by Lee Taylor
I thought this was very strange behavior. Why didn’t he just go in through the front door? Perhaps he had forgotten his key somewhere, but then why not just ring the bell? I’d seen sailors ring her bell before, but maybe he just didn’t want to wake her. Such a considerate man.
I watched him for what seemed like a long time, trying to pry the window open, grateful now that I knew who he was and that he wasn’t some burglar who might hurt Pauline. A chill came over me as the wind and rain blew in through the open window. I grabbed my shoulders to keep warm when a marvelous thought came over me.
Our letters. This was my chance to be a hero to both him and my friends. To have Sharon and Lisa grovel for the rest of time, never call me chicken again. But what about the kiss? Would he still want a kiss even in the rain? And why did he have to like me? Sharon was more his type than me.
Okay, so I’d have to suffer a little. I could stand it. While he was out there trying to find an open window, I would simply run upstairs, get the letters, slip on a coat and shoes, sneak out the front door, run across the yard, ring Pauline’s doorbell so he didn’t have to break in, hand him the letters and maybe give him a peck on the cheek. He’d get out of the rain and I’d be a hero. I could be back in bed before anyone ever knew. In the morning, when we all got up to take down the tent, I’d tell Sharon and Lisa what happened and they’d be amazed by my courage.
Suddenly, the light came on in the bathroom. I turned and standing in the doorway was Sharon’s mother.
“What’s going on in here?” she said in a loud terse whisper, holding onto the top of her well-worn, floral pajamas.
“Nothing. I was just going to the bathroom, that’s all.” I spun around on the toilet seat to face her, putting my feet on the damp floor.
“In the dark?”
“Saves electricity.”
“What was that noise?”
“What noise? I didn’t hear any noise, unless you mean the thunder.”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Miss Rockett. I know the difference between thunder and something falling.”
She looked around, and there on the floor, with its neck broken off lay a glass bottle of hand lotion oozing its evidence just two inches away from her bare feet. While she looked down at the mess, I snuck another peek out of the window. Wolf was gone, but I thought I saw a something move inside our tent.
“What’s out there? What are you looking at?” she demanded and came straight at me. She bent down and looked outside for a moment, and then closed the window tight with a sharp explosion of noise. She was mad now and I didn’t want to get in her way.
“Nothing. There’s nothing out there,” I announced, as if that should satisfy her.
“Yes, there is.”
I shook with fear that she had seen Wolf and would surely call the police because she wouldn’t understand that he wasn’t actually breaking into Pauline’s. I tried to think of a million reasons why she shouldn’t call the police, just in case I had to defend Wolf.
“I thought I told you girls to take down that tent and bring it inside before you went to bed. Now it’s soaked. Clean up this mess, and if I hear one more peep out of any of you tonight there’ll be no Beatles concert for Sharon. You’ve just lost all sleep-over privileges until fall, young lady. And that goes for Lisa, too.” And with that menacing statement, she was gone.
I realized that I couldn’t be a hero now. She would hear me for sure if I tried to sneak out. Defeated, I pulled out a wad of toilet paper, knelt down and cleaned up the mess on the floor. With the window closed everything got really quiet. I felt sad thinking that Wolf was somewhere out there, cold, wet, trying to get into the boarding house. But then a thought struck me, what if he decided to sleep in our tent? Sleep under our blankets? Put his greasy hair on our pillows? I didn’t like the thought of him that close to us.
But before I let myself get completely creeped out I wanted to make sure he wasn’t really inside the tent. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the window to open again to check for sure. It was one of those windows that sticks because of too many layers of paint.
The rain fell in heavy pellets on the roof, and off in the distance I thought I could hear someone screaming. It was a man’s voice. I wondered if it could be Bobi. The sound of it gave me goose bumps. Sharon had told me that sometimes Bobi screamed at night, but up until that moment I’d never heard it. Sharon said Pauline told her mother Bobi had bad dreams sometimes and woke up screaming. Pauline would try to calm him, but it was one of those things that Bobi had to work out for himself. The distress in his voice gave me the willies.
I quickly finished cleaning up the lotion and threw the miserable sloppy mess into the trash next to the toilet. Then I ran upstairs.
When I was finally back under the covers, listening to a mixture of heavy rain, thunder and Bobi screaming next door, I remembered that I had never peed.
Nineteen
September 11, 1987
We’ve been back in F-house since about seven this morning. Getting ready. Working with some of our extras. It hasn’t been easy for me. My stomach is still reeling from last night’s conversation and the prison acid they call coffee just intensifies my situation. Don’t know why I keep drinking it. Must like the effect. Keeps my brain spinning.
The nineteen-year-old prop girl was fired yesterday and Crew Cut, the fondling inmate, was sent to segregation until the filming is complete. Security’s high, not only because of what almost happened but because of the guard getting shot over at Menard. Don’t think it affects me or the Captain. Just have to be sharp, cool, silent, like two eagles drifting down on a snake’s nest.
Got the call from the AD late last night. We start filming today, this afternoon as soon as the talent is ready. Our extras have to be prepped and blocked by noon, less than an hour from now. Hopefully, Mike’s a miracle man because so far, the inmates still have an attitude.
Some of the electricians and carpenters came back to work through the night. Seems like everything’s been speeded up because of the trouble. The warden wants the filming wrapped up in a few days…at least that’s the plan as of this morning. It could all change in a heartbeat.
No sign of the Captain this morning, or of Speck. I don’t know if we’re going to make our video today or wait until tomorrow. Don’t know if I can wait until tomorrow. Want to do it today, now, while I’m spinning.
I wrote down some questions for Speck sometime around three this morning. Couldn’t sleep. Worried about being prepared. Can’t let him catch me off guard again. Too bad that most of the questions ended up in the trash—weren’t good enough. Seems like I should have been able to come up with pages. Couldn’t. Came up with one. Had to be worded just right. It’s in my pocket. Burning a hole.
Strange thing to be thinking up questions for Richard Speck. Seems too civilized. Too refined. Have to play him for the freak he is. Talk about prison life first then throw in “did you kill those women?”—like some afterthought. Wonder if the prick will take the bait? Tell the truth for once in his sorry-ass life? Admit he’s the killer. Clear it with all those fools who didn’t believe the facts, didn’t believe the evidence that was right in front of them—Speck’s fingerprints on a door, his sweat-soaked T-shirt rolled up inside the purple slacks of one of his victims—saying the cops must have planted the T-shirt. And when the cop-theory didn’t work, those same fools said Speck was in the townhouse before the murders as a date for one of the student nurses. Some quote in the paper read, “Those girls were wild. They must have gotten him confused with one of the other boys who hung around the townhouse.” Who would spread such a nasty lie?
As if it was at all possible for the surviving nurse to identify the wrong man. Not with his face. His tattoos. Ever since the first time I saw Speck on the street corner I could recall exactly what he looked like, with his scarred-up face and twisted, evil smile and those send-shivers-up-your-spine plastic eyes. It was his smile that always sent me spinning. Still does. That sinister
“trust me” smile. Like he’s Mister Wonderful, Mister I-just-want-to-talk-and-be-your-friend kind of a guy. Satan himself, all wrapped up in human form, slipped up through a crack in hell and ended up in South Chicago and nobody recognized the son of a bitch. Nobody, except one brave young woman named Corazon Amurao who hid under a bed for five hours and identified the right man.
• • •
Mike’s been trying to ignore the whole Speck thing. Like it’s not going to happen, concentrating on his work, trying to get our extras ready. They could use a couple more days to understand what they have to do, but we haven’t got the time. “No more delays,” to quote the warden. And when the warden speaks around here, everybody jumps. Hollywood could use somebody like him. Might change the whole concept of a schedule.
Mike must have walked these guys through the scene fifteen times this morning. Some of them don’t seem to get it, or still don’t give a shit. I can’t tell. The result’s the same. Even Vivian can’t seem to get a spark.
Our job is to work with the AD to help block the movements of the extras. The director of photography—the DP has marked the floor indicating where they should stand for the camera. Because this is a non-union movie, it’s up to us to make sure they don’t miss their marker. We’ve already told the men how to stand, where to stand, which way to look and to act like they’re having a conversation with one another. So far I’m not impressed. Neither is the AD.
Usually, I’d step in and take over. I’m better at this part than Mike. And sometimes, with a group this size, it takes two of us to get everyone going, but right at this moment I’ve taken on the ‘don’t give a shit’ attitude as well. Been busy watching the trailers. Thinking up a plan. Watching Tiffany go in and out. I now know where she keeps her camera—third trailer on the right. Next to the Honey Wagon. That’s a good thing. A lot of the crew mill around the Honey Wagon on breaks drinking coffee or getting a snack, so I won’t be noticed. Been waiting all morning for the right moment to ask her what she’s taping. Hopefully, she’ll volunteer her schedule.
Mike yells out his frustration, “Come on, guys. One of you lies on the bench while the other helps guide the weights.”
“I don’t need no help with them weights,” the black hulk lying on the bench says. He must be over two-fifty and has a physique like Arnold’s.
“I know you don’t, but that’s not how the scene goes down.”
“Then I ain’t doin’ no liftin’,” he says and stands up not more than two inches in front of Mike. The man looks like a building. A large, square, brick building with arms. Mike takes a step back, smiles and says, “You’re right. You lift and he’ll watch. That’s a great idea. Just great.”
The inmate grunts and stretches out on the bench.
Meanwhile, Tiffany saunters by. The inmates turn to watch in unison, as if they’ve been cued. First thing they’ve done together since we started. Like holding up a piece of meat in front of a row of hungry dogs. Works every time.
Interesting look on her face. As though she’s getting some kind of kick out of knowing that every man in this place wants her, or at least pretends to.
I step in front of her. “Tiffany. Hi. My name’s Carly. We didn’t get a chance to really meet last night. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”
She looks at me as if I’m pond scum. “Were you talking to me?”
“Yes. We shared a table for awhile last night at Bud’s—Carly Rockett.” I stick out my hand. She grabs it with one of those weak, limp handshakes that makes you want to pull your hand away in disgust.
“Oh, that’s right. You were sitting next to Mike. Look, I’d love to chat, but I’m really busy. Is there something you wanted?”
Now, there are people you like right off and there are people you hate. She’s in yet another category. “We’re all in a crunch this morning, but I was wondering…I saw you with a Camcorder the other day. Can I ask what you’re taping?”
“Why?”
Okay, so now I’m at a loss. “Just curious.”
I get another look. The woman should be on film with all her animated expressions. The quintessential drama queen. “I’m doing a little research for a short on the making of a movie. Look, I really have to go.” She walks right over to Mike. As soon as she gets close to him, her whole demeanor changes. All full of jelly-sweet smiles. She whispers something into his ear. He laughs. She laughs. He puts his hand on her shoulder and guides her in closer as he says something into her ear. She smiles and runs her hand down his arm. Random intimacies, like they’re getting ready to become lovers.
Just as well.
I turn and walk out the doorway, past a guard who smiles and nods, then it’s through the tunnel for a couple feet and out the side door, past another smiling guard. This is going to be a snap. She’s all wrapped up in Mike’s charm for the moment. Now’s the time. She probably won’t be back in her trailer for hours. Too busy with whatever she does.
Once outside in the courtyard, all I have to do is walk over to the trailer, slip inside, find the camera, which is probably sitting right out in the open, pick it up and…then what? How do I get it over to the library? It’s a huge thing. I certainly can’t hide it under my shirt. Doesn’t matter. First I have to get it. I’ll think about the rest later.
The courtyard is a mesh of cables, humanity, white trucks, trailers and RVs. Everyone has arrived. Even Arnold, who stands talking to the director. Can’t help but notice how handsome Arnold is. Sends a quiver through me—he’s powerful, but with a sensuous smile. The man could get any woman he wants with that smile. Tell them anything and they’d believe him. A truly seductive man.
The trailer I want is right in front of me. More of an RV than a trailer, a two-tone beige number with a green awning. My heart beats up in my throat. Hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. Can’t let my nerves get to me. I force in a deep breath, stretch a little and begin my precarious walk. I head straight for it, not looking at anyone or anything. Like I’m in a hurry. Don’t bother me. Backstage at McCormick Place all over again. Just walk in like you’re supposed to be there. Worked every time.
Another guard passes me with a smile and a nod. They seem to be everywhere this morning, like roaches when you turn on a light. Doesn’t matter, though. I could go just about anywhere and they’d think I had the right to be there.
I focus on the metal door knob not more than five feet in front of me. Will it open? Has to. What would I do if it didn’t? Can’t think about that. Why would she lock it? It’s not her personal trailer. Several people must use it. The thing has to be open.
The whole walk excites me. Reminds me of situations I’ve pushed aside. Good memories. The ones Mike pulls out of me when we’re alone: Catching Donovan as he’s getting into his limo, Dusty Springfield while she’s putting on her makeup, or finding the open door that got my friends and me into the very first Beatles concert. I was always successful. Why should this be any different?
I get to the RV without a hitch.
Instinctively, without looking around, I reach out for the doorknob.
Someone taps me on the shoulder.
I freeze, thinking it’s the wicked witch herself. What kind of bullshit will I come up with this time. Think, Carly, think. I turn, all smiley, “I was just—”
“Are you looking for this?” Mike says while holding a large black Camcorder case.
“What the hell—?”
“Why steal it when all you have to do is ask?” he says.
“But I thought you didn’t want anything to do with this?”
“I don’t. But it’s one less felony. Hopefully, the Captain has everything else under control.”
“You realize this makes you an accessory.”
“Not if you don’t get caught.”
“Not a problem. I’m good at this kind of stuff, remember? What reason did you give Tiffany for borrowing her camera?”
“She wants me. Isn’t that enough?”
“But what did you
tell her?”
“Home movies for some friends. They’ve never seen inside a prison before…we’re having dinner tonight. She’s from St. Paul.”
Weird shit passes through my mind, like I’m jealous and can’t you just borrow the camera without the dinner?
But I don’t comment.
He says, “Where’s the barb? The put-down? Go ahead. I can take it.”
“Thanks for getting the camera.” I reach for the case.
“Have it back here tomorrow. Aren’t you going to say something about my going out with Tiffany?”
I want to tell him how I’m feeling, but it would only complicate our situation. “What you do on your own time is your business, not mine.”
“Fine,” he says and shoves the case into my hands. “And this is your insane business, not mine. Just don’t get caught ‘cause I won’t be there to save you this time.”
Mike turns and walks away. He knocks over a table of props as he goes. “Hey,” somebody yells. But Mike keeps walking.
Twenty
Belushi, Arnold and another actor wait for their cue. The set is perfect. Everything is ready. Once Arnold walked in F-house our extras immediately cooperated, as if their big brother came in to stop the temper tantrums. I guess Arnold has that power. Now the men seem anxious for the scene to start—showing off for their new friend.
Mike and I have been busy jotting down which of the inmates is working this morning, just in case they want to film the scene again tomorrow. Found another inmate to take the place of the guy with the jean fetish. Looks just like him, at least from a distance. Lucky for us, the camera didn’t catch his face.
Vivian’s been pretty quiet today, busy watching Arnold. Ever since he’s arrived she hasn’t taken her eyes off him. I’m grateful. Don’t think my nerves could stand her chatter.
“We have to do it now,” Captain Bob says while standing directly behind Mike and me. “You get a camera?”
