Exposure

by Alan Russell

  “My apologies, Baron. But does it really matter? Do not blue bloods bleed red? Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

  “Step aside,” Saxe said.

  “We have unfinished business.”

  Jaeger opened his overcoat, showing two épées de combat. “I borrowed these weapons of honor from my corps,” he said. “They are relics from a time when differences were resolved in a definitive way.”

  The épées had deep bell guards of polished steel, with blades shaped like a “V” that tapered to a finely honed and deadly point. These were killing weapons.

  “You have your choice of weapons. Both are identical.”

  “You are mad.”

  “Mad to even give you a chance? I suppose you are right. But I am not like you. It is the right thing to do, and truth to tell, I would have it no other way. I suspect the pleasure of this duel will erase the memory of the other.”

  “I want nothing to do with this.”

  “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

  Jaeger pulled both swords free. The French-style épées were called Parisers. The same word was German slang for “condom.”

  “I would have thought you would like a Stobmensur auf Pariser, Herr Graf.”

  In one sentence Jaeger made a double entendre, slighting Saxe’s nobility. Then he tossed one of the épées in the air. Saxe reached out, catching it by the hilt.

  “Your hands are warm,” said Jaeger. “Mine are cold from waiting for you.”

  He raised his hands and blew on them. The point of his foil was facing the frozen ground.

  “I will not duel with you,” said Saxe. “As you can see, I am tossing the sword aside.”

  He moved as if to fling it away, but instead of releasing it, he came across with a vicious lunge.

  Jaeger had been expecting as much. Like a matador who has manipulated a beast into charging, he stepped away, allowing Saxe and his blade to lunge past, but not before his own blade tunneled through Saxe’s chest.

  From quarte, he twisted his hand into a tierce, widening the wound before pulling out.

  The sword dropped from Saxe’s hand. He didn’t scream, just stood in a state of shock. Jaeger made sure their eyes met before he died.

  Jaeger used a stiletto to finish the job. They would assume the stabbing was the work of skinheads.

  He took the knife, and plunged it in again, and again, and again . . .

  “Don’t stop!” said Angelica. “Don’t, don’t, don’t stop!”

  He pushed hard into her, each thrust a vivid memory. They climaxed at the same time, though Jaeger’s thoughts were from years earlier.

  When their breathing steadied, Angelica said, “Oh, God, that was wonderful.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Jaeger.

  He felt warm all over, especially his scar.

  Angelica wanted him to stay the night, but Jaeger demurred. “I have to work,” he said.

  “Work? But it’s so late.”

  “I have to go crunch numbers,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Gut instinct told Graham to keep running. Ever since his unwanted wake-up call he had been on the move. Maybe, he thought, he was just trying to justify his cowardice. But he didn’t think so. His personal radar was on full alert. He had covered wars and military conflicts as a photographer, and by trusting his feelings had come out of some dangerous situations alive. Having walked away from one death trap already, he was willing to err on the side of caution. Until there was proof to the contrary, he was assuming there were people out there who wanted him dead.

  Again, he debated going to the police. He could request protective custody. It would be a relief to involve some higher authority. But they wouldn’t look at his case carefully unless he incriminated himself. Even now, years later, dying was almost preferable to facing his shame. He hadn’t been willing to own up to his sins in Paris, and he couldn’t now. Better to go it alone. Besides, that was how he was used to working.

  Like a shark, he needed to keep moving or die. Except he wasn’t the predator now, but the prey. Still, he wasn’t helpless. Graham’s office was mobile. He worked from his car using his tablet and cell phone. There weren’t very many people whom he had given his new telephone number. He spent hours eliminating those who might have told Smith his number, until only one name remained.

  Lanie Byrne was already back to work, but getting a message to her on the set proved impossible. No one even went through the pretense of taking a message. Graham tried to find a back door, but his attempts were quickly rebuffed. When he tired of working the maze, he changed his focus. Estelle Steinberg proved a little, if not a lot, easier to reach.

  “What the hell do you want now?” she asked, finally coming on the line.

  “I need to talk to Lanie.”

  “She’s on the set.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “That would take the rest of my lifetime.”

  “Does she have a private number to her trailer?”

  “If you knew anything about Lanie, you’d know she doesn’t like to be bothered on the set. Someone like you probably can’t understand this, but when it comes to her art, Lanie doesn’t compromise. She gives it her full attention.”

  “I need a few minutes of her time.”

  “Tell me something I don’t hear hundreds of times a day.”

  “How’s this? Who else has pictures of your girl trying to off herself?”

  “I better not be hearing what I’m hearing. Are you trying to fucking blackmail me?”

  “I’m trying to tell you this is important.”

  “Gee, I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “Why don’t you let Lanie decide if it’s important or not?”

  “Here’s your news flash: she decided years ago. Everyone including me has standing orders not to bother her on the set unless it’s goddamn life or death. Lanie doesn’t think anything’s more consequential than the film she’s working on.”

  “When is she going to be home?”

  “Late. Production’s trying to make up for the days she lost. She’ll put in a fifteen-hour day minimum, and tomorrow’s going to be the same. That’s your hint not to bother her. She doesn’t need your kind of stress.”

  “I was her ambulance driver,” Graham said. “I wasn’t the one who put her in the ambulance.”

  “Like hell you didn’t. You and your kind are as responsible as anyone.”

  It would be easier to lie, Graham thought, than argue. “I have to meet with Lanie tonight. We need to conclude our business ASAP.”

  “You’re willing to hand over all the photos and negatives, and agree to complete confidentiality?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much money are you asking?”

  “That’s between Lanie and me.”

  “The hell it is. You got your claws in her, and she’s in a state of duress. You’re all but holding a gun to her head.”

  Graham had to think of a price tag. There was always a big market for the “last living photos” of stars like Monroe and Belushi, but he wasn’t aware of any precedent for celebrity suicide pictures. Still, anything Miss L did was tabloid fodder. Estelle would know that more than anyone.

  “I want half a million dollars.”

  “I’m smelling fucking sulfur in the air.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A deal with the fucking devil, that’s what I’m talking about. You want her soul too, right?”

  “I want what’s reasonable.”

  “Reasonable is half that amount, and not a penny more.”

  “What are you, her business manager now?”

  “I’m looking out for my client and friend.”

  “And I’m looking out for me. I a
m asking for a conservative amount. I could probably get a million for those pictures on the open market.”

  “That’s possible. But you don’t take our deal and I promise you this: every penny you get from those photos you’ll have to spend on legal fees.”

  Graham mulled that over for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “I’m suddenly smelling sulfur in the air.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The tall, well-built, black guard had the look of a moonlighting Marine. He directed Graham to park just in front of the gate at the Grove. He was as vigilant as he was polite, punctuating all of his requests with the word “sir” while he pleasantly but thoroughly inspected both Graham and his car. Graham wondered if the scrutiny was usual, or a little treat Estelle Steinberg had cooked up.

  It was late, approaching midnight. Lanie had stayed on the set until almost ten o’clock. She hadn’t been the only one working. Graham had been studying his own lines all day. The problem was, his script still had blanks in it. He would have to perform based on the responses of his leading lady. That was usually a recipe for disaster, though it had worked in Casablanca. Toward the end of the film, none of the actors had known what was going to happen. Even the director wasn’t sure. The screenplay was a constant work in progress, but the movie turned out all right. Graham had seen it maybe a hundred times.

  The guard wished him a good night, and Graham decided Estelle wasn’t behind the inspection. She would have insisted upon a cavity search.

  The Grove’s penitentiary lighting softened beyond the gate. Graham followed the flagstone driveway around. He rolled his window down, taking in some deep breaths. The air was fresh, with a coastal scent, but the house was far enough away from the sea that there was only a hint of brine.

  Graham parked under the coast live oak, but this time there was no greeter at the door. Lanie was there, looking pensive and vulnerable and alone. She was wearing worn cotton sweats and broken-in Ugg boots. As Graham got closer, he saw her face wasn’t made up, and she wasn’t sporting any jewelry or adornments of any sort. Somehow that made her all the more attractive. Graham knew of two actresses whose husbands said they had never even seen them in private without their makeup.

  Neither Graham nor Lanie appeared comfortable in the other’s presence. Graham might have saved her life, but he was still the enemy. They offered each other a cautious greeting, amicable sounds that weren’t exactly words, and then Lanie motioned with a tilt of her head for him to follow her.

  The recessed lighting in the hallway was dimmed, perhaps because of the lateness of the night, or perhaps to prevent Graham from getting too close a look at Lanie’s world. There was a clear demarcation between the designer showcase part of the house and Lanie’s area. Her living space was more personal and warm, with lots of plants, old pictures, colorful paintings, and pottery. She liked masks; visages of all sorts hung from her walls. For a moment, Graham flashed on the Abbot and his figurines of the seven sins. But Lanie wasn’t limited only to sin. She had masks for every occasion. It was appropriate for an actor, Graham thought. Her profession was often represented at theaters or on playbills with two masked faces, the one showing joy, the other sadness. But the masks might have been mere decoration more than a statement of her profession. It surprised Graham that there were no signs of Hollywood in Lanie’s personal space, no movie pictures or memorabilia, nothing to indicate Lanie’s profession or status. People in the business usually made a point of putting such items on display. Around town, those who have Oscars usually create shrines. Genuflecting to Oscar was optional, but encouraged. Lanie’s Academy Award was nowhere to be seen.

  She led him into a large den that was about the size of Graham’s apartment. The room was warm; a fire burned in the fireplace. Real wood, not designer ceramic logs. Lanie took up a poker and stirred the fire. The flames cast an orange pallor on her face and accentuated the dark circles under her eyes.

  “It’s not really a cold enough night to have a fire,” Lanie said, “but I thought I would indulge myself anyway. Sometimes I burn a log or two even in the summer.”

  “I once read that President Nixon liked to have roaring fires going in the White House even in the middle of the summer.”

  “Maybe he was preparing for hell.”

  “It was supposedly his way of relaxing.”

  “By polluting the air and diminishing resources at the same time?”

  Lanie’s remark made Graham wonder if lending her name to environmental causes wasn’t done only for the usual Hollywood show.

  “I understand he sat in front of the fire a lot more after Watergate occurred,” Graham said. “With his world tumbling down around him, the fires were one of the few things that comforted him.”

  “That sounds like an updated version of Nero’s fiddling while Rome burned.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “I know that tune,” she said.

  “I was surprised to learn you went back to work today.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Work is supposed to be therapeutic,” Lanie said. “Besides, my guilt was kicking in. Whenever the director called to see how I was doing, there was a certain desperation in his voice.”

  “The production must have been idled.”

  “It was detoured. I don’t ever want to wield what an actor friend of mine calls the ‘John Wayne status.’ ”

  “What’s that?”

  The question brought a small smile to her face. “Wayne never performed until he finished his morning’s business. Usually, he was regular. But every so often, he was stymied. Sometimes there would be hundreds of people on the set milling about for hours, waiting for one man to have a bowel movement.”

  “At least he didn’t have to ask the director, ‘What’s my motivation?’”

  “That’s true,” she said, still smiling. “His motivation was quite basic. Wayne said he didn’t feel right until he unburdened himself. When he’d make one of his late exits from his trailer, he would often be greeted by loud cheers.”

  “Only in Hollywood.”

  Lanie hung the poker back up and dusted her hands. “Drink?” she asked.

  “Only if you’ll join me.”

  She walked over to a portable bar. “What would you like?”

  “Anything over ice.” Graham thought for a moment, then reconsidered. “Except vodka.”

  Lanie made his drink, then poured her own, some watered-down cranberry juice. Both took up chairs near the fire. Lanie sat with a foot underneath her backside, as if it was the most natural position in the world. It was a position Graham had never attempted, and doubted he ever would.

  “Estelle had the lawyers working late,” said Lanie. “You’re supposed to review the contract, and then sign on all the pages that are color-tabbed.”

  She reached with one hand for the folder, and then decided two hands were in order. Graham reluctantly relieved her of the burden. He hefted the stack of papers, as if weighing them.

  “I think the thicker the legal document, the more fear it’s supposed to induce.”

  He put the pages aside, making no move to look through them. Lanie took note of his inaction.

  “After you sign, I have a check for you.”

  A quarter of a million dollars. Graham had never had a payday like that before. That was real money, not the dribs and drabs that the photographic agency filtered through to him. He hadn’t really had a chance to consider the money. His negotiation with Estelle had just been a ploy to have this conversation with Lanie. Graham supposed he was more interested in getting answers than getting the money, because he wanted to live to spend it.

  “My lawyer’s going to have to review it before I sign anything.”

  Lanie looked disappointed. “Estelle said you wanted to conclude our business toni
ght.”

  “I was prepared to look over a contract, not a book.” When in doubt, blame the lawyers.

  “I see.”

  “But I brought you all the pictures that were printed.” He didn’t tell her that the memory card where they came from was in safe storage, but she was aware of his omission.

  “That’s a start, I suppose.”

  He handed her a manila envelope. She didn’t look inside, but instead walked over to the fireplace, opened the screen, and fed the envelope to the flames. The fire liked the offering, immediately sprouting up.

  “I need you to give me something as well, Lanie,” he said. “I need you to tell me who you gave my number to.”

  She kept her eyes on the torching fire. “What are you talking about?”

  “Did the men who tried to kill me contact you, Lanie?”

  Lanie didn’t say anything for several seconds. “They didn’t try to kill you. They were only scaring you.”

  “They were going to murder me, Lanie. Did you give them my number?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Your boys are somehow associated with a man I know as Smith,” said Graham. “Before last week I thought Smith was in intelligence. Now I’m not sure. The only thing I can say for certain is that Smith is a blackmailer. He didn’t want money from me, though. Over the last eighteen months Smith has called on me twice to shoot some photos to embarrass or discredit others.

  “He sicced me on Joseph Cannon and Haley Robinson. You probably remember their scandals. She had the sticky fingers, and he was with a minor. I looked but couldn’t find any connection between the two. I kept playing the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game, but there didn’t seem to be any link. Did you ever act in a movie with Kevin?”

  She shook her head.

  “But you know about the game?”

  A nod this time, and then some reluctant words: “It’s something like six degrees of separation. Kevin can supposedly be linked to anyone in Hollywood within six steps.”

  “Right. For example, I know you costarred with Michelle Williams in Fire Walking, and she was with Ryan Gosling in Blue Valentine, who starred with Kevin Bacon in Crazy Stupid Love. So in three degrees you have your connection with Kevin Bacon.”