Video Kill (3 page)

“Bob! You rat!” Sharee faced him squarely with her hands on her hips. “How did you get in here? And where did you rent that ridiculous costume?”

There was no reply, and Sharee's smile faltered. Her green eyes showed a tiny flicker of fear as the executioner stood silent and unmoving, watching her through the eyeholes of his mask. Sharee felt her throat go dry, and she swallowed with difficulty. It wasn't like Bob to carry a joke this far. Surely he could tell she was frightened.

“Come on, Bob. That's enough! I brought home a bottle of champagne from the party. If you stop recording, I'll share it with you.”

Silence filled the room, and suddenly Sharee realized that the executioner was at least four inches taller than Bob. Terror swept across her face, making a parody of her beauty. She willed her frozen body to move, and with what seemed like agonizing slowness, she turned to run. The executioner's arms were like steel cables, reeling her back, and Sharee clawed at him in a frenzy, kicking and twisting and biting to get away.

Sharee's long, polished nails raked deeply, and for one brief moment she had the advantage. But before she could recover her balance, he had her again, his grip even tighter this time. Sharee thrashed wildly as she felt herself lifted. She struggled blindly against the inevitable, like the butterflies her older brother used to pin in his collection box, but the executioner shoved her roughly forward, under the stream of scalding water.

A thin, high, inhuman scream punctured the haze of her panic. The sound grew louder, bouncing off the white tiles, and Sharee dimly realized that it was coming from her own throat. As the knife slashed downward, her scream reached a crescendo, tapering off into deafening silence.

A puzzled expression crossed Sharee's face as she crumpled, her hands sliding against the wet, slick tiles. There was no pain, only bone-chilling cold as the knife rose and fell. And through the steam and the gathering cold, she saw the gleaming eye of the camera as her blood colored the water pink and then red until it disappeared down the gurgling drain.

Brother left his star in the shower, lifeless green eyes staring up into the spray. One last shot of her crumpled body with a slow pan to her beautiful untouched face, and it was finished. He picked up his equipment and stepped out into the warm summer night, secure that he had captured the first segment, exactly as he had intended.

A string of firecrackers rattled in the distance as Brother walked across the silent courtyard. At first he was startled, but then he remembered the date and smiled at its significance. Today was the Fourth of July, a perfect time to start his production. The birth of the nation and the birth of his masterpiece. People would remember them together for years to come.

2

 

It was shortly past seven in the morning when Tony Rocca stopped at the Mister Donut on Hollywood Boulevard and bought two cinnamon twists for his partner, two maple bars for himself, and a cup of coffee to go. The frizzy-haired matron at the cash register, who had obviously taken full advantage of her Mister Donut employee discount, peered over the tops of her glasses to read his T-shirt. Her bright red lipsticked mouth moved painfully as she sounded out the words. This morning Tony was wearing a navy blue short-sleeved Hanes that proclaimed
GENIASES CAN'T SPEL
in bright red letters.

Balancing the coffee precariously on the passenger seat of his dark green Volvo, Tony eased his way back out into traffic. Three blocks later he turned down a side street and pulled into the lot of the Schwartzvold Building.

Tony parked in his space and locked his car. This morning Tony opted for using the front entrance. He needed a little fresh air after the party yesterday. Tony and his wife, Allison, had hosted a Fourth of July barbecue at their home in Studio City, and Tony had sampled one too many of the margaritas he'd mixed. He cut through the alley and dashed up to Hollywood Boulevard.

Tony liked this area with its old substantial look, but it was definitely rundown. People were still waiting for what they called the “Hollywood Renaissance.” The land barons were playing a slow game of chess with their Hollywood holdings. There hadn't been any strong moves thus far, but they'd created enough interest to raise the rents. The owner of the Schwartzvold had announced an increase last month. Tony had accepted the rent hike even though he was really strapped for money right now. It was worth it to work in Hollywood, where there was a feeling of film history.

Frederick's of Hollywood was a bright purple erection at the end of the block, and as Tony walked past, he noticed that they'd changed their window display. Perhaps he'd drag Erik inside one of these days, just to see him blush and stammer. For someone who could write the best raunchy dialogue Tony had ever read, Erik was strangely provincial when it came to the real world. Even though they'd been friends for years, there were times when he didn't understand Erik at all.

Tony had been a tough punk from L.A. when he'd enlisted and been sent to the Middle East. Once there, the giant melting pot of the army had teamed him with an unlikely buddy. Erik had been a straight-laced Minnesota farm boy on his first trip away from home, but his innate common sense coupled with Tony's streetwise cunning had helped both of them survive the horrors of combat. When their tour of duty was over, they'd lost touch except for the annual Christmas card. At least, Erik had thought they'd lost touch. Since Tony had a buddy in Minnesota, he'd kept tabs on Erik. He'd found out about the family farm that had gone bankrupt, the college degree that Erik had financed through the GI Bill, and the move he'd made to L.A. after his parents had died. Tony even knew about Erik's disastrous marriage to a young starlet who'd screwed him six ways to the center. And fifteen years later, when they'd gotten together again at a veteran reunion, Erik had filled in the missing years. He'd told Tony about the farm, the college degree, and his job teaching English in L.A., but he hadn't mentioned his marriage. Since Tony was well acquainted with Erik's touchy sense of privacy, he hadn't brought it up, either.

As Tony walked rapidly down the street, he nodded at the white-haired man who was kneeling on a folded rug in front of Greta Garbo's star in the sidewalk. It was one of hundreds of such tributes that lined the sidewalks at the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street for a mile in either direction. The stars were set in a three-foot square and were inlaid in brass with the celebrities' names in the center. Tony had spent many happy Sunday afternoons as a child, taking what the guidebooks called “The Walk of the Stars” and attempting to identify all the names. One thing he'd learned from these excursions was how to read upside down. Every other star was set in backward for people who were walking in the opposite direction.

The man looked up and nodded. He was what the sociologists had termed a “familiar stranger,” a man Tony saw every morning in the same place at the same time. He was in his seventies, Tony guessed, and he was wearing the bright green windbreaker and visored cap he'd worn for the past three years. As Tony approached, the man rubbed vigorously at the star with Brasso cleaner, making the metal sparkle in the sun. Last Friday Tony had found him scraping the gum off the sidewalk with a putty knife and muttering angrily to himself.

Since Tony had to pass this spot every morning to get to his office, he had worked up several scenarios about the old man. He could be a relative of the famous Garbo or her loyal, retired chauffeur. In Tony's best scenario the old man was a former lover paying homage to his lost lady. Even though he was rabidly curious, Tony wasn't about to ask questions. The real story might not live up to his fantasies.

Tony walked carefully around the star and earned a fleeting smile of approval from the old man. On his way down the sidewalk, he sidestepped Merle Oberon, walked over Elvis Presley, there was no way he could be serious about a man whose face had been painted on black velvet, and tromped directly in the center of Harry Cohn, the ruthless Columbia Pictures mogul.

“Serves you right, White Fang,” Tony said aloud. “You stomped on plenty of real stars in your day!”

Fred Astaire, upside down, was the sentinel in front of the Schwartzvold Building, and Tony used his key on the front door, then made sure it locked tightly behind him. He'd come in one morning last week to find an old wino sleeping in the lobby.

On his way to the elevator Tony checked the row of metal mailboxes in the lobby, even though there'd been no mail delivery yesterday. There was nothing in the box marked ROCCA & NIELSEN except an outdated circular for a Radio Shack sale. Tony dropped it in the battered wastebasket that was chained to the wall and headed for the elevator. He hoped it was working today. The thirteen-floor climb to the tower office would just about kill him.

There was a metallic squeal as the old-fashioned elevator doors slid open, revealing the dark, wood-paneled interior. Tony felt like Daniel entering the lion's den as he stepped inside and the heavy doors screeched closed behind him. If the elevator got stuck, not an uncommon occurrence, he could press the alarm button until he was blue in the face, but no one would be in the building to hear it. Writers were the only people crazy enough to come in this early.

Tony sighed with relief as the elevator ground to a halt and opened its doors. The cage had stopped three inches above the floor, but Tony wasn't about to quibble with the ancient Otis about minor inconveniences. He unlocked his office door, switched on the lights, and immediately took three aspirins with a swig of lukewarm Mister Donut coffee.

The first sight of his office in the morning always made Tony groan. Allison had hired a high-priced decorator while he was away on location for
Free Fire
. She'd given him free reign to throw out Tony's old army-surplus office furniture and replace it with new things that were cheerful and bright. Unfortunately, she hadn't stipulated how cheerful or how bright.

Brilliant orange, blinding yellow, and eye-popping turquoise fought for dominance on Tony's expensive tubular furniture, but dazzling fuchsia was the hands-down winner when it came to his desk. The framework was dull black covered by a sheet of fuchsia Plexiglas. It was the same color Revlon had christened “hot pink” in the fifties. Marilyn Monroe had worn it on her lips and Pepto-Bismol had bottled it. Now it had found a home on the four-by-eight-foot gloss rectangle of Tony's desktop. Tony managed to hide it with papers most of the time, but he had cleared his desk before he'd gone home on Friday.

Tony went to the bookshelf and got down the unabridged dictionary and the world atlas. They were the biggest books in the office. When he opened them on top of his desk they almost covered the glaring pink surface. That meant he'd have to hand-hold the script he was proofing this morning because there was no longer room to work at his desk, but it was well worth it.

The script was a rewrite for a television detective series that Tony and Erik had gotten from Alan Goldberg. It was not the first incident of Alan's generosity over the past eleven months. Cinescope occasionally gave script assignments to writers who couldn't write, as did every other studio in town.

Selling to episodic television consisted of three hurdles. Pitch, story, and script. The writer's first hurdle was to “pitch” story ideas. If the producers liked an idea, and if network approved, the writer had jumped the first hurdle. Then he had to jump the second hurdle by working his idea into a story. This story, an embellished action outline with indications of appropriate dialogue, was often rewritten by the studio story editor to make sure it conformed to the guidelines of the show and the personalities of the leading characters. A completed story earned the writer over fourteen thousand dollars and a crack at the third hurdle, script. If the producers had faith in the writer's ability, he was given a script assignment. For completion of this script, the writer was paid twenty-four thousand dollars in round numbers. That made a grand total of approximately thirty-eight thousand dollars up front, plus a generous residual fee for every rerun. A writer who had leaped all three hurdles and written a script for a popular television series could expect to earn as much as eighty thousand dollars for his work.

Tony sighed as he remembered Alan Goldberg's account of the original writer. The guy had been a master storyteller and he'd been given a story assignment on the strength of his brilliant verbal pitch. The story that had followed was less than acceptable. It had been revised and strengthened by the in-house story editor, and the end result had been promising. The original writer had been given the go-ahead on script because of his excellent credentials.

The first attempt at script had been abysmal and the second no better. It was too late to cut off the original writer. He'd fulfilled his contractual obligations and the studio was required to pay him in full for his inferior product. To add insult to injury, the studio was stuck with an unusable script.

Alan had called in Tony and Erik to fix up the script with the implicit understanding that they wouldn't arbitrate for any screen credit. The original writer would get full credit, and since his name alone would be on the script, he could show Rocca and Nielsen's rewrite to other producers to get future assignments. Such inequity bothered Tony, and he sat down to proof their work with a scowl on his face.

Tony finished the first act and the second maple bar simultaneously. He wiped off his hands and went to make coffee. Erik always arrived at the office at precisely eight-thirty, and the first thing he needed was “Swedish Plasma.”

As he poured water into the machine, Tony looked out the tower window that dominated the small kitchenette. The room was Gothic-Deco. The design was Gothic, but it had been repeated all over the little cubicle. Tony liked the mixture of styles, and he was grateful that Allison hadn't set her decorator loose on anything but his private office.

The view out the kitchenette window was worth the price of the whole office suite. Tony could see the Capitol Records building, and he loved its design. It was built to resemble a stack of records on a turntable, and it was a Hollywood landmark.

The smell of fresh coffee brewing was irresistible, and Tony poured a cup before the pot was fully ready. He was about to go back to tackle the second act of the script when the telephone rang. Tony raced for his office, reached over the desk from the front, and picked it up on the second ring. It was Alan Goldberg.

“Hi, Alan.” Tony leaned over the atlas, his left elbow resting on Borneo. “We should have your script for you by tomorrow morning.”

“Good, but that's not why I'm calling. Did you catch the news this morning?”

“News? No, Alan. I've been working on your script. What's up?”

“A miracle, that's what's up! It looks like you guys were right on the money with
Video Kill
.”

“That's great, Alan.” Tony's mind whirled, trying to make some sense out of Alan's words. “How so?”

“Apparently some sickie stabbed a woman last night in Hollywood. He left a video of the whole thing for the police.”

Tony was so astonished, he almost dropped the phone, but Alan went on without waiting for his response.

“They're running an exclusive on channel five. Watch it and call me back.”

Tony didn't even bother to hang up the phone. He just dropped the receiver and rushed to turn on the office television. His hands were trembling as he sat down and watched the segment. Alan was right. A killer had recorded himself murdering a woman and left the video behind for the police.

An interview with Chief Detective Oliver “Sam” Ladera of the Los Angeles Police Department was next, and he substantiated the facts the reporter had just given. That meant their crazy idea for a movie, the one everyone had said was too far-fetched to be believed, had just turned into reality.

 

 

Erik Nielsen jumped out of bed at the instant his alarm rang. He'd learned to wake up fast when he was in combat. For one brief moment he was totally disoriented, but his mind cleared quickly as he went through the litany he used every morning. The war was behind him. Deep breath. He was alive and well. Deep breath. He was safe. Final deep breath. Rocca and Nielsen had won the war, or at least they'd managed to turn the numbing horror of those years into the script for a movie.

His heart slowed to a near-regular rhythm as he swiveled his head and took in the familiar surroundings. Light tan walls, brown and red curtains at the windows, a lobby-sized full-color poster advertising
Free Fire
on the wall. He was in the master bedroom of his Culver City condo, thousands of miles away from combat. Here he was perfectly safe. No one could come in or out, unauthorized. The round-the-clock security guards kept out anyone who wasn't on Erik's visitor list, and his list was only two people long. Tony and Allison Rocca.