Blues in the Dark

by Raymond Benson

  “You bitch!” Reflexively, he brought his own gun-wielding right hand over and struck her, prompting Marcello to instinctively leap forward, grab Doon’s gun arm, and force it upward so that his pistol also pointed at the ceiling. Marcello then quickly wrapped his sinewy left arm around Doon’s neck and applied intense pressure. Doon writhed and struggled, attempting to backkick Marcello’s leg and knee.

  The others stood frozen, unable to fathom what was unfolding before them. Karissa, however, looked down and saw that Blair’s weapon was inches away from her feet. Without hesitation, she stooped, picked it up, and pointed it at Doon. She then moved closer and rammed the barrel against the studio fixer’s temple.

  “Drop your goddamned gun, Doon!” she growled.

  Marcello’s arm tightened around the man’s throat. “Do it or I’ll break your fucking neck!”

  “Or I’ll blow your brains out,” added Karissa.

  The struggle didn’t last long. Doon let go of his semiautomatic, allowing it to fall to the floor. Gregory came to life and rushed to pick it up. Marcello jerked Doon away from Blair’s bed, knocking over the guest chairs, and pulled him toward the door.

  “You have a place where we can keep this bastard on ice?” Marcello asked.

  “I have just the spot,” Gregory answered. “The cold storage freezer. Come on, let’s get him downstairs.” He turned back to Blair and Karissa. “You were right, Blair.” To Karissa: “She wanted to be armed in case you guys were followed here. She’s one smart lady.” He nodded at his family. “Carol, Serena, are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Carol answered.

  “Yeah,” Serena replied with a swallow.

  “Better go call the police, and they should bring an ambulance, too. Tell them we’ve had a home intruder who tried to kill us.”

  Carol gathered her wits and left the room. Serena followed, saying, “I’ll go, too—I think I need to throw up.”

  Marcello eyed Karissa, who was still holding the Smith & Wesson. “Are you all right?”

  “God. I don’t know.” She was trembling. “I can’t believe this. I’m so sorry. I knew he was following me. I thought I’d lost him. I was stupid.”

  “No, no,” her partner said. “Your quick thinking just now saved us. Come on, Gregory.”

  The men strong-armed Doon out to the stairs, leaving Karissa alone with Blair. She righted a chair, set the gun on it, and moved closer to the bed to take the woman’s still-quivering hand.

  “What about you? God, Blair, are you okay?”

  Blair’s breathing was terribly strained, but she managed to emit a quiet little laugh. “Now you’re … the femme fatale.”

  Karissa smiled but shook her head. “No, I’m not. Try to take it easy. Help is on the way.”

  “No use. I’m … dying,” she whispered.

  “The ambulance will be here soon.”

  Blair gently squeezed Karissa’s hand. “Don’t worry … about me. My time … is up. Finally.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  They were quiet for a moment, save for the pronounced wheezing. Then, Blair said, “I … must tell you … about my granddaughter. Don’t stop me or I may not … finish.”

  Karissa nodded. “All right. I was going to ask if you ever found out what happened to her.”

  The woman closed her eyes. After a beat, she spoke slowly and softly, barely getting the words out. “After Franco … I went back … to Costa Rica. I hired a private detective in LA … to help Ray find her. She was placed in an orphanage … in Las Vegas. We learned she was … adopted. To a loving home.”

  “Did you ever see her? How long have you been back in the States?”

  Blair started to gasp for air.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Karissa muttered. She heard faint sirens approaching the farm.

  “I came back … in ’91 … when Ray became ill. Carol and Gregory … were already here, so I … came to stay and work with them. It was a quiet … anonymous life. But I knew all about my … granddaughter and kept tabs on her. The girl’s family lived … in a town upstate. She grew up and … made a life of her own.”

  Karissa smiled. “Oh, that’s good. What’s her name?”

  The woman managed to answer, “Her name was … Julia.”

  Karissa blinked. She felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. “Julia?”

  “Does that name … mean anything to you?” Blair prompted gently.

  Karissa swallowed, unable to find her voice.

  Blair added, “Her adoptive parents … renamed the little girl. They thought it might be … better for her, so she wouldn’t have any … traumatic psychological attachments to the name … Julia.” Then the woman spoke ever so faintly, “I once gave her … a birthday present … a doll …”

  Karissa closed her eyes as they welled. “… with the name ‘Julia’ sewn into her dress. Oh my God … her parents renamed the little girl—”

  Blair squeezed her hand again. “—Karissa.”

  Looking at her grandmother through tears, Karissa bent down, embraced the woman, and held her tightly until Blair Kendrick died in her arms—just as the police and paramedic vehicles pulled up to the house.

  45

  KARISSA AND THE MOVIE

  The Present

  Karissa and Marcello made their movie during the many passing months after the incidents that occurred in Wasco, California. Following the advance press screening of Femme Fatale—the Blair Kendrick Story, early reviews hit the Internet and created a tremendous buzz in Hollywood. Karissa and Marcello took a little more time and directed their production team to make some changes to the film. This was predicated by the aftermath of Barry Doon’s trial and conviction for conspiracy to commit murder, as well Justin Hirsch’s own prosecution.

  Finally, the night of the world premiere had arrived.

  Karissa, along with Marcello and his wife, Angelina, Serena Brantley, and the Websters arrived at the theater in a limousine, dressed to the nines, excited and nervous at the same time. Even Willy Puma was on the guest list. The event was sold out and throngs of people stood outside the building awaiting the opening of the doors. A red carpet, naturally, had been placed on the pavement that went from the curb, through the front doors, and into the lobby.

  Karissa and Marcello joined the stars, director, writer Miranda Jenkins, and other essential crew members in front of the “step and repeat backdrop” for press photographs. The producing couple also posed for pictures by themselves and with each other. Afterward, a woman approached the pair.

  “Ms. Glover, Mr. Storm, I’m Randi Ellen from Entertainment Weekly,” she said. “Could I get a minute of your time before the film begins?”

  “Sure,” Marcello answered for them.

  “Great.” She held up a microphone as her cameraman hovered to shoot the interview. “Please tell us about this journey. I understand you had some, well, interesting obstacles.”

  Karissa laughed. “That’s putting it lightly. Let’s just say that Marcello and I believed in the picture from the beginning, and we’re happy to be reinstated into the indie-producers film festival.”

  “I understand the ending of the movie went through some changes?”

  Marcello fielded that one. “It did. After Karissa learned about her true connection with Blair Kendrick, we bundled all that history into the movie. Blair wanted her story told, so she crafted Karissa’s entire journey, as you call it. Threw clues her way, sent her some, uhm, start-up funds, and guided her toward the truth.”

  “How do you feel about Justin Hirsch’s passing?” Randi Ellen asked next. “As you know, his heart attack occurred as soon as the judge delivered the sentence for Hirsch’s conviction of conspiracy to commit murder and racketeering. I understand that’s why Barry Doon was stalking you, trying to scare you, and then ultimately attempting to kill you. Hirsch didn’t want the history about what had happened to Hank Marley to come out.”

  Karissa hesitated, measuring her words, before answering
. “Well, it’s right out of a movie, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think the studio, Ultimate Pictures, can be salvaged?”

  “Sure,” Marcello answered that one. “There’s a bidding war going on since it’s up for sale. What really makes us happy is that all of Blair Kendrick’s movies will be restored and rereleased.”

  Then the interviewer asked, “Speaking of Blair Kendrick, Karissa, how well did you get to know your grandmother?”

  Karissa took a breath. “Hm, not well at all. She died in my arms about a minute after I realized who she was. I feel like I’ve gotten to know her, though, after reading the journals she left behind and piecing together her story from all the research Marcello and I did. She had kept tabs on me since I was a child, but she felt that she could never reach out for fear of the men—both in Las Vegas and in Hollywood—who wanted to kill her. Whether or not they knew about my existence is a mystery. Perhaps that knowledge died with Buddy Franco. I like to think it did.”

  “How do you feel about the fact that Blair was indeed a femme fatale? After all, she took the law into her own hands and killed several people. I noticed you changed the title of the film.”

  Karissa pursed her lips and said, “Yes, we got rid of that Femme Fatale thing in the title after our first screening. I don’t condone what she did, but you need to look at it from her perspective. The man she loved was brutally murdered by evil, selfish, bigoted men. She avenged his death. And then, when her own daughter—her flesh and blood—was also brutally killed, she did it again. The woman in the beach house was provable self-defense. Sure, murder is wrong. But so were the cruel circumstances in which she had to navigate to survive and stay afloat. A higher power will judge her, but, frankly, in my opinion, I think my grandmother kicked some butt. She was caught in what became a cycle of destruction and sadness, but now, with our film telling her true story, perhaps that cycle is finally broken. She’s a femme fatale no more.”

  The journalist then asked, “What does your movie have to say about racism—during Blair’s time and today?”

  Karissa took a breath. “Oh, boy. I think the film shines a light on many of the problems in Hollywood—and the rest of the country—regarding race, as well as sexism and harassment, too. Look, we totally accept that this is a story about a white woman and a black man who chose to be together in a racist society—and the outcome of that. This is my grandmother’s and grandfather’s tragic love story. Along the way, the film evolved into a highly personal project for me, too. Sure, I felt I had a duty to tell my grandmother’s story; but ultimately it was also a way to tell my story—my own forgotten history, my heritage, and my ancestry, and how the prejudiced environment in which my grandparents found themselves created … me. Through all the odds, my grandparents persevered, and I am the result!”

  “I understand you continue to live in your grandmother’s old house?”

  “I do, and I love it. What’s also ironic is that my landlord, James Trundy, turned out to be my cousin, and his mother is my great-aunt! Neither of them knew this. My grandmother kept my true identity from them for their—and my—safety.”

  The reporter assumed a serious tone. “How much do you remember about the incident that’s now become public—when you were separated from your birth parents as a child?”

  “My birth parents were murdered on the orders of Justin Hirsch to draw my grandmother out of hiding,” Karissa said. “It was a last-ditch pathetic attempt. All that stuff about the crime being drug- or gang-related was nonsense spread by Hirsch and Buddy Franco. I was eighteen months old when it happened. My connection with ‘Julia’ is rather surreal because that part of my life occurred so long ago. And don’t get me wrong—my adoptive parents were the best parents I could ever ask for. I love them dearly; may they rest in peace in heaven. But I also wish I had known Jane and Maxwell Bradford a little better.”

  She took another deep breath, regained her composure, leaned into the microphone, and spoke with confidence. “That said, I’ll always be Karissa, not Julia. I also want to add that this experience—the discovery of my birthright—has helped me identify with the two histories of which I am a part. I am biracial. That is who I am. I say that with pride.”

  “Thank you, Karissa Glover and Marcello Storm! Have a fabulous evening and enjoy your night!”

  Along with Angelina and Serena, the couple followed the line of VIPs into the auditorium. They found their seats and sat with heady anticipation.

  Karissa said a silent prayer, thanked her lucky stars, squeezed Marcello’s hand, and settled back to enjoy the film.

  The house lights dim to darkness and the movie begins with the obligatory studio and production company logos.

  Orchestral music on the soundtrack blares with a sassy, seductive theme that cries out: film noir.

  After the studio logo fades to black, the orchestral music swells and the title appears:

  BLUES IN THE DARK—THE BLAIR KENDRICK STORY

  The audience applauds.

  Then a title card proclaims:

  THIS IS A TRUE STORY.

  The music crescendos and crashes to an abrupt silence.

  The words fade and are replaced by another declaration:

  DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF HANK MARLEY.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Raymond Benson is the author of nearly forty books. His most recent novels of suspense are In the Hush of the Night and The Secrets on Chicory Lane. He is primarily known for the five novels in his best-selling serial, The Black Stiletto, as well as for being the third—and first American—author of continuation James Bond novels between 1996 and 2002, penning six worldwide best-selling original 007 thrillers and three film novelizations. Raymond’s other novels include Dark Side of the Morgue (Shamus Award nominee for Best Paperback Original), Torment—A Love Story, and Sweetie’s Diamonds, as well as several media tie-in works.

  The author has taught courses in film history in New York and Illinois and currently presents ongoing lectures about movies with film critic Dann Gire. Raymond is also a gigging musician. He is an active member of International Thriller Writers Inc., Mystery Writers of America, the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers, and ASCAP. He served on the Board of Directors of The Ian Fleming Foundation for sixteen years. He is based in the Chicago area.

  www.raymondbenson.com

  www.theblackstiletto.net