Stephen Cannell - The Plan

"Lucinda, we've got to, somehow, deal with this," Ryan said, bringing her back. "I think your brother is trying to hurt me, maybe kill me."

Her mind went back to a time years before when she was just eight. Her mother had left her in a park while she ran an errand. Mickey was sixteen and was there to watch her. Lucinda had been over by the swings playing when a boy about eleven had pushed her off. Mickey had seen it and he'd come over. Lucinda stood in terror as Mickey grabbed the younger boy and hit him in the face. The little boy went down, but Mickey hadn't stopped. He'd kicked him and then rolled him over on his back and sat on th e y oung boy's chest. Mickey was still hitting him when a park policeman ran over and pulled him off. While the policeman attended to the boy, Mickey grabbed Lucinda's hand and led her out of the park. She'd remembered the look in Mickey's eyes, an evil, glowing look of excitement. She knew, even then, he had loved hitting the boy. It was a corrupt memory, half-buried by time. She looked at Ryan and wondered if he could be right. . wondered if her big brother had sent the man in the gray coat.

"Mickey's at our beach house on Cape May. I think you need to go and talk to him," she finally said. "You need to find out. We both do."

"Yeah." He nodded. "It's time."

He packed and then retrieved the tapes from the concierge, putting them in his ostrich briefcase. On the way out, he saw A. J. in the bar. He was tempted to leave without saying anything, but some sense of propriety seized him. He moved into the Buckeye Bar and tapped A. J. on the shoulder.

"Well, how ya doin', buddy?" A. J. slurred. He was slightly drunk. He led Ryan over to a booth where a curvaceous blonde was sitting. A. J. made an elaborate introduction. "Miss Veronica Dennis, may I present Benedict fucking Arnold."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Arnold," the girl said, displaying a staggering lack of knowledge in American history. "Do you work for A. J.?" She was smiling, showing her small, perfect teeth.

"Yes. Mr. Arnold is our campaign turncoat."

"Knock it off, A. J."

"Whatever you want." A. J. slumped down into the booth, put an arm around Veronica Dennis. "Veronica likes Haze, but she says he seems cold. That's what our fine data tells us, too. Old Vonnie, here, is better than a tracking poll," the work said drunkenly.

`That's right." Veronica was smiling at Ryan, whom she found attractive. She was working her dimples, arching her back, giving him her D-cup profile. "I thought he was very impressive on TV, but he was sorta Y'know, like he's not very warm or something."

"Ryan, here, he used t' write and produce TV. Didn't ya, Ryan. .? So he knows the medium. Is old Haze coming off like a block of ice, like Vonnie says?"

"A. J., I'm gonna be gone for a couple of days." "Hey, what the fuck good are you anyway? You ain't helping me."

"I'll leave a number where I can be reached."

"See, here's the problem. ." A. J. went on, looking at Veronica. "Ryan, here, he takes our money and he shoots our film and then he won't give it to us when we nee d i t,"

"I'll see ya, A. J." He started to leave and A. J. grabbed his arm.

"Let's say you have this problem in a TV script. . You got a character who's hard to like 'cause people think he's cold. How do you warm him up?"

Ryan wanted to get out of the bar, but A. J. was holding his arm.

"Create a tragedy for him," he finally said. "Something that makes people feel sorry for him. I gotta go." He pulled his arm free.

"S' long, Hemingway," A. J. sneered.

"Hemingway? Are you related-to Martel Hemingway?" Veronica said, desperately fighting for field position. "Nice to meet you, Miss Dennis."

"Listen, I'm in the book," she said quickly, wishing he wouldn't leave.

A. J. watched Ryan go. "Create a tragedy," he said to himself. "Pretty fucking smart."

"Remember that girl. . what was her name? From Coos Bay. ." Mickey was grinning at Ryan over a plate of pasta. They were in a booth in the back of the original Mr. A's steak house on Cape May. Large windows over — looked the black Atlantic swelling with winter cold on th e s outh Jersey shore.

"Susan? Sharon? Yeah, it was Sharon something." Mickey was happy! Funny! Having a ball! His fat, round cheeks pulled up in cherubic delight. All around them, people were drinking beer and eating dinner, as the sound of silverware on crockery mixed with conversation and laughter.

The old-time waiters stopped to say "Hi" to Mickey on their way into the kitchen. Mickey had bussed tables in the restaurant every summer when he and Ryan were in prep school.

"Sharon," Mickey continued the reverie. "The bitch had bugs in her rug. Gave me crabs. No shit, Ryan. I had to shave my pubes and soak my Johnson in vinegar."

"Lucky I never got around to her."

Mickey waved at the bartender who sent two more frosted mugs of beer over with the waitress.

Ryan had been dreading the meeting all the way from Des Moines, but the minute he saw Mickey at the beach house and Mickey threw an arm around him and suggested they have dinner together, he'd felt more relaxed. Ryan had asked Lucinda not to join them. He still wasn't sure how this meeting would end. They'd driven to the restaurant in a black Jeep Mickey kept for the beach and on the way they'd never once mentioned the campaign or the documentary. They had been shown to a table like visiting royalty, and then Mickey had gestured at the restaurant at large.

"First Mr. A's, right on the tip of Cape May. My dad picked this location after he bought the beach house. Pop pointed to this spot and said we're gonna build a steak house right here, overlooking the bay."

"Really?" Ryan said, thinking, How could they afford a beach house before the restaurant had become a success? But that had been hours ago, and that sober thought had now been replaced by memories of dick jousting tournaments. Mickey's demeanor and friendliness made Ryan's earlier concerns seem foolish.

Two hours later, they had moved into the bar and were wrecking the atmosphere with bone-shattering harmony.

"From the tables down at Morrie's to the place where Louis dwells. ." The "Whiffenpoof Song" rang off the rafters, with Mickey roaring out the words off-key. The bartender kept the shooters coming.

At two A. M., they stumbled out into the cold January night and pissed in the snowbank, leaving yellow craters in the fresh drift. Laughing, they piled into the Jeep. Mickey was all over the road. "Wh00000," he yelled as the right front tire hit the curb in front of the Cape May Inn, where Ryan had elected to stay.

Mickey pulled up to unit 6 and set the brake. The engine purred. Exhaust made rich noxious steam.

"Man, we had some times, didn't we?" Mickey said, looking at his friend of more than twenty years. " 'Member that first day at Choate when we were roommates and we fought over the window bed? You were the first guy I couldn't pin. You counted with me, Ryan." Mickey shook his head in wonder. Then abruptly the smile was gone. "So, how come you're fuckin' me now?"

"What're you talking about?" Ryan was trying to get his head to stop spinning.

"I got a call from those guys in Iowa. They tell me you ain't cooperating with them. They say you're calling me a hood. I can't believe it. I recommended you." Mickey was looking at the dash.

"I was gonna talk to you about it tomorrow. I'm drunk, man. I can't do this with my brain steeped in shooters." "These people, they're real upset."

"I thought you hardly knew them," Ryan said, struggling to focus his vision, cursing himself for getting drunk, letting his guard down.

"I do you a favor, I don't expect to get butt-fucked." "I can't do this drunk. Okay?" Ryan struggled out of the car. "We'll talk about it in the morning."