Malibu, California
Pacific Coast Highway
December 17, 1996

It was just after two in the afternoon, and Shane Doleman and Jerry Lowell were looking out the window of their limousine at the Pacific Ocean.
       They had the windows down and the sunroof open, and the warm ocean air was swirling all through the luxurious leather interior, smelling salty and pleasantly alien. It was a perfect eighty degrees outside, and the sky clearly visible above them was California blue. Traffic rolled past them, coming back from the beach, all convertibles and BMWs and the occasional VW Bug with a brightly-colored surfboard strapped to its rounded roof.
       To their right, the cliffs and hills stood low and rocky, expensive homes perched atop them, just waiting to be the next to fall victim to the mudslides, earthquakes, or wildfires that seemed to always plague the area, but that still couldn't keep the well-to-do from building there. To their left, the ocean, immense and inviting, almost unimaginable to two college guys who'd spent their whole lives in the deserts of Phoenix. It wasn't the first time they'd seen the Pacific. Arizona youth were apt to take the six-hour drive to San Diego on spring breaks and long weekends, and make themselves an annoyance to the locals who had no tolerance for "Zonies". But somehow, this was different. This was Malibu. More than just a beach, it was wrapped up in Hollywood legend, home to stars of all kinds for as long as movies had been made. This was a magical place, the place you went to when you'd made it. When you were part of it all. And now, incredibly, it seemed as though they were.
       "Oh, my God," Jerry exclaimed, leaning his head out the window and turning his neck to follow a pair of young girls in tiny bikinis as they walked along the roadside, presumably having climbed one of the long stairways up from the beach and on the way back to their car. One of them, with full brown hair and perfects legs, met his glance and smiled. Jerry's heart leapt. Not just because her look was one some men waited their whole lives to receive, but because he'd been eyeing girls out of car windows for many years, and most gave him looks of annoyance or indifference at best. But now he was in Malibu....and in a limo. And somehow, that made him appealing. That suggested he might be someone important, someone worth smiling at. Probably worth more than that.
       Jerry sat back down after the girls were, sadly, out of sight. He grinned widely, drunk on the knowledge that an otherwise once-in-a-lifetime moment was just the first opportunity in this two-week jaunt...and this just on the ride from the airport.
       "It's December," he marveled aloud. "December, and girls like that are dressed like that and just walking down the road."
       Shane grinned back at him, having caught a glimpse of them from his own seat. "Hooray for Hollywood," he said, shrugging.
       "Hooray for Hollywood," Jerry agreed, laughing, and lifted his glass in toast. They each held fine crystal glasses filled with, of all things, Mountain Dew and handfuls of tinkling ice. Shane had met with Terrance Cross at the Hollywood legend's Arizona home months before, and when asked what he'd wanted to drink, had requested his favorite beverage. He and Jerry had been picked up by the limo at the airport in Van Nuys this morning, only to find the limo's bar refrigerator filled with Mountain Dew, in bottles of a size Shane had never seen. Cross had remembered, even a detail as small as that. If Shane had been meant to be impressed...it had worked.
       Shane toasted with his best friend, and they drank Dew and felt like kings.
       They were nearly at the end of their whirlwind tour of L.A. and its surrounding areas. Gerald, one of Cross's people who had met them in Scottsdale and flown back to L.A. with them, was up in the front seat with the driver, and had been their tour guide, speaking to them through the limo's intercom system. They'd driven through L.A., through Beverly Hills, and through Hollywood itself, passing famous landmarks like Mann's Chinese Theater and cruising down Hollywood Boulevard. They'd passed many of the major studios, and driven by the extravagant homes of many household names, and Gerald seemed to have an anecdote to go with each of them. Yet through all this, they stayed in the car, and Gerald remained in the front seat to give them their privacy. Shane figured this was ordered by Cross himself...just in case they felt the need to have random conversations about secret super-hero stuff or something. Again, attention to detail. The man was good.
       And now, finally, they were headed for what was to be their home for the next two weeks. One of Terrance Cross's many houses was on the beach in Malibu, and this one was kept mainly for guests or business associates. Shane was definitely the former, and Cross was hoping he'd end up the latter after this trip was over as well. That was the point of this vacation, really. Cross was making the world-wide phenomenon called Windjammer a proposal. He wanted to manage him...his publicity, his marketing, his whole "career". Shane had, somehow, never imagined his being a hero would lead to such global fame and celebrity, and that he'd have any kind of "career" to manage. It was all happening so fast. He just hoped that Terrance was serious about this trip being more vacation than business. He was still thinking things over, and didn't want to feel rushed into anything. Part of him still clung to the notion that he still had choices, a say in what direction his life would take. But another part of him wondered if he'd ever have the luxury of such choices again.
       "We are hitting the Viper Room," Jerry noted suddenly as one of the many thoughts racing through his mind popped out of his mouth. They had passed the famous club during their tour, and both agreed that seeing it in the daylight wasn't like really seeing it. "And the Whiskey, definitely. What do we hit first? Or do we do both the same night? And when do we go? I mean, what's our schedule here?" He was knocking his knees together at a regular rhythm, unconsciously burning off some of the pent-up energy that was threatening to make him shake like a monkey.
       Shane shrugged. "Hey, you know as much as I do. We have to see the man first and see what he's got planned for us. Then we work around that, I guess. We're on his ticket, so we see what he's got in mind."
       Jerry raised his hands in eager compliance (careful not to spill his Dew). "Hey, I'm all with that. I just don't want to miss a thing. I want to do it all, man. I can't believe this! I'm in L.A., being wined and dined and hawking a screenplay to Terrance Cross!" He nearly shouted the last two words, having to release at least some of his excitement. "Not bad for a couple of Scottsdale boys, huh?"
       "Yeah," Shane agreed, smiling. "Not bad." Scottsdale. With all this going on, why did he find himself missing it?
       The limo turned off the PCH and down a narrow, windy road. This road spiraled ever downward, and was lined with gates that guarded other, even smaller roadways. The limo slowed to a stop before one of these, and the gate slowly swung open seconds later. Shane guessed either the driver or Gerald had a remote of some kind. They careened along a private road lined with well-kept palm trees, and the sun splashed the asphalt with dancing shadows of the lightly waving fronds. The road eventually ended in a sharp curve and a small downward slope, and there, before them, was the their temporary home.
       "Wow," Jerry said, plainly, watching out the window as they approached.
       The limo pulled to a stop in front, in what served as the driveway. The house wasn't some Blake Carrington mansion, but Shane knew enough about southern California real estate (having a mother in the house business, he tended to pick up such knowledge through osmosis) to imagine what it must have cost (did he buy it, Shane wondered, or did he just make a phone call and have it built?). It had a high, obviously vaulted ceiling, and even the set of double front doors seemed larger than life. He could make out from looking down the side of it that it was built on a descending slope that led down to the beach below. They were at the front door, but were looking at the second story. The walkway to the front split off before the gated entry, and led to a wooden stairway that led down to the beach below.
       Looking out the other window, he could see a separate carport, its own structure. The twin doors were rolled up, and he could see autos inside. One was a shiny black Mercedes convertible, almost certainly the current year's model. Behind door number two (thank you, Don Pardo) was a bright red sports car that Shane couldn't quite place, but knew—from male instinct, probably—to be something remarkable.
       "That's a Ferrari Boxer 512!" Jerry answered for him in an excited whisper, ever the car enthusiast. "Holy crap! You know what one of those things cost?!" Neither dared a guess aloud, because it was clearly a rhetorical question.
       Before they knew it, they heard the trunk opening behind them. The chauffeur had popped it from up front, and seconds later was opening the leftmost door for them with an air of almost military discipline. Leaving their crystal glasses by the bar, the pair crawled out.
       "Welcome home, gentlemen," Gerald said with his sparkling smile. The sounds of wind and gull calls coming up off the ocean was the final reminder that this was real, and not some pleasant, if unbelievable, dream.
       "Nice to be home," Jerry said ironically, looking around.
       "Victor will take care of the bags," Gerald continued. "If you'll follow me."
       Anywhere, Shane knew Jerry was thinking.
       Gerald led them up the walk and through the tasteful iron gate, which stood open. He opened the front door without hesitation, knowing it would be unlocked. He stepped briskly in, and the boys, almost hesitantly, followed him.
       The entryway proved that they were, in fact, on the top floor. Past the large, standing plants and contemporary art hangings, it ended at a rail in a 'T'. To the left and right would be the bedrooms, but straight ahead was an overview of a mammoth living room area below, filled with comfortable couches, chairs, and what looked to be one mother of a cutting edge entertainment system. Shane stepped up to the rail, and could see the stairs that wound down to the common area, and the kitchen off to the side. The whole back wall of the house seemed to be one big window, with a pair of glass doors set in the middle that opened to an impressive deck. There were beach chairs and a large barbecue pit, and a raised hot tub that could have passed for a modest pool. Beyond the deck? The beach. The ocean, endless blue and no stopping until Hawaii. Breathtaking was the only word that could describe the view.
       "This is one of Mr. Cross's favorites," Gerald said, suddenly the tour guide again. "He doesn't get to use it much these days, but makes sure it gets enjoyed. He likes to share his favorite things with people he likes. It's the kind of man he is."
       Victor, in his spotless uniform, came in behind them, weighted down (but not showing the strain) with luggage. Gerald spotted him and started to give instruction, but paused.
       "Oh, I guess we'll have to figure out which rooms you'll each be in. There are four, besides the master, um..."
       "Oh, really," Shane said quickly, almost apologetically, finally needing to draw a line on all the servitude. "Just right here will be fine. We'll take care of them."
       "Yeah, we got it," Jerry agreed, picking up on the same wavelength. "We'll figure out the room thing later. Just drop 'em anywhere."
       Victor nodded, and began setting—not dropping—their bags in a tidy formation by the front doors.
       Shane heard a voice from one of the rooms to his left, and it grew louder as its speaker came out and into the hall.
       The girl looked to him to be around twenty-four. She was talking into a cell phone and nodded as she spoke. She had short black hair, wore khaki pants, a bright tee, and a light vest, and carried a thick day planner under her free arm. Her apparel seemed particularly casual compared to all the other Cross people they'd been meeting. She was speaking quickly, which seemed immediately normal for her, and breached her concentration long enough to throw them a quick smile and a nod. Gerald extended his arm in a friendly, familiar wave as she approached. Shane and Jerry slid each other a look, their version of an optical shrug.
       "Tuesday, then," she said to her phone, and her voice had a subtle little gravel to it. She sounded confident and sure of herself. It was a safe bet she spent a lot of time on that thing. "Gotta go. Okay. Sure. Bye."
       She clicked the phone off and folded the mouthpiece up, and turned her attention fully to the men in the entry. "Afternoon, gentlemen," she smiled. "Right on time as ever, Victor."
       Victor simply nodded with a hint of a smile. Yeah, he knew it.
       "Hello, Ash," Gerald said, smiling. He turned to Shane and Jerry. "Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Ash Gibson, Mr. Cross's personal assistant."
       "Euphemism for indentured servant," she grinned wryly. She put her phone in her planner hand and offered the free one to Jerry. "Nice to meet you..." She considered for a moment and then decided. "Jerry?"
       "Yeah," Jerry agreed, shaking her hand. "Pleasure."
       She shook Shane's hand next. "And that would make you Chris."
       "Yes it does," Shane smiled. "Nice to meet you, Ash."
       She studied him for a moment, oddly. "You don't look like a Chris."
       Shane's back went a bit stiff, and he fought back the urge to swallow.
       "This is Terrance's Girl Friday," Gerald said. "He doesn't make a move without her, and don't let her tell you different."
       She gave Gerald a sideways glance and a grin. Shane could tell the two had known each other for a while. And why not? They were both parts of Terrance's big happy family. But this Ash was a bit different, Shane was already noticing. Everyone else they'd been in contact with was on their best behavior, and seemed to him like the staff of a fine hotel that knew how to treat important guests. He got the idea she wasn't one who put on other faces easily. Seemed like you pretty much got the one she had, and dealt with it.
       "And," Gerald continued, "she'll be taking you from here. I'm afraid it's time for Victor and I to leave your company."
       "Oh," Jerry said, dealing with the change of the guard.
       "You're in very capable hands, don't worry. Ash will be seeing to all your needs during your stay. But I'll be back at the end of your trip to get you safely back to Scottsdale." He stepped forward and traded firm handshakes with each of them. "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen. Mr. Lowell. Mr. Johnson."
       "Hey, thanks for everything," Shane said.
       "It was my privilege," Gerald said, and made it work. He turned to Victor. "Shall we?"
       Victor nodded, and tipped his hat to his now former passengers.
       "Thanks for the lift," Jerry said, not quite sure what else to say. He hadn't said good-bye to many limo drivers in his life.
       Ash turned her head to Gerald. "And you are on the way to get the bar in that thing loaded up, right?"
       Gerald gave her a knowing smile. "All in a day's work, Ash."
       With that, Gerald and Victor left the house, closing the front doors behind them.
       "I feel like we should have tipped," Jerry said.
       Ash laughed. "Not while you're Terrance's guests. That kind of thing just isn't allowed."
       "Can't help myself," Jerry muttered, absently. "It's genetic."
       "What was that about the bar?" Shane asked, not sure if he was being impolite doing so. She seemed like the sort who wouldn't mind.
       "Oh," she said, casually. "They've got another pickup this evening. Robert Mitchum's flying in for the holidays. He likes plenty of lubrication after a long flight. Standard operating procedure with Bob."
       Shane and Jerry were both dumbfounded. "Are you serious?" Jerry asked, looking at the front door. "They're going to get Robert Mitchum?"
       "Uh huh," she said, matter-of-factly. "He and Terrance have some golf planned for later in the week. Terrance always insists on having him picked up. Man's a great actor, but drives like a lunatic. It's less of a friendly gesture than a sense of civic duty."
       Shane and Jerry were looking at each other again, still getting a handle on the idea that they were in a land where such comments were never jokes. Ash grinned at the look of the two of them, probably having seen it plenty of times, but was tactful enough not to comment on it.
       "Well, come on," she said, heading for the staircase. "Let's give you two the house tour."
       They followed, dutifully, descending to the lower floor and into the living room with its private ocean outside.
       "You've got the five bedrooms, four up and one down here. Three bathrooms, including the master. Here we have your living room with all the comforts. You've got your bar right over there, fully loaded. Not Mitchum loaded, but still a pretty impressive spread. The wines are in that room off the kitchen."
       She stopped at the kitchen, showing it to them. It looked like something right out of Better Homes and Gardens. It was—what?—five times the size of Shane and Jerry's kitchen? The refrigerator was mammoth, looking like it could fit a couple of phone booths behind its metal doors.
       "The aforementioned kitchen. Again, you're fully loaded. You've got enough in there to live on and entertain with, but if you find yourself running short, all you have to do is call the caterer."
       "Caterer?" Jerry asked.
       "Yep. It's with the other numbers, which I'll get for you in a couple of minutes. Likewise, if you don't feel like doing your own cooking, the caterer's a phone call away. Their people are excellent. Terrance refuses to use anyone else. I'd recommend calling for dinner a couple of times. You won't regret it."
       Walking backwards toward the ocean, she kept on talking.
       "There's a full DVD library in the cabinet there. A good mix of CDs, too. There are speakers on the deck if you want tunes with tub. Just flip the switch on the mixer. If books are your thing, there's a good selection on the shelves in the master."
       She turned and opened the glass doors to the deck, and she led them outside into the sunshine and ocean breeze.
       "Your barbecue area, if you get the urge. Or the urge to get the caterer to use it. Your basic family-sized hot tub, easy to operate, just follow the labels by the switches. If it gives you any trouble—I don't think it ever has—just call the tub guy. It's with the other numbers. Twenty-four hour service."
       The three walked together to the end of the deck. Ash leaned on the rail, brushing bit of hair off her forehead the wind had displaced.
       "Wow," Jerry breathed, leaning on the rail next to her, looking outward. In the center of the deck, the rail opened, and three steps led down into sand. The ocean was a short stroll away, and the blue waves broke and rolled onto the beach in imperfect tempo.
       "Tide's been into the house three times, mainly during the big storms of the eighties," Ash said. But people keep building right on the beach. Guess when you stand here, you can maybe understand why."
       Shane joined them, and closed his eyes without planning to. He could feel the winds on his face, on his arms, and fought back the urge to take control of the moist, salty drafts and invite them to dance. He hadn't felt such a spontaneous urge to fly in a long time. To fly over the ocean, skimming just above the swells, maybe even jetting along next to a couple of dolphins as they broke the surface and plunged back down to their peaceful world. The thought of it warmed and calmed him, and he knew, risky or not, he might just have to try it.
       "Your beach, boys," Ash said, looking up and down it. "Completely private, fenced at either end a ways down. Afraid you won't find any little honeys wandering by your back door that way, but that's how Terrance wanted it. A lot of very famous people have stayed here, and keeping the press out is always a chore. Terrance wanted this to be a place of solitude."
       She turned around, standing between the two of them, and gave them each a look, considering them. "And that's one of the things Terrance was clear on with you two guys. Privacy and low profile is the standing order. See, I'm used to that when he's got one of the royal family in town or one of his Washington buddies. But it comes as a surprise when he's putting on the spread for an unknown screenwriter from Arizona and his roommate."
       Shane and Jerry looked at each other, and to her, trying to play things casual. She seemed to be studying them as they did, wearing a little smile. Knowing and reading people was probably a big part of what she did, and she also looked like someone who enjoyed a mystery.
       "You know," she said to Jerry, "he hasn't even told me what you wrote for him. I mean, he's got a whole script department that handles the bulk of the incomings, but the special ones, the big properties, he always runs by me first. Not so much as a peep about this one, and not much more about the two of you. And Gerald wasn't joking. He trusts me with everything. But you two...?"
       She looked from Jerry to Shane, and back again, and Shane could tell she was watching for any detail their faces or expressions might give away.
       "You two are a bit of an enigma." To Jerry, she said, "You must have something pretty hot for him to be holding his cards like this."
       Jerry cleared his throat, feeling as vulnerable to her probings as Shane. "Well," he said, carefully, "you know. We'll have to see about that. We're just here to talk about...you know, things. See what develops."
       She nodded, probably sensing she wasn't going to get any more without offending the boss's guests. Smiling, she said, "Well, I look forward to reading it, whenever the big secret's out. I liked your plays."
       "My plays?" Jerry said, startled.
       "Yeah. Before I got told about this big trip, Terrance had me hand-carry them over to Connie at KnightCross's script department. Your samples, I assume. There was a pile-up on the 405, so I had some time to kill, and I gave them a read. Really good, I mean it. Funny. And I mean intelligent, political funny, not Jim Carey funny. You've got a good beat for character, too. I almost teared up there a couple of times in the middle of traffic. The thing with Larry in God's Green Earth?"
       "Yeah," Jerry said, almost stupefied. "Wow, that's...that's great."
       "Yeah, I really enjoyed them. Wish I could have seen them on stage."
       "God, I don't," Jerry laughed. "Two of them were put on in my parents' back yard."
       "You're kidding me," she laughed back.
       "Hand to heaven. You don't get much more starving theater than that. And—" He looked to Shane, and almost said his name aloud. He'd gotten too relaxed all of a sudden, talking about his work, and nearly forgot their little necessary ruse. "And, uh, Chris here was my lead in all of them."
       "An actor," she said, regarding Shane with a turn of her head. "In this town. Imagine that." Her detective mind was working again. "So, is there a chance there's a part for you in this mystery script?"
       Shane shifted uncomfortably, not liking how close they were skirting to the truth. "Well, I don't know. I'm just along for the ride, you know?"
       "Hmm," she said, contemplative. Then, again, she gave up the probing, good at knowing the limits. "Well, don't count yourself out. Any friend of Jerry's, from what I'm seeing, is probably a friend of Terrance. This town works on connections. Don't waste your chance."
       Shane nodded and smiled, and wisely let the subject slip away.

       Back inside, the three of them sat around the living room, sipping mineral water and going over the particulars of the house, and all the many amenities available to them. They laughed, and talked, and thankfully steered clear of the big unmentionable. After her breakdown of it all, she asked if either of them had any more questions.
       "One," Shane said, setting down has glass down on an equally glass coffee table (the rich and famous, he mused, are above coasters. His mother would be appalled). "'Ash'?" he asked, an open-ended question.
       Ash nodded with a grin, and was obviously used to the question. "Short for Ashley. And I used to smoke." She rolled her eyes in a self-deprecating, amused look. "A lot. The name kind of stuck."
       "Ah," Shane nodded, satisfied.
       "Now," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out several keys, all on individual rings. She held up two, and their rings had small black boxes dangling from them with white buttons in their center. "Keys to the house. The clickers here get you through the front gate, the keys work on the front door and the gate outside it. There's an alarm code for the house, if you decide to turn it on, and it's in that folder I gave you with the numbers. I wouldn't lose it. You try getting in without it, you'll have a whole SWAT team of private security busting in right after you. Set if off by accident, the security number's in with the others. Call them quick."
       She pulled out another pair of keys. Each of these had auto emblems on them. Jerry's heart leapt. Seeing the car port, he somehow hadn't even realized the obvious.
       "For the Mercedes and the Ferrari. Alarms on each, too."
       "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Jerry said, stunned.
       "Yours for the duration of your stay. Got to get around in L.A. Might as well do it in style. With the man's compliments."
       Jerry took them and stared at them in his palm, like he was holding precious jewels.
       "This is just too much," Shane said, letting himself be overwhelmed again. "All of it. He didn't have to go through all this trouble."
       Ash grinned, and leaned forward, whispering theatrically. "He likes to. The old man thrives on hospitality. Makes him feel good. So enjoy it. It's guilt-free. Everyone deserves to go first class all the way at least once. Take him up on it."
       "Well, I can't wait to thank him."
       "You won't have to wait long," she said, standing up and opening her planner. She pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Shane. "There's your directions to dinner tonight. I tried to make it as simple as possible. Here to Beverly Hills can get a little confusing, but I think you'll manage. Just for God's sake avoid the freeways."
       She reached back into her planner as Shane studied the map, and pulled out a couple of business cards. "And speaking of numbers," she said. Taking her cue, the guys both stood up. She handed one card to each of them. "Here's your most important one. My number. This goes right to my cell. Anything you need, anytime of the day or night, you call me. Terrance has put me at your complete disposal through the holidays. Don't be afraid to use it, okay? For anything. Any questions, any special requests, if you need reservations, a studio tour, whatever. Day or night, doesn't matter."
       Jerry looked the card over, and nodded. "Good enough. Hey, thanks, Ash. Really."
       "For everything," Shane added.
       "Nothing but a pleasure," she smiled, looking at both of them. "You guys are all right. I do this for a lot of demanding, phony people, but you guys are okay. I look forward to seeing more of you in the next two weeks."
       After a silence of mutual appreciation, Ash sighed and said, "Well, I've got to hit it. I'll leave you boys to get all moved in and homey. Terrance expects you around seven, but he expects you to get lost, so don't sweat it if you're a little late."
       "Nice meeting you, Ash," Shane said, shaking her hand again.
       "And you," she said. "Chris."
       "Me too," Jerry said, joining in the shaking. "Thanks again."
       "Just enjoy your stay," she smiled at Jerry. "And try not to get too Hollywood. You'd be amazed what two weeks here can do to you."
       She left them in the living room, and briskly climbed the stairs back up to the entryway. "Anything at all," she reminded, giving them one last look over the rail. "Day or night. I mean it."
       "Okay," Shane said, waving. And with a final smile, she left their sight, and departed with the sound of the front door closing, leaving the two of them alone in their living room.
       They were quiet for a moment, both of them just looking up at the rail. They looked then at each other. Jerry started smiling, and looking around the room. Shane glanced around, too, taking it all in. Jerry then looked back at Shane, and his smile grew beyond control, and spread to his whole body.
       "WOO!!" he shouted, throwing his arms up above him, crying out in a victorious howl. Shane laughed, and Jerry threw himself into his best friend in an excited hug. "I can't believe this, dude!"
       "I know, I know," Shane agreed, amazed at how long Jerry had been able to keep his cool.
       Jerry started running excitedly around the house like a kid, dashing up the stairs and looking through every room. Shane, himself, was drawn to the kitchen. He started looking through drawers and cabinets, feeling like he needed to perform the ritual to convince himself that it was really all his for the next couple of weeks. He pulled open the fridge, and was stunned by the magnitude of both fine and ordinary foods they had to choose from. And the vast store of Mountain Dew cans on the bottom shelf.
       "There's a TV in every room!" Jerry shouted from somewhere above. "Oh my GOD! This shower's as big as a racquetball court! You could wash every Osmond in here at once!"
       Shane pulled out an ice-cold can of Dew, the final step in claiming the place as his own. He popped it open and walked to the glass doors, looking out at the ocean. Jerry soon came pouncing back down the stairs and flopped down on the couch, laughing madly.
       "I don't know whose life it is I'm living here," he said, sounding winded, "but I like it."
       "I'll drink to that," Shane said, raising his Dew can in toast. "Can I get you one?"
       "Just hand me the phone. I'll call the caterer and have them carry one over to me."
       They both laughed at this, and Shane settled down into an amazingly comfortable white chair.
       "I don't know where to start," Jerry said, sounding stunned. "Enjoy the house, hit the beach—you know, my beach or the one the common folk use—see the town… This is too much to handle."
       "I'm just trying to catch up first," Shane said, sounding emotionally exhausted. "I mean, he said he wanted to bring me out and put me up, but who'd have thought all this?"
       "Me," Jerry said. "This is just how I've always pictured it. Hollywood. The whole dream. And here we are."
       "Here we are," Shane agreed, marveling.
       Jerry was quiet for a minute, and then pointed at Shane, holding the gesture. "God bless Terrance and all the hired help, man, but you're the one I have to thank. This is all you, brother. I could never have been in this situation without you."
       "Ah," Shane said in a dismissive, genuinely modest way.
       "I'm serious. This means a lot to me. And I know you're the real star here, and I'm just along for the ride, but I'm the one who's getting all the Brando treatment. I haven't heard 'Mr. Lowell' this many times since we had old man Starkey for principal in junior high."
       "You deserve it," Shane said. "We both know you're a great writer, and pretty soon everybody's going to know it. Terrance knows it. That's why you're here."
       "Yeah, that's why I'm here," Jerry grinned in good-natured sarcasm. "Anyway, I mean it. Thank you, Shane. You're my best friend, man, and I just...I mean, there's no words for all this."
       Shane smiled, and blushed a little at this slightly uncomfortable, but good, moment of friendship. "It's nothing, man. Nobody I'd rather have here with me."
       Jerry nodded and smiled, and they were both pretty relieved when Jerry changed the subject.
       "Well," he said. "Shall we stake out rooms?"
       "Take the master," Shane said, not even thinking about it.
       "Oh, come on," Jerry protested.
       "If Ash is going to be dropping in and hanging around," Shane interrupted, "it'll look better for appearances. I'm the roommate, you're the hot young writer, right? She's sharp enough without us giving her more clues."
       "You sure?" Jerry asked, once more.
       "Positive," Shane said with certainty. "Soap up with the Osmonds. Enjoy."
       "She is pretty sharp, isn't she?" Jerry said, thoughtfully. "Pretty cute, too. I see why Terrance keeps her around."
       "And she likes your writing..." Shane noted.
       "Which, of course, makes her much more attractive," Jerry finished, accepting the obvious with a laugh. He took her card out of his pocket and checked it out again. "Yeah, definitely a cutie."
       Shane looked at his own copy of her card, and the number on it, and immediately thought of the other phone number in his wallet. The one he'd brought with him from Arizona. The one another southern California girl had written down for him just a month ago, when she'd been the one, finally, to convince him to take Terrance Cross up on his offer and make this trip.
       Delight.
       His stomach tightened. So many issues wrapped around that one name. But he didn't have the luxury of sitting down and worrying over the decision anymore. He was here. For better or worse, he'd come, and she knew he was in town, and knew that he'd be calling. Whatever happened after that was another matter, but one thing was as frightening as it was oddly liberating—there was no turning back.
       He thought of Renee, probably still on the way to Denver, driving through the snow, and the last kiss they'd shared before she'd pulled away.
       And for the thousandth time since he made the choice to come here, he hated himself.
       But there was no turning back.

Beverly Hills, California

       They'd chosen to take the Mercedes, since this evening, above all on the trip, was to be about low profile. Jerry had driven, since Shane would have to be leaving the vehicle before they arrived at their destination. It was night as they drove through Los Angeles, taking in all the sights and sounds, and watching the real estate become more and more extravagant the closer they got to the heart of Beverly Hills itself. And, to their credit, they only managed to get lost once, when Jerry had missed a turn while watching a tall blonde in an evening gown pulling her convertible from her driveway. It didn't cut into their time, since they'd left plenty early.
       They wound their way up through the hills, and when the map suggested they were close, they pulled off to a dark, secluded overlook that showed the million lights of L.A. flickering below. After checking carefully to make sure they were alone, Shane pulled out his bag and quickly changed into his Windjammer costume. He pressed the mask on last, standing next to the car, and checked himself in the side mirror, making sure the mask was on straight.
       "Okay," he said, grabbing his board from the back seat. "Meet you there, partner. Try to not to drive crazy. I don't want to lose you and have to call from a payphone for directions."
       "And you try not to fly too low and scare any starlets," Jerry grinned from behind the wheel, dressed in a white silk shirt and black blazer.
       Shane—Windjammer—took the easier way of catching a wind and did a jump off the overlook. The California winds swept him up as he mounted his board and mid-air, and he rode wide circles up into the night.
       He followed the Mercedes' headlights from high above (at one point afraid he'd lost it and was now following the wrong car) as it spiraled through one exclusive roadway after the next, passing homes owned by people he'd only read about and seen on the big screen. Eventually, the car stopped at a gate, pausing as Jerry spoke into its intercom as directed. The gate opened, and let the car onto the grounds of a vast mansion, one with stables out behind it, an Olympic-sized pool, and its own nine-hole golf course. There was no mistaking that this was the right place.
       Shane circled above for a bit, straining his eyes to make out as much of the area as possible, sure that someone must be watching, or some photographer was hiding in the trees. His paranoia about this trip had come to a boil. He felt coolness on his face and the wind chilled the fresh sheen of sweat there, and he imagined, as he had so many times, what would happen to his life, and the lives of those close to him, if the whole world found out that Shane Doleman was really Windjammer. The thought terrified him, as did the whole trip all of sudden, and he scolded himself for ever being fool enough to make it, to take such a chance.
       But, as the fear began to pass (or at least quiet down a bit), and he became convinced that Hard Copy wasn't snooping around in the bushes below, he dropped from the sky and descended gracefully toward Cross's property. Jerry had parked in the large circular drive, and was walking up the front steps, looking all around the sky for his super-powered roommate. As he reached the front doors, the wind ruffled his blazer, and Windjammer drifted lightly down past the roof, dismounting from his board, and landing softly next to him.
       Jerry exhaled and straightened his coat, his nervousness showing. "Nice flight?"
       "Kept dropping my peanuts," Windjammer answered, and, with a final pause, reached out and pressed the button for the doorbell.
       The door came open almost immediately, which made sense, with the intercom announcing them and all. Shane hadn't been sure what to expect, but thought sure he'd be greeted by a butler or maybe by Chester as he'd been at Terrance's home in Arizona at their first meeting.
       But it was Terrance himself, larger than life, as always. Terrance Cross, Hollywood icon. He carried himself with all the presence of the legend he was. Taller than both of them, he stood there in slacks and a sweater, in magnificent shape for a man of fifty, with his close-cut gray hair giving him refinement more than mere mileage. He smiled his movie poster smile, the cocky, crafty one that millions around the world adored.
       "Hello, boys," he said. "Welcome to Hollywood."

       They sat in what he called his 'stogie room' after dinner, on leather chairs in front of an unlit fireplace. It was a room different in decor than the rest of his seemingly endless house, with its expected fineries, rare pieces of art from around the world, and other amenities guests to such a mansion would almost demand. This room was more personal. Photos of Terrance and celebrities of all types were in frames all over the mantle. There were hunting trophies hanging about, most notably the head of one of the biggest bucks they'd ever seen. A fine full bar was at the wall behind them, big enough for a bartender to serve behind, and a walk-in humidor. Terrance was smoking a cigar from that humidor now, after offering each of them one and getting a polite no thank you, had asked Shane and Jerry if they minded before he lit up. As if they were going to complain. Please. Of course, if Shane had really been bothered by it, he could have pulled up some very subtle drafts and herded the smoke right out of the room. But he'd have never taken the chance on being discovered and possibly offending his host, and besides—Terrance Cross with a cigar was about as American as John Wayne on a horse.
       The evening had gone wonderfully so far. Jerry had managed to not get tongue-tied when he first met Cross. Cross had made that easy enough, shaking his hand firmly and telling him what a pleasure it was to finally meet the man behind the words, referring to the "Windjammer" screenplay (1st draft) that had been sent on before their arrival. Jerry always wrote at a feverish pace, and managed to get a working first offering together in record time, after Shane had first told Cross about the idea. Terrance had been happy to have the script sent to him—anything, probably, to please the young super-hero he was wooing—but genuinely seemed to be excited about it after giving it a read. And he'd told Jerry so over dinner, several times, and Shane wondered if Jerry was just going to start floating right above his chair. Terrance also let Jerry know that he had a meeting set for him with Connie at his script department, the one that Ash had mentioned earlier.
       Dinner had been a fine affair, with the added eccentricity of them all having to serve themselves. Terrance had promised to keep things hush-hush, and, true to his word, he'd sent his whole staff home for the evening after they'd prepared the food. It was a moment Jerry would later say he'd be writing about in his autobiography...him standing around in Terrance Cross's vast kitchen, laughing and chatting while he, and the legendary actor, and the super-hero Windjammer all piled food on their plates and carried them back to the dining table built for twenty. Shane had already had one dinner with the man already, so he was accustomed (as one could be) to the idea, but Jerry was soaking up every moment of it. And he'd handled it great, which made Shane pretty proud. He kept right in with the conversation without looking like he'd burst out with a request for an autograph at any moment.
       Shane had expected Chester Fein, Cross's publicist, to join them again as he had last time, and he'd asked about the man's absence. Cross had simply said that business would come later, and that Chester couldn't make it through a five minute stretch without talking business, so he'd decided to keep it to the three of them. That struck him as pretty cool. How was he suddenly such a Hollywood insider that he was getting personal evenings with the biggest in the business? His guard actually came down, and he let himself start to enjoy the fact. And Shane did get his chance to thank Cross for all the extravagant treatment they'd been getting, and for the house and everything else. Cross had beamed with pride, and Ash had been on the money. The man was happy when he was making other people happy. And he let them know, in no uncertain terms, that they'd have anything they needed during their stay. As if just this evening wouldn't have been enough.
       Now the three of them sat around like old golf buddies, surrounded by smoke and Terrance's memorabilia. Terrance had a three fingers of bourbon in a glass at his side. Shane opted, as he had earlier in the day, for mineral water (he'd never actually gotten around to trying it before, and kind of liked it). Shane had been a little surprised when, as Terrance asked if he could get them drinks, Jerry had requested a scotch. He and Jerry had known each other since childhood, and Jerry never touched the stuff, with the exception of a few wedding champagne samples over the years. But, what the heck. He chalked it up to just seeming fitting for the moment. His friend was drinking with Terrance Cross. Let him drink scotch.
       "I swear to you," Terrance went on, speaking with his hands and waving his lit cigar around between his fingers. "Here's Jack, pissing on a tree off the fairway, trying to finish and zip up while the President's rolling up over the hill in his cart, with the first lady next to him and the whole secret service entourage in tow. And Bobby Duvall's just laughing his bald head off, while Jack's swearing up a storm at him and yelling at me to go distract the Chief."
       Jerry was laughing ridiculously, but it was hard to tell if he was doing so harder than Terrance.
       "Oh, God," Terrance finished laughing, taking a sip of his bourbon. "You just don't want to face Jack when he's pissed on his own golf shoes. Bobby almost got the nine iron that day."
       "Oh, man," Jerry said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
       "Those were the days," Terrance said, looking up at his mantle of photos sentimentally.        "Shame what's happened to ol' Ron. He's too great a man to end up like he has. He deserves more dignity. He's earned it."
       Windjammer and Jerry nodded silently, feeling a sudden weight. They were actually talking about a former President with a man who'd called him friend.
       "Made some great pictures, too," Terrance said, raising his glass in the direction of a photo of him with the former leader of the free world. "The war pictures, I mean, not the monkey crap. That's what Washington needs, I tell you. More actors. That's why I'm backing Fred every chance I get." He was referring to Senator Fred Dalton Thompson. Jerry knew this. For all Shane knew, he could have been talking about Fred Savage. "The people need faces they can trust up there. Politicians, in general, are dangerous types. They get in the spotlight, get a little power, and they get drunk on it. Actors? We're used to the spotlight. Been there already. That behind us, we can get in there and make some changes. A few more actors in there, we can really whip the world into shape."
       "You ever think of running?" Jerry asked, holding his scotch on the armrest of his chair.
       "Me?" Terrance asked, looking surprised. "Nah. Not my calling. I make movies. I make the world a better place by giving people a place to escape to when the world's gettin' 'em down. Some people don't buy that, but it's the oldest truth in Hollywood. That's what I do. And the politicians do what they do."
       He turned to Windjammer. "And you."
       Shane's look spoke the word for him. Me?
       "You do... I don't know if I can wrap a sentence around what you do, kid. I got pictures of me up here with Presidents and kings, but right now, having you sitting here seems a whole lot more amazing to me. You believe that?"
       "No," Shane said, honestly. The statement, in his mind, seemed ridiculous, and at the same time, frighteningly surreal.
       Terrance laughed. "Thought so. Picked that up from you last time. You may well be the most remarkable thing to happen to humanity in its whole history, but to you, you're still just some college kid from Arizona. And I kept thinking to myself after that dinner in Phoenix, 'what if somebody who didn't think like that got powers like this?' That's the kind of thing that could keep a man up at night."
       Most remarkable thing to ever happen to humanity. He'd been getting bits of, he felt, unwarranted praise from people close to him ever since he'd started using his powers and being Windjammer, but this was the first time someone was suggesting his was some kind of turning point in human history. The idea was insane! He was Shane Doleman! He was still baffled by basic laundry procedures and scratched his head like an idiot when Jeopardy was on the tube. It was strange enough that someone was wanting to make a movie about him, but now Terrance was suggesting he was going to be recorded up there with Abe Lincoln and Joan of Ark?
       "And you don't see it," Terrance marveled, shaking his head. He turned to Jerry. "He doesn't see it, does he?"
       Jerry shook his head with a little smile that was part irony and a little bit of pride. "Never has."
       Terrance smiled widely at this. "Good. You keep right on thinking that way, kiddo. That's exactly what people are going to love about you. Wonder of nature, good-lookin', unpretentious. Every guy will want to be you, every gal will pine away for you. And we're going to make sure of that with our movie, right?" At this, he turned back to Jerry and raised his glass.
       "With our movie," Jerry agreed enthusiastically, raising his own drink.
       Terrance laughed at this, finished the rest of his drink, and started puffing on his cigar. Shane was getting that mistake feeling again, thinking of home, thinking of college, thinking of Renee and wondering if he'd crossed some line he could never go back over again. But he tried his best to force a smile. It seemed only polite.
       "Ah, look at me," Terrance said, getting to his feet. "Two drinks and I'm already talking business. I need a refill. Anyone else?"
       "I'm fine," Shane said.
       "Actually," Jerry said, standing up. "I think I need to make a little room for that first. Where would I, uh..."
       Terrance pointed as he walked over to his bar. "Closest to here? Right, right again, and four doors down. We aim to please. You aim, too, please."
       "Gotcha," Jerry chuckled. He emptied the rest of his glass and left the room to T.C.B.
       Terrance got behind the bar and unscrewed the top on his bottle of bourbon. He smiled toward the empty door to the room and said to Shane, "You were right. He's a good kid. Real likable fella."
       Windjammer got up and strolled to the bar, taking a seat on one of the wooden stools there. "Yeah," he said, smiling. "He is. A good friend."
       "Seems to take all your stuff in stride," he noted, pouring into his glass. "Says a lot about him, too."
       "Yeah, he's something," Shane said.
       Terrance grinned, and got to the heart of the matter. "You're still not sure about all this, are you?"
       Shane sighed, and felt a little relief at this invitation to be honest. "Not completely. It's still a lot to take in. I think I'm still trying to pretend I have control of my life, you know?"
       "I know," Terrance nodded. "Went through it, too."
       "Really?"
       "In a different way than you, but sure. All celebs go through it, especially if they're big ones. I was just some putz actor trying to get it out of my system before giving up and taking over my father's store. Got lucky with a couple of TV spots, slipped into a feature, and next thing I knew, there was no turning back. A while after that, I couldn't scratch my sack without hearing about it on the evening news. Everybody wants a piece of you. Everybody thinks they know everything about you. No such thing as a private life anymore. Every word you say is scrutinized, every action analyzed. And you've got to live with the weight of knowing most everybody on the planet knows your face on sight. That's a lot to live with."
       Shane looked a little queasy. "Yes. It is."
       "Felt the same way. But listen to me, kid. When life hands you a gig like this, you don’t shuck it. You've got a responsibility to whatever powers that be to make the most of it. A lot of people don't get the same shot, and believe me, none of those people would be too pleased to hear you and me sitting around whining about it. You deal. It's what life's handed you. I've seen people try to play to wish-I-could-go-back game and make themselves miserable. There's no rewind button on this thing. You always move forward, and make the most. A believe me, for all the down side, there's a lot of perks."
       "Yeah?" Shane asked calmly, contemplating it all.
       "Oh, yeah. And I'm not just talking about the houses and the jets. For all the guilt we have to feel for living so well with the world the way it is, there's a lot of good we can do. Want to know how much I raise for charity every year? You know what the voice of one of us behind an issue can do to make the world stop and take a look at it? What you do what that wind stuff is great, but it's localized. You stop the bad guys in one place at one time. But you've got an opportunity here to reach the whole world, to make some real changes. To help people just by being who you are."
       "Wow," Shane said. "I hadn't really thought of it that way." And he hadn't, in all this. With all this talk about movies and action figures, he hadn't considered what kind of influence he could have. If he was really as popular as the press seemed to be saying, he could use that for the benefit of others, not just himself. He started seeing himself on TV ads to stop pollution, or showing up at fund-raisers to help the homeless. When looked at that way, fame seemed a little more palatable.
       Terrance winked. "That's what I'm here for, kid. That's a manager's job, to think of this stuff for you. I told you before. You've got the fame already. With me and Chester spinning things, we'll make it work for you...and for everybody. We're building an empire here kid. And empires can change the world."
       Shane breathed out, nodding, but not saying anything.
       "But, hey," Terrance said, sticking his cigar in his mouth. "That's business, and we'll talk about it. I've got a few things set up for you during this trip, just to get your feet wet and see how it feels to you. But we'll get to that. The important thing here is that you relax, enjoy yourself, take your time to ponder it all before making any of the big decisions. I promised you a vacation, and Terrance Cross is a man of his word."
       Shane smiled and nodded. "Okay," he said.
       "Oh-kay," Terrance agreed, smiling his million dollar smile. "Now, let me get you something. How about one of those Mountain Dews?"
       "Um, sure. Guess I could go for one."
"Good." Terrance turned around and opened the bar's fridge. "Mystery to me why, though. Stuff tastes like panther piss to me."
       Shane laughed at this, and let himself relax. He pledged, then, to do what he could to try and enjoy the two weeks he had ahead of him, and to keep an open mind to the opportunities ahead. He was a long way from Scottsdale, in more ways than one. He wasn't that kid anymore who skateboarded around by the mall without a care in the world. He was going to have to accept that, and deal with what came next. For now, he hoped, what came next would be a couple of amazing weeks with his best friend, having the time of his life. If this was going to be his last outing as his old self, he figured he might as well make it count.
       Sure, he would try. And try not to think about the dream. The dream that had repeated in his mind, night after night, for months. The one that had, truly, been the thing to make him come to California for the holidays. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he could see it clearly—that bank clock, the one on a bank called Pacific Federal. The clock flashed three pieces of information, always at the end of the terrible, prophetic dream.
       83 F
       3:37
       12/31/96
       New Year's Eve Day. What was waiting at 3:37? What was going to happen? Was it just a dream after all, brought on by the stress of everything going on his life and worrying about whether or not to take this trip? Or was someone, or something, trying to tell him something?
       What was going to happen?
       He was here. He had come. One way or the other, he was going to find out.

TO BE CONTINUED