The Fourth Wall

by Williams, Walter Jon

  “Very nice,” I say. It sounds a little pie-in-the-sky, but I can’t say it seems particularly sinister.

  “On another level,” Dagmar says, “we’re spying on them.” I look at her in surprise, not that she’s doing the spying, but that she admits it so plainly.

  She nods. “We’re attracting elites and the children of elites. We’re sifting through any information we gather in order to find anything that we can use to avert conflict.”

  Everywhere in the world, she explains, there are flash points, like the border zone that’s the scene of the fighting between Burma and Thailand. India and China could collide over competing claims in Kashmir, or over water running off from fast-melting Tibetan glaciers. The Middle East is a perpetual storm front. Southeast Asia is a brew of competing religions and ethnicities. Conflicts over dwindling oil and mineral resources are inevitable.

  In any crisis situation, it’s vital to know what the various sides are thinking. Bugging the children of important people—or the important people themselves—might help clear away the fog and enable any competing factions to better judge the other sides.

  “We’re not using the information to generate income,” Dagmar says. “We’re giving it away—giving it to the people who need it. If people know what the opposition is actually thinking, they’re less likely to make the mistakes that lead to war or civil conflict.”

  She pauses, and again strokes her baby’s forehead. “We’re making a more open world,” she says. “More transparent. I only wish we’d have been able to gather some information before the Thailand-Burma thing happened.”

  “It sounds great, though!” I say, as cheerfully as I can. “I hope it works.”

  Dagmar gives me an angry glance. “Don’t condescend. Don’t you dare condescend.”

  I raise my hands. “Fine.”

  “We’ve already seen some results,” Ismet says. “A few days ago, the Pakistani air force had jets on the runway with atom bombs under their wings, ready to head for Delhi.”

  I look at him in surprise. “I don’t believe I caught that on the news.”

  It’s not like I’m a news junkie, but atomic warfare is one of those things even I would have heard about.

  “You wouldn’t,” Richard says. “It’s one of those things that people don’t talk to reporters about.” He offers a slight smile. “You called me right in the middle of it. It was just after your father contacted you for the first time. Remember?”

  I nod.

  “The Pakistanis were conducting maneuvers near Kashmir,” Ismet says. “The Indians saw that and thought that Pakistan was trying to take advantage of the fact that a bunch of India’s resources were halfway across the ocean, heading for Fiji in the wake of the genocide there. India went to DEFCON Two. The Pakistanis saw that and went ballistic.” He waves a hand. “We—Sri, rather—was able to assure each government that the other had no intention of going to war.”

  “Sri can open a lot of doors,” Dagmar says. “And no one asks him where he gets his information.”

  “But people must know,” I point out.

  “Some people do. Some others may suspect. We cooperate with certain agencies, in this country and elsewhere. It’s the penalty for doing business.”

  I shake my head. “All that’s necessary is for someone to take a good look at your code, and the secret’s out.”

  “The code is compiled in such an elaborate way as to make that unlikely,” Ismet says. “We used—well—an old acquaintance to do that.”

  “If we’re discovered,” Richard says, “we’re shocked to learn that someone’s hacked our program, and we send out a patch. And then another patch, and things are back to normal again.”

  I try to process all of this. The first thing I’m convinced of is that all three of them believe what they’re telling me. They’re certain that Sri has turned from Asian tiger to pussycat, that he’s using their technology for benign purposes. They believe in this Utopian scheme to open up all the world’s secrets, or at least those belonging to people who enjoy Internet-delivered entertainment—who is, I guess, pretty much everyone these days.

  No wonder Escape to Earth had such insane deadlines. They were anxious to get their program into people’s phones as quickly as possible.

  But this is also a scheme that Charles believed in, and that he was willing to kill me over. That rather takes the shine off it for me.

  It’s insanely ambitious. Megalomaniacal. It may not work at all.

  But then I think of Dagmar operating in the blue glow of some Secret Headquarters, with Sri on the secure phone from some Southeast Asian trouble spot, and somehow it all seems plausible. Dagmar as a secret overlord, ruling the world through her monopoly of information…

  But still. I don’t think I believe in this scheme, but then it doesn’t much matter what I believe.

  Anna Fadime squirms suddenly in Dagmar’s arms. Dagmar looks at her with amusement.

  “Okay,” I say, “so that’s it?” I massage my bad leg. “I don’t need to know any more details.”

  Dagmar and Ismet look at one another. “I suppose not,” Ismet says.

  “A few more points of information on another topic,” Richard says. “The police found Timmi’s white van in Joey’s garage. The front end had clearly been damaged. The CSI people are processing the van now.”

  I feel a moment of relief. “So Melody’s off the hook,” I say.

  “For everything except trying to kill you,” Dagmar says.

  “And hitting a cop,” Richard adds.

  Dagmar gives me a frankly curious look. “What was that about?” she asks. “Why is Melody Chastain mad at you? You can tell me.”

  I try to look baffled. “I can’t,” I say.

  I don’t think I convince her.

  “One more thing,” Richard says. “There was a cell phone call from Pacific Palisades to Joey’s house at around the time that Nataliya was killed. And a few seconds later another call got routed from Bel Air Heights to Dagmar’s phone. So it looks like Joey set up a relay, just like you suggested, to give himself an alibi.”

  “Great.” My friend was not just a crazed hit-and-run killer, he was a conniving, intelligent hit-and-run killer. The thought is deeply depressing. I look at Dagmar.

  “Well,” I say, “that’s that. Are we done?”

  Dagmar’s look pins me to my chair. “You need to know one more thing,” she says. “Which is that I own you.”

  I feel a warning prickle on the back of my neck. “How so?” I ask.

  Dagmar speaks clearly and reasonably. “I own you because Escape to Earth is a huge hit, and there will be sequels. You want to be a star again, and you’ve already shown you’ll do anything and swallow any humiliation in order to be a star. Celebrity Pitfighter proves that.”

  I just stare at her.

  “But more significantly,” Dagmar continues, “I own you because I know that it was you who killed Joey’s wife.”

  My heart gives a lurch. I hold out a hand in protest as I gabble.

  “That’s not true!” I say. “You can’t know that!”

  “You told me that you planned to cause an auto crash in order to generate headlines,” Dagmar says. “I think your dress rehearsal went sour, and Timmi Wilhelm was killed.”

  “No!”

  She nods at me, and gives a slow smile. “If you breathe a word of what we’ve just told you to anyone in authority,” she says, “that’s the story that we’re going to tell them. I’ll say that you confessed to me while drunk. No one in this town is going to disbelieve that.”

  “So on the one hand,” Ismet says, “there’s money, fame, and stardom. On the other, obscurity, poverty, jail, and—if you’re lucky—more Celebrity Pitfighter.”

  I look at them all for a moment, and then lift my hands.

  “Who would I tell?” I say.

  “Who indeed?” Dagmar grins. Her daughter gives a jerk of her arm, and for a second it looks as though she’s giving me the
finger.

  “Are we done here?” I ask.

  “I think so,” says Dagmar.

  I heave myself to my feet and wince at the pain from my bruised thigh. I hobble toward the door and reach for the doorknob.

  “One more thing,” Dagmar says.

  I pause and turn to her.

  She grins again. “No more alcohol,” she says.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FROM: Parmita

  SUBJECT: Re: Re: Your Lawyer

  Your vicious “lawsuit” has had terrible consequences. Babaji told me today that I would have to leave the ashram until the legal issues are settled.

  I am an old woman now and I don’t want to have to leave the place I love, but you have done this evil thing and now I am the one who must pay the consequences.

  I will be flying to Los Angeles soon. I hope you will have my check waiting for me, because it is my only source of “income.”

  INT. ARENA—NIGHT

  Whoooo. The crowd goes insane as I make my entrance from out of a billowing artificial fog. Thousands of people are waving luggage over their heads. Dazzling spotlights cut back and forth through the space above the ring. My theme music—which, without consulting me, the producers have decided is AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”—booms out at pane-rattling volume.

  For once the sound and frenzy don’t lift me off my feet. My pulse isn’t thundering in my ears.

  It must be admitted that I don’t much care that any of this is happening. Less than a week ago, a pipe-swinging lunatic tried to kill me in my own dressing room, and Dagmar revealed her plot to become some kind of secret master of the world, and after all that, Celebrity Pitfighter is beyond trivial.

  The ring is swathed in some kind of black plastic tent, and there are extra-giant flatscreens set up above the ring, so I figure the producers have come up with something truly special for the finale. I step through the black plastic door, and then climb into the ring.

  At least it isn’t cottage cheese this time.

  Burt Taylor stands across the ring from me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, staring at me with no expression. I briefly wonder what’s going through his strange mind, then I decide it doesn’t matter.

  The announcer tells us that the final fight will take place in total darkness. Officials will wear infrared goggles, and infrared cameras will relay the action to the fans outside.

  Two of us in here swinging blind? I think. The producers really are trying to kill one of us.

  I shrug. I figure I can deal.

  The ref calls us together for our final instructions. Burt clenches and unclenches his jaw muscles. I view him with indifference.

  We touch gloves, and I move back to my starting place. I nod when I’m asked if I’m ready, and then the lights go out, and I’m left alone in the dark with only the sound of my heart in my ears.

  It’s strange, but even though I can’t see him, I know all along where Burt is. I can feel his body heat on my skin. I don’t know if I’m unusually sensitive that way, or if this is something that anyone can do.

  I take a few steps to my left to make sure that he can’t mow me down if he charges straight ahead, and then I start creeping toward him. He’s taking a few steps forward.

  I come up on his right and get close enough to hear him breathing. His body heat is like a lamp burning on my skin. I lash out with a shin kick to the back of his leg. The kick blasts right through the leg, throwing it up into the air, and Burt goes down. I dive on top of him.

  From there it’s by the numbers. Wrestling is a series of if/then statements, like computer programming—if I do this, Burt counters in a certain way, and then I counter the counter. It’s over very quickly, because Burt isn’t thinking fast enough to exercise all his options, and then I lock up his arm and he surrenders. The lights go on, and the crowd goes insane.

  I suspect Burt may not have been trying very hard to win.

  It has occurred to me that since Burt last saw me, I’ve been twice attacked by people trying to kill me, and I’ve taken them both down, and I’ve killed one of them. That might have made an impression on him. It might have convinced him to pay more attention to not getting hurt than to winning the fight.

  If I’d been up against someone with my reputation, I would have surrendered as fast as I decently could.

  In any event, the strategy of near-indifference seems to have worked for me.

  Afterward there is the presentation of the championship belt that I have no intention of defending, ever, and interviews, congratulations from the other contestants, and a triumphant march back to the dressing room, where I meet with Simon and Wild Bill and am driven home. Paparazzi drones swarm the sky above us and follow me all the way home, in obvious hope that they’ll be able to watch when someone new tries to kill me.

  Reporters wait outside my house, and even a few fans. I smile and wave at the latter as we disembark and go into the house.

  I check my messages and find that a detective has called me. This is a brand-new detective, one I’ve never spoken to before.

  The police seem to have a theory that the various people who tried to kill me are all connected somehow, that they were employed by a shadowy third party who is trying to assassinate me. Since they can’t find this person, they keep hounding me to tell them who he is. I’ve told them that the only person I can think of is Babaji; but he’s in India, and they can’t interrogate him, and they’d prefer someone local.

  I decide to call the detective back in the morning. It’s not like I have anything to tell him.

  Simon and Wild Bill finish checking my house for intruders, and then leave. I check the outside cameras—the reporters and photographers are still there—and I set the alarms.

  I’m under siege in my own house. Fans are swarming my blog and have got ahold of my email and are sending me hundreds of letters every day. I can barely move without being recognized. Camera drones are in perpetual orbit over my house, keeping track of everything I do.

  My God, it’s wonderful. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FROM: Parmita

  SUBJECT: In Los Angeles

  Your father and I are staying at the Costa Brava Hotel in Manhattan Beach. We would both like to meet you and hope that you can “spare the time.”

  Your mother

  FROM: Sean Makin

  SUBJECT: Re: In Los Angeles

  You’re staying in the same hotel? Have you really been in touch all this time?

  FROM: Parmita

  SUBJECT: Re: Re: In Los Angeles

  Of course your father and I have “stayed in touch.” We have always had things in common—especially our son!

  Your mother

  FROM: Sean Makin

  SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: In Los Angeles

  Sure, I’ll come see you. And please point out to Dad that “Costa Brava” is, in fact, grammatical.

  INT. SEAN’S CAR—DAY

  “Hi, Mom and Dad. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?

  “Oh, Mom—here’s your check, by the way. I lied about it—it’s only for eight grand. Sorry. I knew you wouldn’t fly out for a teeny little sum like that, and I really wanted to see you.

  “I know that you’ve both got questions for me, so let me answer them. Mom, I’m not going to drop the lawsuit against Babaji. I’m sorry it made you persona non grata over in Andhra Pradesh, but if Babaji wants to settle, he knows what to do.

  “And Dad, I’m not going to invest in your resort. Everyone advises against it. You’ll have to find some other victim for that.

  “But here’s what I will do. I understand that you’re both strapped for cash, so I thought I’d buy you a nice house in, say, Belize, where Dad’s already got citizenship. It doesn’t have to be Belize, not if Dad’s got too many creditors there, but I think it should be somewhere out of the U.S., and tropical. Because the tropics are nice.

/>   “Because that’s how I want it, okay? I’ve got used to your being abroad, and though I’ll be glad to have these reunions every now and again, I kind of like to keep my family at a distance. Because that way you won’t be asking me for money all the time.

  “So I’ll buy you the house, and then you can live there. Or, if you don’t want to do that, you can rent it and live somewhere else on the money.

  “But what you can’t do is sell the house, because I’ll own it, and it will be in my name.

  “And then we can go on from there. Dad can try to sell the neighbors on his various money-making schemes, and Mom can hang pictures of Babaji on all the walls. Won’t that be fun?

  “All you have to do is learn to live on a budget, and you should be just fine.

  “So there. I don’t want it said that I let my parents starve. Not when I’m this big star making potfuls of money. Or is it potsful?

  “Full pots, anyway, that I intend to keep. Because I’m a grown-up now, and I get to keep what I earn, or spend it on any damn thing I want.”

  That’s the speech I rehearse as I drive to Manhattan Beach, near the airport, to meet my parents for the first time in over ten years.

  I don’t know if I can stick as firmly to my speech, and my plan, as I’d like. My father can be awfully persuasive. Maybe if he keeps after me he’ll actually talk me into putting some money into Costa Magnifico.

  That’s why I want him in Belize, not here. A safe distance from my susceptible heart.

  Because that’s where I’m weak. I want to be loved. I’ll always have at the back of my mind the thought that maybe my parents will love me if I give them money.

  But I think I’m probably over that.

  I believe I wrote earlier in this memoir of my belief that while people change and grow in the movies, they don’t do it so much in real life. I’m much the same person I was when I was thirteen—a star.