by Todd Grimson
“Right now? I don’t know,” Lisa said.
“Where did you see him last?”
“In Brazil.”
“What’s going on?”
Lisa didn’t feel like it was up to her to answer this, so she didn’t respond.
Laughton calmed himself and said, “Do you know why he took off like he did? In that manner? Disappearing?”
“He never said anything specific. I think he just got fed up with being, uh, Roy Hardway. I was as surprised as anyone when he turned up in my film.”
“Has he been in love with you? I’m trying to understand the nature of your relationship, so forgive me if I pry. But I thought Roy and I were very close.”
“I don’t want to talk about my personal life,” Lisa said, reluctant to say anything more. “I’m sorry, I don’t know the answers to all your questions, but… Roy is very different now, and … we really weren’t together much except during the actual making of the film.”
“Who financed it?”
“Not Roy. And if by some miracle it makes any money, he knows all he has to do is ask.”
“Is there something wrong with him?”
Lisa, feeling like a total liar by now, shook her head.
“Well, can you give me an address where I can write to him? His mother, in North Dakota, has become seriously ill.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know where he is.” Lisa’s composure was frayed by now; she stood up, ready to leave. She thought Nehi Laughton was lying about the sick mother.
In a different voice, colder, flatter, Laughton said, coming up behind her, putting his hand (it was warm) on the nape of her neck, “I know where Roy first saw you. I’ve seen part of a video you did, and you’re very good. What happened that night, when you and Roy went out? You know he never came home from your date.”
Lisa pulled away from his hand, turning to say rather impulsively, “Roy hired these strippers he knew, and everybody was doing everyone else. It got to be too much for me. I didn’t like those kinds of drugs, so I took off. Roy knew I was going to Brazil, so … I don’t know, he just showed up later on, when I was doing the film, and he did it … I had another boyfriend, and Roy just did his job and drifted away. I got the impression he was either really into some private religion or else doing some new Latin American drugs. He had another whole circle of friends. Guys I was scared of. That’s all I know.”
It was a lot of wild information to take in, and Lisa acted her part pretty well, believing it as she spoke. It might have been better as a general policy to say nothing, but it hadn’t felt tenable. This story seemed like it would be impossible to check out, and it was sort of plausible, given the set of facts Laughton and his detective had. As she drove home Lisa tried to remember all her lies, the sultry wind blowing through her hair.
ELEVEN
Raelyn called from London. She sounded in a good mood and said to call anytime, not to worry about waking her up. Lisa imagined Raelyn hitting the lesbian nightclubs of Europe, a picture that could very well be accurate—Lisa trusted her guess. But she also trusted Raelyn to represent her and Manoa.
Petting Caz, as he rolled over onto his back, Lisa thought more seriously than maybe ever before of Roy Hardway, wondering, with real curiosity, what he had been like. Had it been possible that the two of them might have been friends? Maybe he’d been a great fuck, he’d certainly come on that way, but it didn’t seem likely, really, that she’d have been able to stay interested in putting up with his shit.
Falling into kind of a trance, Lisa lay on her bed and masturbated, it wasn’t exactly intentional, she just touched herself and then wanted to come. She wanted to forget about everything, to de-situate herself in time and space.
The orgasm left her feeling languid and pleasantly lazy. Casimir
arranged himself in the crook of her arm and they lay there, almost dozing, in shared animal repose, for an hour or so.
When she finally stirred herself to get dressed, she was determined to wear a certain pair of shoes she associated with fun, going out with Code, sexy and foolish, fashionably glam—back when she first became truly aware of how attractive she could be, it seemed like she had spent a lot of pleasurable time studying herself in a mirror, and Code had taken pictures of her all the time. In her memory this period, in New York, was shiny and diffuse, gleams of reflecting silver beads.
She wanted to wear the shoes, but she didn’t want to just wear tights again, so for no good reason she dared herself a little and put on a lacy black garter belt, holding up black stockings … and then the black suede twisted-heel pumps. One of her thousand or so black miniskirts, a vampire shirt of rayon tulle and organza, and a black lace-up vest. A little more makeup than usual. Dark red lipstick, bleeding cherries, yeah, that color … and her face.
The restaurant was in Santa Monica—Lisa was just the least bit worried that Christine might not show up. But no, Christine was waiting for her. They embraced and went in. Christine was in a T-shirt dress with horizontal pink stripes. She commented on Lisa’s hair being longer; she liked it, she said. Being complimented by Christine pleased Lisa, who then felt that the expressed judgment must be true. She had great respect for Christine’s knowledge in these things.
They talked about LA. Ripper II, and Lisa explained what Jules had said about Eric Lemongrass. She said she had disliked him on sight, he was really a creep. She asked Christine if she wanted to work on the sound.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know how secure I am,” Lisa said as dinner arrived. They were splitting a bottle of wine.
“Well,” Christine said, pouring more into both of their glasses, “what would you really like to do?”
She was having a salad of fried lobster, artichoke hearts, and olives, while Lisa had grilled scallops and shrimp with radicchio and red pepper.
“I’d like to do the story of Cassandra,” Lisa said. Christine listened, quite interested, as Lisa went over the fairly well known elements. “Troy has fallen, and she prophesied it, but no one would ever believe her … and so Troy falls, and as the daughter of King Priam, she is taken as a captive, a slave, by Agamemnon, and they sail back to Greece. There his wife is waiting for him, and Cassandra sees that the wife and her lover will murder Agamemnon, and her too. And there’s nothing she can do to escape. When she speaks, they think she’s out of her mind. And so … you could do different things with it, update it if you wanted to … though I kind of like the idea of ancient Greece, play her as a priestess, try to keep the dialogue from getting too Masterpiece Theater, keep it naturalistic and direct.”
“You look like a Cassandra,” Christine said, and Lisa faintly shook her head.
“I’ve thought about it, about playing her … I don’t know. I don’t think so. Although, as an image thing, depending on how Manoa does … it could be something to consider. I don’t know.”
“I saw your friend Mary Siddons a month or so ago. She’s in some band … Bloody Murder. They’re a mindcrusher band, bonecrusher, skullcrusher … earplug time. Her hair’s in micro-braids, she’s really pale, she still looks younger than she ought to … what is she, fifteen?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, by now she looks about twelve. She still seems like a little brat to me, though I know you guys always got along.” Left unspoken, but maybe present in Christine’s little smile, was the idea that Lisa and Mary might be, in their willfulness, a bit alike.
“Where were they playing?”
“This place in Redondo. Oriole was trying to see if he could shock me, proving he’s hipper than me, same old same old … Bloody Murder, I’m sure that’s the name of the group.”
“I’ll tell Jill, the casting director, tomorrow.” Lisa didn’t sound as interested as she might have a few days ago.
“It seems like I remember,” Christine said, musing, toying with her cappuccino, “you having that novel about Cassandra by that German woman … you tried to get me to read it, but I never did. Are you thinking of trying
to pick up the rights?”
“Well, the story comes from Aeschylus, I think, or Euripides … and isn’t all that stuff in the public domain? I love the novel, though it’s a little more explicitly feminist and men-equal-power women-are-into-mysticism-and-community … I don’t know,” she said, considering it more than she had, “maybe we could use the book.” She wanted to, now. She felt the wine.
They went to a bar down the street that Christine knew and had Spanish coffees. Lisa listened to Christine bring her up to date on Oriole and how the animal documentary had gone wrong. The money hadn’t come through. She was back with Oriole again.
It was starting to feel like their friendship was back—after all, it had been Lisa who had run out, for reasons of her own—and they were content to just spend time together, they were comfortable, it didn’t matter if they talked or not. She didn’t go into the complex situation with Boro, or explain about Roy, or talk about meeting Selwyn Popcorn. She didn’t say anything about Raelyn.
Tavinho got a mention. Lisa admitted there was this guy down in Brazil whom she’d seen a few times. Some band across the room was playing jazz. Yes, definitely. Jazz.
When she got home, her head had pretty much cleared: as soon as she unlocked and opened her door she felt something was different, she closed the door and didn’t turn on a light. She could see in the dark—there was someone, she could smell him, her first thought was that it was Nehi Laughton’s detective, she’d remember his name in a moment, but something about his breathing, his smell, his presence—she sensed it wasn’t him. All the same, she needed a gun to keep in her purse. When Roy had shot Boro, it hadn’t worked out very well, you could even say it just made him mad, but…
“Code?”
“Yes, Lisa. I’m here.”
“Why did you come in like this?” Lisa sat down on the couch, still in the relative dark, taking off her shoes. Code sat in the chair across from her. She could see that he’d let his hair grow; it was almost the same length as her own.
“I wanted to see you,” he said. “And I would never forget where you hide the extra key”
“OK.” Lisa, taking her time, was unlacing the vest. “What was all that shit on the phone?”
“You mean about Boro? I don’t know. Lauren deals with him and with this babe who lives at his hacienda, Wanda. Lauren, you see … what can I tell you about Lauren?”
“That she’s had a lot of plastic surgery?”
“Yeah, well, that’s OK. She looks all right, in a futuristic way. But what I was gonna tell you, was … Lauren likes to dabble, to know that there’s strange shit out there.”
“Fuck you, Code.” Lisa didn’t throw this out with any heat or particular hostility. She took off her vest and unbuttoned the blouse, leaving on the strapless lacy bra. None of this meant that she was remotely considering any kind of sex act with Code.
He laughed and said, “I went to that place where Lou sent you. Why didn’t you tell me about it? You had a cash-flow problem, you fixed it painlessly. When I got really poor, I didn’t know I had an option like that.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“Fuck you, Lisa. Who are you to decide what’s good or bad for me? It was good enough for you.”
“Is that where you met Lauren?”
“Yeah. She fell in love with my irresistible ass. Can’t get enough.”
“Congratulations,” Lisa said. “A star is born.”
“Yeah,” Code said, sounding a little puzzled (or hurt) that Lisa was sarcastic. “What do you care? Lauren would love to meet you. She thinks you’re great.”
“Are you doing music?”
“Yeah, I am. Guitars. Really major guitar action. I’m working with Michael Poe from the Dogs. Remember the Dogs?”
“No. Have you heard Bloody Murder?”
“They’re Nazis,” Code said. “Fucking asshole Nazis. The only time I ever met little Mary, I thought she was crazy, but that was what you liked about her, wasn’t it?”
Lisa didn’t answer for a couple of beats, then, after a big sigh, “Yeah. That was part of it.”
Quiet.
In about ten minutes or so, Code said, “Can I come sit by you?”
“No. In fact, you should leave. I need to go to sleep. And give me back the key.”
Code hesitated only a few seconds before saying, “OK. We’re still pals, aren’t we, on some level?” He was almost pleading, and sounded weary down to his soul.
“We’re pals,” Lisa said. “I guess. I don’t know.”
“You don’t like the idea of Lauren Devoto, but it might actually be less fucked up than you think. But Jesus, you and Boro … if you owe him money and can’t pay him, let me know, maybe Lauren would help. I know she would, if you were nice. Boro’s scary, man.”
“I know he is,” Lisa said. “Thanks.”
Code turned on the standing lamp before he left, doing a mock double take at Lisa’s state of undress. She still had on her skirt, and with the bra … well, it was what you might wear to go dancing at the old Club Lingerie or someplace like that. Funny how different it was when someone wasn’t your boyfriend anymore. Code couldn’t have left her more cold. Yeah, his hair was longer and bleached blond, plus he had a new earring; he was in the process of evolving a new look. At the door, Lisa kissed him good night on the cheek. Then she went into the bathroom, washed off her makeup, peed, took off her clothes, brushed her teeth, and got into bed with Caz, who stretched out and yawned, asking her a question with an interrogative noise that was not a meow. He had to go check his bowl and eat some cat food, drink some water, before he was ready to return to the bed and go to sleep. Lisa listened to the muffled, lulling surround of the streets, the traffic competing with her slowly lapsing thoughts.
TWELVE
Lisa spent most of Friday with Rosa Liszt, the art director, working on the Ripper storyboards. Before Hitchcock, the average movie would usually be constructed of some six hundred or so shots, roughly between five and twelve seconds in length. Alfred Hitchcock would, more or less unobtrusively, use about thirteen hundred, everything storyboarded and well prepared. Working with Rosa, Lisa went through the motions, certainly, more than that, but she didn’t feel Rosa liked her or took her seriously, and she in turn did not like Rosa, who struck her as condescending and humorless … or at least reservedly ironic where Lisa, if she had felt more relaxed, would have been playful and exuberant. She felt, though, that she should be careful not to appear foolish.
Today Lisa was wearing an untucked apricot-colored blouse, a gray herringbone skirt, a fake Byzantine bracelet… Rosa, probably in her late thirties, was dressed in a desexualized manner, by no means casual enough to show any possible disrespect. At lunchtime, Lisa told Amy, Brandenberg’s assistant, that she wanted to examine some handguns, if any were available, to check them for the right look. Amy, who was just out of school, USC, said OK.
“And ammunition too,” Lisa said, airily, as she went out the door. First thing this morning she’d arranged to have a locksmith change the locks. Now she was on her way to an appointment to have her ears pierced for the fourth time on each side, this time in the upper
ear, through the cartilage, the antihelix, at the same time as she would have her split ends trimmed, as she was committed to a somewhat longer hair length than before.
Errands accomplished, the afternoon was spent elaborating on the central plan, namely to make L.A. look “expressionist ” as Lisa said, and after a while Rosa seemed to warm to the notion, suggesting that since the city is always seen as dry, “Why not associate this dryness with fire, with flame?”
“Yes,” Lisa said. “Because inside everyone here, there is all this barely contained heat, and the Ripper … I don’t know if I’d want to go so far as to say that when he cuts his victims open he’s seeking their wetness, or to plunge his face into a river, a river of blood … but every time there is blood spilled, I want to emphasize its wetness, and the Ripper is more sensitive to this, mu
tely, than these sorts of guys usually seem.”
Rosa seemed to maybe approve. In thoughtful silence, Lisa hunted for some of the storyboards in which Paul Bancroft is seen in medium close-up, the camera moving in until his face fills up the frame.
“I want to have him extremely tortured, I want him to have tremendous panic, no trace of enjoyment in his crimes.”
It was so important for her to do this film—a union picture, with a studio, as a member of the DGA—and Lisa tended to react against automatic feminist condemnation of movies about violence, she had decided at some point that you could work with the genre and slyly turn it upside-down. But it was important to her that, if she did this, she be allowed to do it her way. So, for instance, if the Ripper was going to kill these young prostitutes, several of them, it was important that they be seen as human beings, with personalities, fucked up but a long way from just being things to be slaughtered without any sense of loss. So, then, it was also important that the hookers on the street, a few of them, get their revenge and kill the Ripper, and that it not be left up to the otherwise ineffectual (and contemptuous) police. Eric Lemongrass’s character had, in the first movie, shown no empathy for the victims, spending his time off work, for instance, in a strip joint, eating a hamburger and making a joke about how the burger looked more attractive to him than dead hooker number two.
She stopped by the locksmith’s shop and got the new keys. Great. She also had—she didn’t think Amy had expected her to take it with her, but the assistant wasn’t prepared to contradict Lisa until she knew more—a revolver in her purse, a .32, loaded, with the safety on, another ten or twelve bullets in a little box. Maybe she could even be straight about it, say that her life had been threatened and apply for a permit… in the meantime, she had this in her purse.
