The palpable gloom on display around the table inside the shack made the mood depicted in Leonardo DaVinci’s The Last Supper painting seem like a raucous frat party by comparison. They sat slumped and motionless, each of the cast and crew of Letter 13 with their heads bowed and vacant eyes downcast. Their bodies were tensed, jaws clenched, lips taut as the scuffle of Munyon’s boots on the floor, pacing around and behind them, was the lone sound present in the room.
“So then,” Munyon said, as if he were reciting a spine-tingling tale around a campfire, “there they were. All around me, closing in from all sides. Clawin’ for my neck.” He grabbed at his throat in a mock choking gesture. “Like your worst nightmare come true. Here I was, face to face…with walkin’ corpses!”
He reared back and took a dramatic swig from his jug as he watched his captive audience exchange anxious glances and squirm just a bit in their seats.
Munyon began to circle the table. “Don’t know how many of ’em, a bunch for sure, all of ’em hungerin’ to sink their choppers into some fresh meat.” Munyon stopped, plunked his hand on Bryce’s shoulder and leaned over so that his beard nuzzled his cheek. “That would mean me, whiner!”
Bryce wriggled and shook until Munyon eased away. “I get it. I get it,” he snipped.
“Anyways, I started firin’,” he explained as he pretended to take aim and pull the trigger on his shotgun. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Heads started explodin’! Brains splatterin’!” Munyon patted his chest as if to calm down a heart on the verge of bursting. “Oh, it was a terrible sight to behold. Like hell on earth I tell ya!”
He sloshed another gulp of the booze down his gullet as if to wash away the horrific memory of his hair-raising encounter.
With a sudden lurch, Munyon slammed the jug down in the middle of the table and splashed the jolted group with the spray of moonshine that erupted out. “Yeah, I skedaddled, that’s a fact. Ain’t ashamed to admit it, neither. Anybody would have after starin’ into those cold…dead…eyes.”
Munyon buried his head in his hands and sniffled, overwrought by the chilling experience he just recounted. As the shaken Letter 13 team waited, he wiped away the white froth that leaked from the corners of his mouth with the back of his wrist and steeled himself with a couple of deep breaths.
“Ain’t my place to be tellin’ ya what to do,” Munyon asserted, “but you’ll have to be decidin’ how ya wanna be leavin’ here: walkin’ and seein’ the sun rise on another day.” He smashed his fist with a jarring thump into the tabletop. “Or hauled out in body bags…piece by bloody piece.” He shrugged. “Your choice.”
Five pairs of fearful eyes never left Munyon as he stepped back and turned away. “I’ll be keepin’ watch outside, give you all some private time to discuss matters.”
He headed to the counter, where he loaded the shotgun with two shells from his pocket. After he unbolted the door and opened it, Munyon paused and gazed outside. “Wish I was young again, whole life waitin’ ahead of me,” he admitted, his words more pensive and tender than any he had spoken to them before. “Dirty shame if you kiddies missed out, ya know?”
He glanced back with a fleeting, sad smile before shuffling out and closing the door behind him.
It was a stunning performance, one Stan couldn’t argue with or dispute, considering he wasn’t privy as an eyewitness to the gory confrontation that transpired. In fact, it was too stunning, and, in his mind, that was a problem. Munyon’s lurid account of the attack with all its gruesome details just threw a major wrench into Stan’s own agenda and may have just quashed any chance he had to revive Letter 13. It was obvious that his alarmed colleagues were on the brink of mutiny, and he couldn’t blame them. He was spooked, too, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to quit. That was the old Stan. The one that bailed out of Little League when his coach chastised him for muffing an easy grounder at second base. Or the Stan that dropped out of the chess club because the Chinese kid who transferred to his high school whipped his butt on a regular basis—once in six moves—and knocked him out of his top ranking. No, the new Stan didn’t cut and run anymore, at least not without a better reason than an iffy threat posed by a marauding gang of mythical thugs, who, oh by the way, just happened to have residences in graveyard plots. Now all he had to do was convince four jittery people with the willies that helping him with his movie was a more preferable option than saving their own lives. But that’s what directors did—rescue projects in danger of skidding off the edge of a cliff through the sheer force of their wills and dynamic personalities. And if that failed, begging wasn’t out of the question.
After what seemed like an eternity of contemplation and somber reflection, Bryce leaped up from the table and dashed toward the treasure box. “I hate this stupid thing!” he screamed, and kicked at it not once or twice, but three times, each harder than the next. “Owwwww,” he yelped in agony, as he plopped down onto the chest, tore off his shoe, and massaged his throbbing tootsies.
Keisha rose and addressed her colleagues. “Well, should we take a vote?”
“Vote? VOTE?” Bryce called out, still writhing in pain. “Okay, uh, let’s see. A…stay and get eaten by gangster ghouls, or B…get our tushes out of here in the next two minutes and live. Hmm, what to do, what to do. Me oh my.”
“Yeah, and besides,” Dana pointed out, “taking a vote is what got us into this mess.”
Bryce gingerly slipped on his shoe, secured the laces, and stood. “Come on, what are we waiting for?”
Dana jumped up, ready to bolt. “Let’s jet!”
Irv peered across the table at Stan before pushing his chair back and standing, as if prepared to join in the evacuation.
“Stan?” Keisha inquired. “Ready?”
Stan didn’t answer and continued to stare straight ahead as if lost in a trance.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a possible dissenting vote,” Irv announced.
Keisha touched Stan’s arm, but he seemed not to notice. “You’re coming with us…aren’t you?”
Stan hesitated, but then swiveled in his seat until he locked eyes with Keisha. “I can’t,” he stated.
Bryce hurled his arms aloft and stomped in the direction of the door. “Fine. Stay. The rest of us are gonzo. Come on everybody!”
“I can’t,” Stan explained, “because I have a film to make.”
Bryce was about to reach for the door handle when he stopped short. “Are you out of your freakin’ gourd? Nobody cares about your film!”
“I do,” Stan replied.
Dana latched onto Stan’s forearm and tried to tug him off the chair. “You’re going, Stan!” Her efforts proved futile, as Stan fought her off and held his ground. “I’m not explaining this to mom alone! You know how she gets!” Dana screeched.
Stan jerked himself free, sprang to his feet, and brushed Dana aside. “Well, you may have to because I’d rather croak than give up now!”
His startling outburst and proclamation put a halt to any further stampede for the exit. Stan had commandeered their complete attention and for the moment the glare of the spotlight shone on him, not the most comfortable of positions based on previous incidents in his life that started to flash through his mind. But, the stakes had never been higher, so he couldn’t allow the humiliating memories of past disasters in similar stressful situations rattle his confidence or turn his brain to mush again. The circumstances, he reminded himself, were much different of course than, say, the day he stood alone on the auditorium stage in front of the entire elementary school and messed up the Gettysburg Address at a Lincoln’s Birthday assembly by forgetting the entire middle section, even though that Civil War speech was only ten sentences long. Those words, however, belonged to Honest Abe and meant nothing to him, just something he was forced to memorize. This time around, they were his own, came straight from his heart, and meant everything.
“Don’t you guys get it?” Stan implored, his voice strained and cracking. “I have to stay. Directing Letter 13 is my dream. It’s the only thing I�
��m actually pretty good at.” His eyelids fell and he exhaled before they lifted open again. “My whole life I’ve been this dweeb loser. I stink at sports. I got wedgies every day in the seventh grade. And don’t even mention sex, because no girl has ever let me close enough to have any, OKAY?”
Dana clapped her hands in delight as if she just received a kitten for her birthday. “I knew you were a virgin!”
Stan glared at his sister. “Cut me some slack, Dana. Can’t you see I’m baring my soul here?”
“Wedgies, huh?” Bryce nodded like it was a subject not unknown to him.
“Come on,” Stan pleaded. “Haven’t you guys ever wanted to be the best at something?” He allowed a moment for his question to sink in before he continued. “Ever since my freshman year at Eisenhower, all I ever think about is winning the Fatty Arbuckle Senior Film Award.”
“Fatty who?” asked Dana.
“Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle,” Irv answered. “A silent film comedian. In 1921, he was charged with murdering a young actress by suffocating her with his weight while supposedly getting frisky with her.”
“How sweet,” Bryce remarked, his comment far less sugary than sarcastic. “And you’re willing to risk your life for that, Stan?”
“How fat was Fatty?” Dana inquired.
“Doesn’t matter. Fatty Arbuckle was a misunderstood genius,” Stan claimed. “Kids picked on him, too.”
“For the record, he was acquitted after three trials and got the Fatty nickname during his childhood,” Irv explained. “When he was twelve, he weighed one hundred eighty five pounds.”
Stan strode up to Bryce and clamped his hands on his shoulders, comrades-in-arms style. “We can do this, Bryce,” he urged. You and me. Together. A team. I can still remember your audition.” Stan lowered his voice and mimicked the inflection of a classically trained Shakespearean performer. “To be or not to be—”
“That is the question,” Bryce interjected and continued on with Hamlet’s famous speech, as he struck an exaggerated, stiff pose that bordered on parody. “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?”
“You were brilliant that day!” Stan crowed.
Bryce half bowed, as if acknowledging the gushing adulation of the president of his fan club, and shrugged off the compliment like it was a typical accolade he often heard. “Yeah, I know.”
“Sure, we’ve had our differences and you’re a royal pain in my heinie,” Stan admitted, “but I can honestly say there isn’t an actor around with your, uh, particular, uh…range.”
“Well, of course, I’m known for that,” Bryce said, as he flexed his chest, rolled his shoulders and kneaded his larynx before resuming with more lines from the soliloquy. “To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub: For in that sleep of death what dreams may come—”
Stan pulled the plug on Bryce’s recitation with a stifling bear hug. “Thank you, Bryce. Fabulous!” Stan exclaimed as he pulled away. “But I need you to save those incredible pipes of yours. We’ve got some big scenes coming up, okay, big fella?”
The intrusion in the middle of his performance disappointed Bryce, but he agreed with a grudging shake of his head as Stan turned to Keisha.
“My leading lady. You, girl, totally blew me away with your audition. That scene you did from Pretty Woman? Maybe even better than the movie!”
Keisha blushed at the lavish praise. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
“I’ll never forget it,” Stan recalled. “That story about when you were a little girl and your mom locked you in the attic. And how you escaped by pretending to be a princess waiting for a knight to come riding up and rescue you from the wicked queen.”
“Yeah, except I was really just a hooker who was falling in love with a handsome, rich client!” Keisha said with a laugh.
Stan flashed a smile and shot her a wink. “Minor details.” He clutched her hands and fiddled with her fingers. “I need you,” he declared. Their eyes met and held each other’s gaze. “What do you say? Want to be my Julia Roberts? She got an Oscar nomination. Maybe I can get you one, too…someday.”
Keisha pondered the offer. “Are you propositioning me, mister?”
“Yes,” Stan replied, “yes, I do believe I am.”
Keisha pretended to be affronted. “Well, all I can say about that is—” A broad grin lit up her face. “It’s about time.” Stan exhaled a sigh of relief and beamed like he’d just rubbed the magic lamp of a genie who granted his wish.
When Stan moved on to Irv, it was with a bit more bounce in his step. “Irv Bell, in my opinion, the best damn sound man in the business. Bar none. And the only person I know who ever nailed a perfect score on his motor vehicle exam without studying the manual.”
“Multiple guess tests are pretty easy,” Irv said, modest to the core.
“Yeah, you’re right. Piece of cake. Hey, it only took me three times to guess my way through it!” Stan bumped fists and elbows with Irv, that non-verbal ritual of male brotherhood that signified a tacit oath of fealty in times of need, no matter the adversity involved. Then, with nothing more than an exchange of almost imperceptible nods, the deal was sealed, and it was understood by each of them that their alliance would continue.
As her brother approached, Dana’s wall was already erected, her arms crossed and pinned to her chest. “And sis, last but not least,” Stan said. “I know we’ve had our ups and downs—”
Dana didn’t allow her brother to finish. “Yeah, mostly downs. Like the time we went on vacation to the shore and you stuffed my duffel with those icky crabs,” she griped.
“That was fifteen years ago!” Geez, she still remembers that?
“You never said you were sorry,” Dana claimed.
“Okay, I’m saying it here and now in front of everybody,” Stan announced and bent down on his knees. “Sorry. Really. I mean it. For all the crummy, miserable stuff I ever did to you.” Dana refused to look at Stan as he inched closer. “But for better or worse, we’re family. And family sticks together.” She fidgeted as her brother reached out and tweaked her gently just above the hip. “I can’t do this without you. So…you in?”
Stan arose, extended his arms, and widened them for an embrace. Dana rebuffed his conciliatory gesture at first, but her frosty demeanor melted after a few seconds, and a truce was brokered with a hug.
Stan snickered. “You have to admit, the crab thing was pretty funny.”
Dana gave him a playful shove backward. “You owe me big time for this, Stan!”
“And “big time” is what it shall be!” Stan crowed, as he thrust a finger in the air like some grandstanding politician promising a chicken in every pot.
He started to pace the room, picking up steam with every step as he schemed and plotted out his next moves. “I’m talking nothing less than blockbuster here, people! Then it’s on to Hollywood and I’m taking you all with me. Someday stars will be begging to be in a Stan Heberling motion picture!”
“Uh, in the meantime, Mr. Heberling, can you please try and shoot me on my good side?” Bryce requested.
“Got it covered. The left. Check.”
“The right,” Bryce corrected.
Stan acknowledged Bryce with an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Right on, B-man. Pun intended!” He charged for the door. “I’ll let Munyon know we’re staying put.” After ripping it open, he paused and gazed back at his colleagues like they were fellow passengers on the Titanic who’d just agreed to stick around and help him patch a few holes. “Thanks, everybody. We may never get another chance like this the rest of our lives.”
“However long that is,” Bryce muttered, as Stan dashed out and left the spotlight behind.
Chapter 19
Dead As Dutch Page 29
