Death of a Blue Movie Star

Stu, not looking up fromGourmet, waved.

"I do not believe this place," Rune said. "Aren't you dying?"

She walked to the window and tried to open the greasy, chicken-wire-impregnated glass. It was frozen with age and paint and wormy strips of insulating putty. She focused on the green slate of the Hudson River as she struggled. Her muscles quivered. She groaned loudly. Stu sensed his cue and examined the window from his chair, then pushed himself into a standing slump. He was young and big but had developed muscles mostly from kneading bread and whisking egg whites in copper bowls. After three minutes he breathlessly conceded defeat.

"Hot air outside's all we'd get anyway." He sat down again. He jotted notes for a recipe, then frowned. "Are you here for a pickup? I don't think we're doing anything for L amp;R."

"Naw, I wanted to ask you something. It's personal."

"Like?"

"Like who are your clients?"

"That'spersonal! Well, mostly ad agencies and independent film makers. Networks and big studios occasionally but-"

"Who are the independents?"

"You know, small companies doing documentaries or low-budget features. Like L amp;R… You're grinning and you're coy and there's an old expression about butter melting in the mouth that I could never figure out but I think fits here. What's up?"

"You ever do adult films?"

He shrugged. "Oh, porn? Sure. We do a lot of it. I thought you were asking me something inscrutable."

"Can you give me the name of somebody at one of the companies?"

"I don't know. Isn't this some kind of business-ethics question, client confidentiality-"

"Stu, we're talking about a company making films that're probably illegal in most of the world and you're worried about business ethics?"

Stu shrugged. "If you don't tell them I sent you, you might try Lame Duck Productions. They're a big one. And just a couple blocks from you guys."

"From L amp;R?"

"Yeah. On Nineteenth near Fifth."

The man's huge Rolodex spun and gave off an afternoon library smell. He wrote down the address.

"Do they have an actress who's famous in the business?"

"What business?"

"Adult films."

"You're asking me? I have no idea."

"When you super the credits in the postproduction work, don't you see the names? Whose name do you see the most?"

He thought for a minute. "Well, I don't know whether she's famous but there's one actress for Lame Duck that I see all the time. Her name's Shelly Lowe."

There was a familiarity about the name.

"Does she have a narrow face, blonde?"

"Yeah, I guess. I didn't look at her face very much."

Rune frowned. "You're a dirty old man."

"You know her?" he asked.

"There was a bombing in Times Square, this porn theater… Did you hear about it?"

"No."

"Just today, a couple hours ago. I think she was in one of the movies that was playing there when it happened."

Perfect.

Rune put the address in her plastic leopard-skin shoulder bag.

Stu rocked back in his chair.

"Well?" Rune asked.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you curious why I asked?"

Stu held up a hand. "That's okay. Some things are best kept secret." He opened his magazine and said, "You ever made atarte aux marrons?"

CHAPTER TWO

Contrasts.

Rune sat in the huge loft that was the lobby of Lame Duck Productions and watched the two young women stroll to a desk across the room. Overhead, fans rotated slowly and forced air-conditioned breezes throughout the place.

The woman in the lead walked as if she had adegree, in it. Her feet were pointed forward, her back straight, hips not swaying. She had honey-blonde hair tied back with a braided rope of rainbow-colored strings. She wore a white jumpsuit but saved it from tackiness by wearing sandals, not boots, and a thin, brown leather belt.

Rune examined her closely but wasn't sure if this was the same woman she'd seen in the poster. In that photo, the one on the front of the porno theater, her makeup had been good; today, this woman had a dull complexion. She seemed very tired.

The other woman was younger. She was short, face glossy, a figure bursting out of the seams of her outfit. She had a huge, jutting-and undoubtedly fake-bust and broad shoulders. The black tank top showed a concise waist; the miniskirt crowned thin legs. There was no saving this cookie from tack; she had spiky high heels, feathery and teased hair sprayed with glitter and purple-brown makeup, which did a fair job minimizing the effect of a wide, Slavic nose.

Wouldn't be a bad-looking woman, Rune thought, if her mother dressed her right.

They stopped in front of her. The shorter one smiled. The tall blonde said, "So you're the reporter from, what was it, Erotic Film Monthly?" She shook her head. "I thought I knew everybody from the industry mags. Are you new with them?"

Rune started to continue the lie. But impulsively she said, "What I am is dishonest."

Which got a faint smile. "Oh?"

"I lied to the receptionist. To get in the front door. Are you Shelly Lowe?"

A momentary frown. Then she gave a curious smile and said, "Yes. But that's not my real name."