The Fourth Wall

by Williams, Walter Jon

  Hello, Ramona, I think.

  “How long have the microphones been in there?” Astin asks.

  “The room was last checked Tuesday night.”

  “Shit, man,” Astin says.

  “It happened last night,” I say. “I mean, early this morning.”

  They look at me. “I had a lady visitor,” I say. “I met her at a club. I guess she brought electronics with her.”

  And when she was snorting coke off my bedside table she was probably sticking a microphone on the back of my headboard.

  I can see how the thing was done. There was no need to do anything so crude as follow me around, although that might have been done with one of the drone aircraft the paparazzi are using these days. But really all you need is a network of informers, folks who hang around places like Dove Bar and Club Kali and other places where celebrities are wont to gather.

  Here I came into one of the clubs, and the informant picked up his phone and called his boss, who sent Ramona on her way.

  It’s news to me that the tabloids are employing prostitutes to gather information, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Still, it’s discouraging to know that you can’t trust the discretion of a sex worker any longer.

  Christ, you might as well fuck a civilian.

  I have no idea who Ramona’s employers might have been, but I suspect Kari Sothern of the Tale. There was something in the way she said “Don’t kick the dog” that led me to believe she was planning something for me.

  Richard looks at me. “Did this girl film you having sex?”

  “She didn’t deploy a camera, though I suppose she might have had one in her bag.” I try to remember what Ramona’s bag looked like. The handbag was small, but I suppose they make cameras small, too.

  I think she left it in the front room, though. But no, she went back to the bag for a box of condoms and her baggie of blow.

  “Well,” Richard says, “if a Sean Makin sex tape appears, we’ll know one way or another.”

  “It would also show Ramona snorting a lot of coke,” I say. “My guess is she wasn’t taking video.”

  “They’re bound to have gotten audio,” Richard says. The reference to coke sails right over him. He’s so deep into the Ramona problem that he’s not even worried what substances I’m consuming.

  And I’m not worried about an audio. I recall how much ecstatic moaning and yelling Ramona was doing, and I figure the release of an audio like that would only enhance my reputation with the ladies.

  “The range on those bugs isn’t huge,” Richard continues. “They’ve got to have a receiver somewhere in the area. In a van, maybe, or maybe in another hotel room.”

  “I’ll ask at the desk,” Astin says, “see if anyone checked in late last night.” He walks away.

  Richard looks up at me. “So is there anything in particular they’re looking for?”

  I suppress a guilty start. “Other than a sex tape?” I ask.

  “I mean, Kari Sothern said she was going to dig, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So.” He looks at me carefully, and I feel a cold warning finger brush up the back of my neck. “Is there anything in particular she’s digging for?”

  “Well,” I say, “I was sort of hoping she might find out who’s trying to kill me.”

  Richard looks bemused. “Interesting idea.”

  “Set a stalker to catch a stalker,” I say glibly.

  “But stalkers aren’t what she’s looking for, she’s just hoping to find something embarrassing or incriminating. Or—” He holds up a hand. “She’s hoping to hear you running your lines or maybe talking with Joey or something about your scenes. She wants the script.”

  “Ah. Especially if she realized the one you sold her is a fake.”

  “Well.” A trace of a smile crosses his face. “If there’s one thing Dagmar’s taught me, it’s that when someone tries to play you, you play them back.”

  “So are you playing them back this time?”

  “You are. A script will be here soon, and all you have to do is practice the lines aloud.”

  Lead her down another false trail. I laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

  Astin returns from the front desk. “Bogart Suite,” he says. “Right next to yours.”

  The ghost of a smile returns to Richard’s face. “We’ll take a look at them in a bit, then. I don’t suppose they told you who’s paying for that room?”

  Astin smiles. “I haven’t been provided with bribe money, man.”

  “We’ll fix that,” Richard says. “I have to visit an ATM, though.”

  Astin is helpful. “There’s one on the other side of the lobby.”

  “Excellent.” He peers in the direction of the hotel restaurant. “Can we get some food? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “It’s Arnold Palmer Happy Hour,” I say. “There should be snacks.”

  Richard gets some money from the ATM, gives most of it to Astin, and then Richard and I collect taquitos and chipotle-spiced riblets from the buffet, sit, and watch Astin’s bribery attempt through the plate-glass window. All we see is that Astin seems to be engaged in a very intense conversation with the young lady behind the desk.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Trishula,” Richard says as he chews a taquito. “I’m having a very hard time tracking him down through my usual means. His virtual identity wallet is unusually well constructed. So I’m going to have to use a whole other method of working his identity.”

  “Yes?”

  “He doesn’t post just on your blog, he’s online in other places. Mostly Babaji sites, but he’s got a presence elsewhere. So what we do is analyze his social network. From the pattern of his movement online, we can track his relationships. We might find purchases and credit cards. We may be able to find people who know him. And even if we don’t, we’ll gradually eliminate people till we get to the right guy.”

  I think about this. “You’re saying that while you might not be able to find the right person directly, you can reach him by eliminating all the other nine billion people on the planet?”

  Richard sips his iced tea. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

  I eat a riblet as I strive to absorb this. “Isn’t that—uh—hard?”

  Richard sips again. “Not so much. First off, we can eliminate everyone who wasn’t in Southern California in the last week.”

  “I guess that takes care of most of the nine billion right there.”

  “The software’s been around for a decade or more. It’s used by banks, security companies, and intelligence agencies to sift data and find suspicious patterns…and some of Sri’s companies use that kind of software, so we have access to it.”

  “Is that kind of thing legitimate?” I ask.

  He gives me a surprised look. “Sean,” he says, “you talk as if spying is illegal or something.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Well,” Richard says, “it’s not like we’re going to look in secure government databases, or anything. We’re not looking for nuclear secrets, we’re looking for the street address of a crazy person.”

  “Cool,” I say. I give it some thought. “Could we find Ramona?”

  “Probably.” He gives me a look. “You want to find her?”

  “To expose her. If every bouncer and doorman in LA knows her face, she’s going to have a hard time meeting her targets.”

  At this point Astin returns. “Double Delta Entertainment,” he says.

  I reach for my handheld and start to call up the Internet. “I bet you that if I check that, it’ll be the company that does Kari Sothern’s show.”

  Richard puts a hand over my phone. “Don’t use your phone,” he says. “Ramona may have cloned it.”

  I look at the phone in my hand. Traitor, I think.

  “In fact you’d better turn it off and give it to me. I’ll make sure it’s not compromised, and I’ll give it back to you tonight at the premiere.”

  As I hand him my phone, I
realize that in today’s excitement, first with getting new representation and then the excitement over the bugs, it’s slipped my mind that tonight is the premiere of Part II of Escape to Earth.

  Richard looks up Double Delta on his own phone and finds that, indeed, it’s the company that produces Kari Sothern’s TV show. “Lovely,” he says. “Somehow I have a feeling that they’re going to suffer a major denial-of-service attack.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I ask.

  Richard blinks up at me. “Didn’t say I would do it.”

  At which point one of his lieutenants turns up with the fake script, and so I spend the next couple hours in my suite reading lines like “If we don’t stop it somehow, that dirty bomb’s going to take out Buenos Aires,” and “Those mutant sea creatures are the worst menace your planet has ever faced!”

  I have to say I read the lines brilliantly.

  The night’s premiere is at Griffith Observatory—not in the planetarium, but elsewhere in the building, amid the science exhibits, and in the parking lot and the surrounding area. The place is absolutely iconic, with more than a dozen movies having been made here, and scores of television programs. I take Clarence Musselwhite as my guest, but it takes me a long time to get onto the grounds, because the press presence is massive, and they all want to talk to me. I seem to be a lot more popular than I was last week.

  Joey is also mobbed. All I see is the top of his head amid a swarm of reporters and cameras.

  Eventually I get past the press area, and Clarence and I and my two guards walk past the pylon with the six statues of strange science-fictional astronomers with blank eyes and long gowns, and then up the long lawn on to the observatory itself and the stairs where Sal Mineo died in Rebel Without a Cause. We talk about the movies made here, and Clarence explains what the Foucault pendulum is actually for, which I’ve never known.

  We walk out of the building and past the bronze head of James Dean on its plinth. It was Sal Mineo who died in the movie, but it was Dean who got the memorial. Actors with careers that crater, I remind myself, don’t get statues built to them.

  Still, I touch Dean’s shiny nose for luck, and think, Please, Jimmy, don’t let it be a flop.

  There’s a band playing classical Chinese instruments on one of the terraces, and the second terrace has a buffet and a bar. I see a lot of women in cheongsams. Dagmar is probably around somewhere but I don’t see her. We go out onto the terrace with the food and enjoy the gorgeous view of Los Angeles. As the sun drops into the Pacific we watch the Hollywood sign light up, and then it’s time for Part II.

  I go by myself onto the lawn and sit cross-legged on the thick grass and fire up my tablet. I unfold the screen and dock it with my tablet and put the tablet on the grass. The uplink goes without a hitch. The download goes fast, and suddenly I’m watching Roheen bouncing around in the back of a truck as he comes down out of the Himalayas into China. I’m still amazed at the level of detail in every single frame. Even on my small screen it seems I could fall into the detail and only find more detail.

  And this was crowdsourced, I think. Freaking crowdsourced.

  I clench my teeth as the banquet scene comes up. But I hear laughter bubbling up from the dark around me, and I can take heart from the fact that at least a North American audience seems to like it.

  Dagmar’s done a nifty trick with the ending, one designed to maximize audience participation. Roheen’s journey forks at the end of Part II, depending on what the viewer does. By the end he’s set up to be shipped in a container to the U.S., but each audience member is given the opportunity to tell him about a scene they’ve just viewed, in which Arrick, the Steene commander, sends his own men to shut down a Tellurian Gate in Peru. If the player votes to tell Roheen what she knows, then Roheen will jump a freighter to Callao. If not, he’ll continue next week to North America.

  If the viewer voted for Peru, the vote is recorded in her account, and next week she’ll view the Peru episode. But if she elects to keep silent, Roheen goes on to America, to D.C. and his confrontation with the au pair played by Nataliya Hogan.

  Whatever choice the viewer makes is locked. Each individual viewer gets only one version of the film. One way to view every possible alternative is to get a whole series of accounts, but the best way is to view the other episode using the account of a friend. The idea is to maximize social networking among the viewers. Dagmar wants the viewers to make friends with each other, to be friends who have Escape to Earth in common. She wants people looking to find people who voted the other way, getting involved, arguing over which episode is better.

  I listen to the crowd as it watches the episode. I hear little chatter: for the most part they’re absorbed. It’s like a theater, with everyone sharing the experience with everyone else.

  Part II is shorter than the first episode, only a half hour or so. At the end there’s rolling applause.

  I get up, brush grass off my legs, and wander toward where I left Clarence. I’m surrounded by industry insiders, and they’re all smiling at me. Some people cheer.

  Four hundred thirty million people watched Part II in the first twenty-four hours of release.

  I’m not just a star, I’m a phenomenon.

  * * *

  INT. THIRTY-SIXTH CHAMBER—DAY

  “Sean Makin’s going down,” Burt Taylor says. “I’m going to cut him off at the knees. By the time I’m done with him, he’s going to be nothing but a red smear on the canvas.”

  Well, that’s what I call friendly.

  Celebrity Pitfighter’s supermodel spokeswoman turns to me. “What do you feel about that?”

  “I think that talk is cheap,” I tell her.

  So is this production. We’re filming a one-hour reunion show that will run a week prior to the finale, in hopes of building anticipation for the last fight. We all sit on bleachers on the Thirty-Sixth Chamber set, watch videos of our fights, make scripted comments, and respond to questions from the hostess and the judges.

  “I’m going to crush Sean’s head,” Burt responds.

  “Two words for you, Burt,” I say. “‘International superstar.’ Which you will never be.”

  I have to say that my line is a bit mean-spirited, but then I didn’t write it, the uncredited writers did. Besides, I’m Mr. Charm compared to Burt, who has been loudmouthed and annoying for the entire Pitfighter series. If this were professional wrestling, he’d be a classic “heel,” as I believe the type is known.

  Of course if he’s the heel, then I’m the good guy, or “babyface.” Irony abounds.

  The fact is that the audience for reality TV loves a good villain—the annoying, self-centered, obnoxious jerk who shows contempt for his rivals and supreme confidence in his own gifts. The audience loves to see this character rise to the finals, and then get crushed. I’m hoping that the producers have this career arc in mind, and will do their best to make it come about.

  Burt is only six feet tall, but he’s built like a brick. For this part he’s shaved his head, I suppose so that none of us can grab his hair, but he’s compensated by growing a villainous little goatee.

  He’s had a spotty career, mostly playing supporting roles and villains. His two starring roles were in low-budget films that went straight to DVD, and from there to oblivion.

  The odd thing is that even though he’s in the finals, he doesn’t seem to be particularly gifted in his martial arts. I’ve seen his fights, and he compensates for lack of genuine talent by dogged ferocity. He doesn’t give up, every strike means business, and he makes very few mistakes.

  We bark at each other some more, and then the hostess reminds the audience that the final Celebrity Pitfighter will be broadcast absolutely live in a week, and we fade.

  I lurk on the set until I have a chance to talk to Burt, which happens when we’re both in the dressing room, standing in front of the mirrors and taking off our makeup.

  “Want to get a cup of coffee or something?” I ask.

  He gives me a
look. “Why? You trying to date me or something?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I totally like ’em bald.” I wait a few seconds, and then say, “I figured there’s no reason why we can’t be friends when we’re not on camera.”

  So that’s how we end up meeting the next afternoon at a coffee shop on Van Nuys. I collect my chai tea latte from the barista and sit in a beige armchair and read the paper. The headlines are all about the war on the Thai-Burma border, and it’s depressing. When Burt arrives, ten minutes late, I’m surprised to see that he isn’t alone—he’s got two men with him, both young and casually dressed and in very good shape.

  Burt sits in the beige armchair near mine, and his two henchmen take some wooden chairs from other tables and pull them up close. I look at him.

  “I didn’t know I was so scary that you needed bodyguards,” I said.

  My own guard, Simon, sits discreetly in the corner, out of earshot.

  “I wanted witnesses,” Burt says.

  I look at him in surprise. “To what?”

  “To whatever you’re going to do.”

  I look at the two men. “Allow me to demonstrate the proper method for drinking a chai tea latte,” I tell them. I take a deliberate sip, and my senses fill with the taste of cardamom. “There,” I tell them. “You can leave now.”

  They look at Burt. He gives me a scowl.

  “That wasn’t funny,” he says.

  “Then I won’t drink again.” I put the coffee cup on the table between us. “There. You’re safe from my sense of humor.”

  Burt folds his arms and looks at me. “So are you here to rumble or what?”

  “Rumble?” I can’t help it, I laugh out loud. “Where did you find that word, some old movie?”

  Burt doesn’t crack a smile. “If you want to throw down, I’ll do it.” He nods at his posse. “But these guys make sure it’s fair.”

  I’m experiencing the sensation of having somehow crossed over into an unknown land, where all is mirror and shadow. I’ve strayed into Burt’s head, where nothing is quite as it is in reality.

  All I wanted to do was figure out some way to bribe the guy. I didn’t want to have to cope with the twists and turns of what turns out to be a supernaturally strange mind.