Kubrick's Game Read online

  “There’s another thing we should probably discuss,” said Shawn.

  Wilson interjected before Shawn could speak. “Remember what we learned at the Museum of the Moving Image. If there’s another group out there willing to stop at nothing to win this game, what are they thinking Kubrick left behind that’s worth sabotage, violence, or worse?”

  Sami mused, “I’m willing to admit this is far-fetched, but what if he left behind the evidence many have been searching for about the true nature of his death?”

  “True nature? Didn’t he die of a heart attack?” said Wilson.

  “Yes, but it was a heart attack under very mysterious circumstances. Granted, he was seventy years old and not in the greatest shape, but he ate healthy and didn’t smoke or drink. He visited doctors regularly and there was no sign of a heart condition. Perhaps he may have been due for a small heart attack, but a massive fatal coronary? That’s extremely rare. Add to that the fact he had just screened Eyes Wide Shut for the first time four days before his death....”

  “Oh geez, here it comes.” Shawn rubbed his temples.

  “What? Did the screening not go well?”

  “It went great,” Sami replied. “The studio loved it. However, the film depicted scenes that supposedly revealed sacred rituals of certain secret societies.”

  “Rituals? You mean the masked orgy scene?” said Wilson.

  “Yes, that’s the big one. It’s said that the members of this society take vows that if such secrets are revealed to the public, the penalty is death.”

  “What society is this, exactly?” said Wilson.

  “The Freemasons,” said Sami. “Specifically the upper echelon of the Freemasons, commonly referred to as the Illuminati.”

  “Oh great.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “Why do I feel like I just stepped into a Nicolas Cage movie?”

  Shawn piped in. “You know I’m a skeptic about conspiracy theories. There’s no evidence of any foul play in Kubrick’s death. There’s also no evidence that he was involved with any secret societies, Freemasons or otherwise. However, what is undeniable is that Kubrick inserted Freemason symbols into his films so frequently and so blatantly, it makes The Da Vinci Code look like Green Eggs and Ham. The purpose and meaning of the symbols in each of his films is debated ad nauseam online—lots of interesting stuff—but at the end of the day there’s nothing conclusive. That’s why I stopped focusing on why he made his films and concentrated on how.”

  “But don’t you see?” said Sami. “This quest that we’re on... it is the why. Why did Kubrick insert himself into Lolita? Why did the portrait move locations? Now we know!”

  Shawn was taken aback. Could Sami be right? All those burning questions? All those mysteries? Was the answer just that it was all meant to serve the construct of the game?

  “Not to belabor the point,” said Sami, “but there are more strange facts about Kubrick’s death. By the time he died, he had made thirteen feature films—not a very lucky number. Plus, from the day of his death, March 7, 1999, until January 1, 2001 is exactly 666 days. Six-six-six is associated with the pagan belief system of the Freemasons. Quite the coincidence considering 2001 is his most famous film. Those are exactly the types of cryptic clues secret societies love.”

  “Interesting,” said Wilson. “But he still died of a heart attack.”

  “True, but there are several untraceable poisons that can induce heart failure. Our competitors could be the culprits trying to protect themselves.”

  Wilson turned and gazed at Shawn. “Okay, so Sami thinks Kubrick is going to point a finger to his murderer. How about you? What do you think could be so important?”

  Shawn shrugged. “All I know is that I’m on this quest because I want to discover one thing more than any other: who was Stanley Kubrick? Was he the misanthrope who rooted for humanity’s destruction? Was he an optimist who believed we could be redeemed? Or are all those labels wrong? Was he just a man from the Bronx who wanted to entertain us? He isolated himself, coming out only periodically to make something both ingenious and immortal, but did he do it for himself, or did he do it for people like me—the film buffs desperate to understand him?”

  Wilson leaned back, a little creeped out. “Have you ever been to a therapist, Shawn?”

  “Several. I’ve been told I have paternal neglect issues.”

  “Same here,” said Sami.

  Sami and Shawn’s eyes connected, and he felt the urge to kiss her. It felt like the right moment, but Wilson’s previous words held him back.

  Be realistic, Shawn. Your interpretation of social cues is way off.

  “Of course, there is another possibility we would be remiss not to consider,” said Shawn, breaking the connection.

  “What’s that?” asked Sami.

  “The moon landing conspiracy. There’s tangible, albeit dubious evidence that the Apollo 11 moon landings were faked and that Kubrick was the mastermind behind the whole thing. That’s a secret certain people might be willing to kill to protect.”

  The cab pulled up to the American Airlines terminal at JFK.

  “Fifty-four dollars,” said the cab driver. “And what you say is true. Stanley Kubrick faked the whole moon landing. Everybody in my country knows this.”

  The three friends arrived back in L.A.

  Sami took the memory cards and spent the rest of the day downloading and logging her footage.

  Shawn showed Wilson the maps of Universal’s backlot. They had to have a plan should another incident transpire like at the Museum of the Moving Image.

  Wilson secured his drive-on at the studio. Everything was prepped for the raid except that Shawn and Sami still had no way to get past security themselves. Should they fail to get inside, the plan was to let Wilson act alone but keep in constant communication. However, that would be difficult now that their phones were likely on the Brooklyn black market.

  Wilson convinced Shawn to accompany him to the Apple Store at the Grove, where Wilson got the newest iPhone and even ponied up for an older, less expensive model for Shawn. As soon as the employee activated Shawn’s phone, it blew up with text alerts.

  Almost all were from Mascaro: Where are you? Why aren’t you picking up your phone? Why aren’t you responding? Are you okay?

  Shawn typed back: I’m here. Phone broke last week. Just got it replaced.

  Mascaro immediately replied: Any news for me?

  Shawn was about to type back, but Wilson stopped him. “Is that Mascaro?”

  “Yes”

  “Don’t tell him jack. All he wants is to steal our glory. But keep him on the hook. We may need his help.”

  “But I have to give him something of value so that he’ll consider covering the second camera.”

  “We do have something of value,” said Wilson, smiling. “We saw footage of Kubrick himself confirming the game and pointing us to the next puzzle.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t get specific.”

  Shawn wrote back: Yes. There have been developments.

  Mascaro: Bene. Please tell.

  Shawn: Too important to risk describing over text or phone.

  Mascaro: Meet tonight?

  Shawn: Can’t. We are in the middle of solving a piece of the puzzle. Tomorrow after class?

  There was a pause before Mascaro wrote back: Directly after class.

  Shawn had his suspicions before about the ill intent of Mascaro’s interest in the game, but after the museum episode, the thought had crossed his mind that perhaps Mascaro was part of the group who would stop at nothing to ensure Kubrick’s secrets remained buried. Mascaro came from an old, well-connected Italian family. From his research, Shawn had learned that the Masons first rose in Italy, forming secret societies that safeguarded the vital and fortune-building knowledge of the sciences, arts, and architecture. The Mafia would be small fry compared to the great power wielded by high-ranking Masons.

  At 6:00 p.m., as the three cruised the freeway to Universal City, Shawn sat in the backs
eat gripping the large photograph of the Lolita Gainsborough portrait. He examined it closely.

  Why is the image zoomed in on the face, showing just one bullet hole beneath the eye?

  He went through each clue in his head one last time, convincing himself they were on the right path. The first clue was the note clipped to the FDR photo, which led the team to New York, where Kubrick planted the footage confirming that the game was afoot. The second clue was the FDR photo: Follow me to Q’s identity. Q was Quilty. Quilty’s identity was Spartacus. Follow me to Spartacus. Then the third clue: Property of Universal Studios stamped on the back of the large photograph of the Gainsborough portrait, completing the solution—Spartacus Square at Universal Studios.

  Sami sat in the front seat, focused on her laptop. Shawn advised her to memorize the backlot, but she seemed more interested in reviewing her footage.

  “It looks great, Shawn,” she said. “I don’t think a single frame was out of focus.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said Shawn. “Thank mathematics. It’s all distance equations.”

  “You really need to learn to take a compliment.”

  Wilson drove past the main gate that shoveled tourists into the amusement park, made his way to the industry entrance off of Lakeside Plaza, and pulled over to the curb. High walls ran up and down the street, blocking any looky-loo’s view into the studio and adding an extra layer of security.

  Wilson turned. “This entrance feeds straight into the production offices and the backlot. Wait here out of sight. Don’t let anyone at the security gate see you until I give the go-ahead. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Shawn felt a rush of adrenalin as the operation finally got underway.

  He and Sami exited the car and stood out of sight as Wilson continued driving to the guard booth. They peered around the corner of the wall and saw Wilson making friendly chitchat with the guards.

  He had them both laughing before they opened the gate for him. He drove left into an outdoor parking lot.

  They spent the first few minutes waiting for Wilson’s call in awkward silence.

  Finally, Sami asked, “So, what do your parents do?”

  “My dad is an orthodontist. My mom is a fitness coach. She made a bunch of videos you may have seen on the shelves back in the nineties. They were both athletes. Neither are proud of how I turned out.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “They made me play Little League until I was twelve, even though I was always the worst one on the team. They’d come to every game and cheer for me like I was the star player.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Yeah, until I was ten and they realized I wasn’t getting any better. They came less and less often. Soon they stopped coming to the games altogether, but still they made me play. I suppose they wanted to get me out of the house, but now I had no protection from my teammates, who resented the fact that I was just making the team worse. The next year, when baseball season arrived, I threw a tantrum, locked myself in my room, and started watching movies. That’s pretty much the way it was up through high school.”

  “Any siblings?”

  “Two older sisters. They’re more like my mom. They got tennis scholarships and are both in med school in Boston.”

  “You close with them?”

  “Not really. They just think I’m weird.”

  “They probably don’t understand you.”

  “Them and everybody else.”

  “I’m pretty sure I understand you.”

  Shawn could hardly believe someone like Sami even existed. He had convinced himself that because his brain was different, somehow his heart must be also, as if it were incapable of the deep, genuine emotions others seemed to experience. Yet standing there with Sami, he realized that the feelings were there, always had been. He had simply projected them onto people he didn’t know—people like Kubrick, Spielberg, Coppola, Lucas, the Coen brothers, Zemeckis, and Scorsese. They had become his family.

  Now, here was someone who didn’t treat him like a curiosity, but was genuinely curious about him. At that moment, he felt more love for her than he had for his parents, sisters, or anyone else he had ever known.

  “This is where you’re supposed to ask me about my parents,” said Sami.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. What do your parents do?”

  “We actually have similar stories. My dad is a doctor who came here on a work visa. He met my mom, who was a young schoolteacher. She got pregnant so he married her. I guess they tried to make it work, but he was never around. I hardly have any memory of him. I know his family disapproved because my mom was Catholic and they were Sikhs. When I was six, he told me he had to go back home to Mumbai to take care of his sick mother. That was the last time I saw him. He completely cut off contact with us, like we never existed.”

  “Did you ever find out what happened to him?”

  “In high school, I worked up the courage to Google him. Only took about five minutes to find out he was married to someone else and had a new family. After he left, my mom had a nervous breakdown, got fired from the school, and has worked at a bookstore my whole life. She never fully recovered.”

  “How did you get through it?”

  “Drugs, mainly. Through high school I was in and out of rehab. Not much to do in there but watch movies, so I started a collection. My friends used to sneak me pot, and my favorite thing to do was get blazed and watch 2001.”

  Shawn’s phone rang.

  “Put me on speaker,” Wilson said.

  Shawn pressed the speaker button.

  “You hear me, Sami?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Okay. Good news and bad news. Bad news is there’s a big event happening on the backlot tonight—some kind of wine and food festival they’re setting up.”

  Sami rolled her eyes. “And the good news?”

  “Either of you ever worked in catering?”

  Shawn and Sami made the long walk down Lakeside Plaza toward the guard booth.

  “I’ll do the talking,” said Sami. “I snuck into enough clubs in high school to know how this works.”

  The guards eyed them as they approached. “Good evening,” the tough-looking female guard said without a hint of friendliness.

  “Hi,” said Sami. “We’re on the Festive Creations staff.”

  “No car?”

  “We took the bus.”

  “You came together?”

  “Yes. We’re friends. You know. From past events.”

  “IDs please.”

  “Sure.”

  They handed over their driver’s licenses. The guard typed something on her computer, and after a minute, turned back to them. “Your names aren’t on the list.”

  “Look, we were called in to work and that’s what we’re here to do.”

  “Not if you’re not on the list, you won’t.”

  “We didn’t spend the last hour on a crowded bus for the fun of it. Even us waiters have better things to do.”

  “Oh yeah? Like try to sneak into an event you can’t afford the five-hundred-dollar ticket for?”

  “Five hundred bucks?” Shawn blurted in genuine astonishment. “For food?”

  “And wine,” added the guard. “Make a call and tell them to put you on the list and you can come right in.”

  “Okay,” said Sami. “I guess we’ll—”

  Then they heard the voice of Wilson calling to them from a distance. “Shawn! Samira! Come on! We need you at the booth!”

  A male guard leaned out the window.

  “They with you?” he called out.

  Wilson ran up to the booth. “I’m sorry about this, guys. They’re at my booth. We had two wait staff cancel last minute. I told my assistant to put their names on the list and the dumbass totally forgot.”

  “I thought you were here to pick up a script,” said the male guard, suspiciously.

  “Well, that’s a little less embarrassing than saying I was hired to be the celebrity gue
st at a pizza booth for a hundred bucks and the chance to show the producers in attendance that I’m still alive.”

  “I hear you,” said the male guard. “Damn shame. Let ‘em through.”

  “Thanks, Beef.”

  The female guard eyed them as she opened the gate.

  “See?” said Wilson, once a safe distance away. “Piece of cake.”

  On the backlot, hundreds of workers hurried to finish the decorating. Famous chefs like Wolfgang Puck, Mario Batali, and Nancy Silverton were preparing one-plate wonders at their booths.

  Wilson pulled Shawn toward the badge table, whispered in his ear, and then started talking to one of the booth workers, asking if there was a green room for celebrities.

  Shawn grabbed three press badges and slyly stuffed them in his coat pocket.

  They walked off and Shawn presented his score.

  “Excellent,” said Wilson. “Now we have full access.”

  The backlot was everything Shawn had hoped it would be. They explored the thirteen blocks of New York Street, recently remodeled with the help of Steven Spielberg and Academy-award-winning art director Rick Carter. He peeked inside some of the buildings, not surprised to find that the insides were nothing more than empty wood frames and rafters to hang lights near the windows.

  As they continued toward Spartacus Square, Shawn suddenly froze in place. “Wilson, look where we are.”

  Wilson chuckled at his friend’s child-like enthusiasm upon realizing he was standing right in the center of Hill Valley from Back to the Future.

  Shawn kneeled down and examined the road, slightly disappointed not to find the flaming tire tracks left by the Delorian as it hit 88 mph and disappeared.

  They followed the map on Shawn’s phone and eventually came to Spartacus Square, but his heart sank when he saw the whole area had been taped off and an orchestra was setting up to play music for the event.

  “Well, what do we do now?” said Sami.

  “We enjoy ourselves,” said Wilson.

  Pretending to be VIPs, they sampled dozens of delicacies prepared by the famous chefs. Wilson and Sami indulged in a few wines, which Shawn stubbornly refused to try.