Horror Show (5 page)

Clint stepped on something that crunched under his foot. “What the hell? Aren't these—”

“Bones. They eat mice whole, and spit up the hair and bones afterward.”

Clint winced and tried to avoid stepping on the little bundles of horror. Landis, ever the keen observer said, “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

Clint wiped his face with his hand and nodded. “Yeah, I'm fine. Do you have rats?”

“Nah, the owls get 'em.”

They crossed the room and opened the door. Landis led the way into a large, windowless, rectangular room. A movie screen occupied the far end, with several rows of theater seats arranged in front of it at a discreet distance. A huge old commercial projector, the kind used in movie theaters in the fifties, sat on a table behind the rows of seats. It was a gray metal monstrosity, all reels and gears, and it dominated the back of the room like an evil robot.

“I watch my old movies down here,” the old man said. “I've got original prints of all of them, first-class stuff. The seats and projector are from the old Avalon Theater in Westwood. Beautiful, huh?”

“Yeah, nice,” Clint replied. The thought of the old man down here alone at night, watching those horrible old movies with real corpses in them while the projector flickered behind him, was too much. The room fascinated Clint. It heightened his fear, providing a rich growth medium of mystery. He could imagine the wet cigar and the whiskey, the bloodshot eyes staring up at the images of Buzzy Haller and Tad Kingston as they manipulated the legions of the dead. He shook his head to clear away the demons.

“Great seats, great theaters, and some damn good movies,” Landis muttered, “It was another era.”

Clint nodded.

“These seats are from the balcony. I wonder how many kids—”

The moan came again, cutting the old man off like a clap of thunder. It was loud in here, unnaturally loud, and in it Clint could hear the unmistakable sound of pain. Hideous and gutteral, it rose from the floor like a wounded spirit.

It hung in the air, slowly fading away, as if it were recorded in an echo chamber. Clint held his breath.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “It's coming from the floor. It sounds like someone's dying down there. Is there a … a subbasement?”

Landis shook his head. “A crawl space. Just a dirt floor crawl space.”

Clint didn't want to see the crawl space; he didn't even want to know it existed. What if the old man wanted to investigate further?

Woodley pulled back a filthy Persian rug to reveal a trapdoor in the floor.

“That's the way down,” Woodley said. “You want to look?”

Clint shook his head. “Maybe some other time.”

“No taste for the creepy-crawlies, eh, kid? I don't blame you. I've never looked down there myself. It's probably the wind. Maybe it broke through down there somewhere and it's swirling around under the house.”

Clint knew it wasn't the wind. That kind of thinking usually got guys killed in horror movies. The wind doesn't make your heart stop beating or bring acid to your mouth. The wind isn't in pain. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have you ever heard that sound before?”

The old man nodded. “Yeah, a long time ago.”

THEN

3

HOLLYWOOD, 1957

Buzzy Haller put down his unfinished burger at Barny's Bar and turned his seat to watch some juvenile delinquent play a game of pinball. It was hot and bright outside, but in here it was the exact opposite.

Buzzy was dressed in the casual style of most twenty-five-year-old guys in Hollywood: a sport shirt, open at the neck, khaki slacks, and a dark blazer. His blond flattop crew cut needed trimming, and a closer look at his shoes revealed heels worn from too much walking.

The door opened and Landis Woodley walked in. Light spilled through the breach like liquid fire, blinding everybody at the bar. Another figure materialized from the dazzling silver background, Neil Bugmier.

“Oh shit,” Haller muttered. “Here comes Princess Laughing Water.” He took a swig of beer. Woodley sat on one side of Haller while Bugmier sat on the other.

“Hello, Buzz,” Bugmier said softly. “Aren't you glad to see me?”

“Fuck no,” Buzzy said flatly.

Bugmier adjusted his skirt and began to peel away his white gloves. Woodley ordered three beers. Once the gloves were off, Neil flexed his fingers.

“A little hot for gloves, ain't it?” Haller said.

“Well,” Bugmier replied, “I just don't feel fully dressed without them.”

The beers arrived. Two guys farther down the bar stared at Bugmier with mouths agape. Buzzy hated that. Neil raised the frosted mug to his mouth and took several man-size swallows of the beer. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down with the rhythm of his chugging. He drained half the glass in one pass and replaced the mug on the bar. It carried the vivid red lipstick traces of his constantly pouting cinema lips.

He'd smudged his lipstick, and the stubble of his beard was beginning to poke through the Max Factor foundation and heavy powder. For a man who dressed as a woman, Neil Bugmier had an extremely heavy beard; his five o'clock shadow began to make its appearance around noon.

It was hard being a transvestite in full drag in 1957, even in Hollywood, a place Buzzy Haller considered “the last great fruitcake capital of the world.” Neil noticed the two men staring at him and waved.

“Christ, don't do that,” Buzzy whispered. “It's bad enough I gotta be seen in public with you, but I gotta drink here, you dig? These guys are probably gonna run into me later and start talkin', you know what I mean?”

Neil winked. “You're such a baby, Buzz. So they talk, who cares? What do you have to be afraid of?”

Buzzy frowned. “My reputation, that's what. Believe it or not, I still get a lot of chicks around this town. Ask Woody.”

Woodley wrapped his hand around the mug of beer and smiled. “Don't get me involved in your little lovers' spat, fellahs. I got bigger fish to fry.”

“Shove it, Woody,” Buzzy barked, loud enough for the two guys farther down the bar to hear. “Lovers' spat, my ass!”

Neil laughed, a high lunatic titter that bordered on parody. “Exactly!”

“Shut up, you nutski,” Haller roared. “The world's going straight to hell in a handbasket. It's gettin' so a guy can't even have a friendly drink anymore.”

Landis Woodley smoothed his oily black hair with a hand. He tended to use too much Wildroot Cream Oil and the excess lubricated his palm. He wore a silver-gray, short-sleeve sport shirt with a rolling dice motif. The vertical black stripe over the pocket and the hideaway buttons were the height of fashion, but no matter what he wore, he always looked like a bookie. Buzzy called it racetrack flash.

At twenty-six years old, Landis Woodley was whippet thin and energetic. He wore a mustache, thin and sinister, because he thought that “the chicks dug it.” His eyes were beady, constantly moving, shaded by an awning of bushy eyebrows. They were the kind of eyebrows that would, in coming years, grow wild in every direction. Right now they were still reasonably obedient.

The three men sipped their beers and watched highlights of the World Series on the indistinct black-and-white television screen behind the bar. “I hear the Dodgers are moving out here next year, and the. Giants are going to San Francisco,” Landis said. He liked to use his hands when he talked.

“So? Who gives a shit?” Bugmier cooed. “It won't help make this town any hipper. I swear, you'd think it was the Midwest around here the way they carry on over my clothes.”

“You're a fruitcake, Bugmier,” Buzzy said.

“Get off my back,” Neil replied. “I was in the marines, you know. I landed on the beach at Iwo Jima.”

“Yeah? What were you wearing?”

“Under my battle fatigues? Hmm, let me think, black bra and panties, if my memory serves. I had my nylons in my pack.”

“You're crazy!”

The bartender, who had been wiping glasses with a white towel and listening to the conversation, laughed. “You kill me, Neil, you really do.”

“He may be crazy, but he works cheap,” Landis Woodley chimed in. “Why don't you show Buzz the script rewrite, Neil?”

The man dressed as a woman reached into his oversize handbag and withdrew a sheaf of typewritten papers. He put them on the table and smiled. “Best thing I ever did,” he said proudly.

Buzzy Haller belched loudly, scooped up the papers, and began to read.

“You're not going to read it here, are you?” Neil asked.

“Of course I am,” Buzzy said. “And then I'm going to have a preproduction meeting with myself and decide on a shooting schedule, then design and build the monster within the next forty-eight hours.”

“Tonight's the party,” Landis said slyly.

“You got the place all fixed up like last time?” the bartender asked.

“Better. Ed, you won't believe it,” Landis answered. “Buzzy's got the tree house rigged, the grounds, everything.”

“Got something big planned?”

Landis smiled. “I can tell you, right now, that this will be the greatest stunt in the history of Hollywood.”

Ed the bartender was impressed. “You guys … You're unbelievable, you know that? Nobody does a party like you do.”

“It's that hoodoo that you do,” Buzzy joked, nodding at Landis.

“You're goin', right?” Neil asked.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Ed replied.

Buzzy clapped his hands together. “Man, I can't wait. I invited that cute little publicity girl from RKM, Roberta Bachman.”

Landis snorted. “Why waste your time? You'll never get in her pants.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I'll bet,” said Neil happily. “But we'll need a witness!”

“You guys are dreaming. She's as cold as a blue Sno-Kone. Believe me, I've tried,” Landis, the voice of reason, offered. “Are you coming as a man or a woman tonight, Neil?”

“I haven't decided. Some chicks dig that cross-dressing scene. But then again, it scares a lot of potential talent away.”

“I can't imagine why,” said Buzz, rolling his eyes at Ed. “How about another round?”

Landis nodded. “Speaking of scaring people, tonight should be the greatest. I've got some real beauties lined up. The torture chamber, bats, coffins, and my best prop yet, the guillotine …”

“Better than last time?” asked the bartender as he delivered the frosted mugs to the thirsty patrons.

Landis nodded. “This one's the ultimate, Eddie baby. I'm gonna roll some film, too. Luboff's coming, Lana Wills, that Saturday night horror lady from Channel Two, what's her name?”

“Devila,” Neil interjected.

“Wow, Devila's coming? I watch her all the time. Man, this is gonna be great. I can't wait,” the bartender replied. “Best Halloween party on the planet.”

“Did you check out the morgue?” Landis asked Buzzy.

“Uh-huh. It's perfect, really wonderful.” Buzzy's eyes sparkled with excitement. “I don't know why we never thought of it before, you should see this place! I swear, it looks like a million-dollar set! I talked to the guy there, and it's no problem. Seems that cop shows shoot there all the time, just never
inside the abattoir
. He said he'd be glad to help, that he
wanted
us to shoot there. Of course, I had to offer him a part, but I figure that can't hurt, right? We can have it from midnight to five for three nights.”

Landis chuckled. “What people won't do for a chance to be in a movie. It's frightening. Well, I can use him as one of the doctors, and we can shoot him early the first night. That way he'll be out of our hair after the first hour.”

Neil Bugmier pushed the script at Buzzy. “Read,” he said.

Buzzy ordered an extra-dry martini, which he referred to as an “ice-cold see-through” and another beer, and sat back, the script in his hands. He knew what to look for and could read a script in less time than most people could read a menu. He began to plow through it, raising an eyebrow now and then. Eddie the bartender cleared away the remains of his lunch.

After twenty minutes, two more “ice-cold see-throughs” and another beer, Buzzy looked up and smiled. “This is pretty good, you know?”

Landis put his hand on Buzzy's shoulder and said, “That's what I've been tellin' ya. Fruitcake here does good work.”

Neil smiled.

At first Neil's elaborate costumery had put Buzzy off. Buzzy's homophobic impulses flared at the sight of a man in a dress. Neil patiently explained to him that he was not a homosexual, just a cross-dresser. He loved women as much as Buzzy did, he insisted. He just liked to wear their clothes. It took many months, but eventually Buzzy got to the point where he could work with Neil.

Landis was the man who brought them together. He “discovered” all sorts of interesting and odd people. Hollywood—not only the film capital of the world, but the weirdo capital of the world.

Buzzy knew Landis Woodley loved unusual people. He seemed to surround himself with them, which further alienated him from the old guard of the movie business. Hollywood was trying to clean up its image. Independent filmmakers like Landis Woodley, mavericks and rebels, were always treated the same. First, the big studios tried to drive them out of business, then, if that didn't work, they bought them out.

Landis had had a few modest successes, and he really knew how to stretch a budget; guys like that were always in demand in Tinsel Town. In fact, most director/producers wouldn't even attempt a film on the kinds of budgets Landis routinely worked with.

The Woodley modus operandi went like this: he'd start shooting a film, usually on a miniscule, unrealistic budget, then run out of money in mid-production. At that point, he'd gotten the investors in too deep and he would beg, borrow, or steal to complete the project. He'd oversold a picture more than once. As a consequence, he had very few repeat investors. Landis Woodley was not a money person. For that, he had Sol Kravitz. Sol was the kind of guy who could go out and make investment money materialize out of thin air. He'd been successful in the fledgling peep-show business and various other shady permutations of the film industry. It wasn't really actually the movie game, but it did involve the concept of “film.”