Bombshell Read online

  “Where’s Barnett?”

  “Up front with the rest of the nominees.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “You can’t see him from here.”

  “Then how do you know where he is?”

  Sylvester bit back a sigh. “I don’t know that he is here yet, but that’s where his seat will be. He’s a producer of a nominated picture, so he’s going to sit in it.”

  “Go check.”

  Sylvester got up and walked down the aisle. He had no trouble spotting the people from Billy Barnett’s film. The actors were there, and the director, and some of the others he’d seen in the restaurant.

  The producer was not there.

  Sylvester turned around and went back to his seat.

  “Well?” Gino demanded.

  “He’s not here yet.”

  Gino exhaled angrily. “Son of a bitch!”

  80

  Sherry Day was nervous. That wasn’t how Oscar night was supposed to be. In her imaginings, the evening would be filled with wonder and excitement. Instead, it was just a source of apprehension. She had no idea who Sylvester was sending as her date. That was all right, but she at least expected to meet him.

  She had been asked to drop his ticket off with the receptionist at a business in East L.A. The company turned out to be a salvage business. The receptionist turned out to be a burly mechanic manning the desk in between tune-ups and tranny repairs. She hoped he wasn’t her date.

  She’d arrived at the theater alone, gone through security, had her ticket scanned, and been ushered to her seat, which was, as she expected, fairly near the back. Of course, the fact that she was in row W was something of a hint. There was a couple to her left, and a couple one seat over to her right. The seat immediately to her right was vacant.

  It was nearly time for the telecast. She wondered if her date was even going to show. Suddenly, there he was, a slender man in a business suit, not a tux, but a perfectly respectable suit and tie. The people in the row stood up to let him through. He squeezed by and dropped into the seat next to Sherry.

  She favored him with a smile. “There you are. I was wondering if you were going to make it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I make it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know you. I’m Sherry.”

  He nodded, then realized something was expected of him. “Bob,” he said.

  He did not offer his hand. Taking the cue, she did not offer hers. “Are you in the industry?”

  He blinked. “Industry?”

  “The movie business.”

  “No.”

  “I am. I’m an actress.”

  “Yes,” he said. He made no attempt to continue the conversation. He ignored her completely and scanned the room, as if looking for someone. After a while he got up, pushed his way out of the row, and walked down the aisle, craning his neck.

  Sherry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  This was going to be a long evening.

  * * *

  Sylvester’s cell phone pulsed. He tugged it out of his pocket and clicked it on. “Yes?”

  It was the shooter. “He’s not here.”

  “I know he’s not here.”

  “If he doesn’t show, the deal is off.”

  “Trust me, he’ll show. He may be late, but he’ll be here.”

  “And how will I know? I can’t be wandering up and down the aisles during the telecast to check if he’s here yet.”

  “I have a plan. Watch me now,” Sylvester said.

  “I can’t see you from my seat. Watch you what?”

  “Watch the aisle.”

  Sylvester slipped out of his seat and walked up the aisle toward the back of the theater. He could see the shooter sitting next to Sherry Day.

  He spoke into his cell phone. “See me now?”

  “Yes.” The shooter hissed it through clenched teeth.

  “Keep watching. Pay attention to the young man I talk to.”

  Sylvester clicked the phone off and kept going to the back of the audience to the standing section. He picked Dylan out of the crowd and pulled him aside.

  “When Billy Barnett arrives, during the next commercial break I want you to hurry down the aisle, shake his hand, and say, ‘Glad you made it, I just wanted to say congratulations.’ Try to get him to stand up when you shake his hand.”

  “I can’t do that,” Dylan said.

  “Slow learner? You can do anything I tell you to do. When he comes in, you do it. No excuses. No second chances. Get it done.”

  Sylvester turned around and headed back to his seat. On the way he buzzed the shooter.

  “You see the kid I talked to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Here’s what he’s going to do.”

  81

  As the show began, the lights dimmed, a huge screen was lowered over the stage, and the picture popped on. It was a shot of the Oscar host, incredibly popular TV personality Jeremy Jenkins. With a background in Broadway theater, feature films, and standup comedy, Jeremy had already hosted the Tonys and the Emmys, and this was his first go at the Academy Awards.

  On the screen, Jeremy is lying in bed. His eyes pop open. His face registers terror. He is late for the awards.

  He rushes out the door, ripping off his pajamas, and bursts into the street, wearing a strange-looking tuxedo with no opening in the front. He stops, looks over his shoulder. He has put it on backward. He grabs his head, gives it a 180-degree twist. He looks down to see his bow tie is now under his chin. He nods in satisfaction and sprints for his car.

  He speeds down the freeway, hits a traffic jam, hops out of his car, and runs along the roofs of the other cars toward the theater.

  He arrives at the theater where a group of anxious singers and dancers are waiting to usher him in. They all surge through the theater doors as—

  The lights came up on stage, the screen was hauled up, and the scene the audience had been watching seamlessly blended into a live-action opening number performed by Jeremy and the chorus.

  The song and dance was pleasant, if unsensational. At best, it let Jeremy get off a few one-liners. At worst, it resembled a slightly under-rehearsed Broadway routine.

  In the ensuing applause, Jeremy launched into his opening monologue. As was his custom, he singled out some of the nominees to pick on. Teddy prayed he wouldn’t be one of them, but of course he was.

  Jeremy’s face lit up in recognition. “I see Mark Weldon is here tonight,” he said happily. His face froze and he put up his hand and edged away. “And I’m not going to say a thing about him,” he said, and the audience laughed appreciatively.

  Jeremy finished his opening monologue and segued straight into the awards. As usual, Best Supporting Actor was first, a high-profile award to grab the audience’s attention before the lull to follow.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Jeremy announced. “To present the Best Supporting Actor award, here is last year’s Best Supporting Actress, Susan Rifkin.”

  The attractive young actress came out displaying a daringly stylish V-necked ball gown, cut to the navel. She stepped up to the stage-right microphone stand and read from the teleprompter.

  “And the nominees are: Mark Weldon, for Desperation at Dawn.”

  On the TV screen, the shot of Susan Rifkin at the microphone cut to a shot of Teddy Fay sitting in the audience. It immediately shrunk to a headshot that appeared in a little square box in one corner of the picture of Susan. As she read off the names of the other nominees, four more square headshots framed her on the screen.

  Susan smiled and ripped the envelope open.

  “And the winner is . . . Mark Weldon, Deperation at Dawn!”

  Teddy was stunned. The next thing he knew his friends were pounding him on the back, and Tessa was laughing and pushing him out of
his seat.

  “Get up! Get up! You won!”

  Teddy walked toward the stage as if in a daze. He went up the steps on automatic pilot, accepted the award, and suddenly found himself at the microphone. He hadn’t prepared any remarks, not expecting to win.

  So he started with that.

  “This is a surprise. There were four other deserving nominees, and I was happy just to be named with them.” He looked around, realized something more was expected. “All I can say is this must be very encouraging to all the stuntmen working out there. And I’m happy to pass along the secret to my success. Get yourself cast in a Peter Barrington film, and play all your scenes with Tessa Tweed. Thank you.”

  Teddy started back toward his seat, but was immediately intercepted by an attractive but efficient young woman in an evening gown who linked her arm in his and guided him offstage into the wings.

  Backstage photographers and TV crews were waiting to pounce. Teddy was whisked through a door into a room soundproofed from the stage where they could have a go at him.

  It was never-ending. No sooner did one group finish with him than another group would pounce. He couldn’t be rude to them and excuse himself. If he didn’t cooperate, suddenly the big story would be what an ungracious winner he was.

  The only saving grace was that there were monitors everywhere, so he could tell just where they were in the show. For all the time the interviews were taking, it didn’t seem like they had gotten very far. After the Best Supporting Actor and Supporting Actress awards, there was a long gap in the ceremony before they got back to anything major.

  The show was just coming up on the first-hour break when Teddy was finally ushered back to his seat.

  Peter leaned over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Did you make another movie out there?”

  “No, I just explained why people liked this one.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  Peter nodded. “Glowing. We should use that in the ads.”

  Ben lowered his voice and asked, “When do you want to go?”

  Teddy looked at his watch. “In about half an hour I’ll go out. Wait a few minutes, so it doesn’t look like we’re going together, then you go.”

  “Oh,” Ben said. “So, now that you’re an Oscar winner, you can boss the head of the studio around?”

  “Relax,” Teddy said. “We can talk about my new trailer later.”

  82

  On the next half-hour commercial break Teddy got up and headed for the men’s room. He went in, accepted congratulations from some actor he didn’t know, and spent a couple of minutes washing his hands to let the actor leave first.

  Teddy came out and headed in the direction of the coat check in the lobby. Ben met him halfway and handed him the briefcase.

  Teddy held up his hand, fingers spread. “Five minutes.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  The men’s room was empty, but Teddy didn’t dare use one of the mirrors over the sinks in case someone should walk in. He took the briefcase into a toilet stall, sat down, popped the case open on his lap, and took out a makeup mirror.

  The transformation from Mark Weldon to Billy Barnett wasn’t that hard. The hair sold it. Mark Weldon’s hair was dark brown, nearly black, as fit his image. Billy Barnett’s hair was naturally gray. Mark Weldon’s hair was a wig, but the high-quality workmanship was unmatched. Few people had any idea it wasn’t real hair.

  Teddy put the finishing touches on the makeup, snapped the briefcase shut, and came out of the stall. He double-checked his appearance in the mirror over the sink. All was in order.

  Teddy came out of the men’s room to find Ben waiting for him. He handed him the briefcase.

  “Billy Barnett,” Ben said. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  “Oh?”

  “You have to have a talk with one of your actors.” Ben shook his head. “Guy won an Oscar, now he wants a trailer upgrade.”

  83

  Dylan’s mouth fell open.

  Billy Barnett was coming down the aisle, large as life. He was already halfway back to his seat. Why couldn’t Dylan have spotted him earlier, intercepted him on his way down the aisle? That would have been so much more natural than accosting him in his seat. It just wasn’t done. Not by a lowly gofer.

  But there was no help for it. It was a case of do it or else. Dylan swallowed hard, and started down the aisle.

  Dylan walked straight up to the row where Billy Barnett sat. He leaned in and said, “Mr. Barnett?”

  Teddy stood up and leaned over. “Yes?”

  “I didn’t see you before, and I just wanted to say congratulations on your Oscar nomination.”

  Dylan extended his hand.

  Teddy shook it.

  Dylan headed back up the aisle.

  Teddy sat back down and frowned.

  What the hell?

  * * *

  Teddy Fay was on high alert. Dylan had just marked him as a target, Teddy was sure of it. He had spent too much time in the CIA not to recognize the action for what it was. The kid had made him uneasy all along, and now his suspicions were confirmed.

  Teddy scanned the room for danger, for anybody taking a particular interest in him or his costars. Mike Freeman’s men had gotten Tessa Tweed to the Academy Awards. It was his job to protect her while she was there.

  As well as protect himself.

  During the next commercial break Teddy said, “Excuse me,” got up, and walked the aisle. He saw Gino Patelli and his henchman. They pretended not to see him, or at least not to care. Their elaborate indifference was almost comical.

  Teddy continued on up the aisle.

  A man near the back of the orchestra section looked like a pro. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but Teddy had a sixth sense about people, and this guy’s posture and expression marked him as someone familiar with casual violence. Judging from the way his jacket hung, Teddy could tell the man wasn’t wearing a gun, so whatever threat he might pose was not immediate.

  Teddy reached the end of the aisle. Dylan was there in the standing-room-only crowd. His eyes widened as he saw Teddy heading in his direction.

  Teddy stopped as if he had just remembered something, went back down the aisle, and sat with Tessa Tweed.

  Okay. He’d identified the players.

  What was the game?

  84

  Desperation at Dawn picked up a second Oscar when Hattie won Best Original Score for her hauntingly beautiful jazzy music that echoed the great noir films of the forties and fifties. Not being an actress, she was allowed to return to her seat.

  She had barely sat down when Peter picked up an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, making them a two-Oscar family. No one wanted to interview a screenwriter, either, and he sat down to the congratulations of his friends.

  Aside from that, the ceremony was uneventful. A Lifetime Achievement Award was presented to an actor so old his entire acceptance speech was inaudible and unintelligible.

  Amazingly, he was the highlight. The rest of the show was pretty boring, with the exception of the Best Foreign Film. The director, a flamboyant Frenchman, picked up the microphone stand as if he were a rock star and danced around the stage with it, burbling effusively in French. No one attempted to translate, and no one had the faintest idea what he was saying.

  Finally he finished talking, put the microphone down, and paraded off-stage, waving the Oscar aloft.

  Jeremy thankfully regained control of the show, and took it to commercial.

  * * *

  Bruce was practically jumping out of his seat. That idiot! That damn Frenchman had moved the microphone! Why, of all things, did he have to pick up the microphone?

  And not put it back in the right place!

  It was off-center, maybe three or four fe
et. Bruce told himself it didn’t matter. Surely the stagehands would put it back.

  Only they didn’t. They gave out the next award from the same spot.

  They went to a commercial and no stagehands came out. No one went near the microphone. It was late, the awards were wearing on, the musical numbers were all done, and there was nothing left to set up. There couldn’t be many awards left—it was almost over, and when they came back from commercial, they would give out Best Actress, and everything would be ruined.

  Bruce stood up and pushed his way to the aisle. With a few quick steps he reached the stage, picked up the microphone stand, and put it back on its spot. He adjusted the microphone, turned, and went back down the steps just as if he had every right to be there and was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. He squeezed his way back into the row and sat down.

  Viveca was astounded. Bruce’s behavior was sometimes erratic, but it always made sense in one way or another. This was just bizarre.

  “Bruce!” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping.”

  “Why did you move the microphone?”

  “It was in the wrong place.”

  “What?”

  “That French guy moved it.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “You’re not going to make your acceptance speech from the wrong place.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all right.”

  85

  Teddy was confused. Viveca’s young man had gone up on stage and moved the microphone, a totally bizarre gesture that had to mean something. Teddy had already connected Bruce to the death of the gossip columnist, and while he’d never seen Bruce and Dylan the gofer together, they were connected through Viveca.

  He was up to something.

  There was danger, but it was spread out among Gino Patelli and his henchman, the potential hit man in the audience, and Viveca’s young man sitting just two rows away.