The Fan Letter (11 page)

He stood by the car until his wife's blond hair was swallowed up by the vast airport. The driver quietly reminded him that they were parked in an unloading zone and would Mr. Beck like him to return after the plane had departed?

“The plane already left,” he murmured as he retook his seat in the back. As the door clicked shut, it was eerily quiet without Davey's excited prattle.

Since the limo had been Marty's idea, the driver took Phillip straight home and deposited him on the front walk of his house.

Pausing in the tiled entryway, he listened to the quiet of the house. The tall grandfather clock could be heard ticking down the long hall. There were no other sounds. No maids, no house cleaners, and no gardeners could be heard since they all came on other days.

Phillip looked around the massive house with narrowed, critical eyes. Everything was white. Tile, walls, draperies, furniture, even the bricks of the fireplace were painted white. Touches of color came from a few accent pillows and the oil paintings. Even the chandeliers in the entryway and the formal dining room seemed so stark and sterile to him right then.

He hadn't wanted his house to look like this. He had admired the great manor houses of the English countryside when he had been on location there and had far preferred that kind of look. This house had been selected primarily because of its vaulted ceilings, sweeping staircase, and huge fireplaces. This house had the potential to recreate that warm, inviting, livable atmosphere of those grand mansions.

However, Martin Thomas had introduced Sarah to Didi Goshen at a party one evening shortly after they moved in and Sarah's career was busy skyrocketing. Didi was THE interior decorator. All the celebrities and all the right people had Didi do their houses. The phrase “Land of Goshen” now referred to Didi's work. And Didi said white was in.

The only room where Phillip had his way was his study in the back of the house. This room was home to a large dark walnut desk, burgundy leather sofa, overstuffed tartan chairs, a floor-to-ceiling walnut bookcase, prints of hounds and the English hunt matted in dark green and burgundy, and a large brass hunter's horn arranged with dried wild flowers.

It was in this room that Phillip could retreat, a place where he could really relax. Davey would bring in his plastic horses and play while Phillip read over his mail or a script. It was to this room that Phillip now headed, his footsteps echoing loudly on the white Italian tile floor. But Davey wouldn't be bringing in his toys to play on the thick brown carpet. Davey was gone. For a month.
At least a month
, Sarah had added in the limo on the way to the airport, just before the door flung open to the photographers Marty had arranged to be there. There was a possibility of another major shoot, she had told him. She'd let him know, as she gave him a kiss and the cameras obediently began shooting.

He took out the script for the Zenith picture “Mutiny of Love at Sea.” He hated the title. He hated his role as the captain. He hated his perfunctory lines. He hated…. No, he retracted, he hated Martin for his involvement.

Phillip stretched out on his eight-foot sofa to go over his lines once more. He had already memorized them by the second reading, but felt he should review both the words and the action. He was still a professional and would still do the best he could with the material—such as it was.

“Have you invited the Duchess to dine with me tonight? Good.”

“Here, here! Stop this fight! You're officers. Now shake hands and remember you're also gentlemen.”

“You dance well, Madam.”

“What do you mean we are out of caviar?! That's impossible. Get me….”

The script dropped onto his chest. Drivel. Silly drivel. Where were the interesting roles? Where was that Western he had read…when? Ten months ago? A year? Oh, yes, now he remembered. A riverboat gambler, a saloon girl, an archrival named…Jack. “The Time Police.” That was it. Now, what had happened to that script? It was different than anything they had done yet.

He turned his head toward his desk. Bunny. He hadn't heard from her in months and wondered how her writing was coming along.

He thought back to when his agent Bill had handed him her first letter and a very small script that was only about sixty pages long. This had now been Bunny's third attempt and it, too, centered on his Professor character. Bill had read both the letter and the story before passing them along to Phillip as was the policy for handling celebrity mail. Bill was, at first, a little concerned when he learned Phillip had personally contacted this writer, but, he too liked her short story. He could see the possible potential in a well-written, longer version. Bill had thought, as had Sarah, that a script would be more advantageous to Phillip's career than a book.

Phillip shook his head and sighed. Didn't anyone trust his professional judgment? Bunny wasn't ready to write a script. She needed more experience. Extending her short stories into novel length and working with an agent to get them published was an excellent way for her to gain that experience. Was he the only one who realized this?

Bunny had offered to send him a copy of her first novel to familiarize him with her new character and show how Jane arrived in “The Time Police” squad. It was then he recalled how he had dissuaded her. He told her he was overwhelmed with his
own
books and scripts.

He picked up the script of “Mutiny of Love at Sea” from off his chest and dropped it to the floor. He knew over on the bookcase next to his desk were the scripts for “Senator Steve Goes to War,” “The Slasher's Guide to Love,” “The Nile—River That Time Forgot,” “Moonshine Madness,” and the ever-popular serial, “DMV—Part VI—The Senior's Revenge.” There were also a few costume dramas, two silly slapsticks that he didn't quite understand, and a science-fiction thriller. A three-hour Revolutionary War epic had been interesting, but Bill had only offered him the role of the officer who takes the first bullet.

At least his sea captain film began rehearsal in a few days and would be over—for him—within two weeks. Then he would play the Professor again. That would take two and a half weeks. Then…nothing. Unless he agreed to take one of the repugnant offerings waiting on his bookcase.

“Sorry, Bunny,” he muttered as his eyes closed. “I'm just too overwhelmed.”

T
he phone rang in Sarah Beck's suite at the Tokyo Imperial Hotel.

“Miss Beck's room. This is Mr. Thomas. Can I help you?”

A static-filled voice replied, “This is Phillip. Can I talk to my wife, please?”

“Who is this?” Marty demanded with a smug grin. “I can hardly hear you. Bad connection.”

“Phillip here,” he shouted. “Let me talk to Sarah.”

“Phillip? She can't come to the phone,” Martin yelled back, scratching the mouthpiece with his fingernail.

Phillip had to hold the phone away from his ear. He could hear Martin just fine. “Where is she?”

“In the shower,” came back the clear response.

“Let me talk to Davey, then,” Phillip requested.

Martin scratched the phone again. “No can do. He's not here.”

“What? Where is he? You're supposed to be watching him!”

Martin smiled to himself. “Don't throw a shoe, old man. He's with a sitter. We're going out tonight.” After a long enough pause, he added, “With her boss. They're throwing a party in her honor at the Fire Dragon.”

“Will you tell her I called? Again?” The bitterness in his voice was heard through the fake static supplied by Martin. This was the third attempt to talk to his family and he had always gotten Martin.

“Yeah, sure, old man. I'll go tell her right away. Sayonara,” Marty laughed and hung up.

Marty was still laughing as he went to answer the knock on the door to the suite. He bowed his greeting to Mr. and Mrs. Matsui as they arrived to escort Sarah and him to their party. A limo would be waiting outside. He excused himself and quickly went to get Sarah.

She was not in the shower as he had said, but was putting on the finishing touches to her outfit. She was pulling on gold heels to match the golden silk backless dress she was wearing. It was a stunning effect with her blond hair.

Marty put his hands over his heart. “You take my breath away,” he declared and then told her their hosts had arrived.

“Did I hear the phone? Where's my wrap, Marty?” she inquired as she hunted for a shimmering stole.

“Wrong number,” was the smooth reply as the missing garment was located in her monstrous closet and they left for the gala event.

T
he photo sessions and the television commercials were going extremely well. The country loved this lovely lady and her well-behaved, respectful child. The advertisements were released sooner than planned because of the popularity of the sample ads. A car company and a cosmetics firm had put in offers for Sarah's representation. The car company even requested Davey for ads aimed at the family.

Sarah was recognized as the trio went sightseeing and were stopped many times for autographs by polite, almost apologetic fans. The people were delighted when she would ask questions or compliment the beauty of their country in their own language. Davey had quickly picked up a lot of the dialect as only the absorbing mind of a youth can do.

Sarah's stay in Japan turned from a one month stay into what now looked like would be two months. Marty arranged a lot of off-time excursions to keep Davey excited and Sarah preoccupied. They cruised the harbor amongst the colorful fishing boats and attended the Kabuki Theater. There were trips to the mountains, the beach, entertainment areas, and beautifully sculpted gardens with intimate tea ceremonies. The shopping was extraordinary. Davey was enthralled by all the new electronic toys that he had never even seen back home. Marty even bought him a small personal computer designed for the young mind.

By now Davey had quit asking when they were going home. The questions about “Daddy” slowed to a trickle and finally stopped. To him it seemed as if his big, tall, strong daddy just wasn't around any longer and what was once concern had now turned into acceptance.

But, Marty was there. And Marty took him to exciting places and bought him neat toys. Martin let him stay up too late so Davey could see his mommy's new commercial. Whenever he was scared, Marty's arms were there to shield and protect him. If he awakened in the middle of the night unsure of where he was, Marty came in at his cry even before his mother did.

The transition was too subtle for a four-year old to grasp. Sarah was happy because Davey accepted Marty better now than at first, and seeing that Marty took such personal interest in her son was very satisfying. The agent, in turn, was satisfied in Sarah's success and her unconscious leaning towards him more and more. Marty slowly developed a real liking for the boy as Davey was well-behaved and looked to him for comfort when needed.

Months later, the final step for Marty and Davey came one morning when Sarah was called to an early shoot. She had to leave before Davey was awake. Marty heard him stirring in his room and went to the door. The boy opened his eyes and saw Marty smiling at him. “Hi, Daddy,” was the sleepy greeting that melted Marty's devious heart.

“
M
rs. Beck,

The third party and friend are talking more and more of vacationing in Los Angeles. The current project is near completion and the author feels she ‘needs a break.’

I have spent considerable time in this one's company and have become privy to secrets and stories. There is a growing, shall we say, fascination with the world of LA, and much speculation regarding your second party. We have seen what can come of these fascinations. This third project is quite a love story.

Shall I continue my current assignment? Our original agreement time has lapsed. I await your decision.

Have a nice day.

W.F.”

Marty chuckled over this weekly report. Knowing Wayne, he knew it meant nothing of importance. Knowing Sarah, he knew it would keep her satisfied that her fears and tremendous expense were justified and that this woman was a threat that only she could control.

To Marty, ‘considerable time’ meant Wayne was probably dating her. And using Sarah's money! That was funny to him.

Marty had called his friend weeks ago to get the real story. Wayne had been vague and had not told him much. Marty told him to spice up his reports or Sarah would likely fire him and fly home to assign someone else.

“What's wrong?” Wayne had been sarcastic. “Aren't your fringe benefits working out?”

“Listen, buddy. You just keep convincing Sarah we're dealing with a fanatic and we'll both profit. Understand?”

“Yeah. I understand. Perfectly. But, do you realize how far off you really are?” he had asked.

“Wayne, I don't care. I've got plans—big plans for my girl here. She needs to feel she is in control of the situation back there—whether it exists or not. You're dealing with an outsider, a nobody. Whatsa matter? You developing a conscience?”

There had been a pause. “Maybe I am.”

That had surprised Marty. “Maybe you'd like off the case if you can't do what you were hired to do. There are plenty of other guys I know who can make it stick.”

“I didn't say I wanted off, Marty. I just wanted you to know something along the lines of the truth,” Wayne quietly told him.

“Since when have I cared about the truth?” Marty declared with a laugh. “You keep everyone happy. All right?”

“Sure, Marty, sure,” was the resigned reply as they both hung up.

Wayne had done what he was told. The reports were short, but they convinced Sarah of her need for continued surveillance and that there was a danger to what she considered her own property—whether she really wanted it or not. This last report would probably net Wayne a bonus in case he would have to follow Leslie to Los Angeles and watch her there. Wayne might have faltered briefly for whatever reason, but the all-powerful dollar spoke loud and clear and he would continue to do what he was told.

T
here was a reception that night for Sarah thrown by the car company responsible for her extended stay. The company was thrilled at acquiring her for their world-release campaign. The party was bigger than any she had been given so far. The food and the champagne were exquisite and plentiful. There were countless toasts to their success and health.