Redshirts

“If Hester’s intestines explode, you let us know,” Duvall said.

“You’ll be the first,” Hanson said, and headed toward the bathroom.

The receptionist at Paulson Productions smiled warmly at Kerensky as he, Dahl and Duvall entered the office lobby. “Hello, Marc,” she said. “Good to see you again.”

“Uh,” Kerensky said.

“We’re here to see Mr. Paulson,” Dahl said, stepping into Kerensky’s moment of awkwardness. “We have an appointment. Marc set it up.”

“Yes, of course,” the receptionist said, glancing at her computer screen. “Mr. Dahl, is it?”

“That’s me,” Dahl said.

“Have a seat over there and I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said, smiling at Kerensky again before picking up her handset to call Paulson.

“I think she was flirting with you,” Duvall said to Kerensky.

“She thought she was flirting with Marc,” Kerensky pointed out.

“Maybe there’s a history there,” Duvall said.

“Stop it,” Kerensky said.

“Just trying to help you rebound after the breakup,” Duvall said.

“Mr. Dahl, Marc, ma’am,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Paulson will see you now. Follow me, please.” She led them down the corridor to a large office, in which sat Paulson, behind a large desk.

Paulson looked at Kerensky, severely. “I’m supposed to be talking to these people of yours, not you,” he said. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

“I am at work,” Kerensky said.

“This is not work,” Paulson said. “Your work is at the studio. On the set. If you’re not there, we’re not shooting. If we’re not shooting, you’re wasting production time and money. The studio and the Corwin are already riding me because we’re behind on production this year. You’re not helping.”

“Mr. Paulson,” Dahl said, “perhaps you should call your show and see if Marc Corey is there.”

Paulson fixed on Dahl, seeing him for the first time. “You look vaguely familiar. Who are you?”

“I’m Andrew Dahl,” he said, sitting on one of the chairs in front of the desk, and then motioned to Duvall, who sat on the other. “This is Maia Duvall. We work on Intrepid.”

“Then you should be on set as well,” Paulson said.

“Mr. Paulson,” Dahl repeated. “You should really call your show and see if Marc Corey is there.”

Paulson pointed at Kerensky. “He’s right there,” he said.

“No, he’s not,” Dahl said. “That’s why we’re here to talk to you.”

Paulson’s eyes narrowed. “You people are wasting my time,” he said.

“Jesus,” Kerensky said, exasperated. “Will you just call the damn set? Marc’s there.”

Paulson paused to stare at Kerensky for a moment, and then picked up his desk phone and punched a button. “Yeah, hi, Judy,” he said. “You on the set?… Yeah, okay. Tell me if you see Marc Corey there.” He paused, and then looked at Kerensky again. “Okay. How long has he been there?… Okay. He been acting weird today? Out of character?… Yeah, okay.… No. No, I don’t need to speak to him. Thanks, Judy.” He hung up.

“That was my show runner, Judy Melendez,” Paulson said. “She says Marc’s been on set since the six-thirty makeup call.”

“Thank you,” Kerensky said.

“All right, I’ll bite,” Paulson said, to Kerensky. “Who the hell are you? Marc obviously knows you, or he wouldn’t have set up this meeting. You could be his identical twin, but I know he doesn’t have any brothers. So, what? Are you his cousin? Do you want to be on the show? Is this what this is about?”

“Do you put family members on the show?” Dahl asked.

“We don’t go out of our way to advertise it, but sure,” Paulson said. “A season ago I gave my uncle a part. He was about to lose his SAG insurance, so I put him in for the part of an admiral who tried to have Abernathy court- martialed. I also put in a small role for my son—” He stopped speaking, abruptly.

“We heard about your son,” Dahl said. “We’re very sorry.”

“Thank you,” Paulson said, and paused again. His demeanor had transformed from aggressive producer to something more tired and small. “Sorry,” he said, after a moment. “It’s been difficult.”

“I can’t imagine,” Dahl said.

“Be glad that you can’t,” Paulson said, and reached over on his desk for a picture frame, looked at it, and held it in his hand. “Stupid kid. I told him to be careful handling the bike in the rain.” He turned the frame briefly, showing a picture of him and a younger man, dressed in motorcycle leathers, smiling at the camera. “He never did listen to me,” he said.

“Is that your son?” Duvall asked, reaching out for the frame.

“Yes,” Paulson said, handing over the picture. “Matthew. He had just gotten his master’s in anthropology when he tells me he wants to try being an actor. I said to him, if you wanted to be an actor, why did I just pay for you to get a master’s in anthropology? But I put him on the show. He was an extra on a couple of episodes before … well.”

“Andy,” Duvall said, handing the picture to Dahl. He started at it.

Kerensky came over and looked at the picture Dahl was holding. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said.

“What?” Paulson said, looking at the three of them. “Do you know him? Do you know Matthew?”

All three of them looked at Paulson.

“Matthew!” screamed a woman’s voice, from out of the room and down the hall.

“Oh, shit,” Duvall said, and launched herself out of her chair and out of the room. Dahl and Kerensky followed.

In the lobby, the receptionist had attached herself to Hester, sobbing in joy. Hester stood there, wearing a receptionist, deeply confused.

Hanson saw his three crewmates and came over to them. “We walked into the lobby,” he said. “That’s all we did. We walked into the lobby, and she screams a name and then almost leaps over her desk to get at Hester. What’s going on?”

“I think we found the actor who plays Hester,” Dahl said.

“Okay,” Hanson said. “Who is he?”

“Matthew?” Paulson said, from the hall. He had followed his three guests out of the room to find out what was going on. “Matthew! Matthew!” He rushed to Hester, hugged him furiously and started kissing him on the cheek.

“He’s Charles Paulson’s kid,” Duvall said to Hanson.

“The one who’s in a coma?” Hanson said.

“That’s the one,” Dahl said.

“Oh, wow,” Hanson said. “Wow.”

All three of them looked at Hester, who whispered, “Help me.”

“Someone’s going to have to tell them who Hester really is,” Kerensky said. He, Hanson and Duvall all looked at Dahl.

Dahl sighed, and moved toward Hester.

* * *

“Are you all right?” Dahl asked Hester. They were in a private hospital room, in which Matthew Paulson lay on a bed, tubes keeping him alive. Hester was staring at his comatose double.

“I’m better off than he is,” Hester said.

“Hester,” Dahl said, and looked out the doorway, where he was standing, to see if Charles Paulson was close enough in the hall to have heard Hester’s comment. He wasn’t. He was in the waiting area with Duvall, Hanson and Kerensky. Matthew Paulson could have only two visitors at a time.

“Sorry,” Hester said. “I didn’t mean it to be an asshole. It’s just … well, now it all makes sense, doesn’t it?”