Horror Show (12 page)

God in heaven, the devil in hell, these were concepts that everyone agreed upon. Albert Beaumond sought to prove the one by proving the other.

He dimmed the lights and lit a bank of colored candles. Their faces began to glow. Devila's black eye shadow and pale makeup stood out dramatically in the half-light. Shadows danced on the wall behind her, casting strange messages.

She batted her eyes, letting the elongated lashes dip and flutter seductively.

Her yearning for him increased. Albert gazed at her as if she were naked, sending bolts of excitement through her chest. The chemical reaction between the two of them seemed to detonate as soon as he lit the candles. The uneven light heightened their desire.

The chamber closed in around them.

Something brushed against her leg and she jumped. A large black cat jumped onto the altar.

“Oh, that's Mephistopheles. He's a big nuisance, but harmless.”

From a secret hiding place behind the altar, he retrieved the tuning forks. It was little more than a converted liquor cabinet with a wooden door set in the wall. He held them out to her, and she wanted to take him right then and there.

He smiled. The forks glinted and glowed, pulsing with invisible power; he gave them to her, and she took them hesitantly.

“They don't look like any big deal,” she said. “These can open the gates to hell?” Her voice, husky and low, filled the mysterious chamber like smoke.

“Yes,” he whispered, “they can.”

Devila handed them back to Albert, who took them reverently. He walked across the room to the front of the altar and hung them on a wooden hook in such a way that they would be able to resonate freely. Devila's eyes sparkled with anticipation.
What would this man show her? Was he serious about opening the gates of hell, and if so, shouldn't she be afraid
?

Somehow she felt safe, as if Albert's dominating presence would protect her no matter what happened. Besides,
he
was not afraid. He acted as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He made sure the tuning forks were hanging in precisely the way he wanted, then he turned to her and spoke. His face was electric.

“This is not magic, black or otherwise. It is not any sort of occult hocus-pocus. It is the actual manifestation of a demon, a demon man has called many names—the devil, Lucifer, Mephistopheles, Belial, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Apollyon, and of course, Satan. Since time immemorial, men have called to him, to conjure him to do their bidding, to gain his power. But now, I, Albert Beaumond, have discovered the ancient secret. The absolute truth!”

Devila swallowed, her heart pounding. The low-cut black dress she wore rose and fell with her breathing. She looked from his eyes to the tuning forks, men back again. Taking a striker made from the leg of a hoofed animal, he paused, and let the crushing strangeness wash his feverish brow.

He spoke again, his voice hypnotic. It compelled her, and she became further aroused. The very evil of the room itself, of Albert's claims, of the tuning forks, brought her pitch higher. She felt a dampness come over her, her ears tingled, she felt lightheaded.

“I want to show you something incredible, something that no modern, civilized human being besides myself has ever seen. Something so fantastic that you will not believe your eyes. Something that will make you understand that the universe is
nothing
like you thought it was.”

He waited for her response. All she could muster was a hoarse, “Okay.”

“But first,” he continued, “you must swear that what you are about to see will never be repeated to anyone, at any time, for any reason.”

Devila smiled wolfishly, beads of moisture glistening on her upper lip, just above the smear of her wine-dark lipstick. “For any reason?”

Albert nodded. “Yes, darling, there are those who would pay you for your eyewitness account, and I will not stand for that. So, if you plan to go to the newspapers with this, I'll refuse the demonstration and take you home.”

She looked at him as though he were crazy.

“Jesus, you're serious, aren't you?”

Now it was Albert's turn to smile. He looked at her in a superior way and gave a quick nod of the head.

“All right, show me!”

The aftermath of Landis
Woodley's party was a horror show. Most people had left by 5:00
A
.
M
., and the cleanup had begun. It was a scene of utter desolation in the living room. Empty bottles, cigarette butts, confetti, vomit, discarded bits of costume, broken glass, and someone's pants were all scattered about the floor. The rug had been destroyed, one artistic guest had drawn pictures on the walls, and in the kitchen a candle had burned down and started a small fire that burned the back door.

All in all, a success, thought Landis. Damage was within acceptable limits and the cops had not showed up.

The corps elite gathered downstairs in the screening room for some after-hours libations. Neil Bugmier and Deborah DeLux made a pot of coffee and Landis sipped his cup thoughtfully, still savoring the guillotine illusion. The fake neck was uncomfortable to wear, and he'd only had to use the detachable head for a few seconds, but it was worth it. Tomorrow it would be the talk of Hollywood.

The Great Romano, a washed-up magician and carnival sleight of hand artist, stood up and raised his glass of champagne. He wore his usual costume of threadbare white tie and tails, the same one he'd been wearing since vaudeville.

Other people, sporting a plethora of beverages from coffee to bourbon to soda water, followed suit. Romano's bombastic, irritating voice rose to a crescendo as he waved his arm around the room.

“Dear friends,” he started, “I implore you. A toast!”

The glasses, mugs, and bottles went up. Of the eight people in the room, all of them participated.

“A toast! Are you with me?”

Everyone considered Phil “The Great” Romano to be full of hot air except Landis, who seemed to have a soft spot for the old carny. He was old-time showbiz, a living piece of vaudeville.

“I am usually known for my predictions, prognostications, and prophecies, and as you know, my success rate is 87 percent …”

“Eighty-seven percent wrong!” shouted a drunk Buzzy Haller. Everybody laughed except Romano.

“Eighty-seven percent right!” corrected the silver-haired huckster.

“Why don't you guess his weight?” someone joked. There was more laughter.

Romano cleared his throat. “As I was saying, tonight I make my boldest prognostication! Based on a thorough astrological investigation, and in conjunction with the reading I got from my always-reliable Tarot cards, I predict success for Landis Woodley's next picture!”

There was polite applause. Landis smiled.

Romano continued, “To the man who lost his head tonight, I give you Landis Woodley!” He raised his glass high. “A toast!”

“Hear, hear!” they all shouted.

Landis stood and tipped his coffee mug. “Thank you! And here's to all of you who make it possible!”

Buzzy Haller stumbled to his feet. His speech, slurred by the alcohol, was almost incomprehensible. He was a bad drunk, given to violent antisocial behavior at his worst. Landis knew that tonight, for some reason, Buzzy was out of control.

“Jess a minit! Jess a goddamn minit!” He lurched from side to side, reeling into Neil Bugmier, who caught and steadied him.

“Take it easy, Buzz,” Neil said gently.

“Get your fuggin' hands offa me, you faggot!” Buzzy shouted.

“Buzzy—” Landis began to say.

“Shaddup! Alla you, shaddup! Lissen to me, you buncha fuggin' losers! I got sumpin' to say.”

The room quieted. Buzzy swayed from left to right, front to back, his eyes crossed and his mouth drooling. Landis considered stopping Buzzy, but decided to just let his friend do whatever he was going to do, and then pack him off to bed, by force, if necessary.

“Thish ain't the movie business, thish is the bullshit business! We ain't making movies. Nobody could make movies on the budgets we got! It's bullshit!, you hear me? Bullshit!” the last word he screamed at the top of his lungs.

“I'm sick of it! The fuggin' scripts thish fruitcake writes are crap! The acting is crap! The direction is crap! The distribution is crap! The reviews are crap! It's all crap! It's a big, fat fuggin' piece of crap!”

No one said a word. The faces all looked away. Buzzy continued, bellowing at the walls, throwing his head back and howling like a mad dog.

“Remember the flyin' saushers ending in
Haunted Sausher
? I threw a fuggin' paper plate at the camera, fer Christ sake! A burning paper plate! Izzat filmmakin'? Huh? The poor muthafuggers in the seats paid to see that! Can you believe that shit? They paid to see a couple of burning paper plates! Shit, they coulda done it themselves at home!”

Landis stood. He leveled his gaze at Buzzy. Buzzy stopped talking and leered at his best friend.

“They didn't pay to see burning paper plates, Buzz. They paid to see a lot more than that. They paid to see the illusion of flying saucers being destroyed by the heat rays of a hopeful, dying planet. They paid to see Tad Kingston shoot down the aliens, whether they were paper plates or twenty-thousand-dollar special effects. They paid to see the
magic
. They want to believe, Buzzy, they want to dream. And that's what we sell 'em … we sell 'em nightmares. We sell 'em illusions. And you ought to be pretty damn proud of what we do, 'cause only a few people in the whole world can do it.”

Buzzy looked at Landis with one eye closed. Neil caught him as he slumped backward and laid him on the rug, careful not to bang his head.

Hoyt Lovejoy stepped forward. A swashbuckling actor from the early days of talkies, Hoyt was a proud, vain, macho leading man gone slightly to seed. He'd appeared in two Woodley productions. He looked at Buzzy, passed-out wasted on the floor, and sneered, “Who says my acting is crap? Get up, you little shit. Get up or I'll crack your fuckin' cranium!”

Buzzy opened one eye and said, “Chuck you, Farley.”

Hoyt reached down and hefted Buzzy up by the front of his shirt. Hoyt held Buzzy in a standing position for a moment, cocked his fist, and punched Buzzy in the face. Buzzy flew back into Neil Bugmier's arms like a rag doll.

Hoyt leaned over him and shouted, “Had enough? Ya little turd! Don't you ever call me a crappy actor again, ya hear?”

Buzzy was out cold this time.

8

Landis Woodley carried Buzzy Haller upstairs and laid him out on the couch. He needed Neil's help to do it. In a few moments, Buzzy was noisily sleeping it off. Landis returned to the basement screening room, with Neil a step behind him.

“How can you put up with that guy?” Neil asked.

“Buzzy's all right. He just has this massive Hollywood paranoia, you know? He thinks the whole world's out to get him.”

Neil grunted. “Well, it is. As long as he keeps acting like that.”

Landis paused on the basement stairs and said, “I know that Buzzy's a little nuts, but damn it, the guy's my friend. He's loyal, and he's brilliant. You know that ending for
Saucer
he mentioned? The one with the paper plates?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, that was pure Buzzy. I don't know why he's so ashamed of it. All he did was work with what he had, which was zip. The fuckin' guy makes something out of nothing, and he's actin' like it's the end of the world.”

Neil looked sad. “Paper plates and gasoline?”

“Yeah, and the gas came from
my
car, so actually, all he had was the plates. So, he created an ending, saved the movie, and saved my ass. The investors were going to pull out the next morning, and I'd have been ruined. I guess I owe him, you know? If he has a problem, then I'll try to help. It's only fair.”

“But he's hates that scene,” Neil said. “You heard what he said.”

“He didn't mean it. That scene typifies what we do—we make something out of nothing. Art from paper plates, from garbage. Look, nobody's proud of that ending, but, shit, we pulled it off. There's something to be said for that.”

Neil shook his head. “You're too sentimental. The guy's an asshole.”

They descended the stairs.

On the way down they ran into Jonathon Luboff sitting on the bottom step, slumped over. He, too, appeared to be in bad shape.

“Oh shit, what next?” Neil asked nobody. “It's a goddamn sanitarium around here!”

At some point during the evening, Luboff had scored and shot some more smack. Now he was stretched out on the stairs, nodding out and drooling.

“Jonathon?” Landis asked, “Are you all right?”

Jonathon looked up, his pupils pinned.

“Jonathon?”

He stared into Landis's face, his haunted eyes boring worm holes. Landis felt a chill. No one on earth could be a bigger Jonathon Luboff fan than he, and he was thrilled to have the opportunity to work with the veteran film great. Yet, Landis knew that this was the end of the road for Luboff.

Once, Landis had succeeded in getting Luboff checked into a drug rehabilitation clinic. They kept him there for over two months, while the old man fought a legion of tenacious and powerful personal demons.

Landis did what he could. But Luboff did the suffering.

Sometimes it seemed like the old fucker didn't want to be saved.

In Landis's petition to the Screen Actors Guild for financial and medical assistance for the aging actor, he'd pointed out that Luboff had once been a major star, a proven box office winner who generated millions of dollars. They acknowledged that when they turned him down.

Hollywood traditionally turned its back on has-beens, casting them out like old shoes. Like shoes, faded stars washed up somewhere, no longer worth the money it cost to repair them.

Luboff had been all that and more—a classic crash and burn story with a bitter twist.