Death of a Blue Movie Star (3 page)

She was, she’d decided, born to make films and this one—a real, grown-up film (a
documentary:
the ground-zero of serious films)—had in the last hour or two became vitally important to her, as encompassing as the air pressure that hit her when the subway pounded into the tunnel. One way or another, this documentary was going to get made.

She looked out the window. Whatever subterranean
colonies lived in the subways, they’d have to wait a few more years for their story to be told.

The train crashed past them or past rats and trash or past nothing at all while Rune thought about nothing but her film.

… but not about the bombing
.

In the offices of Belvedere Post-Production the air-conditioning was off.

“Give me a break,” she muttered.

Stu, not looking up from
Gourmet
, waved.

“I do not believe this place,” Rune said. “Aren’t you dying?”

She walked to the window and tried to open the greasy, chicken-wire-impregnated glass. It was frozen with age and paint and wormy strips of insulating putty. She focused on the green slate of the Hudson River as she struggled. Her muscles quivered. She groaned loudly. Stu sensed his cue and examined the window from his chair, then pushed himself into a standing slump. He was young and big but had developed muscles mostly from kneading bread and whisking egg whites in copper bowls. After three minutes he breathlessly conceded defeat.

“Hot air outside’s all we’d get anyway.” He sat down again. He jotted notes for a recipe, then frowned. “Are you here for a pickup? I don’t think we’re doing anything for L&R.”

“Naw, I wanted to ask you something. It’s personal.”

“Like?”

“Like who are your clients?”

“That’s
personal?
Well, mostly ad agencies and independent film makers. Networks and big studios occasionally but—”

“Who are the independents?”

“You know, small companies doing documentaries or
low-budget features. Like L&R … You’re grinning and you’re coy and there’s an old expression about butter melting in the mouth that I could never figure out but I think fits here. What’s up?”

“You ever do adult films?”

He shrugged. “Oh, porn? Sure. We do a lot of it. I thought you were asking me something inscrutable.”

“Can you give me the name of somebody at one of the companies?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t this some kind of business-ethics question, client confidentiality—”

“Stu, we’re talking about a company making films that’re probably illegal in most of the world and you’re worried about business ethics?”

Stu shrugged. “If you don’t tell them I sent you, you might try Lame Duck Productions. They’re a big one. And just a couple blocks from you guys.”

“From L&R?”

“Yeah. On Nineteenth near Fifth.”

The man’s huge Rolodex spun and gave off an afternoon library smell. He wrote down the address.

“Do they have an actress who’s famous in the business?”

“What business?”

“Adult films.”

“You’re asking me? I have no idea.”

“When you super the credits in the postproduction work, don’t you see the names? Whose name do you see the most?”

He thought for a minute. “Well, I don’t know whether she’s famous but there’s one actress for Lame Duck that I see all the time. Her name’s Shelly Lowe.”

There was a familiarity about the name.

“Does she have a narrow face, blonde?”

“Yeah, I guess. I didn’t look at her face very much.”

Rune frowned. “You’re a dirty old man.”

“You know her?” he asked.

“There was a bombing in Times Square, this porn theater…. Did you hear about it?”

“No.”

“Just today, a couple hours ago. I think she was in one of the movies that was playing there when it happened.”

Perfect.

Rune put the address in her plastic leopard-skin shoulder bag.

Stu rocked back in his chair.

“Well?” Rune asked.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you curious why I asked?”

Stu held up a hand. “That’s okay. Some things are best kept secret.” He opened his magazine and said, “You ever made a
tarte aux marrons
?”

CHAPTER TWO

Contrasts
.

Rune sat in the huge loft that was the lobby of Lame Duck Productions and watched the two young women stroll to a desk across the room. Overhead, fans rotated slowly and forced air-conditioned breezes throughout the place.

The woman in the lead walked as if she had a degree in it. Her feet were pointed forward, her back straight, hips not swaying. She had honey-blonde hair tied back with a braided rope of rainbow-colored strings. She wore a white jumpsuit but saved it from tackiness by wearing sandals, not boots, and a thin, brown leather belt.

Rune examined her closely but wasn’t sure if this was the same woman she’d seen in the poster. In that photo, the one on the front of the porno theater, her makeup had been good; today, this woman had a dull complexion. She seemed very tired.

The other woman was younger. She was short, face
glossy, a figure bursting out of the seams of her outfit. She had a huge, jutting—and undoubtedly fake—bust and broad shoulders. The black tank top showed a concise waist; the miniskirt crowned thin legs. There was no saving this cookie from tack; she had spiky high heels, feathery and teased hair sprayed with glitter and purple-brown makeup, which did a fair job minimizing the effect of a wide, Slavic nose.

Wouldn’t be a bad-looking woman, Rune thought, if her mother dressed her right.

They stopped in front of her. The shorter one smiled. The tall blonde said, “So you’re the reporter from, what was it,
Erotic Film Monthly?
” She shook her head. “I thought I knew everybody from the industry mags. Are you new with them?”

Rune started to continue the lie. But impulsively she said, “What I am is dishonest.”

Which got a faint smile. “Oh?”

“I lied to the receptionist. To get in the front door. Are you Shelly Lowe?”

A momentary frown. Then she gave a curious smile and said, “Yes. But that’s not my real name.”

The handshake was strong, a man’s grip, confident.

Her friend said, “I’m Nicole. That
is
my real name. But my last name isn’t. D’Orleans.” She gave it a Gallic pronunciation. “But it’s spelled like the city.”

Rune took her hand carefully; Nicole had inch-long purple fingernails.

“I’m Rune.”

“Interesting,” Shelly said. “Is it real?”

Rune shrugged. “As real as yours.”

“Lot of stage names in our business,” Shelly said. “I lose track sometimes. Now tell me why you’re a liar.”

“I thought they’d kick me out if I was honest.”

“Why would they do that? You a right-wing crazy? You don’t look like one.”

Rune said, “I want to make a movie about you.”

“Do you now?”

“You know about the bombing?”

“Oh, that was terrible,” Nicole said, actually shivering in an exaggerated way.

“We all know about it,” Shelly said.

“I want to use it as sort of a jumping-off point for my film.”

“And I’m the one you want to jump to?” Shelly asked.

Rune thought about those words, thought about disagreeing with her but said, “That’s about it.”

“Why me?”

“Just a coincidence really. One of your pictures was playing when the bomb went off.”

Shelly nodded slowly, and Rune found herself staring at her. Nicole was scrunching her broad, shiny face at the mention of the explosion and the deaths in the theater, closing her eyes, practically crossing herself, while Shelly was simply listening, leaning against a column, her arms crossed.

Rune’s thoughts were muddled. Under Shelly’s gaze she felt young and silly, a child being indulged.

Nicole took a package of sugar-free gum from her pocket, unwrapped a stick and began to chew. Rune said, “Anyway, that’s what I want to do.”

Shelly said, “You know anything about the adult-film business?”

“I used to work for a video store. My boss said the adult films gave us the best margin.”

She was proud of herself for that, saying something about
business
. Margin. A mature way to talk about fuck films.

“There’s money to be made,” Shelly said. Hers were eyes that sent out a direct light. Pale blue laser beam. They were intense at the moment but Rune sensed they were switch-able—that Shelly could choose in an instant to be probing
or angry or vindictive by a slight touch to the nerves. Rune assessed too that her eyes wouldn’t dance with humor and there was a lot they chose not to say. She wanted to start her documentary with the camera on Shelly’s eyes.

The actress said nothing, glanced at Nicole, who chewed her gum enthusiastically.

“Do you two, like, perform together?” Rune blushed fiery red.

The actresses shared a glance, then laughed.

“I mean …,” Rune began.

“Do we work together?” Nicole filled in.

“Sometimes,” Shelly said.

“We’re roommates too,” Nicole said.

Rune glanced at the iron pillars and tin ceiling. “This is an interesting place. This studio.”

“It used to be a shirtwaist factory.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Nicole asked.

“A woman’s blouse,” Shelly said, not looking down from the ceiling.

Shelly is tall and she isn’t a stunning beauty. Her presence comes from her figure (and eyes!). Her cheekbones are low. She has skin the consistency and the pale shade of a summer overcast. “How did I get into the business? I was raped when I was twelve. My uncle molested me. I’m a heroin addict—don’t I cover it up well? I was kidnaped by migrant workers in Michigan
….”

Nicole lit a cigarette. She kept working on the gum too.

Shelly looked down from the tin panels at Rune. “So this would be a documentary?”

Rune said, “Like on PBS.”

Nicole said, “Somebody wanted me to do one once, this guy. A documentary. But you know what he really wanted.”

Shelly asked, “Still hot out?”

“Boiling.”

Nicole gave a faint laugh, though Rune had no idea what she was thinking of.

Shelly walked to a spot where cold air cascaded on the floor. She turned and examined Rune. “You seem enthusiastic. More enthusiastic than talented. Excuse me. That’s just my opinion. Well, about your film—I want to think about it. Let me know where I can get in touch with you.”

“See, it’ll be great. I can—”

“Let me think about it,” Shelly said calmly.

Rune hesitated, looked at the woman’s aloof face for a long moment. Then dug into her leopard-skin bag, but before she found her Road Runner pen Shelly produced a heavy, lacquered Mont Blanc. She took it; felt the warmth of the barrel. She wrote slowly but Shelly’s gaze made her uneasy and the lines were lumpy and uneven. She gave Shelly the paper and said, “That’s where I live. Christopher Street. All the way to the end. At the river. You’ll see me.” She paused. “Will I see you?”

“Maybe,” Shelly said.