Death of a Blue Movie Star

by Jeffery Deaver

  "A hook?"

  "You want to make a good documentary, do a film that's about the bombing but not about the bombing."

  "It sounds like Zen."

  "Fucking Zen, right." He twisted his mouth. "And three sugars for me tea. Last time you bleedin' forgot."

  Rune was paying for the tea and coffee when she remembered Stu. She was surprised she hadn't thought about him before this. And so she paid the deli guy two bucks of her own money, which is the way she looked at Larry's change, to have somebody deliver the cartons to L&R.

  Then she stepped outside and trudged toward the subway.

  A low-rider, a fifteen-year-old beige sedan, churned past her. The horn sang and from the shadows of the front seat came a cryptic solicitation, lost in the ship's diesel bubbling of the engine. The car accelerated away.

  God, it was hot. Halfway to the subway stop, she bought a paper cone of shaved ice from a Latino street vendor. Rune shook her head when he pointed to the squirt bottles of syrup, smiled at his perplexed expression, and rubbed the ice over her forehead, then dropped a handful down the front of her T-shirts. He got a kick out of it and she left him with a thoughtful look on his face, maybe considering a new market for his goods.

  Painful hot.

  Mean hot.

  The ice melted before she got to the subway stop and the moisture had evaporated before the train arrived.

  The A train swept along under the streets back up to Midtown. Somewhere above her was the smoking ruin of the Velvet Venus Theater. Rune stared out the window intently. Did anyone live down here in the subway system? She wondered. Maybe there were whole tribes of homeless people, families, who'd made a home in the abandoned tunnels. They'd be a great subject for a documentary too. Life Below the Streets.

  This started her thinking about the hook for her film.

  About the bombing but not about the bombing.

  And then it occurred to her. The film should be about a single person. Someone the bombing had affected. She thought about movies she liked--they were never about issues or about ideas in the abstract. They were about people. What happened to them. But who should she pick? A patron in the theater who'd been injured? No, no one would volunteer to help her out. Who'd want to admit he'd been hurt in a porn theater. How 'bout the owner or the producer of porn films. Sleazy came to mind. One thing Rune knew was that the audience has to care about your main character. And some scumbag in the Mafia or whoever made those movies wasn't going to get much sympathy from the audience.

  About the bombing but not...

  As the subway sped underground the more she thought about doing the document the more excited she became. Oh, a film like this wouldn't catapult her to fame but it would--what was the word?--validate her. The list of her abortive careers was long: clerking, waitressing, selling, cleaning, window dressing.... Business was not her strength. The one time Rune had come into some money, Richard, her ex-boyfriend, had thought up dozens of safe investment ideas. Businesses to start, stocks to buy. She'd accidentally left his portfolio files on the merry-go-round in Central Park. Not that it mattered anyway because she spent most of the money on a new place to live.

  I'm not good with the practical stuff, she'd told him.

  What she was good with was what she'd always been good with: stories--like fairy tales and movies. And despite her mother's repeated warning when she was younger ("No girl can make a living at movies except you-know-what-kind-of-girl"), the odds of making a career in film seemed a lot better than in fairy tales.

  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 PostProduction 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.

  "Yo, film me, momma, come on, film me."

  "Hey, you wanna shoot my dick? You got yourself a wide-angle lens, you can shoot my dick."

  "Shit, be a microscope what she need for that."

  "Yo, fuck you, man."

  Walking out of the Times Square subway, Rune ignored her admirers, hefted the camera to her shoulder and walked along the platform. She passed a half-dozen beggars, shaking her head at their pleas for coins, but she dropped a couple of quarters into a box in front of a young South American couple giving a tango demonstration to the rattling music of a boom box.

  It was eight p.m., a week after she'd first met with Shelly and Nicole. Rune had called Shelly twice. At first the actress had been pretty evasive about doing the film but the second time she'd called, Shelly had said, "If I were to do it would you give me a chance to review the final cut?"

  From her work at L&R, and her love of movies in general, Rune knew that the final cut--the last version of the film, what was shown in the theaters--was the Holy Grail of the film business. Only producers and a few elite directors controlled the final cut. No actor in the history of Hollywood ever had final cut approval.

  But she now said, "Yes."

  Instinctively feeling that it was the only way she could get Shelly Lowe to do the film.

  "I'll let you know in a day or two for sure."

  Rune was now out looking for atmosphere footage and for establishing shots--the long-angle scenes in films that orient the a
udience and tell them what city or neighborhood they're in.

  And there was plenty of atmosphere here. Life in the Tenderloin, Times Square. The heart of the porno district in New York. She was excited at the thought of actually shooting footage for her first film but remembered the words of Larry, her mentor, as she was heading out of L&R studios that night. "Don't overdo it, Rune. Any frig-gin' idiot can put together ninety minutes of great atmosphere. The story's the important thing. Don't ever bleedin' forget that. The story."

  She eased into the swirl and noise and madness of Times Square, the intersection of Seventh Avenue, Broadway and Forty-second. She waited at the curb for the light, looking down at the accidental montage embedded in the asphalt at her feet: a Stroh's bottle cap, a piece of green glass, a brass key, two pennies. She squinted; in the arrangement, she saw a devil's face.

  Ahead of her was a white high-rise on the island of concrete surrounded by the wide streets; fifty feet up, the day's news was displayed along a thick collar of moving lights. "... SOVIETS EXPRESS HOPE FOR ..."

  The light changed and she never saw the end of the message. Rune crossed the street and passed a handsome black woman in a belted, yellow cotton dress, who was shouting into a microphone. "There's something even better in heaven. Amen! Give up your ways of the flesh. Amen! You can win the lottery, you can become a multimillionaire, billionaire, get everything you ever wanted. But all that gain cannot compare with what you'll find in heaven. Amen! Give up your sinful ways, your lusts.... If I die in my little room tonight, why, I'd praise the good Lord because I know what that means. That means, I'm going to be in heaven tomorrow. Amen!"

  A few people chorused with amens. Most walked on.

  Farther north in the Square, things were ritzier, around the TKTS discount ticket booth, where one could see the huge billboards that any out-of-towner who watched television would recognize. Here was Lindy's restaurant, with its famous and overpriced cheesecake. Here was the Brill Building--Tin Pan Alley. Several glossy, new office buildings, a new first-run movie theater.

  But Rune avoided that area. She was interested in the southern part of Times Square.

  Where it was a DMZ.

  She passed a number of signs in stores and arcades and theaters: STOP THE TIMES SQUARE REDEVELOPMENT PROJECT. This was the big plan to wipe the place clean and bring in offices and expensive restaurants and theaters. Purify the neighborhood. No one seemed to want it but there didn't seem to be organized resistance to the project. That was the contradiction of Times Square; it was a place that was energetically apathetic. Busyness and hustle abounded but you still sensed the area was on its way out. Many of the stores were going out of business. Nedick's--the hot dog station from the forties--was closing, to be replaced by slick, mirrored Mike's Hot Dogs and Pizza. Only a few of the classic Forty-second Street movie theaters--many of them had been grand old burlesque houses--were still open. And all they showed was porn or kung fu or slasher flicks.