Everything was done, in place, ready to go. At least, everything I could think of was.
But that, I realized, did not necessarily include everything.
I sat down on the lawn, yanked out a blade of grass, and bit it. Considered my misgivings. Attempted to reason them away. Last night I had been enveloped by a kind of dizzy euphoria in which all things seemed possible; more, seemed probable. Where had the euphoria gone?
Last night, I had been here for the first time, equipped with steel tape measure, pencil and pad, and high enthusiasm. Leaving Aralia back at the lab with Lindstrom — who by then, with full understanding at last of what I had in mind, was making final preparations for what I shall always think of fondly as Aralia’s initial 3-D film test — I had examined the location, gotten the feelof the place, carefully checked several objects and distances with my tape, and completed a rough but precisely measured sketch of the limited area in which Aralia would later appear in person.
Appear for not more than one minute. Possibly less.
The making of that sixty-second filmtook nearly an hour, and a singularly interesting hour it was, though nearly all of it was occupied by making measurements, chalking marks on the floor, having Aralia move from mark to mark, pause, speak, until she could do the scene easily, and without obvious downward glances to find the chalk lines, or unnatural pauses in either movement or speech.
It was, however, the last ten minutes, which included the final takepreceded by what might be euphemistically described as Aralia’s dress rehearsal, that not only totally absorbed my attention but also gave rise in Gunnar Lindstrom to behavior I had not previously noted in Gunnar Lindstrom.
I plucked another blade of grass, merely nibbled on this one, checked my watch — 9:10 a.m. — glanced around.
I was sitting where Aralia would later stand — or within a yard or two of where she had better stand — near the edge of the shallow pool into which Mitsui had toppled, fluttering her gossamer wings. A microphone would be placed here to carry Miss Naked California’s brief remarks to the small crowd that would be assembled — wisely, I thought, at the opposite side of the pool, or in a space extending from approximately five to fifty feet beyond its far edge.
Four hundred guests, all male, had been invited to attend the ceremonies; and only one, a chap who would be having a gallbladder operation at the time, had declined. A small crowd, yes; but the adjective is relative. The number was minute for attendance at a pro football game in the L.A. Coliseum, but huge for an orgy; and it was because of the latter consideration that all the men would be required to sit, in wooden chairs later to be assembled there, with the pool between them and Aralia.
I tried to ignore my misgivings. Concentrated on the good side of things. First, the film itself was splendid, truly a work of genius, magic — and art. Second, the location here satisfied me in virtually all particulars. I had been mentally quibbling, thinking there wasn’t a chance in ten, maybe even a hundred, that an attempt on Aralia’s life would be made here, before four hundred witnesses, when her death would thus so obviously be deliberate murder. But, so what?
Even if there was only one chance in a thousand, that justified all the trouble we’d gone to, and more. And if there was an attempt, it would have to come from one of only two places, both straight ahead — or due north — of where Aralia would be standing later today. I got to my feet, looked across the pool to where the guests would be seated. That would be one of the spots, the gathering of four hundred men.
Then I looked past that area and up, to the hillside beyond, rising at a steep angle of about thirty degrees. Plenty of oak, pepper, eucalyptus trees, along with wiry-looking shrubs and some other small bare-branched trees. Especially was there cover, plenty of it, near the crest of the hill about two hundred yards from where I stood. Not too distant; not for a fair marksman with a high-powered scope-equipped rifle.
I’d already been up there, prowled, covered the entire area. Prowled, yawning prodigiously in the early morning sunlight, true; but I’d checked it with care. So I knew that only fifty yards on past the hill’s crest was a one-lane asphalt-covered road. Nothing else, that was all.
Behind me, as well as on both my left and right, the painted cardboard Great Wall of Japan— Butterfly hadn’t exactly turned out to be the year’s most historically accurate documentary film — rose thirty feet into the air. Only from the north, on that hill, might anyone not invited perch or hide and be able to see anything down here, or take aim, or simply practice a little titillating voyeurism.
The small plywood teahousewhere Mitsui had waited in vain for her oriental lover, Honi Sakitumi, was about ten yards away on my right. Actually, since I had measured the distance from its open doorway to this spot, I knew the doorway was precisely twenty-eight feet four inches from my right foot. Which rested on a nail I’d forced into the grass, to mark the spot where a microphone would later stand.
From that teahouse, Aralia would walk. In that teahouse was everything necessary to create the Amber Effect. The laser-and-cube projector, microminiaturized computer, cord already plugged into power source — all was ready. Even including the separate audio components spliced into the PA system and ready to go.
Once the projectorwas switched on, audio and video — or perhaps more accurately audio and holeo, since the image projection hadn’t been given a name yet — would be automatically synchronized. The sound might fall a bit oddly on the ear, as had Gunnar’s voice on my ears when I’d been viewing his projection for the first time, but very likely that would not give rise to comment. Particularly when those listening were simultaneously eyeballing the totally bare, and undeniably exceedingly gorgeous Miss Naked California.
I looked at my watch again. It was 9:12 a.m. There was no point in delaying the acid test any longer, so I shrugged, turned, and walked to the little teahouse, gave everything inside a last check.
Then at exactly 9:14 a.m. I performed the scientific maneuver for which I had been educated by Gunnar Lindstrom: I pushed that little switch there,and simultaneously started his — now my — stopwatch.
Nothing happened. But nothing was supposed to happen. Not just yet. Timing was crucial to the success of this operation, and I refused to think about what could happen if the timing was a minute or more off. Or even off a few seconds.
I walked around to the far side of the pool, sat again on the grass. Lit a cigarette. Checked my watch. Waited.
When we’d made the film, Gunnar, knowing I would have a few things to do today immediately after switching the unit on, suggested that he provide a few minutes of blankness, of nothing,before Aralia’s appearance — much as you can splice a few feet of blank film on at the beginning of a reel so that, before the show starts, you’ll have time to get back to your chair, or couch, or do whatever it is you have in mind.
What I had in mind was leaving Aralia — the real Aralia — in the teahouse, giving the microphone’s position a last quick check, and getting — hopefully unobserved — to the top of that hill where grew the many trees. One or two minutes wouldn’t be quite long enough for all that; but the more time that elapsed between my pushing the switch and Aralia’sappearance and immediate exit from the teahouse, the more time there would be during which some little thing could go largely wrong.
I told Gunnar to give me a three-minute blank. That was cutting it close, but it would be barely enough — if I was not delayed.
9:16. Plus a few ticks. In less than a minute Aralia would — should — step smiling through the teahouse door.
Just as, last night, before the large white screen in the big room at Lindstrom Laboratories, she had stepped forward smiling, glancing to her right while walking briskly ahead at a ninety-degree angle from the suitably distant camera, then turned sharply, paused, hand on flaring hip and brilliant smile on beautiful face, nothing else on anyplace. Like that, five seconds. Then fluid movement again, straight toward the camera — toward the not-yet-there microphone, the future audience
— four steps, four memorable mind-burning eye-branding seconds, firm stride of flashing thigh and calf, rippling shudder of big warm white breasts.
It had been, even for me, a sight worth seeing. And for the producer-director-cameraman, Gunnar Lindstrom?
Well, I guess it is simply not entirely true that forewarned is forearmed. Gunnar knew what was going to be done, had to be done. He knew Aralia would take her clothes off and walk to her chalk marks, turn, smile, wave, make her little speech. Moreover, it was revealed to me that he had seen before not merely one or two nude ladies but so many bare broads of such varying virtue that I concluded even purescience might be slightly soiled without becoming totally ruined. Also, Gunnar was at least partially preoccupied with directing and filming-holographing the action.
All that hadn’t seemed to make much difference.
After Aralia finished the dress rehearsalprior to actual recording of the action, she clapped her hands and asked sweetly, Did I do it all right?
She was asking Gunnar, naturally, since he was the expert who had to approve the scene. He was at that moment perhaps forty feet away from her, and I watched him walk thirty-eight feet forward with his jaw hanging down like the posterior flap on a pair of old BVDs.
Slowly his mouth closed, jaw gradually lifting toward his upper chops as might the scoop on a child’s steam shovel, and when he finally got it all together there, he apparently did not have it together anyplace else, since he said nothing at all for some time. At length he moved his lips oddly, like a man preparing to spit out a chew of tobacco, and eventually I heard: What was it you asked me?
Did I do it all right?
I believe so. I’m not sure. Yes. Of course, you did. But you’ll — we’ll — have to do it over.
Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Lind —
It’s not your fault. Not exactly.
Well, I don’t mind doing it again. I like doing it.
Down went the scoop again. Up. Who— to me this time — did you say this young lady was, is, Shell? Miss what?
I said, Well, Gunnar, among other things, she’s our official Miss Naked California. Might even be Miss Naked USA before long.
Gunnar, just before returning to his camera for another run-through, seemed to peek covertly at Aralia for the last time, or at least the last time up close. His head was still turned a bit toward me, and he sort of glanced slantily leftward and downward, eyes pausing upon Aralia’s abundant breasts, moving down, down and up, pausing once more at her breasts.
You, Miss Fields,he murmured, could tell me you were Miss Naked Milky Way and I would believe it.
Then, back to the camera, and lights, roll ‘em, speed, quiet!, action, cut, print it. Well, not much like that; not at all like that; but after one more rehearsal the sixty-second classic was filmed, completed, and in the cube, so to speak.
9:17 a.m. Exactly one-hundred and eighty ticks of my stopwatch.
I glanced toward the teahouse door.
And there she was. . . .
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1:50 p.m.
Even here inside the teahouse I could see that Aralia’s face was flushed from excitement, skin pink and healthily glowing, blue eyes so bright they were like small cool suns.
Maybe part of it was the undoubtedly stimulating effect upon her ears of the boisterously bubbling sound of four hundred masculine voices, a noise like a gang of restless bull apes getting playfully tickled in sensitive areas.
The whole gang was here; most had been here for an hour or more. I’d looked them over before escorting Aralia into the teahouse, and had taken a peek from time to time since then. At first they’d all mingled, most with drinks in hand — a good deal of booze was being consumed — but the last time I’d checked, all but a handful of those interested citizens over there on the far side of the pool were seated in their wooden chairs, waiting for the MC — Sammy Shapiro — to come back.
Several announcements and a couple of brief talks had been made, and all the guests knew the next event was the pièce de résistance, which is French for Miss Naked California.
Miss Naked California was at the moment wearing a pair of white jersey shorts tailored so smoothly she appeared merely to have sat down briefly in cream from healthy cows, and a sleeveless white jersey blouse so snug on her skin that it had pores in it.
Is it time yet?she asked me breathlessly. Is it time yet?
Seven minutes. For me, that is. Ten minutes before you make your entrance. I don’t mean you, but the film we made.
I know. Me. Not even I can tell the difference.
Yeah. And, baby, don’t get all wacked up and go leaping out there smiling and blowing kisses while it’s out there. They’d be hauling guys off in padded ambulances by the dozen. Some never to be heard from again.
I won’t, Shell. I know what to do — you’ve told me enough times. I just stay here white my picture’s out there. . . . Doesn’t that sound funny?
Funny. Yeah, funny. Somehow I don’t feel very —
Then when it comes back I just wait. Until you get back.
Yeah. Now, if it happens that I don’t return speedily, if ever, and you hear sirens . . .
I was doing it again.
It was true that I had curiously ambivalent feelings about this operation. I had become almost convinced that nothing wildly exciting or dangerous was likely to occur, that nobody was going to get killed. But at the same time I could not escape the nagging little suspicion that if anybody got killed, I’d be the one; and very likely my painful murder would occur while I was poking my head about up there among the pepper and eucalyptus trees. Obviously, only one of those assumptions could be true, and the other therefore had to be false, which wasn’t great comfort to me, since I didn’t know which was which.
Besides, for quite some time I’d had the perturbing feeling that I’d forgotten something. Maybe an item of no real importance, merely enough to give rise to these little whisperings from my subconscious, but possibly something essential, vital, catastrophic —
They sound horny, don’t they?
Aralia.I looked at her, while the gurgling half-hooting half-howling cacophony of muscular voices clawed at my eardrums. I’m beginning to think if a guy got his nuts caught in a swing when he wasn’t even swinging you’d think his howl was a proposition —
Shell, don’t say nuts. That’s crude.
O.K., balls. What difference —
Anyway, you’re a man. So it wouldn’t sound sexy to you.
Praise the Lord. Incidentally, while we’re on this subject, if I am delayed in returning to our enchanted little teahouse, I would suggest you let as much time as possible elapse between your — that is, your other — nude appearance before this festive throng and your real appearance fully dressed . . . if that’s a fair description . . . following the stimulating, um, exhibition.
You already told me that, Shell, but I still don’t really understand why. I know they’re supposed to think I’m in here putting my clothes back on afterward, but what’s wrong with my pretending to get dressed fast in a half minute or so and then popping out —
No —
— there while they’re really ready for me?
That’s the point. Which I am probably not going to make a hundred percent.
Why get them all steamed, all fired up, and then fiddle around till they cool it?
Fiddle is also —
Why not strike while the iron is hot?
You refer, I presume, to the metal in zippers —
The whole reason I’m here is to give the fellows a little fun, a little pleasure, and so I can meet them all, the committee members, and financiers, and producers, and all.
Yeah. Understood. Let me put it this way, Aralia. Fun is fun, but some of these guys may be serious. You put out there, as you pop it . . . wait a minute. You pop out there, as you put it, and . . . Well, have you ever seen four hundred drunken
bull apes getting ready to monkey around?
Of course not. Have you?
That’s beside the point. Ah . . . let me put it another way.
She had told me once or twice that I was poetic. Maybe a little vivid imagery would impress her.
Aralia,I said, imagine that we are in the jungle. Strange spooky sounds hoot and holler from amidst the shrubs and trees. You are Jane. You have just been out there, naked, which unbeknownst to you is what caused all the hollering and hooting. Now you pop out again, and what do you see? Four hundred horny Tarzans! Do you get —
There’s only one Tarzan.She smiled. You’re the one.
Yeah, I’m the one, all right.I flapped my hands up and down against my thighs. Let’s try it one more time, O.K.?
If you really want to. How many minutes have we got left?
Aralia! Goddammit, Aralia! I hope you realize I am rapidly losing my sanity. Will you just shut — will you — I stopped, snorted, started over. I made my voice sweet, and soothing. Suppose immediately following the blisteringly stimulating and unbearably provocative appearance of supremely desirable and stunningly naked Miss Naked California —
Oh, Shell, doll, you’re getting poetic again.
Not now, dammit. Ahhhgg.
I uncurled my hand from its death grip on the stopwatch. Couldn’t afford to crush it now.
I will not give up,I said. I will not give up. Listen. Besides that which I have already said, whatever it was, I ask you to mentally view those four hundred thinly disguised beasts out there. Given their beastly mood and probably soaring intoxication, and further given your, ah, um, ahm, generous nature, though it is perhaps not inevitable, it is at least conceivable that they . . . Well, they might stuprate you.
Stu — what does that mean?
What do you think?
Does it mean they might do to me what you did to me?
The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 16
