Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  Rising, Stevie’s tear-drenched eyes displayed more grief than animosity. “Thanks for nothing,” she said. “Christ, what a bummer!”

  Rising, Victor gently pushed her back down. “I have a vacant guest room,” he said.

  “I don’t take charity, Mr. Madison, and I’m not a whore.”

  “With all due respect, and using your favorite expression, Stevie, I don’t plan to fuck you.”

  “Then why the guest room?”

  “You can have the whole damn cottage, except for my bedroom. Here’s the deal. I’ll buy you a new computer and printer. You’ll get eight hours of sleep every night. You’ll follow a healthy, balanced food program, and you won’t drink booze or take any drug except aspirin. I suggest you use my exercise equipment to stimulate your brain and my hot tub to relax your body, but that’s only a suggestion, not an order.”

  “And in return?”

  “In return, you’ll write a bestseller.”

  “And the catch is?”

  “I’ll expect you to be disciplined and ‑‑”

  “I am disciplined!”

  “Yes, I know. But you’ve never revised a book, my dear, and you have an explosive temper.”

  “If you call me ‘my dear’ again, I’ll call you sir.”

  “Is your real name Stevie?”

  “Yes. My father wanted a boy.”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Belle, as in belle of the ball. There’s a certain irony in that, don’t you think? Why are you grinning?”

  “Belle is the name of Beauty, in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. You don’t look like a boy, so I’ll call you Belle.” He gave her a mock-bow. “If that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure, but I’m still looking for the catch. There’s got to be a catch.”

  He grinned again. “Of course there’s a catch, Belle. If I tell you to make changes ‑‑”

  “Changes?”

  “For instance, the title.”

  “You don’t like my title?”

  “Hell Hath No Fury is a romance title. I prefer something with Asmodeus in it. After all, he’s the main character.”

  “He is not! Robin’s the main character.”

  “Well, Belle, there’s the catch. If you throw a tantrum, or argue, or ignore my editing, the deal’s off.”

  “What a bummer. When does the deal start…Beast?”

  “Tomorrow morning. You can stay here tonight. I’ll be happy to buy you a new wardrobe, but, if you prefer, my driver will collect your clothes.”

  “How do you feel about cats?” She smiled at the expression on his face. “I don’t need my clothes…you can burn them, for all I care…but I have a cat named Eros, and if I can’t have Eros, the deal’s off.”

  “You can have the cat.”

  “One other little thing.”

  “The cat isn’t a little thing.”

  “Okay, big thing. Maybe I can give up drinking forever, Beast, but I can’t give up sex forever.”

  “There you go. There’s our title. Forever Asmodeus.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Isn’t that a bummer? Don’t worry, Belle, you’ll get used to it.”

  Victor fetched the film option contract and a contract that made him sole rep of her book. He couldn’t care less about the commission, but he didn’t want her taking the finished product, his finished product, to a literary agent.

  Especially when she realized that he’d optioned her book for a pittance.

  After she had signed the contracts, she said, “The deal starts tomorrow, right?”

  “Right.”

  Defiantly, she drank the rest of the champagne. Then she prowled around until she found his wet bar, whereupon she broke the seal on a bottle of Johnny Walker Red.

  Around midnight, he heard her in the bathroom, puking her guts out, but after that she never touched another drop of liquor.

  And by the time she’d finished the Forever Asmodeus revisions, her hair was a velvety brown, she’d dropped thirty-five pounds, she looked ten years younger, and she hated him with a passion.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “I want whatever you’re taking, Frannie. You look gorgeous. In fact, if you weren’t so short you could be a super-model.”

  Bonnie was, of course, lying through her perfect teeth.

  Once I’d evened out the strands, my cropped hair looked okay, a smidgen longer that Mia Farrow’s when she married Sinatra and starred in Rosemary’s Baby. Lucky for me, lucky for Madison, lucky for the fucking movie, I wore a wig during Robin’s possession scenes.

  But I had gazed into the mirror this morning, and as the witch said when she gave the poisoned apple to Snow White, “Mirrors never lie.”

  A raccoon would have thought I was gorgeous, especially around the eyes. My lovely tan had faded because Sol Aarons applied my makeup before sunup and removed it after sundown. Madison had shot three bedroom sequences. Four days

  (and nights, Frannie, don’t forget the nights!)

  had passed since the Black Mass.

  Every night I dreamed about Tenia. Every night I dreamed about Daniel Pearlstein and Dawn Sullivan. Every night, in my sleep, I heard Elvis singing about teddy-bears and Dawn Sullivan singing you are my sunshine, until the loud pounding of my heart drowned them out. Then I’d see a wooden signpost, one arrow pointing to Clear Lake City, one to Never-Never Land, one to Houston. The biggest arrow of all read: SALEM, MASS. A scarecrow with an evil smile pointed in that direction, so I followed the MASS arrow, and when I woke up my pillow was soaking wet and my face was as white as the proverbial ghost.

  The movie’s evangelist, Joe Bob Lancaster, had met “Ellen” ‑‑ Robin’s mom, played by Cat ‑‑ during a Billy Graham-ish rally at the Astrodome. Joe Bob hadn’t appeared in any of the house scenes yet, but every morning a crowd of ever-hopeful Jeremy Glenn addicts surrounded my limo. I’d hear cries of “It’s not HIM,” and “Who’s SHE?” Which didn’t bother me…much. But once my demon-face had been applied, I didn’t care to leave the house.

  Bonnie took her breaks outside, and I wished there was some way she could capture the sun, stick it in her pocket, and pull it out like a handkerchief. Beneath my demon makeup, my eyes squinted, my nose was stuffed with steel wool, and I always felt the urge to sneeze.

  I didn’t look “gorgeous.” On the contrary, this morning’s mirror reflection had looked dreadful. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn Sol had forgotten to remove last night’s makeup. Furthermore, I suffered from some weird stomach virus; couldn’t hold down breakfast, then became ravenous by lunch time. I’d think pregnant, except Andre and I hadn’t made love since the Night of Wine and Roses.

  An off-the-wall supposition occurred, even though recent events hadn’t exactly been on the wall. First, I thanked Bonnie for the compliment. Then I said, “Tell me about the deck again.”

  “The deck?”

  “Sorry.” I reached for a plate of doughnuts, set out for the cast and crew, but stopped when I realized it was only seven o’clock. I couldn’t tolerate another volcanic tummy eruption, even though Madison had called and told Sheldon Giglia to cancel the shoot. “Sorry,” I repeated. “Please tell me what happened on the restaurant deck.”

  She did. When she’d finished, I said, “Was I ever alone?”

  “Define alone,” Bonnie said.

  “Madison summoned you, and Jem went looking for the manager. Did they both leave at the same time?”

  “They must have, Frannie. Jem said he and Madison put you on a table ‑‑”

  “They wrapped my body around an umbrella?”

  “No. There was a long plank table. Jem didn’t want to carry you inside because the inside tables were cluttered with food and he would have drawn attention to your…condition. Personally, I think he was embarrassed because he’d gotten you drunk.”

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “Hey, Jem felt guilty, so what’s the difference?”

  Weavin
g my hands through what was left of my hair, I said, “How long did it take Madison to find you, and how long did it take Jem to find the manager?”

  “I was in the rest room. The manager was in the kitchen, calming a stressed-out cook. Jem said he wanted to hit the cook over the head with a frying pan, so I guess it took Jem more time to fetch the manager than it took Madison to fetch ‑‑”

  “How much time, Bonnie? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Twenty?”

  “I don’t know, Frannie. I only know that Jem was frustrated and Madison was edgy and…why is it so important?”

  “I’ve been feeling shitty,” I said.

  “And?”

  “And I thought maybe I’d caught a chill,” I fibbed.

  “Frannie, it was hot outside!”

  “Not really. There was a breeze from the Gulf and ‑‑”

  “Frannie! I need you!” Madison propelled himself forward. In one hand he clutched a McDonald’s wrapper. Biscuits, ham and sausage, from the smell. My stomach lurched, then settled.

  “It’s good to be needed,” I said, thinking of Andre.

  Who slept on the couch, if/when he bothered to come home at all. Who had found the time, or someone else, to wash his clothes. Who, after one double-take at my shorn hair, had said, “PMS, Frannie?”

  Which was a joke, considering I hadn’t had my period since the day before my Cat Sands interview.

  But my periods have always been erratic, I justified, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. It’s a Jewish tradition. It’s in the genes.

  My mother had suffered from random menstrual periods, which had led to her hysterectomy, the reason why she couldn’t have a second child. Her mother, my Grandmother Esther, had borne three daughters before she hit twenty-five, then ‑‑ with relief, I suspect ‑‑ had scheduled what she and my mom called “The Big Operation” or “The Big H.”

  I felt Bonnie poke my ribs, and realized that Madison had asked me a question. I’d been listening but not listening, and I tried to mentally knit the words of his request together.

  The perfect high school had suddenly become available. It was Teachers’ Day, when kids stay home. Madison wanted to shoot the scene where Robin, possessed and physically metamorphosed, attends a basketball game as a cheerleader, definitely out of sequence since we were still shooting the “mutation” scenes.

  Problem was, Madison needed another cheerleader and he didn’t have time to audition a stray, stay-at-home kid.

  Bonnie, who’d actually been a cheerleader, couldn’t play one; the audience would recognize her as Martine. However, since I always wore demon makeup…

  “Do it, Frannie,” Bonnie urged. “You’ve always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

  I said, “Would the cheerleader have to cheer, Madison? I mean, would she have to perform cartwheels and stuff?”

  He said, “Yes, of course she would. That’s the point of the scene. Christ, you’ve read the book.”

  Of course I’d read the book. At least a gazillion times. “But I can’t do cartwheels and splits,” I said. “I don’t have the” ‑‑ suppleness, elegance, grace ‑‑ “coordination.”

  “Yes, you can,” Bonnie said. “C’mon, Frannie, try.”

  So, I tried. My legs vehemently protested the split, but managed to stretch far enough. The cartwheel was a breeze.

  “Frannie, Frannie, you did it!” Bonnie jumped up and down, as if she rode a pogo stick. “Isn’t she perfect, Madison? Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  He looked startled. Then a strange expression briefly transformed his face; not exactly bestial, but undeniably deviant. I felt both frightened and flattered.

  “I’ll put you on top of the pyramid,” he promised.

  Holy shit! Frannie Rosen on top of the cheerleaders’ pyramid.

  Just where I’d always wanted to be.

  And I didn’t even have to bargain with a demon to get there.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Neil Armstrong High School reminded me of Bayside High School, my old alma mater. The same trophy cases. The same up and down staircases, banisters sticky with perspiration and hair spray. The same hall posters, except the names of the events had changed. For our dances we’d used “Under The Sea” and “Over The Rainbow.” Neil Armstrong had embraced the electronics age. The most simplistic poster read: “MNEMONIC VAMPIRE BALL - BRING DATE AND BYTE.”

  The hallways smelled the same, too; cheap perfume, chalk dust, and Spearmint Juicy Fruit gum. I expected Mr. Lash, from the Science Department, and Mr. Frankle, art teacher, and Mr. Neiman, English Department, to step out from the classrooms and shout “Where’s your hall pass, Frannie Rosen?”

  I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to see my old Principal, Dr. Moskowitz, suddenly appear ‑‑ played by a stern-but-paternal Morgan Freeman.

  Walking into the gym, I was transported back in time. Same shiny basketball court. Same wall of windows; multiple panes that looked like colorless Rubik’s Cubes. Same double nets and backboards. Same accusatory time clock.

  I pictured Mike Seidman wearing a white booster sweater with its capital B, brandishing a megaphone, whipping the spectators into a frenzy. “Hey! Hey! Take it away! Take it down the other way!” I could see Eileen Albany standing on top of a human pyramid, supported by Kathy Miao, Sandra Allik, Peg Adler, Pat Lash, Cyd Cullinen, and my best friend, Bonnie Sinclair. I had made fun of cheerleaders, the same way one makes fun of super-models, but ‑‑ oh God! ‑‑ how I envied them.

  Glancing up at the bleachers, I thought, Today I won’t splinter my butt. Today I’ll flip my short skirt and show off my butt.

  Today I’ll stand on top of the pyramid.

  Eight “cheerleaders” used the girls’ locker room to don socks, sneakers, blue stretch panties, and short white dresses that boasted orange and blue space shuttles across our breasts. The felt-lettered name on the back of my uniform read MARIANNE. Most of the extras had already appeared in crowd scenes, and they chatted together as if they were old friends. Again, I was transported back in time, and I felt like an outsider…until Lynn Beth Sullivan gave me a hug.

  “Isn’t this exciting, Frannie?” she said, her ginger curls practically leap-frogging, her amber eyes aglow.

  I could understand her glee, poor baby. Thanks to her ambitious mother, Lynn Beth hadn’t delved into many extracurricular activities.

  My mind returned to the Black Mass, where a drugged Dawn had “sacrificed” her body in order to get what she asked for. What exactly had she asked for? Her daughter was starring in the biggest movie of the year. Wouldn’t that be enough for any normal, red-blooded stage mother? Sure it would. Unless…

  I remembered the edited screen tests, shown at the restaurant. I had focused on The Demon, even though there were other scenes, most of them with Lynn Beth and Jem. Cat Sands hadn’t auditioned.

  But Dawn Sullivan had.

  Now, clear as a bell, I saw Dawn. She’d tried out for the part of Robin’s mom, Ellen, and she’d actually been pretty good. However, Cat had already been chosen. Correction: Cat had been asked. So it made perfect sense for Dawn to screen test, just in case Cat said no.

  But Cat said yes.

  Had Dawn been dickering with the devil? Should I warn Cat?

  If I did, I’d have to confess that Frannie Rosen had attended a Black Mass…alone…and that was one secret Frannie Rosen meant to keep.

  In any case, Pearlstein wasn’t Satan. He was just a horny old man who got his kicks by screwing a narcotized, bedeviled woman in front of Tenia-the-Snake-Goddess and eleven naked witch wannabes. Including his own wife.

  Had the rattlesnake been real? Yes. Had the luminescent shape been real? Maybe yes, maybe no. As my Aussie friend Gordon would say, Frannie Rosen had been pissed as forty cats.

  The gusty wind, I justified, had propelled me toward the witch-infested clearing. And the spider dream? No mystery there. My books on witchcraft and the shadowy residue from Rick’s Fiddler on the Roof video had contributed to my buggy nightm
are. After all, a demon ‑‑ if there even was a demon ‑‑ might be able to get inside my body, but he couldn’t get inside my head.

  Right? Of course, right.

  Bringing my attention back to Lynn Beth, I heard her say, “And I really, really like your hair.”