Fourteen
Clad in black, Jordan Lyman's guests mingled in his vast living room, helping themselves to a buffet and professionally tended bar. Amid the hushed murmuring, a string quartet covered Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" in front of windows filled with the amber glow of LA's golden hour.
The producer welcomed Max with a handshake.
"Glad you could make it, babe," he said. "This is important."
"I'd rather be working," Max grumbled. "Some of us have a new picture to make on a ridiculous schedule and budget."
"Which you get to make because I work my ass to the bone for you."
"You blab on the phone all day. Me, I'm the one working."
"Doing what, getting arrested in your PJs at school playgrounds?"
Max scowled and said nothing. Their customary small talk out of the way, Jordan got to business, his eyes as always inscrutable behind mirrored shades.
"I'll be curious to see your treatment," he added, referring to the pre-script document that summarized essential characters, scenes, and themes. "Swing by when it's ready, and I'll free up more money and start pulling together a crew."
"I'm working on it," said Max.
For his last two Jack pictures, he'd scheduled three months to write a ninety-page script, three for preproduction, and up to six weeks for principal photography shooting two to four pages a day. For his new project, he faced doing all that and more in half the time and with a fraction of the budget.
Crew, equipment and facilities, craft services, permits, film stock, so many actors and extras at such and such a daily rate times so many shooting days—it all added up quick. To succeed, he'd have to get back to his roots. Lean, fast, and cheap. So cheap that everyone might be wearing more than one hat and he might be wearing his without pay.
Before any of that became relevant, he needed the rights to the story from one Frederick Munsch. The writer continued to prove elusive, which Max found annoying. Not even a single message on the answering machine. Who wouldn't want his short story adapted into a major motion picture?
Jordan shot a glance at the decorative fireplace across the room, where a blow-up photo of Raphael Rodriguez gazed beneficently from an easel. "I guess I'll need to find you a new special effects makeup artist."
"Maybe not," Max murmured, half to himself.
Jordan's bushy eyebrows lilted above his shades. "No?"
"For a while, I was, uh, playing around with a new experimental technique. It turned out to be nothing, though."
"Hey, if it does the job and it's cheap, I say have at it."
"Oh, there's a significant cost," Max said. "Just not the financial kind."
The producer had stopped listening, already moving off to greet another guest. Max crossed the room to the catered bar, where the bow-tied bartender poured a few fingers of scotch into a snifter for him.
Cupping the glass, he walked over to Raphael's portrait. There, he studied the man's dark eyes, which had rarely matched his warm smile.
The way Raphael had grabbed life with both hands had always impressed Max, though it often had a tired, dutiful quality to it. Even two decades after his tours in Vietnam, the man had fought to keep death at bay. Now haunting the camera, he'd lost any lust for life he might have had left, but he seemed almost relieved about it, as if he'd shed a massive burden.
Nicholas appeared next to Max, his cheeks set in a sourpuss expression. Gazing at Raphael's portrait, he let out a choking sob.
"Are you all right?" Max asked.
"He was an amazing dude. I spent a lot of time with him."
When Jack showed up in the films, half his face was charred and disfigured from his fiery car wreck back in the fifties. Nicholas had to sit in a chair while Raphael applied makeup burns from a blueprint, a process that could take hours. For actors, this was about as fun as a visit to the dentist.
Max nodded. "He was a great artist and friend. This one time—"
Ashlee Gibson popped up on his other side.
"A lawn dart! Can you believe it?"
Nicholas said, "When I'd complain about sitting still for so long, he'd set me straight by telling me stories about what he went through in 'Nam."
"That must have been horrible for you," Ashlee told Max. "Seeing it."
"It was horrible," Max admitted.
"He's in a better place. I feel like he's looking down on us right now."
He pictured Raphael gloating with his one dead eye in front of a human bonfire, and he shuddered.
"Raph was a major admirer of yours, actually."
"Ha! He could be such a flirt."
"I mean, that dude saw a lot of shit in the jungle," Nicholas went on.
"Yes, he did." Max recalled one particularly grim story. "He once told me how during the battle of Lai Khê, his platoon found a gold wedding band in a hut, and it turned out—"
Ashlee leaned into him until her breast grazed his arm. "If you need anything, a ready ear or a shoulder to cry on, let me know."
He inched away toward Nicholas. "Thank you."
"Excuse me." She dabbed at her moist eye with her knuckle and sniffed. "I should get a tissue."
"Okay."
"When I come back, maybe you'll tell me about this new project I hear you're working on. It might be a welcome distraction from your pain."
After Ashlee left, Max frowned. "What was I saying? Oh yeah, a gold wedding ring—"
Nicholas shook his head. "A lawn dart. Stupid. After everything he survived, what a way to go." He seemed to reconsider. "It sounds macabre to say, but given his love for makeup effects, I wonder if he would have approved of how it looked."
Max couldn't resist a morbid smile.
"Actually—"
A short, bespectacled man shouldered him aside to wedge his stout form between him and Nicholas. He burst with a loud sigh. "Poor old Raph. What a great guy. He was loved. What a tragic loss for the industry."
"Always live life to the fullest," said Nicholas. Tears rolled down his pudgy cheeks now. "You never know when it's going to be your time."
"Truer words, Nicky." The newcomer looked up at Max and ran his hand over his balding pate. "Oh, hi, Max. My condolences. Sincerely."
"Hello, Saul." He was Nicholas's talent agent. "Thanks for the thought—"
"Are you okay? How's everything? The ticket sales for Jack III are booming, I hope. A little glimmer of light on such a dark day. We've all got our fingers crossed for a fourth in the franchise. I think Raph would have wanted that."
Max gloomily sipped his scotch. "It'll probably happen."
"Terrific. But not soon, right?" The agent offered an encouraging smile. "I hear you've got something else in the pipeline? Some David Lynch type of thing?"
"It's still early days." Max gestured to Raphael's portrait. "At the moment, I'm—"
"Very interesting. Naturally, you'll want Nicky on board."
"We're not even close to casting."
"Not too far to talk to Sally Priest, if the little birdie who told me was correct."
"Goddamnit," Max said.
"Nicky has a bright future," Saul said. "With his credits and talent, the sky's the limit for this kid. Of course, you don't want him wandering. I receive a lot of calls, a lot of TV scripts. I always say, ‘It's not the right time. Nicky is too loyal to ol' Max.' Which is a two-way street. You don't want to lose your star villain."
Max scowled. "I only have half a million to play with."
"That's between you and Lyman. Me, I'm looking out for my boy here."
Ashlee reappeared sneering on his other side. "That goes for me too, Max. Nicky and I are together. A package deal. Where he goes, I go."
Max sighed. Her nose-candy habit was her business, something he'd never been able to do anything about. When she overindulged, however, it transformed her into a raging, needy diva, a real-life case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
He shot a look at Nicholas, who stared at Raphael's picture while blinking back more tears. "What Saul was saying. Is that how you feel about it?"
"Leave me out of all this," the actor said with pious irritation. "I'm here to pay my respects to Raphael Rodriguez as an artist and a friend."
"Sure," said Max.
If what the actor said was true, he wouldn't have brought his agent to a wake. While Saul worked him over, the kid played the righteous mourner.
"We could always talk to Mr. Lyman," Ashlee said in a grating singsong threat. "See how he feels about his two leads disappearing into the night."
Her transformation to diva was now complete. Trapped, Max gulped down the rest of his scotch and came up gasping.
"Max, Max. Chill." Saul offered an indulgent chuckle. "Take all this enthusiasm for your art as a compliment. Look, we understand you have constraints. Nobody's trying to break the bank here. We're all very reasonable people."
"I'm not done talking," Ashlee said. "Don't interrupt—"
Saul went on chuckling. "I think Nicky is looking at this project as a way to step outside type and do some terrific character work with bigger creative risks. You know how it goes with typecasting in this town. Nicky wants to expand his horizons. Show the world his extensive range and—"
"Can I freshen that up for you, Mr. Maurey?"
Max looked down to see another snifter of scotch on a silver tray, looked up to find a handsome bow-tied surfer dude staring hungrily back at him.
"It's me, Mr. Maurey. Johnny. Johnny Frampton. From the premiere party?"
Grateful for the brief reprieve, he set his empty glass on the tray and took the full one. "I remember you."
"I know how you hate to wait in line at the bar."
"I appreciate it."
"Is it true you're making a new movie? You said you'd consider me. Granny flipped when I told her. Should I just show up for the casting call, or what?"
Max growled.
"I'm not represented," Johnny went on. "How do you want to handle—?"
"Hold that thought," said Max. "I'll be right back."
He fled through the crowd, looking for a quiet place to perch for a while. Everyone shot him probing glances as he passed, their eyes shining with a predatory gleam. He felt like a prize lamb at a butchers' convention.
He didn't care if Nicholas and Ashlee moved on to fresh pastures. In fact, Max's first emotion would likely be gratitude. As a would-be auteur, he valued creative control above all, and actors getting too big for their britches made that even more difficult.
But it wasn't his call to make. It was Jordan's, and he knew what the producer would say. He wouldn't want anything to interfere with the future box office success of Jack the Knife IV. He'd tell Max to cast them and find the money for it.
Max didn't even have a script yet, and he was already being sabotaged.
You can always use the Arriflex, a jolly Raphael said in his head. A quality movie camera with a sterling track record in the industry. Portable, silent, and loaded with features. And think of all the cash you'll save on practical effects!
"I can't," he muttered.
Kill 'em all, his friend urged.
But Max truly couldn't. Even if he wanted to. Because he loathed these people. To feed them to the camera, he'd have to find a way to like them.
He wandered around the room, but nowhere seemed safe. The string quartet glided into a haunting rendition of "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road." Gripping his drink, he walked outside to the pool. The warm twilight air welcomed him.
On the far side, a heavyset woman sprawled in one of the poolside recliners. She wore sweatpants, tennis shoes, and a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with a feral, snarling Mickey Mouse. Held in place by a headband made from colorful beads, thick braids lay draped over her sizable bosom like slumbering boas.
She greeted Max with a sly glance. "There you are."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you, honey. I came all the way to Hollyweird just to find you."
"What? Why?"
"Well, I hear you're looking for me."
He sighed. He'd come out here to escape. The last thing he needed right now was a freaky fan shouting lines from Jack the Knife and asking him why Jack and Tina never hooked up.
"I assure you I am not," he said.
"Come on, Max." She smiled. "Do you want my story or don't you?"
"Frederick Munsch, I presume," said Max.
"The name's Dorothy Williams. Fred is my snooty alter ego. Helps me compete as a Black woman in a man's literary world." The woman heaved upright to rest her arms on her knees. "Pleased to meet you, I'm well, thanks, blah blah. You wanted to talk to me, I'm here. Show me what you got."
He hedged. "I didn't mean for you to drive all this way. I was calling because I was curious if the property was optioned."
"Ha! When I heard from my editor, I thought you might be doing a little idle fishing, but I figured I'd come on down here and get the skinny. I hear you're working on a new movie. A movie that sounds an awful lot like my story."
"There are a few similarities—"
"I'm a writer. Communication is very important to me. What I'm trying to say is I've got you over a barrel." She stared at him. "In a legal sense." When he still didn't answer, she added, "Meaning I could stick my—"
"I'm interested in acquiring rights."
"Excellent!" Dorothy beamed at him. "So how about we eat this cake and skip all the shitty icing. If you want to acquire rights, start acquiring."
"Okay, okay. The problem is budget. I can only offer five thousand."
"That's all? Well…"
"I just don't—"
"You got yourself a deal, partner."
"Well, um. Great." Max couldn't believe his luck. He'd lowballed her. Writers, it seemed, were as desperate as their stereotype let on.
"Not quite yet, hon. Here's what I want. You hand over that fiver right now, and then I join your little production. I want in the club."
Max started. "You want me to give you a job?"
"Hell, I want you to give me all the jobs. Like I told you already, I'm a writer. I sit at a desk writing. That's all I do. It's a lonesome profession, let me tell you."
"I'm not sure you're qualified to do anything on set," Max said. "And we use a union crew for our productions."
"Not a problem." This woman was about as easy to deter as a gale. "How about I write the script for you, and you can work out getting me my guild card and whatnot. A sweet little screen credit. Otherwise, you can let me hang around. As a consultant, maybe. A fly on the wall, whatever. I want to see my story get made."
"I write my own scripts. You've produced some interesting speculative fiction, but I'm not sure you understand script writing or even horror."
"Ha! How hard can it be?"
"Well, it's harder than you might think. Before you start the script, you need to build a treatment, which is the story in summary form—"
"My son Carter loves your Jack movies. He thinks they're hilarious."
Max growled. "If you think horror is funny, you definitely don't understand it."
"What do you think horror is?" She raised her hand. "What I mean is, do you know where it lives in the brain? Why do we think something is horror?"
He had a solid answer for this one. He considered his average audience member as sentient meat that wanted to avoid death as long as possible to procreate in a hostile world controlled by larger forces it labeled good or evil. Sex and death, and its deep human drives of lust and fear, were older than taxes.
Horror was all about death and its contrast with life.
And out of all human fears, two topped the list: fear of the unknown and fear of something preying on them. But overall it was one, the fear of dying. A case of life's real horrors shaping the appetite for the fictional kind and inspiring its creators to give their fears names and faces.
Horror, meanwhile, had three aspects, to paraphrase Stephen King. Chills: You hear your wife calling out for help from somewhere in your house, and then the phone rings and you find out she died in an accident across town. Gross-outs: You see a man fall into a threshing machine and come out the other end as a rain of blood and bone. Revulsion: You run from a giant mosquito or a murderous man so grotesque in look and deed you instinctively find him repulsive.
All of it provoking horror, a human emotion.
Why would anyone want to suffer through this?
Max had an answer for that too. People watched horror pictures to gain a momentary, reassuring feeling of importance. They wanted to symbolically face death and vanquish it, experiencing a cathartic sense of immortality. Poor old Joe kicked the bucket, we think at the cellular level, but I'm alive.
"Well," he said, "it all began—"
"Wrong," Dorothy said. "It's grief."
"It's not, though." His mind flashed to his dad face-planting into his mashed potatoes, and he shuddered. "It's in the shock."
"You show people dying, but nobody gives a crap. There are no real consequences. Me, the story isn't a maniac hacking up teenagers with an axe. It's the struggle to go on afterward. The Final Girl, all the clueless moms and dads with murdered kids, they wind up the fiend's final victims trapped in a hell of despair, blame, and what-ifs. Their minds become broken. Haunted by ghosts. And all the while, they yearn for it all to mean something. Isn't that real horror?"
"Maybe," Max admitted. He looked around at the black-clad mourners and didn't see a single person laughing. "It just isn't very cinematic."
"Of course it is! It's drama, consequences. It's story. Horror has to be personal. Psychological horror with a splash of fear of the unknown is where it's at. This splatter-porn stuff is cheap. It does nothing for me."
"That splatter broke real artistic boundaries and is still doing it."
"And every time it reaches a new gross-out height, over time the kids get bored and laugh. Grief, though? Grief in your bones? That's eternally shocking."
Max now flashed to the years of eating dinner with an empty chair his father had once filled as he had the rest of Max's world. Memories didn't haunt him, the lack of them did. The only one that hadn't faded was Dad deadpanning a joke before he slumped over. Nonetheless, it had created a ghost.
"It's depressing," he said. "I'll give you ten thousand dollars, and then you go away."
"Nope. I want to see my work adapted right instead of rammed into some dumb splatter formula." The writer grinned. "Come on, Max. I heard you were an artist looking for something new and different."
Max scowled. She was right.
Dorothy scooped a wide-brimmed leather bolero hat adorned with an eagle feather and squared it on her head.
"We're wasting time here," she said. "Are we doing this, or what?"
Sighing, he pictured screaming matches about where to put the pinch points and fisticuffs over adverbs. As an artist who treasured creative control above all else, he didn't want any of it.
He also didn't have much of a choice.
As the writer quaintly phrased it, she had him over a barrel. Even if he wanted to steal her idea and bolt for the exit at this point, she'd come all this way to negotiate with him in person. In front of witnesses she could call in court.
"Fine," Max growled. "But I have final cut on the script."
"Ooh, ‘final cut.' I'm having fun already." She thrust out her hand, and he grudgingly shook it to seal the deal. "Now let's make like a tree and motor."
"Right now?"
"No time like the present. It'll rescue you from this horrible wake, anyhow. Talk about depressing. We'll set up shop at your place."
Struck by a vision of beauty, Max barely heard her.
At the edge of the hill overlooking a gorge, Sally Priest stood against the sunset. Gone was the scampish Madonna look, shed like an old skin. She now wore a simple formfitting black suit, and she'd also dyed her hair platinum blond and fashioned it into a bun with swooped bangs.
Max could tell she was grieving.
"Lovely," he murmured while the writer nattered on.
Dorothy was right. Grief could be cinematic. He wished he had a camera to capture Sally in this moment. She looked stunning as a blonde. The striking combination of sadness and sex appeal made her stand out as some kind of archetypal helpless waif. The raw emotion on display was stirring.
She'd arrived with Nicholas. Why was she so upset? Had she and Raphael been friends, or maybe more?
This last idea gave him a surprising twinge of jealousy. No, if Raph ever had a thing with Sally Priest, Max would have heard about it and no end to it besides. Irritated, he dismissed the notion and focused on the image she presented.
Composition and color, angle and light.
What was she thinking right now?
Facing the wind and dying sun, she looked like a Final Girl. He simply had to cast her. Sally belonged in his new film.
"You have hella good taste, hon," Dorothy said. "That girl is smoking hot."
Max bristled. "Don't be perverse. It's not like that. Of course she's attractive. I just like the light and the angle, the way she's standing there."
The writer eyeballed him while wearing her goofy smile. "I imagine it's the same thing for you, huh?"
"What?"
"Fucking and filming. Worshipping beautiful women through the lens."
While he sputtered, she walked off toward the house. Max slouched and followed, ignoring the hungry looks and Johnny Frampton's frantic waving.
In the vestibule, Dorothy gripped the handle of a trunk plastered with Grateful Dead stickers. In her other hand, she hefted a typewriter case painted with a single graffiti message: THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.
Eyeing her with distaste, Max tried to reconcile this hippie with her brooding, emotionally complex stories of unsettling nightmare and cosmic terror.
"All set," she said with a happy grin. "Now let's go make some art."