Horror Show (31 page)

Buzzy periodically swigged from a silver flask. Others politely sipped beer or wine at their seats. No one dared to move while the movie was showing.

The grainy, black-and-white texture of the film gave it a dark, atmospheric dimension.

Luboff's manic eyes filled the screen. In the first shot he was digging up a grave. It was night, in a graveyard, and he labored over the freshly dug earth. The camera started with his eyes, then panned back and away to encompass the scene as he looked around frantically. Then, assured that he was alone, he went back to digging.

Chet had made brilliant use of the zoom lens and subject framing. Luboff's eyes struck the right chord of insanity and terror from the very first second of film. It was the kind of beginning—an extreme close-up of the eyes—that would jar the audience right into the mood of the thing.

There was scattered applause for the opening scene. Landis and Chet smiled. As the movie wore on, Landis watched the reactions of the people around him. They gasped at all the right moments, and, at the climax of the morgue scene, they screamed. All of them. Even the hardened veterans like Luboff and Beatnik Fred. It was the terrible shot of Johnny D.'s eyes. It was the maggots.

Landis waited until the lights came up and congratulated his cast and crew. They were all impressed. This time he had really done it. He had really done what he set out to do, scare the hell out of everybody. God, it felt good.

Landis had himself a few drinks and enjoyed the moment.

Buzzy, in the meantime, had gotten more inebriated with every passing hour.

Why did Buzzy get like this? Landis wondered about his friend. It seemed like he had to get thoroughly smashed every time there was a party. Was it the social aspect? Did he feel uncomfortable around people? That might have been the excuse for Halloween, but not here. These were people he worked with every day.

Buzzy was out of control, and Landis thought that maybe it was time for his good buddy to dry out.

The movie had been shown, the guests were happy, the drinks were flowing, it was getting late. Then Buzzy Haller staggered to his feet.

“Can I have yer attenshun?” he shouted drunkenly.

Heads turned. Landis thought,
Oh shit, here he goes. He's chewed through the leash again
.

“Attenshun! Please!”

Someone, almost as drunk as Buzzy, kept talking.

“Hey!” Buzzy shouted in an ugly explosion. “Shut the fuck up!”

The room went quiet. All eyes went to Buzzy's face, which was now twisted in an evil, maniacal smile. His red-rimmed eyes sparkled like demonic sapphires. Warning lights were going off in Landis's head. He instinctively moved closer to Buzzy, in case he had to restrain him physically. He signaled to Neil to do the same. Together they inched nearer the drunken monster maker.

“You people … you people are fulla shit! You wanna know why? Huh? Ya wanna know? I tell ya!”

Buzzy stumbled backward a half step. Landis moved another few feet closer. Buzzy's eyes locked on him and glared. “Get back, Woody! I'll be good, I promise! I jush wanna say one thing, okay?”

Landis held up a hand. “You're drunk, Buzz. Come on, let's just cool out now.”

“Fuck you! I'll show you cool. You wanna see cool?”

Neil moved in next to Landis.

“Oh, look at this,” Buzzy slurred, pointing to Neil. “It's Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. He's gonna help Woody restrain the drunken party guest. Well, stay the fuck back! I swear it, I'll deck the next guy who tries to make a move on me!”

Everyone held their ground, watching and waiting.

“Now, where was I? Oh yeah, you people are fulla shit! You know why? 'Cause the real star of this movie was not even invited!”

Landis shook his head. “What are you talkin' about, Buzz?”

“Oh, as if you didn't know!” Buzzy roared back at the top of his lungs. “There's one star and one star only that makes this pukin' picture worth a half a shit! He's the guy who saved all ‘your asses, the one who's gonna fill the theaters and scare the teenagers,
and you pompous assholes didn't even invite him!
”

Buzzy took another stumbling step back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Landis couldn't figure out his actions or where he was going with all this. Buzzy was just smashed, too drunk to make any sense, he thought.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet the real star of this picture! Don't look in your programs, you won't find him there! He's that hot new prospect that's got all the ladies talkin'.”

Buzzy took another halting step backward. His hand went out and met the wall. Supporting his weight, he moved along the wall until his hand found the closet door.

The closet!
Landis thought.
That's what he's been moving toward this whole time
.

Buzzy twisted the handle of the closet door, grinning like a mad dog all the while. The door opened a crack and Landis could see a hint of something white leaning against it from the other side.

“Here he is, the man of the hour! He's hot, he's sexy, and he's dead! Folks, meet Johnny D.!”

Buzzy jerked the closet door open and the white, bloated, dead body of Johnny D. fell out. It hit the floor with an ungodly slap, facedown. The sound it made as it impacted with the hardwood was unimaginable. A solid, wet thud, like two hundred pounds of beef hitting a butcher's counter, reverberated through the house. The sound of cartilage breaking as the face crunched into the floor was as clear and unmistakable as a fart.

People screamed. Becky Sears fainted into Tad Kingston's arms. Beatnik Fred hunched over and began to vomit onto the floor.

The body settled. Then, the sound of a massive bubble of escaping gas hissed from somewhere deep in its throat and a stench from beyond hell filled the room.

Landis reeled, his eyes watering, toward the hall. There was a crush of hysteria and people fighting to make the stairs and fresh air.

Most ran out onto the porch. The unbelievable sound of a group of people vomiting over the railing filled the night.

Tears filled Landis's eyes.

Buzzy Haller was completely insane.

24

“You're the sickest piece of shit in the world, you know that?”

Buzzy just smiled. Landis slapped him across the face, his hand stinging as it hit bone. Buzzy turned with the blow, still numb from the liquor.

“Don't smile at me!” Landis screamed.

Buzzy put his hand to his face and felt for damage. The red mark was spreading, but the skin was unbroken. He blinked and resumed sipping his coffee as if nothing had happened.

Landis continued to rage. “How
could
you? Jesus, you must have broken fifty laws to get him here. How did you do it?”

“It was easy,” Buzzy replied.

“Do the cops know?”

Buzzy shook his head.

“You are one sick muthafucker. What am I gonna do with you? I think you need psychiatric help. The morgue was one thing, but bringing him here … what the hell were you thinking?”

Buzzy smiled a crooked, goofy smile. He really was beginning to resemble a lunatic, Landis thought. Watching him now, hours later, while he coolly fended off questions, he actually seemed to be pleased with himself.

“I just thought that you couldn't very well have a cast party without the real star of the picture. It's not fair,” Buzzy mumbled.

Landis exploded again. “Cut the shit!
The man's dead!
You've lost your mind, Buzz, you really have! Bringing him here last night was dangerous. Now there are witnesses.”

Buzzy laughed. “They're the same witnesses you already swore to secrecy. What are they gonna say?”

Landis paced. He ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. “You're gonna have to get rid of him. That's all there is to it. The sooner the better.”

Buzzy looked up, the steam from the coffee swirling around his face. “What do you mean?”

“Just get rid of him,” Landis snapped back.

“You mean take him back?”

Landis stopped pacing. “No! No, don't take him back. That would only make things worse. You might get caught. You're gonna have to get rid of him the same way that people always get rid of bodies. Dump him somewhere.”

Buzzy snorted. “Where?”

“I don't care where! Just get rid of him!”

Buzzy raised an eyebrow. Landis always wondered about that move. Buzzy could raise just one eyebrow at a time, arch it, and hold the position for sixty seconds. It was a gift. Landis could only raise both eyebrows at the same time. To be able to control them separately like that was a gift from God. Buzzy was touched.

He watched Buzzy's eyebrow until the man spoke. “Sure, I'll get rid of him. No problem.”

Later that morning, Landis
went to meet with the distributors. His film was on the table, and it was now time to see what kind of action he could get. This was the side of the business Landis hated, the ass-kissing and the politics. He had never excelled at impressing people from a business standpoint. In fact, Landis repulsed people. That was part of his problem. Landis braced himself against the bullshit and drove into Burbank with his window down and his mind open.

He had told Buzzy to sober up and get rid of the body before he returned. Landis was shaken; Buzzy had actually succeeded in scaring him. The man was out of control. When Buzzy lost it, it meant that Landis, whose life was continually on the edge, might lose too. Buzzy was more than a friend—he was an integral part of Landis's cinematic operations.

He was the monster maker. You can't have a monster movie without a monster. Now, it seemed to Landis, Buzzy had become a monster himself. Dangerous and unpredictable, he threatened to bring down the whole house of cards on Landis's head.

He had to do something.

First, Buzzy had to dry out. It was time for a trip to the hospital. Landis had taken Luboff in so many times they knew him by name. What must they think? That he was a friend to all the winos and junkies of the world?

Landis thought.
Who cares? If I cared what people thought about me all the time, I'd be out of business. The main thing was to get Buzzy help
.

Nineteen fifty-seven came
to a close. The papers were full of Sputnik and the Dodgers were coming to town. Rock and roll had taken over the radio, and juvenile delinquents had taken over the high schools.

All over America, teenagers flocked to the drive-ins and became enamored with monsters. Aliens, vampires, creatures from lagoons, dinosaurs, giant bugs, mummies, mad scientists, and their hideous creations dominated the outdoor screens. The exploitation movie business boomed. Sales of cosmetics, blue jeans, motorcycles, guitars, leather jackets, and chewing gum skyrocketed.

Cadaver
became a hit at the drive-ins; but, because Landis had oversold all the available shares in advance, most of the profits were gobbled up by the investors. Although he would never get the respect and recognition he longed for from his Hollywood colleagues, he did make a splash with the kids and became, for a short while, the king of the B-movies.

Then America changed, leaving
Landis Woodley behind.

NOW

25

STUDIO CITY, CALIFORNIA 1996

Roberta Bachman's office was elegant. She favored leather couches and modern desks. The art pieces that hung on her walls were all original lithos, signed and numbered by known artists. She bought the prints at an art gallery on Ventura Boulevard in Van Nuys, where she knew the owner. Roberta was chic, but not dumb; she never paid retail. She had learned over the years in the Hollywood community that it was not how much money you actually had, it was how much money people
thought
you had.

In other words, the image game.

Roberta played that game well. She enjoyed it. It was tailor-made for a woman who made good money yet wanted to be perceived as a woman who made great money. Attractive and slim for a woman of her years, Roberta kept her hair shade of Lucille Ball red as a sort of trademark. Thus was she known and instantly recognizable around town. She had a self-contained prettiness that endured, and a confidence that overcame.

Savvy and tough, she knew Hollywood like a mapmaker. She'd held every kind of job in the movie business, and she knew all kinds of people, the good and the bad. Roberta owned her own home and business, had never married, and loved her life. She was the prototypical LA career woman—a buyer of designer clothes, a diner at exclusive restaurants, a driver of exotic cars.

Clint Stockbern was the exact opposite. His beat-up Volkswagen bug looked like what it was—barely adequate transportation for a man who barely made a living.

He carried the scars of a terrible case of adolescent acne but he was an otherwise handsome youth. His wardrobe consisted solely of T-shirts and jeans.

He sat in Roberta's office, careful to keep his sneakers off her furniture.

“You didn't tell me you knew him.”

“That's right,” Roberta answered.

“But why?”

“This is your story, Clint. If you knew I knew him, you'd have wasted a lot of time bugging me for details. Hell, I could just as soon write the story myself.”

Clint looked out the window at the afternoon traffic in downtown Thousand Oaks and cleared his throat.

“He invited me back to look at some film,” Clint said proudly.

“What kind of film?”

“Rare stuff, outtakes, stuff the censors made him clip, I don't know. He was vague about it. All I can tell you is I want to see it. It's a collector's dream.”

Roberta nodded. “Okay, but be careful.”

“Why? He's just an old man.”

Roberta drummed a pencil on her desk absently. “What would you say if I told you that Landis Woodley was, at one time, madly in love with me?”

Clint smiled automatically. “I'd say, ‘Jesus Christ.'”

“And what would you say if I told you that we actually went out together a couple of times?”