Shadow Games (5 page)

Cobey
surprised him. He looked older and more tired than a teen-star had any right to. Puckett's daughter Cindy had had a long-time crush on
Cobey
.

They shook hands, said goodbye to Dr. Reeves, and left. Halfway down the broad front steps of the Administration building, Puckett said, "Oh, I forgot."

"Forgot?"

"Your Acme Camouflage Disguise."

"Hub?"

"This stuff here," Puckett said.

And put this lounge-lizard black wig on
Cobey
, and then a black
bandito
mustache—and finally slipped on a pair of black, wrap-around shades.

Cobey
laughed. "God, I bet I really look like shit."

Puckett picked up one of
Cobey's
bags again and started walking. "You're right. You do."

III

T
urned out,
Cobey
wasn't real thrilled with flying. Every time they'd hit the least little bit of turbulence,
Cobey
would grip the arms of his seat as if he were in an electric chair and they were putting the juice to him.

And somehow, despite all the terrible things he'd heard about the kid, Puckett sort of liked him.

Given the fact that Puckett worked out of Los Angeles, many of his clients were entertainment types and, face it, they weren't the nicest people in the world.

But this kid—

Puckett either liked somebody or he didn't, and he did like this gentle, friendly, unassuming kid. Of course, every once in a while he did think of
Cobey
trying to strangle some fourteen-year-old girl... And then
Puckett'd
wonder if he really should like the kid. Maybe the stay at
Menlow
Park hadn't really changed him at all. But then he'd think that
Cobey
was fine as long as he didn't touch alcohol—not a drop—because the stuff turned him into a monster.

As they were travelling over Salt Lake City,
Cobey
got sick and had to use his bag.

When he finished, he said, "I'll bet I've got puke on my mustache, don't I?"

"You do indeed," Puckett said.

"OK if I throw the mustache away?"

"Fine with me."

"It won't ruin my disguise?"

"It may ruin your disguise, but at least you'll smell better."

Cobey
sat back. "You got any kids?"

"One. A few years younger than you. Eighteen. A girl."

"You see her a lot?"

"Not as much as I should."

"That's what parents always say."

"Well, the way you say that, sort of sarcastic and all, sounds like you're finally old enough to hear the truth."

"The truth?"

"Yeah," Puckett said, "about parents."

Then he leaned over and whispered into
Cobey's
ear, "All parents are assholes."

Cobey
must have laughed for a good three minutes over that one.

As they were just sliding over the California border,
Cobey
said, "I really wouldn't have strangled the girl that day."

"What brought that up?"

"Just the way I caught you looking at me a few times. You've got a daughter of your own. It's natural that you'd be curious." He shook his head. "I like girls. And I respect them. While I was in the hospital, this nurse taught me about feminism and I really believe in it." He shook his head again. "I don't know what happened to me that day at the shopping mall."

"Relax,
Cobey
," Puckett said. "We've all done things we try not to think about."

"Even you, Puckett?"

Puckett laughed. "Especially me."

IV

L
illy was waiting with a limo at LAX.

While the uniformed driver took care of the bags, Lilly shook Puckett's hand and thanked him for doing such a good job.

"Well," Lilly said, looking at the disguised
Cobey
. "I guess it's time for us to go."

Cobey
said, "You want to play tennis sometime, Puckett?"

Puckett smiled. "I'm afraid I'm more the bowling type." Puckett gave him the kind of manly slug-on-the-bicep that Richard Nixon had given Puckett. "But I will treat you to lunch at McDonald's sometime."

"Great!"
Cobey
said.

Puckett glanced at Lilly and, right off, he got the sense she wasn't crazy about
Cobey's
idea of seeing Puckett again.

Then they were in the limo, and gone.

V

P
uckett never did keep his promise to
Cobey
about going to McDonald's (even as a stand-in father, he wasn't worth a shit) and, in fact, he pretty much forgot
Cobey
entirely, just sort of assuming, he supposed, that he'd never see the kid again.

He was wrong.

From the June 3, 1989 edition of
The National Tattler

Is
Cobey
Daniels Still Alive?

Aging teen star vanishes

TV star
Cobey
Daniels, best known for his starring role in the No. 1 rated sitcom
Family Life
(1981-1985) is now the subject of an intense search by Los Angeles police. None of
Cobey's
friends have seen or heard from him in six weeks. Authorities and friends alike fear foul play.

Cobey
was discovered at age six by Hollywood talent agent Lilly Carlyle, who took the boy from his parents and raised him herself to be a child star.

But while fame and fortune came
Cobey's
way, so did a series of run-ins with the law. Between the ages of 15 and 19,
Cobey
was arrested three times for OMVI, four times for assault and battery, and two times for possessing cocaine.

In 1985 he was convicted of statutory rape in a case involving a 14-year-old girl in a Florida shopping mall. The conviction resulted in
Cobey
being sent to a mental hospital for more than three years.

After his release,
Cobey
found work in many TV dramas, usually in minor roles. During this period, he also worked with the prestigious Hollywood Actors Playhouse. More recently,
Cobey
had auditioned for the leads in two different sitcom pilots.

Friends can't explain
Cobey's
sudden disappearance. They say that
Cobey
had been in fine spirits lately and had displayed none of his darker moods.

Los Angeles police continue their intensive Investigation. They would not answer any press questions, saying that the matter was still too new to speculate about.

"So whatever became of
Cobey
Daniels? Well, all grown up, (and sobered up, too),
Cobey
has written and stars in a play about his travails as a teenage star. And the play is as funny, powerful, strange and haunting as anything seen on the American stage in the past decade. No mistake about it—this is
Cobey
Daniels' comeback vehicle."

Time
Magazine

February 22, 1993

Chicago

H
e had a terrible and slightly ridiculous moment when he couldn't remember who he was.

I am
—

Shit. Nobody forgets his own name.

I am
—

Damn. It was so ludicrous to forget your own
—

He
had
a name. Everybody had a name. What was his? Who was he, anyway?

His eyes were still closed.

Real tough job getting them opened.

Head throbbing.

He knew what that was, of course.

He'd started drinking again.

How could he have been so stupid, anyway?

He lay there for the next few minutes, acquainting himself with the various parts of his body.

Very dry mouth. Heat: dehydration from the alcohol, he knew. Hands twitching: the shakes. Nausea travelling up from his belly and into his throat: raw sewage.

How could he have been so stupid?

He knew what alcohol did to him.

So stupid, so...

He fell asleep again.

W
hen he awoke the second time, he smelled rain; chill, spring rain. He smelled night. He smelled—apple blossom. Yes, apple blossom.

Where the hell was he, anyway?

Who
the hell was he, anyway?

He needed to open his eyes. He needed to stand up. He needed to find out some things.

One eye opened on to deep night.

He angled his head.

He was in a shadowy room on a bed. To his right was a window. A sheer white curtain cavorted like a dancing ghost. Through the open window he could feel the faint, chill spray of rain, the way rolling surf sometimes sprayed you from a distance.

Surf?

California.

But this wasn't California.

He wasn't sure where it was, but he was sure it wasn't California.

In the distance now, somewhere beyond the window, the steady rush of traffic.

Closer, but still faint, human voices on the street below. Laughter sharp as a gunshot; then footsteps, fading, fading in the sudden wind whipping the white curtain.

Not California.

He stretched his right leg.

Big toe touched cold, hard wood.

He opened his other eye now.

New information: to his left, a woman's dressing table with a round mirror mounted in the middle of it, the minor reflecting him lying on the rumpled bed.

He stared at himself as if staring at a stranger.

Just who the hell was he, anyway?

The bile in his throat made him want to puke right now.

He sat up straight in one abrupt, head-pounding movement.

God, his headache
—

He spent the next few minutes delicately rubbing sleep from his face and trying to work up enough strength to stand up.

He thought of turning on a light. No. Right now, light, any kind of light, would be profane.

He eased himself off the bed and stood up.

For the first time, he noticed that he was naked. Freezing. Poor little dick hanging limp, cold as the rest of him.

Through a dark doorway he could see the dark square edge of a mirror. Bathroom.

He staggered forth.

The shadowy bathroom was filled with the pleasant odors of baby powder and perfume, lingering like music on the night air.

Girl
, he thought.

Girl lives here.

Why am I here, then?

He peed so hard it was almost painful. He felt as if he stood there shooting a steady stream for at least ten minutes, though that was, of course, impossible.

When he finished, he leaned over the sink and looked at his dark shape in the dark mirror.

Please... Is it asking too much to know my own name? This isn't funny, you know. This isn't one goddamn bit funny.

Then he wondered to whom he was addressing his question. God, he supposed. Yes, God. And why not? God was
supposed to help people like him. It was in the contract, wasn't it?

He left the bathroom and went to stand before the open window.

He let the sheer white curtain envelope him like smoke.