The Big Time

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This work is complete fiction; celebs don't act like this in real life…probably.

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Chapter 6: The Proof

1:07 pm. Monday, June 2. 42

nd

Precinct Police Department. Los Angeles, California.

Michael's eyes slowly drifted open as he felt his face getting slapped lightly. At least one of his eyes did; his left eye was almost swollen shut.

"Wake up kid."

Michael sat up on a hospital bed and looked around. Through his restricted vision he could tell that he was in a small infirmary. A gruff doctor was looking at him with his hands on his hips.

"Where am I?" Michael winced and rubbed his jaw. It hurt to speak.

"You're in the infirmary. You got a pretty bad bump on your head and a small cut on your cheek," said the doctor. "Not to mention some heavy bruising all over your face.'

"Yeah I can tell," said Michael as reached behind his head and felt the large lump under his hair.

"Next time, don't get into a fight with a guy who has any friends. You're lucky the police stopped him before he killed you."

Michael tried to get out of the bed but found that he was cuffed to it. "I guess I'm in even more trouble than I was before."

"Not really. Fights happen in there all the time and that guy whose face you stomped in was streetwalking trash. He's not going to do anything," said the doctor.

"Hey, you done with him?" asked a uniformed police officer entering the infirmary.

The doctor looked up. "Yeah, he's fine."

The cop detached Michael from the bed before cuffing his hands together and leading him out of the room. "Where are you taking me?" asked Michael.

"You get your own private cell now."

"What?! What are you charging me with?"

"Nothing yet. You're waiting in there until we sort things out."

"What is there to sort out?! He hit me first!"

"Yeah, and you hit him back. Listen, you're not doing yourself any good." The cop opened a cell and shoved Michael inside. "Sit down and shut up. You got lots of time on your hands." The cell door slid shut with a bang.

"Don't I get a phone call?!" yelled Michael.

The cop ignored him.

12:41 pm. Tuesday, June 3.

Michael was sitting on his hard bed, wide awake but exhausted. The lump on the back of his head prevented him from getting into any sort of comfortable position to sleep so he simply sat in his cell all night thinking about the last few days of his life. It was a whirlwind certainly, but he had no intention of just riding it out. He was going to fight his way out of it and regain some control.

In order to do that, he pushed Kirsten to the backburner of his mind. A more immediate concern was retaliation against Eliza. She was going to pay for what she had done. Once Michael got out of his cell, he was going to make sure that she gets what she deserves.

A cop walked in front of the cell and tapped the bars with his nightstick. "Hey. You're free to go." It was the same cop who had arrested Michael in the first place.

Michael stood up. "Mind if I ask why you kept me in this cell overnight without charging me with something?"

"I don't mind," said the cop. "But you might."

"What does that mean?"

"If you ask, I'd have to say that we're charging you with two counts of aggravated assault and one count of attempted kidnapping. All against a celebrity of all people. You wouldn't stand a chance."

Michael wanted to beat this man's face in with the nightstick he was holding in his hand. "Attempted kidnapping?!" The cop nodded smugly. Michael gritted his teeth. "Where's my stuff?" The cop tossed him a wallet and a cell phone. "Hey! Where the hell is my money?" The cop shrugged. "LA's fucking finest," said Michael as he tried to walk out of the cell.

The cop grabbed Michael's shirt and pushed him up against the bars. "I'm doing you a fucking favor. If you wanna stay here I can make you stay here!"

Michael rubbed the back of his head again. "Fine." The cop let him go and Michael went three steps before he collapsed to the floor.

***

Eliza Dushku's home.

Eliza wrapped a towel around her hair and walked out of her bathroom. She padded down the hall to her bedroom. The towel wrapped around her body hit the floor and she began to spread some lotion on her arms and legs. She had just finished her workout for the day and was ready for a nice, hearty lunch. She picked up the cordless phone sitting on her bed and dialed a number.

"Hey Sarah, up for lunch?" said Eliza.

"Oh hi Eliza," replied Sarah Michelle Gellar. "I was just about to call you. Yeah, lunch sounds good."

"Freddie won't be tagging along will he?" asked Eliza with obvious disdain in her voice.

"No he won't. He's meeting with Simon today."

"Again?"

"Yeah. He keeps telling me that Simon needs him for this or needs him for that. Who knows?" said Sarah.

Eliza smirked. "I think I know."

"You don't know anything Eliza."

"Come on, you know that's how Simon is," said Eliza. "It's not like that kind of thing hasn't happened before."

"Not to my husband, alright?" said Sarah. "So, the usual?"

"Sure. I'm down for the usual."

"Okay, see you soon."

"Bye." Eliza turned the phone off and flipped the phone onto the bed.

1:01 pm. Good Samaritan Hospital.

Michael's eyes shot open. It was the second time in three days he woke up with a throbbing headache. He looked around quickly and noticed he was in a noisy emergency room. He swung his legs off the bed. His shirt and coat were hanging on the wall near the window. As he was getting dressed he noticed his reflection in the window. The doctor from the police station was not kidding; his entire face was swollen with bruises.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing!?" asked a pretty, young redheaded doctor with a dozen clipboards in her arms.

He turned his head. "What? The police still want me?" said Michael. His face contorted from the pain of moving his mouth.

"I'm not done examining you!" said the doctor as she walked up to him quickly. The name tag read "Dr. Cotlon." "And no. The police are done with you. They said they don't want no goddamn fucking troublemakers and that you were free to go. Um, their words, not mine."

"Good. Then I can leave." He stepped past her. She reached out and grabbed his shirt, inadvertently dropping all the charts she had in her arms.

"Oh, geeze!"

Michael sighed and helped her gather all the clipboards. "You're obviously very busy. I'm sure there's more important people to take care of."

"Mary! Where are those damn charts?!" A middle aged doctor walked up to them. "Well?"

"I'm sorry Dr. Moor. I was on my way but this man is trying to leave and I haven't finished with him yet," said Dr. Cotlon.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Dr. Moor.

"Well he got into a fight in the LAPD holding cell. They got him pretty badly but they said he got in a few blows to-"

"MARY, what is wrong with him?" asked Dr. Moor sternly.

"Oh um, he has severe bruising on his face, a small lacer-"

"Not the obvious part! What is wrong with him?!"

Dr. Cotlon looked like she was going to cry. "They said he hit his head really badly, knocked him unconscious. And about twenty minutes ago he fainted. I think he may have a concussion."

Dr. Moor took a penlight out of her pocket. "Hold still," she said to Michael. Dr. Moor checked Michael's pupils and then felt the lump in the back of his head. "Where are the x-rays?" Dr. Cotlon held them out as best as she could from under the pile of clipboards in her arms.

Dr. Moor took the envelope, opened it, and put the sheets against the light panel. She quickly examined them. "You're fine. It's a very minor concussion. It looks like exhaustion made it worse than it was. Go home and get some sleep." Then she turned to Mary. "You're in an ER, Dr. Cotlon. MAKE DIAGNOSES FASTER."

"Yes, Dr. Moor," said Dr. Cotlon as she looked at the floor.

"Now come on." She turned and began walking down the hallway. Dr. Cotlon followed.

The look on Dr. Cotlon's face was heartbreaking. Michael stopped her. "Don't let her get to you, doc. She probably gets off from telling the new people what to do." Michael tried to smile but it came out like a grimace.

Dr. Cotlon looked at Michael, the frown slowly disappearing from her face. "Thanks sir. Could you pull the pad of paper out of my pocket?" Michael carefully took the pad out of her coat pocket. "Hold it for me?" She scribbled on the pad. "That oughta take care of the swelling and soreness."

"Thanks." Michael tore the prescription off the pad and put the pad back in the doctor's pocket.

"Make sure you talk with the secretary before you leave." She looked at the chart on the top of the pile. "Jake."

"Close. Mike, actually."

She smiled shyly. "Oh. Whoops."

"I think the queen is waiting," said Michael. Dr. Moor was standing at the end of the wall, tapping her foot impatiently.

Dr. Cotlon spun around. "Oh. Thanks." She began walking away. Then she spun around again and walked up to him. "My name is Mary." She reached out to shake his hand and dropped all the files again. "Damnit!" Michael chuckled and helped her pick everything up again.

"Nice meeting you Mary," said Michael.

"You too!" She then turned and went back down the hall, muttering, "I am such a klutz!"

Michael went to the front desk and the secretary had him sign some insurance forms. Then she handed him his personal belongings that the police had left. He checked his wallet; it was still empty, there was not a dollar left. At least his cell phone still worked. Michael walked out the front door of the hospital and called Simon.

"Simon?" said Michael.

"Oh hey Mike. I've been trying to get in touch with you. Where've you been?" asked Simon.

"Jail. And a hospital."

"What? What happened? Are you okay?" asked Simon quickly.

"Just come and pick me up," ordered Michael.

"Where are you?"

Michael stood and looked around. "Good Samaritan. I'm right out front."

"Okay, stay put. I'll be around to pick you up right away." Simon hung up.

Michael closed his phone and rubbed his jaw. He looked down at his shoes; they were splattered with the blood of the man who had tried to take his shoes. The smell of his friend was ingrained in Michael's newly lumpy head. Michael gritted his teeth as he recalled how Eliza had put him that situation. The look of fear that Eliza put on her face when he pinned her to the wall angered Michael to no end. It was her fault he was in that holding cell and it was her fault that he got his face beat in by a fetid biker who did not enjoy watching his friend get his ass kicked.

He looked at the prescription Dr. Cotlon had given him. Even if Michael could see clearly with both eyes, he would not be able to read what she had written. Ten minutes later Simon rolled up the driveway in a shiny black Mercedes-Benz and got out of the car.

"Jesus," said Simon as he got his first glimpse of Michael's face. "Michael what happened?"

"I'll tell you on the way." Michael stood up unsteadily.

Simon jumped forward and supported Michael. "Tell me when we get to the office alright?" He helped him into the backseat. Simon got into the driver's seat and pulled out of the driveway.

Michael leaned his head back but quickly leaned forward again as the bump unleashed a burst of pain into his head. "Shit!" he grunted.

"My god, are you alright?"

"Do I look alright?!" snapped Michael.

"Michael!" admonished Simon.

Michael opened his eyes and looked at the person sitting in the passenger seat. Nicole Kidman was looking over her shoulder at him with genuine concern on her face. "Oh. I'm sorry," said Michael as he looked at the Australian beauty.

"Mike, this is Nicole Kidman. Nicole, meet Michael Torbin," said Simon. "She and I were just finishing lunch when you called."

"Sorry to interrupt."

"Oh it's no problem Michael," said Nicole. "You look like you need Simon a lot more than I do at the moment. What happened?"

Michael looked into the rearview mirror at Simon, unsure of what he should do. Simon glanced at Michael. "I'm sure it's not as interesting as he looks."

"Come on Simon. It's not like I'm going to run out and tell the tabloids what I heard," said Nicole as she looked at Simon. "Besides, you can't keep this a secret forever, someone will find out eventually."

Simon sighed. "Mike, does it involve anybody famous?"

"You could say that."

"Really? Who?" asked Nicole. Her curiosity was piqued now.

"Okay, Mike, not a word to anyone until you talk to me first. And only me," said Simon. "Sorry Nic. I can't let any rumors spread."

"I'm dying to know now!" Nicole looked back at Michael. "Who was it?"

"Mike, don't say anything."

"Gimme a hint?" asked Nicole.

As beautiful as Nicole was, Michael's face hurt too much to let that sway him into dropping names. "Sorry."

She pouted just a tiny bit. "Okay fine. Simon, you'll tell me once you find out, right?"

"Sure, anything for you Nic."

1:36 pm. Shooting Stars Talent Agency.

When Simon parked the car, Nicole got out first and helped Michael get out of the car. Before she left she insisted one more time that Simon tell her everything once he was done with Michael. Michael was able to walk into the office building unaided and ride the elevator up. Everyone in Simon's office stared at him as he followed Simon. By the time they got into Simon's private office the whispers were already starting to spread. Michael sat in a chair and closed his eyes.

"Okay, Mike what happened?" asked Simon as he sat down.

Michael decided to give him the short version. All he wanted to do was find a comfortable bed and sleep until next week. But first he pulled the prescription out of his pocket. "Simon, can you get this filled?"

"Sure." He called his secretary through the intercom and she came in and took the prescription. "We'll have it back here in a jiff."

"So. Here's what happened," said Michael. "I go to have lunch with Eliza Dushku. We have a, uh, dispute, and she tries to stop me from leaving." Michael lifted his shirt to reveal the bruise left on his stomach from Eliza's kick. "I grabbed her by the arm and pushed her against a wall. She suddenly turns into a damsel in distress and I get arrested."

"They arrested you after she did that to your face?" asked Simon. "Must have been a hell of an act."

"No, she didn't do that. That happened in the holding cell. Some guy tried to take my shoes."

"He messed up your face for your shoes," said Simon as he pondered the situation.

"No. I messed up HIS face for my shoes. It was his buddy that got in two lucky punches and bounced my head off the bars of the cell," said Michael.

"One punch is lucky, Mike."

"Fine," snapped Michael. "Look, they said they weren't going to press charges or anything. So is this really all that bad?"

"It probably won't be. It's better that something like this happens now instead of later. Damage control is much easier at this point in your career," said Simon. "Mind if I ask how you got a lunch date with Eliza? Is she the girl you THINK you're involved with? What happened to Kirsten?"

"Yes I do," said Michael. "No, she isn't. And I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay. I'll have a talk with Eliza, make sure she doesn't say anything that could hurt both of your careers."

"How about you say something that ruins HER career? That fucking bitch almost got me killed!"

"Michael, calm down. I'll talk to her okay?" Simon's phone buzzed and he picked up. "Excuse me," he said to Michael.

"Your one thirty is here."

"Tell him to hold on for a second. And get me a driver to take my client back to his hotel," said Simon. He looked back at Michael. "What did the doctor say?"

"Stay in bed for a few days, which I fully intend to do," said Michael. "I think I'll sleep until the movie starts filming."

Someone knocked on the door to Simon's office. "That's probably your ride." Simon got up and opened the door. Allen was standing there with his hands behind his back. "Allen? What are you doing here?"

"Mr. Prinze asked me to accompany him. He's been getting paranoid ever since he got married," said Allen. "Your secretary told me you needed me for something?"

Michael twisted in his chair and looked. Then he craned his neck back. "Oh. Afternoon, Allen."

"Is he okay?" asked Allen.

"Yeah, his doctor said he was fine. Can you just take him back to his hotel?"

"No problem."

Freddie Prinze, Jr. peeked through the small opening between Allen's massive torso and the door frame. "Simon?"

"Come on in Freddie." Allen stepped to the side and let the prissy young man into the room.

"Wow, are you okay?" asked Freddie.

Michael squinted at him. "Do I look okay?" He stood up and walked past Allen out of the office.

"Sit down Freddie," ordered Simon. Freddie sat as Simon went over to Allen and whispered, "Hey, this might take a while. So once you're done with Michael why don't you take a long lunch." He smiled lecherously.

Allen sighed and nodded. Simon turned around and walked over to Freddie. He began massaging Freddie's shoulders. Allen shut the door and choked back the bile rising in his throat. He spotted Michael leaning against a wall.

"Still in the Hilton?" asked Allen.

"Yeah. Is that my medicine?"

"Yes." Allen tossed the white bag to Michael who bobbled it in his hands before dropping it.

"I can't exactly see out of my left eye. Can't you tell?" asked Michael.

Allen picked the bag up and pushed it into Michael's hands. "Got it?"

They rode the elevator to the first floor and left the building, not saying a word to each other. Michael got into the front seat of Allen's car.

"You're not going to ask?" said Michael as Allen got into the driver's seat.

"Not my place," said Allen. "Sorry I missed it though."

"Ha."

They rode for a few minutes in silence. "How's Kirsten?" asked Allen.

"You don't know?"

"I haven't spoken to her in a while."

Michael got a small sense of satisfaction from that. "I'm not the one to ask."

"Oh? Is something wrong?"

Michael chortled. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised you're asking about what happened between Kirsten and me and not about fat, fragrant criminal and me."

"I don't wanna know what happened between you and a fat, fragrant criminal. I get enough of that whenever I drive Freddie Prinze, Jr. around."

"Yeah, well. Like I said, I'm not the one to ask."

"What, did you guys break up?"

Michael shut his eyes. "Can you just take me back?"

"Fine. I'll ask her myself," said Allen as he took his cell phone out of his pocket.

"Don't mention me."

"So you guys did break up?" queried Allen.

"Just don't."

Allen shrugged and dialed Kirsten's number. "Hey Kiki, how are you?...You don't sound okay…Alright, so what's going on?...You sure?...It doesn't have anything to do with that punk Michael, does it?"

Michael slammed the bottom of his fist on the window. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked angrily.

"Lucky guess," said Allen, ignoring Michael. "Want me to rough him up?...You don't wanna do that Kiki, but I know someone who will…Okay, fine, I'll hold off on that, but you just need to say the word…Want me to stop by tomorrow maybe? We'll have lunch?...You're probably right, okay, I'll see you later. Bye." Allen pressed a button on his phone and put it in the inside pocket of his coat.