Movieland

Chapter 24

It turned out people like Applewhite had access to information that high school seniors did not. I parked at the old Dairy Creme by the reservoir. Noon sun warmed my face through the windshield. I dozed off and walked into a room where Michael Keaton was in a chair with make-up artists applying Beetlejuice make-up.

Applewhite woke me up with a knuckle to the window. A few minutes later after a sharp turn down a dirt road I didn't know existed, we stopped at a gate at the bottom of the hill. The gate was adorned with a giant silver belt buckle in the shape of crisscrossed bullets. Standard wore it for the first time in Death to All and then it became his trademark look, one that cameras zoomed in on to announce his entrance into any movie. I wore a knock off when I went as him for Halloween. Frankie owned two, one he wore regularly and one he never removed from the packaging that last we checked was going for $500 online.

Even though Applewhite said Standard lived at the top of the hill, I didn't believe her. I'd driven past that hill many times on the way out to swim at the reservoir. There was no mansion at the top.

"They call this hiding in plain sight," she said, entering a code in the keypad. The gate opened and we drove up a winding gravel driveway.

It was my first time riding in a police car. I felt like Starsky. Or Hutch. Or Mike Lowry. Nicholas Angel. Axel Foley. Even Murtaugh, although that was more from sitting shotgun as a sidekick and less about being too old for this shit.

The driveway ended with two switchbacks, cresting onto an open field of tall green grass waving in the wind. It ended alongside a long row of apple trees. The wheels crunched over stray fruit and stopped outside a nondescript trailer.

"What happened to his mansion?" I asked.

Applewhite didn't have her gun but held her hand at her hip, nonetheless. "Who ever said he had a mansion? Stay behind me. He gets jumpy with strangers."

The steps to the trailer were cinder blocks covered by sawed off planks. A bug strip hung off to the side of the door, bunched with shriveled moths and flies.

She rapped on the screen door. "Standard! It's Applewhite. Time to repay that favor."

"What'd you do, run cover for him when he had to go into town? Book out the movie theater for a special screening?"

She shook the screen door. "Standard! I can smell the cereal. I'm serious. Get your ass out here."

She hopped down and picked an apple off a tree and bit a chunk out of it. "I gave him my Netflix password last year," she said, chewing.

The door opened with a squeaky creak like old age. The most recent photo I'd seen of Standard was from five years ago when the paparazzi snapped him feeding the crust from his sandwich to a flock of ducks. He was gruffly bearded with spectacles and a Detroit Tigers ball cap. He wore a green t shirt with a silhouette of Rocky Balboa raising his arms in celebration. If only the first photo was used, you would've thought life was good. He smiled as ducks flocked to eat pieces of crust from his fingers. Lucky Ducks could've been the title. Instead, the photographer pushed closer, for a better view, or more likely, a reaction.

The next photo was of the ducks scurrying and flying away as Standard recognized the camera. The final photo was the transformation from smile to rage. Fans were familiar with a glossy, sugared-down version of the look. He made a career on it.

Right after a villain (Hugo Weaving in Wake the Dead, for instance) left his henchmen to torture a chained-up Standard, he would take a few more body blows and fists to the face. And then he would begin laughing. He'd laugh through more punches and kicks. The henchmen would get frustrated and hit him harder. He'd ask for it, screaming for them to hit him. They stupidly acquiesced. Then he gave them the look. The one of maniacal rage crossed with a sarcastic bloody toothed grin like you just messed with the Wrong Bad Ass.