Hollywood Scream Play (14 page)

I don’t know how long I’ve slept in his arms before he gently nudges me into the crux of the couch and heads off to the shower.

I am blissfully sated, but famished just the same. “I’ll order room service,” I call out to him.

“Tell them to hurry,” he shouts from the bathroom.

“Why? We don’t have to leave for at least another three hours.”

He peeks out from the shower door. “My point exactly.”

I put in an order for two steaks and mashed potatoes.

Oh yes, and chocolate sauce.

“Skip the ice cream,” I tell Room Service.

Jack is dessert.

Something about the room service waiter who has brought in our dinner cart looks oddly familiar. Jack is still in the shower, so I can’t signal him to be on his guard. Instead, I smile and show the man in, motioning him toward the dining area. “Put it over there. I’ll be right back with your tip.”

He nods, but doesn’t speak.

Because he’s afraid I’ll recognize his voice.

The dining area is a good fifty feet from the front door. If he’s got my skill set, he’ll know he has to take the creaking cart all the way into the room before easing his gun out from wherever he hid it. (
Is it under the tented napkin, or under the entrée dome? Does he have it strapped to his back? Eeny meeny miney mo…
)

In the meantime, I grab the letter opener off the desk. After today’s run-in with the Feds, I can’t take any chances. If anything, we can use him as a hostage.

I slip behind him, close enough that I’m out of his peripheral vision. When he finally stops I jab him hard—in the kidney, with my fist. The pain causes him to groan. Instinctively he reaches for his back. A moment later, I’ve wrenched one of his arms behind his back—

But he freezes when he feels the letter opener I’m holding under his throat.

“Don’t hurt me.” The plea comes out in a whisper. “It’s…Arnie!”

Slowly, I lower the letter opener. Arnie collapses onto the cart.

“May I ask why you felt the need to carry on your charade beyond our doorstep?” I ask him.

“I guess it was a stupid idea. I just wanted to try out a new disguise.” He points at his face. “Brown contact lenses, the ’stache, the blond wig and the sixties eyeglasses.” Arnie lifts up the domes of our dinner trays to see what goodies we’ve ordered.

I shrug. “To be honest, it sucks. I can see the contacts through your glasses. No one needs both, right? Oh, and next time, make sure the lenses in your glasses have some wave to them so they look real. Also, the ’stache sags on one side.” I pat his belly. “One last thing: this ain’t no TraveLodge. A classy joint like this would never let you out of the employee locker room with a uniform that’s obviously too tight around the gut.”

He lowers the dome with a scowl. “Since when did you become so observant?”

“Being at the top of Interpol’s Wanted Persons list will do that to a person.” I shrug. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

He lifts up the lid on the smallest dish. “Underneath are two iPhones. “Emma is monitoring the NSA’s chatter on you and Jack. They think you’re still somewhere in the LA metro area. Just in case, these are equipped with a new type of GPS scrambler, which puts you a country or two away from wherever you’re standing.”

“I thought I heard a familiar voice.” Jack is at the bathroom door. He’s wrapped in a bathrobe. His hair is damp and slicked back. “How are things back in the real world?”

Arnie tears into one of our rolls. Through a mouthful of bread, he says, “I got the thumbs-up on the tech advisor position on the production crew, but they’re waiting for final script approval. And now we’ve got it—at least, as far as Ryan is concerned. He felt you both did a great job in vetting it for any recognizable issues.”

Jack is frowning as he grabs a roll. “He’s the boss,” he mutters as he butters it. He still has issues with making our lives public. No surprise there.

“In fact, Ryan sees several advantages to signing off on the project. Obviously, the money is a big part of it. The second is that it gets you out of the country as soon as possible. Besides, if people know the real story, maybe we can swing public opinion in our favor, and the Feds will back off.”

Jack gives Arnie a grudging nod. He knows Ryan is right on all three counts. Today’s close call with the NSA is proof.

“By the way, I passed Ryan this list of shooting locations.” Arnie pulls out a printout and hands it to me.

“You mean, we won’t just be in Turkey?”

“Turkey is out altogether,” he says. “Venezuela is in—and just for the Hilldale—excuse me, I mean ‘Springfield’ interior scenes.” Arnie stuffs another roll into his mouth. If he starts on the mashed potatoes, he’s a dead man. “We’re shooting on a small island off the Venezuelan coast. It’s called Isla Margarita.”

“Why there?” I ask.

“In the first place, it’s close to the US. Also, Addison can rent a whole resort for pennies on the dollar. And with all that's going on down there right now, the government is too preoccupied to snoop around,” Arnie explains. "At the same time, it welcomes Montague Studios with open arms. 
Mucho bolivars
, eh?” Arnie rubs the thumb and forefinger of his right hand against each other.

“That makes sense," Jack reasons. "And Venezuelan citizens are more concerned about their civil liberties than about a bunch of American actors shooting an inane movie.”

I jab Jack in the ribs. “Hey! The script is sensitive—and true to life—and—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he smirks. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

“And besides," Arnie adds, "Serena LaCosta is living there now. Ryan is hoping she’s grateful enough that you saved her that she may be willing to speak out on Donna’s behalf regarding Carl’s assassination of both Antoinette and Jonah Breck.”

Serena LaCosta was another Hilldale nanny whom Jonah Breck seduced, then sent to the island in order to be raped and snuffed. Thanks to Jack, Carl never knew she was there when he eliminated Jonah and Antoinette.

“Then production moves to a couple of other locales: Paris, then London. Interestingly enough, each of these locations brings us closer to proving to President Chiffray that Carl must be put behind bars. Dominic is already in London, chasing down an asset who can verify Carl’s role in the murder of a German diplomat. In the meantime, Abu is following up on the lead we have in France—a former Quorum agent who worked closely with Carl. We don’t know much about it, but we’ll have more intel on him soon. Abu will be shadowing the production so that he can work the field for the assets in question.” Arnie lifts the lid on the potatoes, but when he sees the look in my eyes, he drops it. Good boy.

Jack nods. “With Abu there, we’ll have another set of eyes and ears in the field, if need be.”

Arnie pushes up the droopy side of his mustache. I guess it finally bothers him as much as it bothers me. “Another piece of good news! I got Emma a job on the crew, as a make-up assistant.”

“That’s great,” I say, “But will it give Emma enough time to help you with all the ComInt coming in?”

“Knowing her, she’ll be fine.” Even as he says this, Arnie turns red. Only Ryan is oblivious that the two of them are an item.

If only Arnie would move it in the right direction—toward the altar.

Maybe a few exotic locales will put him in the right mindset.

I’ve no doubt it will do wonders for Jack and me.

Chapter 8

Body Double

“I do not do animal acts. I do not do S&M or any variations of that particular bent, no water sports either. I get two thousand dollars a day and I do not work without a contract.”

— Melanie Griffith, as “Holly Body”

Isn’t it exciting? You’ve been invited onto a movie set! So that the experience of seeing your favorite actors up close and personal will be memorable for all the right reasons, keep these three simple rules in mind:

First off, don’t act like a fan. In other words, when you recognize a movie star, don’t (a) scream, (b) point, (c) faint, (d) stutter, (e) laugh hysterically, or (f) cry uncontrollably.

If you do, you’ll just (a) look like a fool, (b) be treated like the village idiot, or (c) be escorted off the lot by security personnel.

Next, don’t be shocked if the actor you love in all her roles doesn’t live up to your expectations. Accept the fact that she’ll have wrinkles, bad breath, an attitude, won’t give a damn as to whom you are, and will call security if you try to pet her, no matter how gently. Bottom line: they’re as human as the rest of us, not some animal in a star-studded zoo.

And finally, don’t play with the props—especially on the set of a thriller. Since no one gave you a peek at the script, you don’t know if something is rigged to emit a puff of smoke that will later be computer-generated to look like an explosion, or if some pyrotechnics will take place and blow you sky high.

And no, you’re not doing the director a favor by substituting your gun for the fake prop one, “just to add realism.”

My children are hiding under a bed while bad guys swarm our house looking for them.

My stomach is queasy, for all the wrong reasons. First off, they aren’t really my kids, just actors hired to play them in a movie. The bad guys are actors, too, and when you meet them, you realize they aren’t so menacing. They’re just a bunch of happy ripped and cut cabana boys from Venezuela—the first stop on our three-country whirlwind production schedule.

The production company has rented out a private resort on Isla Margarita. This tiny island is located just northwest of the mainland, but still within a short boat ride to Caracas, Venezuela’s capital.

The accommodations are luxe. The main building—a four-story hotel designed like an 1800s plantation house, has humongous rooms, which easily accommodate several cameras, the vast undulating cast and crew, and the sets that mimic the interiors found in a typical California suburban home. Besides the home interiors, there is also a schoolroom, a generic corporate office, the villain’s hideout and yes, even a fake Starbuck’s interior.

Here on the island, the breezes are warm and salty. The sand is white and powdery. The waves are sluggish and tepid.

Each of the lead actors has a private cabana, facing the resort’s private beach.

The family Stone has one too. At night, while the children sleep to the endless lullaby of Aunt Phyllis’s gentle snores, Jack and I go skinny-dipping in the lazy surf. We’ve only been here a week, but already I feel the anxiety drifting off my shoulders, like dry sugary sand on gently sun-kissed skin.

On the other hand, the crew fidgets anxiously while waiting for their star, who is still MIA:

Fake Donna Stone.

Today, still no star in sight.

In the meantime, the film’s director, Whitford Fuller, shoots around her. Most of the scenes in which the children are by themselves have been shot, as have close-ups of the children, “John Smith,” and anyone else who has one in the film. Some of the action shots utilizing the stunt doubles are also in the can.

Per our contract, on the set and in the movie we are to be referred to as John and Jane Smith. Also in regard to the movie, our children’s names are Dick, Jane and Sally.

In this scene, just when Dick, Jane and Sally think the coast is clear, an arm reaches under the bed and grabs the leg of the youngest, Sally, pulling her out of her hiding place. “Sally” lets loose with a bloodcurdling scream.

“Cut!” yells Whitford. “Okay, kids! You’re excused for the rest of the day. Go play on the beach. Even better, go run lines for tomorrow’s scenes.” He rubs the weariness from his eyes. It’s only two in the afternoon, but already it’s been a long day. “As for the crew, they finally get to set up for our beloved lead actress, who I hear will be flying in at any moment now.” He waves toward the mansion. “Let’s get the boudoir scenes between Mr. and Mrs. Smith out of the way first!”

“All five of them at once, boss?” The head grip scratches his head, puzzled.

Whitford sighs. “Yeah, well, this is one area in which our leading lady is actually a gifted pro, so it shouldn’t take us too long to shoot.”