Death of a Blue Movie Star Page 7

  "What witness?"

  "A guy who was hurt in the first bombing. He was in the theater watching the movie."

  Rune said, "And what was his name again?"

  "No again about it. I don't give out the names of witnesses. I shouldn't even be talking to you."

  "Then why are you?"

  Healy looked out the gap. Traffic moved slowly by on the street. Horns screamed and drivers hooted and gestured, everyone in a hurry. A half-dozen people stood outside, gawking up at the hole. He looked at her for a moment, in a probing way that made her uncomfortable. "What they did here"--Healy nodded at the cratered floor--"that was real slick. Real professional. I were you, I'd think about a new subject for your film. At least until we find this Sword of Jesus."

  Rune was looking down, playing with the plastic controls on her Sony. "I have to make my film."

  "I've been in ordnance disposal for fifteen years. The thing about explosives is that they're not like guns. You don't have to look the person in the eyes when you kill them. You don't have to be anywhere near. You don't worry about hurting innocent people. Hurting innocent people is part of the message."

  "I told Shelly I was going to make this film. And I am. Nothing's going to stop me."

  Healy shrugged. "I'm just telling you what I'd want you to do, you were my girlfriend. Or something."

  Rune said, "Can I have my wallet back?"

  "No. Let me destroy the evidence."

  "It cost me fifty bucks."

  "Fifty? For a phony shield?" Healy laughed. "You're not only breaking the law, you're getting ripped off in the process. Now get out of here. And think about what I said."

  "About the Mossad and bombs and C-4?"

  "About making a different kind of movie."

  Son of a bitch.

  That night, home from work, Rune stood in the doorway of her houseboat and looked at the damage. Every drawer was open. The thief hadn't been very careful--just dumping clothes helter-skelter, opening notebooks and dressers and galley drawers and looking under futons. Clothes, papers, books, tapes, food, utensils, stuffed animals ... everything everywhere.

  Son of a bitch.

  Rune pulled a new tear gas canister out of a closet near the door and walked through the boat.

  The burglar had left.

  She stepped into the middle of the mess, picked up a few things--a couple of socks, the book of Grimms' fairy stories. Her shoulders slumped and she set the objects on the floor again. There was too much to do, and none of it was going to get done tonight.

  "Damn."

  Rune turned a chair right side up and sat on it. She felt queasy. Somebody had touched that sock, touched the book, touched her underwear and maybe her toothpaste.... Throw them out, she thought. She shuddered from the sense of violation.

  Why?

  She had valuables, fifty-eight Indian head nickels, which she thought were the neatest coins ever made and would have to be worth something. About three hundred dollars in cash, wadded up and stuffed in an old box of cornflakes. Some of the old books would be worth something. The VCR.

  Then she thought: Shit, the Sony.

  L&R's camera!

  Hell's bells it cost forty-seven thousand dollars shit Larry's gonna sue me double shit.

  Enough for a man to live in Guatemala for the rest of his life.

  Shit.

  But the battered Betacam was just where she'd left it.

  She sat for ten minutes, calming down, then started to clean. An hour later a good percentage of order had been restored. The burglar hadn't been particularly subtle. To unlock the door, he'd pitched a rock through one of the small windows looking out on the Jersey side. She swept the glass up and nailed a piece of plywood over the opening.

  She'd thought about calling the cops again, but what would they do?

  Why bother? They'd be too busy protecting nuns and the mayor's brother and celebrities.

  She was just finishing cleaning when she glanced at the Betacam once more.

  The door on the video camera's recording deck was open and the cassette of Shelly was gone.

  The man in the red jacket had robbed her.

  A moment of panic ... until she ran to her bedroom and found the dupe tape she'd made. She cued it up to make sure. Saw a bit of Shelly's face and ejected the cassette. She put it in a Baggie and slipped it into the cornflakes box with her money.

  Rune locked the doors and windows, turned out the outside lights. Then she made herself a bowl of Grape-Nuts and sat down on her bed, slipped the tear gas canister under a pillow, and lay back against the pile of pillows. She stared at the ceiling as she ate.

  Out the window, a tug honked its deep vibrating horn. She turned to look and caught a glimpse of the pier. She remembered the attack, the man in the red windbreaker.

  She remembered the terrible burst of explosion, the pressure wave curling around her face.

  She remembered Shelly's blonde head turning into the room to die.

  Rune lost her appetite and put aside the bowl. She climbed out of bed and walked to the kitchen. She opened the phone book and found the section on colleges and universities. She began to read.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The problem was that his voice kept trailing into silence as he answered her questions.

  As if everything he said brought to mind something else he had to consider.

  "Professor?" Rune prompted.

  "Right, sure." And he'd continue on for a few minutes. Then the words would meander once again.

  His office was filled with what must have been two thousand books. The window overlooked a patch of quadrangle grass and the low sprawl of Harlem beyond that. Students strolled by slowly. They all seemed dreamy-eyed and intense. Professor V.C.V. Miller sat back in his creaky wooden chair.

  The camera didn't bother him in the least. "I've been on TV before," he told her when she'd called. "I was interviewed for Sixty Minutes once." His subject was comparative religion and he'd written a treatise on the subject of cults. When Rune had told him she was doing a documentary on the recent bombings he'd said, "I'd be happy to talk to you. I've been told my work is definitive." Making it sound like she should be happy to speak to him.

  Miller was in his sixties, hair white and wispy, and he always kept his body three-quarters to the camera, though his eyes locked right onto the lens and wouldn't let go--until his voice grew softer and softer and he looked out the window to contemplate some elusive thought. He wore an ancient brown suit flecked with the dandruff of cigarette ash. His teeth were as yellow as little ivory Buddhas and so were his index finger and thumb, where he held his cigarette, even though he didn't inhale it while the camera was running.

  Rune found the monologue had wandered into Haiti and she was learning a number of things about voodoo and West African Dahomean religion.

  "Do you know about zombies?"

  "Sure, I've seen the movies," Rune said. "Somebody goes to an island in the Caribbean and gets bit by this walking-dead gross thing, yuck, with worms crawling around, then he comes back and bites all his friends and--"

  "I'm talking about real zombies."

  "Real zombies." Her finger released the trigger of the camera.

  "There is a such a thing, you know. In Haitian culture, the walking dead are more than just a myth. It's been found that houngans or mambos--the priests and priestesses--would appear to induce death by administering cardiopulmonary depressants. The victims seemed to die. In fact, they were in suspended animation."

  ("Rune," Larry'd told her, "the interviewer is always in control. Remember that.") She said, "Let's get back to the Sword of Jesus."

  "Sure, sure, sure. The people that're responsible for these pornography bombings."

  Rune said, "What do you know about them?"

  "Nary a thing, miss."

  "You don't?" Her eyes strayed to the bookshelves. What was this "definitive" stuff.

  "No. Never heard of them."

  "But you said you knew most of the
cults."

  "And I do. But that doesn't necessarily mean they don't exist. There are thousands of cult religions in this country. The Sword of Jesus could be one that has a hundred members who read from the Bible and talk fire and brimstone--of course, all the while writing off their tithes on their income taxes."

  He got an ash into the round ceramic ashtray on his desk before it fell to the floor.

  "Say they did exist. You have any thoughts on them?"

  "Well, I guess ..." The volume went way down. Eyes out the window again.

  "Professor?"

  "Sorry. It's surprising."

  "What is?"

  "The killings. The violence."

  "Why's that?"

  "You see, in America, we can't escape the heritage of religious tolerance. We're so damn proud of it. Oh, we'll lynch a man because he's black, persecute him because he's a Communist, despise him because he's poor or because he's Irish or Italian. But his religion? No. That is not a prejudice that flies in America, the way it would in Europe. And you know why? Nobody really cares about religions here."

  "But what about Jim Jones? He was American."

  "People may kill to protect their religion. And these Sword of Jesus people, if there is such a thing, unquestionably come from conservative, military backgrounds and a love of firearms and hunting. They'd kill abortionists. But, see, that's to save lives. Killing purely to further a system of morality ... Well, I could see some Islamic sects, some primitive religions doing that. But not in America, not a Christian group. Remember, Christians were the folks that brought you the Crusades, and the reviews were not good at all. We've learned our lesson."

  "Would you have any idea where I could find out if they're real?"

  "You're talking to the best source, young lady, and I'm afraid I can't help very much. Is this going to be network?"

  She said, "Maybe even in the movie theaters."

  A caterpillar of ash fell onto his shiny pants and he brushed it away to join the other fractured, gray bodies at his feet. "I have tenure, you know, but still, every bit helps. Now, if you still have some tape left would you like to hear about the Sioux Sun Dance ceremony?"

  In his most cheerful Down Under lilt, Larry was saying, "What it is, we're gonna give you a raise."

  Rune was unplugging the tungsten lights. They'd just finished interviewing people for a documentary on day-care centers. Rune was exhausted. She'd been up until three that morning poring over books about cults--and finding nothing about the Sword of Jesus--and rewatching Professor Miller's less-than-helpful tape. Now she paused and stifled a yawn. Looked at her boss.

  This was Larry, wasn't it?

  Occasionally, when she had a hangover or was tired or it was early in the morning, she had trouble telling them apart. Bob, she had to remember, was a little smaller, with a trimmer beard and a tendency toward beiges and browns, while Larry wouldn't be found south of Dutchess County in anything but black.

  "A raise?"

  He said, "We figure it's time you took on a few more things."

  Her stomach gave an excited lurch. "A promotion? I get to be a cameraman?"

  "Something like that."

  "How much like that?"

  "We were thinking: an administrator."

  Rune began coiling the electric wires into loops. After a moment she said, "I worked for an administrator once. She wore her hair in a little bun and had glasses on a metal chain and her blouses had little embroidered dogs on them. I got fired after about three hours. Is that the sort of administrator you have in mind?"

  "Serious work is what I'm saying, luv."

  "You're firing Cathy and you want me to be a secretary. Oh, this is, like, too gross for words, Larry."

  "Rune ..."

  "Forget it."

  His face was a massive grin and he would have been blushing if he knew how. "Cathy's leaving, right. That part is true."

  "Larry, I want to make films. I can't type, I can't file. I don't want to be an administrator."

  "Thirty bucks more a week."

  "How much are you saving by firing Cathy?"

  "I didn't bleedin' fire her. She's going on to a better opportunity."

  "Unemployment?"

  "Ha. Tell you what, we'll give you forty more a week and all you 'ave to do is 'elp out a little in the office. When you feel like it. Let the files stack up, you want."

  "Larry ..."

  "Look, we just won the bid for this big advertising job. That company we were going after. House O' Leather. You 'ave to 'elp us out. You'll be first production assistant. We'll let you shoot some footage."

  "Advertising? You shouldn't do that crap, Larry. What about your documentaries? They're honest."

  "Honesty 'as its place, luv, but what it is, this agency's paying us a two 'undred thousand fee plus fifteen percent markup on production. Please ... Just 'elp us out for a bit."

  She waited a moment while she muscled up some coyness. "Larry," she said. "You know I'm working on this documentary. About the bombing--but not about the bombing."

  "Yeah, right." His mouth curled a portion of a millimeter.

  "Maybe, when it's finished, you could talk to some of the programming people you know. Put in a good word for me."

  "Rune, you think you're gonna send a tape to PBS and they're gonna bleedin' show it? Just like that?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Lemme see it first. Maybe, you got some good footage, we could go in and work with it."

  "Not it, me. Work with me."

  "Sure, you's what I meant to say."

  "You can introduce me to some distributors?"

  "Yeah. Might 'appen."

  "All right, fair enough. You want an administrator, I'll do it."

  Larry hugged her. "'ey, way to go, luv."

  Rune finished coiling the wires. She made sure the coils were even but not too tight. That was one thing they'd taught her at L&R, and she appreciated it--how to take care of your equipment.

  Larry asked, "'ey, what kinda hook d'you come up with for that film on the bombing? A bio of that girl got killed?"

  "That's what it was going to be about, but not anymore."

  "What's it's about now?"

  "It's going to be about finding a murderer."

  Rune sat on Nicole D'Orleans's couch, sinking so far into the luxurious leather that her feet were off the ground.

  "This is very embryonic, you know. They oughta sell these to therapists. Get right back, you know, to the womb, sitting here."

  Nicole wore a purple minidress with a scooped neck showing six inches of taut cleavage, purple glittery stockings, white high-heel shoes. When she walked she loped forward awkwardly. Her concession to mourning was a huge black bow in her hair. She'd just come back from a memorial service for Shelly, an informal event that the people at Lame Duck had arranged. "I've never seen so many people crying at one time. Everybody loved her."

  That brought back the tears but this time she was able to control the sobbing. Rune watched her wander through the living room. Nicole had started--obsessively, it seemed--to pack up Shelly's belongings. But since the actress had no close family she didn't know what to do with them. Moving cartons lay half-filled in the bedroom.

  Sunlight streamed through the open-weave drapes and fell in bright patterns on the carpet. Rune squinted against it as she waited for Nicole to finish aligning the boxes, folding the lids over. Finally Nicole sighed and sat down.

  And that was when Rune said to her: "I think Shelly was murdered."

  Nicole gazed blankly for a minute. "Well, yeah. The Sword of Christ."

  "Sword of Jesus."

  "Whatever."

  "Except that it's fake," Rune said. "It doesn't exist."

  "But they left these notes about angels destroying the earth and everything."

  "It's a cover-up."

  "But I read it in Newsweek. It has to be true."

  Rune looked at the centerpiece on the table, hungry and wondering if the apples were too ripe;
she hated mushy apples. But if she started to eat one she couldn't very well put it back. She said, "Nobody's every heard of them. And I can't find any reference to the group anywhere. And think about it--you want to kill someone, okay? You make it look like a terrorist thing. It's a pretty good cover."

  "But why would somebody want to kill Shelly?"

  "That's what I'm going to find out. That's what my movie's going to be about. I'm going to find the killer."

  Nicole asked, "What do the police think?"

  "They don't. First of all, they don't care she was killed. They said ... Well, they don't think much of people in your line of work. Second, I haven't told them my theory. And I'm not going to. If I do, and it's true, then everybody'll get the story. I want it for me. An exclusive ..."

  "Murder?"

  "What do you think, Nicole? Was there anybody that would've wanted Shelly dead?"

  Rune could sense the gears turning beneath the teased, sprayed hair that glittered with tiny silver flecks, a living Hallmark decoration.

  Nicole shook her head.

  "Was she going out with anybody?"

  "Nobody serious. The thing is, in this business, it's real--what's the word?--incestuous, you know? You can't just meet some guy at a party like anybody else. Sooner or later he's gonna ask what you do for a living. Nowadays, with AIDS and Hep B and everything, that's a way for a girl to get dropped real fast. So what happens is, you tend to just hang out a lot with other people in the business. Date a lot. Maybe move in with a guy and finally get married. But Shelly didn't do that. There was one guy she was seeing recently. Andy ... somebody. A funny last name. I don't remember. He was never over to the apartment. It seemed pretty casual."

  "Could you find out his name?"

  Nicole walked into the kitchen and looked at the wall calendar. She traced a pencil-written note with her finger; it made a sad sweep as it followed Shelly's writing.

  "Andy Llewellyn. Four l's in his name. That's why I thought it was weird."

  Rune wrote down the name, then looked over the calendar. She pointed. "Who's that?" A. Tucker was penned in. His name appeared almost every Wednesday going back for months. "Doctor?"