Micky flexed his arm, marveling at how fast he’d healed in three weeks. “Hey, Peter!” he called. “Hurry up, the tide won’t stay out forever!”
Peter finally emerged from the house, an unbuttoned shirt complimenting his swim trunks. “Micky, I’m quite sure the ocean will still be there when we reach the edge.”
“Way you and Mike run from it, that’s doubtful.” He laughed, dodging a playful swing at their running joke. “Let’s go!”
Peter laughed, following Micky onto the beach, his body once again showing its usual ease and grace. He lifted his face to the sun, letting the wind tease his hair.
Micky stretched. “MAN it feels good out here.”
“Yes, it does. Too bad Mike and Davy aren’t here to share it.”
“What can I say, man? Groceries called.”
“True. I’m surprised Davy finagled Mike into letting him go—Mike was so dead set on Davy just taking it easy.”
Micky opened his mouth to reply, then paused. “What’s goin’ on down there?”
Peter blinked. “I have . . . no idea.”
“Let’s check it out.”
Peter and Micky warily approached the lights, cameras, and the crowd of people milling around, all dressed in variations of beachwear. The short man with the prematurely white hair and deeply tanned skin was pacing madly. “Where is he? Why doesn’t he just come out here already?”
Peter exchanged a “who the hell is this idiot?” look with Micky.
“You there!” the man bellowed, looking at them. “Are you the extras we hired?”
“No, there are two missing,” the tall yes-man sighed.
“Extras?” Micky mouthed to Peter, who shrugged. As if on cue, Mike and Davy jogged up. “Here you are!” Mike wheezed for the benefit of those around him.
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Care to explain what’s going on, Mike?”
“Would if I knew what was goin’ on,” he said, looking around. “Looks like they’re makin’ a movie.”
“Great,” Micky grumbled. “Who knows how long until we get our beach back.”
“Only a few days, boys,” the yes-man said with a smile, overhearing their conversation. “These are just the last few scenes in the new Frankie Catalina feature.” The Monkees just looked at him blankly. “Frankie Catalina? Star of screen and screen? The idol of your generation?”
Mike stroked his chin thoughtfully. Peter looked up as if the sky held the answer. Micky just stared at the yes man. Davy fiddled with his ring.
“He speaks for you! In your movies, he explores your deepest dreams!”
Mike chuckled. “Not our dreams, he don’t.”
The yes man blinked.
“Yeah,” Micky added. “Not unless he makes kung-fu mov—” His words were immediately stifled by Peter’s hand over his mouth.
“So what does he do in these movies?” Peter asked conversationally.
“He sings, he dances, he romances . . . ”
The Monkees gave a collective shrug, clearly unimpressed.
The yes-man blinked at that. “Of course . . . he-he doesn’t do his own dancing . . . ”
“Of course not,” Peter said, looking at Mike.
“But does he sing?” Micky asked.
“Uh, no, his voice is dubbed in.”
“Must be his surfing talent, then,” Micky said, grinning at his own cleverness.
“No, he’s afraid of water,” the yes-man sighed.
“Then why is he so popular?” Peter asked.
“Are you kidding? He’s the perfect teenager!”
Mike rolled his eyes. A momentary hush fell over the extras as a blonde man with an unnaturally perfect hairdo came out of a tent to fanfare and applause.
“That must be him,” Davy muttered. “What a fake.”
“Faker than fake,” Micky growled.
“Guys, be generous,” Mike said. “After all . . . where else can you find a guy that can’t sing, dance, or surf?”
“In a Frankie Catalina picture,” was Peter’s immediate comeback.
Catalina sauntered over. “So you’re the extras.”
“So you’re the star,” Micky said coldly, tilting his chin back to stare down imperiously on the shorter man.
“That’s right. And don’t you forget it.” A photographer came up and Frankie posed expansively.
Mike watched the drummer carefully, in case his notorious temper decided to unleash itself on Frankie. No matter how much he might deserve it . . .
Catalina stepped forward, still mugging, and ran into Peter. “Watch where you’re going!” he snarled.
Peter’s eyes narrowed furiously, but he quickly reined in his temper.
“You . . . you . . . you nobody . . . ”
There was a loud smack as a hand snaked out and connected with his neck. Micky, Davy, and Mike gaped in shock at Peter, who stood with his arm still extended, his eyes blazing as they’d never seen them before.
Catalina yelped. “He hit me!”
“You deserved it,” Mike said calmly.
He growled and whirled, jabbing a finger toward them as he bellowed at the director. “Are you going to let them talk to me that way?” Micky smiled in a self-satisfied way and leaned back on his heels.
Before the director—who was looking frantically at his yes-men—could react, Catalina had spun on Peter. “Look, you! You are dime-a-dozen extras! You can be replaced in a heartbeat! You . . . you! With your stupid expressions!” he raved at Peter, who curled his lip into an uncharacteristic snarl.
“And you—with that stupid bonnet!” he reached up as if to knock it off Mike’s head, then realized he was too short and retracted his hand. Mike just held still, his dark brown eyes narrowed to slits.
“You!” he snarled at Micky. “A scarecrow in shorts!”
Mike and Peter both reached out to grab the drummer as he started forward.
Then he turned to Davy. “And you . . . you . . . you’re so small you probably get stepped on!” he snarled, completely ignoring the fact he was only an inch taller than Davy.
Still holding Micky, Peter and Mike could only watch as Davy leaped on Catalina, knocking him to the sand. Catalina screamed and tried to curl up, begging Davy not to hurt him.
“Oh, I’m small, am I!” Davy howled as he twisted the arrogant star’s arm up behind his back. “Not so tough now, are you!?”
“You can’t do this,” Catalina cried. “I’m a star!”
“You’re a pompous ass is what you are!”
Mike and Peter finally snapped out of their paralysis and leaped on Davy, dragging the struggling, cursing Englishman off of Catalina.
Catalina struggled to his feet. “I want them off of my picture! Now!”
“But Frankie baby—we can’t find replacements on such short notice! It’s just for the day,” the director placated.
“Fine! Then I’m walking!” Catalina roared—and he did, limping off the set and cursing everyone soundly.
“Wow, what a pleasant guy,” Mike muttered.
“How are we going to replace him?” the director moaned. “We can’t possibly find someone that short and . . . ” His eyes fell on Davy and his dismayed expression was quickly swallowed by a huge, toothsome grin.
“What’re you looking at me like that for?” Davy said, taking a step backward.
“Care to be a movie star?”
“What? Me?” Davy said, pulling free from Mike and Peter.
“Yes, you! Think about it . . . fame . . . fortune . . . girls . . . ”
Peter was shaking his head.
Davy raised his eyebrows and stared at the ground, thinking it over.
“Don’t do it,” Micky hissed.
“Why not?” Davy said. “It'd just be for one day . . . and we could use the money.”
Peter rubbed a hand over the back of Davy’s neck. “This is why not . . . ”
“What’s wrong, Peter? I mean . . . surely this isn’t a trap,” Davy said, liking the idea of being a movie star more and more.
Peter looked wildly at Mike. “Mike,” Peter whispered. “This is what you warned us about in the beginning . . . being found out . . . ”
“Peter’s right, Davy,” Mike said. “We can’t risk some makeup person findin’ your tattoo.”
“But . . . it’s just a tattoo, Mike! Lots of people have ‘em!”
“We’d return him in one piece,” the yes-man said with a grin.
Mike frowned. Much as he disliked the idea, he couldn’t find a good reason to tell Davy no. Seeing the frown, Peter sighed and lowered his head.
Davy looked anxiously from Mike to Peter and back again. “Well?”
“C’mon, Dad . . . let him,” Micky said. “Kid’s all excited.”
Dark and light heads nodded in slow, reluctant unison. The yes-man grinned as he tugged Davy toward the makeup trailer.
Half an hour later, a transformed Davy walked out of the tent.
“Holy moly,” Micky breathed.
Peter snickered. “He looks like a bleached toad died on his head!” he whispered to Mike, who fought to keep his expression straight.
Davy mugged for the camera and then filming began. The others just sat back and watched. “Man, he’s almost as bad as Frankie,” Mike muttered as Davy snapped at another actress.
“Worse,” Peter whispered. “He knows it’s wrong.”
Micky just grinned, pulling his legs up into a half lotus. “Then we’ll just have to teach him a lesson.” Peter looked at him, then started to grin. Mike caught the look. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
“I believe I am. Micky?”
Micky tilted his chin back, gazing down his nose at the volleyball net that was being set up for the next scene. “Oooh yeah.”
“Keepaway Winds Style?” Peter’s grin turned devilish.
Mike took off his hat and carefully set it aside. “You got it.”
The director called “Action!” and the volleyball scene began. Davy gave a kiss to his co-star and sauntered out onto the court. Mike, Micky, and Peter bowed to each other and surrounded him, their stances easy and relaxed. Davy, caught up in the scene, didn’t notice. He took the ball and served it easily. Mike leaped up, neatly catching it. From there it went bouncing from hand to hand to hand, missing Davy every time.
“Hey!” Davy hollered at last. “Hey, fellas! Fellas, c’mon!”
Mike tossed it around his back to Peter. Peter laughed and tossed it over his head to Micky. Micky held it up. “Come and get it, Mister Superstar!”
Davy stepped back and lunged forward, body snapping into a dropkick. Micky leaped into the air, dodging the attack, and tossed the ball to Mike. Mike threw the ball behind him to the sand and lunged for the net, ripping it free and tossing that end to Peter as he dashed around and got the other end free. Moving with a speed that stunned the assembled crowd, Mike and Peter swiftly bound Davy with the net, stepping away to admire their handiwork. “You don’t think we overdid it a little?” Peter said hesitantly.
“Nah, he’ll thank us when he’s himself again,” Mike nodded toward Davy.
“Besides . . . it’s fun,” Micky grinned, crossing his arms and leaning on Peter.
“Guys . . . please let me out,” Davy begged, shocked they’d do this to him! “Please . . . let me out . . . ”
“Say pretty please,” Micky taunted.
“Pretty please!”
“Say pretty please with sugar on top!”
Davy’s eyes cleared. His head dropped and he groaned. “Aw, man . . . ”
“See? Did we tell you?” Mike said, trying to keep the scolding tone from his voice.
Davy sighed. “You told me.”
“And?” Peter said.
“And I lost my head. I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” Micky said, his voice teasing.
“I am. Honestly.” And he was. It was in his eyes.
“All right. Mick—cut him loose.”
Micky did so, and Davy walked right to the director. “I can’t do this. This . . . this isn’t me.”
The director smiled a smile that wasn’t wholly benign. “Don’t worry—we have what we need . . . we can splice it in.” He eyes strayed from Davy to the reels of completed film, lighting up so that Davy could almost see dollar signs behind them.
With a disgusted shake of his head Davy walked back to his friends, frowning. “Man.”
“What is it?” Mike asked.
“I need a long bath.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Let’s go,” Peter chuckled and steered them toward the Pad.
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