Ron Goulart - The Curse Of The Demon

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RON GOULART

THE CURSE OF THE DEMON

IT WASN'T REALLY AN earthquake that caused the ground to open up and swallow the

second most popular child star in Hollywood. But during the period of national

mourning that followed the incident, Dan Barner didn't feel it would be wise, or

in any way helpful' to his screen writing career, to speak out and explain what

actually had taken place. The notion that the cute, freckle-faced

twelve-year-old that they knew and loved as Kenny McNulty was a complete and

total fraud wouldn't have set well with the movie-going public.

Besides which, if Dan had mentioned that he'd precipitated the whole business by

releasing a demonic spirit from an ancient bronze chest, it would most certainly

have given rise to serious doubt as to his sanity. And while being considered

eccentric can sometimes help forward a career in movies, a reputation for being

totally bonkers is almost always a handicap.

Dan had come into possession of the venerable casket, which was about the size

of a shoe box and etched all over with blurred mystical symbols, on a chill,

rainy evening early last year. He hadn't the slightest premonition that it would

lead him to fame and fortune or that the battered old metal box would cause the

disruption of the Oscar award ceremonies this year.

He was residing in a ramshackle cottage in a weedy cul-de-sac on the outskirts

of Westwood at the time the fateful chest entered his life. The cottage, which

was surfaced with stucco the color of peach yogurt, was all his second wife had

left him after she'd divorced him a year and a half ago and he still had sixteen

more years of mortgage payments to go. The lawn had long since died.

Dan was close to being forty-one, although he still wrote thirty-eight on any

form that asked for his age. That particular stormy night he was sitting at his

desk in his narrow den, hunched, scowling at his portable electric typewriter.

For several weeks now it had refused to print the letter B. The lopsided desk

was piled high with the various versions of the opening scenes of the new

screenplay he was working on.

Last autumn, during a 6.3 quake, all the books had come tumbling down off the

shelves. Dan, who'd been in an emotional slump for quite some time, had left the

two hundred some books, mostly old paperbacks, sprawled exactly where they'd

landed.

Tonight, as the heavy rain slammed down on the imitation thatch roof, tiny

pearls of water were dripping down through the crack in the peach colored

ceiling and hitting at a pile of old Cold War spy thrillers. The only things on

the warped wooden book shelves were a framed photo of his first wife in her high

school graduation robe and a bunch of dusty wax grapes.

The phone rang.

Jerking upright out of the slight doze he'd been nodding into, Dan grabbed up

the phone. "Yeah, hello."

"This is a very complex and stressful town, Danny. I don't like to return to my

palatial office after a grueling day on the show business barricades, you

understand, and find cryptic messages on my tape. Brain teasers that deflect me

from concentrating."

"Scotty, the message I left was, and I quote, 'What did Gonzer say about The

Carioca Backlog? "

"See what I mean? What in the name of Billy Budd is The Carioca Backlog? And who

in the hell is Gonzer?"

"Well, Gonzer, according to you, is the new head of Firebrand Pictures and,

Jesus, Scotty, The Carioca Backlog is the spec script you're supposed to be

peddling for me. It's the thriller, remember, with the perfect part for Jessica

Lange."

"Oh, that's right. I remember the script now. Terrific story arc. And the

setting is terrific, too -- Norway during the last days of the Cold War,

Jessica'll look marvelous in a parka and --"

"It takes place in Brazil during World War II."

"Right, even better," said Scotty Blackett. "Now give me another helpful hint:

Who's Gonzer again?'

"He runs Firebrand."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From you," he told his agent.

Blackett produced a perplexed noise. "Nope, I think the actual head of Firebrand

is Hugo Washburn. Yeah, right, I saw his damned name in Variety only yesterday."

"Then why the hell did you tell me somebody named Gonzer was hot for my script?"

"Yelling at the top of your lungs, Danny, is also something I don't need at the

end of a day during which I've been busting my backside to sell a script by a

fellow who possesses no screen credits to his name."

"That wasn't anywhere near the top," he assured the agent. "And I wrote,

remember, Birdbath III?"

"They only made two of those before calling it quits."

"Three."

"People aren't interested in animal pictures anymore."

"Birdbath III was a horror movie."

"Worse, horror's dead in the water. I'd do a lot better with an animal script. I

was telling Gonzer only this morning that --"

"Gonzer! Who is he then?"

"Oh, that's right -- my barber," remembered the agent. "Anyhow, Danny, it is

looking really good on The Tapioca Backlash. Don't despair. I'll be talking to

Medium at Firebrand again in the morning and he --"

"Who exactly is Medium?"

"He's -- Oops. Got another call. Keep that fiery temper of yours under control.

Bye."

Hanging up the phone, forlornly, Dan returned to contemplating his ailing

typewriter.

He was still in that hunched, slightly squinting position when the doorbell made

that harsh raspberry sound it produced instead of chimes these days.

As Dan made his way across the sprawls of books, an anxious thumping commenced

on the front door.

Nancy Quillen was a slim, pretty, redheaded young woman. Bundled in a lime green

raincoat, she remained on Dan's doorstep and refused his invitation to cross the

threshold. "Can't, I'm late for an audition," she explained, holding out a heavy

cloth shopping bag in both hands. "Could you take this, keep it for a while,

maybe open what's inside. But, please, do that after I've left."

"What exactly is in it?"

She glanced back over her shoulder. Behind her the heavy .night rain was

pounding at his small patch of dead lawn and a mournful wind was moving through

the weeds. "Oh, just an old metal box," she said, pushing the bag, held at arm's

length, closer to him.

He didn't immediately accept it. "Is there something wrong with this box?"

Nancy bent, setting the heavy gray bag on his threadbare doormat. "Probably not,

no. But you're just about the only level-headed friend I have and that's why I

made up my mind you're the perfect person to...um ...investigate."

He squatted, started to reach into the shadowy interior of the cloth shopping

bag. "Might as well take a --"

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