True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(39)

“Okay.” Ian got up with a sigh of resignation. At least this was a good excuse to run away from his script. “Where are you shooting?”

“At the police station,” the AD said. That was one of the four permanent sets on the soundstage that were used in almost every episode. The other sets were Hollywood’s apartment, Vine’s house, and the forensics lab. A second soundstage held new sets and the swing sets, the ones redressed from previous episodes to be different interiors. “We’re already thirty minutes behind schedule.”

“Relax,” Ian said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Ian walked down the hall to the heavy padded door to the stage. He paused before opening the door to make sure that the red light, which indicated shooting was in progress, wasn’t on and went inside. He didn’t want to be the producer who ruined a scene with his carelessness.

The stage was dark except for the lights from the three-walled police station set, which was all lit up for the next shot. The entire crew of cameramen, grips, makeup artists, and sound engineers was there, waiting around for Ronnie. The director paced behind the cameras while talking animatedly on his cell phone, probably complaining to his agent and begging him to find him a job on a better show.

Ian walked through the dark sets to Vine’s apartment, which was essentially a greenhouse with living room furniture, all metal framed, because the character didn’t own anything made from wood, for obvious reasons. The only light came from the spillover from the police station set. He found Ronnie sitting in a La-Z-Boy recliner nearly hidden by ferns, his green hair blending in with the leaves.

Ronnie was in his character’s jacket and tie, tailored to show off his muscular physique. He had the body of an action hero but the cheerful, rosy-cheeked face of a boy. That was a big part of his appeal. He didn’t look so cheerful right now. He looked like he was ready to strangle himself with one of the fake vines that dangled from the ceiling.

Ian smiled. “Hey, Ronnie, how are you doing?”

“Did you come to drag me back to the set?”

“Nope.” Ian took a seat on one of the chairs. “I like to come down here when I’m stuck on a scene.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I usually do it when no one’s around. But I’m going through a rough patch right now so here I am.”

“Why do you come here?”

“One of the great things about writing a TV show instead of a novel is that it’s not all in your head. It physically exists. You can immerse yourself in it. You can sit in a character’s house, or go to his office, or even put on his clothes and there you are, right in his world.” All of that was true, though it wasn’t why he was here right now. “Why are you here?”

“I’m hiding,” he said.

“From what?”

“Everybody watching,” Ronnie said. “Everywhere I go, someone is looking and listening. I have no peace.”

“That’s because you’re an actor and you’re famous. You can’t do your job without an audience and you have a big one, so people recognize you,” Ian said. “That’s the price of success in your business. Or are you talking about the pressure of carrying a show and knowing everybody else’s job is to look at you all day for lighting, camera, wardrobe, makeup, or sound?”

“No, it’s beyond that.” Ronnie lowered the footrest and leaned forward, confiding in Ian. “They’re always watching, even when I’m alone and nobody is around. They’re listening, too.”

“Who are they?”

Ronnie shook his head. Either it was too complicated or pointless to explain. “I feel like there’s no escape.”

Ian nodded, as if he understood, which he didn’t. “Sure there is.”

“Where?”

“The same place I go. The world of Charlie Vine. But you have it better than me. I can imagine it, and I can sit in it, but you can live it. You can do it right here but especially out there, on the police station set, where the scene is waiting for you to bring it to life.”

“Where there are three cameras in my face and a microphone right above my head.”

“Only before the director says ‘action,’ when you’re still Ronnie Mancuso,” Ian said. “But in the next instant, you’re Charlie Vine and that all disappears. It’s not a set anymore. There are no cameras or microphones. It’s another place, a world of pure imagination.”

Ian had to stop himself before he broke into song, though he heard Gene Wilder singing in his head. The sad thing was that, even though none of it was on the page, this was the best writing he’d done all day.

Ronnie glanced toward the glow of lights that illuminated the police station set, then looked back at Ian, acknowledging what he said with a nod. “You’re right. Here I’m fine. It’s out there in the real world where I have to worry.”

“You have nothing to worry about out there, either. You’re an actor. They’ll only see what you want them to see, and hear what you want to them to hear, because you can be anybody you want to be. That’s your superpower. The power of illusion.”

Ronnie got to his feet and took a deep breath. He was ready to work again. “You’re writing the script for next week’s show.”