Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Chantal gave a cold smile.

  Gordon told me: “She has a thing for men with curly hair.” Running one hand over his own straight coiffure, he lifted it and revealed a bare scalp. “The way mine used to be. Right, honey?”

  He put the hairpiece down and patted it into place. “So, did Larry tell you about our little collection?”

  “Only in general terms.”

  He nodded. “You know what they say about the acquisition of art being an art itself? Now, that's pure bunkum, but it does take a certain determination and . . . panache to acquire meaningfully, and we've worked like the dickens to do just that.” He spread his arms as if blessing the room. “What you see here took two decades and I-won't-tell-you-how-many dollars to put together.”

  I knew my line: “I'd love to see it.”

  The next half hour was spent on a tour of the black room.

  Every genre of pornography was represented, in astounding quantity and variety, catalogued and labeled with Smithsonian precision. Gordon Fontaine jounced along, guiding with fervor, using a hand-held remote-control module to switch lights on and off, lock and unlock cabinets. His wife hung back, insinuating herself between Larry and me, smiling a lot.

  “Observe.” Gordon rolled open a print drawer and untied several portfolios of erotic lithographs, recognizable without reading the signatures: Dali, Beardsley, Grosz, Picasso.

  We moved on to an alarm-equipped glass case housing an old English manuscript handwritten on parchment and illuminated with copulating peasants and cavorting farm animals.

  “Pre-Guttenberg,” said Gordon. “Chaucerian apocrypha. Chaucer was a highly sexual writer. They never teach you that in high school.”

  Other drawers were filled with erotic sketches from Renaissance Italy, and Japanese art—watercolors of kimonoed courtesans entwined with stoic, top-knotted men lugging exaggerated sexual equipment.

  “Overcompensation,” said Chantal. She nudged my arm.

  We were shown displays of fertility talismans, erotic woodblocks, marital aids, antique lingerie. After a while my eyes began to blur.

  “Those were used by Brenda Allen's girls,” said Gordon, pointing to a set of yellowed silk undergarments. “And those red ones are from the bordello in New Orleans where Scott Joplin played piano.” He stroked the glass. “If only they could talk, eh?”

  “We have edible ones, too,” said Chantal. “Over there, in a refrigerated case.”

  We swept past still more sexual devices, collections of obscene party gags and novelties, raunchy record albums, and what Gordon proclaimed to be “the world's finest collection of dildoes. Six hundred and fifty-three pieces, gentlemen, from all over the world. Every medium imaginable, from monkeypod wood to scrimshawed ivory.”

  A hand brushed my rear. I did a quarter turn, saw Chantal smile.

  “Our bibliothèque,” said Gordon, pointing to a wall of bookshelves.

  Oversized, gilt-edged treatises bound in leather; hard-and soft-cover contemporary books; thousands of magazines, some of them still shrink-wrapped and sealed, with covers that left nothing to the imagination—grandly tumescent men, semen-bathed, wide-eyed women. Titles like Double-Fucked Stewardess and Orifice Supplies.

  The Fontaines seemed to know many of the models personally and discussed them with near-parental concern. (“That's Johnny Strong—he retired a couple of years ago and is selling securities up in Tiburon.” “Look, Gordie, there's Laurie Ruth Sloan, the Milk Queen herself.” To me: “She married money. Her husband's a real fascist and won't let her express herself anymore.”)

  I tried to look sympathetic.

  “Onward,” said Gordon, “to the pièce de résistance.”

  A click of the remote module caused one of the book-cases to slide back. Behind it was a matte-black door that swung open at Gordon's prod. Inside was a large vault/screening room. Two walls were lined with racks of film reels in metal canisters and videocassettes. Three rows of black leather easy chairs, three chairs per row. Mounted on the rear wall was a gleaming array of projection equipment.

  “These are the cleanest prints you'll ever see,” said Gordon. “Every important explicit film ever made, all converted to videotape duplicate. We're also trying really hard to preserve the originals. Our restorer is top-notch—twenty years at one of the studio archives, another ten at the American Film Institute. And our curator is a well-known film critic who must remain unnamed”—he cleared his throat—“due to lack of spine.”

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “We hope,” said Chantal, “to donate it to a major university. One day.”

  “What she means by ‘one day,' ” said Gordon, “is after I'm gone.”

  “Oh, hush, Gordie. I'm going first.”

  “No way, hon. You're not leaving me alone with my memories and my hand.” He waved a fleshy palm.

  “Oh, go on, Gordie. You'll do just fine for yourself.”

  Gordon patted her hand. The two of them exchanged affectionate glances.

  Larry looked at his watch.

  “Of course,” said Gordon. “I'm retired—I've forgotten about time pressure. You wanted to see Shawna's loop.”

  “Shawna who?” I asked.

  “Shawna Blue. That's the name Pretty Sharon used on the loop.”

  “We always called her Pretty Sharon,” said Chantal, “because she was such a lovely thing, virtually flawless. Shawna Blue was her nom d'amour.” She shook her head. “How sad that she's gone—and a suicide.”

  “Do you find that surprising?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “To destroy oneself—how awful.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “Not well at all. I believe we just met her once—am I right, Gordie?”

  “Just once.”

  “How many films did she make?”

  “Same answer,” said Gordon. “Just one, and it wasn't a commercial endeavor. It was supposed to be for educational purposes.”

  The way he said supposed made me ask, “Sounds like you have your doubts?”

  He frowned. “We put up the money based on its being educational. The actual production was handled by that first-class cockroach P. P. Kruse.”

  “Peepee,” said Chantal. “How apropos.”

  “He claimed it was part of his research,” said Gordon. “Told us that one of his students had agreed to act in an erotic film as part of her course work.”

  “When was this?”

  “Seventy-four,” he said. “October or November.”

  Not long after Sharon began grad school. The bastard had been a fast worker.

  “It was supposed to be part of her research,” said Gordon. “Now we weren't born yesterday, we thought that was pretty thin, but Kruse assured us it was all on the up-and-up, showed us forms approved by the University. He even brought Sharon to meet us, here in our home—that was the one time. She seemed very vivacious, very Marilyn—down to the hair. She verified it was all part of her course work.”

  “Marilyn,” I said. “As in Monroe.”

  “Yes. She projected that same innocent yet erotic quality.”

  “She was a blonde?”

  “Platinum,” said Chantal. “Like sunshine on clear water.”

  “The Sharon we knew had black hair,” said Larry.

  “Well, I don't know about that,” said Gordon. “Kruse may have been lying about who she was. He lied about everything else. We opened our home to him, gave him free access to our collection, and he turned around and used it to pander to the bluenoses.”

  “He gave a speech in front of church groups,” said Chantal, stamping her foot. “Stood there and said terrible things about us—called us perverted, sexist. If there's one man who isn't sexist it's my Gordie.

  “He didn't use our names,” added Chantal, “but we knew he was referring to us.”

  “His own wife was a porn star,” I said. “How'd he explain that to the church groups?”

  “Suzy?” said Gordon. “I wo
uldn't call her a star—adequate style, but strictly second drawer. I suppose he could always claim he saved her from a life of sin. But he probably never had to explain. People have short memories. After she married him, Suzy stopped working, disappeared from view. He probably turned her into a docile little hausfrau—he's the type, you know. Obsessed with power.”

  It echoed something Larry had said at the party. Power junkie.

  “Onward,” said Gordon. He went to the back of the room and began fiddling with the projection equipment.

  “Kruse has just been appointed head of the psychology department,” I said.

  “Scandalous,” said Chantal. “You'd think someone would know better.”

  “You'd think,” I said.

  “All cued,” Gordon called from the back. “Everyone get comfortable.”

  Larry and I took the front end seats; Chantal got between us. The room went black; the screen, dead white.

  “Checkup,” he announced. “Starring the late Miss Shawna Blue and the late Mr. Michael Starbuck.”

  The screen filled with dancing lint followed by flickering count-down numbers. I sat rigid, holding my breath, told myself I'd been an idiot to come. Then, black-and-white images floated in front of me and I lost myself in them.

  There was no sound track, only the whir of projection breaking the silence. Lettering that resembled white typescript over a grainy black background proclaimed:

  CHECKUP

  STARRING

  SHAWNA BLUE

  MICKEY STARBUCK

  A CREATIVE IMAGE ASSOC. PRODUCTION

  Creative Image. A name on a door. Kruse's neighbors in the Sunset Boulevard office. Not a neighbor after all, but the two faces of Dr. K. . . .

  DIRECTED BY

  PIERRE LE VOYEUR

  A jumpy black-and-white sweep of a doctor's examining room—the old-fashioned kind, with enameled fixtures, wooden examining table, eye chart, chintz drapes, a square of six framed diplomas on the wall.

  The door opened. A woman walked in.

  The camera pursued her, spending a long time on the sway of her buttocks.

  Young and beautiful and well-endowed, with long, wavy platinum-blond hair. She wore a clinging, low-cut jersey dress that barely contained her.

  Black-and-white film, but I knew the dress was flamecolored.

  A flickering close-up magnified a beautiful, pouting face.

  Sharon's face. Despite the wig, no doubt about it.

  I felt sick and regretful. Stared at the screen like a child at a squashed bug.

  The camera pulled back. Sharon pirouetted, gazed into the mirror, and fluffed her hair. Then a quick zoom—more pout, big eyes gazing out at the viewer.

  Boring into mine.

  A full body shot, shift to buttocks, a series of quick bounces from mouth to hands to bosom.

  Shoddy, the cheapest of the cheap. But perversely magical—she had come back to life, was up there, smiling and beckoning—immortality conceived in light and shadow. I had to restrain myself from reaching out to touch her. Wanted, suddenly, to yank her out of the screen, to pull her back in time. Rescue her.

  I gripped my armrests. My heart was pounding, filling my ears like a winter tide.

  She stretched languidly and licked her lips. The camera got so close her tongue resembled some kind of giant sea slug. More close-ups: wet white teeth. A purposeful bend forward, flashing cleavage. Moon-cratered nipplescape. Hands stroking breasts, pinching.

  She was twisting, exhibiting, clearly enjoying center stage.

  Keep it bright. I want to see it. See everything.

  I thought of angled mirrors, started sweating. Finally, concentrating on the choppiness and relentless zooming helped restore her to something two-dimensional.

  I exhaled, closed my eyes, determined to maintain a sense of detachment. Before my breath had been totally expelled, something dropped on my knee and settled there. Chantal's hand. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She stared straight ahead, mouth slightly parted.

  I did nothing, hoped she wouldn't explore. Let my eyes settle back on the screen.

  Sharon was performing a slow, sinuous striptease, peeling down to black garter belt, mesh stockings, and high-heeled shoes—a Frederick's of Hollywood parody—touching herself, bending, spreading, and kneading, playing for the camera.

  I watched her hands move. Felt them.

  But something was wrong. Something about the hands—off-kilter.

  The more I tried to figure out what it was, the further it receded: Chinese finger-puzzle time. I stopped trying, told myself it would come to me.

  The camera got gynecologic, moved upward, inch by inch.

  Sharon, on the examining table now, fondled herself, looked down at her crotch.

  The camera swung to the doorknob as it rotated. The door opened. A tall, dark, broad-shouldered man walked in carrying a clipboard. Late thirties, long white coat, headlamp and stethoscope. A narrow, hungry face—down-slanted eyes, broken nose, thin wide lips, five o'clock shadow. The eyes were jumpy, those of a hustler on full burn. He'd greased his hair to shoe-polish sheen and parted it in the center. A pencil-line mustache traveled the length of his upper lip.

  Classic Gigolo meets Dumb Blonde.

  He stared at Sharon, raised his eyebrows, mugged for the camera.

  She pointed to her crotch, gave a pained expression.

  Scratching his head, he consulted his clipboard, then put it down and removed the stethoscope. He stood over her, bent his knees, and put his head between her legs, poking, probing. Looked up, shrugged.

  She winked at the camera, pushed his head down, writhed on cue.

  He came up, pretended to be gasping for breath. She pushed him down again. The rest was predictable—close-up of his trousered erection, she forcing him down, sucking the fingers of one of her hands.

  She pushed him off, worked his zipper. His pants fell to his ankles. She removed the coat. He was shirtless, wore only a tie. She pulled the tie until he hovered. Took him orally, wide-eyed and gulping.

  As he got up on the table and mounted her, Chantal's fingers began spider-walking up my thigh. I placed my hand over them, preventing further progress, gave a friendly squeeze, and deposited them gently in her lap. She made no sound, didn't move a muscle.

  Comically rapid shifts in positions. Close-ups of both their faces, contorted. He saying something—cuing her—a series of rapid thrusts, withdrawal, the milky proof of climax flying through the air.

  She retrieved some from her belly, licked her fingers. Winked at the camera again.

  Blank screen.

  A checkup turned carnal. Follow-up visits . . .

  I felt suffocated, angry. Sad.

  The room stayed mercifully dark.

  “Well,” said Gordon finally, “there it is.”

  Chantal got up fast, smoothed her dress. “Excuse me, I have something to attend to.”

  “Everything all right, hon?”

  “Just fine, dearie.” She kissed his cheek, curtsied, and said, “Nice to see you again, Lawrence. Nice meeting you, Dr. Delaware.” She left the vault.

  “The late Mickey Starbuck,” I said. “How'd he die?”

  Gordon was still staring at his wife's exit route. I had to repeat the question.

  “Cocaine overdose, several years ago. Poor Mickey wanted to break into straight films but couldn't—there's terrible discrimination against explicit stars. He ended up driving a cab. A sensitive soul, really a fine young man.”

  “Two actors, two suicides by overdose,” said Larry. “Sounds like a jinx.”

  “Nonsense,” said Gordon sharply. “Explicit films are like any other aspect of show business. Fragile egos, instability, big ups, big downs. Some people can't cope.”

  “The production company?” I said. “Creative Image Associates—a shadow for Kruse?”

  Gordon nodded. “Protection. Foolish of me not to smell something rotten when he set it up—if he'd really gotten University approval, why
the need for a shadow? When I saw the finished product I knew precisely what he'd done, but I didn't call him on it—he was the doctor, the expert. At the time I thought he was brilliant, visionary. I figured he had a reason.”

  “What had he done?”

  “Sit back down and I'll show you.” He returned to the rear of the vault, the room returned to darkness, and another movie came on the screen.

  This one had no title, no actors' credits, just grainy, jumpy action, the camera work even more amateurish than the first, but clearly its inspiration.

  The setting: a doctor's office, same kind of furniture, same square of framed diplomas.

  The stars: a gorgeous woman with wavy blond hair, long-legged, stacked, but several inches shorter than Sharon, the bones smaller, the face slightly fuller. Similar enough to be Sharon's twin.

  Twin. Shirlee. No, that was impossible. The Shirlee I'd met had been crippled in childhood. . . .

  If Sharon had told the truth.

  Big if.

  Film number two was barreling along at a Keystone Kops pace: striptease, hair-fluffing, a tall dark man entering through the door.

  Close-up on him: fortyish, shiny hair, pencil mustache. White coat, stethoscope, clipboard.

  A crude resemblance to the late Mickey Starbuck, but nothing striking.

  And no leer. This doctor seemed to be showing genuine surprise at the sight of the naked blonde lying spread-legged on the table.

  No shifts of context, either. A stationary camera, fullview long shots and occasional close-ups that seemed less concerned with eroticism than identification of the actors.

  Of him.

  The blonde got up and rubbed herself against the doctor. Showed herself, pinched her nipples, stood on tiptoes and licked his neck.

  He shook his head, pointed to his watch.

  She held him to her, ground her hips.

  He started to pull away again, then loosened—like something thawing. Allowed himself to be caressed.

  She moved in.

  Then the same progression as in Sharon's film.

  But different.

  Because this one wasn't staged. This doctor wasn't acting.

  No mugging for the camera, because he didn't know there was a camera.