Rough Cut Read online

  She looked at him, skeptical.

  “C’mon, what do you say?” said Harry. “A night on the town to celebrate your new movie. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  She searched his eyes for sincerity and finally smiled. “Okay.”

  He reached out and hugged her. It felt good to wrap his arms around her and hold on tight. He shut his eyes. He tried to shed the horror of the past few days. He wanted to lose himself in this one moment, holding this beautiful, sweet woman who mattered more to him than anyone else on the planet. Why did everything have to be so complicated when something this simple —not fame, not wealth —made him happy?

  He kissed her. He apologized. She accepted.

  They remained holding one another for several more minutes and Harry felt some of his strength returning.

  39

  The damn giant ant remained in the yard. Grubbis passed it on his way to the front door. He gripped a white envelope in his arthritic fingers, special delivery for Marcus J. Stegman.

  A thirty-day written notice of the termination of the lease.

  There was patience, and there was foolishness. Grubbis was not about to make the transition from one to the other. The hourglass had run out. The time had come for Marcus to face the music.

  Even though Stegman had gotten a lot better about paying his rent, he had gotten much worse about keeping the property in acceptable condition. The yard remained littered with crap, the inside had become a feast for bugs and rodents, and the neighbors complained regularly about noise and strange goings on.

  In heaven, looking down at the inevitable, Audrey Stegman probably wept for her baby. That made Grubbis feel bad. But her baby would be fine. This was best for him. He needed to be kicked out of the nest.

  Yes, that’s what the house had become —a literal nest. Grubbis planned to hire a cleaning crew after Stegman moved out. They would scrub the place down, throw away sack after sack of garbage, make extensive repairs and bring the home back to a level of respectability. And then, maybe some nice, young, decent family would move in. Somebody responsible with a steady job and solid morals. Churchgoers. No more of this crazy horror nonsense. He would screen the applicants carefully. He was too damned old to deal with any more loonies.

  Grubbis lifted his gnarled fist to knock, then paused. The front door was already opened a crack.

  He pushed it open halfway and peered inside. Mountains of camera equipment, food dishes, newspapers, and dirty clothing filled his eyes. Stale stink rushed to his nostrils.

  “Hello?” said Grubbis.

  He listened for a response.

  Then he heard a voice. It was his own voice talking back to him.

  “...the game is over. I will be terminating the lease.”

  Stunned, Grubbis pushed the door all the way open. He stepped forward.

  He continued to hear his voice sounding through the house. “You will have 30 days to vacate the premises. Anything you leave behind will be thrown away. I will be delivering a written notice shortly. If you do not leave voluntarily...”

  It was one of the messages he had left on Stegman’s answering machine.

  Grubbis advanced forward on a path that had been created through the debris. He moved out of the living room and entered a corridor.

  He heard his voice become louder, angrier. Now the words came from a previous answering machine message.

  “I will not stand for this any longer! Damn it, you have disgraced my property.”

  Then Grubbis heard a second voice responding to the taped comments, “But this is my home. I have nowhere to go!”

  The new voice did not sound like Marcus.

  What the hell?

  Grubbis reached one of the bedrooms. He looked inside. Marcus Stegman and one of his roommates —Garon, the dark-skinned one with the earring —sat huddled around a table of computer equipment. They did not see Grubbis. They focused on a large monitor.

  On the monitor, a video clip played, showing the red-haired roommate, Terrance, on the phone.

  Terrance was conducting a phone conversation with fragments of messages Grubbis had left on the answering machine during the past week.

  “Hey,” shouted Grubbis into the room. “That’s my voice.”

  Stegman and Garon turned from the monitors to look at him.

  They did not act surprised. In fact, Stegman smiled. “Hello, Mr. Grubbis. We’ve been expecting you. I received your messages. They were great.”

  “What are you doing with my phone messages?”

  “You want to see?” said Stegman. “Come over, I’ll show you.”

  Grubbis entered the room cautiously.

  “This is my editing suite,” said Stegman. “State of the art. Like the big studios have. I’ve been working on the eviction sequence. Grab a chair.”

  “I’ll stand, thank you,” said Grubbis.

  “We put you in our new movie.”

  “I don’t want to be in your friggin’ movie.”

  “But you’re perfect. You’ve got the perfect look, the perfect voice, for the cranky old landlord.”

  “You can’t do that without my consent.”

  “Too late. We’ve got you. The messages you’ve been leaving on my answering machine —they’re the perfect fidelity to use as audio for the other end of a phone conversation. I created sound files from the tapes, did some editing on the PC, and now you’re part of a phone call with our main character, Boris. Look.”

  Stegman moved the mouse, clicked a few buttons on the keyboard, and played the scene from the beginning.

  On the monitor, the red-haired Terrance answered the telephone. He interacted with portions of Grubbis’s answering machine audio as if it was a live conversation.

  “Magic!” said Stegman. “It’s like the two of you are really talking to each other.”

  “Cute,” said Grubbis, unamused.

  On the monitor, the red-haired man said, “You can’t do this to me. This is my home.” Grubbis could be heard responding, “I tried to cut you slack, but enough is enough. You have created a public nuisance, health violations, property damage, harbored strange people at all hours...”

  “Please, I beg of you...” said the red-haired man.

  Stegman stopped the clip. He turned to Grubbis and smiled. “See? Seamless.”

  “You think this is all some big game?” said Grubbis.

  “What’s in your hand?” asked Stegman. “Did you bring the notice?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Goody,” said Stegman. “Let’s film you delivering it. That’s the next scene.”

  “You are deeply disturbed, boy,” said Grubbis.

  “This will take two minutes. Here’s how I see it.” Stegman jumped up, animated, and began describing the shots, holding up his hands and framing the scene.

  “There’s a knock at the door. ‘Boris’ answers. It’s you, the landlord. You come in. You say, ‘I am serving you with a 30day notice to terminate your rental agreement.’ Boris is speechless. Shocked. You hand him the notice and you leave. And that’s it.”

  “Let me get one thing straight with you,” said Grubbis, looking Stegman squarely in the eyes. “This-is-not-a-movie. This-is-real-life. You really will be evicted. Does this make any sense to you?”

  Stegman nodded. He hung his head. “I know. I know it’s for real. I promise you I will move out...for real...if you help me tape this scene.”

  Grubbis knew at that moment that he had never dealt with a more bizarre request, or a more bizarre tenant; and he had encountered his share of oddballs in the past 35 years. Like the woman who collected snakes and lizards...the performance artist who lifted weights from nipple rings...the old Hungarian guy with wooden teeth and a 17-year-old wife.

  But Stegman took the cake. The champion freak.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Grubbis. “If I let you film me serving this notice, then you will go away for real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine,” said Grubbis. �
�Nobody’s going to see your stupid little movie anyway.”

  Stegman clapped his hands and said, “Awesome.” He turned to Garon. “Go get the digital camera and the tripod. I’ll wake up Terrance.”

  “So what do I do?” said Grubbis.

  “Go back outside. Stand on the front steps. When you hear me yell ‘Action,’ knock on the door. Terrance will answer the door in character, as Boris. You step into the house and deliver the termination notice. Explain it to him and hand it over. Tell him he will be evicted, then leave.”

  “I guess I don’t have to ask, ‘What’s my motivation?’” grumbled Grubbis.

  “This will be quick,” promised Stegman.

  “Good,” said Grubbis. “It better be.”

  Grubbis left the room. He headed toward the front door, kicking at some of the junk in his path.

  “Just give us five minutes!” called out Stegman.

  “Fine,” said Grubbis.

  Grubbis stepped outside the house and closed the front door. He waited.

  He stood there, hands at his sides, doing nothing. His back started to flare up again.

  He felt like a fool. But one thing was for certain: He would be serving the notice and it was no prop. It was the real thing. And if these idiots didn’t vacate the property willingly, he would pursue court action. Nothing would derail this train.

  After 10 minutes, Grubbis became struck with an awful feeling that he had been deceived. They had made him step outside with the notice, shut the door, and probably snuck out the back way. The whole “let’s film you” story was an elaborate scam to lock him out of the house and avoid being served.

  Grubbis was prepared to leave when he heard a voice inside cry out, “Action!”

  No scam, thought Grubbis. Just insane.

  He exhaled a big sigh. “Time to be a movie star,” he muttered. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” shouted a voice.

  Grubbis took hold of the doorknob, turned it and pushed open the door.

  Nobody was there to greet him.

  Grubbis stepped into the messy living room. He noticed the large black camera on a tripod facing him, with the dark-skinned Garon behind the lens. Bright lights had been set up nearby, causing Grubbis to squint momentarily.

  So where was this “Boris” character who was supposed to receive the notice?

  “Hello?” said Grubbis. He looked around and finally held up the envelope and waved it. “I have come to serve you with a lease termination notice. You have 30 days to vacate the premises.” After a pause, he added, “Where are you?”

  The door behind him shut with a slam.

  Grubbis turned. He faced Terrance, who wore a white hockey goalie mask and a large flannel shirt. He carried a machete.

  I don’t remember this being part of the scene, thought Grubbis; and he just stood there, baffled.

  Terrance took several swift steps forward. He thrust the machete into Grubbis. The blade entered his gut with such force that it kept going until the tip emerged from his backside.

  George Grubbis put the entirety of his strength and being into a shrill, anguished scream.

  In the house next door, Rebecca Hirsch heard the screams coming from the Stegman house. Loud, agonized cries for help, like the others. Only this time she knew better than to call the police. Those crazy boys at the Stegman house were cranking up their horror movies again on the home theater system.

  Still, the noise was a nuisance. She had complained before to the property owner, but obviously he hadn’t done anything about it —or the garbage that remained scattered all over the front lawn. She wondered why the landlord was so indifferent to his tenant’s behavior.

  The screams continued, so Rebecca turned on her stereo to drown them out. She played a CD by Cher. The song “Love and Understanding” filled the house and brightened her mood. The screams left her mind, replaced by Cher’s soaring vocals, a majestic melody, a catchy beat, and a dancing string section. When she thought she could still hear the screams, she turned the music up louder...

  40

  Harry picked up Rachel at eight at her West Hollywood apartment. She greeted him at the door with a hearty embrace. Maria waved from the couch and said, “You guys have some celebrating to do.”

  “Check it out —brand new dress,” said Rachel, striking a quick pose, and Harry was happy to indulge.

  “I splurged,” she said, twirling, elegant in turquoise: light, sunny, leggy, strapless.

  “You look like a movie star,” said Harry.

  The drive into Beverly Hills for dinner hit a roadblock. Literally. Streets had been closed for the filming of Army of Steel. What should have been a straight route became a maze of turns and dead ends. Harry followed a long trail of brake lights.

  “You can’t throw a rock around here without hitting one of their shooting locations,” grumbled Harry, inching forward in the traffic. “It’s like they own L.A., just because they have a $110 million budget.”

  Rachel said, “Tomorrow they’re taking over Farmers Market to shoot a big action scene.” “And I’m lucky to get a permit to film at 2 a.m. in an empty parking garage.” “I wonder if the movie will be any good.”

  “With all the marketing they’ve committed to it, I’m sure it will be a big success with ten sequels. There will be videogames, Happy Meals, breakfast cereals, pop-up books, pillow cases...” Then Harry caught himself and said, “I’m sorry to sound so bitter. I just...”

  He glanced at her and she was beautiful, and in the moment, he became candid.

  “I used to be married,” he said. “I apologize. I haven’t talked much about it. But my ex-wife is Julie Howard. She’s married to Nigel Howard, the director of Army of Steel. Basically, she left me for him. I think she was tired of playing minor league ball and wanted to get a taste of the majors.”

  “Honey, you’re major league,” Rachel told him. “The budgets don’t mean anything. It’s the talent.”

  “You would think so. But she thought I was a failure.”

  “What does she know?”

  Harry thought about it and replied, “Nothing, actually.”

  The traffic started moving, finally, at a decent clip.

  “Let’s change the subject,” said Rachel. “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about your ex-wife all night. Hey —here’s something. Did you hear about that guy they found dismembered in his RV?”

  Harry ran a red light.

  Car horns blared and a Jaguar flew by, missing them by inches.

  Rachel shouted, “Watch the road!” and burst out laughing after Harry made it across the intersection without an accident. “You want me to drive?”

  Harry felt his hands sticking to the steering wheel with perspiration. “What —what about the dismembered guy?”

  “It was in the news,” she said. “They found an RV parked in a trailer park on Long Beach with a dead guy inside, all cut up with a chainsaw or something. Isn’t that gross? It sounds like one of your movies.”

  “No it doesn’t!” said Harry, a tad too defensively.

  “Who would do such a thing?’

  Harry wanted to go back to talking about his ex-wife.

  “Real life is always scarier than anything you could put in a horror film,” said Rachel. “Don’t you think?”

  Harry replied, “For dinner, I’m leaning toward the swordfish or maybe the spinach ravioli...”

  They arrived late at Buzz, but not late enough to lose their table. The smiling maître d’ led them across the art-deco bistro to a private booth in a back corner. After the edgy drive, the soft amber lighting and pastoral classical music helped to sooth Harry’s nerves.

  Rachel sat across from him, and he studied her as she studied the menu.

  He thought about their last date, the Lakers game followed by the beginnings of a bedroom scene. He wanted to pick up where they left off. He wanted to spend the entire night with her close.

  They ordered appetizers —lobster crepe with as
paragus, marinated Portobello mushroom with ratatouille —and Harry selected a bottle of champagne.

  “Champagne?” said Rachel.

  “Of course,” said Harry. “We have to celebrate your new movie role. I’m ready to hear all about it. No distractions. You have my undivided attention, so let’s have the details.” He adopted a glib announcer voice. “This is E! Entertainment here.

  Miss Stoller, tell us how you landed your big role.”

  “Well,” smiled Rachel, “I had the audition on Monday. I got the call on Tuesday. We film the scene a week from Friday. But here’s the part I’ve been holding back —I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m working with someone who knows you.”

  “Someone who knows me?” said Harry, intrigued. “Well, gee. I know a lot of people in this town. It’s a director?”

  “A director. He says he knows you really well.”

  “You want me to guess?”

  “Sure.”

  “Boy...it’s not Nigel Howard, is it?”

  She laughed. “No, no.”

  “What’s the genre?”

  “Just like you. Horror. Suspense. Low-budget.”

  “Hmmm...” said Harry.

  “I told him we were having dinner here tonight and I invited him to drop by,” said Rachel. “So if you can’t guess, I’m not telling you who it is until he gets here.”

  “It’s a he. So it’s not Scarlet Dean.”

  “Right. It’s a he.”

  “James Newman?”

  “No.”

  “Bill Gagliani? Thomas Willis?”

  “Nope.”

  Then her eyes lit up as she looked over Harry’s shoulder and saw someone approaching the table. She told Harry, “You’re almost out of time.”

  Harry just smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. I give up. Who is it?”

  Harry felt a hand drop on his shoulder. He turned.

  “Hello, Harry,” said Marcus Stegman.

  41

  The champagne arrived as Stegman leaned over to kiss Rachel on the cheek. He said, “Hello, darling.”