Death of a Blue Movie Star

"Did they now? I'll have to talk to someone about that." Schmidt was short, very compact, and in good shape. Rune could see his biceps squeezed by the cuffs of his close-fitting short-sleeve shirt. Though he was muscular his face looked unhealthy; his eyes were red and watery. Maybe allergies.

Maybe, she thought, CS tear gas…

She looked around the seats near the producer for a red windbreaker and a hat. Didn't see any.

And he didn't seem to recognize her as the person he might've attacked on the pier. Still, his profession was creating the illusion of the theater…

"What do you want?" he said curtly.

Rune said, "Can I have your autograph?"

Schmidt blinked. "How the fuck did you get past security?"

"Just walked in. Please, I've always wanted your autograph."

He sighed.

"Please."

He glanced at the others, who were still staring at the script and whispering darkly. He stood. Schmidt was limping and winced once as he climbed a stained set of plywood stairs onto the stage.

She stuck her hand out. He glanced at her without a bit of expression on his face and walked past. Went to the coffee machine and poured himself a large cup. He returned, glanced again at the arguing writers, or whoever they were, and said, "Okay."

"This is so neat. Thanks." She handed him a piece of paper and a Crayola.

"To who?"

"Mom."

He scrawled some illegible words. Handed it back. Rune took it, then gazed up at him. He sniffled, blew his nose with a linen handkerchief and asked, "Anything else I can do for you, Miss Rune?" He stood with a cocked hip, looking at her, waiting.

"Okay." She put the autograph away. "I lied."

"I figured that."

"Well, I did want your autograph. But I wanted to ask you a couple questions too."

"I don't do casting. Give your resume to the-"

"I don't want to be an actress either."

He blinked, then laughed. "Well, in that case you're the only woman under twenty-five in the whole city who doesn't."

"I'm doing a film about an actress who auditioned for you. Shelly Lowe?"

Did his eyes flutter like a startled squirrel's? So maybe had he recognized her now?

He said, "I don't recall a Shelly Lowe."

"You must. I heard you almost offered her a part in this play."

He laughed, startled. "I must? Well, young lady, I don't."

"She was going to be the lead."

"There were hundreds of actresses who hoped to be the lead in this play. We finally selected one. It wasn't a Ms. Lowe. Now, if you'll-"

"She was killed."

His attention wavered. He studied some of the construction. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Which he wasn't, Rune could see. She remained silent, staring up at him.

Schmidt finally said, "And you're doing her life story?"

"Something like that. Here's her picture." Rune handed him a publicity still that Nicole had given her. He studied it with the detached interest of a bored traffic cop reading a driver's license and handed it back to her. "Don't recall her. Why do you think she auditioned for us?"

"I heard she did."

"Ah," Schmidt said, smiling again. "Theatrical gossip. Never to be trusted."

"Then maybe you can set the record straight. You really don't remember her?"

"Miss Rune, you've got to understand. First of all, I do none of the preliminary casting myself. We have a casting director for that-"

"What's his-"

"-who is no longer with the company, and I don't know where he is. Second, most of the people who say they interview or audition with Michael Schmidt do nothing more than have their agent send a head shot and a copy of their resume to us or stand in line for an EPA or EPI that lasts ten seconds. Did this Ms. Lowe ever really audition for us? I doubt it. Did she ever audition for me? No disrespect to the dead… but if your friend said she almost had the part"-he turned his palms upward-"she lied."

There was a loud crash nearby. A stagehand had knocked over a huge stack of two-by-fours. Schmidt turned to him, the producer's face twisted in fury. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry, Mr. Schmidt. I-"

"We're behind schedule because cretins like you don't know what on earth you're doing. One more mistake and you're out of here."

"I said I was sorry," the beefy young man said. "It was an accident."

Schmidt turned back to Rune. "Idiots all around me… Next time you want to talk to me, call my office. Make an appointment. Although"-he turned and walked toward the stairs-"I sincerely hope there won't be a next time."

Rune watched him for a moment. Saw that as far as Michael Schmidt was concerned she had ceased to exist. She slipped backstage and paused, watching the young stagehand angrily restack the lumber that had fallen to the floor.

*****

She yawned so hard that her jaw shivered and from her eyes sprang thick tears.

It was ten p.m. Rune sat in the L amp;R studio, at the Moviola-an old flatbed film editing machine-rewinding the footage for the House O' Leather commercial. Larry'd shot about an hour of the homely daughter doing retakes against the pimply backdrop. Rune was editing together chunks of the film, following Bob's notes.