Borderlands 3

by Thomas F. Monteleone (Ed. )

  Georgie kicked Uncle Billy in the stomach. "Not good like my mom," he squirmed to free himself from the bear hug.

  "Better. You'll see." Hang on tight, he coached himself, running. Don't let him slip away. There's still time. Run.

  "Put me down!" the child screamed. "Stop! I need for you to put me down."

  The second landing offered a rest. William lowered Georgie onto worn carpeting.

  "You're upset, pal. Hungry. Let me fix you up here," he started adjusting buttons when Georgie broke for the stairs.

  "You're bad, Uncle Billy," he scolded. "It's bad to take a little boy away from his mom."

  "But, Georgie. Wait. I'm gonna save you... let me..."

  He couldn't believe the child's speed. And as William watched Georgie race ahead of him, upstairs, he caught sight of scars running jagged and white across his thighs. Tomorrow, he vowed, he'd get a lawyer. William started after the boy, but Georgie managed to outrun him.

  "Stop! Come back here!"

  "No! Leave me and my mom alone." The apartment door slammed shut; a lock bolted into place.

  "I'll call the police!" William pounded the idle threat into rough wood. "Susan! Georgie? Do you hear me? I'll call the doctors. Susie?"

  She laid on her stomach. There was a two inch space between the door and threshold. "What will you tell the police?" Baby Sue taunted. "That I'm a good mother? My son loves me? Wants to be with me forever? He really, really, really does.

  "When they find out I'm famous, they'll probably want my autograph."

  William's legs gave out; he crumbled to the floor. "Nobody wants your autograph. Nobody cares anymore..."

  "William," she whispered now. "William, I have to go and take care of my precious baby. Someday, when you and Laura have children of your own, you'll understand what great responsibilities I have. Such sacrifices I've made. But there's a bond between me and Georgie. A bond you'll never know."

  "Yeah, Uncle Billy," Georgie agreed. "You just don't know how to treat a kid."

  High Concept by David Bischoff

  It's hard to pin down the career of Dave Bischoff. He's been a professional writer for more than sixteen years, and he's written so many stories and books I have no clue as to their number other than to say they are legion and that they cover practically every genre, including young adult and film novelizations. He has two new upcoming novels (with John DeChancie) from New American Library concerning the exploits of a character named Doctor Dimension, and he is also doing a Star Trek novel for Pocket Books. He's also been one of my closest friends for twenty years; but that hasn't made it any easier for him to get a story into Borderlands. I think I rejected four or five of his submissions before buying the following tale. Dave lives in Eugene, Oregon, but he used to live in Los Angeles. After you read "High Concept" you might better understand why he deserted that place of freeways and power-lunches.

  I was dry.

  I was blocked.

  I was a successful Hollywood writer, a world of riches at my command, and I just couldn't come up with two right words to rub together on my word processor.

  After a few weeks of this burnt-out hell, Jim Hampton told me about the Church.

  ▼

  "So, how's it pumping?" said my tennis partner on this splendid L.A. day, sky only slightly smeared with smog.

  "Not well," I replied.

  "Still running on empty?"

  "I'm not even running any more. I think the motor's dead. I've never been blocked so long before."

  "A week longer than last time I asked." Jim Hampton took a towel from his bag and wiped the sweat off his face. He replaced the towel and pulled out a tube of number 15 Sun Block, rubbed some in his right hand and carefully re-applied it to his face. He looked up from his seat on the bench out at the tennis court. "Happens to us all."

  Which was his usual answer.

  Only this time as he hopped to his feet, adjusting his sunglasses for the next set of their tennis game, sweeping a practice swipe with his racquet, Jim continued. "Tell you what, Don? Buy me a drink after the game, I might have something that could help."

  As I served the ball, I wondered what the guy meant. A job? As an executive producer for the hit show, The Hit Squad, Jim Hampton could certainly throw a few scripts my way. Hell, he could cut some guy off "at story"—rework it to his satisfaction with the help of his staff of producers and story editors and then toss me a beat sheet I could write the teleplay for in my sleep.

  Problem was, A: I was way past The Hit Squad in my career and taking such a job would be a black mark on my record, even if I put a pseudonym on it.

  B: I still don't think I could write.

  Beneath the L.A. summer sun, sucking in far too much pollution for my good, whacking the ball back and forth, sweat trickling into my eyes, I thought about the Mill out here and how I'd run afoul of it.

  I'd come out here with a few novels under my belt and ten years teaching at a midwestern college. I'd gotten an option on one of the novels, an espionage thriller, to get me going. My agent got me a draft of the movie screenplay and while the project landed in development hell, that screenplay showed me and lots of people that I could handle the form. Sales to television gave me the actual confidence of seeing my work produced and led to a couple of movie scripts that paid me a lot of money and put me in the fast lane. The wife I'd come out with found her true self and a new lover in a Self-Actualization program at Esalen. She moved up to Marin County with a hefty divorce settlement. I found a new woman who gave up an unpromising career as an actress to give birth to three children. She had a taste for expensive landscaping and lavish interior decorating and demanded a second home in Arizona 'to get away from the craziness here.'

  That, along with my own taste in high-tech gadgets and sports cars pretty much ate up the income.

  Trouble is, you set yourself up out here in La-La land thinking the income is going to be the same each year, you set yourself up for a serious fall. I'd gotten so used to writing scripts that I'd lost the knack for writing regular prose fiction and the money was so far inferior, anyway, I couldn't afford the time and effort involved in writing it.

  Nor did constant jobs mean I wasn't prey to misfortune and surprise. Studio executives change, producers change, stars and directors bail out of projects. It's a crazy living. And don't let anyone tell you that it isn't just an industry here, either, a mill churning the stuff out. Churning it out in a convoluted, weird way, true—turning out not only product, but ceaseless variations of the same product to suit various committee whims and moods. I'd hooked up expecting fame, money, glamour and a materialistically high quality of life. What I ended up was trapped. I had to keep stoking the engines of Hell.

  Stoking it with ideas, high concepts, characters, endless pages of script copy that only a few people would ever read and would probably get changed, if it even made it to the wide screen or the altar of the Nielsen God.

  And the ideas, the pages weren't coming. The characters came out stillborn. And the concepts weren't anywhere near high; they were barely low.

  Which was why I was damned interested in hearing what Jim had to say.

  At the club bar later, I worked on a Gatorade over ice while he sipped a lime and soda. (It would be bad form to have the martini I really wanted—drinking and snorting away your woes in this town was strictly out.) He analyzed the mistakes I'd made in our hour's worth of tennis, then guided me over to an unusually dark booth in the back of the bar for that chat he'd promised.

  "About five years ago, I was in the same soup you are now."

  Jim's forty-three years old, but he's taken the time to keep himself in shape and nature has given him greying hair rather than bald spots, so he still looks great. That would have made him only a year younger than I was now when he was in that 'same soup'.

  "Writer's block?"

  "Uh huh. And I could ill afford it, let me tell you."

  "Yeah. My own reserves are about tapped."

  Maybe he wa
s going to offer a loan. Maybe I was going to take it.

  "But you still got some... for an investment?"

  "An investment? Hey, Don, how am I going to afford an investment when I've got to pay my nut and necessary luxuries and all that's coming in are tiny residual checks?" I think a little bit of my despair leaked into my sentence; the word 'residual' squeaked.

  He shook his head. "No. I'm talking about an investment in your writing ability. Your inspirational fecundity. An investment in you."

  "Sounds like a sales pitch."

  "I get no money out of this," he said, looking a little hurt. "And I'm risking a lot for a tennis buddy." He turned and sipped at his drink, looking slightly peeved.

  I let it hang in the air for a couple moments, but not for too long. No, I was far too desperate. Bankruptcy would not only kill my credit rating, it would kill my career. It's a pool of sharks out here and since sharks have to swim to live, sharks that aren't moving are considered dead sharks and promptly allowed to sink into the sludge.

  "You say you were blocked and this... this investment finally helped you?"

  He nodded. "Yes. And you know that I've got other projects going besides The Hit Squad. I write plenty. Don't you ever wonder how I get time to play tennis with a loser like you?"

  I laughed. He smiled. The bridge was mended.

  "Okay. I guess I could come up with a few bucks. Do I get to see what I'm investing in?"

  "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

  Tomorrow night was Thursday night, which was traditionally Extra Writing Night. Since I wasn't writing, I wasn't doing anything.

  I told him.

  "Good. Come with me."

  "What is this. Some kind of writer's seminar?"

  "Uh, uh." He finished his soda and lime. "It's the Church."

  ▼

  The place was a large house in the Hollywood Hills. I hesitate to say mansion. It was just a big old house that probably belonged to some director, producer or actor back in the thirties. I didn't get a tourists history either; we just drove up there in Don's Jaguar at eight thirty.

  "I faxed them your background and credits," he said after a jokey warm-up, rehashing the days gossip as he pulled off Franklin to head up a canyon road. "They called back with a tentative approval. Did you bring a check?"

  "Yeah."

  "How much is this going to cost me?"

  "For tonight's session, it'll be a thousand dollars."

  "Just for tonight?" I said, being philosophical. A thousand bucks wasn't going to kill me financially. A writer's block would.

  "If it doesn't work for you, all you do is sign a paper swearing secrecy about the Church and you get the money back. Fair enough."

  "One session's going to do it for me?"

  "If one session doesn't, two won't."

  As the beautiful green car purred up the grade, I shrugged. "Sounds just fine to me, Jim. And Jim... thanks."

  He smiled, but I thought I saw a touch of grimness at the corners of his mouth.

  "Sure," he said. "But remember, guy... I'm doing this because I know you need it."

  "Yes, sure. I appreciate that."

  I wasn't sure what he meant.

  Jim found the place way up in the hills and it was situated on a nice chunk of land, with a horseshoe driveway. Don stuck an identification card in a slot in a machine. The heavy gate slid open, and we drove up the driveway. Jim pulled his Jag up onto the curb, parked, and we got out.

  The lights of the Los Angeles basin glittered like cheap jewelry. The chill of night had come on, and I was glad I'd worn my black silk sport jacket. The scent of sage from the hills melded pleasantly with the smell of the flower beds surrounding this old house. With barely a word, Jim guided me around the side of the house, along a path lit by small electric lights. "Church is held in the back," was all he said in way of explanation.

  I didn't ask any questions. Jim is either extremely talkative or totally mum, and while I usually fill in the dead air during his silent phases, somehow now didn't seem the time for verbosity.

  Along the side of the path, a man was sitting in the shadows. He asked for our names and we gave them. I suddenly had an unusual sense of dread. The man in the darkness radiated some kind of menace wholly alien to the usual L.A. casual. I shuddered a little bit as a flashlight was shone into our faces.

  "Don's new, then," said the man.

  "That's right."

  The flashlight got directed onto a clipboard. Papers rustled. I got the glimpse of the butt of a gun.

  "Okay. Everything's in order, Mr. Hampton. Have a good evening."

  We walked on, me with a bit a shudder.

  The narrow path opened up into a large backyard. There was the de rigueur Hollywood Hills kidney-shaped pool of course, but beyond it was what seemed to be an old gymnasium. A red light shown above a closed door. We walked along a path edged with hedge and lights. Jim knocked on the door. It opened. A tall, powerfully built man examined us carefully and then beckoned to another. A shorter man came up. He looked like an agent, dressed in a shiny Armani suit, his blond hair slicked back, his eyes glittering, his mouth filled with flashing teeth.

  "Hello, Jim," he said. "This would be Mr. Edwards then. Hello, Don. I've admired your work over the years." I got a firm lingering handshake. "I'm Michael. I'm glad you've chosen to try our little group. I think you'll receive a great deal of... inspiration from our little service."

  "That's what I'm here for," I said. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a religious man."

  "Religion can be very beautiful," he said. "Especially if it's practical." Smile. Glint of eye. I recognized him now. He was an agent. A sub-agent for a large agency. I'd seen his picture in the trades. I didn't remember his last name, though. Not that it mattered. To tell the truth, I was a trifle bit intimidated by the interior of the old gymnasium into which we'd walked.

  "Come and let me show you gentlemen to your seats," he said. "Oh, but first... There's a little trifle we should deal with."

  I looked at him, baffled, but Jim nudged me. "The money, guy."

  "Oh. Right?" How could I have forgotten? This was Hollywood. 'The money' was paramount. I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out the check. I'd had to tap what I called my 'Vegas fund'—money set aside for frivolous conspicuous tossing-away—but this, I figured, was gambling as much as anything. Michael took it, examined it quickly and then slid it into an envelope in an inside breast pocket of the Armani.

  "This way, gentlemen, if you please."

  As he led us further into the room, I realized that low music was being piped into the room: a wash of New Agey synthesizers.

  The reason why I was feeling more than a little odd was because of the way the room was set-up. It really was a church... But most certainly the strangest church I'd ever seen. For one thing, there were pews. Ten rows of finished oak benches complete with an aisle, just as you might find them in your normal corner Presbyterian church. An odd thing to see inside an old gym behind a Hollywood Hills mansion, certainly, but even stranger were the other accoutrements of religious ceremony surrounding it, Christian, non-Christian and miscellaneous oddments quite beyond the pale.

  In front of the pews there was an altar and on this altar was a large statue of a fat man in a polo shirt and thick glasses with a huge cigar dangling out of his mouth. He was sitting in full lotus position. On one knee sat a doll of Marilyn Monroe. On the other was an old fashioned Olympia manual typewriter. Strewn at his feet were old scripts.

  "Who the hell is that supposed to be?" I whispered.

  "A representation of an old fashioned Hollywood mogul," said Jim. "The Church is not without its sense of humor."

  "Nor its sense of the bizarre."

  There were large candles, of course, and there was incense smoking out of burners that could have come from Nepal or some other mystic land, and there was stained glass windows and icons. But as I looked closely, the icons were of modern folk, often as not wearing glasses. Don caught me
gawking. "Founding members of the church," he explained.

  As I looked around, eyes adjusting to the dimness, unable to prevent myself from rubber-necking, I began to notice that I recognized some of the forty or so people who sat in the pews. And they weren't all simply WGA members, either. There were producers for TV shows, movie producers... and a few studio executives too. They weren't talking either, which was unusual in schmooze-town. They were either staring straight ahead at the altar or staring down at their laps—both positions appearing to be some kind of meditation.

  "Hey," I said to Jim, pointing at a man off to the side of us, who looked a lot like the guy who had just received fourth place in a recent Premiere magazine ranking of the most powerful people in Hollywood. "Isn't that—"

  "Shhh!" said Jim emphatically. "Yes, it is. Now you have to be quiet for awhile."

  Typical of me. I hadn't been inside a church for a very long time, and I'd forgotten the sense of propriety you were supposed to have in one. Although until I actually shut up, I didn't really even have the sense of this place as being any place actually religious. It was just pure Hollywood mondo to me. But then, when I sat for a while sniffing the incense and listening to the electronic droning and the incredible silence of people who usually yakked away when they were together, I indeed got a sense of the numinous, the oddly spiritual. And it was a vaguely troubling experience, because there was a terrible uneasiness about it all as well.

  Abruptly, though, the music segued into a processional. A fanfare of synthesizer trumpets, a whooshing of sampled wind, as though signifying something spiritual gushing over the assemblage.

  Then, down the aisle, there walked seven people in robes, cowled. Six wore black. The seventh and final, wore white. The six blacks split up and moved to take their places, three to either side of the 'Hollywood Buddha' as I had come to call it.

  The music stopped, and the quiet that dropped onto the scene was unearthly.

  I could not help but shiver.

  The last, the white one, stood in the very center. He ceremoniously bowed to the blasphemous 'Buddha'. Then he carefully and slowly lit the candles surrounding the altar. The scented burning tallow and wicks cast their own odor through the cavernous room. Everything was so still, I fancied I heard the flapping of bats in the dark rafters. The man in the white robes bowed again, this time to the congregation. Then he took off his sandals, rearranged his robes, then carefully and reverently settled his posterior onto the pillow.