Long Branch

By Dan Ramm

"Some secrets aren't buried deep enough."

Mason Powell had a long run on a successful network TV series - something few actors get to enjoy. But this star has fallen and he has landed on hard times. Typecasting, COVID, and an unscrupulous accountant have turned his Hollywood dream life into a nightmare.

Armed with what he believes is a sure-fire plan to get himself back on top, Mason returns to his small hometown of Long Branch, Georgia, to give his late mother's home some curb appeal and get it on the market. However, Mason's past comes back to haunt him, and the hope he hinged his future on seems to be unraveling before him.

Relying on the memories and the help of a few old high school friends, Mason works to resolve a thirty-year-old- mystery. In the meantime, his career is getting some unexpected new life, but he can't leave Long Branch with a clean conscience as long as some potentially life-altering questions go unanswered. Mason's life is threatened after he stumbles into a multi-layered conspiracy involving influential people who will stop at nothing to keep the past buried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Ramm
• Release date: Jun 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218423865

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

Trouble

Nine months ago.

Mason Powell stood quietly in the wings of the stage and peered into the dark convention hall. It was difficult to see past the bright stage lights and know exactly how many people had come out to catch a glimpse of the one-time TV star. Mason, now in his late 50s, was tall, fit, and still very handsome. His well-groomed appearance was emphasized by his full head of hair that was as much grey as it was black these days, and his blue eyes still held a flash of his wildness. He waited patiently for his moment, as he had done many times before. Mason starred on the show Tin Star as Sheriff Quinn, the tough no nonsense lawman of Abilene Kansas in the late 1800s. Fast with a gun, low on fear, and high on smarts, Sheriff Quinn was the best old west sheriff since Wyatt Earp. Certainly, the best on network television for nearly twelve years. The show ended in 2012 after much fan protest, but that was long ago. Tin Star had been over for nearly a decade, and Mason’s future was increasingly uncertain. After several not-so-productive attempts to parlay his TV success into films, or at least another series, his career had stalled like so many others in a business that despises age.

Reduced to autograph shows, car dealership openings, and other unglamourous personal appearances, Mason was at the mercy of his fans’ nostalgia for the show and for him.

COVID had also taken its toll on show business as it had on so many other industries. Little if any Hollywood productions during that period meant every ant was fighting for the same sugar cube. Worse yet for Mason, because of shutdowns there were no fan shows or autograph signings—a major source of his income now days. Now it was spring of 2022, and finally the pandemic had subsided enough for the fan shows to resume. After nearly two years, Mason was back on the circuit, as he liked to call it. These shows were typically an all-cash venture, which meant tax-free income. A few years ago, he could walk away with ten, maybe fifteen thousand bucks after a lively weekend in Middle America somewhere.

The announcer tapped the mic to get everyone’s attention and introduce the clip.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please direct your attention to the screen for a scene from everybody’s favorite western series, the CBS hit show, Tin Star!"

Mason’s eyes shifted to the large LED screen that faced the audience, the opening credits began to roll. The lettering for the show titles was planks of old barn wood with bullet holes that spelled out Tin Star. He smiled, remembering how he had come up with that idea. Then came a scene from one of Mason’s favorite episodes, Ace in The Hole. It was the story of a bank robber who hid out in nearby caves. A plot done a hundred times in the westerns of the 50s and 60s, but for audiences in the 2000s it was all brand-new entertainment. Hollywood is great at recycling that way. His old producer used to say, The only good idea is an old idea!

As Mason watched the climactic scene, he laughed to himself knowing that caves in Kansas were hard to come by. But in the business of television, the truth never stood in the way of a good story. The final scene took place in a saloon where the token piano player hammered out a honky-tonk version of Camp Town Races as Sheriff Quinn slowly entered, dressed in a long black duster, a dark brown vest where his badge was pinned, and his trademark Stetson hat. His eyes scanned the patrons, searching for someone while his hand hovered close to his gun. He spotted a man at the bar, Jimmy Bailer, drinking whiskey and paying little attention to the Sheriff’s entrance. He was dirty and unshaven, looking like most every on-screen cowboy bandit you’ve ever seen sitting at an Old West saloon bar. Quinn approached him slowly and stopped about ten feet away.

He squared up and asked, What’s it gonna be Bailer? Jail or a pine box?

The piano player stopped right on cue as everyone in the saloon fell silent, unsure if they should run or stay and witness what was about to happen. The man threw back the last of his whiskey and said, I guess that all depends on if you are as fast as they say.

Mason watched himself on the big screen and was mouthing along with the dialogue. He briefly looked back at the convention crowd but quickly remembered he can’t see anyone past the bright lights. His eyes refocus on the large screen. Sheriff Quinn squares his stance and says, Only one way to know for sure Bailer.

Bailer smirked, then spins around on his bar stool and quickly reaches for his gun, but Sheriff Quinn drew faster, taking down Jimmy Bailer with one well-placed shot. Quinn expertly twirled his Colt single action army revolver on his index finger and smoothly slid it into his holster embossed with a large Q. Satisfied, Sheriff Quinn walked toward the saloon doors where he was stopped by a grateful townswoman.

How can we ever repay you, Sheriff?

Quinn paused, looked back at the men lying on the floor, then to the woman, and dropped his tag line that closed nearly every episode:

Your thanks is good enough for me, ma’am.

He tipped his hat and sauntered through the swinging doors as the end credits rolled. The announcer enthusiastically proclaims,

Ladies and Gentlemen, Sheriff Quinn himself, the one and only Mason Powell!

The house lights brightened, and the Tin Star theme song began to blast—perhaps best described as a mashup of The Good the Bad and the Ugly and Bonanza anthems. The stage manager gave the cue, and Mason smoothly slipped on his familiar black Stetson cowboy hat and walked out to greet the audience. The stage manager’s eyes widened, and he frantically pointed to something on stage. Confused, Mason stopped and looked in the direction he was pointing. There he saw a set of bar room swinging doors at center stage. Obviously, he was meant to enter through them, but no one had bothered to tell him. Mason turned quickly, looking back to his long-time manager, Jack Gerald, standing in the wings. He simply shrugged and motioned for Mason to get out there. Apparently, no one told Jack either. Quickly assessing the swinging doors were too far away for him to adjust course, Mason simply walked out on stage and waved to the audience.

So distracted by the confusion about his entrance, Mason failed to notice the sound of unusually light applause. As his eyes finally adjusted through the now dimmed stage lights, he could see the audience. Just three short years ago, the room would have been standing room only; now it at about 30 percent capacity. Mason looked again to Jack in the wings for answers only to see him frantically pointing to the small audience and doing his best pantomime expressing, Talk to them!

Mason bowed, forced a smile, and took the microphone, Thank you, thank you all for coming.

Later that day Mason was at his small signing table in the large convention center filled with padded dividers, creating an endless maze of cubicles. Each one housed a hopeful star or personality waiting for fans to pay for the opportunity to get an autograph or selfie. The convention center typically held home design or boat shows, and in the past would be busting at the seams with enthusiastic fans, was now nearly empty. Mason sat at a small table with a large stack of glossy 8x10 photos from the show and several fresh sharpies, waiting patiently for adoring fans to plead for his signature. So far, only a few had come by, more out of curiosity than adoration. He couldn’t help but think about the last time he was at a fan show in 2019, where a long line of fans waited eagerly at his table for a signed photo at twenty bucks a pop. He took away paper bags filled with so much cash he would often hire a security guard just to escort him back to his hotel. It wasn’t even out of the ordinary for Mason to have a beautiful fan choose to show her enthusiasm for him with a night of uncommitted passion. Finally, a man in his early 80s eventually wandered up to his table.

Hi there, Mr. Powell, the older man said.

Mason looked up from his phone as the man continued.

I’m Bill, Bill Fryman, big fan of your work.

Encouraged, Mason perked up.

Well, hello there partner, good to meet ya’ll.

Mason extended his hand and Bill shook it and didn’t let go right away.

So, you really talk like that? Bill asked.

Mason explained that he was originally from Georgia and how he’d worked hard to lose the accent, but when he got the show, he needed to relearn it.

It’s all part of the character. So, you enjoyed the show? Mason asked.

Well sure, I’ve seen just about every episode. Wow, you look thin. Did you lose weight?

Mason had often contemplated writing a book referencing all the odd things flustered fans would say to him when they met: You look taller on TV. Are those real guns? How much money do you make?

But number one was always, You look thinner than you do on TV.

Mason always responded the same, Well, sir, the camera tends to ad about ten pounds. I weigh the same now as I did in season one.

Bill stared suspiciously, contemplating the truth of this statement, but eventually decided to accept the information as fact.

Well, it was good to meet you, said Bill.

As he began to walk away, Mason called out, Excuse me, don’t you want an autograph or something?

He told himself Bill must have been little hard of hearing rather than ignoring him as Bill just kept walking.

That evening Mason sat in the hotel bar nursing a bourbon. He slowly sipped and thought about his day, struggling to understand what had happened or not happened. Was it the lockdowns that made people forget about him? Maybe people just had different priorities after all they’d been through? Was it affecting other celebrities like this? Or maybe, the most undesirable of all reasons, people were starting to forget about Tin Star and even worse, forget about him. Just then, Jack entered the bar and, after scanning the room, spotted Mason and made his way over. Jack had been Mason’s manager for a very long time, longer than any other agents or publicists that he’d had. He was a good guy and a straight shooter, which is a hard combination to find in Hollywood. With Mason’s current lack of work, most mangers would have dropped him already, but not Jack, he was as loyal as they come. No one really knew Jack’s age, but Mason guessed it had to be mid 70s but wouldn’t be surprised if he were much older. A nip and tuck over the years kept Jack looking refreshed, as they say. He had represented some pretty big names back in the day, so, come to think of it, he would have to be at least eighty.

The list of starlets he dated in his time made him a sort of legend. Nowadays it seemed his lady friends were even younger than Mason and always beautiful.

He approached Mason’s booth motioning to the bartender for a drink at the same time. He sat down and looked at Mason quickly assessing the mood.

Well, that was a rough start.

Mason stared at Jack.

Rough start? That was a no start. I think I lost money today.

Mason threw back what was left in his glass. Because Jack had known him so long, he’d become artfully good at reading him, even taking pride in knowing just what to say at the right moment to keep Mason in line.

You don’t stay a successful manager by stepping on your own dick, he used to say.

Finding the right moment Jack said calmly, Look Mase, it’s the damn pandemic. Trade shows like these were shut down for nearly two years. It’s not just you, it’s affecting everyone.

Jack had just potentially confirmed what Mason had been trying to convince himself of for the last hour. The bartender approached the table and dropped off Jack’s drink. Mason, now feeling moderately encouraged, motioned for a refill as he quizzed.

You really think so?

Jack, in a very reassuring tone replied, Of course. Isn’t it obvious? It’s all going to get back to normal, you watch. It’s gonna take some time for people to get comfortable going out again, being in crowds. Listen, there’s something else I need to talk to you about, it’s important.

Just then Marcus Starling entered the room. Marcus’ only real claim to fame was that he’d been the star of a short-lived TV show in the 70’s about a military test pilot who was so Injured in a crash that he was given robotic arms, legs, and a robotic eye. It was hit, in the 70’s, and he hadn’t really done anything since. But now all eyes in the lounge were firmly focused on the former The Robot Man star. A few women even swooned, yes swooned, and several people offered to buy him a drink as he breezed by them, but Starling just kept walking. He shook a few hands, winked at a couple of women, and landed at the bar. Mason mumbled just loud enough for Jack to hear. Affecting everyone, huh? Sure isn’t affecting a guy who starred in his only show fifty fucking years ago!

That was a hell of a show, Jack added.

Just as the bartender sat Mason’s fresh drink down, he tossed it back. Jack was quick to react.

Slow it down there, cowboy. You gotta be out on that floor tomorrow, smiling, witty, and charming as always.

Mason got the last bit of his drink down and firmly set his glass on the table.

Fuck that. I’m outta here in the morning!

Jack didn’t react right away, and then calmly agreed.

This caught Mason off guard and unsure whether Jack understood his commitment to total defiance, decided to clarify.

I mean it Jack. Tomorrow I’m adios, no mas, nada!

Jack calmly took a small sip of his whiskey and grimaced. He leaned back in the booth and folded his hands on the table, nodding in agreement.

Sure. Tomorrow. I heard you Mase. Of course, you know you forfeit the minimum.

Mason stared blankly, so Jack explained, The minimum guaranteed amount for your attendance? Five grand? To get talent out on these things again, the organizers offered a minimum. If you’re not on that floor tomorrow, you forfeit it all.

Mason lowered his head down on the table.

Fuck me.

The next day he was back at the convention hall at the autograph table, the traffic was again slow, pushing Mason’s mood from bad to worse. The end of the day came just in time for Mason’s sanity to remain intact and he began packing up his left-over photos, of which there were many, his unused sharpies, and other merchandise that he would also peddle. The venue staff had already begun disassembling some of the dividers in the convention center and, as one of the dividers across from him came down, he could now see Marcus Starling at his booth a couple aisles over. The line was long, and he could hear someone making the disappointing announcement to the waiting fans that Marcus had run out of photos.

Mason stared enviously at the long line of fans and remembered the days when people clambered for him to the point of running out of photos. He scanned the line, passing judgment on every Marcus Starling fan, and then noticed Marcus was staring back at him. Mason quickly looked away and consoled himself by thinking, Fuck Marcus Starling and his Robot Man arms and legs, and eye, I think. Well, fuck his eye anyway!

As Mason continued to pack up his belongings, a silhouette shaded his table and, as he looked up, he quickly realized it was fucking Marcus Starling standing over him. Marcus smiled and thrust out his hand saying,

Hi there, Marcus Starling.

Mason stood up smiled and took his hand.

Mason Powell, I’m a big fan.

Mason anguished to himself, Did I just say, big fan? He’d finally surrendered his last bit of dignity and sold himself out as an out-of-work actor star-fucker. How much worse could it get? But Marcus was humbled.

Wow, that means a lot, Mason, because I’m certainly a big fan of yours.

Trying to make small talk, Mason quipped, Good to be back out on the circuit again, huh?

As he spoke, Mason noticed that half of Starling’s crowd had followed him over and was now standing behind Marcus witnessing their exchange.

Yeah, considering everything, I’m surprised how many people have come by this weekend. I ran out of photos. Marcus replied.

Looking down and noticing Mason’s large stack of unsold photos, Marcus turned to his crowd of faithful’s and said,

"Listen up everybody, Tin Star was one of my favorite shows, and this guy was the best, the best! You all should get his autograph before he leaves. Looking at Mason he asked, You got any photos left, Mason?"

Shocked, Mason quickly grabbed a few from the box, Ah, yeah, just a few.

A line of dutiful Marcus Starling fans now formed for Mason. Mason looked to the now aged Robot Man who winked as he walked off.

Take care, Mason.

As Mason started signing photos he thought, OK, don’t fuck Marcus Starling or his eye, he’s alright.

CHAPTER

2

Accountants

Back home in Sherman Oaks, a suburb of Los Angeles, Mason sat by his modest backyard pool, sipping a black coffee, and scanning through Variety magazine for all the latest Hollywood news and gossip. The house was no mansion by any means, but it was more than just nice or average. It was, as his late mother used to say, snazzy.

A four thousand square foot ranch style one story home adorned with memorabilia from Tin Star and the other films, TV shows, and plays that had come before. Mason was a lifelong bachelor, and now in his late 50s the idea of marriage seemed as uncomfortable as it did unnecessary. Satisfied with his life the way it was, he didn’t see the need to have someone come along and try to change it or him.

His attention was drawn to his small dog who about to lift his leg on a floaty laying poolside.

Kodak, no!

The dog continued to relieve himself anyway. Kodak was a small mixed breed dog. The combination of half Beagle and half a mixture of an unknown number of other mutts, provided him with big, flappy ears and a perpetually sad-looking face. One eye was even slightly askew, making hard to tell which one the dog depended on more. Mason didn’t love the name, but Kodak Camera was the presenting sponsor of Tin Star and in the last season they gifted him a rescue puppy on live TV, of course, already named. If there is one thing actors like, it’s anything free. A free dog. What else could he do? Besides, Kodak was nearly twelve years old now, and one day soon he’d be ready for his last ride into the sunset, much like the company itself.

As he sipped his coffee, Mason began to daydream about the good old days working on the show. More than money of fame, what he really missed was the work—having to be somewhere every day, being accountable, having a sense of purpose. He also missed the crew, a truly great bunch of hard-working people. It’s such a worn-out Hollywood cliché to say it was like a family, but when you spend 12 to 14 hours a day with people five days a week, it’s more than just family. In some cases. you spend more time with the crew than your spouse. Another reason to avoid marriage. Aspiring actors often asked him for advice, and he would routinely tell them to work at the craft, learn from others, but most important, be an easy person to work with. Be the sort of person others want to be around ten to twelve hours every day for months on end. He’d known plenty of good actors that failed in the business because they were difficult on set. Once word gets around that you’re hard to deal with, life gets very lonely very fast. A faint sound of a ringtone from his cell shook him from his thoughts.

Hello?

It was Jack, calling to see if Mason was home and open for a visit.

I’d like to swing by and go over something important with you. How about 4:00?

Sure, Jack, I’ll be here.

Confirming the time, Mason hung up. It was a rare event for Jack to make a house call. Mason recalled the last time Jack came by was to tell him about an offer for a film. Maybe there was an offer for something! He did say it was important. Maybe a new show? Maybe a reboot! Why not? They seem to be bringing everything else back, why not Tin Star? That had to be it! A reboot of the most successful TV Western in the last thirty years. They’d be idiots not to. Convinced at the possibility he dashed off to his bedroom to shower and get dressed.

When 4:00 pm came, Mason was excited and ready for the news, whatever it was. He spotted the car at the driveway gate, then the call box rang. Not wanting to seem too anxious, he let it ring a couple times, then answered in his best nonchalant tone.

Oh, hey, Jack, come on up.

He watched the black Cadillac roll up the long driveway and stop. As Jack got out of the car Mason spotted a file folder in his hand, circumstantial evidence proving his intuition was probably right. It’s a contract for something that needs a signature!

Jack entered the house, and they exchanged routine pleasantries. Mason guided him to the formal living room where they sat across from each other. Ever the good host, he offered Jack refreshments. Jack declined and began to speak.

Mason, I’m not really sure how to tell you this, other than to just say it.

Mason sat stone-faced and speechless and likely in shock listening to Jack, who calmly, his face expressionless, explained why he’d come. It wasn’t a reboot or a new show; it wasn’t a movie deal. It wasn’t at all what Mason was expecting; it was a Mike Tyson-sized knockout punch.

Jack had the painful task of explaining to his longtime friend and client that he was bankrupt. All of Mason’s money—investments, savings, checking, everything—was managed by the accounting firm Fitter and Hampton. Mason hadn’t even signed a check in years, he just assumed that everything was being paid on time. But apparently Hampton, the younger partner, had been borrowing money a little bit at a time from clients, including Mason, for many years. He had been using other people’s assets to play the market, hoping to make a big score, with the plan of putting the missing money back after skimming off the profits before anyone found out. But Hampton had been on a big losing streak since the pandemic started, and eventually everything had crumbled around him. The longer Jack spoke, the worse the news got. Not only was all the money gone, but because Mason had once upon a time given power of attorney to Fitter and Hampton to avoid them needing his signature all the time, Hampton used that authority to go beyond simply stealing funds. Hampton had taken out multiple loans on Mason’s house that consumed all the equity of a home that was, according to Mason’s calculations, nearly paid off. Not to mention a slew of back property taxes and fines. Jack continued to deliver the devastating news and Mason found himself fading from reality into a trance. When Jack finally finished his eulogy of Mason’s finances, he sat waiting patiently for a response. Mason, who hadn’t blinked in over a minute, was still expressionless.

Mason, did you understand what I said?

Jack waited for a response.

Mase?

Finally, Mason uttered with controlled anger in his voice, Where’s the little shit now?

Jack shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, Hampton? No one knows.

And Fitter? Mason asked.

Got a lawyer and is in hiding, claims he had no idea. Apparently, you weren’t the only one.

Mason could feel the blood draining from his face and began feeling short of breath. He’d read about these things before, heard stories from other actors, and frankly feared it a bit, but just never really thought it would happen to him. Fitter and Hampton always sent statements . . . Wait, statements! Mason jumped up and ran to his desk. Jack watched patiently as he pulled out a stack of papers and quickly scanned through them. He jerked a sheet out of the stack and read it to himself first.

June, this was from June this year, and everything looks right.

He thrust the document at Jack who ignored it and stared up at him.

Sorry Mase, it’s all bullshit. The money, the investments, everything, it’s really gone. I’m sorry.

Mason slumped down into his chair still holding the worthless papers. In a low voice he asked, How can this be?

Jack’s eyes glanced down at the floor, and shaking his head, he said softly, I’m sorry.

Over the next few months, Mason was dragged through court and every emotion he knew, even