Horror Show (6 page)

Sol loved Landis, and he viewed the younger man as a potential superstar.

Landis came to depend on Sol for the raw material that ran his two-bit B-movie empire—cash. Buzzy knew who signed the checks.

Sol had raised the funds to start
Cadaver
, and Landis was off and running. The drive-ins were hot, and Landis had a deal with RKM to distribute the movie. Even after the lackluster performance of
Attack of the Haunted Saucer
, he'd managed to talk RKM into rolling the dice one more time.

As he sat in the cool, dark confines of Barny's Bar on this muggy Thursday afternoon in the heart of Hollywood, Buzzy thought about Landis's annual Halloween party, a tradition in the hills above Beachwood Avenue.

The party was a debauch, pure and simple; Landis and his friends were perverts. Liquor and reefers were everywhere. Many an aspiring starlet had been led down the devil's path by that combination, liberally applied by the charming Landis Woodley, with the assurance that “nothing bad would happen” and that the young lady would be considered for the lead role in his next epic.

If that didn't work, “Doctor” Buzzy Haller could always be called upon for more exotic intoxicants. More importantly, the party gave Buzzy and Landis a chance to try outrageous stunts on unsuspecting people. Their goal was to shock and frighten. Of course, they filmed everything. Party scenes from last year showed up in
Haunted Saucer
. Buzzy was sure that this year's performance would be the best ever.

Neil got up to go to the rest room, and that was always interesting.

Today he chose the men's room and avoided any unpleasantness. The bar was empty at this point. The other patrons had departed, and Neil, ever the diplomat, had decided to forgo his usual “powder room” scene and just urinate quickly.

When he returned, Buzzy was finishing up the last few pages of dialogue.

“Better than
The Mummy's Brain,
” Buzzy said, feeling the effects of the martinis. “Better than
Slave of the Sadist
and
Satan's Daughter!
”

Landis beamed. “That's what I thought. Can you start today?”

Buzzy nodded. “I'm way ahead of you, Woody. I've got the monster stuff all ready to go, and I have some nice ideas for the zombies.”

Landis nodded. If Buzzy said it was ready, it was ready. The two men had the highest professional regard for each other. “I'm using the sets from
Satan's Daughter
. What happened was, after RKM spent all that money on those beautiful sets, I wanted to shoot another movie right away before they tore it all down. It seemed like such a waste. So I got Neil to come up with this
Cadaver
script, and the only other scene we need is in the morgue. Shit, this movie just about shoots itself. We don't have to build a single set!”

“And I came up with the plot line,” bragged Neil, his makeup now reapplied with Marine Corps precision.

“Fruity, you're a genius,” Buzzy shouted across the empty room.

Roberta Bachman got ready
to go out. Her roommate, Janice Devin, an aspiring actress, stood behind her as she looked in the mirror. Both were in their early twenties and attractive.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Janice asked.

“Sure I'm sure. What's the big deal? Besides, I heard that a lot of big stars are going to be there.”

Janice put a hand on Roberta's shoulder, causing Roberta to stop applying her cosmetics and look up at her.

“Just be careful, okay?”

Roberta went back to her eye shadow. “I'll be careful. Why are you so sure something's going to happen?”

“Because I've heard all about Landis Woodley. He's a sick man who makes sick movies.”

Roberta laughed. Her delicate titters were as fresh and clear as stream water. She was just out of college and eager to get ahead. Her three-week-old first job, as a publicist for RKM Motion Picture Company, excited her. Everything seemed new and different now that she was out on her own. Although she'd lived in Hollywood all her life, this was her first taste of freedom.

Raised off Melrose Avenue in a tiny house with her mother and Auntie Clarice, she'd often dreamed of what it would be like to have her own apartment. Now, not only did she live by her own rules, she worked for one of the hottest new motion picture companies in town. Life for her had never been better.

“Anyway, Buzzy Haller is a very nice man,” she said convincingly.

Janice turned away. She went over to the window and looked out. “It gets dark so early these days. I hate winter.”

“It's not winter yet, just Halloween,” Roberta said.

“Don't you think your costume is a little risqué?”

Janice took a cigarette from the ornate brass case on the table and lit it with a lighter that looked like a gun. She blew the smoke out dramatically, pausing to replace the fighter, then turned back to Roberta. Her image, much smaller now in the mirror from across the room, stared back at her best friend with thinly disguised disgust.

“I'm going as a cigarette girl, what's wrong with that?”

Janice frowned. “It's just that it's so … so sexy. I mean, there's more of you showing than costume.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Jan, this is the 1950s! People are much more modern now. Believe me, there will be sexier costumes than this one, I'm sure. This is Hollywood. Don't you want to come with me?”

“Forget it. Besides, I wasn't invited.”

Roberta went back to her face, glancing at the clock on her vanity and making a mental note that she only had fifty minutes left before Buzzy showed up at her door. Janice kept the pressure on, pacing the room, appearing and disappearing in the mirror as she moved in and out of the field of vision.

“I heard that Buzzy Haller smokes reefers,” she said.

“Come on, Jan,” came the reply. “That's just a stupid rumor. They say that about half the men in Hollywood these days.”

“God knows he drinks enough,” she continued.

“No more than anybody else I know,” Roberta countered.

“Are you crazy?” Janice snapped, “That man sucks up martinis like ginger ale!”

“Aren't you overreacting to what Mary said?”

Janice took another deep drag off the unfiltered Chesterfield, leaving a crimson lipstick ring, and crossed the room. “Mary should know, she works at the commissary. She said he drinks every day, flirts with all the girls, and gambles.”

Roberta stopped doing her eyes again and turned to face Janice. The smoke from her cigarette curled seductively around her head, looking suddenly like a crown of thorns.

“Will you calm down? God, it's like you're my mother or something. If anything happens,
anything
, I'll grab a cab back home in a flash,” Roberta explained evenly.

“Well—” Janice stubbed out her cigarette and exhaled sharply in her best Bette Davis impersonation.

“Come on, Jan. It's okay. Buzzy Haller is a very nice man. He's taking me to a party where there will be lots of other people. What could possibly happen?” Roberta finished off her sentence with a sobering look, designed to assuage her friend's fears.

“A lot,” Janice replied, unconvinced.

“Like what?”

“He could get fresh with you, lure you into one of the bedrooms, get you drunk, and slip you his pepperoni.”

“His
what
?” They burst into a torrent of giggles.

Tad Kingston had no
talent, at least that's what everybody said behind his back. To his face they were more diplomatic. “Lots of potential,” the agents would say, or, “the right looks.” Never, “He's a great actor.” And it was the truth. Thadeus Willinger, AKA Tad Kingston, couldn't act his way out of a paper bag, but he did not aspire to be a great actor. What Tad Kingston wanted was to be a movie star.

In Hollywood, that was a much more realistic goal.

Tad did have the looks. He'd toyed with being a rock 'n' roll singer, but his inability to carry a tune turned off the record companies. So, Tad embarked on a career as a matinee idol. He found an agent who liked his face, had some pictures printed, and waited by the phone. It never rang.

He ran into Landis Woodley at a party, and the brash filmmaker took him under his wing. He wound up with the lead teenager part in
Hot Rod Monster, Blood Ghouls of Malibu
, and
Attack of the Haunted Saucer
.

The kids loved him. Overlooking his massive shortcomings as an actor, they focused on his hair. He had what Landis Woodley referred to as “star quality hair.”

It was blond, longish for its day, swept back, and greasy. It flared with intricate patterns back from his forehead. His pompadour cascaded in front like a frozen waterfall, then swept back severely on the sides and ended up in a classic “DA.” He spent hours working it with a comb. If he'd spent as much time learning his lines, he might have gotten more work.

His credits with Woodley probably helped him lose more jobs than gain them around Hollywood.

Tad was wolfing down a ham sandwich his mother had made him when the phone rang.

The telephone in the hallway of his mother's house was black and heavy. It sat on a tiny table next to the most uncomfortable chair his mother owned. That was by design, of course. Tad knew her reasoning: that he would spend less time talking on the telephone, and thereby reduce the amount of her monthly phone bill. Coupled with the postage-stamp-size table, it was as severe an environment as she could muster for conversation.

None of it mattered to Tad. He didn't give two shits for comfort, and he talked as long as he liked, whenever he liked, regardless.

She kept the ringer at its loudest setting and it reverberated off the flowered wallpaper with eardrum-rattling intensity.

Tad picked up the weighty receiver. “Hello? Tad Kingston speaking.”

Landis Woodley sounded pissed off. “Hey, Kingston, I heard you're not bringing Lana Wills to the party tonight, and I thought I'd call you and find out for myself.”

“Mr. Woodley—I …”

“I know you wouldn't screw me like that, would you? I went out of my way to line this up for you. Lana Wills is hot now.”

Tad stammered. He decided to be forthright and just tell the truth, an ill-advised strategy when dealing with Landis Woodley.

His voice quivered slightly as he said, “Ah, Mr. Woodley, actually I was going to take Becky Sears.”

Landis snapped back without dropping a beat, “Becky Sears? Are you crazy? She's just a script girl, a nobody. Lana Wills is a star!”

Tad sat in the uncomfortable chair and put his elbow on the tiny tabletop. He could sense his mother upstairs listening. The old lady really loved to eavesdrop. It was the only way she ever got any information on her son.

“But I like Becky Sears,” Tad whined.

“Tough shit. You're taking Lana Wills and that's that. I'm sending a limo over to pick you up, and you better be ready.”

Tad could hear his mother wheezing on the landing above him; the cramped house and narrow staircase carried sounds like a hollow tube. “Jeez, Mr. Woodley, what am I gonna tell Becky?”

Landis laughed. “I don't care. Hell, tell her the truth; that you have no say in this, that you're a piece of shit, and that I made you do it.”

“But she's such a sweet girl, it's gonna break her heart.”

Landis sighed. “Kid, you're hopeless, you know that? Have you
seen
Lana Wills? She's built like a brick shithouse. Jesus, Tad, every other guy in America wants a piece of that. The boys over at RKM insist that she go with you. She's in
Son Of Tarzan
, and they want her name out there for everybody to see.”

“I just can't tell Becky … it's gonna break her heart. She'll cry.”

Landis sighed again, this time deeper and with more resignation than usual. “Okay, I'll tell her. What's her number?”

“Would you? Jeez, that would be great! Mr. Woodley, you know I'd do anything for you.”

“Cut the crap, kid. I'll do your dirty work, but don't think you can get away with this shit forever.

“Here's the deal. I can only afford one limo, so it's gonna be for both of my stars. Get this, you're double-dating with Luboff. The grand master of horror and the young apprentice, going off to the party of the year together. He's taking some bimbo from Paramount, and you're with Wills. I'm gonna send a photographer over to get some shots of you getting ready, you know, combing your hair, stuff like that. ‘Star gets ready for fright night bash!' Brilliant, huh?”

Tad blanched. The thought of sharing a vehicle with the dirty old man made him queasy. “Luboff? Aw man, do I have to? Shit, the old man's always getting loaded and putting his hand on my knee. Plus he smokes those disgusting cheap cigars.”

Landis cut in. “I bought him some good ones for the party. Can't have the star smoking garbage in public.”

Tad stopped. He knew he had no choice. “All right.” He sighed. “What time is the limo coming?”

“Eight. Be ready. I'll tell Luboff to keep his hand out of your lap.”

“You'll call Becky?”

“Sure.”

Tad heard the phone click. Landis never said good-bye—he just ended a conversation like he was picking up a phonograph needle. Tad had grown used to it. He owed Landis Woodley his professional life and didn't complain about the hundreds of antisocial, crude, and humiliating things he did all the time.

Would Landis call Becky? Tad hoped so. He really liked Becky, but was too spineless to call her himself. He eased the receiver back into its cradle and stood up. His mother called from upstairs, “Thadeus? Are you going out somewhere?”

Tad shouted up the stairs, a darkness creeping into the voice that he saved exclusively for her. “Yes, Mother.”

Landis Woodley smiled wickedly
. All seemed in readiness. Tonight's party was going to be his best yet. He would
really
give these people something to remember. The king of low-budget horror was going to deliver the goods.