Shadow Games Page 3

  His eyes came open. He was in a sunny little room in Menlow Park Hospital. A beefy orderly in skintight white T-shirt and pants was talking to him.

  There were various framed photographs that Lilly had put up on his first day here. "I want the staff to know you're somebody special, and I want you to know it, too," she'd said. The photos showed Cobey with different celebrities, including President Reagan, Michael Jackson and Morgan Fairchild. The photos tried hard to make people think that Cobey and these people were good friends.

  "How you feelin', Cobey?"

  When he'd first come to Menlow Park, he'd suffered what Dr. Reeves had called hysterical amnesia. He couldn't remember much, sometimes not even his own name. Following electric-shock, he'd felt pretty much the same way.

  "I...uh...feel all right, I guess."

  "You did good, Cobey. Real good."

  "Gosh, thanks."

  Cobey then started the difficult task of reconstructing the past few hours. Breakfast. Going downstairs in an elevator. A small, white room—counting backwards—and now...

  "Cobey?" Cobey said. "That's my name?"

  The man grinned. "Right. Cobey." Then he kind of punched Cobey playfully on the arm.

  In all, Cobey had ten electric-shock treatments. It was felt by the staff that his spirits had improved at least slightly, and it was whispered, by the patients, that maybe the young TV star wasn't as aloof as they'd once thought, that maybe he'd just been depressed. God, if any of them had gone through what Cobey had in the back of that shopping mall...well, who wouldn't be depressed?

  IV

  On the morning he received Lilly Carlyle's letter, Dr. Robert Reeves interviewed four staffers about Cobey's recent behavior. Satisfied that the young man was indeed doing well, Reeves walked the hospital grounds looking for Cobey.

  He found him on the tennis courts, playing doubles with an arsonist (his partner), a pedophile (who was also an eminent minister), and a particularly vile wife-torturer (the man's millions having kept him from a real prison).

  Reeves liked to hear the thwock of the ball as it went back and forth across the net, the sound echoing off the green bluffs surrounding the red brick hospital which most people thought resembled a small college campus. He liked to hear patients having fun.

  Between matches, Reeves went up and asked if he could speak with Cobey. Cobey said sure.

  "Well, it's lunch time," Reeves said. "How about walking over to the cafeteria with me?"

  V

  "You know you're up for review, right, Cobey?"

  "Yessir."

  They walked along. Cobey smiled when he saw a plump little squirrel toting a huge acorn along the edge of the sidewalk. As they approached the main building, Cobey could smell lunch. The food here was great. He felt a wonderful sense of belonging; and then he thought, ruefully, I really must be crazy if I want a mental hospital as my alma mater.

  "The board pretty much acts on what I say," Reeves said. He was a tall man and, in his white medical jacket, he seemed even taller. He was bald and the top of his head looked as if he Simonized it every few days.

  "Yessir," Cobey said, sounding tentative. He had a hunch where this was going but he was afraid to hope that...

  "I'm going to recommend that you be released to the custody of Lilly," Dr. Reeves said.

  And then he stopped and put his hand out and Cobey shook it and thought, oh, hell, and threw his arms around Dr. Reeves, his head reaching the middle of the medical man's chest.

  "I'm going home!" Cobey said. "I'm going home!"

  "Yes, you are," Dr. Reeves said. "And a man named Puckett is going to take you there."

  Lunch that day was spaghetti, a particular favorite of Cobey's.

  He sat across the table from Dr. Reeves and when Reeves wasn't smiling and talking with his mouth full, Cobey was.

  Warm autumn sunshine slanted through the windows, touching Cobey, painting him warm and golden, a special creature.

  It was, in all respects, a wonderful day.

  William James Puckett

  I

  Two-and-a-half weeks later, William James Puckett landed at Lambert International Airport in St. Louis, at which point he transferred to a Yellow Cab. He told the cabbie, a black man with an amiable face and shrewd, brown eyes, that he was headed for Menlow Park Hospital.

  The driver glanced at him in the mirror again.

  Patient or visitor? the black man was obviously thinking. Then he smiled. He'd clearly decided that Puckett was a visitor.

  On the way out to the hospital the news came on and there was a story about Richard M. Nixon planning another European trip.

  And so, naturally enough, Puckett started thinking about his days as Nixon's bodyguard.

  After college, and after Nam, Puckett found himself without a job but with an uncle who'd been a Secret Service man ever since Washington wore wooden teeth. "Hell, you might like it," his uncle kept saying, so Puckett—who was broke—said why not and flew into DC and took all the tests and kissed all the asses, and what do you know?

  A year later he was assigned to guarding presidential candidate Richard Nixon.

  He actually sort of liked the guy; which might be just a way of saying that he actually felt sorry for him because Nixon tried hard to be a regular guy, but his attempts were pathetic. Still, Puckett had never felt like a regular guy either, so despite the fact that all his people were Democrats, he developed a fondness for the sweaty little bastard.

  In those days especially, guarding a national political figure was like going to war. In one spring Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy had been killed, and so the Secret Service started treating their job like the hazardous duty gig it really was.

  Before hitting a given city, you discussed which hospitals you'd take the wounded to. You packed smoke grenades and gas masks in case an assassin—or team of assassins—really got tricky. The guys in the war wagon, the car travelling just behind the candidate's vehicle, carried enough firepower to invade China, the agents packing Uzis and taping extra ammo to the ceiling. Several of the top agents, including Puckett, had been sent to Israel to train in commando tactics. Puckett had liked the Israelis and learned a lot from them.

  With Nixon, Puckett would wade into a crowd, clearing the way for the candidate behind him. Puckett would immediately be assaulted by photographers and over-eager Nixon admirers. Blinded by strobes, jostled by people who were acting like stoned rock-concert crowds, Puckett kept his eyes moving constantly, looking for any sign of something wrong—a glint of sun off metal, a man reaching suspiciously inside his jacket, a woman starting to raise her arm in a curious way. If the real thing ever happened, his earpiece would burst out with Gun left or Gun right and then Puckett would be ripping his gun from its holster while the agent next to him tore open his briefcase and filled his hands with an Uzi all ready to fire.

  At the end of their little sojourn, candidate Nixon had given Puckett a pair of gold cufflinks and a manly slug on the bicep.

  Nixon went on to the White House and Watergate. Puckett stayed in the Service two more years and then went private.

  The big international firms were just discovering the wonders of computers and a whole new world was opening up. Puckett wanted to be a part of that world. Around this same time, his wife informed him that she'd fallen in love with the family dentist and would be leaving and taking their four-year-old daughter with them and that Puckett could see his daughter whenever he wanted and she hoped there were no hard feelings and that Puckett should not only look for a new woman but also—"to save embarrassment, Puckett, you know what I mean"—a new dentist. "Karl would just be real uncomfortable with you in his chair."

  All Puckett could think about was the ancient, evil dentist drilling into Dustin Hoffman's teeth in The Marathon Man.

  II

  Menlow Park Hospital looked like a college campus, Puckett thought, filled with rolling green lawns and overhanging willows and oaks, and resplendent with lots of nubile young lad
ies from good, solid, Midwestern states.

  He met first with Dr. Reeves, who told him that Cobey was in his care now and he hoped that Puckett was ready to assume complete responsibility. To that end, Reeves had Puckett sign several forms that made Cobey Puckett's total responsibility.

  Cobey surprised him. He looked older and more tired than a teen-star had any right to. Puckett's daughter Cindy had had a long-time crush on Cobey.

  They shook hands, said goodbye to Dr. Reeves, and left. Halfway down the broad front steps of the Administration building, Puckett said, "Oh, I forgot."

  "Forgot?"

  "Your Acme Camouflage Disguise."

  "Hub?"

  "This stuff here," Puckett said.

  And put this lounge-lizard black wig on Cobey, and then a black bandito mustache—and finally slipped on a pair of black, wrap-around shades.

  Cobey laughed. "God, I bet I really look like shit."

  Puckett picked up one of Cobey's bags again and started walking. "You're right. You do."

  III

  Turned out, Cobey wasn't real thrilled with flying. Every time they'd hit the least little bit of turbulence, Cobey would grip the arms of his seat as if he were in an electric chair and they were putting the juice to him.

  And somehow, despite all the terrible things he'd heard about the kid, Puckett sort of liked him.

  Given the fact that Puckett worked out of Los Angeles, many of his clients were entertainment types and, face it, they weren't the nicest people in the world.

  But this kid—

  Puckett either liked somebody or he didn't, and he did like this gentle, friendly, unassuming kid. Of course, every once in a while he did think of Cobey trying to strangle some fourteen-year-old girl... And then Puckett'd wonder if he really should like the kid. Maybe the stay at Menlow Park hadn't really changed him at all. But then he'd think that Cobey was fine as long as he didn't touch alcohol—not a drop—because the stuff turned him into a monster.

  As they were travelling over Salt Lake City, Cobey got sick and had to use his bag.

  When he finished, he said, "I'll bet I've got puke on my mustache, don't I?"

  "You do indeed," Puckett said.

  "OK if I throw the mustache away?"

  "Fine with me."

  "It won't ruin my disguise?"

  "It may ruin your disguise, but at least you'll smell better."

  Cobey sat back. "You got any kids?"

  "One. A few years younger than you. Eighteen. A girl."

  "You see her a lot?"

  "Not as much as I should."

  "That's what parents always say."

  "Well, the way you say that, sort of sarcastic and all, sounds like you're finally old enough to hear the truth."

  "The truth?"

  "Yeah," Puckett said, "about parents."

  Then he leaned over and whispered into Cobey's ear, "All parents are assholes."

  Cobey must have laughed for a good three minutes over that one.

  As they were just sliding over the California border, Cobey said, "I really wouldn't have strangled the girl that day."

  "What brought that up?"

  "Just the way I caught you looking at me a few times. You've got a daughter of your own. It's natural that you'd be curious." He shook his head. "I like girls. And I respect them. While I was in the hospital, this nurse taught me about feminism and I really believe in it." He shook his head again. "I don't know what happened to me that day at the shopping mall."

  "Relax, Cobey," Puckett said. "We've all done things we try not to think about."

  "Even you, Puckett?"

  Puckett laughed. "Especially me."

  IV

  Lilly was waiting with a limo at LAX.

  While the uniformed driver took care of the bags, Lilly shook Puckett's hand and thanked him for doing such a good job.

  "Well," Lilly said, looking at the disguised Cobey. "I guess it's time for us to go."

  Cobey said, "You want to play tennis sometime, Puckett?"

  Puckett smiled. "I'm afraid I'm more the bowling type." Puckett gave him the kind of manly slug-on-the-bicep that Richard Nixon had given Puckett. "But I will treat you to lunch at McDonald's sometime."

  "Great!" Cobey said.

  Puckett glanced at Lilly and, right off, he got the sense she wasn't crazy about Cobey's idea of seeing Puckett again.

  Then they were in the limo, and gone.

  V

  Puckett never did keep his promise to Cobey about going to McDonald's (even as a stand-in father, he wasn't worth a shit) and, in fact, he pretty much forgot Cobey entirely, just sort of assuming, he supposed, that he'd never see the kid again.

  He was wrong.

  From the June 3, 1989 edition of The National Tattler

  Is Cobey Daniels Still Alive?

  Aging teen star vanishes

  TV star Cobey Daniels, best known for his starring role in the No. 1 rated sitcom Family Life (1981-1985) is now the subject of an intense search by Los Angeles police. None of Cobey's friends have seen or heard from him in six weeks. Authorities and friends alike fear foul play.

  Cobey was discovered at age six by Hollywood talent agent Lilly Carlyle, who took the boy from his parents and raised him herself to be a child star.

  But while fame and fortune came Cobey's way, so did a series of run-ins with the law. Between the ages of 15 and 19, Cobey was arrested three times for OMVI, four times for assault and battery, and two times for possessing cocaine.

  In 1985 he was convicted of statutory rape in a case involving a 14-year-old girl in a Florida shopping mall. The conviction resulted in Cobey being sent to a mental hospital for more than three years.

  After his release, Cobey found work in many TV dramas, usually in minor roles. During this period, he also worked with the prestigious Hollywood Actors Playhouse. More recently, Cobey had auditioned for the leads in two different sitcom pilots.

  Friends can't explain Cobey's sudden disappearance. They say that Cobey had been in fine spirits lately and had displayed none of his darker moods.

  Los Angeles police continue their intensive Investigation. They would not answer any press questions, saying that the matter was still too new to speculate about.

  1993

  "So whatever became of Cobey Daniels? Well, all grown up, (and sobered up, too), Cobey has written and stars in a play about his travails as a teenage star. And the play is as funny, powerful, strange and haunting as anything seen on the American stage in the past decade. No mistake about it—this is Cobey Daniels' comeback vehicle."

  Time Magazine

  February 22, 1993

  Chapter One

  Chicago

  He had a terrible and slightly ridiculous moment when he couldn't remember who he was.

  I am—

  Shit. Nobody forgets his own name.

  I am—

  Damn. It was so ludicrous to forget your own—

  He had a name. Everybody had a name. What was his? Who was he, anyway?

  His eyes were still closed.

  Real tough job getting them opened.

  Head throbbing.

  He knew what that was, of course.

  He'd started drinking again.

  How could he have been so stupid, anyway?

  He lay there for the next few minutes, acquainting himself with the various parts of his body.

  Very dry mouth. Heat: dehydration from the alcohol, he knew. Hands twitching: the shakes. Nausea travelling up from his belly and into his throat: raw sewage.

  How could he have been so stupid?

  He knew what alcohol did to him.

  So stupid, so...

  He fell asleep again.

  When he awoke the second time, he smelled rain; chill, spring rain. He smelled night. He smelled—apple blossom. Yes, apple blossom.

  Where the hell was he, anyway?

  Who the hell was he, anyway?

  He needed to open his eyes. He needed to stand up. He needed to
find out some things.

  One eye opened on to deep night.

  He angled his head.

  He was in a shadowy room on a bed. To his right was a window. A sheer white curtain cavorted like a dancing ghost. Through the open window he could feel the faint, chill spray of rain, the way rolling surf sometimes sprayed you from a distance.

  Surf?

  California.

  But this wasn't California.

  He wasn't sure where it was, but he was sure it wasn't California.

  In the distance now, somewhere beyond the window, the steady rush of traffic.

  Closer, but still faint, human voices on the street below. Laughter sharp as a gunshot; then footsteps, fading, fading in the sudden wind whipping the white curtain.

  Not California.

  He stretched his right leg.

  Big toe touched cold, hard wood.

  He opened his other eye now.

  New information: to his left, a woman's dressing table with a round mirror mounted in the middle of it, the minor reflecting him lying on the rumpled bed.

  He stared at himself as if staring at a stranger.

  Just who the hell was he, anyway?

  The bile in his throat made him want to puke right now.

  He sat up straight in one abrupt, head-pounding movement.

  God, his headache—

  He spent the next few minutes delicately rubbing sleep from his face and trying to work up enough strength to stand up.

  He thought of turning on a light. No. Right now, light, any kind of light, would be profane.

  He eased himself off the bed and stood up.

  For the first time, he noticed that he was naked. Freezing. Poor little dick hanging limp, cold as the rest of him.

  Through a dark doorway he could see the dark square edge of a mirror. Bathroom.

  He staggered forth.

  The shadowy bathroom was filled with the pleasant odors of baby powder and perfume, lingering like music on the night air.