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“Well, they’re brothers,” Alan suggested.

Dr. Stu nodded, meaningfully; two men sharing truth.

“The Gibbs. They’re the best. I also did work for one of those Italian movie stars. You’d know who I’m talking about. Whole family acts. Major substance abuse problem. Wife problems. Mistress problems. Kid problems. Tax problems …”

The examples just kept coming.

He was starting to drive Alan crazy.

“Yeah … wouldn’t want to be this guy for ten minutes … but he’s a genius. Is it fair?” He looked at Alan, thought it over. “Don’t ask me. I’m no philosopher.”

His conversation was a cranial mallet.

“Alan, be honest with you. I leave philosophy to the gossip columnists.” He winked, went on, lost in nasal canyons, eyeball lakes.

Dr. Stu was inches away and Alan began to notice his curly hair was a wig. His mustache freefell under designed nostrils and his collagen lips docked under the suspicious vents.

A fiberglass man.

Alan figured it added to Dr. Stu’s popularity. The doctor who sort of looked like a doll. It was a nightmare. He told Alan he was soon expanding his practice into plastic surgery and in the next couple of months had to take his certification for liposuction.

“… been cramming for the ‘suck quiz.’ Have to be careful. Once you have them in the vaccuum bag, can’t get them out.”

Dr. Stu droned on like childhood polio, parked the tongue depressor in Alan’s mouth, and told him to say, “Ahhh.” Alan’s gag-reflex was thrown ten feet back, then rushed forward.

Dr. Stu smiled. “Nice.”

Alan cleared his molested throat. Dr. Stu wrote something on his clipboard, then began to ball-peen knees. As he gently hammered, he told Alan he’d also worked as a part-time actor, whenever a patient in the business needed him. He said he’d done background atmosphere
on a “21 Jump Street” as a strung-out cockroach and had a two-liner as Clifford, Barbi Benton’s ex, in a Movie of the Week about infidelity and breasts.

On the set of “Jump Street,” Dr. Stu said he’d gotten a personal moment with Johnny Depp and that he was “real.” Dr. Stu also said Johnny had very nice skin.

“… smokes too much,” added Dr. Stu, inflicting Everett Koop omniscience. “Keeps it up, he’ll sound like a Harley.” He thumped on Alan’s flour chest, listening for telling echoes. “Good. Sounds nice in there.”

As he checked Alan’s fingernail moons for size, Dr. Stu brought up a film treatment he’d written, two summers back, that was optioned by Warners. He said it went into turnaround when the producer, who was attached, died. The guy had smoked five packs a day for thirty years and shovelled a million acres of Marlboro Country on his lungs.

“Medical thriller,” said Dr. Stu. “Too bad. Would’ve made a great film. Sort of like
Hunt for Red October
but it all takes place in a medical clinic.” He considered. “Johnny coulda done it, though. I probably should’ve shown it to him.”

Alan shrugged. “Maybe just shown it to his skin.”

Dr. Stu looked at him, not really hearing. “Anyway, you gotta really be careful with smoking.”

“How we doing?” Alan asked, knowing he had to get back to the studio for a scoring session.

“Almost done.” He tapped Alan’s sternum, lightly. “Yeah, real nicotine nursery. Be careful what you pour in. Might not like what starts growing.” He nodded, seriously, pleased with the botanical simile.

“Uh-huh …” Alan was beginning to wonder if Dr.
Stu was like the pleasant guy in
The Stepfather;
ready to pop, amid the inanity.

Dr. Stu paused, removed the plastic stethoscope fingers sticking in his ears. Patted Alan’s back. “Well, everything looks okay. We’ll wait for the tests, but so far … you’re doing fine.”

“Really?”

“Surprised?”

“It’s just … a few people have told me I don’t look so good.”

“You’re underweight for your age and frame. Makes you look a bit drawn. Easy to fix.”

Alan gestured without detail. “Truth is, I really don’t feel very good.” He was confused. “… I don’t exactly feel bad either. Just weak.” He realized it sounded hypochondriacal. “Probably just overwork. Nerves. Am I whining?”

Dr. Stu grinned. “Listen, most of my patients are burning both ends. I tell them, you lose sleep, you try to catch up with yourself, you can’t. Can’t rip off your own body. It knows.” Alan was listening, wanting to believe it. “All that REM stuff keeps stacking up. You don’t dream it out, it’ll drive you nuts. What kind of sleep you getting?”

“Sleep? How do you spell it?” He tried to make it sound funny. It missed.

“That’s not enough. Eating right?”

“Imported coffee.”

“Alan, I treat a lot of people in the industry. It’s my practice. I know the hours and demands. But be good to yourself. You get one you.”

It sounded like a ballad.

“I’m really okay?”

“I’m not going to lie to you. You’re very worn down. But you’re basically okay.” He smiled, warmly; a hairy den mother. “I’d like to see you in two weeks. We’ll get you on a higher protein diet. Supplements. Maybe a shot or two of B-12. And Alan … they’re called pajamas: introduce yourself, huh?” He chuckled like Marcus Welby always did; the call-me-in-the-morning Gandhi.

Alan was starting to feel Dr. Stu’s calm voice sink in, soothe his chapped brain. He shook Dr. Stu’s hand; the new, best pal he never wanted to be without.

When the test results came back, three days later, Dr. Stu called and a set of cutlery scattered in Alan’s stomach. He was in the editing room, at the studio, working on the new episode. Dr. Stu told him the test results were highly unusual; that he’d never seen anything like it before, except in cases of extreme starvation. Metabolism so utterly strip-mined. Vital minerals reduced significantly.

“I’ve gone over your last physical. Eight months ago, you were fine. Now—” he paused, unnerved, “it’s like somebody broke into your body and stole half of everything.”

Alan clutched the phone. Felt nothing, stricken. Imagined his innards being burgled while he slept; awakening to find an empty house beneath his skin. He responded; a vacant irony.

“I wonder if they left fingerprints …”

Dr. Stu told Alan he didn’t know what was happening, but that he wanted to step up the supplements and get him in for more tests. He told Alan to try and not worry, it was some explainable depletion they’d turn
around. As long as Alan was basically feeling all right, Dr. Stu advised against immediate hospitalization.

“We’ll take it one step at a time …”

Alan listened, saying nothing, looking down at himself. Wondering if the burglars would return; break in to his body for more. He imagined faceless prowlers inside his skin, with flashlights, ransacking tissue. Ripping blood cells off walls. Bagging priceless fluids. Rifling organs for mineral content that could be fenced later.

Shredding. Searching.

Taking him apart, piece by piece.

T
he yacht rocked in still sea.

Infinite fish silently steeplechased beneath currents and inside bloody fingertips had left a mischievous trail on teak.

Sea Major
moored half a mile off Redondo Beach, twenty miles south of Malibu, and the man was at rest in his own red liquids, eyes dead Waterford.

He was tied to the bed, and had been stabbed over fifty times. There was so much blood on the sheets, the effect was a cardiac operation the surgeon had walked out on to have a smoke. A bucket of champagne was at the bedside, opened and undisturbed.

Romantic music played on the stereo and a woman was frantically dialing the cellular phone, shaking so badly she dropped it several times, whimpering in terror.

Her face had been attacked; cut apart into an
unrecognizable Picasso. Multiple gashes went to bone. Her nose had been crudely slashed off and it left her face nearly flat. She couldn’t breathe right and inhaled blood; choking on it.

Blood guttered into her mouth and eyes, and she grabbed for a paper napkin from the wedding reception they’d had that afternoon, on the yacht. It soaked up blood that oozed from her ruined face and tore in her hands, soaking wet. In seconds, the gold-lettered ROBB AND ERICA was unreadable.

A
lan’s limo hushed down PCH at six
A.M.
He was in back having coffee and croissants, reading the
Hollywood Reporter.

Andy Singer was on the map again.

After the terrible ordeal of being beaten and terrorized, he’d disappeared. After two months or so of lethargic speculation by all, word around was he’d met a guy in the cortex spa, in Palm Springs, named Rick who’d poisoned his entire family, including cats, and that the two had hit it off.

People swore they took walks, played Trivial Pursuit, swapped desserts at mealtime. The grapevine was abuzz. Andy had a new buddy and he was crazier than Andy.

But that wasn’t the good part.

The good part was that, owing to Andy’s questionable judgment, after the assault, Alan’s time slot never got
changed and “The Mercenary” just kept rising on million mile legs, picking up more affiliates, even running twice a night in most markets.

Thanks for leaving your window unlocked, Andy.

Alan sipped coffee and glanced out at the ocean. A beautiful day; the kind of happy morning the Ventures probably decided to dry off and buy a tape recorder.

He got back to the article which was going on about what a fucking genius Andy was and how the whole universe mourned the terrible tragedy which befell him. Then, they dropped the bombshell.

Andy, the Cambodian spin-fuck chair, was quoted as saying he’d had much time to think about his life while on “leave”—a polite way of saying he’d blown his amp and was currently in full-time residence at Shatter World—and that he missed television. With such “brilliant triumphs” as “Cleo” and more currently “The Mercenary” on his list of accomplishments, he was ready to get back into the swing.

And the little Cheshire Führer had an idea.

He talked for a couple of paragraphs about his new friend Rick and what a funny guy he was and how the two had spent countless hours together just talking and kidding around in the programmer’s room, while Andy awaited the proper time to re-enter the world. Rick, of course, never could. Only genuine lunatics were released.

The
Reporter
article went on to say Andy’s new series concept was called simply “The Roomie.” Andy was further quoted as saying it was about an insane, bipolar roommate with a terrible but “hysterically funny” temper
and that he’d already set it up at CBS with a firm order for thirteen, on the air.

Alan poured himself another cup of coffee and shut his eyes. He heard about Erica twenty minutes later when he called his office for messages.

T
alk about
bad
luck.

“What can I say?” says Executive Producer and Creator Alan White. “We’ve been assailed by horrible things. It’s been a nightmare.”

Talk about
weird
luck.

“We’re also the number one show in the world,” adds White. “It almost feels like some awful kharma. Hopefully these bad things are over. We’ve lost a lot of wonderful people.”

You’ve seen it by now. Everyone has. It’s the hottest series on network television and it’s a sizzling outrage. Managing to stun with its mixture of nudity, shuddering violence, dizzying action, and a strange messianic morality, “The Mercenary” is acetylene hot. It seethes attitude and danger and so far five people who are somehow connected to it have died.

It’s not that people haven’t died on other shows, or other movies. Hollywood is rife with productions that went tragically awry and ended up with unwitting body counts. Stunt men die like seasonal plants in a business that strives to design ever more spectacular action sequences. Older actors have died in midscene of natural causes. Younger ones have died with something in their body you can’t get with a prescription.

Excesses and danger seem to go hand in hand with the dream biz. But never, in memory, has a single production been so battered by tragedy.

April 17.
Renowned “bad boy” English film director Hector Blackman commits suicide in a screening room which is showing footage of “The Mercenary” pilot Blackman has directed. In that same room, Second-Unit Director Bo Bixby and network liaisons Scot Bloom and Greg Gunnar are shot by Blackman. Bloom dies after two hours of trauma surgery.

November 12.
Nationally syndicated television critic Richard Frank falls to his death from a Los Angeles high rise. Frank was the most vocal critic of the show and the circumstances of his death, in which he was inexplicably blinded, are still under investigation.

February 24.
Linda Crain, the leader of a fundamentalist church, who wrote angry letters to the advertisers and companies which promoted products on “The Mercenary,” disappears, is found tortured, and dies en route to a hospital. The brutal, bizarre circumstances of the murder remain confidential, pending further investigation.

April 2.
Network executive Andrew Singer, the man responsible for giving the green light to the controversial
series, is severely beaten in his home by an intruder. He was recently released from a psychiatric hospital with possible brain damage, which he denies.

June 16.
Erica Ritter, longtime friend of Alan White, is attacked and disfigured during her honeymoon. Her husband of two days is murdered.

What does it all mean? Theories abound.

“Anybody can have a bad year. Or a great one. Or, in this business, both at the same time,” says one prominent entertainment attorney who asks to remain unnamed. But other television insiders are saying it means certain shows just shouldn’t stay on the air.

Still, a show this massively popular won’t go down without a fight. It’s simply far too profitable for far too many people. The bottom line, as they say in corporate Hollywood, is that a show is big business. And a show this successful seems to have a mind of its own.

I
t’s okay. Alan …” a perfumed whisper.