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  FLOATER

  Gary Brandner

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Also Available

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  Los Angeles, June 1987

  LINDY

  The intersection of Westwood Boulevard and Pico is not one of the glamour corners of Hollywood. It does not rank with Wilshire and Rodeo, Sunset and Vine, or even Beverly and Fairfax. Junior’s Delicatessen, which shares the northwest corner with a newsstand and a dry cleaner, is not L’Orangerie, Spago’s, or the Polo Lounge when it comes to high-visibility deal-making. However, it is at Junior’s and other unpretentious eateries like Hugo’s on Santa Monica and DuPars in the Valley that the nuts and bolts of movie deals are fitted together. Steven Spielberg or Francis Coppola or whoever is the head of Universal this week won’t be seen there, but the independent producers, the eager young agents, the non-celebrity writers, directors, and others who butter the real bread of Hollywood meet over coffee and bagels in these modest surroundings to make career decisions.

  Lindy Grant sat uncomfortably erect in a booth at Junior’s with a copy of her screenplay, Shadow Watcher, lying flat on the table in front of her. Beside it were a cheese Danish with one bite taken out of it and a cooling cup of coffee. Across from her sat two men who were telling her all the things that were wrong with her script.

  Lindy was trying hard to pay attention to what the men were saying, but her thoughts kept returning to a face. A terrible, angry face that belonged to her daughter but was not her daughter’s face. And an inhuman voice that spoke strange, ominous words.

  One of the men in the booth was Lou Davidoff. He was about thirty and wore his hair in a punkish semi-spike style. He had a pinched nose, crooked teeth, and a perpetually sour expression. Davidoff represented New Titan Films, an up-and-coming distributor, and was often mentioned in the trades as a comer.

  The other man, tall, round-shouldered, with only a few strands of hair left to cover his high-domed head, was Lindy’s producer, Josh Cleery. He was an independent, which in the movie business means he fit somewhere between having a secure studio contract and standing in the unemployment line. Only yesterday Josh was telling Lindy what a fine writer she was and how they had a sure winner with Shadow Watcher.

  “I’ve got commitments for real money on this one, Lindy,” he had told her. “They love your script, absolutely love it to pieces. All they want to see is a first line distributer tied into the package and we’re on our way.”

  Now he was agreeing eagerly with Lou Davidoff that the script was a fair first draft, sure, but needed work. Lots of work.

  First draft, hell, Lindy thought. She had already rewritten the thing completely three times, with half a dozen sets of revisions, even though her contract called for only two drafts and a polish. Now this kid with the punky hairdo — both the men were younger than she, Lindy reflected unhappily — was telling her that women-in-jeopardy stories were a tough sell without a commitment by a star, a major director, or a high-concept theme.

  “Since we probably can’t get Meryl Streep or one of the hot Italian directors on Josh’s budget, maybe I could add a shower scene in a girl’s dorm and we could sell it as a teenage sex comedy.”

  Davidoff’s expression did not change. Josh forced an unconvincing laugh.

  “She’s kidding,” he assured the distributor. “Seriously, Lindy, I think Lou makes some good points here. I mean, he’s tight with the exhibitors, and he knows the kind of pictures they want. Why don’t you go over some of those points again, Lou.”

  Sure, go over them twenty times, for all I care. Lindy already saw that the kid didn’t know dip about story or character or suspense or real dialogue. But he knew the exhibitors. She arranged her features into a thoughtful expression and tried to listen to his dumb suggestions for changing her characters and juggling her plot points.

  Lou Davidoff’s monotonous voice faded into the background clatter of dishes and the chatter of other would-be deal makers. Lindy kept her chin propped on one fist and gazed attentively at his moving lips while her mind drifted back to her current worry number one.

  • • •

  What the hell, she wondered, was the matter with Nicole? Sure, there were the usual problems that went with a fourteen-year-old daughter — the clothes crises, the scuzzy boyfriends with earrings and Indian haircuts, the campaign for more liberal dating privileges, and a precocious breast development about which the girl was inordinately embarrassed. These were problems a parent of the eighties was expected to cope with, but lately a couple of things had happened that didn’t fit any pattern.

  It began a week ago at dinner with the face. Lindy had looked up from the script she was marking and saw a look of such malevolent hatred from her daughter that she spilled her wine. The girl’s smooth, regular features were distorted into a grotesque mask that was somehow chillingly familiar to Lindy.

  Then, in an instant, it was gone. Nicole was once again her usual chattery, goofy self. Lindy decided it was some trick of the lighting, some strange illusion. But the terrible distorted features had stayed in her mind.

  Then, yesterday morning, as she was clearing away the breakfast dishes, she heard the voice. A harsh rasp that was barely recognizable as human.

  “Lindy!”

  Startled, Lindy had looked up to see no one in the room but Nicole. The girl had never called her anything but Mom. And she certainly never sounded anything like that. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor giving her full attention to adding another rip to her pre-ripped Guess Jeans.

  “It’s payback time,” said the raspy voice coming from her daughter.

  “What did you say?” Lindy stared.

  For a moment Nicole did not look up. Lindy tensed, but when the girl lifted her head, her face was clear, the eyes wide and innocent.

  “Huh?”

  “What did you just say?”

  “Me? Nothing.”

  “Didn’t you … hear anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like somebody talking.”

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Lindy snapped. “What was that voice?”

  “I didn’t hear anything, Mom. Maybe the neighbors are playing their TV loud again.” She smiled tolerantly and returned to her work on the jeans.

  Lindy studied the top of her daughter’s head where the pale blond hair was parted along the pink scalp. The girl had her faults, but playing silly practical jokes was not among them. She was telling the truth.

  And yet Lindy had heard it clearly. A rasping, angry call. Then the cryptic warning, if that’s what it was. She had a flash of Linda Blair in The Exorcist talking in the demon voice, and quickly shook away the image. Still, the incident remained stuck in her mind like a shred of meat between her teeth.

&nb
sp; She told Brendan Jordan about it last night as they sat close together on his double-width chaise watching Aliens on HBO.

  “Are you sure it was Nicole you heard?” he asked.

  “The voice came from her. There was nobody else in the house.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s probably some new kick the teenagers are on.”

  “I don’t think so. Nicole’s not the type to fool around like that.”

  “Do you want me to have a talk with her?”

  “Come on, Brendan. You doing the father part? Quit kidding.”

  He sat up and looked at her. “Just a minute. I am a father. My boy just graduated from Stanford, remember? Going on to medical school in the fall? Maybe I’m not Bill Cosby, and maybe his mother and I couldn’t hack it as man and wife, but I don’t think I did too badly with the kid.”

  She pulled his head toward her and kissed him. “I know, Brendan. I wasn’t thinking when I said that. It’s just that this isn’t your problem. It’s unfair of me to unload on you.”

  “Who says so? If you’ve got trouble, I want to hear about it. If I can’t handle it, that’s for me to decide.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep you informed of any future developments. Just remember I gave you a way out.”

  “I’ll remember.” His eyes drifted back to the screen. “Well, it’s about time. We had to wait for the last scene of the picture to get Sigourney Weaver in her underwear.”

  “Are you saying you’d rather look at that woman’s flesh than talk to me?”

  He punched the remote control, darkening the screen, and pulled Lindy closer. “No contest. If Sigourney Weaver walked in here right this minute, with or without her underwear, and offered me a thousand dollars to fly her to Maui, I would tell her tough luck, Captain Jordan is otherwise engaged.”

  “What if she made it two thousand?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You’re a liar, but I love it.” They kissed then and never did see the end credits of Aliens.

  • • •

  The pleasant memory of Brendan faded as Lindy realized the two men in the booth at Junior’s were looking at her. Davidoff sourly, as usual, and Josh with a hopeful, don’t-screw-this-up expression.

  “What do you think, Lindy?” Josh said.

  This movie meant a lot to him. He had just two completed films to his credit — Desert Frenzy, a shoestring slasher that had made a few bucks in the video market, and Street Mamas, a piece of sleaze that was still on the shelf. Shadow Watcher, even with the modest budget he had planned, would be Cleery’s ticket to respectability as a producer. A tie-up with New Titan would bring in dollars and could lead to bigger deals to come.

  “I’ll have to rethink it with the script in front of me,” Lindy said, wondering what cockamamie ideas the dork had come up with while she was daydreaming.

  “But we can do it, right, Lindy?” Josh said. “I mean, the changes aren’t all that major.”

  How the hell would you know? Josh was a sweetheart of a guy when he wasn’t scrambling to make a buck, but his feeling for a script was close to zero.

  If only she could hit big with her novel, Lindy thought, she could tell these Hollywood creeps to kiss off and never have to worry again about squeezing a screenplay into a convoluted mess that would please the most people with the least hassle. Trouble was, her novel had got no farther than Chapter Two, and so far no publisher had shown a flicker of interest.

  “Let me think it through,” she said. “Can you give me some notes?”

  Davidoff consulted his Rolex. “I suppose I can go back this afternoon and dictate some of these thoughts to my secretary and shoot them back to you. I just don’t want to delay this thing any more than we have to.”

  “My feeling exactly,” Josh enthused. “Once we get your ideas we can show you pages — when, Lindy, a week?”

  “Sure,” Lindy said. Why so long? she thought. Why not promise the toad we’ll have a finished script for him tomorrow morning?

  It would mean no Brendan for the rest of the week, but both of them were used to that. His work as a charter pilot often took him away for days at a time on short notice, and working in the screen trade called for sudden, intense bursts of work for her with no time for fun.

  And after all, making this deal was important to her, too. It would be her first solo credit, and if the flick made any money the majors would talk to her. And she did owe Josh. He’d gone out on a limb to sell her original screenplay to his backers. Lindy would do her damnedest to help him land a good distribution deal, even if she had to suck up to this creep Davidoff. Others in Hollywood had done a lot worse for a lot less.

  Josh looked relieved. He beamed hopefully at Davidoff. “So, Lou, can we get together — when? Saturday?”

  “You’ll have to give me a call. If I’m not at Titan, try me at Warren Beatty’s. You have his private number?”

  “Right. Sure.” Cleery kept a hand on the other man’s shoulder as they walked out of the delicatessen.

  Josh held Lindy back as they saw Lou Davidoff into his Mercedes in Junior’s parking lot. When he was gone Josh said, “What do you think, Lindy? I mean, what do you really think?”

  “I think he’s an arrogant little prick who wouldn’t know a good script from a seed catalog. Do you really know Warren Beatty’s number?”

  “No, but if I have to I’ll kill somebody to get it by Saturday.”

  She reached out to smooth the worry lines from the producer’s brow. “Hell of a business.”

  “Lindy, listen to me, Davidoff is an asshole, but he knows what makes money. He knows what the exhibitors want. Anyway, he’s convinced Ben Zalic at New Titan Films that he knows, which is just as good.”

  “Don’t worry, Josh, I’ll have the rewrite for you.”

  The producer rubbed a hand across his lonely strands of hair. He peered down at Lindy. “I had a feeling there in the booth that you left us for a little while. Are you all right? I mean, are you really all right?”

  “You know I don’t do drugs,” Lindy said. “If that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure, I know that. It’s just that I worry about you, you know.”

  “Sure Josh.” What you worry about is that I might snort myself into cuckoo-land like a couple of your other people and strand you with no movie and half a dozen investors who expect to see some of their money back. “I’ve got to go. Nicole’s home with a cold today.”

  “How soon can I see — ”

  “I’ll call you when I get something on paper, Josh. Good-bye.”

  She left him standing there rubbing his scalp, and swung off toward her gray Tempo. She was conscious of the glances she got from men as she crossed the lot. She had always had looks, but now at thirty-seven, with her glossy black hair cut short, the contrast of the startling blue eyes, the firm body showing no signs of sag, she probably looked better than ever.

  She got into the car and pulled the door shut. For a moment she sat there with the keys in her hand, chilled by a vague sense that something bad was going to happen.

  CHAPTER 2

  Seattle, June 1987

  ROMAN

  The girl bucked and twisted under him, her high, round breasts mashing his naked chest as his belly slapped wetly against hers. Roman Dixon worked at concentrating while the water bed undulated and a pornographic video played unwatched on the television set.

  “Oh, Roman!” the girl gasped. “Oh, my God! Oh, fuck me!”

  Why, he wondered, did so many of them get off on using the f-word while in the act? It didn’t have the shock value anymore that it might have twenty years ago. In fact, Roman found it distinctly off-turning falling from the lips of some fresh-faced young girl.

  Not as off-turning as this, though. With growing alarm he felt his erection soften and shrink inside the girl even as he pumped more vigorously. Finally he gave up and withdrew, rolling over to lie on his back beside her.

  The girl lay still for a little
while, then raised up on an elbow and looked at him. For a moment he couldn’t think of her name, then it came to him. Kathy Isles. Accounts receivable. They all seemed to be named Kathy or Christie. Or sometimes Debbie. Last week he had his first Heather. This Kathy had thick, dark hair that framed her pert little face in soft waves. She looked at him with worry in her clear young eyes.

  If you say ‘What’s the matter?’ I’ll shit, he thought.

  “Is anything wrong, honey?”

  Roman did not shit. Instead, he lied. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Is it me?”

  “You’re fine.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  You can shut the fuck up and leave me alone, he thought. He said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m just tired.”

  Kathy looked at him a moment longer, then lay back. On the television screen two naked women — one black, one white — did things to a naked young man who hung by his knees from a trapeze. The young man had a prodigious hard-on. The women were ardent in their attentions. All three looked to be having a better time than Roman Dixon was.

  This was not the first time it had happened to him, of course. No man lived who did not now and then find himself incapable of performing the sex act. It was, however, the first time Roman had no ready excuse. Always before he had been too drunk or worried about business or distracted by some family problem. This afternoon, however, he was sober, his sporting goods stores were all in the black, and his home life was no more disagreeable than usual.

  At thirty-eight it couldn’t be his age. Hell, he was as randy as ever, and in good shape. Okay, so he was a little thicker around the middle than he’d like to be, and there was a softening of the jawline, but he had all his hair and the killer smile, and he still drew hungry looks from young women on the street, much to Stephanie’s annoyance. No, it had to be something else.

  Maybe his present incapacity was tied somehow to the funny thing that happened with his mother-in-law. No, not funny. Weird. The thought of Myrna Haaglund and the scene of the other night completed the shriveling of his organ.