Heartland

by Davis Bunn

  “I think I met him on the back lot.”

  “Then you know. Initially, Heartland had firm standing as a money-spinner. You know that term?”

  “I told you. Saturday morning I got dropped into this pit. Before then I didn’t even know this place existed.” JayJay leaned forward and said to the driver, “Do me a favor and pull over here.”

  “Sir, Mr. Allerby said you were to go straight to the studio.”

  “Listen up, friend. We got two choices. Either you stop here for a while or we’re climbing out at the next red light. Which means we’ll be arriving wet and late. But it’s your call.”

  The limo swerved over and halted by the curb. “Much obliged.” JayJay turned back to Ahn. “You’re saying this Heartland thing is making money.”

  “The first couple of seasons, the show was printing money. But then it started sliding. Not because of the show itself, well, maybe a little. I mean, how many tornadoes can you have in one season?”

  JayJay rubbed the side of his face. Hard. Trying to make sense of both the words and his own rising internal tumult. “A passel.”

  “Tell me. But the viewers who made Heartland a hit didn’t like watching their hero bloat up and talk like he was drunk. Like he was coasting through the show. Like he didn’t care.”

  JayJay observed, “You take this personal.”

  Ahn’s eyes glinted angrily. “Three weeks before the last season ended, MahMah got up in the middle of the show. She walked over and cut off the TV. She stood staring at the screen for a while. Then she just sighed and walked out of the room. I wish you could have been there.”

  “No thanks. I believe I’d rather face another twister.”

  “That’s why she was so excited over having you come home with us. I mean, because you saved Minh and all too. But there in front of her was this guy, the way he was supposed to be. Her hero.”

  “I’m not comfortable with you talking about me like that.”

  “Get used to it.” Ahn the young man used a tone that brooked no argument. “Word is, Martin Allerby didn’t want to do Heartland. But orders came down from on high. ‘Do it or find another job.’ The rest is history.”

  “I thought you said he was the—whatever you called him.”

  “Greenlight guy. He is. But there’s always somebody higher.” Ahn stared at the rain trickling down the side window. “Allerby is from Van Nuys. Except his morals. They’re from the basement. I read that somewhere. Centurion is the last of the small independent studios. It’s owned by Carter Dawes, a real mystery man. His family controls a lot of the oil and gas rights around LA. Word is, he still farms out in the Central Valley.”

  “Sounds like a man I could spend some time around.”

  “No way. He doesn’t do meetings. Even sends his lawyer when the Centurion board gets together. But what I heard is, he’s the reason Heartland got made at all. He basically ordered Martin Allerby to come up with a show where the lead role was a down-home hero. A man who knew his Bible. A man who loved his family. A man people could look up to.”

  JayJay stared at the unfocused gray day beyond the window. Things were no clearer now than when Ahn had started. The pastor’s words pressed at him like a goad to his ribs. Whatever lay ahead could not be put off any longer. “Okay, driver. Thanks for being patient with us.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  When they pulled up in front of the studio gates, JayJay rolled down his window and read the guard’s name off the lapel tag. “Morning, Mr. Twyford.”

  “Mr. Allerby says you’re to go straight to Soundstage Four, sir. He’ll meet with you after you’re done filming.”

  “That’s fine.” JayJay motioned to Ahn. “I’ve brought a pal along for the ride. Any chance you could fix him up with something?”

  “No problem, sir. What’s the name?”

  “Ahn Nguyen.”

  “Spell that for me, please.”

  When Ahn had done so, JayJay went on, “I reckon this fellow knows more about the place here than most folks on the payroll. Any chance he could talk with somebody in the business?”

  The guard was already reaching for the phone. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Allerby’s secretary. Ask your driver to drop him by the admin building.”

  “I’m much obliged, Mr. Twyford.”

  “Just call me Hardy, sir.”

  “Well, I’m very grateful. You have a good day now.” JayJay rolled up his window.

  Ahn handled the guest badge like he’d been granted a day-pass to paradise. “This can’t be happening.”

  “I’d go along with that, sure enough.” JayJay felt the rumbling of nerves. “Any last-minute advice for the greenhorn?”

  Ahn slipped the pass around his neck. “Ask the guidance of the little people. I hear that from everybody I talk to in the trade. Stars never do it. But the folks behind the camera, they know a whole lot. And they’ll love you for staying on their level.”

  Chapter 14

  JayJay Parsons entered the soundstage feeling a lot better than he might have expected. Better, probably, than he deserved. The reason was simple. His first stop had been Wardrobe, where he’d stood on a little stool while Hilda or Gladys—he couldn’t get the ladies straightened out—pinned him into a new set of clothes. Then he moved behind the screen to disrobe, an action the two ladies still chuckled over, and did what Ahn had suggested, which was to repeat the words “You got any advice for the greenhorn?”

  Hilda or Gladys made her voice as much Western-range as her Brooklyn accent permitted. “Well, stranger, I’d say treat this day like it was your very last chance at the big time.”

  “I like that.” JayJay accepted the jeans and slipped them on. “Only way to break a bronco is to go at it like you got one ride left in you. Else that horse is gonna know you’re holding back. And he’s gonna do his best to knock you into next week.”

  “You actually did that? Rode a bronco?”

  “Got the spurs and the scars to prove it.” JayJay stepped into his boots, walked back around, accepted his hat, fitted the crown just so, and touched the brim. “Much obliged, ma’am.”

  Hilda or Gladys turned coquettish. “The way you say that makes a gal go all weak at the knees.”

  The other half of the pair was smiling too. “Go get ’em, tiger. Or should I say, stallion.”

  So JayJay entered the soundstage with the grin still in place. And as luck would have it, the first face he saw belonged to the foppish little assistant director. Kip Denderhoff waved his arms like he was winding himself up for the day ahead. The AD hissed a stream of nasty at a man handling a huge light and trying his best to appear untouched by the little guy. Then the AD saw JayJay approaching and did his imitation of a squid, going pale and boneless and searching for a rock to hide under.

  “Just you hold up there. I don’t aim on restarting where I left off.” JayJay stepped between the AD and the back exit. “Matter of fact, I came over to apologize.”

  “Stop making fun.” The little guy looked miserable. “And don’t you dare hit me. I’ve got a hundred witnesses. I’ll sue.”

  “And you’d be right doing it. Stand still for a minute, will you? I said I wasn’t taking aim. Shouldn’t never have started in on you the other day. You were right and I was wrong.”

  The AD froze. “Excuse me?”

  “I was late. I kept y’all waiting. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. You had all the reasons in the world to take a piece outta my hide. So I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.” JayJay crossed his arms. “Now you just go ahead and yell.”

  The AD cocked his head. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Well, I reckon you’ll have plenty of reasons to come down on me, green as I am. Comes time, you just fire away.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  “Well, Mr. Denderhoff, I’d say it’s a pleasure but we both know I’d be lying. Just do me a favor and hold off yelling at the ladies. I’ve always had a hair trigger on their account. You find a need
to shout at somebody, come looking for me.” JayJay nodded affably and walked away. He offered a couple of howdy’s to the people he saw staring at him, feeling good enough over what he’d just done not to let the stares bother him too much.

  “Mr. Junior? Did I get that name right? Hi, I’m Amber, the script girl? Would you like your pages?”

  JayJay accepted the bound pages from a young lady who resembled a very tense elf. His name was scripted in red across the cover. “Do you make a question of everything you say?”

  “Am I doing that? Oh. Yeah. I am. I don’t . . .” She bustled away.

  The pages were clamped into a simple plastic binder. The title was in bold. Heartland on Fire. He turned the page. The script was not in any order he’d ever seen before, blocked out in places and written down the middle in others. Names were in big, tall letters. Strange-sounding orders were also capitalized, like CUT TO, FADE OUT, PARA DIA.

  But he had grown up on oddities of the English language like manuals for farm equipment and Sears catalogs. That was not what had him searching with his free hand for someplace to sit down before he keeled over. His hand found a canvas chair and he lowered himself down, all without taking his eyes from the script.

  A voice said, “If you think saying a couple of nice words is going to let you get away with this, mister, you’ve got another think coming.”

  Reluctantly JayJay lifted his gaze. He looked uncomprehendingly at the little AD.

  Denderhoff carried his script rolled up tight. He had a trio of lenses strung around his neck. He was sweating. And angry. “Nobody sits in my chair.”

  “Yours?”

  “See the name on the back? Moi. Mine. Now up.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The gnat flitted off.

  “Here, Mr. Junior.” Someone slid a stool within range. “Take a load off.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He did not even see the man clearly. He had already turned his attention back to the pages in his hand.

  The words marked for him to say felt as though they had been drawn from his own brain.

  He flipped the pages. Same thing every time. JayJay shut the script. He stared into the soundstage’s far shadows. The words did not just sound right. They were his.

  A perspiring young man with bulky headphones around his neck and a stopwatch on a string raced over. “Fifteen minutes, Mr. Junior.” Then he was gone.

  JayJay asked the empty air, “Does anybody move at a normal pace around here?”

  “Hon, this is calm. You’re only shooting trials today. Try going live. Nothing beats a live broadcast for pure frantic.” Hilda or Gladys grabbed his sleeve and snipped at a loose thread. She lowered her voice. “See the young lady standing all by her lonesome? She’s your new love interest.”

  “Say what?”

  “She’s almost as green as you, hon, and twice as nervous. Go give her a smile and a howdy.” The older woman batted her eyelashes. “First time I’ve ever been sorry they didn’t ask me to dress up for the cameras.”

  JayJay found it marginally easier to examine his chopped-up home. The structure was built on steel pilings and elevated about three feet off the soundstage floor. The lady leaned against the edge of his living room. As JayJay approached, he decided she did not look afraid. She looked irate.

  But she sure looked good doing it.

  All the eyes in the soundstage that weren’t on him were on her. And for good reason. She drew every light in the room. Her jeans were spray-painted onto legs about six miles long. Her hair was too dark to be truly blonde and framed her face in a tawny mane. She had a cowgirl’s rangy muscles. Her feet were the reason they invented boots. Emerald eyes watched his approach with wary intent.

  JayJay touched the rim of his hat. “Morning, ma’am. I’m—”

  “I know who you are.” Her gaze returned to the script. “Let’s get one thing straight. All that success of yours? It doesn’t leave me weak in the knees.”

  “You’re thinking of that other guy.”

  But she was on a roll. “And another thing. I’ve heard you figure grabby-paws is a clause written somewhere in your contract.”

  He watched her hands, and saw how she could not completely hide the tremble as she flipped through pages she probably didn’t see. “That’s the other guy again.”

  “You think I’m kidding?”

  “No ma’am, I surely don’t.” JayJay set his hat on the cut-off floor beside her. “Matter of fact, I’d say you were being pretty temperate in your warning.”

  She cast him a sideways glance. “Nobody says ‘temperate’ anymore. It’s a law they passed somewhere.”

  “Guess I missed that. My first day here was Saturday. The feller over there with the lenses around his neck?”

  “The mosquito. Yeah, he already drew blood, but he flitted away before I could smack him.”

  “He set on me like a spark on dry tinder.” JayJay drew the knife from his belt. “I whanged this into the doorpost by his head. Which is why I’d call your warning there a polite form of hello.”

  “I got the long version of that set-to from your fan club in Wardrobe.” She studied the sheafed blade. “Is that a genuine Bowie?”

  “I can’t say for certain about this thing. But a Bowie is what I use back home. You know knives?”

  “My daddy has a Bowie. The handle was carved from the first buck’s antlers he took.” Her gaze softened with her tone. “He was sixteen.”

  “Don’t hardly get any finer than hunting the high country and waiting for that first snow. You from Montana?”

  “South Dakota. You?”

  JayJay shook his head. “Hard to say.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. This place is so intense I can’t remember much of anything from before I walked in the door over there.”

  “How about your name?”

  “Sorry.” She wiped one hand down the leg of her jeans before offering it. “Kelly Channing.”

  “John Junior, Miss Channing. It’s a real pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Well, you talk nice, I’ll give you that much.” Her features held to their narrow caution, but her tone eased a trifle. “How did you wind up here?”

  JayJay hesitated. “Miss Channing . . .”

  “I’d say first names are called for. In case you hadn’t noticed, they’ve got us kissing on page thirty-three.”

  But he didn’t want to start thinking on that. “Kelly, I have a mind not to answer you. I don’t want you running off telling folks you’ve been hooked up with a man straight out of the piney woods.”

  She was not the least bit impressed. “Tell you what, when we’re done here we can compare tales. Make a wager over which one of us has the wilder story for how we got to where we are.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take your money.”

  “You won’t. Believe me.”

  “So how about dinner?” Soon as he spoke the words, he wished he could take them back. The day was already too confusing to go chasing after a lady, even if she was about the best thing he’d ever seen in denim.

  Though her gaze remained wary, she responded with a tight nod. “Winner chooses, loser buys.”

  JayJay gave up on his desire to retract the offer when the steel outer doors clanged open and two men entered the room. First to enter was Peter, the writer JayJay had last seen at the fire. JayJay had met the other man when they’d had him read those lines with his fake sister Clara and then followed him around with the camera. Britt somebody. But JayJay could be excused for having been a little unfocused on Saturday. This morning the whole scene was crystal clear. Whatever title the guy might be wearing, this Britt fellow was the Business.

  “Over here, Mr. Junior.” He vaulted up onto the raised half cabin and waved JayJay into his chopped-up sitting room. “I’m Britt Turner, director of Heartland. What should I call you?”

  He pulled a chair over from the kitchen table. “JayJay’s worked my whole life long.”

  “And we thought
a Claire playing Clara was too weird for words. Going to take some getting used to, an actor with the exact same name as his role.” The director shared a look with his AD. Denderhoff was stationed behind the sofa holding Claire and the writer. “PR ought to be able to make something of it.”

  “I’ll have a word.”

  “When we’re done here, JayJay, you need to head over to Allerby’s office. Admin is working on your guild card, and Publicity will want to get some shots for the promo they’re setting up.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Britt passed him a quick smile. “Nice to hear an actor say those words.” The director wore comfortable no-nonsense clothes, a loose cotton shirt and khaki pants. “Quick intros. You’ve already met Claire Pietan, right?”

  JayJay realized he was speaking of his false sister. He nodded in slow awareness. Shifting the name that little bit helped him fit her into a new mental box. “Not by name.”

  “And this is Kelly Channing.”

  Claire’s voice was acidic. “Oh, they’re already good pals. Aren’t you, little brother.”

  “I met Miss Channing this morning,” JayJay confirmed, as Kelly gave the other woman a careful study.

  “Great. Peter Caffrey here is Heartland’s chief writer. And Derek Steen is acting first cameraman today.”

  JayJay gave them a wave. “Nice to see you gents still up and breathing.”

  “And clean,” Derek confirmed. “Thought I’d never get the smoke out of my hair.”

  Peter Caffrey remained silent and gave him the sideways look of somebody who wasn’t sure he liked what he was seeing. The director went on, “We didn’t know where to locate you, so we weren’t able to get the pages to you before now. Just the same, our thought was to try a few scenes on for size. Your lines will be on the teleprompter. We’ll be filming, but just for study. It’s all rehearsal.”

  “The full script won’t be done for another couple of weeks,” Peter warned the director. “I’m pulling what I can from the episode we never shot. But it’ll be a while.”

  “We’re rehearsing,” the director repeated. “But we’re going to light it and shoot it so JayJay here can get used to performing for the camera. You’re new to this game, isn’t that right?”