Death of a Blue Movie Star

Mary Jane-who Rune decided would have made someone a wonderful administrator-had left a note of her own, a long list of corrections to the estimate. She signed off with: Please aim for 8:30-ish. And remember: big day tomorrow. Let's all be bright-eyed. Ciao! M.J. C.

The door opened. Bob came in and walked right over to the gray machine, staring at the screen. He didn't say anything to her for a moment. " 'Ow're they coming, luv?"

"I'll have them for you in the morning." He waved her hand away from the crank and turned it himself, studying the jerky scenes in the small screen. Rune watched his 18-karat gold bracelet as she said, "I didn't know you did daily rushes when it's just a commercial."

"We're being a little more-whatsa word?-diligent with this one. The budget and all, you know."

"How was the client dinner?"

"Guy's an old fart and his daughter… Christ. She 'ad 'er foot up to no good, you know what I mean. On me thigh. Wanted a drink after, just the two of us. I 'ad to plead bloody exhaustion, get away from the crazy bird. And then Mary bleedin' Jane-there's an iceberg for you." He spun the knob. He frowned. "Add two more seconds of 'er before the fade. Her old man thinks she's some kinda Princess Di."

"I've already finished her sequence."

"Well, finish it again."

"Did you think about me, sitting here hungry, while you were eating a gourmet meal?"

"Ah, brung you a present."

He handed her a paper bag with a grease spot on it.

"Yeah?"

She opened it. Inside was a foil swan.

"Hey, you brought me something to go."

"Well, yeah."

She opened the swan's back. She stared down at it.

"It's leftovers, isn't it, Bob? This isn't a swan bag. It's a doggy bag."

"Thought you might like something."

Rune was poking at the contents with a pencil. "It's green beans and potatoes. That's all that's left. What went with it?"

"Dunno. May've been a steak." He stretched and for a moment looked like the cute, innocent boy he had never in his life been and walked out the door. "Eight-thirty for tomorrow, doll. 'E likes croissants, so pick up some on your way in, could you?"

The door shut behind him.

She wadded the cold potatoes up and was about to throw them out when she felt her stomach rumbling. Her hand hesitated.

"Double damn."

Rune opened the foil and then, with a glance out the window to make sure Bob had left, cued up her own videocassette on the Sony video editor next to the Moviola and started the tape. She watched it as she ate the potatoes and beans, using two pencils like chopsticks.

The shots of Danny Traub told her nothing other than that the porn producer was a stupid, egotistical, horny bastard. The shots of Michael Schmidt-taken with the hidden video camera-told her that he was a smart, insincere, egotistical bastard, who may or may not have been horny, but at least didn't let it get in the way of his job.

Rune replayed the flicker in his eye when she mentioned Shelly Lowe's name. A tiny motion. What was he thinking? What was heremembering?

She couldn't tell. As Larry had told her, "Cameras don't lie, luv, but that doesn't mean they tell the whole truth."

No, Schmidt's tape told her very little. But the tape of Arthur Tucker… that was different.

The first thing she noticed: Shelly's acting coach had spent several minutes casually covering up something on his desk as he talked to her. It might have been a pile of papers or a manuscript. He'd been very subtle; she hadn't even noticed him doing it in the office. What didn't he want her to see? Rune rewound the tape and freeze-framed the image. She couldn't make out anything.

But then she glanced at a plaque on the wall behind him. It held a set of medals. But not those mail-order medals that commemorate stupid events like Great Moments in the Industrial Revolution. Franklin Mint stuff. These were real-looking military medals, along with other mementos, including a gold cross.

She squinted as she studied them, recalling one of her favorite movies. A black-and-white film made by Metropolitan Studios in the fifties. The Fighting Rangers. A World War Two film. One of the main characters-the nice kid from a Midwestern town, played by somebody like Audie Murphy-is terrified of battle. He's never sure if his courage is going to break. But in the end, he sneaks up on an enemy bridge and blows it to bits all by himself to keep the enemy from sending reinforcements.

She remembered the little crescent name badge-the simple wordrangers on the hero's shoulder-when he lay dying in the last scene of the movie. It looked just like the tag Arthur Tucker had in his plaque of medals. He'd been a Ranger too.

The other thing she remembered was the scene earlier in the movie when another soldier had asked the hero if he knew how to rig the explosives on the bridge.

And he'd answered, "Sure, Sarge. All Rangers know how to blow up things. It's what they teach us in training."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Arthur Tucker was feeling old.