
“Well...that makes two of us,” he said.
Her warm eyes locked on him, and she smiled that smile that could melt concrete.
“I’m glad I met you, Harry,” she declared. “I like you a lot better than the rest of the people I’ve met in this business. It’s a weird scene out here. Everybody is so wrapped up in themselves.”
“I completely agree,” said Harry.
“I’ve met so many jerks and liars and bullshit artists. But not you. You’re just this down-to-earth, regular guy who loves to make movies. You’re not a phony like the others. I hate people who are phony.”
Harry flinched. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was a phony. Rachel just didn’t know it.
This whole date is based on a lie, he told himself.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shook the look of concern off his face. “Nothing. Just listening to the music. Is it Glenn Miller?”
“Moonlight Serenade.”
“Beautiful,” he said.
After dinner, they advanced to a nearby bar for another drink and continued conversation, before he took her home. She had to get up early for an audition — a nonspeaking role, “frightened pedestrian,” in a Will Smith action movie. As Harry walked Rachel to her apartment building entrance, he felt a giddy feeling he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. Do I kiss her?
They stood close to one another, and she broke the awkward silence with, “I really had a nice time. I hope we can do this again sometime.”
“I’d really like that.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m being too brash asking you out like this.”
“Not at all,” responded Harry. “I’m thrilled by it, if you want to know the truth. I’ve liked you since we first met. I’ve thought about you a lot since that party in the hills.”
She smiled at that. “Really? What kind of thoughts?”
“Daydreaming.”
“Daydreaming? About what?” She leaned closer.
Harry could feel himself blushing and wondered if she could see redness on his cheeks.
“Tell me,” she said.
“That one day...things would turn out like this.”
The look in her eyes told him she liked his answer. Harry saw his opportunity and seized it. He put his hand on her shoulder. They kissed, softly, a short but compelling introductory kiss, a coming attraction for things to come.
Harry drove home, sunroof open, stars above, humming “Moonlight Serenade,” quite possibly the happiest man on earth. His head filled with ideas for where to take Rachel on their next date. He was already going through Rachel withdrawal.
As Harry pulled into his driveway, he didn’t see the dark figure waiting for him on the front lawn. Harry stepped out of the car, continued humming, and headed up the walkway toward his front door.
A familiar voice greeted him from the shadows.
“Mr. Tuttle,” said Marcus Stegman.
19
Harry stopped cold.
He turned and peered into the darkness.
Stegman stepped forward into the reach of the porch light. He wore an old fedora.
“Boo,” he said. “It’s your favorite ghostwriter. Did I spook you?”
“What are you doing here?” asked Harry.
“Just paying a visit to my friend and collaborator,” responded Stegman. He looked like hell, a deteriorating version of his former self. His eyes had an eerie emptiness. His hair and clothes were unwashed. His fingers fidgeted, clenching at air.
Drugs, thought Harry. He had seen the symptoms before —Hollywood colleagues who succumbed to cocaine or worse, as they began raking in the big bucks, feeling invincible. Harry had tried coke exactly once in his life —it simply made him anxious and dry mouthed —and never again. He didn’t understand the allure, but he understood the consequences.
“Did you see the article in Variety about our movie?” asked Stegman.
“Which...one?” asked Harry, cautious.
“
Cheap horror pic scares up boffo box office.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“It looks like my movie —or should I say, your movie —has been doing very well.”
Harry shot him a suspicious look. “It’s been a success, yes. Is there something wrong with that? Marcus, we made a deal.”
Stegman laughed, and the laugh became a hard cough. “Oh no, no. Don’t worry. I’m not going back on our deal. I’m not in this for the prestige and headlines like you are. I’m in this because I love creating horror.”
Harry nodded, still gripping his house key. He knew he wasn’t going to open his front door until Stegman left the property.
“So...” said Harry, growing impatient. “What brings you here?”
Stegman looked incredulous. “What else? Our next movie. We have a big hit on our hands. The public will demand more. Don’t you think?”
“I would imagine.”
“So we’re wasting valuable time. You want to continue the partnership, don’t you? It helps us both, right?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Good. Because I’ve started working on the treatment and storyboards. You’re going to love this. It’s right up your alley. Get this: it’s a horror movie about horror movies. Let me explain. The bad guy is a madman who murders people in tribute to his favorite horror films. For each victim, he takes on the persona of a different classic horror movie character. Michael Myers from Halloween. Jason from the Friday the 13th franchise. Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And on and on. He’s the ultimate horror movie killer! What do you think?”
Harry nodded. “It’s an interesting concept.”
Stegman stepped closer. “I’ll do it for one million dollars.”
Harry said, “I’ll have to think about it. If it’s as good as the last one...we could probably work something out. But this isn’t the time for negotiating. I’m tired. Where do you get your energy?”
“Lots of coffee,” said Stegman. “And unspent sexual energy.”
“Maybe you should cut down on the caffeine and go get laid.”
Stegman laughed louder than the joke warranted. Booming in the still night, Stegman’s guffaw sent a chill up Harry’s spine.
“You’re funny,” said Stegman, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Then he asked, “Do you like my hat?”
“Why are you wearing a fedora?” asked Harry.
Stegman took it off and handed it to Harry. Harry shrunk back.
“It doesn’t bite; it’s just a hat.”
“I just asked about it. I don’t want it.”
“Read the name inside the rim.”
Harry accepted it with three fingertips, cringed, and looked inside, expecting to find lice, or worse.
Someone had written something in ink on the inner band, long ago, but the letters were now badly faded after L-U-G.
Harry handed it back. “I can’t read it.”
Stegman placed the fedora back on his head. “It says Lugosi. This hat used to belong to Bela Lugosi in the 1950s. I bought it off eBay for fifty-six hundred dollars. I thought it was sort of appropriate, you know, since we sealed our deal on Bela’s star.”
Harry felt impressed, then worried. “So you’re spending your money...”
“Hell, yes. On things I’ve always wanted. Props from my favorite horror films. Memorabilia from my favorite horror actors. This hat is going in my museum room.”
“Don’t blow all your earnings,” said Harry. Especially on blow.
“I’ve never had money before,” said Stegman. “I have a lot of catching up to do. Things I’ve always wanted to buy. You should see my new home theater setup and my DVD library...”
Harry nodded. Enough was enough. He didn’t want to carry on a conversation in his front yard all night, with a coked-up kid. It was ruining his perfect evening.
“Listen,” he said. “In the future, if you want to talk, set up a meeting. We’ll go somewhere. Don’t just show up at my house in the middle of the night.”
“What’s the matter?” said Stegman, rocking back on his heels. “Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Good night, Marcus,” said Harry, turning his back on Stegman. He headed for the front door.
“Congratulations on your success, Harry,” Stegman called out. “I’m glad to see it.”
Harry couldn’t tell if Stegman was being sarcastic or not. But he turned and replied, “Congratulations to you as well, Marcus. You deserve it.”
Stegman nodded, saying, “Yeah, but you got the movie out to the public, into the multiplexes. I couldn’t have done that. I don’t have the connections you do. That’s where you come in... partner.”
Then Stegman bowed, dropping into a Transylvanian accent, tipping his hat. “Goot evenink.”
“Good night,” murmured Harry. He waited until Stegman was halfway across the yard before opening his door. He entered, locked up, then paused.
He swore he could hear Stegman cackling.
20
Diane Laughton, the five-foot-one producer of Flick Picks, led the way, walking swiftly in short steps, thick heels clicking aggressively on the tile floor. Harry followed her through a maze of pastel corridors, catching glimpses of editing suites, equipment storage rooms, and tape archives.
“We’re so glad you could be a part of this,” Diane said, ejecting words in a steely rapid fire, making a sudden hard left turn. “I haven’t seen your movie but I’m told it’s very good. You should experience a definite bump in ticket sales when this special airs. We’re presold in most of the major markets. Washington, Chicago, New York, Dallas...”
Then she stopped so suddenly that Harry nearly crashed into her.
“Wally, he’s here,” she said.
They stood outside Walter Wiggins’ small office at WKKG Studios. The big man was stuffed in a chair, surrounded by an explosion of clutter. DVD screeners, movie magazines, trade publications and press kits, merged across fallen piles on his desk. Signed publicity stills of medium-famous film stars decorated the walls. An empty bucket of chicken rested near the critic’s pudgy grasp.
Wiggins rotated in his big swivel chair, turning to face Harry. He was breathing heavy, probably from the weight hanging off his squat frame, because he certainly wasn’t exerting himself. He wore a purple and green checkered sports coat.
“Harry Tuttle,” he said simply.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Harry stretched out his hand and Wiggins shook it without getting up. Wiggins’ hand felt greasy from the chicken.
Wiggins said, “We’ll chat on camera for maybe an hour, then the boys in editing will slice and dice it to about nine minutes. You got my list of questions during the pre-interview?”
Harry nodded.
“I changed a bunch of them, but don’t let that throw you. Just keep your answers punchy, short, engaging. Tell us how you make wine from water. Be a poster boy for low-budget, independent filmmaking. Tell us what it’s like to make a movie that’s beating the pants off films that cost a hundred times more.”
“I’ll try.”
“Just don’t be boring.”
Harry nodded.
“Why don’t we get Mr. Tuttle in makeup,” said the producer.
“See you on the set,” said Wiggins, and his chair swiveled back to face his desk and food.
Essentially, the interview set was a minor variation of the familiar Flick Picks set, shifting the angle on the elements of a movie theatre interior. The scenery, which appeared lush and spacious on television, became thin and cramped in person. Wiggins’ large, upholstered chair was repositioned; and a second chair, for Harry, had been added.
The soundman clipped a tiny mike to Harry’s shirt collar and secured the belt pack. He guided Harry across the floor to his seat, telling him, “Watch out for the cables.”
Harry sat down, slowly, eyes adjusting to the bright lights.
“Check sound,” said the sound man, then instructing Harry to cou
nt to ten. Harry counted. A figure behind glass in the control booth signaled thumbs up.
“You’re good to go,” said the sound man, moving backwards and disappearing. Harry saw the director, a balding man with a headset, circling the room to huddle individually with crew members. Harry counted four cameras and examined the array of lights that dangled from a grid work of mounts in the ceiling. Impressive, thought Harry. I wish I had all this.
When Wiggins arrived with the diminutive producer at his side, everything was in place. The balding director stood behind Wiggins’ chair, waiting for him with some last minute instructions.
Wiggins held up a hand before the director could speak. “I know the drill,” he muttered in his raspy voice, and the director retreated into the shadows to join his crew.
“Well, Harry Tuttle, are you ready?” said Wiggins, climbing into his extra large theater seat with an “oof.”
“Yes, I am.” Harry could no longer see the director or crew behind the bright lights, but he could hear them shuffling about.
“So am I. Let’s get this over with. This chair always makes my buttocks fall asleep.”
“Anybody need any water?” said a voice.
“No,” Wiggins answered for both of them.
A second voice, the director, said, “Standby. Are we good? Quiet, please. Rolling. Ready. Counting down from five, from four, three, two and...action.”
Wiggins turned and faced away from Harry. He began talking into one of the cameras, reading an introduction off the teleprompter.
“My next guest has been making movies for 20 years, but until recently you’ve probably never heard of him. He’s Harry Tuttle, king of the low-budget horror movie. While movies like Valley of the Zombies and Schizo Sisters aren’t exactly household names, Tuttle has quietly built himself a minor cult following with hardcore horror fans. But it wasn’t until Deadly Desires, this year, that this no-name became a big name...and he did it without any stars, and without any film. Yes, you heard right. Tuttle’s movies are recorded directly on digital videotape with handheld cameras and found locations, bringing a ‘Reality TV’ effect to the cinema. Is this the future of filmmaking?”
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