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    Blackwell Ops 10: Jeremy Stiles: The Way Things Go: Blackwell Ops, #10
    Blackwell Ops 10: Jeremy Stiles: The Way Things Go: Blackwell Ops, #10
    Blackwell Ops 10: Jeremy Stiles: The Way Things Go: Blackwell Ops, #10
    Ebook184 pages2 hoursBlackwell Ops

    Blackwell Ops 10: Jeremy Stiles: The Way Things Go: Blackwell Ops, #10

    By Harvey Stanbrough

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    About this ebook

    Jeremy Stiles, the readily recognizable Hollywood star and host of the popular television game show The Way Things Go also has an avocation.

     

    But his avocation is considerably more than a hobby. And it also pays a great deal more in both money and peace of mind than his more traditional Hollywood gig.

     

    He's perfectly happy with what he sees as a balanced life. Taping the show a few months each year, then pursing his career as an operative for TJ Blackwell the rest of the time.

     

    But are some Blackwell Ops assignments over the line of Jeremy's personal sense of morality? Are some far under the line, maybe to the point they're long overdue?

     

    And will the love of a very special woman change any of that for Jeremy? With his avocation, is that even a possibility?

     

    Come along to the glitter of Hollywood and plunge with Jeremy Stiles into the more varied thrill ride that is his other life.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStoneThread Publishing
    Release dateNov 6, 2023
    ISBN9798223634812
    Blackwell Ops 10: Jeremy Stiles: The Way Things Go: Blackwell Ops, #10
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    Author

    Harvey Stanbrough

    Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly. Harvey is an award-winning writer who follows Heinlein's Rules avidly. He has written and published over 100 novels, 10 novellas, and over 270 short stories. He has also written 18 nonfiction books on writing, 8 of which are free to other writers. And he's compiled and published 27 collections of short fiction and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections. These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key "StoneThread Publishing" or "Harvey Stanbrough" into your favorite search engine. Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for "The New Daily Journal | Harvey Stanbrough | Substack."  

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      Book preview

      Blackwell Ops 10 - Harvey Stanbrough

      Blackwell Ops 10: Jeremy Stiles

      The Way Things Go

      Prologue: The End of Taping

      On Wednesday on the sound stage in a prominent Hollywood studio, Jeremy Stiles stood in his tuxedo behind a narrow podium. A wide monitor several feet behind him displayed the current game board. His thick black hair was perfectly styled and smoothed back as if he had just come out of the surf pounding the beach at Maui.

      Just as if her presence was actually necessary, Rosalie Stone, Jeremy’s able, very attractive assistant, stood next to the game board. She had been in Hollywood since she was 18, having migrated from performing high school plays in central Iowa.

      Rosalie’s acting skills were suspect at best, but her face and figure approached the Hollywood definition of perfection. She had often wondered whether The Way Things Go would be for her what The Wheel of Fortune had been for Vanna White during Rosalie’s early childhood. If so, maybe she had already made it. But she still felt something was missing. She wanted to act.

      Rosalie’s raven hair with its seemingly jagged ends hung over the shoulders of a sleeveless, sparkling-white, almost floor-length and very form-fitting gown. Her hair perfectly framed her pert nose, meticulously groomed eyebrows, and dark blue eyes. It stopped either side of the nicely rounded mold of her breasts.

      Occasionally, but always at the right time, she pointed at the game board as she flashed what might have been a trademarked smile at the audience. She didn’t always point at exactly the right place, but nobody in the audience seemed to notice or care. Her winning but fake personality, always on display, made her the perfect television wife for Jeremy Stiles.

      When the game ended, Rosalie raised her right hand to wave to the audience. Then she seemed to float forward to stand next to Jeremy for the finale. She was only 5’5", but her gown-matching four-inch spiked heels lifted her to within a few inches of being shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

      As she arrived alongside Jeremy, she interlocked her fingers and clasped her hands just below her waist. She turned her shoulders slightly one way, then the other, pretending to enjoy the audience as much as they enjoyed her. The radiant smile remained. Now and again as the audience applauded, she raised her right hand again to wave briefly, or to point toward someone as if she knew them.

      To her left, Jeremy did the same, turning, nodding and waving a little, the smile always there.

      It was a special moment. They had just finished their latest taping, grateful it was also the last one for the year. It had been a grueling three months, approximately, of days that began at 4 a.m. and sometimes lasted until 9 at night.

      Today would be a short day. It was only a little after noon.

      After a long moment of mutual celebration with the audience, Jeremy took a few steps forward.

      Rosalie did not accompany him. Staying behind was in her contract.

      With his hands spread to the sides in front of him and that Hollywood smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Jeremy was front and center. In his left hand, he still held the final series of correct responses on a half-sheet of card stock. As usual, none of the contestants in the panel to his left had uttered any of those responses, at least not at the appropriate times.

      As if he had never done so before, he turned to face the contestants, who were also applauding. He applauded them back, then curled the fingers of his right hand a few times in a cursory goodbye.

      The contestants, all smiling, obediently raised one hand in salutation as they turned right to file into the wings.

      That special moment over, he faced the audience again, spread his hands a little wider in a subliminal invitation to join in, and uttered his catch phrase.

      The studio audience—almost giddy with delight either that they had obtained tickets for the final taping, or that he was including them, or both—yelled it with him: Well, and a pause for effect, "That’s just The Way Things Go!"

      The phrase intentionally included the name of the game show. Jeremy had ad-libbed the just from the beginning of his tenure six years ago to smooth out the rhythm. The writers didn’t like it, but he was the star.

      The smile still on his face, Jeremy looked left to right over those in the balcony to show his sincere appreciation, then lowered his gaze and reversed the motion for those in the seats on the floor.

      He raised his left hand, still holding the half-sheet of card stock. Tantalizing the audience, especially those in the first few rows, he turned the printed side of the card to face them.

      Some leaned forward in their seats in an attempt to glimpse the answers.

      But just before anyone could get a good look, he waved the card widely from side to side. Goodnight, everybody! Thank you, and drive safely!

      Behind him, radiant and apparently beaming, Rosalie Stone raised her right hand again. As she waved and looked from one side of the audience to the other, she mouthed, Goodnight! Her smile added the exclamation point. She didn’t have a line to say aloud, but that was fine, if annoying. The appearance of unity was part of her job. She also threw the audience kisses with her left hand.

      John Dram, the director, had been watching the show over the shoulder of Sam Stevens, the operator behind Camera 1. Dram stepped to the right and raised both hands. He yelled, Okay, cut! That’s a wrap. Good job everyone. Then he turned his back on the stars and applauded the audience.

      Dram was proud the producer, Peter Frank, had never insisted on using a laugh track. Laugh tracks were gaudy and unnecessary. Instead, he only splashed cues to the audience across three monitors, one above the stage and one on either side. The view from the television cameras never included those.

      The cues were clipped: Laughter, Applause, and Quiet Please. Each message flashed, two seconds on, one second off, when it was necessary. The audience seemed to love them. Doing what the cues demanded made them feel they were part of the production.

      Finally the audience began to file out as they had been instructed at the beginning of the taping. Those in the balcony and last few rows on the floor left first, and the wave rippled its way forward. Soon the balcony and the back two-thirds of rows were empty. As two lines of audience members, one in each aisle, moved up the slight incline toward the doors, someone backstage began cutting the lights a little at a time.

      The underlying buzz of conversation was loud, and the heads of the receding audience seemed to be on swivels. They were looking at each other, smiling, clapping each other on the back and remarking what a wonderful experience it was to witness the taping.

      Still smiling just in case anyone looked back, through her teeth Rosalie quietly said, Jesus! Are the lights hotter tonight than usual? Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead.

      Also still smiling at the backs of the audience, Jeremy said, Well goodness, RS, why don’t you find something to complain about?

      With the aisles almost empty at last, she glared at him and hissed, You’re a real asshole, Jeremy, you know that? She turned on the ball of her right foot and headed for her dressing room.

      Jeremy remained where he was for another moment. He would do so until both doors clumped shut. Even in his tux, he hadn’t broken a sweat all night.

      But I’ll let Jeremy tell his story in his own words....  

      Chapter 1: An Assignment Comes In

      Okay, that’s true. I hadn’t broken a sweat all night. But then, I was used to the heat. My job hosting The Way Things Go is only a part-time gig. I’m also an operative for Blackwell Ops. And taping is over. I was anxious to get back to work.

      Still, I remained on stage and continued smiling as the last few audience members filtered out. It had been a long three months. When the doors finally closed, I was relieved.

      I raised a hand to my buddy Peter Frank. He and the director, John Dram, would still have work to do, wrapping the crew, checking the tape, and whatever else the producer and director types do. But as the old chant goes, I was free at last.

      I turned and walked off the stage.

      As I entered a hallway, I reached into my left trouser pocket and felt to be sure my VaporStream device was there. It was. The device had been in the floor safe in the bedroom closet of my home for the past three months. I brought it with me today because it would be the final taping.

      As I stopped at a light blue door with a bold red star on it—the door to my dressing room—I shook my head and chuckled. The star was meant to be a perk, but I thought the concept was almost laughable.

      I mean, John Wayne is a star. Bobby Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones are stars. I’m only a game-show host. It’s amazing what some people believe is really important.

      I turned the doorknob and went in.

      For them to think of me as a star, the room was minimally furnished. A dressing table and chair sat along the left wall, a three-sided, lighted mirror mounted above it. I had never used it except to wipe off the makeup at the end of the day. The makeup folks did what they had to do before the first taping each day, then came out onto the stage as necessary through the day to freshen me up.

      Beyond the dressing table in the left corner was a small open closet with a single rod. In that, on hangers, were the street clothes I’d changed out of when I arrived this morning: a white, button-down long-sleeved linen shirt and a pair of camel-brown slacks. I’d worn a pair of slip-on brown Italian leather loafers too. They were below the clothing on the floor.

      A couple of padded brown-steel folding chairs were folded flat and leaning against the wall across from the door. They’d also provided a sofa. It was situated along the wall to the right in case I wanted to grab a quick nap sometime between tapings. I never made use of that. At 33 years old and in better shape than many twenty-somethings, I saw no value in naps.

      I hadn’t used the sofa even when Rosalie Stone approached me in my dressing room, uninvited, after the first few shows of the first season and tried to lure me into sleeping with her. She was a typical up-and-comer who harbored too great an opinion of herself. She was trying to fast-track her career. As if.

      Even if sleeping with me would have helped, I wouldn’t have done it. I wasn’t into plastics, whether drink ware, dinnerware, or would-be starlets. I’ve never cared for the pretentious Barbie doll that was Rosalie Stone.

      I started taking off the tux. It would be a relief to get out of the thing. As I hung the jacket on the padded back of my oak valet, I thought about the producer and my friend, Peter Frank.

      Quietly, just in case anyone was loitering outside my door, I said, I ought to go find old Peter and tell him to stuff this show up his ass. I chuckled.

      If anyone was listening, that would create all sorts of rumors. And the informant spreading the gossip would have sworn it was fact because he or she had heard it straight from the star’s own mouth. Of course, he or she wouldn’t admit to eavesdropping.

      But I was half-serious. I had considered doing the same thing every time we completed a season of the series.

      But Peter and I were old college friends, and the admonition to stuff it was a longstanding joke between us. Back in the day, anytime one of us said something the other didn’t like or didn’t agree with, the other would lock gazes. "Yeah? Well why don’t you

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