Stuart Kaminsky - Tomorrow Is Another day

A parking lot filled with big dark cars with teeth, and at the end of the lot not far from the street, an attendant in a white uniform and cap was ducking down behind a Jaguar. I motioned Jeremy and Shelly down and we moved under cover to where the attendant crouched.

"Over there," he said.

Gunther and Varney stood against a brick wall. Spelling stood about a dozen yards in front of them with a gua in his hand. Gunther was talking fast and trying to put himself between Varney and the weapon in Spelling's hand.

There wasn't much light. Just a few low parking-lot bulbs to lead the way to the waiting cars. The blackout was still in effect. The Japanese might launch an all-out attack from one of their few remaining submarines in the hope of taking out half of Hollywood.

We duck-walked closer, close enough to hear Spelling say, "You're the last, Varney. When you're done, 1 don't care what happens to me. My father will be revenged."

"Wait," Gunther said. "This is pointless. You cannot get your father back by killing people."

Spelling laughed and said, "A little late for that, little man. Wouldn't make much sense for me to walk away when there's only this one left, this one who has the career my father deserved."

Spelling raised his gun and Jeremy rose and broke into a graceful trot in the direction of the armed man.

"Jeremy, you can't…" I called, but he was gone.

Slow motion crept into my stomach. Spelling was already turning to face the sound of the giant running at him.

"Hold it," Spelling called, but Jeremy didn't hold it.

The first shot missed, but I don't think by much. It did tear through the windshield of a Rolls whose window did not shatter. Spelling was lining up for a second shot and Jeremy still had a long way to go.

"This is all wrong," Spelling shouted. "Stop. It's not supposed to be like this. This isn't in the script."

The gun was up. Jeremy was too close and too big a target to miss.

And the shot crackled in the night and echoed across the brick wall behind Gunther and Varney.

I tried to breathe. I tried not to look. But I had to look. Jeremy was still up and running. Spelling had dropped his gun. A splatter of blood stained his shirt. Spelling looked around just before Jeremy barreled into him. He looked at Gunther and Varney and said something I couldn't hear.

Jeremy circled the falling killer with his arms and kept the man from going down. We were all running toward them now. Jeremy laid the dying man on the cement and stood up. Spelling looked around, the odd shadows of the blackout lights setting his eye sockets in a dead darkness. The expression on his face was one of surprise. He reached a hand toward Varney and went limp with a choking gasp.

"He's dead," Shelly said hi his best dental-surgery manner.

"What did he say, Jeremy?" I asked.

"He said, 'not in the script.' "

Varney and Gunther came forward slowly. Varney's tie was at a weird angle like a cockeyed propeller. His hair was a tumbled mess and his eyes were wide. I'm not sure if his hands were trembling.

"Who shot him?" Shelly asked.

It seemed a reasonable question. I looked around. The parking-lot attendant had disappeared. From the darkness, between a pair of matching Chryslers, my brother Phil stepped out. He was the only one in the alley not wearing soup and fish. He had on slacks, a tieless white shirt, a zippered Windbreaker, and he was carrying a gun in his right hand.

"I told the kid to call an ambulance," he said, moving closer to the body.

"He's dead," Shelly said.

"Then they can take him to the morgue," Phil said.

It was clear. It was simple. Phil had been convinced that Varney was in danger. He could do nothing officially, so he had backed us up on his own. We stood in a circle looking down at the dead man. I looked up at Phil and we both knew that, barring a miracle, this was probably the end of his career. He had been suspended and had no business in an alley shooting civilians, no matter how much they might deserve it. I looked at Varney, whose eyes were red and confused. He blinked first.

Phil turned his back and started to walk away. I followed him.

"I can still lie," I said.

"Won't be enough," he answered, putting his gun back in the holster under his windbreaker.

Then I had an idea. I turned away.

"Veblin in the morning," I said. "I've got someone to see in Atlanta who might be able to keep you on the streets. Shelly, I need your car keys."

Shelly stood up, reluctantly pulled his keys from his pocket, and threw them to me. "Toby, don't hurt the car," he whined.

I can't say that I ran, but for a man who had been crippled a few hours earlier, I moved reasonably well. I had a plan. None of my friends were dead. Things were starting to make sense.

Shelly's car was jammed between a Ford coupe and a little Chevy. I inched it out and headed for Culver City.

I used the direct approach and drove right up to the gate at Selznick International. People, some of the men in Confederate and Union uniforms and tuxedos like mine, some of the women in flowing gowns and flashing jewelry, were on their way out. It was light. The night was getting old.

"It's all over," a uniformed guard said, leaning over to my open window and seeing my formal attire. "Sorry, sir."

"I was at the Academy Awards," I explained. "I'll just say a few hellos and… no more than ten minutes, promise. I was on security for Gone With the Wind. You remember Wally Hospodar? I worked with him."

"Whatever happened to Wally?" the guard asked.

"Dead," I said.

"Heard he hit the skids," said the guard.

"Hard," I said.

"Go on through," he said, waving his hand to the guard a little closer to the gate. "But make it ten minutes. No more."

I drove past the second guard and through the gate that was open just enough for me to make it through. I maneuvered past oncoming cars and a few people walking. I heard a voice, unmistakable, Butterfly McQueen. I kept going and found less traffic as I drove past the hill that looked down at the burning back-lot Atlanta. No one was there. The charred wood had long been carted away. Atlanta had been replaced by what looked like a ranch house in the moonlight.

I drove farther and wended my way to where Tara had stood. I didn't see any people, but the front of the house was still there across the field and past the trees. There wasn't anything left of the gate or fence, and the wooden frame of the house was crumbling, but it was still Tara.

I almost missed him and drove on to see what was left of the Wilkes house, but a glint of moonlight hit something on the porch of Tara. I parked and walked across the field, heading for the glow of a cigarette in the darkness.

"Peters," Clark Gable said, stepping down from the porch. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Gable was in full khaki uniform, including the flight cap.

"Spelling's dead," I said.

He dropped his cigarette in the dirt, stepped on it, sighed and said, "Then that's that."

"Looks that way," I said.

Gable turned to face Tara.

"I'm shipping back in the morning," he said. "Send the bill to Encino. Someone will forward it to me."

"I'll do that."

"You look good in a tux," he said with a lopsided grin.

"And you look good in uniform," I said.

He didn't answer for a few seconds and then he said, "I didn't know how happy I was when we were making that picture. My wife and I were settling down in the house. We were talking about babies, taking home movies, and planning for the future. She was a funny woman. A beautiful, funny woman."

"I need a favor," I said.

"Name it," Gable said, turning to face me.

I told him what I needed and he said, "It'll be done in the morning before I leave. Anything else?"