Death of a Movie Star Read online

  Death of a Movie Star

  Timothy Patrick

  © 2017 Timothy Patrick

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0-9893544-4-X

  ISBN 13: 9780989354448

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017919089

  Country Scribbler Publishing

  Santa Rosa Valley, CA

  Also by Timothy Patrick:

  Tea Cups & Tiger Claws

  Dedication

  For my daughter, Alina

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Acknowledgements

  The Author

  Chapter One

  Everyone gets a free murder. It’s like a savings bond given to a newborn baby. The only catch is that it takes eighty years to mature. At that age, or anytime thereafter, you are free to commit the murder of your choice. And then, faster than you can say, “rip-roaring-rigor-mortis,” your special privileges begin accruing. At arraignment your advanced age and various medical conditions are noted. The judge looks at you, and your oxygen tank, and says something benignly humorous about your flight-risk probability. You are then released on personal recognizance. The district attorney isn’t terribly excited because convicting frail, elderly murderers doesn’t seem to impress voters as much as convicting young, menacing ones. Better for everyone if you and your crime just quietly fade away. Your numerous continuance requests, therefore, are met with less than vigorous resistance, and your trial is postponed four, five, or even six years. During this time you live peacefully in your own home, which, given an average life expectancy of seventy-eight years, is also where you will die long before the lethargic arm of justice ever comes to gather you up.

  Eighty-seven-year-old Lenora Danmore had been willing to exercise this privilege. It was true, the initial scandal might have damaged her reputation, and that of her museum, but over time, the pall of murder would have most likely fallen away and left nothing but a captivating dark passion to her life story, a touch of infamy adorning a remarkable fame, and her reputation would have recovered. But then a chubby Italian actress by the name of Brandi Bonacore came along, and Lenora realized that while a free murder is all fine and good, a perfect murder is even better.

  This was the reason Lenora had traveled the sixty miles from her ranch in the foothills above Ventura, California, to a strip-mall diner in Studio City on a blustery day in January 2020. She wore a cream-colored Ralph Lauren pinstriped skirt suit with an upturned collar and matching gloves. The booth where she sat smelled like ketchup. She touched as little as possible.

  “Sorry, lady, you gotta move. This section is…Miss Danmore? Uh…I’m sorry…uh…I didn’t know it was you. This is such a great honor…What can I get for you?”

  Lenora sized up Brandi and her bulging mustard-yellow uniform. Twenty years in Hollywood, and she had landed back at the diner like a newbie. The whole thing was just so perfect.

  “Who do you hate?” said Lenora, with an icy, intimidating smile.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Who do you hate?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What happens when you see her face on the side of a passing bus? Or you turn on the TV, and she smiles innocently and tries to sell you beauty lotion?” asked Lenora.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Brandi.

  Now she had started to squirm. Lenora continued: “There are two ways for you to make it to StarBash: scandal or drama, and scandal isn’t your strength, Brandi.”

  “Are you sure you got the right lady? I just got rejected by StarBash…for the third time.”

  “Maybe we made a mistake with that rejection.”

  “Really?”

  “I said maybe. It all boils down to scandal and drama.”

  “Are you kidding me! I got drama comin’ out my ass!” said Brandi.

  “Yes, I believe you do. Now tell me, when God is far away, and your mind wanders in the darkness, whose dead body do you see?”

  “I see Cass Moreaux.”

  ***

  Cass Moreaux waited impatiently for her agent to plod across the soundstage. The guy moved like a tranquilized sloth. She’d had better reps but none as devoted, so she kept him around. When he finally got over to her, she said, “Well?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Cass. The deal fell through. They won’t do it.”

  “Good try, Freddie. I just got off the phone with Lenora Danmore. Besides, they take every drama queen who crawls out of rehab. And, by the way, you’re not a very good actor,” said Cass.

  “Please, Cass. Just help me to understand. That’s all I’m asking. There is no upside to this job. There is an immediate hit to your reputation and a high probability of complete disaster.”

  “Yeah, that pretty much sounds like StarBash,” said Cass.

  “And you know they own you, twenty-four hours a day for four months straight?”

  “Yes,” said Cass.

  “And that’s all you have to say?” He looked like a bully had just stolen his Popsicle.

  “Uh…not exactly…I promised them some scandal.”

  “What?”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m a movie star. I specialize in that shit.”

  He didn’t laugh.

  “Come on, Freddie, it’ll be fun. You can even help.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You get to pick the scandal. Let’s see…what’s popular these days? OK, got it. Here are the options: casting-couch confessions, shoplifting at Nordstrom, mugshot from hell, or big-ass meltdown. Which one do you like?”

  “None.”

  “Freddie. I’m going on that show. I don’t expect you to like it—in fact, it means you’re a pretty decent guy—but I’m going to do it. Now get your phone ready because you’re about to record the biggest meltdown since Chernobyl.”

  ***

  Micah Bailey, a forty-three-year-old manager, producer, and newfangled game-show host, let his mind wander during yet another production meeting. He wondered what his life might have looked like if he had just walked away after getting fired for the very first time all those years ago. Would he be happy? Would he have been a good husband? Or would he be the same old dummy who had wasted his life trying to tame a ghost named Lenora?

  And if one ghost isn’t bad enough, why not open the door and welcome in another one? This ghost also had strong claws and a mean streak. Her name was StarBash, and like the other one, she had pounded stakes into Micah’s life and showed no signs of ever leaving.

  ***

  When the story broke, Hollywood had a big collective nervous breakdown. And Brandi Bonacore, who’d just turned in two weeks’ notice at the diner, sat back and enjoyed the show. Cass Moreaux, the great Casmo, the big-time A-lister, had signed on for StarBash season four and, judging by the hand-wringing, it amounted to the worst kind of cataclysm…like Whole Foods running out of tofu. With a Budweiser in one hand, a mouse in the other, Brandi devoured blogs and websites like a caffeinated teenager. She especially liked the poison barbs in the comments sections: “That selfish bitch! This stunt will set honest actors back ten years!”; “If you need money, Cass, just drive to Porn Valley and shoot a few
scenes with the polo team! At least you’d have some dignity left!”; “Slumming? This isn’t slumming! Slumming looks like William Freakin’ Shakespeare compared to this!”

  Cass got an online ass-kicking for two weeks straight. Brandi slipped by mostly unscathed; the PC police had already knocked her out of the game, so nobody really cared if she crossed the line. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain—like a big movie deal. Not that she had any illusions about why Lenora Danmore had paid her the mysterious visit: StarBash needed someone to hurl shit at Cass Moreaux, and because of their past history, Brandi had gotten the job. No problem there. She’d let it fly. And she’d enjoy it. But when Brandi went to bed that night, she didn’t only dream about destroying Cass Moreaux. She also dreamed about winning it all and finally getting her life back.

  Chapter two

  Micah stood on his spot two hundred feet in the air and held on to the weapon that hung across his chest. He almost liked the first show of the season because it had a live audience and gave him a chance to do some minor stunt work. The last show of the season ranked up there with the first because that’s when everyone went home. In between it was just a job. And since they filmed on Lenora Danmore’s estate, where he lived, sometimes it felt like a twenty-four-hour-a-day job.

  He could have easily shut down StarBash after the first or second season. He owned the rights to the show—a condition he demanded before going into business with Lenora’s production company—but now the thing had become a ratings monster dragging a slew of stakeholders along for a big fat money ride. It had become too big to kill. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. No sense dwelling on these things now. Season four had been bought and paid for—no exchanges, no returns.

  His earpiece crackled, and the director said, “Is Micah secured and ready?

  “Secured and ready,” said the stunt coordinator, who stood out of view just behind Micah.

  The director continued, “OK, everyone, it’s Wonka day. Take your places, stay on your game, and quiet on the set.”

  They called it Wonka day because on the first show of the season, they always had him make a big entrance like the guy in the movie.

  The director and crew went through their routine:

  “Sound?”

  “Set.”

  “Cameras?”

  “One set.”

  “Two set.”

  “Three set.”

  “Four set”

  “Roll sound, roll cameras. Intro and light cue number one in five, four, three, two, go!”

  Two massive searchlights penetrated the night and danced back and forth across the sky. The show’s theme song enveloped the outdoor audience, five-thousand strong, and they eagerly clapped in time. “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a man’s voice from the mammoth speakers, “in 2017 we gave you Grand Central Station!” Applause. “In 2018 we gave you the RMS Titanic!” Loud applause. “Last year we gave you Alcatraz!” Louder applause. “And now, StarBash 2020, the highest-rated show in television history, is proud to present New York City’s Plaza Hotel!” Mega kilowatts of lighting exploded onto the set and a giant curtain, four hundred feet by three hundred feet, fell dramatically to the ground to reveal what looked like an exact replica of the famed hotel. The theme song swelled majestically, and the audience erupted into applause.

  Two powerful spotlights assaulted Micah’s eyes. That was his cue. He stepped from the hotel’s twentieth-floor fire escape onto a platform, pointed the flamethrower upward, and unleashed a geyser of fire into the night sky. The audience below roared.

  A second later the audience got introduced to the first contestant by way of a videotaped bio projected from one of the hotel windows just a story below where Micah stood. The bio lasted twenty seconds and, as was normal for StarBash, the thirtysomething actress came across as a superficial dummy. Right before the video ended, Micah’s specially rigged platform shot down to the window. He fired the flamethrower at the projected image. The actress sizzled, and the audience heard a loud, shrieking witch wail, like the one from The Wizard of Oz. Micah heard the audience laughter all the way up to the nineteenth floor.

  The next videotaped bio began playing from a window on the next level down. This was contestant number two, a man who had always played the wholesome all-American type. Now the video showed him snorting cocaine a few decades past his heyday. He looked pudgy and decidedly unwholesome. After the video, just like before, Micah zoomed down, aimed the flamethrower, and sent the actor to hades. Another round of witch wail and laughter followed.

  This is how the world met the actors on StarBash 2020: head shots that showed plastic surgery run amok; film clips of bad acting; viral videos of kinky sex, pathetic misdemeanors, desperate felonies, snobbery, tweets, retracted tweets, drugs, apologies, rehab, more drugs, more apologies, more rehab, and drunken escapades of every color. StarBash had a winning formula, and the world ate it up. And nobody knew how to serve it better than Micah Bailey.

  “And now,” boomed the announcer, “put your hands together to welcome your StarBash host, the Tinseltown terminator himself, Micah Bailey!”

  Micah and his magic platform rocketed down to the stage like a George Jetson spaceship. It made a perfect two-point landing in front of the hotel. Micah dropped the flamethrower, thrust his fists into the air, and said, “Wow!”

  The audience yelled, “Wow!”

  “I said wow!” repeated Micah.

  “I said wow!” exclaimed the audience.

  Micah stepped off the platform and onto a strip of red tape that marked his spot. The platform disappeared back into the darkness and a lectern magically zoomed in from stage right and stopped right in front of him. Traditional comedy/tragedy masks adorned the lectern except the comedy figure had a bong attached to its mouth and tragedy wore a head scarf with a Gucci label. A large platform containing the actors, seated in two rows, briskly entered from stage left. They pretended to be relaxed. From behind his lectern, Micah faced the audience. The actors, some twenty feet from Micah, also faced the audience but at more of an angle.

  Micah held up his hands and said, “It is now time to open these proceedings,” the audience quieted. Micah continued, “I will ask you all to rise and for the gentlemen to remove your hats.”

  Everyone stood. The lights dimmed. The orchestra and choir added some religious flavor. Two spotlights, aimed at the sky, captured a black-and-white-marble pedestal as it slowly descended from the heavens. A shiny silver towel rack rested on the pedestal. A small purple towel, neatly folded, rested across the arm of the towel rack. The Greasy Dishrag had arrived.

  “StarBash 2020 has now officially begun!” exclaimed Micah.

  The people in the audience responded like dyed-in-the-wool worshipers. Then everyone sat back down, and Micah continued his shtick, “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to StarBash 2020, and welcome to the Plaza Hotel, New York, New York. You’ve gotten a close-up look at the hotel, and you’ve met our contestants. That means it’s time to get down to business. Actors!” He yelled the word, and a few of them jumped in their seats. “On June 4, in exactly seventeen weeks, one of you is going to walk away with the Greasy Dishrag and a ten-million-dollar movie deal. To win that incredible prize, one of you is going to prove to the world that you are more than just an actor. You are going to prove that you are human. As in past seasons, you will start out at the top of society, where it’s easy to fake your way through. And then, round by round, you will work your way down until you have been demoted to the very bottom, where only real people survive. Tonight you will dine in a luxurious penthouse. Four months from now, one of you will be scrubbing dishes in the kitchen. And that person will be the winner of the Greasy Dishrag!” The audience cheered, and the actors put on serious game faces, some more successfully than others.

  Micah made eye contact with Cassandra Moreaux. If looks meant anything, she wanted to kill him. He winked at her. She mouthed an obscenity.

 
; “Now,” continued Micah, his voice quieter, “that’s the good news. The bad news is there are fifteen of you and only ten will be checking in. That means”—his voice got louder—“it’s time to play…paparazzi ping-pong!” The audience cheered as a giant game board descended stage right of Micah, angled so the actors could see it. A beautiful assistant named Tiffany Talador stood next to the board. Tiffany pointed at things. And since she belonged to the International Sisterhood of Pointers, Presenters, and Magicians’ Assistants, one of Hollywood’s most powerful unions, she got paid very well to do it. Micah gestured toward the board and said, “Here are your categories: ‘Nanny Fanny,’ ‘Mother of All Tantrums,’ ‘Moving to Canada,’ ‘Do You Know Who I Am,’ ‘Mugshot Masterpiece,’ ‘Make Them Bigger,’ and that good old standby, ‘Addicted to Rehab.’” As Micah read the categories, Tiffany posed picturesquely and pointed at each one. “The game is simple,” continued Micah, “you choose a category and name one of your fellow contestants who belongs in that category based upon recent paparazzi articles. If you choose correctly, your fellow actor is fired. If you choose incorrectly, you are fired. Now let’s begin.”

  A shiny glass ping-pong-ball hopper shot up from under the stage. The balls bounced like popcorn in a popper. Micah pushed a button, and one of the balls released into a chute at the top. Micah took the ball and read the name, “Rye Steadly!” The audience clapped, and one of the actors pumped his fist, showcasing his impressive biceps in the process. Micah looked at the actor and said, “Rye, you seem happy. Why is that?”

  The neatly coiffed forty-year-old flashed a smile that needed to be dimmed by half a megawatt and said, “I’m super stoked, Micah, ’cause let’s just say the fruit is hanging low on this puppy. If I don’t hit my head on it, I should be fine.” The audience clapped on cue.

  “OK, Rye,” said Micah. “I guess we know what that means. Please choose your category.”