Blue Movie (31 page)

“Get him to fuck her in the ass,” Tony suggested, “we haven’t done that yet.”

“Oh sure, we’ve got that with
Angie
. . . well, you know, an
insert.”

“You mean, you
used
to have it with Angie—before she bolted . . . anyway, inserts aren’t like the real thing, are they?”

“Hmm. Listen, why don’t
you
go talk to Angie? Maybe you can get her to change her mind. No kidding, she might listen to you . . . tell her your story about C.D. and the corpse—maybe she’ll decide he isn’t such a swell guy after all.”

“Man, that isn’t
my
story . . .” Tony sighed in annoyance, “that really happened.”

“Yeah, well, tell her that . . . or anything else,” he turned to go back to the set. “Use all your ploys, Saunders—tongue, finger, clit-manip, dope, whatever is required. Okay?”

Tony shrugged. “I’ll give it a whirl.”

When Boris got back to the set—Dave and Debbie still under respective blankets, heads together, hands clasped, talking in hushed tones—he felt like an intruder; by this time, they were way out on a reminiscence excursion, into far-flung childhood, summer vacations when they were eight, measles when they were seven—the whole trip.

“Time to go to work, huh?” Dave asked, after a minute of Boris just standing there looking at them, then quickly added, with a pseudo-lewd grin, “and
‘nice
work if you can get it,’ huh B.?” causing Debbie to squeeze his hand and giggle.

“You
nut,
” she said affectionately—a line right out of the script, it was too weird.
Wow,
thought Boris,
talk about quick studies . . . psychodrama-time,
it was spooky.

“Now, then,” he began, “let me ask you this—what would you like to do next?”

Dave looked at Debbie, then back to Boris. “I think we’d dig just rapping for a while.”

Boris smiled. “Uh, yeah, well, I was thinking more in terms of the
picture
. . .”

“You mean like
balling
again?”

“Yeah . . . only different somehow—you know, to represent another phase in the relationship . . . like a different time, a different place . . .”

“You got another set?”

“Well, we’ll do the establishing shots later—this will all be
tight
. . . just the two of you, very close. We’ve already set up a
bed
. . . well, I mean, a bed is a bed, right? So this time it’s a bed instead of the floor, it’ll be like it’s a different place.”

“Hey, did you dig I came
twice?”

“It was beautiful,” said Boris.

“It was
fantastic,”
said Dave, with near manic enthusiasm, then looking at Debbie: “Wasn’t it
fantastic,
Sis?” while she, averting her eyes, blushing like a virgin bride, nodded happily.

“Uh, what would you think . . .” Boris began, by way of getting the show on the road—seeing as how they were set up, ready to shoot, and about thirty-two people standing around waiting—“what would you, think of Debbie being on top for this one?”

Dave wagged and nodded his head, brows arching. “Outta
sight,
man . . . wow, yeah, that would be a groove, ha-ha, I almost said ‘ball,’” he nudged Debbie, “get it, Sis?”

“You
nut,
” she giggled.

“
Dig
it,” Dave went on to Boris, “I mean, like I’m hip it would be a boss trip . . . and let’s get a
mirror,
I really groove on a mirror, With the chick on top—and so do a lot of chicks . . . I mean, it’s like
narcissusville,
you dig?” He turned to Debbie again, “How about it, Sis, is that part of your bag—I mean, like can you
come
on top?”

She smirked self-consciously and gave him a playful elbow jab to the ribs. “You silly-billy,” she chided in her anomalous “Barbie” manner, “I can come on
card tricks!”

“Too
much,
man,” said Dave, shaking his head and glowing with admiration. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Beautiful,” said Boris, “let’s, uh, shoot it.”

Within half an hour, they were pretty well set to shoot. Nicky had thrown up a new wall with a large mirror on it alongside the bed, the actors were adequately “primed,” so to speak, and ready to go . . . then, a last-minute hitch—certain ambivalence with Boris and Nicky as to whether the room should be a hotel room or a room at their home, the only difference, for the purpose of this shot, being the night stand next to the bed—a rather picayune consideration, but one which could have troublesome consequences later on.

“Where is Tony?” Boris started to ask Freddie, and then remembered he had sent him to see Angela, but even as he was remembering, he saw him, standing, arms folded, leaning back against one of the trailers, looking somewhat spaced. “Hey, Tone,” Boris yelled, “come here a minute,” and when he got there, Boris said: “You look stoned . . . never mind, do you think this scene will work better as a hotel room, or as a room in the chateau—like hers or his—just for the night table, it’s a question of
walnut or mahogany,
nothing else works in this shot, just the bed and the night table and the mirror, all very tight on them, we’ll establish the room in detail later, I just want to get these
tight fuck-shots while
the kids are still cooking . . . well, what do you think Tone—hotel or chateau? Walnut or mahogany?”

“Something I should tell you, B.”

Boris frowned. “Later, man, we’ve got to get this shot.”

“Too heavy for later.”

Boris looked around the set, where everything seemed to be hanging, precariously, in mid-air. He gave a short, humorless laugh. “It sure as fuck
better
be heavy.”

“The heaviest, B.—it’s about
Angie
. . . she went for the Big Sleep routine. Know the one I mean? Made it, too.”

Boris just stared at him for a long minute, then shook his head and looked away.
“Oh Christ
. . .
”
he said softly.

“It must have been right after you left her—she must have gone straight to her trailer . . . and did it up.”

Boris nodded, staring at the floor, as though the camera of his mind was already turning.
“How?”

“Well, a couple of ways—both pretty far-out—first, she ate a lot of the
lead-base makeup
she always used. Then . . . ready for this? . . . she
electrocuted
herself . . . with her
hair drier,
in the bathtub. Weird, huh?”

Boris sighed, closed his eyes, and let the sequence flow.

Tony took a swig from a styrofoam cup he was holding, and gave a dry laugh.
“Electrocution
—how about that? She must have committed some kind of . . .
capital offense.
”

What had happened—more or less—was that when Tony left to find Angela, he had encountered Sid, wailing and pounding his forehead in anguish—he, who upon seeing Tone, had pointed an accusing finger, cried, “
Murderer!
” and rushed away, as though the sight of him was abhorrent beyond enduring.

“What the fuck’s with him?” Tony had demanded of Morty Kanowitz, who, in turn, unfolded the gruesome tale.

As for Sid’s curious behavior toward Tony, that was based on the simple misapprehension that Angie killed herself because of drugs, and that Tony was the one who had given the drugs to her.

Enhancing the personal trauma of it was the fact that it had been Sid himself who found her . . . in the overflowing bath, dressed in her famous wrapper, the hair drier—a complex and heavy metal device from West Germany—over her head like a grotesque diving helmet, which when raised revealed the horror clown . . . the lower part of her face, from the nose to chin a multicolored smudge of the heavy red, white, and blue oil-paste makeup she had eaten—while scattered around the floor lay the crushed tubes, like so many spent rifle cartridges . . . and beneath the dressing table an overflowing wastebasket with an empty carton at the very top, its lid dangling in a random way, inside out, and upside down, so that one would have to twist his head way around, just as Sid had done—to make out the words: “FOR LITTLE GIRL BLUE.”

“How long were you standing there?” Boris asked Tony, looking at him curiously.

“Not long,” he said, but said it in such a way it could have meant from two to twenty.

“Why did you wait to tell me?”

“I don’t know . . . I guess I thought you should get the shot first.”

Boris frowned. “Then why
did
you tell me? I still don’t have the shot.”

Tony shrugged. “Well, I never said I was perfect.”

“Ha,” Boris snorted, then glanced back at the set where Dave and Debbie were waiting. “Okay, we’ll do just that—so cool it around Dave and Debbie till we get the shot.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Wow,” he I murmured, “what a drag. Is she . . . still in there?”

“I don’t know. Sid wasn’t sure how to handle it . . . because of the bad press. I think he’s trying to get in touch with somebody on the Coast—Eddie Rhinebeck in studio publicity. I told him he ought to call the cops first.”

“Christ,” Boris muttered, in weary disgust. “Well, come on, let’s go see her.”

When they reached Angela’s trailer, they were met by Lips Malone, dapper in pearl-gray pinstripe and shades.

“Is she still in there, Lips?” Boris asked.

Lips nodded, expressionless. “Yeah.” In the past week Lips had acquired, aside from his new demeanor, a new mode of dress as well, remarkably like that of George Raft in the films of the forties—dark-shirt-and-white-silk-tie time—not without certain sinister connotations. Now, when he said “Yeah,” Boris moved to go inside, and Lips detained him, grasping his arm with one heavy hand. “Not yet, Mr. Adrian, you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”

Boris jerked his arm out of the other’s grip. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he demanded.

Lips moved back a step, looking from one to the other. “Mr. Harrison’s with her—he’s paying his last respects.”

Tony shook his head.
“Wow,”
he said softly.

“You’d better get out of the way, Lips,” said Boris, menacingly calm.

Lips repeated his previous move, stepping back slightly, looking from one to the other, as if calculating both their distance from him and their intentions toward him, but this time his right hand went up and just inside the left lapel of his jacket, and to the now quite obvious shoulder holster beneath it. “I wouldn’t do it if I was you, Mr. Adrian—no offense intended, but I got my orders—Mr. Harrison don’t want to be disturbed.”

Boris was flabbergasted; disbelief vied with indignation. “Why you . . . you fucking
moron!
Are you threatening me with a fucking
gun!?!”
At the same time, he made a tentative move forward, but was restrained by Tony.

“You call it what you want, Mr. Adrian,” Lips went on, “I can’t let you go in. Like I said, no offense intended, you always been decent with me, but I got my orders from Mr. Harrison himself.”

Boris scoffed.
“Mr. Harrison,
my ass, you’re supposed to be working for me!”

“Well, the way I figure, Mr. Harrison is head of the studio, so it’s like we’re
all
working for him, Anyway I never crossed you on that other job—grabbing the kid, and so on—I never cracked to him about that.”

“Ha. You mean not yet!”

Lips shrugged. “Okay, remember
you
said it, Mr. Adrian, not
me.”

“You know what he’s
doing
in there, don’t you?” Tony asked.

“That I wouldn’t know, Mr. Saunders,” said Lips, watching them both carefully. “Like I said, Mr. Harrison is paying his last respects, and don’t want to be disturbed—how he pays ’em is not my business.”

“Jesus Christ . . .
” Boris began to seethe again, and Tony gripped his arm. “Forget it, man,” he said softly, “moron with gun, very bad combo. Besides you’re going to blow the whole Dave and Debbie thing if you don’t get back to the set. Come on, B.,” he pulled him gently, but firmly, “let’s go finish your movie.”

And Boris, shaking his head and muttering, allowed himself to be led away by Tone.

“No offense intended, Mr. Adrian,” Lips called out ingenuously behind them, “like I said, I just been acting on orders . . . from above.”

He who laughs

has not yet tuned in

the “Honky-Brinkley Report.”

Anon.

E
VER SINCE
S
ID’S
initial (“hookers-in-the-hearse”) confrontation with Cardinal von Kopf, the latter had conspired against him, with a determination increasingly diabolic—so that even as the last droplet of her brother’s turbulent seed was being carefully dabbed from Debbie’s perfect inner thigh by Helen Vrobel, and it was a wrap, even then was the outlandish Card mounting his monstro coup, in congress with certain eminent personages from the Eternal City itself. Only a brief deliberation had been required of their full committee meeting—or “Council of the Exalted” as it was called—to “unanimously condemn” the subject in question (namely, the film in progress,
The Faces of Love)
on the basis of Cardinal von Kopf’s testimony. Their subsequent proclamation deemed the work to be “a blasphemous outrage” and “a social menace,” and when the civil authorities had failed to act upon their advice, they felt obliged to take matters into their own hands—“in God’s great name, for the general weal, and upon the authority vested in this body by Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

So it was that on a dark and starless Wednesday night, just at the hour of ten, the gross Cardinal Hans von Kopf—personally leading up a veritable
posse of Vatican toughs
—did, by stealth, ruse, bribery, and more than a little bit of roughhouse, manage to cross the moat of the chateau, to breach the great gate itself, and to stream into the maze of stone-vaulted corridors like a drug-frenzied horde of ravaging Goths, possessed with, the zeal known only to those driven by a sense of absolute righteousness.