Show Business Is Murder Read online

  Margo Aston lay behind him on a chaise longue, topless and gleaming under the afternoon sun—poster girl for tanning oil. “Whatsa matter, superstar?” she asked, using the term she knew he detested, trying to get him stirred up a little—even his explosive anger was better than this tiresome depression.

  Making a point of looking around him, palms turned upward, Corey sighed yet again, asking, “This is it—all those movies and all the money, famous all over the planet, and this is all the better it feels?”

  “You think too much, Matt,” Margo said, raising eyebrows and causing mirror-glass shades to slip down onto the bridge of her nose.

  He pulled up his legs and turned to look at her. Great body. Great personality. Average mind. “And you think too little,” he replied, though of course that was bullshit; he knew she was always thinking, especially about whatever movie project she was producing—she just didn’t cotton to philosophical musing.

  Margo put a mirrored gaze on him, saying, “You work more than Hackman, never seen anybody work harder—you need to learn to play hard, too.”

  Corey smiled. “You complaining?”

  “Not talking about sex, I’m talking about taking chances, living on the edge.”

  “You want I should rob a bank?” Pointing a cocked thumb and extended finger her way.

  Shook her head, short red hair hardly moving. “Not anything illegal, just improper—course illegal would be better—but nothing with guns or where somebody gets hurt,” Margo said, turning onto her flat stomach.

  “You speaking from experience?”

  Shrugged, resting her head on crossed hands. “When Jack and I were together we used to . . .” and she explained some adventures her former lover and she had gone on in Hawaii, Paris, São Paulo, and Morocco. “You could do things like that, too,” she said, “nothing really dangerous, but risky in some way . . . gotta have an imminent deadline, clock ticking, a threat of being caught, something to lose.”

  Might work, Corey thought . . . then wondered what in hell was wrong with him; he was known by a couple billion people around the planet, richer’n Croesus, have any woman he wanted, and yet he was still not satisfied. Looking for some meaning to it all.

  Course maybe it was true, you had to struggle to be genuinely happy . . . take a risk now and then, put something on the line—start out with a few break-ins, then maybe something riskier; he needed something to fan the flames, ’cause it sure seemed that getting there wasn’t just half the fun, it was the whole enchilada.

  . . . THIS IS DEFINITELYnot a dream, it’s a real bedroom.

  Not his bedroom but something familiar about it.

  Those roars must’ve been gunshots. Though if he’d been shot, why no pain? Was he in shock? Trauma-induced catatonia—like that horror flick he’d done early in his career about being buried alive? Or had a bullet severed his spine?

  A sudden thought shied beneath him—the body next to him, who was it?

  Margo? Yes, it had to be Margo. That was the second shot. Ah, damn . . . not Margo.

  He tried to turn his head but couldn’t move . . . after a few moments, various lines he’d memorized for doctor roles over the years began echoing through his mind: I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker . . . no sensorimotor impulses emanating from your husband’s brain . . . can’t move a muscle.

  That fits . . . friggin’ statue, stone cold and helpless.

  Of course now something else has begun to happen—surroundings are growing darker, as though someone was slowly dimming a light switch; could still make out objects, top of the walls, but they seemed vague and indistinct. A grainy dense fog began to materialize in the air, dull and menacing . . .

  Oh, Christ, he’s losing even this limited vision . . .

  —another part he’d played on daytime TV resonated inside his skull: It appears certain, Ms. Moore, that your boyfriend is going blind, what we in the healing business call vision-dead . . . this is a condition caused by the fact that his primary visual cortex has nearly ceased functioning due to the extensive brain damage.

  Having recited that unwieldy line, the script had demanded even more from his character: All that remains for your poor dear companion are the few moments left him before the rest of his brain dies, he’d said.

  The actress playing the girlfriend had cried out inappropriately, as though startled, emitting a strange, sustained shriek, sounding more like she’d been goosed than expressing anguish. Broke the whole crew up—even the asshole director had laughed.

  Corey attempted a deep breath, though couldn’t tell what was going on in his chest, thinking: got no smell. Losing sight. Can’t move. Margo dead. Christ, with all this crap there must be a pony in here some—

  “My God, lookit the blood,” the female voice exclaimed.

  Something about the exuberance in her voice made Corey want to scrunch up his nose and sneer . . . if only he could.

  Because even spatial orientation was difficult, though he knew he was prone on a bed next to Margo—but it still felt like he was floating. A memory came to Corey as if it’d happened only yesterday . . . he’d been buoyed in a sensory deprivation tank on the set of a movie about regressive therapy; scene involved a portrayal of his character experiencing weird visions, archetypal images, and finally a kind of body-death, but with total consciousness. One line he’d had to recite: “I can almost touch my soul.”

  Corey hadn’t wanted to say it but didn’t have enough clout back then to refuse. Now he’d tell the biggest director in Hollywood to shove that line where the sun don’t shine.

  Complete darkness settled silently over him like a shroud of heavy ash . . . he was now totally blind—where the sun don’t shine. Couldn’t feel any movement in his chest, couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, didn’t know if he could still hear or not . . . for all Corey knew, he was dead, his consciousness remaining behind like a child at the top of the stairs, not wanting to miss anything going on down below.

  LATER THAT LAST summer . . .

  “What if we get caught?” Corey whispered, his hand on Margo’s shoulder as they both crouched in darkness next to the house, suddenly feeling he might have taken a wrong turn in his quest for meaning.

  “That’s the point, Gomer—things can go wrong—your crime could be reported in the tabloids, the cops would treat you like a felon, your career would be crippled by the notoriety . . . but you can’t have the juice without the risk,” Margo said.

  She’d jimmied the door and turned off the alarm the way some ex-con crewman had shown her earlier that week at the sound stage. It was pretty dark in the foyer, though some faint light was coming from a distant room.

  They made their way quickly up to the master bedroom, knowing they had less than an hour or so before the owner was to return to the house.

  Making love was heightened by every tiny noise they heard, but it was as much the idea of trespassing that turned Corey on; brought up by an aunt and uncle who were fanatics about their privacy and respecting the privacy of others—step off the sidewalk onto somebody’s lawn and you got a good smack on the back of the head. He’d learned to avoid the edge, not even walk along it.

  After the lovemaking, they decided to not straighten the covers, Margo reciting from “The Three Bears”: “Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed,” leaving washcloths and towels strewn about on the bathroom floor—then down to the kitchen where she made them sandwiches while Corey poured them stemmed glasses of wine, dribbling some on the counter.

  They ate, drank, and talked until they heard the garage door go up—that would be Garry Howard, the former producer who owned the place returning home; this was a guy who hated Corey because he’d refused to do a couple projects and the industry rags had picked up on the rejection, ridiculing the executive, ultimately getting him demoted a few notches, assistant-assistant to someone or other.

  Corey knew Howard would press charges if he caught them. Scream to the tabloids. Yeah, this little game was something of a risk—but they were both gr
inning at each other as they jumped to their feet, headed for the side door leaving the mess on the counter, laughing and giggling like teenagers.

  DEAD.

  An intense feeling of remorse flooded through Corey; he wanted so very badly to be able to look at Margo at least one more time—and in the wanting he could almost hear her breathing—no, that was the other woman, Vince’s squeeze.

  “What’re we going to do?” the female voice asked anxiously, the sound of fingernails being nervously clicked together over and over.

  “Jesus, why’s some movie star in here anyway—my wife doesn’t know anybody like that.”

  “You sure, hotshot? Maybe you got that wrong, too.”

  Corey heard a rustle of movement followed by a loud slap. The woman shrieked.

  “I didn’t get nothing wrong, bitch—dammit, we gotta figure our way out of this!” Vince said. His voice held panic, almost strident.

  Silence.

  Finally, the woman’s voice. “Well, they don’t belong here, if we just leave and let your wife find them she’ll call the police and it’ll look like somebody broke in and shot them—let her explain it,” she said, adding, “when is she coming home?”

  Vince snorted. “I didn’t even know she’d be gone—thought that was her in bed with somebody.”

  “Well, why don’t we just leave and let her find them—you’re supposed to be in Seattle, right?” the woman said.

  Corey could hear his own breathing, slow and shallow, hardly audible; like he’d been drugged or something.

  Drugged?

  —hell, that was it! Margo had told him that she knew the woman who lived here, heard she and her husband were not getting along and that he was out of town and the woman would be home at around—well, about now. So that was it; Margo had set it all up. They’d made love and afterward he’d dozed off like always—his ritual post-coital nap—and she’d injected him with something. The drug immobilized him, numbed him all over and temporarily shut down his vision. In fact, it was like a movie he’d refused to do for Garry Howard, the producer whose house they’d broken into—the plot was about a guy shot up with a drug that evoked catatonia. Too implausible, he’d told Howard.

  Vince’s voice interrupted Corey’s musing. “I guess you’re right . . . we’ll take off and just let my wife find these bodies and call the cops.”

  —empty wire hangers rattling, sound of something being taken from the closet—swishing sound.

  “What’re you doing?” the female asked.

  “Wiping for prints.”

  “You live here, dummy, your prints belong here.”

  Corey smiled inwardly. These people should get an Oscar for their performances. Very convincing. And how ’bout Margo’s acting—lying over there so quietly he’d thought she was already dead, doing it all so he’d appreciate life more, being on the edge of death.

  From downstairs came the sound of a door opening and closing, someone moving about.

  Vince whispered, “Jesus, must be my wife.”

  Silence. Then more sounds of movement from downstairs. Humming.

  The sound of a gun being cocked. “Vince, what’re you doing?” the woman in the bedroom asked.

  Dull footsteps on the carpeted stairs could be heard, another woman’s voice calling up from below. “Vince, I saw the light—are you home?”

  The woman in the room whispered harshly, “Watch that gun, dammit, it’s cocked.”

  Vince whispering back, “I’m going to do her—make it look like she killed herself after a ménage à trois gone bad, killed them and then herself.”

  “Vince,” the wife called again, “why can’t you answer?” Sound of someone ascending the stairs.

  Corey would have shook his head if possible—this little play was pretty involved. Next thing you know they’ll be shooting every—

  —booming roar of a gun!

  Corey could hear a gurgling sound coming from the woman in the room, Vince gasping in alarm. “Noooo . . . it went off—the damn gun—”

  “My god, Vince—was that a gunshot?” the wife shouted from the staircase, her voice tremulous.

  Damn good acting, Corey thought—supposed to think Vince just accidentally shot his accomplice. If he could applaud he would. Now . . . how long before the drug wears off?

  “SHE’S DUE WHEN?” Corey had asked as they entered the house.

  “About an hour.”

  “Well, Margo, if you know her, where’s the thrill?—she wouldn’t turn you in.”

  A wry grin on her face, Margo had replied, “I fired her from a picture once and she hasn’t worked in the industry since.”

  “Christ, she’ll probably shoot both of us,” Corey’d answered.

  In the bedroom. “Nice armoire,” Margo’d said, already undressed, just black bikini panties and a smile—a sight of which Corey never tired.

  Shrugging out of his clothes, he’d asked, “So, she’s divorcing her husband, huh?”

  “Yeah, he comes from the hitters.”

  Corey’d nodded. “They say it’s the violence in movies.”

  A HEAVY THUD!

  Corey’d heard enough actors fall onto stages . . . that was the unmistakable sound a body makes hitting the floor.

  “My God, my god, my god . . .”

  And now comes ol’ Vince, overacting after doing so well up to now. Corey felt a finger twitch. Finally, the damn drug is wearing off.

  “Vince, please answer me, I’m scared!” The wife screeching now, calling up from a distance, probably the bottom of the stairs—must’ve gone back down after the shot, pretending fear. “Are you hurt, Vince. . . what happened?” her voice shaky.

  From the foot of the bed comes the sound of hollow metal lightly clicking against teeth . . . the gun being cocked again. Low moan . . . .

  Christ, more drama, Corey thought. A finger twitched again—felt something like a tickle at his wrist, a thickening in his throat and the sensation of wanting to swallow . . . still couldn’t see.

  Another booming roar!

  Alright with the goddamn gunshots, Corey thought, wishing he could show his disdain for the tiresome little charade he’d been forced to hear. Goddamn day players.

  —sound of yet another body crumpling to the floor . . . Corey was really sick of the whole thing by now.

  From downstairs came the sound of movement as the wife apparently crossed the tile foyer, high heels clicking, front door being opened, hinges squawking, followed by thechirping sound of a cell phone being powered up. “Police?—I want to report an intruder in my house, there’s been gunsho—”

  Her words cut off—sound of the slammed door dully reverberating throughout the house—the noise caused a full-body involuntary spasm, the movement causing Corey’s numbed head to loll to one side, vision partially clearing, but blotched with dark spots, bursting little stars before his eyes. But in that moment he could see . . .

  Oh God, that looks like real blood!—could see in a tight close-up, staring at the gaping gunshot wound in—

  It wasn’t Margo! It was his costar, Jennifer Diaz!

  “CUT!”

  Sounds of people getting to their feet, a lot of sudden noises, the familiar sounds of a movie set. “Okay, people, that’s a wrap—let’s re-light for the overhead shots. Matt, you and Jenny can take a break but leave the bloody clothes on. And Jenny, try not to screw up the wound, please.”

  Corey recognized the director’s voice. Young guy with the talent of a Spielberg—real comer. Shaven head, intense eyes. Smiled when he was pissed.

  Thank God! This isn’t real—they’re just shooting a scene!

  —a movement next to him in the bed caused his body to roll a little to his left from a sudden change in mattress support. Jennifer Diaz getting up.

  So those sounds of footsteps on the stairs, the gunshots, door slamming—had all been effects.

  —tsunami of memories flooded Corey’s mind, apparently blocked until now by the drug. . . wait a minute, what drug
? This was a movie scene—but if he wasn’t drugged, why had he forgotten about Margo’s production?

  —remembering now how Margo’d gotten the idea from them getting cheap thrills doing the break-ins and such; she’d put it into development and her staff came up with a movie treatment: about a disillusioned movie star taking small chances in order to feel alive, then everything going wrong—Adam Schaffer had penned a great screenplay, ended up with a high-concept thriller . . . and Corey remembered coming to the sound stage that morning, he and Jennifer doing the death scene on the bed . . .

  —he’d noticed Garry Howard, the ruined producer, coming onto the set at about their seventh take, lot-pass hanging from his wrinkled suit coat pocket, smirking as he huddled in the shadows behind the floor lights; dumbass must’ve thought he was hidden. During a break Corey’d taken a nap in his trailer, woke up with an itching on his arm, thought it was a spider bite.

  “Hey, superstar?” Margo said, voice coming out of darkness, the feeling of a hand on his shoulder . . . no, the pressure was just in his mind, still couldn’t feel a thing. And it was dark again—his sight had faded.

  “Matt?” Margo said, concern in her voice.

  The spider bite?—had it actually been an injection, Howard creeping into the trailer while he napped, giving him a drug to put him in a coma and ultimately kill him?

  “Something’s wrong with Matt!” Margo shrieked.

  Sounds of people rushing toward the bed. Voices urgent and scared—virtual chorus of screams, angry shouts and finally a few moans.

  He could envision Howard standing back behind a set piece—maybe the demented ex-producer had found out about them breaking into his house last summer, thought Corey was mocking him—and the guy had snapped, little loose in the brain pan anyway from all reports—and so then the inevitable plot twist would have to be ol’ Garry Howard deciding to kill the actor he blamed for ruining his career.

  The set lights had been shut down; he could hear them ticking as they cooled—cast and crew had moved off to wait for the medical services team. He sensed a deep cold spreading through his body and he knew it was the last act. Final Curtain.