Popcorn (20 page)

THIRTY-ONE

T
he arrangements were made, and Wayne made his way down through the house once more, to await the camera crew.

Meanwhile Bruce paced about the lounge, desperately trying to think of a way out.

Scout was proud of how deeply Wayne’s plan had affected him. “Ain’t Wayne smart, huh?” she said.

“I can’t do it,” Bruce replied. “I just can’t.”

Velvet was with Brooke, attempting to re-dress her wound with torn cushion covers. She stared up at her father. “Daddy, you have to. This woman needs a doctor and you heard what he said he’d do to me. He said he’d shoot me in the mouth.”

Velvet was fighting back her tears but none the less was showing a strength of character of which her parents had been completely unaware. Years of wandering round shopping malls with too much money to spend had never brought out the best in her.

“Yes, all right, Velvet. I’m sorry. I won’t let that happen. But I have to think. This is a very terrible thing for me. For us. Wayne’s right, you see. Once I do this thing, my life as I know it will be over, no matter what I do, no matter what I achieve, this is all I will be remembered for.”

Brooke, whose life looked as if it was very nearly over already, tried to protest at this. Although it came out only as a gurgle, her meaning was clear: she felt her problem should be number one on the group agenda.

Bruce simply could not bring himself to agree. “Brooke, I know you’re seriously wounded, and, believe me, when I can do something about it I will, but right now I am powerless to help. And I have a problem too. Ten minutes from now the entire world is going to hear me confess to mass murder.”

“But you’re being coerced. You can deny it afterwards,” said Farrah. It had begun to dawn on her just how seriously Bruce’s defeat was going to affect her own fortunes.

“Oh sure, Farrah. Some plea in mitigation — a retrospective claim to be a pathetic victim, outplayed and manipulated by a piece of scum out of the lowest trailer in the Midwest.”

“You’d better watch your mouth.” Scout did not like to hear Wayne spoken of in that way.

Bruce was too scared to care. “What? You want me to
like
the guy, Scout? Your boyfriend is a sadistic maniac, a heartless psychopath.”

“You don’t know his nice side.”

Bruce actually laughed.

Now Farrah had something to say. She crossed over to the couch where Scout was sitting and sat down beside her. Scout covered her warily.

“If you’re thinking of trying to make friends with her,” said Bruce, “don’t bother. Brooke tried that, and got a busted lip.”

But Farrah had other things on her mind. She had been thinking a lot since Wayne announced his plan and now she had a favour to ask. “Look…Miss…um, Scout? Speaking of nice sides, I would like it so much if you could do something for us. A favour.”

“What kind of favour?”

“Would it be all right if my husband made a call?”

“A call? Who’s he going to call? The whole world’s standing right outside on his lawn.”

“What’s on your mind, Farrah?” said Bruce. “Who do you want me to call?”

Farrah had to make her pitch. She knew it would not sound good, but she had no choice: everything she had was in danger of disappearing with the morning dew. Farrah was a woman who knew what it was like to have nothing, and as far as she was concerned it sucked.

“Bruce, think about it. This thing isn’t just going to ruin you as an artist. It will completely destroy you financially as well. Once you claim responsibility for inciting murder, the family of every victim of violence in America is going to sue you, and not just Wayne and Scout’s victims’ families either, but everyone whose life has been touched by violence. We will be in litigation for ever. Velvet’s grandchildren will still be paying. Do you understand? Overnight bankruptcy. What we have to do is transfer all your assets into my name, right now, before you make the broadcast — it won’t wash afterwards. So if Miss Scout here will just let you send a little fax to our bank…”

It was an impressive display. Everyone was surprised.

“Mom!” Velvet protested. “This is
so
tacky.”

“Lady, I am protecting your future here.”

Scout was laughing. “You’re something, ain’t you?” she said.

“
I’m
something? I’m not the one breaking into people’s homes and murdering them. I just don’t particularly want some Milwaukee waitress whose husband got knifed in a bar getting hold of my daughter’s money, that’s all.”

“Well, no one’s making any calls, and no one’s sending no faxes either, so I guess you’ll just have to start thinking ‘bout being poor. So there!”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Besides which,” Scout added irritably, “I reckon maybe that waitress in Milwaukee would have a point. Maybe the great Bruce ‘Mr Oscar’ Delamitri shouldn’t have gone making them films and all. Maybe all that stuff Wayne’s going to make you say ain’t so dumb.”

Bruce was angry now, angry enough to ignore his fear. “I don’t believe it! You are actually trying to convince yourself that you’re not really to blame, aren’t you? It’s not just a trick, you seriously want to believe it. You actually want to dodge responsibility for what you’ve done. You cowardly little bitch!”

“Daddy, be quiet,” Velvet pleaded. “She’ll kill us!”

Scout fondled her automatic weapon. “I ain’t going to kill no one, cutie, not ‘less they don’t do what we tell ‘em. All I’m saying is that—”

“You are the sole perpetrators of your crimes,” Bruce shouted. “Nobody pulled the trigger but you.”

“I know that, Mr Delamitri. I admit that. It was us done our crimes, I admit we’re to blame.”

“Well, that’s mighty big of you, I must say.”

“Daddy, please, be nice,” Velvet begged.

“It’s just, well…” Scout continued, “I don’t think it helps any that everything is so ugly all the time. That’s all.” She seemed almost wistful.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you know, songs and films and stuff. All that used to be an escape from being poor and living in fear. Now everything just seems to rub your face in it. I mean, your films are like, what’s that word?…when someone’s getting off looking at stuff that’s none of their business…”

“Voyeuristic,” Velvet said helpfully, hoping to mitigate her father’s aggression.

“That’s right. They’re voyeuristic. I mean, you live in a big old house in Hollywood with a pool and a security guy and all—”

“Until your boyfriend cut his head off,” Bruce said bitterly. “Now I have a decapitated security guard.”

“I told you I know we done that stuff and we’re to blame.” Scout was getting angry too. “I’m just saying you got all this luxury, like a king or a president or something, and you pay for it by making films about ordinary, sad, dumb people, people who live in ghettos and projects and trailer parks, and making them look ugly and sick and violent—”

“You
are
ugly and sick and violent!”

“Yes, I guess I am, and I deserve whatever I get. It just seems to me that half of America lives in hell and the other half gets its rocks off watching.”

Scout didn’t want to talk about it any more so she put on the TV. Bruce’s house was still on the screen and approaching it, rather nervously, were two people in their underwear.

THIRTY-TWO

W
ayne opened the front door carefully and let the near-naked camera operator and recordist into the house.

“I sincerely apologize for the undignified working conditions,” he said, somewhat taken aback to discover that one of the team, the sound recordist, was a woman, and wondering what Scout would make of that. “But I’m sure you understand my position here.”

Across the lawn, behind the ring of armoured vehicles that the police had established, the forces of authority watched the scene.

“Well, yet another murdering bastard is about to get his fifteen minutes of fame,” Chief Cornell reflected. The chief had with him his number-one siege team, his top negotiator, his Commander of Special Weapons and Tactics, and his press and media publicist.

“And maybe when he takes a dump we can send someone in to wipe his ass,” said the SWAT boss, furious at the lack of direct action. “I have Special Forces in position and ready to move, sir. Let my men take this bastard. We can be in and out again in forty-five seconds.”

The publicist was adamantly opposed to this. “It’s too big a risk, sir,” he said. “All the hostages are in one room, and both targets are heavily armed. If the SWAT guys go in, there could be a complete bloodbath, which I need hardly remind you would be in full view of every TV camera in Hollywood.”

“Yeah, and supposing we pull it off?” the SWAT man replied. “Stun grenade the bastards and bring ‘em out in chains? How about that for the cameras, huh?”

It was a tempting prospect. There is nothing quite so glamorous as a siege broken and hostages saved, especially if those hostages happen to include teenage girls.

“There is no way Wayne Hudson is going to let you take him out of there alive,” the publicist argued.

“Dead then. Even better. As long as we save the hostages.”

“As long as.”

In the end Cornell decided that, for the time being at least, cautionary counsel must prevail. “I think we have to see if this media stuff works. Who knows, maybe once he’s had his say he might throw the towel in.”

The head of SWAT turned away in disgust. Chief Cornell did not blame him; the decision stuck in his craw too. Even before the Uni Bomber, criminals had been showing a worrying predilection for blackmailing their way on to the media. Deep down, everyone wants to get on TV. A glance at any game show is enough to show just how far people will go to achieve that aim. Why should criminals be any different? More and more, it seemed to Chief Cornell that he and his men were becoming extras in a procession of lunatics’ private movies.

“It’s getting so we ought to turn ourselves into agents and start charging ten per fucking cent,” he reflected bitterly.

Of course the police were themselves partly to blame, and Cornell knew it. It is the police who supply the footage for police camera shows. It is the police who give never-ending press conferences and appear on public-involvement TV programmes, appealing for witnesses. Chief Cornell knew that he himself had staged many spectacular operations with the cameras and publicity principally in mind. If the cops wanted to be stars, why shouldn’t the hoodlums?

Chief Cornell sighed. “Just as long as the bastard doesn’t throw a tantrum and keep us here all day while he sits in his trailer and sulks.”

THIRTY-THREE

I
nside the house Wayne returned to the lounge with the little ENG crew.

Scout was still watching TV. “Shhh,” she said.

“A camera operator and a recordist are now inside the siege mansion,” the studio anchorwoman was explaining, “so we should be getting pictures soon. The recordist is trailing a two-hundred-metre cable feed to the control truck which is parked in the grounds…there you can see it there, that’s the truck…That is the control truck isn’t it, Larry?”

“I believe that is the control truck, Susan,” said her partner, “but I can’t be sure. Let’s bring in Doctor Mark Raddinger, of the East LA Academy of Media Studies. Doctor Raddinger, is that the control truck we can see now?”

“Yes,” replied a bearded man in polo neck and corduroy jacket who was seated beside Larry, “that is the control truck.”

“So you can confirm that?” asked Larry.

“Yes, I can confirm that,” replied Doctor Raddinger. “That is the control truck.”

“Well, it’s as we suspected, Susan,” said Larry, “and we have a confirmation on that. The truck currently on our screens is, as you rightly predicted just moments ago, the control truck.”

“And we can confirm that?” Susan asked.

“Yes,” Larry replied. “We do now have confirmation. It is the control truck. The truck to which the recordist, who is currently situated inside the siege mansion, is linked by a two-hundred-metre broadcast feed cable.”

“Thanks, Larry,” said Susan. “And further to that, I can also confirm that the recordist is linked to the TV ratings computer.”

“The TV ratings computer?” Larry enquired. “That would be the computer which analyses and delivers the TV ratings, right?”

“Yes, it would, Larry.”

“Let’s bring in Doctor Mark Raddinger again, here. Mark, can you give us a little background detail on the TV ratings computer?”

“Yes, I can, Larry. The TV ratings computer is the computer which the TV companies use to analyse and deliver an accurate statistical analysis of the TV ratings via computer.”

“I see. Fascinating. And you can confirm that?”

“Yes, I can.”

“And the TV ratings would be how many people are watching?” Susan enquired.

“Statistically and demographically speaking, yes it would—”

Wayne turned the set off. It was giving him a headache.

“That’s enough TV now, Scout. We got work to do,” he said. “OK, everybody, listen up. This is Bill and Kirsten, and they are going to make us stars.” He ushered the crew into the room.

Bill and Kirsten entered rather gingerly. They were a tough pair, who had covered wars, famines and presidential elections, but their current circumstances were scarcely likely to put them at their ease. It wasn’t so much the woman in the blood-soaked gown who lay gurgling on the floor near the drinks cabinet who bothered them. Nor was it really the two psychopathic maniacs who were pointing automatic weapons at them. It’s just never easy to be the only people who turn up at a social gathering dressed only in your underwear.

They felt naked. Bill and Kirsten were a tough, lean young news team, and they liked to look the part. Bill missed his survival tunic with its numerous pockets, out of which he often claimed he could live and work for a month. Kirsten missed her sixteen-lace-hole combat boots, the mere pulling on of which always made her feel tougher and braver. Most of all, they both missed their trousers. There was, however, nothing either of them could do about it, so they applied themselves to the task in hand like the proud professionals they were.

“How do you want to stage this thing?” Bill asked.

Wayne looked at Bruce. “Bruce, you’re the director. Where should these people set up?”

But Bruce remained tight-lipped. He wasn’t going to facilitate his own disgrace if he could avoid it.

Wayne shrugged. “Well, I guess I can do this myself. Maybe I’ll get an Oscar too, ha ha! OK, I reckon you guys should set up the camera right there in front of the fireplace.”

Bill and Kirsten did as they were bidden and began to arrange their equipment. Meanwhile, Wayne thought about his staging. “I believe we should use this couch as kind of centre of the action, OK? ‘Cos one thing I know is that whenever anybody’s doing any talking on the TV there is just about always a couch somewhere. So if I push it round a little, then I guess you’ll be able to include Brooke in the shot. Is that right, Bill?”

“Yes, I can see her,” Bill answered.

“Well that’s good, because I think she looks just great lying on the floor like that. Like some kind of wounded swan or something.”

Scout loved it when Wayne talked like that. She firmly believed that, given an education, he could have been a poet. Bill would not have agreed. Seen through his viewfinder, Brooke did not look like a wounded swan at all. She looked like a wounded person, a badly wounded person. Bill had seen many such sights during his career as a war correspondent but he never got used to them and never found them anything but appalling.

“She’s dying,” said Velvet, placing a coat over Brooke.

“We’re all dying, darlin’,” Wayne replied, “from the very first day we’re born. What I’m saying is that her pathetic condition kind of underlines the point I’m making here. A kind of livin’, or maybe I should say dyin’, example of what men like Bruce here exploit and promote. So get that coat off her, sugar. It ain’t cold and that coat’s spoiling my picture. Ain’t nothing sexy ‘bout a coat.”

Velvet did as she was bidden.

“OK, that’s good.” Wayne nodded his approval. “This thing’s really coming together now. So how ‘bout you?” He turned on Farrah. “What can we do with you?”

“What do you mean?” Farrah was startled. She had begun to imagine herself exempt from the action. She was sadly deluded.

“This is TV, honey. Good-lookin’ woman like you’s gonna be a big draw, particularly ‘longside of your cute li’l daughter. Scout baby, take Mrs Delamitri and Miss Delamitri and cuff them to that lampstand behind the sofa…C’mon, c’mon, get over there, girls. We ain’t making
Gone with the Wind
here, this is live action.”

Scout put her hand in Wayne’s bag and produced a pair of handcuffs.

“Got these off a cop,” she explained, adding darkly, “He don’t need ‘em no more.”

As Scout manacled Farrah and her daughter to the lampstand, with uncharacteristic humility Wayne asked if it would be OK to take a look through the camera lens.

“You’re the director,” said Bill.

“Well, that’s right, I guess I am.” Wayne dropped the humility and strutted over to the camera as if he was Cecil B. de Mille. Pressing his eye to the viewfinder, he surveyed the scene thoughtfully. He could see Bruce sitting on the couch. Behind him were Farrah and Velvet and to one side lay Brooke.

“OK now, Scout,” Wayne said, further composing his shot, “get down there beside Bruce, ‘cos that’s where we gonna to be sat, OK? Right next to the man.”

But he was still not quite satisfied.

“It seems all right to me,” Kirsten commented nervously. “I mean, it contains all the elements, doesn’t it?” She wanted to get done and get out of there.

“The elements is just the basics of the shot,” Wayne replied. “What we got to do here is make one compelling fuckin’ image. I mean
compelling
. Because if we ain’t good, pretty soon the networks are going to go back to their regular schedules and all we’ll be left with is CNN. What are we up against, honey? What’s the opposition? I guess you know more about daytime TV than any woman of your size and weight in the whole USA.”

“
Star Trek: The Next Generation, Family Ties, Cosby
and
Oprah
repeats,” Scout recited proudly. “I don’t know all the cable stuff.”

Kirsten looked up from her equipment. “Wayne, when this goes out live, every station in the country will pick up on it. You’ll be the only thing showing nationwide.”

“Y’hear that, Bruce? I’m making you bigger than you was already. Now, you sure you’re going to be able to get all this in, Bill? What’s your edge of frame?”

“Edge of frame”. Scout nearly cried, she was so proud of Wayne.

“We have plenty of width,” Bill said. “I’ll just lock it off and take the whole thing in a static five shot. Have another look.”

Wayne did so and then, with a thoughtful frown on his face, crossed to the two handcuffed women. He studied them for a moment and then ripped open Velvet’s smart little pink jacket, causing the buttons to fly off.

Scout was not at all happy with this development. Nor, of course, was Velvet, but she was in no position to protest.

“Wayne, take your hands off that girl right now!” Scout shouted.

“You want the ratings, honey? Huh? You want people to watch this thing? Sex is important on TV, sex sells.” Wayne tore open Velvet’s blouse and pulled it down off her shoulders, revealing her brassière. “Cute, huh?” he said. “Can’t show too much. There’s strict rules. Just enough for the couch potatoes out there in TV land to get themselves off on…OK, I guess we’re just about ready. Bruce, in just a moment or two you’re going to sit here on this couch ‘tween me and Scout and tell America what I said to tell them.”

“Look, Wayne, this is—”

“And if you don’t, I’ll kill sweet little Velvet here, and Mrs Delamitri — not that you give a flying fuck in a thunderstorm ‘bout her. Also of course, I’ll kill you. I think you’re going to do what I tell you. Ain’t you, Bruce?”