THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH FLOWS THROUGH SEATTLE
Based on characters created by Jeff Rice and Steven Levitan, and inspired by a screenplay by Richard Matheson
Author's note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction, so please, when you review it, be gentle. Also, to fans of the original 'Night Stalker' series, let me explain something. Were I to maintain the timeline set by the original 1972 movie, the character Carl Kolchak would be the same age as the actor who played him. Thus, as Darren McGavin has, Kolchak would turn 80 this year. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of 'unsticking' Kolchak and company in time to move him up to the present, the time period Just Shoot Me occurs in. Thus, for the purposes of this piece, Carl Kolchak is the age he was in the series (52). Now that that and all the acknowledgements have been taken care of, with apologies to Jeff Rice, Darren McGavin, Steven Levitan, the cast of Just Shoot Me (especially Laura San Giacomo) and everyone else, here we go. Enjoy.
August 9th
8:45 am CST
Every once in a while, my boss, the chronically charmless Anthony Albert Vincenzo, would slip and pretend that he was actually a human being. Today, though, wasn't one of those times. No, this morning, as I stared at him with slackjawed shock at his last statement, I was trying to figure out how I could prove to the cops that the fountain pen that would be embedded in his heart in about five minutes was out of self defense.
"A fashion show? You're sending me to cover a fashion show?"
Vincenzo didn't even look up at me. "Not a fashion show, Carl. You are going to New York to cover Blush Magazine's Supermodel convention."
"What the hell did I ever do to you, huh?
With a sigh, Vincenzo removed his reading glasses and now looked up at me.
"I mean, that was bad enough to do this to me?"
"You want the whole list, Kolchak, or just the top ten?"
"Very funny," I sneered at him, "Very funny."
"Now look, Carl. While the thought of you being out of my hair for even a day appeals to me more than anything in my entire life, this isn't my idea. You were requested."
I thought about this. "Requested? By who?"
"None other than Jack Gallo himself."
Had he told me I'd been requested by Joseph Pulitzer himself, I'd have been no more shocked. "Gallo? That nut? Aw, Tony, you can't..."
"I didn't. The request was made to Mister Lewis in New York, who talked to me. Chain of command, Kolchak, simple as that."
"But...but...Jack Gallo, Tony. We both know him. Come on, you just can't."
Vincenzo leaned back in his chair with an alarmingly satisfied smile.
"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?" I roared at him.
The smile was replaced by an innocent look, the look of a kid who'd stolen his crippled neighbor's wheelchair and was being grilled by the cops about it.
"Who, me? Why would I enjoy it?"
"Who-ho-ho, that's rich." I sneered.
"Hey, I'm sorry, Carl, I really am. There's just nothing I can do about it. My hands are tied."
He looked like he could barely contain his amusement.
"Yeah," I grumbled, "I wish they were. With you staring down a cranky firing squad."
I opened the door to leave, then turned back
"Mark my words!" I said as though I were doing Shakespeare in the Park, complete with extended arm and finger pointed up at the ceiling, "You'll pay for this, Tony Vincenzo! As God is my witness, you will pay!"
The newsroom, I'd noticed, had fallen into abrupt silence at my flowery outburst, listening in to the latest go-round between myself and the dried prune who served as our boss. Taking advantage, I tipped my hat and bowed.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," I told them, "I'll be here all week."
10:15 am
So, here I was. United flight 1000 from Chicago O'Hare to New York Kennedy, bound for a reunion with a man whom I'd knocked out with a well-placed right cross the last time we'd met.
It was about five years ago. I was working for the Las Vegas Daily News then. That was before Janos Skorzeny, back when I only saw shadows but didn't know what lurked in them.
It had been at one of the casinos, I don't remember which one. Gail and I had decided to go out on the town and to a casino where she didn't work. I remember she wanted to see one of the shows.
I guess Gallo was in between marriages at the time, or something, but he decided to make a play for Gail that night. She said no, but he'd made one more try, so I did what any sensible man would do. I punched a multi-millionaire dead in the face. He fell like a poled ox and Gail and I took off before the law showed up. We laughed the whole night at the shocked expression he had on his face as he hit the floor, as if he hadn't expected someone in a cheap suit and beat up Panama hat to drop him like that.
Needless to say, a camera caught us and I had plenty of explaining to do to DA Paine, Chief Masterson and, maybe worst of all, Vincenzo. After all, all Paine and Masterson could do was lock me up. Tony Vincenzo could fire me. Ultimately, the result was that I went on vacation (suggested by the paper's publisher) and Gallo never made a case out of it. By the time I'd returned, there were more important things to deal with.
The sky outside my window was blue and clear. I didn't care. All the old feelings came back and I cursed everyone. Paine, Masterson, Sheriff Butcher and Gallo. Especially Gallo, for making me remember it. Perhaps that was the worst of all. Damn Jack Gallo and his idiot magazine.
Damn him.
11:30 am
I arrived at Kennedy on time and, grabbing my bag, set out from the terminal to find a cab. My search ended just after it began, when I noticed a large man in a black and white chauffeur's uniform holding a sign that read 'Kolchack'. I guessed that was for me.
"Kolchak?" I asked.
"That you?" he responded.
"Probably. The name's misspelled, though. Only one 'c'."
He shrugged. "Mr. Gallo sent me. He asks that I drive you to your hotel and then up to his office. He wants to talk to you."
"Yeah, I bet he does."
The hotel turned out to be the Westcott Tower on Broadway, one of the newest and most luxurious in town. Greeted by a tall, well dressed man with the worst dye job I'd ever seen, he handed me my little credit-card like key and shooed me up to my room, number 1145. After a brief battle with the machine that locked my room (God, I miss keys), I opened up the door into a place larger than my apartment in Chicago. The Bears could have run drills in it and never touch a wall.
I had about a half hour before my meeting with Gallo, so I stretched myself out on the bed, pulled my hat over my eyes and dozed off, wondering what, exactly, Jack Gallo had in mind. And if I hit him again, would he buy me a car?
12:35 p.m.
After presenting my credentials to the security guard at the front door of the building where the magazine kept its main offices, I rode up to the seventh floor. The door opened up on a green wall behind an unmanned reception desk. The wall announced that the floor was occupied by: BLUSH MAGAZINE, A DIVISION OF THE GALLO CORPORATION
I wondered for a moment if there was anything else in the Gallo Corporation, then walked around the corner to where the offices seemed to be. I came across a large room with a few men and women, I guessed Blush staff members, typing away on computers, doing the work of publishing about two hundred pages of advertisements and seven or so pages of actual stories. To my right stood a small man with a head of unruly blond hair, also typing away on a computer, with a look of extreme disinterest.
"Excuse me."
The man looked over the top of the laptop's screen and gave me the once over with an equally bored expression.
"Fashion don'ts down the hall," he said to me before returning to his 'work'.
"Huh? No, I have an appointment to see Mister Gallo. My name is Kolchak."
He looked at me again, then said, "Just a minute", before disappearing into the office behind him. He returned after a second and told me, "Go on in."
Jack Gallo was just as I remembered him, except for upright and conscious. He was a little heavier than I remembered, a little more wrinkled, with thinning curly brown hair and the general look of a man who knew he was well off and liked to look the part. I guessed he probably had himself a trophy wife somewhere, but that was just a guess.
"Carl Kolchak," he said, rising from behind his desk, "How are you?"
He was in a tailored vest, black and matching his slacks and tie, and white shirt. The image was completed by a pocket watch on a gold chain that stretched across his stomach. We shook hands.
"I'm fine," I answered, feeling out of place in my blue shirt, red tie, khaki pants and white sportcoat. I was holding my hat, lest the Blush Fashion Security team throw me out for being completely out of style.
"Please," Gallo told me, "Have a seat."
I took the chair across the desk from me as he moved over to a bar against the wall behind me.
"Care for a drink?"
"No, no, thank you."
He poured himself one, then returned to his seat behind the desk.
"How long has it been now...two years?"
"Three," I answered, "Not since Las Vegas."
"Ah, yes, Las Vegas. I had a hell of a time there."
"Yeah, I remember that." I answered.
"How is she now...what was her name..."
"Gail."
"That's right, Gail. How is she?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen her in about three years since they threw me out of there."
He looked confused. "What do you have to do to get kicked out of Vegas?"
"Try to tell the truth."
He thought about this a minute, then gave up with a shrug.
"Anyway, Carl...may I call you Carl?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Carl," he continued, ignoring my sour expression as much as he had my answer, "I have an idea that I think you'd be perfect for.
"We have this 'Supermodel Summit' going on here this week, and I was thinking, 'y'know, wouldn't it be interesting if we had an outsider's view of all this'. Y'know, someone not in the business. Their thoughts, their views."
"Ah," I nodded, "You think that up all by yourself?" It just slipped out, but he didn't seem to notice the tone.
"Yeah, and I kinda figured," he continued unabated, "Who could be farther on the outside of a supermodel convention than a crime reporter from Chicago?"
I just sat there and looked at him. "There are hundreds of crime reporters in Chicago," I finally said, "Why me?"
"Why not?"
Couldn't argue with that logic. "OK."
"Great. Since you're kinda new in the fashion world, I'm gonna pair you off with our articles editor, Maya. Dennis!"
The blond guy from the front appeared. "You called me, oh master and signer of my paychecks?"
"Could you hook Mister Kolchak up with Maya, please?"
"I can try," he answered dryly, "But he doesn't seem her type."
"I mean take him over to her office and introduce them?"
"Oh, yeah. C'mon."
I stood up and left the office with Dennis behind me.
"Ah," he suddenly said, "Sneakers. Nice touch."
"I run a lot." I answered.
We crossed the large outer room to the far corner from Gallo's office to a door marked MAYA GALLO, ARTICLES EDITOR
"Gallo?" I asked, pointing to the door.
"Yeah," Dennis answered in the dry tone, "The rich guy's daughter."
He knocked and a voice from inside called out, "Come in."
She was sitting behind a smaller version of her father's desk, reading over copy before her. She was a pretty woman, long, dark hair, cat like face, wearing a white blouse and chewing on a pencil.
"Maya, this is Carl Kolchuck..."
"Kolchak."
"Yeah, whatever. Jack sent him over for this 'outside looking in' thing of yours."
"Thank you, Dennis."
"Yours?" I asked when Dennis left, "This is your idea?"
"I suppose my father made it sound like his idea," she answered.
"Well, yes, he did."
"It figures. That's the way he's always been, Mister Kolchak. Just like he told me you and he were best friends in Las Vegas."
"Well, I wouldn't exactly call us 'best' friends..."
"Have a seat, Mister Kolchak."
I took a seat. The chairs in Jack Gallo's office were more comfortable.
"I'm sure he ran through what the idea is for this piece."
"Yeah, I guess. He said he pretty much wants me to write my take on this whole supermodel thing."
Before she could answer, the door flew open and a brunette scarecrow flew in.
"Maya, you have to..."
She caught sight of me and her face took on the expression of someone who'd stepped in a cowpie.
"Ugh, what is that?"
"You're Nina Van Horn," I said, rising from my seat, "The model."
"Supermodel, please," she corrected me with a smile and a hand through her hair, "But what's in a title, anyway?"
"Nina, this is Carl Kolchak, INS News. He's going to be helping cover your supermodel summit for us."
"My boss is a big fan of yours," I chuckled, "Wait till I tell Tony Vincenzo I met Nina Van Horn."
She suddenly grabbed the corner of Maya's desk.
"Vincenzo?" she muttered, "Anthony Vincenzo?"
"Yeah, that's him." My face turned serious. "You know him?"
"Why, no," she answered, the model back, "Why do you ask?"
"I suppose the 'Camille' scene had something to do with it." Maya answered.
"Well, anyway, now I've forgotten what it was I wanted to see you about, Maya. If you'll excuse me, Mister Kolchak."
We watched her leave as I tried to take in what just happened. Nina Van Horn, supermodel and legend, Tony Vincenzo, super wet blanket and...well, not a legend? No, it couldn't be. Could it?