Horror Show (27 page)

“Nobody will ever know,” Landis repeated.

“I'll know,” Neil answered. The words hung in the air.

Landis turned to Neil. “Look, anybody who doesn't want to do this can leave now. We'll make it without him. I just thought that I could count on you guys,” he said softly.

Jonathon came forward and approached the corpse. He peeked under the sheet and looked at Landis. “This is genius!” he said dramatically.

Buzzy smiled. “We have a winner!”

“Yes,” Luboff continued, looking at the others. “It's genius, I say! This corpse is horrible, the worst thing I've ever seen. If you have it in the movie, it will scare everyone! Isn't that what a horror movie is supposed to do? Here we have a chance to do something brilliant, something truly grotesque, because of this man's vision.” He pointed at Landis. “And you doubt him?”

Luboff pulled the sheet away suddenly, dramatically, like a matador, revealing the dead man in all his hideous glory.

“Look upon him! Look upon the face of death!” There were gasps. “He is magnificent! Let our young filmmaker create a masterpiece of horror, let him use the elements at his disposal, let him transcend this art form and make a statement that will live”—he paused and took a breath—“forever.”

Luboff had spoken. The endorsement had come from such a strange quarter that it had taken them all off guard. If any one of them had the credibility to speak about art, it was Luboff. His speech was persuasive. It galvanized their feelings and directed their thinking away from the petty problems of impropriety and into the larger picture of art and substance.

Landis looked at their faces. He could see them all beginning to change their minds. Buzzy was lighting another cigarette and stealing a glance at Landis. Through the smoke he could see the faint outline of a smile.

“All right,” Chet said. “I'll do it.”

“Good,” Luboff said, and stood by him. “Who else
is a man
?”

“I'm in,” said Beatnik Fred. He had his own reasons to participate in history. He was a seeker of sensations, of experiences. This was, by far, the most bizarre, unorthodox thing he had ever heard of, and he wanted to be a part of it.

“Me too,” chimed assistant cameraman Bob and Phil the gofer. They were following Fred's lead.

“Think about what you're doing,” whined Neil. “It's sick!”

Jonathon raised his hand. “Galileo was a heretic, Van Gogh was mad. It's nothing new—we have to rise above such things.”

“What about this poor man's family?” Neil pleaded.

“What family?” Buzzy pointed out, “He's a John Doe, a no-name. I'd say he was probably a drifter. Chances are he had no home. This could be his greatest triumph. Are you gonna deny this poor son of a bitch his big chance to star in a movie after he's dead? If you ask me, it's an honor.”

Landis looked at Tad. “Tad, you're an important part of this. I want you to say yes. I've done a lot for you, made you a star, developed your career, I think you owe it to me to do this one favor. I've never asked you to do anything else, have I?”

Tad was about to say that he made him take Lana Wills to the Halloween party instead of his girlfriend, Becky Sears, but he held his tongue. It was not the time. Landis was right. He'd done so much for Tad. Tad basically owed him his career. Tad nodded and stepped forward, taking his place next to Beatnik Fred and Chet.

“I don't want to,” Tad explained to Neil, “but I've got to, you understand.”

Neil saw that everyone was against him. Hurt and anger welled up in his eyes, and he balled his fists. Landis thought he was going to cry. Instead, he stormed out of the room.

Landis went after him.

Tad started to follow, but Buzzy grabbed his arm. “Let 'em go,” he said quietly.

Landis caught up with Neil near the sleeping night watchman. He put a hand on his shoulder and spun him around. “Neil, hey, slow down, man. Look, I can understand how you're feeling. Shit, I feel the same way. It's disgusting. But, think about it. Won't it make this movie unforgettable?”

Neil had a tear in his eye, just one, and it clung to his eyelash valiantly, trying not to fall. He looked into Landis's face and said, “It's wrong, Landis. It's so
wrong.
”

Landis put his other hand on Neil's other shoulder and held him in front of him. He shook those shoulders and spoke with as much sincerity as he could muster.

“I know it's wrong But, shit, Neil. Listen. We don't have that many chances left. We either deliver a winner this time out or we can just about forget about making another movie. Think about it.

“You've got talent. I want you to be successful. But do you want your brilliant script to get buried here and never made?

“This world is full of compromises, and if you want to be a big-time writer, you need hits. Guys like you and me have used up all our favors, Neil. It's time to deliver. Nobody's knockin' down our doors with million-dollar offers, are they? Now, Buzzy has come up with an idea that definitely puts this movie over the top. Okay, it's sick, I'll admit that. But who are we to argue?”

“It's a
dead man
, for Christ sake!” Neil sniveled. “He can't defend himself.”

“We all die, man.” Landis's voice had taken on a soothing timbre. When it came to talking people into things they didn't want to do, he was slicker than a frozen pond.

“Put your feelings aside and come back in there with me. I need you, Neil. Honestly. You're my F. Scott Fitzgerald. Do it for me, okay?”

There was a full half minute of quiet. To Landis it seemed like an hour. Finally, Neil whispered, “All right, you win. I'll do it, but only for you.”

Landis hugged Neil. “I knew you wouldn't let me down.”

They walked past the sleeping watchman. His snoring was like the buzzing of a chain saw, very far away, carrying across a lake on a summer night. Landis leaned over, picked up the bottle of wine, and wiped off the top with his sleeve. He sighed and took a big swig. He handed the bottle to Neil, who raised it to his lips. “Thanks. I think we're gonna need it.”

When they arrived back
at the location, Buzzy was looking at his watch and pacing. “Come on! We're really late now! We've got a lot of catching up to do, and I've got to get this old boy back into the drawer before they start coming in for the morning shift. We don't have much time.”

Landis wondered what time people started showing up for work here. He guided Neil back to his chair, picked up his script, and shouted, “Scene thirty-eight! Let's go!”

People snapped back into their jobs as if nothing had ever happened. Forty minutes had passed and not one shot had been completed, unheard-of for a Landis Woodley production. Chet lined up the next shot. Landis walked them through it, and when it came time to use the corpse, Tad Kingston objected.

“You mean, I have to touch it?” he whined.

“That's what the script calls for,” Landis said.

“You never told me that. I'm not doing it!”

Landis looked at the script, men back at Tad. “Don't be a wimp, Kingston. Buzzy's gonna be right behind it, manipulating the arms, it reaches out and grabs you by the neck. We'll get it in one take.”

“It
smells!
”

“Of course it smells, you knucklehead. It's dead.”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Tad demanded like a petulant child.

“All right,” Landis sighed. He stood up and pointed to the far side of the room, indicating that he would talk to Tad there. “Don't anyone move!” he shouted at the crew.

They walked together, and Landis was beginning to feel like a psychiatrist. He didn't like to talk this much. “What's the problem?”

“Well, I agreed to come back on the production with the rest of the crew, but I didn't realize I had to touch that thing. It scares me; I'll have bad dreams. Can't we work it out so that the close-up is Buzzy's hands instead of that … that thing?”

“You don't want to touch it?”

“No, sir. Please don't make me do it.”

Landis looked at Tad, sizing up the situation. “Sure, Tad,” he said with phony enthusiasm. “I'll get Beatnik Fred to do it.”

Tad started to agree, but Landis cut him off. “No problem, and I'll get Fred to
star in the movie instead of you!
”

Tad blanched. “No, you don't understand—”

“Oh, I understand all right.” Landis smirked. “You're just tryin' to fuck up my movie.”

Tad shook his haircut. Landis noticed it was still perfect. He scratched his head and looked back at the crew, who were all straining to hear what was being said. Then, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and stuffed it in Tad's shirt. “You can buy some bubble bath and soak for hours when you get home, just do the scene,” he whispered.

Tad blinked. “But—”

“Do the fuckin' scene, Kingston!” Landis hissed. “And don't bother me anymore. This whole production is turning into a real pain in the ass!”

Landis turned and walked away from Tad Kingston. A fly buzzed around his head. Landis wondered how a fly could get all the way down here in the morgue.
Christ, it must be happy
, he thought.

20

Buzzy hunkered down behind the corpse and, using some wire that he'd attached to its wrists, manipulated it like a marionette.

The condition of rigor mortis made it hard, but by first bending the limbs and loosening them up a little, he was able to get limited movement.

The smell was a factor, but Buzzy was made of iron. He'd liberally applied the spray, but it couldn't work miracles, and a miracle was what was needed. All the crew members were appalled at the sight and smell of their guest star, and Buzzy was of a mind to minimize it as best he could. Stoically, he acted as if it happened every day.

Touching the dead body's skin and being in such close contact with it was horrible, not at all like touching the dead girl the coroner had shown him earlier, but as long as he kept moving and kept his mind on the finished production, he was all right. Focus was the key.
Focus your energy
, he told himself.

He was assisted by, of all people, Jonathon Luboff, who came to his aid when Beatnik Fred balked at having to handle the corpse. Luboff seemed to have a morbid fascination for the dead man that Buzzy found intriguing. It was almost as if he was checking the body out, wondering what it would be like when
he
was dead.

If anyone there on the set was close to the grave, it was he. Buzzy was grateful for the help, even though Luboff hands shook when he tried to tie off the wires.

“That's all right, Jonathon, I can take it from here,” Buzzy said. “Thank you for your help.”

Jonathon nodded. “What name will you give this man?”

Buzzy looked bemused. “He's marked as John Doe, so I think I'll call him Johnny. Johnny D. The ‘D' stands for Doe, or Dead, depending on your mood. Johnny Dead. I like it. It has a nice ring to it. I can see it in the credits now. Corpse—Johnny D.”

There was no smile from Luboff, not even a flicker. “You know, as an actor, Johnny Dead has dignity,” he said, his accent thick and his eyes downcast.

“Why do you say that?”

“He has no ego, no vanity to get in his way. He's pure—his life is done and he's left this world. His petty problems and worries are behind him now. He is to be envied, I would think. Imagine to be as free as that.”

Buzzy laughed. “No thanks. The day I start envying dead people is the day I stop drinkin'.” He looked up, concerned at the seriousness of Luboff's words, determined to lighten the grave-heavy mood. “You dig?”

Jonathon's face was drawn and overcast, like a slate-gray LA sky. “I dig, young man, I most certainly dig,” he said.

“Okay, let's get old Johnny D. in position.”

The lights illuminated the dead man's face, sharply defining every decay, every failing of the human flesh. White as a fish belly, and just as soft, with subtle discoloration here and there, his skin seemed to come alive under the harsh scrutiny of the klieg lights. Their unforgiving carbon arcs showed nuances that only the camera wanted to see.

Chet peered through the viewfinder and whistled. “Christ, come here and look at this,” he said to Landis. “Talk about scary. This guy's in his own league.”

Landis hurried over and squinted into the eyepiece and nodded. “Yeah, it looks incredible. You like the light?”

Chet checked his light meter. “It's perfect. I got a little shine, but it works, keeps it wet. Powder would dry it up too much. Let's go before something happens.”

Landis waved his hand and everyone came to attention. “We're ready to shoot. I want this in one take, okay?”

“You got it!” Buzzy said from behind the corpse. He sounded excited. Tad looked stricken, as if he might be sick at any moment. He was clearly terrified, and, of all the people on the set, appeared to be the most distraught. In a rare show of humanity, Luboff patted him on the back and whispered that it was time to go into character.

Neil Bugmier watched the
situation with the detached interest of a funeralgoer.
This is madness
, he thought.
Am I the only one here who realizes the monstrous thing we're doing? This could ruin all our careers and haunt us forever. Have we become so desperate and so desensitized that violating the sanctity of the dead becomes just another Hollywood prank
?

He lit a cigarette and tried not to show his emotions.

Blame it all on Landis
, he told himself,
blame it all on Buzzy. I am not even here
.

Landis Woodley shouted out
commands. “Lights! Slate!”

Bob stepped into frame and barked, “
Cadaver
, scene thirty-nine, take one!” Crack! The slate box slammed down, and Landis leaned forward.