Earth Angel (41 page)

ACT ONE

SCENE A

INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE CLASSROOMS—NIGHT

JERRY IS IMPATIENT, PACING, CHECKING HIS WATCH COMPULSIVELY. HE IS DISTRACTED ONLY BY THE ATTRACTIVE COEDS WHO OCCASIONALLY
PASS HIM ON THEIR WAY TO CLASSES.

FINALLY, GEORGE RUNS UP.

JERRY

Where have you been? I don’t want to be late.

GEORGE

How can you be late? You’re the guest speaker. That’s the beauty of this arrangement: they’re the students and have to sit
in those tight uncomfortable chairs. And you, you’re the guest speaker. They can’t do anything until you show up. And when
you do show up, they’re just grateful not to have to listen to the teacher anymore. It’s a win-win situation.

I skimmed a few pages. Apparently, Jerry was a guest speaker at an adult education class on stand-up comedy a friend of his
was teaching.

THEY WALK DOWN THE HALL A FEW FEET TO A MAP OF THE CAMPUS. IT’S A CONFUSING MONTAGE OF COLORED BOXES. JERRY AND GEORGE STUDY
IT.

JERRY

I think we want to go down this hall and turn right at the restroom.

GEORGE

No, that would take us past the science lab. I don’t want to go near the science lab.

JERRY

Oh, right. Because of the time Gena Finklestein poured acid on your notebook when you asked her out during Chem class?

GEORGE

That wasn’t acid. It was acidic, but not acid.

JERRY

It burned you. You had bandages as thick as mittens on your hands.

GEORGE

Just a couple of layers of skin on my fingertips. Nothing serious. Not like the stuff they throw in the faces of mob stoolies
and union organizers. Besides, that’s not why I stay away from chemistry labs. It’s because of what happened to Lex Luthor.

JERRY

What’s with Lex Luthor again? You’re obsessed with Lex Luthor, ever since junior high school.

GEORGE

I’m not obsessed. I just think it’s strange that Superboy sees a chemical fire and immediately blows on it, knowing his best
friend is still inside.

JERRY

He wanted to put the fire out.

GEORGE

But the combination of chemicals weakens Lex’s hair follicles so that Superboy blows off all of his friend’s hair too. Leaving
him completely bald at seventeen. And this is back in the 1930s. Did you see the kind of hairpieces they had back then? Everyone
looked like Stalin.

JERRY

It was an accident.

GEORGE

That’s what Superboy claimed. But he’s supposed to be supersmart. He could have analyzed the chemicals in a fraction of a
second with his X ray vision and known what the results of his blowing would be. Why didn’t he just fly through the building
and snatch Lex out? Think about it.

JERRY

So you think Lex Luthor was right. Superboy was jealous of Lex’s scientific genius and, consciously or subconsciously, made
him bald on purpose.

GEORGE

Either that or Superboy did not have super intelligence. You figure it out.

JERRY

You make a convincing case.

GEORGE

It’s one of Action Comics’ biggest shames.

JERRY

(POINTING) I think we go that way.

GEORGE

I think we go left at the water fountain. That’s what I’d do.

JERRY

You know the problem with college campuses is that there’s no point of reference. No principal’s office. At least with a principal’s
office you had a point of reference. Everybody knows to stay clear of that part of the school because, whether you’re aware
of it or not, you’re probably doing something wrong. Something only a trained principal would notice. It’s like working in
a nuclear reactor plant: you know where the core is. You get too close to that core and all your body parts start shrinking.
(GIVES GEORGE’S BODY A LOOK) Well, you were sent to the principal a lot.

THEY START WALKING. COEDS PASS BY, GEORGE LOOKS WITH LONGING.

JERRY

You know what else I like about college. No one here can
threaten to call your mother. No matter what you do, they can’t call your mother on you. (TO PEOPLE PASSING BY) Go ahead,
call my mother. She’s home right now. Her number’s 555-6593. Catch her up on what I’ve been doing. I stayed up late every
night this week. Almost put my eye out twice last week.

GEORGE STARES LUSTFULLY AS ANOTHER PRETTY WOMAN WALKS BY.

GEORGE

Jerry, I Just had a flash of insight. An epiphany. It hit me like lightning. I swear, I have goosebumps. Here, feel.

JERRY

I’d rather not. Goosebumps are a private experience. Between a man and his goose.

GEORGE

I’m serious, Jerry. I suddenly know what’s wrong with my life.

JERRY

Really? Just like that?

GEORGE

(STARES AT JERRY WITH SERIOUS LOOK) I’m not getting my share.

JERRY

Your what?

GEORGE

My share! I’m not getting my share. I finally have to accept it. Learn to live with it and move on.

JERRY

What are you talking about here? Your share of what? Did you hold up a liquor store and your partners are keeping the loot?
What share?

GEORGE

Women, Jerry. My share of women. Every man has a certain share of women he’s allotted to sleep with during his lifetime. That’s
his share.

JERRY

Ohhhh. So you’re not getting your share of women.

GEORGE

Exactly! What can I do? Some people get their share early in life, others spread it over their entire lifetime.

JERRY

Like Warren Beatty.

GEORGE

Forget Warren Beatty. He’s had more than his share.

JERRY

Well, if you’re not getting your share, somebody’s got to be getting more than his share. That’s the culprit right there.
Warren Beatty. He stole your share.

GEORGE

Go ahead, make fun. You can afford to. You’re getting your share.

JERRY

Well, I’d give you some of my share if I could. I mean, I’d gladly share my share, but then I wouldn’t be getting my share
then and the whole ugly cycle would start again. Whose share would I get?

KRAMER RUNS UP, DISHEVELED. HE’S CARRYING A WOMAN’S HAT BOX.

I closed the script and returned them all to the drawer. This was too weird. I had actually smiled, even laughed, while reading
his script. It couldn’t have been written by the same man who had molested and tortured those children, who planned to murder
me. Maybe he was some kind of frustrated writer who’d been rejected too many times. He felt helpless, so he had to make others
helpless, exert some power. Nothing else made sense. He was intelligent, witty, good-looking, with obvious charm. Not unlike
Tim. If I’d met Carson Ford at a cocktail party, would I have gone on a date with him? Slept with him?

The other drawers offered only more writings—plays, movie scripts, operas, symphonies. Nothing I could practically use to
survive. One book was a sketchpad filled with drawings, magnificent works of the barest number of lines, but suggesting flesh
tones, bone structure, even the pulsing organs within. I recognized the faces in each sketch: the girls he had kidnapped in
Santa Barbara. Lt. Trump had shown me photos of each. The seven-year-old, smiling as she took a bottle of Pepsi with a straw
in it from a hand reaching into the frame. The ten-year-old sitting on that hardwood chair in rapt attention, holding a Beast
doll from
Beauty and the Beast
, while we see a hand holding a Dr. Seuss book, apparently the hand’s owner reading to her. Each drawing had that disembodied
hand offering something, giving something. And in each drawing the girl was happy, smiling, giddy. There were no drawings
of them naked or in distress.

I closed the drawers and hunted through the rest of the room again. I tried to dismantle the metal shelving, hoping I might
get a metal rod to use as a club. But they wouldn’t budge. The only thing I found was a small red can of ant poison that had
been hidden in the corner under the bottom shelf. I pulled it out. Little holes were poked into the sides so the ants could
walk in and eat the poison, which was arsenic.

I looked over at the glass of iced tea on the desk.

One gram of arsenic would be enough. It was odorless and tasteless, though that might not be the case in the ant paste inside
the can. But if Carson Ford took it, within four hours he would be writhing on the floor, deathly ill with stomach cramps
and diarrhea, vomiting his heart out. It would take one to three days for death from circulatory collapse. And a horrible,
agonizing death it would be.

I ran back to the desk, removed one of the three gold roundhead fasteners that were inserted through the holes in the script
to clasp them together, flattened it, and used
the end to scoop out little bits of ant paste. I stirred it into the iced tea, trying not to rattle the ice cubes too loudly.
I replaced the ant can, the fastener to the script, the script to the drawer, and myself to the hardwood chair in the middle
of the room.

After a few minutes I began to have second thoughts. I had never killed anyone. I’d had patients die on me, but I’d never
tried to harm anyone. That just came naturally lately. Now, after all that inadvertent injury I’d caused, I was actually trying
to kill a man. I’d left my home to make lives better, people happier, now I had become an executioner. I tried not to think
about his music or his scripts or his looks. In my college ethics class, the professor had asked us to answer this question:
A man who had cold-bloodedly murdered and mutilated a dozen people is on death row waiting to die. What if this man discovers
a cure for cancer and demands to be released and given a million dollars and safe passage to anywhere he chooses in exchange
for the formula. Do you agree?

I couldn’t remember what I’d said then. I couldn’t decide what I’d say now. I rapped the back of my wounded hand against the
side of the chair and let the pain sizzle into my brain and burn away any doubts.

The door opened, and Carson Ford entered with a TV tray full of food. He set the tray down, locked the door, and carried the
tray over to me. He handed me a white linen napkin. “What, you didn’t fashion a weapon out of the lamp or something? Use the
electrical cord to electrify the door handle?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I like a challenge, and you did so well with my notes.”

“Those notes weren’t exactly
New York Times
crosswords. Apparently several people cracked them.”

“Only after you led the way. Don’t be so modest, Season. You did a hell of a job, the first to figure me out. Those clues
were so general, I could have been referring to a
dozen places. It takes a certain mind to be so devious. By Jove, you’ve got it.”

“How did you know where to find me?” It seems I was asking everybody that question lately. Every time I think I’m safely hidden,
someone finds me. “Were you following me?”

“Why would I do that? I knew you’d come to me. I gave you the clues, I figured you’d come up with a list of locations and
check them out. I just had to wait at one of them for you to show up. I picked that one because I got to kill time watching
the softball game while waiting. I hope I didn’t make it too easy for you.” He gestured at the food on the TV tray. “You like
swordfish? I charbroiled this one to flaky perfection, enhancing the flavor by placing it in the salamander for exactly sixty-three
seconds and then glazing it with sweet lemon-parsley butter. Plus, fresh asparagus and sourdough bread. Not bad for the crappy
kitchen in this place. Of course, you’ll have to get by with a plastic spoon—don’t want to tempt you with a fork—but the swordfish
will fall apart like butter.”

“So you’re a gourmet cook as well?”

“As well as what?”

“I took a look through your work.” I nodded toward the desk.

He ignored my question. “Eat, Season. Every second it cools diminishes the taste.”

“Aren’t you eating?” I wanted to subtly remind him of his iced tea.

“Nope. I ate while I was preparing yours. I microwaved a couple of corn dogs and one of those frozen twice-baked potatoes.
You know, with the chives and garlic? I love that stuff.” He frowned at my tray. “Oh, shit, I forgot the wine. You should
have
fumé blanc
with this. I must have left it on the counter.” He looked over at the door. “You still thirsty?”

I wanted him to leave, give me more time to think. “Yes, I could use a drink.”

He started toward the door, then abruptly stopped, looked at his watch. “Hmmm. We really should be getting on with this. I’ve
got kind of a timetable.” He walked over to the desk, grabbed the iced tea and held it out to me. “I only had a sip. It’s
still cold.”

“Doesn’t the condemned prisoner get a glass of wine?”

“So you think I’m going to kill you, huh?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course. In due time.” He pushed the iced tea closer to my face. “Last chance. It’s going to be a dry night for you otherwise.”

I shook my head. “Iced tea gives me gas.”

He laughed. “Okay then.” He drank half the glass, smacked his lips. He set the glass back on the desk. “I’m surprised you
haven’t given me The Lecture yet.”

“Which lecture?”

“The one about my wicked, wicked ways.”

“My Wicked, Wicked Ways
. The title of Errol Flynn’s autobiography.”

He applauded. “Very good. Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t. But it was made into a shitty little TV movie written by his own goddaughter.”

“Doris Keating.”

He smiled. “Yup. You are good. I bet you really wow them in Trivial Pursuit.”

“No one plays that anymore, it’s such an eighties thing. Besides, I don’t like games.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t like that you like them.”

I didn’t respond. Apparently every man I met lately thought he knew me better than I knew myself.

“You’re not eating,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. That’s too creepy, even for me.” He laughed. When he laughed
it wasn’t a demented cackle as I’d expected, but a friendly jovial laugh that made you want to laugh along. I had a feeling
he was the hit at every dinner party
he was invited to. He probably had a hundred amusing anecdotes to keep the guests amused.