The Fourth Wall

by Williams, Walter Jon

  Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

  I’m retired. I don’t have those resources any more.

  Consuelo says:

  Too bad. Maybe someone here knows where we can get some reports from LAPD?

  INT. FUNERAL CHAPEL—DAY

  A few hours later, cleaned up, badly hungover and relieved of my firearm, I find myself at the Wee Kirk o’ the Heather. “Wee Kirk o’ the Heather” might sound like something built on the Munchkinland set, but in fact it’s the name of a chapel at the enormous Forest Lawn cemetery, one of several reproductions of moldy old European buildings used by the cemetery as props in weddings and funerals.

  Someone has probably made the joke that it really ought to be called the “Twee Kirk o’ the Heather,” but that wouldn’t be me.

  The media circus is insane, not only because Nataliya was a transcendently famous pop star, but also because news of Joey’s death has leaked. It’s the sensation of a decade already buried to its eyebrows in sensation. Multiple homicide! Cultists attacking movie stars with knives! Martial arts! Celebrities! Simon and Wild Bill practically have to crowbar open my path through the crowd of journalists to the chapel.

  The reporters demand details, but I couldn’t give them even if I wanted to. All I know is that Joey was found dead in his suite. I don’t know when he died, or how, or who killed him. All I can guess is that he was unlikely to have been run over by an SUV.

  Once inside the chapel I find the air thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and noisy with the chanting of a group of old, bald, wizened Buddhist nuns. It’s news to me that Nataliya thought of herself as a Buddhist, and probably news to the rest of the world as well.

  The Wee Kirk is the size of a modest country church, so flatscreens set up outside broadcast the proceedings to the hordes who can’t fit inside. Nataliya’s gold-plated coffin, fine enough for a pharaoh, sits in front of the altar under soft spotlights. The nuns chant. A man with sleek white hair delivers a homily. He’s from the local Buddhist Center and tries to make Buddhism sound as much like the Prosperity Gospel as possible. I had no idea that Buddha so badly wants me to be rich.

  Various friends testify to Nataliya’s essential goodness. There is weeping. Cameramen run up and down the aisles trying to catch all the action, or at least the tears. Nataliya’s horrible show-business mom, from whom she’d been estranged since her eighteenth birthday, waits for a camera to point in her direction and then breaks down weeping. Her father, a record producer, sits as far from the mother as proprieties permit and looks disgusted. It’s easy to figure out which half of the family gave her the narcissism.

  All this, remember, taking place in the rather confined space of a replica medieval Scottish church, the original of which has long since crumbled to dust.

  I’m feeling wretched, not only because the hangover is stabbing needles into my eyes, but also because I’m wearing a Kevlar vest under my shirt. It was Simon’s idea, but I was paranoid enough to think it might be a good one. The armor helps prop me up in the pew, when what I really want to do is sag down and take a nap.

  At the end of the service we are directed to view another flatscreen that has been set up behind the altar, and there we see the monologue that Nataliya recorded during her last day on the set of Escape to Earth.

  All the insanity of the funeral fades away, and there’s Nataliya as Colleen, facing the audience and revealing one layer after another of loneliness, desperation, and fear.

  I look away. Here, with Nataliya’s coffin in sight, her character’s naked desperation is too difficult to watch.

  That’s how I happen to find myself viewing the audience, and one woman in particular. She’s dark-haired and quite young and is looking up at the flatscreen with tears streaming down her face. I recognize her: she’s part of Nataliya’s entourage, but I don’t know her name.

  The thing that interests me is that she’s reciting the monologue along with Nataliya. Her lips are moving along with the words. I wonder if she’s the person who had to run lines with Nataliya when she learned the monologue. Or—just maybe—she had more to do with it than that.

  When the monologue ends the audience breaks into sustained applause. Then the nuns start chanting again, and it’s over.

  I rise to my feet and wince at another bolt of hangover pain. As the crowd starts filing out, I manage to elbow my way to Posse Girl. She looks up at me in surprise, mascara streaks on her face.

  “Hi,” I tell her. “I’m Sean.”

  “I know.” She blinks up at me. All around us the crowd is shuffling toward the exit. We’re creating a minor traffic jam, and I plant myself in the aisle as people nudge up against me and squeeze past.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” I say.

  She swipes at her eyes with a handkerchief. New mascara streaks appear over the old ones.

  “Corrie,” she says. “Corrie van Houten.”

  I loom over her. “How long did you know Nataliya?”

  “I—well—I was one of her assistants. I’ve known her a couple years. A friend of mine introduced us my senior year of high school.” She casts an anxious glance at some of the other posse members, who are murmuring among themselves and giving us strange looks.

  “That monologue we just saw,” I say. “I helped direct it.”

  Corrie nods. “Did you? That’s—that’s good.”

  “Nataliya was brilliant in it.”

  Tears well up in her eyes. “Yes,” she gulps. “She was.”

  I put a fatherly hand on her back. “You’ll land on your feet,” I tell her. “You’re a very good writer.”

  Corrie gives me a startled look. “Oh,” she says, “I’m not a writer.”

  I give a look over my shoulder at the flatscreen. “You wrote the monologue, right?”

  Her eyes widen. “No. I just helped Nataliya write it.”

  “But you wrote the actual words?”

  “Well.” She’s a little defensive. “Nataliya told me what to put in it, and so that’s what I did.”

  I don’t have time to probe in order to find out exactly what parts were written by which person, and besides, I think I understand what happened. Nataliya snared Corrie right out of high school, dazzled her with the pop-star lifestyle, moved her into the mansion, paid her a pittance, and consumed her life and talent. I doubt she gave Corrie much direction beyond, “Write me a monologue where Colleen feels insecure an’ stuff.” And then Corrie wrote the piece, and they rehearsed it together after Corrie explained what was actually happening in it, and then Nataliya took credit for everything, and Corrie felt honored to have helped the star notch up another credit on her résumé.

  Child exploitation. Where would this town be without it?

  I figured this out because even upon my brief acquaintance with Corrie I had a pretty good idea which of the two knew about insecurity and isolation and tragedy, and which didn’t.

  “Come with me,” I say. “I need to introduce you to somebody.”

  I take her arm rather firmly and guide her out of the Wee Kirk. California sun lances hangover pain into my skull. Corrie’s comrades in Nataliya’s entourage look at us suspiciously as we step outside. Cameras flash. I take a breath of Los Angeles smog refreshingly free of sandalwood incense.

  There’s a zone in front of the door that’s being kept clear so people can wait for their cars, and I look around the milling crowd and spot Dagmar, standing next to Ismet. I steer Corrie toward her.

  “Dagmar,” I say. “This is Corrie van Houten.”

  “Hello,” Dagmar says. They clasp hands, and Dagmar takes in the damp cheeks and smudged mascara. “Did you know Nataliya well?”

  “Corrie was one of her assistants,” I say. “She wrote the monologue we just saw.”

  Dagmar gives me a surprised look. “She did?”

  “No,” Corrie protests. “I didn’t.”

  Dagmar continues to gaze at me. “She says she didn’t,” she points out.

  “She only
wrote the words,” I say. “And put in the emotions and stuff.”

  Comprehension dawns. “Ahh,” Dagmar says, and looks at Corrie with a new awareness.

  “She’s a good writer,” I say. “Since you’re becoming such a huge force in this town, you’ll need more assistants now, and Corrie should be one of them.”

  Dagmar absorbs this, and turns to look at Corrie. “Well,” says Corrie. “Ah.”

  I leave them to exchange contact information and then signal Simon to call Astin to bring up the Expedition. I stand there by myself, sufficiently far from the crowd of reporters that I can ignore their shouted questions.

  Nataliya’s entourage parks itself somewhere to my right rear, I assume because it’s the only space left. I try to ignore the suspicious looks they’re giving me. I hear Corrie rejoin them.

  “What was that about?” one of the Posse Girls says.

  “Oh, it was that producer—Dagny?—she heard I helped Nataliya with the monologue, and wanted to interview me about some writing job.” Her voice turns dreamy. “Nataliya must have told her how I helped. That was so nice of her.”

  The others chorus their agreement. I smile to myself. Corrie knows her peers, and knows that saying a potential job offer had come as a result of my noticing her talent wouldn’t go over well. Instead it has become the result of a good deed by Nataliya, the shared object of worship. They can’t be jealous of Corrie’s opportunity if Nataliya arranged it.

  I predict Corrie will go far in this town.

  I see Astin pulling up into the drive. Simon and Wild Bill shoulder a path through the crowd to get me to the vehicle. Reporters din in my ears all the way.

  I still don’t have answers to give them.

  INT. SEAN’S SUITE—DAY

  The police are waiting at the hotel. They’re not just waiting for me, they’re waiting for everybody—with the high profile that this case has developed, my guess is that half the detectives in LA have lost their weekend, and they’re just a little bit grouchy about it.

  I have a three-hour interview in my suite with a couple of detectives, a plump Asian guy and a high-strung blond woman who keeps popping nicotine gum. I’m nervous even though the interview is as friendly, I suppose, as these things get.

  I’m nervous in part because I don’t know where my gun is. I know Simon took it and put it somewhere. I don’t know whether it’s been fired. I could be framed for a killing that I don’t remember.

  And of course I could be framed for the killing I do remember. So either way it’s pretty dicey.

  At least someone’s cleaned the room, so it doesn’t look as if the Seventh Fleet’s had a drunken riot here along with all the hookers from West Sunset.

  They ask if I have any suspects, any theories.

  “Jaydee Martin was the first in the series,” I say. “Find out who killed Jaydee, and you’ll solve the others.”

  “Some people have suggested that”—the Asian detective looks at the notes he’s scrawled on his handheld—“Timothea Wilhelm was the first.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” I say, “but that case is old. You’re much more likely to generate evidence for one of the more recent killings.”

  They don’t seem interested in my telling them how to do their jobs. The blonde gives me a look. “Do you have access to drugs?”

  I look at her blankly. “What kind of drugs?” I ask.

  Her look hardens. “You tell me.”

  I carefully compose my face. “I do not have access to any kind of drugs at all.”

  She pops her nicotine gum skeptically. “You don’t have prescriptions for…for anything?”

  “No. I’m in good health, I don’t need medication.”

  My brain is spinning. I don’t know why they’d mention drugs unless drugs were somehow involved in Joey’s death.

  They change the subject again, to Trishula. I explain that complicated history all over again, and then they bring up my complaint about the Ford Expedition that’s twice tried to kill me.

  “Do you have witnesses to these attempts?”

  I realize that they suspect I may have invented the SUV, possibly in an attempt to avoid suspicion while running down a number of my colleagues. I mention that Cleve pulled me away from the first attempt, and give them his contact information.

  “Do you have any idea who was trying to kill you?”

  I mention Jimmy Blogjoy. I can’t think of anyone else.

  They leave me their cards and tell me to contact them if I have any more information. I agree to do that, and they leave.

  This leaves me too depressed to remain alone, so I head downstairs to the hotel’s classic bar, dark wood and brass, with a popcorn machine in one corner. Here I find Allison, Jane, and Jean-Marc. Jane and Allison are working on another pitcher of margaritas, and Jean-Marc is drinking single malt. In front of them there’s a half-empty bowl of popcorn on the polished wood surface of their table.

  I order a club soda. After the last twenty-four hours, I may not touch alcohol ever again.

  “Hello, Sean.” By this point in the production Jean-Marc is a complete wreck. His eyes sag half-shut. His sagging jowls are unshaven. He smells of sweat and tobacco. He sags over the table with his elbows propped under him.

  Jane and Allison look weary, but not nearly as decayed.

  The scent of the popcorn stimulates my gastric juices. I eat a few kernels, and the waiter brings my drink.

  I turn to the others and ask if they know how Joey died. They have no answers. We were all asked about access to drugs, though, so that provides a substantial clue.

  “It cannot be an overdose,” Jean-Marc says, “or homicide detectives wouldn’t be involved. Someone has to have drugged him.”

  “If someone poisoned him,” I point out, “it has to be someone who knew him well.”

  “And who lived on the same floor of the hotel,” Jane points out. “The same hotel as the rest of us.”

  I hadn’t considered this. With guards on the elevators and alarms on the staircases, that reduces the possible suspects to a manageable number.

  “How many of the crew are on our floor?” I ask. “A couple dozen?”

  Jean-Marc shrugs. Jane stares at her margarita.

  “I’m on the top floor with you,” Allison says, “but I’m on the other side of the building, with the elevators in between. If I’d come over to Joey’s side of the tower, the guards would have seen me.”

  “Bully for you,” Jane says. A tear leaks from her eye, and she wipes it with a crumpled bar napkin.

  “Honest to God,” Allison says. “I thought it was Joey doing the killings.”

  I look at her. “And you shared this insight with who?”

  Her lip curls. “What good would that have done?”

  “If people knew to look out for Joey,” I point out, “they might not have got killed.”

  “Except it isn’t Joey killing people,” Allison says. “All those times I reminded him that I left the party before Timmi went for nothing.”

  I search my memory. “That’s not how I recall it.”

  Allison flips a hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  No, I suppose it doesn’t, though I hadn’t quite realized the depth of Allison’s selfishness till this moment. Telling Joey about Timmi’s infidelity in order to make her editing job easier, assuring Joey she’d left the party early while keeping her suspicions about Joey to herself…Allison, I realize, is quite a piece of work.

  Jane dabs at another tear. This conversation is depressing me even more than staying alone in my room, so I’m more relieved than not when I see Dagmar and Richard the Assassin appear in the door. They scan the faces in the bar, and when Dagmar sees me she raises a hand and gives a summoning gesture.

  “I’m called,” I say, and lurch out of the booth.

  Dagmar and Richard precede me into the lobby. Dagmar is out of the dress she wore at the funeral and back in cargo pants and a tee stretched tight across her
stomach. Richard is still dressed for the funeral, in a gray cashmere suit and tie. For once he’s not wearing only black and white. Through the lobby windows I can see a swarm of reporters outside the building, and a pair of guards on the door who are keeping them out.

  “Let’s go up to your room,” Dagmar says.

  “Fine with me.”

  There are more guards watching the lobby elevators. As we step into the elevator with its mirrors and faux woodwork, Dagmar looks at my glass suspiciously.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Club soda.” I wave it under her nose. “Have a taste if you want.”

  “I have a report that you got loaded last night.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Being attacked by a knife-wielding fanatic while my guards just sort of stood there…something about that experience made me care a lot less about the morals clause in my contract.”

  “We can get you a different set of guards,” Dagmar says.

  I make a dismissive sound with my lips. “They’re used to all my crotchets by now. Hate to break in a new set.”

  The elevator doors open and reveal another set of guards, all strangers to me. They know my face, though, and Dagmar’s, so they wave us through.

  There are more guards patrolling the hallways. It’s going to be a lot harder to sneak around into someone’s room, assuming that I’d ever want to do such a thing again.

  Tessa Brettel passes us going the other way, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a towel over one shoulder. Heading for the pool, or the spa. We say hello as we pass.

  So the second unit director has a room on my, and Joey’s, side of the elevators. I suppose it’s barely possible that she clipped Joey in order to get promoted into his place, but there are so few days of shooting left that it hardly seems worth the attempt.

  I take Dagmar and Richard to my room. In the afternoon heat there’s a trace on the air of the previous night’s excess, and I turn on the air conditioning.

  Dagmar walks straight to the hunter green sofa and drops into it. She kicks off her shoes and props her feet on the coffee table. Her ankles are badly swollen.

  “You all right?” I ask.