They're Watching (2010)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "I woke you?"

  "I was up already, but I sure heard you thunking around." She yawned, finishing it with a feminine roar, then nodded at the hidden camcorder. "Giving them a taste of their own medicine?"

  "I hope so."

  "I'll call the alarm guys today."

  "That doesn't sound like a vote of confidence."

  She shrugged.

  I went up to my office, where I shuffled my lecture notes into the soft leather briefcase I'd bought to look more professorial. When I came back down, Ariana was leaning against the sink, a desert mariposa behind her ear. Vibrant orange. I contemplated this. The color of lily she wore in her hair gave away her mood. Pink was playful, red angry, and lavender, lavender she saved for when she was feeling particularly in love. So . . . not in a very long time. In fact, for months she hadn't gone with anything but white, her safety color. I'd forgotten which mood orange broadcast, which ceded my advantage.

  Ariana shifted her grip on her coffee mug, uneasy under my gaze. I was still focused on that orange bloom. "What?" she asked.

  "Be careful today. I'll keep my cell phone on, even during class. Just . . . watch out for anything weird. People. Anyone approaching your car. Keep the doors locked."

  "I will."

  I nodded, then nodded again when it was clear neither of us was sure what to say next. Feeling her eyes on my back, I headed out to the garage and knuckled the button. The door shakily rose. I dropped my briefcase through the open passenger window and leaned over, my hands on the sill. Her words from last night returned to me--I'm not doing this anymore.

  In a sealed clear plastic bin on one of the overburdened shelves, I could make out Ariana's wedding dress through its transparent wrapping. Like her, modern with traditional flourishes. Again came the seesaw tilt, betrayal and pain, anger and grief. That goddamn in-good-times-and-in-bad gown, preserved for a future we might not have.

  I walked outside, past the trash cans, and peered in the kitchen window. Ari sat in her usual spot on the arm of the couch, clutching her stomach as if to quell an ache. Mug resting on her knee. She wasn't crying, though; today her face expressed only disillusionment. She plucked the flower from her hair and twirled it, staring into the orange folds as if trying to read the future. Why did I feel let down, pushed away? Did I want her to cry every morning? To prove what? That she was still hurting as much as I was? I hadn't known it, not consciously, and revealed to me, it felt petty and foolish.

  Given the DVDs, I didn't want to startle her if she looked up. Just as I was about to step back, she crossed to the kitchen door. Contemplated it. Then she unlocked the dead bolt and set it again, firmly.

  I stood there a moment after she'd disappeared upstairs.

  Chapter 11

  The Formosa Cafe was a Hollywood haunt long before Guy Pearce's Ed Exley mistook Lana Turner for a hooker there in L.A. Confidential. At the bar beneath black-and-whites of Brando, Dean, and Sinatra, I gulped a scotch, gathering my courage. At least I had fortifying company. The throw of buildings that composed Summit Pictures loomed in the west-facing windows, as did a tall-wall ad for They're Watching--Keith Conner's overblown face adhered to the side of the executive building. From Bogart to Conner with a half turn of the head. Except Bogart was an eight-by-ten and Conner a high-rise. Poetic injustice.

  The six-story ad dwarfed the passing cars. They'd redone it--I could tell from the missing square of banner at the bottom that revealed the old version beneath. Keith squinting in inflated close-up, ready to take danger head-on, had replaced the image of the hazy figure descending into the subway. Principal photography on the movie had barely finished, and a trailer hadn't even been cut yet, but the early buzz had jumped Keith to the next tier, made him worthy of an ad campaign built around his face. He was now an A-lister in waiting. Which was partially my fault.

  The barkeep paused from topping off the mixers to collect my glass. Recognizing me as a former regular, he'd waved me in, though they'd yet to set up for lunch. He didn't ask if I wanted another.

  Using my cell, I called the Summit switchboard. "Yes, can I please have Jerry in Security?"

  Jerry and I had become friends when I was at the studio every day during preproduction. We'd met in the commissary and before long were having lunch together a few times a week. Of course, we hadn't spoken since things went sideways.

  Each ring sounded like a countdown. Finally he answered. My voice was dry when I said, "Hey, Jerry, it's Patrick."

  "Whoa," he said. "Patrick. I can't talk to you. You may have noticed that you're in the middle of a lawsuit with my employer."

  "I know, I know. Listen, I just want to ask you something. I'm across the street at Formosa. Can you give me two minutes?"

  His voice lowered. "Just being seen with you could land me knee-deep."

  "It's not about the lawsuit."

  He didn't respond right away, and I didn't push it. Eventually he blew out a breath. "It'd better not be. Two minutes."

  He hung up and I waited, my heart pounding. After a time he scampered in, giving a nervous glance around the empty restaurant. He slid onto the stool next to me with no greeting, none of the gruff conviviality cultivated by his stint in the marines.

  "The only reason I'm here is because we both know you caught the raw end," Jerry said. "Keith is a prick and a liar. He tangled us all up. Be honest with you, I can't wait to get out of this racket." An irritated gesture at the window and studio lot beyond. "Get back to real security. An honest dishonest living."

  "I heard you guys just signed Keith for two more."

  "Yeah, but the idiot's doing some bullshit environmental documentary next. Mickelson tried to get him to wait until he had another hit under his belt, but it had to be now." He smirked. "I guess Mickelson told him the environment'll still be up shit creek in two years. I don't think that won him over." His broad shoulders lifted, then fell. "But he's with us after that." He reached for my untouched glass of ice water and took a long sip. Peeked at his watch. "So . . . ?"

  "Someone's been messing with me. Videotaping me. Came into my house at night, even. I was thinking it might be someone from the studio going off the tracks. I know you're overseeing the investigative files. Anyone you think has taken an extracurricular interest?"

  "No, man." The relief was audible. "Look, this lawsuit's a mess, but it's not anything they don't deal with all the time. It's business."

  "This business at least," I said. His stare stayed level. Uninterested. "So as far as you know," I asked, "no one here seems bent out of shape enough to want to make it personal?"

  "As far as I know. And I know pretty far, Patrick. I monitor e-mails, sweep for bugs, interface with Legal, all that shit. You know how this type loves security. I'm the in-house tough guy and the good daddy all in one. Someone chips a nail, they call me bawling. A valet's gaze lingers on the wrong set of legs, I have to go have a conversation. That kind of bullshit. It's a complicated world now. But one thing's still like the old days--if they wanted you ruffled, I'd be the guy they'd call."

  I wasn't sure what I expected. Certainly Jerry wasn't going to come clean if the studio was running a harassment campaign. But I looked him in the eye and I believed him. Whatever was coming down on me, it wasn't studio business.

  He glanced nervously at the door. "Anything else?"

  "Can you tell me Keith Conner's new address?"

  "What do you think?" he said. I held up my hands. He asked, "You really believe Keith Conner would sneak into your house?"

  "Not personally, but he's got plenty of money and underlings and what looks like a vindictive streak. I need to talk to him."

  "I think that's the only thing his lawyers, your lawyers, and our lawyers all agree on. You don't talk to him. Ever." He shoved back from the bar and walked out.

  Chapter 12

  "Is Keith Conner as hot in person?" Front row, blond, sorority sweatshirt. Shanna or Shawna.

  "He is fairly handsome," I said, pacing in front of the class, ch
ewing gum to cover that nerve-settling morning scotch. Some tittering up and down the rows of stadium seating. Introduction to Screenwriting--you couldn't cross city limits without enrolling. "Now, are there any questions about screenwriting?"

  I glanced around. Several of the kids had digital camcorders on their writing tablets and atop their backpacks. Even more students typed notes on laptops equipped with embedded cameras. A guy in the middle used his phone to snap a picture of his buddy next to him. I tore my attention away from the myriad cameras and found a raised hand. "Yes, Diondre."

  His question was something about talent versus hard work.

  I'd been distracted all day, finding myself searching out hidden meaning in student remarks. During the break I'd gone through past assignments to note how many fails I'd handed out. Only seven. None of the students had seemed to take the grade personally. Plus, anyone who was doing poorly was still well within the deadline to drop the class, which had to cut the odds further that my stalker was an aggrieved student.

  I realized I hadn't been paying attention to what Diondre was saying. "You know what, since our hour and a half's up, why don't you stick around and we can get into that?" I made the little half-wave to dismiss class. You'd think it was an air-raid warning the way they dispersed.

  Diondre lingered behind, clearly upset. He was one of my favorite students, a talkative kid from East L.A. who usually wore baggy Clippers shorts, a do-rag that even I knew to be dated, and a crooked smile that inspired immediate trust.

  "You okay?"

  A faint nod. "My mama said I'll never make it, that I ain't no filmmaker. She said I'd just as soon be a Chinese acrobat. You think that's true?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I don't teach Chinese acrobatics."

  "I'm serious. Man, you know where I'm from. I'm the first person in my family to finish high school, let a-lone go to college. All my relatives are up on my shit for studying film. If this is a waste of time, I gotta give it up."

  What could I say? That despite fortune cookies and inspirational posters, dreams aren't sufficient? That you can dig down and do your best but in real life that's still not always good enough?

  "Look," I said, "a lot of this comes down to hard work and luck. You keep at it and keep at it and hope you catch a break."

  "Is that how you made it?"

  "I didn't make it. That's why I'm here."

  "What do you mean? You done writing movies?" He looked shattered.

  "For now. And that's okay. If there's one piece of advice I'd offer, and you shouldn't listen to it anyway, it's to be sure this is what you want. Because if you're pursuing this for the wrong reasons, you might get there and realize it's not what you thought it was."

  His face was pensive, empathetic. Pursing his lips, he nodded slowly, took a few backward steps toward the door.

  "Listen, Diondre . . . I've been receiving some weird threats."

  "Threats?"

  "Or warnings, maybe. Do you know of any students who'd want to mess with me?"

  He feigned indignation. "And you askin' me 'cuz I'm black and from Lincoln Heights?"

  "Of course." I held his stare until we both laughed. "I'm asking you because you're good at reading people."

  "I dunno. Most of the students are fine with you, from what I've heard. You don't grade too hard." He held up both hands. "No offense."

  "None taken."

  "Oh." He snapped his fingers. "I'd watch out for that little Filipino kid. What's his name? Smoke-a-bong?"

  "Paeng Bugayong?" A small, quiet kid who sat in the back row, kept his head down, and sketched. Figuring him for shy, I'd called on him once to draw him out, and he'd taken an aggressively long time before finally offering a one-word response.

  "Yeah, that one. You seen that kid's drawings? All fucked-up beheadings and dragons and shit. We joke he gonna go V Tech up in here, you feel me?"

  "V Tech?"

  "Virginia Tech." Diondre made a pistol of his hand and shot it around the empty chairs.

  "In my day," I said with a grimace, "we called it 'postal.' "

  "Goddamn it," Julianne said. "Someone broke the swing-out thing."

  "INCONSIDERATENESS ABOUNDS. AND THE FATE OF MR. COFFEE HANGS IN THE BALANCE."

  "Knock that shit off, Marcello. I'm getting a no-caffeine headache."

  He looked to me for support. "One day they can't get enough, the next you're old news."

  "Town without pity," I drawled.

  We had the faculty lounge to ourselves, as usual. Marcello was kicking back on the fuzzy plaid couch, thumbing through The Hollywood Reporter, and I was rereading the few assignments Paeng Bugayong had handed in, mini-scripts for shorts he could shoot later in a production class. So far he had a castrating wizard who targeted jocks, a serial vandal who kidnapped Baby Jesuses from Christmas nativity scenes, and a girl who had resorted to cutting because she was so misunderstood by her parents. Standard disaffected adolescent fare, half goth, half emo, and all seemingly harmless enough.

  When I'd asked the department assistant to pull Bugayong's student file for me earlier, bumbling out some pretext about wanting to make sure he wasn't recycling skipped-attendance excuses, she'd held eye contact a beat too long. My nervous grin had frozen on my face even after she said she would put in a request to Central Records.

  "Either of you teach a kid named Bugayong?" I asked.

  "Odd name," Marcello said. "On second thought, that's probably like John Doe for Korean people."

  "Filipino," I said.

  Julianne banged the coffeemaker with the heel of her hand. It appeared unmoved. "Little weird kid, looks like he's always sucking a lemon?"

  Marcello asked, "So Pang Booboohead is your lead stalking suspect?" He was starting to take an interest in the updates. Or didn't like being left out. "Is his writing troubling or something?"

  Julianne said to me, "If someone read your scripts, they'd think you were paranoid."

  "Good thing no one reads them, then." Marcello, ever supportive.

  Julianne came over, stirring coffee into hot water. Not freeze-dried instant, but ground. She said, "I know," took a sip, then retreated and dumped it into the sink.

  "A student of mine told me he's a little loose around the hinges," I said.

  "And they're such good judges of character at this age," Marcello said.

  "Bugayong's a wuss," Julianne said. "I'll bet you a new coffeemaker that he pees sitting down."

  I tested one of the scabs on my knuckles. "I know. It's not him. He's got the imagination for it. I doubt he has the nerve."

  "And your neighbor has the balls but not the imagination," Marcello said. "So who's got both?"

  Simultaneously, Julianne and I said, "Keith Conner."

  Her zeroing in on the same name unsettled me. Not that any of the prospects were good ones, but given Keith's resources, his targeting me was a pretty chilling scenario to contemplate.

  Julianne sank into a chair, picked at her flaking black nail polish. "You never really think about it," she said. "How thin the line is that separates everyday resentments from obsession."

  "The stalker's obsession or mine?" I headed for the door. I wasn't sure what I hoped to accomplish, but if my scuttled career had taught me anything, it was that a protagonist has to be active. I wasn't gonna sit around and wait for the next escalation--the intruder, inside my house, with a camcorder and a claw hammer.

  From behind, I heard, "ON FEBRUARY NINTH, PATRICK DAVIS HAS. NOWHERE. LEFT. TO HIDE."

  I said, "Today's the tenth, Marcello."

  "Oh." He frowned. "ON FEBRUARY TENTH--"

  I closed the door behind me.

  Chapter 13

  I found Punch Carlson in a lawn chair in front of his ramshackle house, staring at nothing, his bare feet up on a cooler. A scattering of Michelob empties lay crushed next to him, within ape-swing of his arm. Punch, a retired cop, worked as a consultant on movie sets, showing actors how to carry guns so they didn't look too stupid. We'd met several yea
rs ago when I was doing research for a script I never sold, and we stayed in touch over the occasional beer.

  Bathed in the glow of the guttering porch light, he took no notice as I approached. That blank gaze, fixed on the house, held an element of defeat. It occurred to me that maybe he dreaded being inside. Or perhaps I was just projecting my feelings of late for my own house.

  "Patrick Davis," he said, though I couldn't tell how he knew it was me. He was slurring, but that didn't stop him from cracking a fresh brew. "Want one?"

  I noticed the script in his lap, folded back around the brads. "Thanks."

  I caught the can before it collided with my forehead. He kicked the cooler over at me. I sat and took a sip. It was good as only bad beer can be. Punch lived four blocks from a seedy stretch of Playa del Rey beachfront, and the salt air burned my eyes a little. A plastic flamingo, faded from the sun, stood at a drunken, one-legged tilt. A few lawn gnomes sported Dada mustaches.

  "What brings you to Camelot?" he asked.

  I laid it out for him, starting with the first DVD showing up unannounced in yesterday's morning paper.

  "Sounds like some bullshit," he said. "Leave it alone."

  "Someone's laying the groundwork for something, Punch. The guy went inside my house."

  "If he was gonna hurt you, he would've already. Sounds like an elaborate crank call to me. Someone trying to get a rise out of you." He looked at me pointedly.

  "Okay. So it worked. But I want to know what it's about."

  "Leave it alone. The more attention you pay to it, the more it'll turn into." He waved at me. "If you remove a woodpecker's beak, it'll pound itself to death. It doesn't know, right? And it keeps bashing its little woodpecker face against the tree. So--"

  "Is that true?"

  He paused. "Who gives a shit? It's a metaphor--ever hear a' them?" He frowned, took another sip. "Anyways"--he struggled to recapture his momentum--"you're like that woodpecker."

  "A powerful image," I concurred.

  He took a healthy swig, wiped the dribble from his stubbled chin. "So where do I come in on this little boondoggle?"

  "I want to talk to Keith Conner. You know, given our whole fiasco, he's my top contender. But he's not listed. Obviously."