by Jack Ketchum
Shouting. The scotch dribbling down to the wall-to-wall carpet.
“Fuck! You motherfucking cocksucking assholes!”
They’d decided to shoot the end of it right up close.
Finally, thought Howard, a close-up.
He giggled. Excitement and terror and scotch all kicking in at once. An extremist cocktail.
Oh, my God, Greta, I’m going to watch you die.
On the screen Dickie Three ran gut-bobbing back to the camera and hauled it forward until it stood just three feet from the now-blurry blood-drenched sheets and the glistening red body on the bed that still breathed in and out and tried to move, just barely.
He focused the camera.
And Howard realized two things simultaneously.
One, it was not Greta.
And two, it was not murder.
And he could have killed the whole bunch of them right then and there for a moment, tracked them down and hacked them to fucking bits, for putting him through this.
Not Greta. And not death.
Oh, the girl was a look-alike all right, very similar, but they had left her face pretty much alone all this time except for slashes across the cheeks and shit, the nose was wrong, the eyes were slightly wrong, the cheekbones a bit too prominent—and now that he thought about it, now that the spell was broken, he realized he’d been stupid ever to have thought it could be Greta in the first place, because Greta was the same age as he was or maybe slightly less and this girl was hardly out of her twenties, the age she was then, the age she remained in his imagination.
He felt like a total fucking idiot.
Damned if he didn’t know a latex appliance when he saw one.
They were good. Very good. Worthy of Tom Savini. Probably expensive too. Maybe even state of the art. But a motionless closeup camera is a goddamn merciless thing and you could see where the living flesh stopped and FX began as clearly as though they’d signposted them.
So that when the knife slit her open and the hand slipped into what was supposed to be Greta’s chest and pulled out what was supposed to be Greta’s beating heart but was not Greta’s heart nor anybody’s nor even Greta, Howard was already on his feet.
Cursing. Mad. Dispirited and disappointed as hell.
And ripped off again.
A week later he thought, well, it was still one hell of a movie, marked it, and added it to his collection.
A month later he saw her.
Really saw her.
She was walking down Central Park South half a block from his apartment just as he was leaving and she looked right at him without the slightest sign of recognition and he damn near walked into a uniformed doorman hailing a taxi—because the Greta he remembered, the almost-Greta in the film, had been an attractive woman, sure, but this Greta, this older, graceful Greta of the perfect legs and silk Armani jacket was absolutely stunning.
What in the hell had happened to her?
He could barely get her name out.
“Greta?”
“My God. Howard.”
And her smile was all he needed to ask her out to dinner.
Miraculously, she accepted.
Over duck with truffle sauce at Cafe Luxemborg on the Upper West Side he told her nothing about the very strange movie experience he had recently had and everything about investing—the kick of winning big when his choices were successful, playing down his utter fury at the occasional inevitable defeat. He told her stories. About riding high on Apple and Nintendo and dumping Exxon at exactly the right moment.
And what was she doing?
Well, films had not worked out for her. He’d guessed as much, naturally. She’d hung around L.A. for a couple of years and then moved into real estate. She had a few other interests, she said, on the side. And she was doing pretty well from the look of it.
And no, she wasn’t married.
And no, she wasn’t engaged.
There wasn’t even a boyfriend. At least none that she was telling him about.
And he couldn’t help but wonder if she still got into the same kind of rough stuff in the bedroom as she did in the old days. The thought of it made his mouth water a whole lot more than the duck did, and the duck was the best there was.
And it looked like maybe he was going to find out.
He could tell she still found him attractive. Her body language, the way she looked at him and listened, everything told him she did.
Well, he was still attractive. Why not?
And she . . . utterly beautiful. Success, he supposed, had made her beautiful. The rough city edge to the voice was completely gone. What was left was a deep, resonant purr that made him think of wild warm nights on Caribbean shores, of jungle terraces, of heat and sweat and strange, exotic passions.
In the limo they drove south from the restaurant toward her midtown hotel. The theatres all along Broadway and Eighth Avenue were letting out and traffic was heavy. They talked over splits of champagne. Of old mutual acquaintances barely recalled. Halfway there and stalled in traffic she leaned over and brushed his lips with hers. She smelled lightly of Aliage or something similiar. Her lips were soft, more generous than he remembered.
“You’ll come up?”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
He was impressed. The hotel was one of the best in town and her room was nothing less than the penthouse.
She opened the door and they stepped inside into darkness and she turned to face him, came into his arms, and her mouth was hot and sweet, broke free and locked the door behind him and turned on the lights, the huge bright living room springing into focus, took off her jacket and stood there in front of him smiling, and he thought how strange it was, that he should be here about to make love to a woman who only a month ago he’d thought was going to die—and die horribly—all across his video screen.
Life was very odd.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, stepping toward him again.
“Believe me. So am I.”
“It took a while, you know.”
He was about to ask her what did when they stepped out of the bedroom, out of the darkness there.
Three heavy men in jeans and teeshirts. Beer guts hard, straining their belts.
Even a month later and without the masks they were all too familiar.
And a whole lot uglier than he imagined.
One moved behind him to the door. The others flanked her.
“I told you I had a few sidelines,” she said. “Other interests. And I definitely recalled your other interests. I remembered them vividly in fact. I knew you’d be answering the ad sooner or later. Being you, how could you resist it?”
She laughed. “You’ve become a very private person over the years, you know that, Howard? But then, the rich are always insulated—protected—aren’t they? I ought to know. It took me ten years to become . . . protected enough for this. An address was all I needed for you, but no one had one anymore. Who’d have thought you’d be here in New York playing the stock market? You could barely count your change when I knew you.”
She sighed and caressed his cheek. Her hand was warm.
“In the long run this was really much cheaper than hiring a private detective. And a lot more fun, too. We just ran the ad and waited. We even made a little money. Didn’t we, gentlemen.”
They smiled. It was not a nice thing to see.
The door to the bedroom opened. The girl who stood there in her white silk camisole was familiar too. The last time he’d seen her she was covered with blood. Now, of course, she was smiling.
“My sister. Doreen, meet Howard. Did you notice the family resemblance, Howard? Didn’t you find it striking?”
“What do you . . . ?”
“What do I want? I want to make a movie, of course. Just like we did in the old days. You see I remember how you treated me too. Come here.”
She stepped past her sister into the bedroom. The two men followed her. The third prodded Howard in the back with a thick h
orny knuckle. He had no choice but to follow.
She turned on the lights. They were klieg lights. So that suddenly he was in the spotlight.
A 35mm camera stood on a tripod in the corner of the room.
The king-size bed was covered in plastic.
Thick plastic.
He knew when the guy behind him pushed him onto it.
He tried to scream but one of them stuffed a dirty white rag into his mouth and tied it off with a white silk scarf while the two other men grabbed his wrists and hitched them to the bedposts, and then to his feet, not even bothering to take off his wingtips first, working very efficiently as though they did this all the time and he looked up and saw Greta’s sister, the image of her younger self holding up two four-inch stainless-steel fishhooks for him to see, putting them down on the night table and picking up a bone handled razor, showing him that, and then Greta at the beautiful antique bureau touching up her lipstick in the mirror, stripping slowly down to her filmy black bra and panties cut high on the hip just the way he liked them, putting on the black half-mask, the same as her sister was wearing now and turning, the scalpel gleaming in her hand.
“What do you think?” she said. “Can we go ninety minutes?”
The guy behind the camera nodded.
“Sure. If you’re careful.”
Greta smiled. The generous lips smiled down at him. While Howard thrashed uselessly on the bed.
“You see, Howard. The real thing does exist. Only you’re not going to get it mail-order.”
The camera whirred.
The clapboard clapped.
Greta walked into the frame.
“Action,” she said.
Luck
The night was moonless and quiet save for the crackling of the fire and the liquid tiltback of the Tangleleg whiskey which they passed between them and Faro Bill Brody drawing hard on his Bull Durham and the moans and heavy breathing from Chunk Herbert and the snort and paw of horses and the voices of the men. Their talk had turned to luck, good and bad. The men were of the opinion that theirs had taken a far turn for the worse this day for who could have guessed at Turner’s Crossing that the stage would be filled with lawmen and citizens with guns drawn and ready and a posse just out of sight behind them. They had robbed the same stage at the same place at the same time of day three weeks running and never known a problem.
Now Chunk Herbert lay propped against a juniper tree with a chunk of skull missing big as a silver dollar and his brains held in place by the dusty left arm of Canary Joe Hallihan’s shirt. Canary Joe himself had gone un-shot. So had Faro Bill Brody to Joe’s way of thinking though Faro Bill kept complaining about the two ragged holes in the right-side brim of his hat—but then what could you expect from a man who’d taken his name from a damnfool frenchie card game dealt by box-springs instead of a righteous human being? Kid Earp had taken a ball to the calf and likely would be limping awhile.
“You still got to figure we’re lucky compared to some,” Joe said. “Chunk excepted, ’corse.
“I heard of a lot worse luck.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said The Kid. The Kid was not a kid and no one could remember when he ever had been and no relation to the Earp Brothers either though he liked to affect some mystery about that.
Never you mind who my relations been.
“You remember Thimblerig Jack? Best man with a pea and walnuts I ever seen. You spend your whole day, you ain’t gonna find that pea under them three walnuts ’less Jack wants you to. Hands faster’n a rattler hits you. And charm? Man could cheat you out of your entire stake and damn if you ain’t thankin’ him for havin’ a fine old time by the finish of it. Then ’long come that Indian.”
“What Indian?” said Faro Bill.
“Big Ute halfbreed name of Jim Murphy. Brings his squaw into town one morning and Jack’s got his game all set up on a barrellhead outside Knott’s dry goods store and Jack stops her, puts a hand to the squaw’s shoulder, he wants to show her a game or two. And this Indian’s pretty fast himself. ’Fore you know it he’s grabbed Jack’s hand and slammed it down on the barrellhead and the Bowie’s out and Big Jim Murphy’s choppin’ fingers.”
The others considered.
“That’s not luck,” said Faro Bill. “He should’ve known.”
“How? Mostly an Indian will knuckle under. He just picked the wrong Indian, that’s all. Most Indians are plain sneaky, most are cowards.”
They passed the bottle and stared into the fire. Behind them Chunk groaned.
“You say somethin’, Chunk?” said the Kid.
“Don’t be foolish,” said Canary Joe.
“I thought he said somethin’.”
“So did I,” said Faro Bill. “Sounded like ‘Lily’ or ‘Liddy.’ ”
“Weren’t nothin’,” said Canary Joe.
“Anyhow, I’ve heard of worse luck,” said Faro Bill. “Heard about it years ago from a damned old Mountain Man name of Thomas Curry.”
“You knew a Mountain Man, Bill?” said The Kid.
“Sure did. Met him at the Bucket of Blood Saloon over in Johnston City. Liked to gamble and won more often as not. Some strange breed, those old timers were. Hell, you could barely understand him for the listening. He’d be sitting behind a pair of aces and say something like, ‘well, hos! I’ll dock off buffler, but then if thar’s any meat that runs that can take the shine outen dog, you can slide.’ ”
“What’s that mean, Bill?” said the Kid.
“ ‘Well, m’friend, I’ll except buffalo, but then if there’s any meat afoot better than dog, you’re crazy.’ ” Some old gent, he was. But did you ever hear about the ‘Lost Dutch’ Meyers Mine, Kid? Dutch was a prospector out Montana way, struck gold somewhere along the Big Horn with a couple of buddies and erected themselves a cabin so’s they could work the river. One morning Sioux attacked and when the smoke cleared Dutch was the only man of three left alive. Fled south to save his sorry scalp. Hit town and sold some pretty fine nuggets, spread word of his find. And that was most unwise, ’cause one of the boys he told was a fella name Bob Heck who backshot Dutch dead and then went out to do a little prospecting on his own. Never did find gold though, since by then the Sioux had burnt the goddamn cabin to the ground so there was not a thing left to mark the spot. Bob Heck got the noose and nobody got the gold. Now there was a pair of damned unlucky fellas.”
“How’d they know Sioux burnt it?”
“S’cuse me?”
“If nobody found the cabin, how’d this Thomas Curry know it was Sioux what burned it down?”
Faro Bill shrugged. “Mountain Men just know things, I reckon.”
“I can go you one better on bad luck,” said Canary Joe. “Only that you won’t believe me.”
“Give it up anyhow,” said the Kid. “We got time.”
“We ought to build this fire,” said Canary Joe. “Gettin’ kinda low and Chunk there needs his heat.”
“What Chunk needs is a damn priest,” said Faro Bill.
Canary Joe ignored him and rose stiffly onto legs he reflected were probably too old for owlhootery anymore and stepped out into the rich dark behind the four tethered horses to gather what scrub and dry broken timber he could find. The others stared whiskey-dazed into the fire. The Kid took a pull and handed the bottle to Faro Bill who drank and handed it back again. The Kid kicked a twig into the flames and watched it burst and crackle.
“How long you figure he’s got?” said the Kid.
“Chunk? How long’s it take the soul to flee. God damned if I know.”
“You think he can hear us?”
“Don’t know.”
“Spooks me to think that maybe ol’ Chunk can hear us talking ’bout his likely demise.”
“Don’t talk about it, then.”
“All right. I won’t.”
They passed the bottle and moments passed silent and sullen as kicked dogs until Canary Joe returned to the fire with some old sunbleached logs pale as bones under his
arm and dragging with his other hand a tangled pile of scrub across the dry hard-packed earth. He dropped the scrub and then the logs which clattered like tenpins. Joe turned to Chunk behind him.
“You say somethin’, Chunk?”
“Now you’re hearin’ him,” said the Kid. “This time I ain’t heard a thing.”
“Thought I did, yeah.”
“And you call me foolish.”
