Chapter Fifteen

The walls of Jackson Burley's office served as his resume. His writer/producer credits, photographed off the TV screen, were all framed, along with cast photos, reviews, and yellowed advertisements for his shows.

Whenever he felt insecure, all he had to do was take a gander at his wall to confirm he knew what he was doing. Burley spent a lot of time looking at the wall the last few hours.

Burley paced in front of his cluttered desk, the heels of his $350 tennis shoes lighting up with each step.

Alison sat on the leather couch, legs drawn up under her, dark circles under her blood-shot eyes, chewing on her ponytail.

Charlie stood between the two of them, giving his report.

"I met with some of my LAPD contacts," Charlie didn't think it would sound half as good if he said his brother-in-law was handling the case. "Chad Shaw was killed by muggers in the garage of his apartment building. Leigh Dickson was mowed down by a hit-and-run driver. And Conrad Stipe was murdered in bed. Spring Dano was attacked, but she escaped and I have her on the lot, under 24 hour guard."

"Jesus Christ," Burley said. "This is the worst blood bath in TV since My Gun Has—" He abruptly caught himself when he realized who he was talking to. "I'm sorry, Charlie, I didn't mean that."

"It's okay," Charlie said. Besides, Burley was right. "The only physical evidence they have to go on is a piece of nipple removed from Conrad's mouth."

"A nipple?" Alison shivered, sickened.

"The killer seduced Stipe," Charlie said, "then smothered him with her breast."

"Murder by hooter," Burley muttered. "That's a new one. I wonder if I could ever get it past the network censors."

Charlie pressed on, ignoring the remark.

"None of the witnesses to Leigh Dickson's death could give a usable description of the hit-and-run driver," Charlie said. "Spring Dano says everything happened so fast, she never actually saw her attacker."

Alison sighed. "I don't suppose the police have any idea who did this."

"No," Charlie said. "But I do."

They both looked at him. "I think the Company is responsible."

"Why?" Alison asked.

"It's Clive Odett's style," Charlie said. "Look what he tried with Spike Donovan in Vancouver, and what happened to Javier Grillo in Hawaii."

"There's just one problem with your theory, Charlie." Alison said. "They were all Company clients, except for Chad Shaw."

But it was Odett's style. It had to be Odett. He wanted it to be Odett.

Alison could see the disappointment on Charlie's face. He really wanted to go after the Company. Her guess was he still felt responsible for what happened to Javier Grillo, and he would look for any opportunity to go after them.

"You want to know who's behind this?" Burley asked rhetorically. "UBC, MBC, and DBC. They're afraid The Big Network is going to steal the entire 18-35 demographic from them. They figured if they killed Beyond the Beyond, they could bring down the network before it's even launched."

Charlie shook his head. "I don't buy it."

"Trust me, Charlie. I know how the criminal mind works," Burley swept his arm over his credits. "I've written more cop shows than anybody in this town. The Company has no motivation. The networks have plenty. And I'm not going to give in to their terrorism. I've decided, in consultation with Kim Woodrell, to keep Beyond the Beyond in production. We're going to start recasting as soon as the new show runner is in place."

"Whoever is responsible for what happened will come after them next," Charlie said. "They'll all be in grave danger."

"We're counting on you to protect them," Burley said. "And we've found the perfect guy to take over Beyond the Beyond. He's a proven show-runner, and we know from experience he won't be intimidated by these killers."

"I'd like meet him," Charlie said. "As soon as possible."

Burley opened his door and stuck his head out. "Come on in," he said to someone outside, then stepped aside to let him in.

Charlie's worst fear was that the producer would be represented by The Company. But Charlie didn't get much sleep after last night's escapade at Kim's place, and could be forgiven for not imagining an even more horrifying possibility.

Eddie Planet strode into the room like he was coming on stage to accept an Emmy. "Hey, Charlie, my man. How's it hanging?"

Charlie stared at him in shock.

"You look terrific," Eddie pointed at him, as if there was some doubt who he was talking to. "Have you lost a few pounds?"

Charlie slugged him.

Eddie fell against the wall, dragging down the cast photo of Dracula M.D., an Edgar award, and three positive reviews for The Missionary Mercenary as he slid to the floor.

Alison bolted up off the couch, shocked. Burley moved a safe distance away.

It was the second time in two days that Charlie had punched someone in anger, and it felt great. In fact, he wanted to do it again.

Charlie took a step towards Eddie, who immediately scrambled on his hands-and-knees behind Burley's desk. Alison quickly threw herself in front of the desk, blocking Charlie's path.

She yelled: "Enough!"

He glared past her at Eddie, peeking up from the other side of the desk, holding his bloody nose and had to laugh. "You expect me to protect him?"

"Why not?" Alison replied, genuinely confused.

He glanced incredulously at Jackson Burley, who took another step back, holding up his hands in surrender.

Charlie shook his head, disgusted, and walked out of the office.

* * * * * *

Clive Odett was stuck in traffic on the Ventura Freeway when news reached him on his mobile fax, cellular phone, in-dash TVs and radios, that two Company clients were dead and that Eddie Planet was the new executive producer of Beyond the Beyond.

How could a showrunner get hired without The Company being consulted first? Odett gripped the steering wheel, not that he had any reason to use it in the last twenty minutes. Something wasn't right. He was losing control of the situation. That had never happened before. He couldn't let it continue.

"I want to know who's muscling in on our client list," Odett barked at Zita over his cell phone. "I want every one of our agents on this. I have to know which agency benefits from pulling our clients out of play."

"What makes you think it's another agency?" Zita asked.

"It has to be," Odett said. "No one else has the guts."

He hung up and stared at the ribbon of idling cars between him and the Coldwater Canyon exit. This was what they called a freeway in Los Angeles. Using that logic, a parking lot should be called a race track.

In twenty minutes, he hadn't moved half-a-mile, more or less mirroring his progress, or more precisely, lack of progress, acquiring control of Beyond the Beyond and the Big Network the last few days. The traffic offended him.

He stomped on the gas. The Hummer surged forward, slammed into a Honda Accord and climbed over it, crushing it like a Japanese beer can. And he just kept going. The trapped cars on the Ventura Freeway became Clive Odett's private pavement, the Hummer effortlessly flattening all makes and models on his way to the exit.

* * * * * *

Eddie held an ice pack to his nose and did something he'd never done before. He left his golf cart behind at the Tower and walked to his bungalow.

He needed to think, to analyze all the angles.

Eddie knew this was his big chance, maybe even his last chance, to get his career back on track. He wasn't going to blow it again. His broken nose was a painful reminder of the mistakes made the last time he had a real shot at a come back.

Charlie Willis still wrongly blamed Eddie for all the murders committed by the mob to keep Frankencop on the air, just because Eddie happened to produce the show. Couldn't he see that Eddie was a victim, too? The mob made him clear every creative decision through them first, they even forced a star on him, a guy who couldn't act unless he knew was his "dick motivation" was first.

Because of the mob, he wasn't allowed to work his TV magic, and lost the chance to turn Frankencop into his biggest hit since Saddlesore, twenty years ago. What did Charlie Willis lose? A TV career he never had to begin with. Fuck him.

Eddie had bigger concerns.

Obviously, Guy Goddard and his lunatic Beyonders killed Stipe, but why did he gave to kill Chad Shaw and Leigh Dickson, too?

Because Goddard's a fucking lunatic, that's why. And Eddie Planet certainly couldn't be blamed for the actions of an insane person, not that anyone knew he and Goddard met. And even if someone did know, what did Eddie do wrong? Nothing. He shot the shit with him. Schmoozed. Commiserated. It's not like he told Goddard to go out and kill somebody.

No one could prove anything because Eddie Planet didn't do anything.

The only thing Eddie Planet had to worry about now was what to do with all the money he was going to make off the show fate had just given him.

Eddie was half-way to his bungalow when he remembed he had new digs now. He'd taken over Conrad Stipe's old office and inherited his double-D secretary. Her name was Brougham, which her mother thought was very classy, since it seemed like every elegant car that passed their trailer park was a Brougham-this or Brougham-that.

She took the news of Stipe's death well. She started scraping his name off the door with a letter-opener. Brougham was still doing that when Eddie came in.

"There's someone waiting in your office," she said.

"Who?" Eddie asked.

Brougham shrugged, which wasn't easy, considering the considerable weight of her bust. "She's some writer Mr. Stipe hired. She was in the office when I got back from lunch."

Eddie tossed his ice pack on Brougham's desk and strode into his office, stunned to see a woman in a sleeveless t-shirt sitting at the desk, hunched over a copy of the Beyond the Beyond pilot script. She had rings in her nose, lip, ear and eyebrow, and a Confederation insignia tatooed on her shoulder.

Eddie suddenly realized there was one angle he forgot to consider. The Beyonders. Stipe probably hired her to curry favor with the fans, which reminded Eddie that he'd have to do something to mollify Guy Goddard, short of giving the nutball his part back.

"Sit down," Melvah Blenis scribbled something in the margin of the script, "I want to finish this thought."

Eddie walked up to the desk, snatched the script from her, and dropped it in the garbage without even looking at it. "Get out of my office before I drag you out by your nose ring."

"That's an Orgoglian Mating Clip, which you'd know if you weren't completely illiterate," Melvah bent over, lifted a stack of magazines off the floor, and dumped them on the desk. "Before you embarrass yourself any further, read these."

Eddie glanced at the magazines, xeroxed copies of Beyondzine with badly drawn caricatures of the Beyond the Beyond cast for covers. He'd seen a few fanzines before, but the only ones he paid any attention to featured Dr. Kelvin in a variety of explicit positions. He liked those.

"Conrad Stipe may have created the show, but he was completely out of touch with the universe. A lot has changed in twenty years, and he didn't stay on top of it," Melvah said. "The mistakes start on the first page of his script. Stipe thought the Zidruts were still at war with the Nerglids, even though the Zidrut homeworld was consumed by Flerbian Fungus in a classic story published way back in Beyondzine #112."

Eddie knew now he was dealing with a hard core Beyonder, which meant her grasp on reality was about as firm as a Hollywood promise. He turned to the outer office. "Brougham, call security."

"Belay that order," Melvah snapped, getting both Eddie and his secretary's attention. "If you're going to make calls, start by getting me an office. I've got to start rewriting this piece of shit."

She handed Eddie her studio drive on pass. It was called in by Clive Odett's office.

"I'm Melvah Blenis, your new producer," she said. "You got a problem with that, take it up with The Company."

She was represented by Clive Odett? How could that possibly be? He needed time to sort this out. He didn't want to risk angering Clive Odett or Guy Goddard at this point.

"Why would I have a problem with that? I'm glad to have someone as knowledgeable as you on board," Eddie gathered up the magazines and handed the pile to her. "I want you to take these and show them to the other writers right away. Brief them on every detail of the universe. We don't want to make any more mistakes."

The other writers were stuck in a trailer clear across the lot. It would take her 45 minutes just to walk there and would keep her far away from him until he got figured out all the angles.

"What about the first episode?" Melvah asked.

"Send me a memo," Eddie wouldn't read it, but he'd sell it for a buck a page. Before she could argue, he pushed her out the door and slammed it shut.