Stephen Cannell - The Plan

The maitre d' himself brought the menus and pulled out a pad to take their orders.

"Hey, Claude…. You 'member those vongole I had here two months ago? With the angel-hair. .?"

"Vividly, sir." Claude grinned. "We sent ten gallons to your mother, airmail."

"Can ya whip us up some a' that. . for two? And the real dry chardonnay, the Acacia." Claude left, bowing out in reverse.

He had ordered for both of them as if what Ryan wanted didn't matter, and somehow it was okay.

"So, how's everything going with you?"

"Tearing up the field," Ryan lied.

"I know a few guys out here and the word I been gettin' is you been stepping on your rep." Mickey frowned. "I hear you're packing an attitude and when they see you coming, they drop the blinds. I'm thinking that doesn't sound like the old wide receiver, so I figured I'd look you up." He was smiling but his eyes weren't. "What's the play?"

"Since Matt died, nothing has worked quite right. I'll punch through it." Ryan remembered how Mickey had flown out when Matt died. He'd lived in the Bel Air guesthouse and handled everything for Ryan. He even picked out the clothes Matt was buried in.

The food came and Mickey ate savagely while Ryan picked at his plate.

"Look, I don't wanna get in your face, man, so if I'm outta line, tell me, but if you wanna change of venue, I maybe have something set up that could work for you. . Take you away for a while."

"What are you talking about?"

"There're these guys. We do a little business sometimes, and they're miming a guy for President of the United States. . I was talking to my friend and he said they needed somebody who could produce a documentary. I know that's chickenshit stuff to a guy like you, with Emmys and everything, but if you're looking to get a little air between you and these L. A. hairbags, I could make a call."

"Documentary?" Ryan said. "I never did a documentary." His heart was racing. Something irrational told him to take it. . to get the hell out of here. All the memories, the shadow dreams. The self-centered sameness of his life was crushing him. He'd been heaping one lie on top of another to stay afloat, hoping everyone else he knew failed so he might win. He'd never been that way before. He knew that he had somehow poisoned himself. .

"You still with me?" Mickey asked, bringing him back. "Like I said, it isn't my boogie, but I know I could set it up. Tell you what. . I gotta stay out here for a day and fix some things for Pop. I can set it up tonight and we'll fly back to New Jersey tomorrow. I'll introduce you to these guys."

Ryan was frozen with indecision. Mickey read him.

"What happened to you, man? What happened to the guy who used to run fucking Z patterns in front of rabid linebackers? You're sitting here with a complexion gray as spoiled meat. The Mick has gotta pump some voltage in t' you."

Something about Mickey's energy stirred old feelings.

"Why not," he finally blurted. "Make the call."

"I can tell you, now you've said yes, you're saving my ass on this, buddy." Mickey grinned. "I promised these guys I'd find somebody to do this film, and here I end up with Emmy-winning Ryan Bolt. . They're gonna shit."

Ryan felt himself blushing, and Mickey looked at his watch.

"I gotta go. Could you do me a favor? I promised Lucinda I'd take her to dinner before this came up. Would you get me off the hook and take her for me?"

"Sure."

"Tomorrow, you and me and Lucinda fly on my dad's jet back to Jersey. It'll be old times."

It was happening so fast, it was all Ryan could do to hang on.

They were sitting on the porch of the bungalow in the yellow sunset. She had changed since her tennis lesson and was wearing shorts and a silk blouse. She was breathtakingly beautiful. There was something so sweet, so simple about her that Ryan felt he was in the presence of royalty. He felt recharged by the light in her green eyes.

Without warning, he heard himself say, "I've been having a terrible time lately. I've been acting irrationally. I'm having. ." He stopped. Why was he telling this gorgeous girl this? He sounded like a complete head case.

"You have anxiety attacks?" she said, finishing his thought.

"Yes, dreams where I'm chased by dark, evil presences that I can't identify."

"You've pushed your shadow away."

He looked at her. She was staring into his eyes, completely invested in him.

"Whafta you mean?"

"I'll give you a book. . it's called Meeting the Shadow. It's a lotta Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell, but it's fascinating. What it says is, if you deny your dark side, you will stifle yourself. Everybody has a devil in them. These kids I'm working with are so angry, they could almost kill. I try and get that darkness out. I try and get them to confront it. Maybe you have something in your past that you've repressed. If you could find out what it is, it would fire you."

"Repressed, you mean something in my past that I don't even remember. .?"

She nodded.

"And it has something to do with Matt?"

"It could, but Matt is in your conscious. The shadow is in your subconscious. Losing Matt could be stirring it up. . like sediment coming up from the bottom."

He looked at her for a long beat. They were sitting here in this artificial lily pond with white swans, in the middle of a riot-plagued city, breathing smog and talking about his psychotic tendencies, yet somehow it seemed perfectly normal.

"Will you marry me?" he joked.

"If you'd asked me when I was seven, the answer would have been yes."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"Do you ever think of Rex?" she asked suddenly, her face strangely blank.

"Yes, occasionally." He wondered why she had asked. "That was the weekend we met," she finally said.

The Lear was already out of the hangar when Elizabeth pulled her Ghia through the gates that were manned by a field attendant.

"I still think you should stick around," she scolded Ryan. "Just 'cause Marty Lanier didn't like the rough cut doesn't mean you can't get an order. What am I supposed to tell Freddie Fredrickson when he calls?"

Fredrickson was the president of the TV Division at Universal. He and Ryan had been allies until the roof caved in on Ryan's career and now Fred glowered at him like temporary office furniture.

"They're not gonna call. I'm dead, Elizabeth. They just haven't put the headstone up yet.* You know it, I know it.

She had parked in the heat by the side of the hangar.

"Look, Ryan, I got an offer from Mel Thomas. He's doing the new Judd Hirsch series. They want me to start next month. I told them I couldn't leave you, but. ."

"Liz, take the job," he instructed her. "We shouldn't go down together."

"I feel like I'm deserting you."

"I deserted myself, hon. You gotta look out for yourself."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"You know how much I care for you?"

"Me, too. Take the job, Elizabeth. It'll make me feel better."

Lucinda was seated in the back of the plane, her feet up on the gray upholstered seat, as Ryan came aboard smiling.

"Hi," he said, waving at Milo, the pilot, and moving back to join her. She was wearing jeans and a work shirt; a blue blazer lay on the seat next to her. He moved her jacket and sat down.

"Where's Mickey?" he asked, looking around. "He has to stay over two more days."

She reached into her purse. "I got something for you," she said and pulled out a paperback book. The title was "Meeting the Shadow."

"You remembered."

"Yep."

"Look, about yesterday. . I think I came off sort of like a head case. I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm out of control."

"Vulnerability is more attractive than invincibility.' "Is it?"