The producer laughed. “I’m not saying I believed them. But when I say these guys believed, I’m totally serious. They bought into it, hook, line, and sinker. Anyway, a lot of the stuff I’ve collected has that kind of lore around it. But most of it is just weird and fascinating to me. The story behind DeNiro’s teeth is this—after he had them knocked out, he went to his dentist, who brought in a doctor. Turned out the mercury in the fillings he had in those teeth had been poisoning him.”
“So losing those teeth might’ve saved his life?” Don asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Massarsky said. “Still, it’s a great story.”
At that point, Marta arrived with a tray bearing three tall glasses of pomegranate juice, each with a slice of strawberry on the rim and full of ice. Courtney was surprised there weren’t little tropical umbrellas in there as well.
The woman vanished as quickly as quietly as she appeared.
“All right,” Massarsky said, “more chit chat later. I’ll even give you a tour if you want. Right now, let’s talk about this movie. Daughter of the Snows. What appeals to you, Courtney? This isn’t the sort of thing most people would expect from you.”
She smiled as she came around the leather sofa and took a seat, purposely placing herself between Don and Massarsky, who sat in matching chairs at either end of the coffee table.
“That’s exactly why I want it. It’s not about being beautiful or witty, it’s about pain and survival. It’s the kind of film where what’s going on in the actor’s eyes is at least as important as the words coming out of her mouth.”
Caught sipping his pomegranate juice, Massarsky paused and regarded her carefully, without any trace of a smile. The mask of easy confidence had slipped, and she saw the man beneath, shrewd and intrigued and more than a little bit lonely.
“You actually meant that,” he said.
Courtney nodded. “Of course.”
Don Peterson’s presence in the room was completely forgotten. The two of them looked at one another for several long seconds, and then Massarsky’s smile returned.
On the patio outside Lemongrass, the guitarist launched into another song Courtney didn’t know, a sweet, slightly upbeat love song he introduced as “Everything Under the Sun.” She left the shade of the tree on the corner of Montana and continued down the side street, staying on the opposite sidewalk from Lemongrass. With every step, more of the outdoor dining area became visible, and through the five sets of open French doors she could see many of the tables inside as well.
Just inside the doors, off the patio, a thin, fortyish man she knew as Wilkie sat with his back to the street. From this angle she could only make out part of his profile and his thick tangle of black hair, but it couldn’t be anyone else. He sat alone at a table for two, and opposite him, a red balloon had been tied to the back of the empty chair. It danced a bit with the breeze coming off the patio, and she felt her chest tighten. If it came loose somehow, it might be carried out the open doors by the wind, might float off into the sky, the ultimate children’s tragedy, and yet far more than that.
Wilkie seemed unafraid.
Then she understood, and was startled by the realization. Wilkie didn’t believe.
When they returned home from three weeks in the Mediterranean, the honeymoon she had always dreamed of, Massarsky—now “James” to her—showed his new wife the last, most precious items in his strange collection. They were all bits of Hollywood history, oddities with charming or gruesome tales behind them, and her husband had become the curator of his own little museum, in a room he called the library, to which only he had the key.
“Finally,” he said, turning with a ringmaster’s flourish, passing through shafts of light coming through the tall windows, dust eddying in air so infrequently disturbed. “The crown jewel.”
James pulled a gold, braided cord and a small curtain drew aside, as though to reveal some tiny stage upon which puppets might perform. But this was no puppet theatre. Behind the little curtain was a rectangular glass case thirty inches high and twelve wide, within which rested a single, red balloon, its string hanging beneath it and coiling at the bottom of the case.
Courtney arched an eyebrow, chuckled a bit, and reached out for her husband’s arm. “A balloon?”
He looked at her, this man who had made her so happy, who believed in her so thoroughly, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Not just any balloon. I’m going to assume you’ve never seen the film, The Red Balloon. Mostly, I’m assuming so because, as far as I know, only a few hundred people in the world have ever seen it in its completed form. While he was shooting Cimarron, the director Anthony Mann got a script from Leigh Brackett, who had adapted The Big Sleep in ’46 and then done damned little until Rio Bravo in ’59. Glenn Ford was starring in Cimarron, and Mann convinced him to star in The Red Balloon. They did the picture for MGM in 1960, but it was never released. Somebody—I’ve heard a lot of names, from Jack Warner to David Selznick to Bob Hope, believe it or not—bought the film from MGM and put it in a vault somewhere. It’s never been released. Ford went straight into making Pocketful of Miracles, basically as an apology from MGM.”
Courtney waited a moment before urging him on. “And? Why did whoever it was not want the movie released?”
James Massarsky smiled. “Brackett’s script—and Mann’s movie—was about a Chicago mobster who was obsessed with a red balloon. The balloon never lost its air, never went flat, and the mob boss believed that as long as he had the balloon in his possession, that he would never be sick or injured, that he wouldn’t grow old, and that it might even keep him alive forever. But he had to keep it safe, because if it popped or deflated, he would die. Supposedly, Brackett heard the story from some people he knew who were actually connected to the Chicago mob. The movie ended with the balloon being stolen, and the mob boss dying, but the narrative left it open for the audience to decide if it was all just coincidence, or the truth.”
Courtney processed that a moment, then laughed, shaking her head. “You think someone kept that movie from being released because the story was true?” She looked at the glass case. “And you think that’s the real thing, right there?”
James brushed her blond hair from her eyes, leaned in, and kissed her. Then he shrugged, that manic, almost sprite-like mischief still in his eyes. “I’ve had this thing nearly two years, and it’s still inflated. In that time, I haven’t had so much as a sneeze. You’re the audience, sweetheart. You be the judge. Either way, it’s a great story.”
“What’d this guy do to you, anyway?”
Courtney thought of all the things she could have said, the way her life and her career and her self-esteem had been disassembled, all of the humiliating examples of her ruination that she could have listed. Instead, she met Wilkie’s gaze firmly with her own.
“He broke me.”
They sat just inside Lemongrass, half the table in shadow and half bright with sunshine that streamed in through the open French doors. The breeze off the patio warmed her, and the cute, slightly scruffy guitar player continued to play songs that were unfamiliar and yet fun and thoroughly agreeable. On another occasion, drinks with a handsome stranger under such circumstances would have been a pleasure. But Wilkie was a thief, not a date, and Courtney didn’t like the way he looked at her.
“You don’t look broken to me,” he said.
She stiffened, hackles rising. “You don’t know me. And who asked you? When Alison gave me your number, she said you were professional and discreet.”
Wilkie played with the salt and pepper shakers on the table, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. He picked up his beer—Stella on tap—and took a long sip, watching her over the rim of the glass. When he set it down, he wiped his mouth, staring at her.
“Your friend there, Alison? She doesn’t know me very well. I did a job for her once, and I guess I got it done, or she wouldn’t have sent you to me. As for the job you asked me to do . . . ” he pointed to
the red balloon, tied to the back of her chair. “It’s right there.”
Courtney had ordered a pomegranate martini, aware of the slight irony, if irony was even the word. Symmetry, then? Perhaps. She had taken a few sips from the drink but otherwise it sat untouched in front of her on the table. At first she had wondered if this was indeed the red balloon from her husband’s collection, and how she would be able to tell. But the string was just that—a real string, like on a kite, and gray with age—not a thin ribbon like people used these days. Beyond that, she just knew.
The red balloon wasn’t something she could have brought up in their divorce proceedings. There were loads of material things that she had asked for in the settlement, from furniture to art to the house in Maine, but if she’d tried to get any part of his personal collection, her lawyer had told her such claims would be next to impossible to justify. But James had hurt her, and Courtney wanted to hurt him back.
This was the way.
She took a deep breath, suddenly tired of Wilkie. Why was she sitting here having a drink with this man? Distracted, wanting to be away from here, to be done with him, she reached into her clutch and pulled out a folded envelope, sliding it across the table.
“The rest of your fee,” she said. “Feel free to count it.”
Wilkie smiled. He had a weathered, surf-bum look about him, but his eyes glittered with intelligence. “No need. I trust you. So, our business is concluded? All done, right?”
“All done,” Courtney agreed as she slid back her chair.
“Then you got what you wanted. The balloon’s yours.”
She stood and then set about picking at the loose knot he’d used to tie the balloon string to the chair. Her fingernails were long enough, but it took her a few seconds.
“Let me help you with that,” Wilkie said, moving toward her, almost intimately close.
The chatter of voices and clatter of dishes and glasses and silver and the rich, mellow music from the patio seemed to vanish as Courtney saw a glint of metal. Wilkie grabbed the balloon by its neck, using his body to nudge her aside, and brought the pin up swiftly. He punctured the wattled rubber of the balloon’s neck and she heard a sudden hiss as the air began to escape.
Her body went numb. She felt the color drain from her face as Wilkie stepped back, dropping the pin.
“Your husband caught me in the act, Courtney,” Wilkie said, his lopsided grin turning apologetic. “That’s never happened before. He gave me an option. He could call the police, or I could finish the job you hired me for, steal the balloon, take your money . . . and he’d pay me fifty thousand dollars for this little trick.”
The thief shrugged, surfer-boy charm coming out. “I’ll never understand rich people, but whatever.”
Then he turned and walked out. It had taken only seconds, during which time Courtney had entirely forgotten to breathe. The hiss of escaping air filled her ears and at last she reacted, reaching up and grasping the balloon’s neck, pinching off the tiny puncture, stopping the leak.
Heart thundering in her chest, she stared at the balloon. It had not lost very much air, was still far from wilting. Could she patch the hole somehow? Maybe.
Courtney glanced around. Only one person, a man sitting by himself, perhaps waiting for someone to join him, studied her curiously. She ignored him, moving into action. With her free hand, she finished loosening the string and it came free. She picked up her little clutch bag and left through the open French doors, walking amongst the patio crowd. The drinks had already been paid for, so nobody would come rushing after her. That was good.
The balloon. What the hell was the story again? The movie? Did James have a copy of the movie, or just know the story about the mobster? He’d said only a few hundred people had ever seen the movie, but that didn’t mean he was one of them. Billy Brackett had heard the story—probably in a bar—and had used it for his script, but that didn’t mean even Brackett believed it.
It’s just a story. A Hollywood fable.
But somebody had believed it enough to pay a fortune to get MGM to shelve the film, put it in a vault and never let it out. Why would anyone do such a thing? Whoever that was, they had believed. And James believed, Courtney felt sure of that. He believed completely. But did she believe?
Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she hurried to the corner of Montana Avenue. Her pulse throbbed in her temples and tears burned at the corners of her eyes. Oh, my God. Ohmygod. In all the time she’d been with James, nearly five years, she had never seen him so much as sneeze. He’d never had a fever or a bruise, never been to a doctor, never cut himself, never had to take medication for anything. Anything.
How could she not believe?
She faltered, the strength going out of her, and she leaned against the wall outside a hideously trendy boutique. Her fingers hurt from pinching the balloon so tightly between them. She held it in front of her eyes, staring at it, studying it. Did it look a bit flaccid now?
Her lower lip trembled.
Slowly, she moved it up to her ear, and realized that she could still hear the hiss, a slow, quiet seeping sound that was present, despite her best efforts, her tightest grip.
Courtney bolted. Eyes wild, she ran along Montana Avenue, past Kismetix and half a dozen other shops. Perfectly made up wives and daughters arm in arm, chins in the air, stared at her and made way as she rushed along, desperate to be rid of the balloon. What could she do? She had taken possession of it. It belonged to her. That meant she would reap the benefits, and suffer the consequences. The ground seemed to tilt underneath her and she whirled in a circle, a scream bubbling up the inside of her throat.
A tan, middle-aged brunette stepped out of Jamba Juice, right next door, and held the door for her little boy, who was busily sipping away at the straw in his drink. Skin prickling with fear, breathless, thoughtless, Courtney strode over to them and dropped into a crouch right in front of the boy.
“Hey, little buddy. Want a balloon?” she said, thrusting it toward him.
On instinct, the boy reached his free hand out for the dirty string.
“Thanks, but I don’t know if—” the mother began.
But the boy had already tightened his fist around the string. Elated, heart unclenching, Courtney let go of the balloon’s puncture throat and stepped back. The hiss seemed loud to her, but the mother and son didn’t seem to notice. The woman cast an odd look at Courtney, and a slightly distasteful glance at the dirty string in her son’s hand, and then thanked her, just to be polite, as she guided her boy a little further along the sidewalk.
Courtney fled, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Her heart seemed to pound against the inside of her chest and her face still felt flush, but the rush of terror began to subside. Fucking James. Never mind Wilkie; the thief hadn’t understood what he was doing. But James believed, and because of him, Courtney believed. James had tried to have her killed.
Killed. She froze, catching her breath, raised a hand to her eyes. Jesus, what had she done?
Courtney turned and saw that the mother and son had stopped in front of Kismetix. The woman knelt in front of her boy, their Jamba Juices on the sidewalk, while she tied the dirty string of the balloon around his wrist so he wouldn’t lose it. Already it sagged a bit in the air, but they didn’t seem to have noticed.
The boy had dark hair, like his mother, and he grinned as he looked at her, cocking his head, making strange faces, just monkeying around the way little children did. He couldn’t have been more than four.
What am I? Courtney thought.
“Wait!” she called, running after them.
The mother rose, she and the boy both holding their juices again, and turned to see what the fuss was about. Courtney raced up to them and the woman gripped her son’s wrist, taking a protective step in front of him.
“What’s wrong—” the mother began.
“I’m sorry. It was a mistake. You have to give it back,” Courtney said, the words streaming o
ut too fast, frantic, a jumble. “Please, I’m sorry, I know it’s weird, but I shouldn’t have given that to him. It’s not for him.”
The woman scowled. “Excuse me? What the hell are you trying to do? That is so completely not cool.”
“I know, and I’m—”
“Just go away,” the mother said. She turned her back on Courtney, and marched the little boy along beside her. “Come on, Justin.”
“No, listen,” Courtney began, grabbing the mother’s shoulder and trying to turn her around.
The woman spun, slapping her hand away. “Don’t put your hands on me, you psycho. Back off, right now. If you wanted the stupid balloon, you shouldn’t have given it away, but you did. My boy is three years old. You can’t be all nice and give him something like that and then take it back. Go and buy a new one!”
The little boy tugged on his mother’s blouse. “It’s okay, Mumma, she can have it.”
Courtney’s breath caught in her throat and she reached out.
“Forget it,” the mother said. “It’s the principle of the thing. What’s fair is fair.”
By now other people had slowed to watch the spectacle unfolding on the sidewalk. Someone had a cell phone out, no doubt getting video of the confrontation. It would be online in hours, but Courtney barely registered the whispers and the looks of disgust and disapproval from the onlookers.
She lunged for the balloon with one hand, reaching for the boy’s wrist with the other.
The mother swore in disbelief and threw her Jamba Juice at Courtney. The plastic cup and straw bounced off of her, bright green slush splashing Courtney’s clothes and neck and face. As she reached up to wipe the stuff from her eyes, the woman shoved her hard, and Courtney fell backward, sprawling onto the sidewalk.
“No, please, you don’t understand,” she pleaded.
“You don’t put your hands on my son, you crazy bitch,” the woman said, but already her voice was retreating.
Courtney jumped up, calling out, still wiping at her eyes. She blinked to clear her vision, but more people had gathered on the sidewalk. Several of them whispered her name. A man and two women came out of Kismetix to stare.
The Years Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2009 Page 7
