Death of a Blue Movie Star

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning Rune was lying in bed-well, a bunk-listening to the sounds of the river. There was a knock on her front door.

She pulled on her jeans and a red silk kimono, then walked to the front of the boat. She opened the door and found she was looking at Shelly Lowe's back. The actress was examining the water lapping under her feet as she stood on a small gangway painted egg-yolk yellow. She turned and shook her head. Rune nodded at the familiar reaction.

"It's a houseboat. You live on a houseboat."

Rune said, "I used to make wisecracks about having water in the basement. But the material's limited. There aren't a lot of houseboat jokes."

"You don't get seasick?"

"The Hudson River isn't exactly Cape Horn." Rune stepped back to let Shelly into the narrow entryway. In the distance, along the roof of the pier to the north, a flash of color. Red. It reminded her of something disturbing. She couldn't remember what.

She followed Shelly into the boat.

"Give me a tour."

The style: nautical suburban ranch, mid-fifties. Downstairs were the living room, kitchen and bath. Up a narrow staircase were two small rooms: the pilot house and bedroom. Outside, a railing and deck circled the living quarters.

The smell was of motor oil and rose potpourri.

Inside, Rune showed her a recent acquisition: a half-dozen Lucite paperweights with flecks of colored plastic chips in them. "I'm very into antiques. These are guaranteed 1955. That was a great year, my mother tells me."

Shelly nodded with detached politeness and looked around the rest of the room. There was a lot to put politeness to the test: turquoise walls, a painted vase (the scene: a woman in pedal pushers walking a poodle), Lava lamps, kidney-shaped plastic tables, a lampshade made out of Bon Ami and Ajax cleanser cartons, wrought-iron and black-canvas chairs you sank down into like hammocks, an old Motorola console TV.

Also: an assortment of fairy-tale dolls, stuffed animals and shelves filled with old books.

Shelly pulled a scaly, battered Brothers Grimm off the shelf, flipped through and replaced it.

Rune squinted at Shelly, studying her. A thought occurred to her. She laughed. "Know what's weird? I've got a picture of you."

"Me?"

"Well, sort of. Here, look."

She took a dusty book from the shelf and opened it up. Metamorphoses.

"Some old Roman dude wrote these stories."

"Roman?" Shelly asked. "As in Julius Caesar?"

"Yeah. Here, look at this picture."

Shelly glanced at the color plate of a beautiful woman being led out of a dark cave by a man playing a lyre. The caption read: Orpheus and Eurydice.

"See, you're her. Eurydice. You look just like her.". Shelly shook her head, then squinted. She laughed. "I do, you know. That's funny." She looked at the spine of the book. "This is Roman mythology?"

Rune nodded. "It was a sad story. Eurydice died and went down to Hades. Then Orpheus-he was her husband, this musician guy-went to rescue her. Isn't that romantic?"

"Wait. I've heard that story. It was an opera. Didn't something go wrong?"

"Yeah, those Roman gods had weird rules. The thing is he could take her out of the Underworld as long as he didn't look back at her. That makes a lot of sense, right? Anyway, he did and that blew the whole thing. Back she went. People think myths and fairy tales have happy endings. But they don't all."

Shelly gazed at the picture for a moment. "I collect old books too."

"What kind?" Rune assumed erotica.

But Shelly said, "Plays mostly. In high school I was president of the drama club. A thespian." She laughed. "Whenever I tell somebody in the Industry-I mean, the porn business-tell them that, they say something like, 'What's that, a dyke with a speech problem?' " She shook her head. "My profession's got a pretty low common denominator."

Rune clicked on an ultraviolet light. A black-light poster of a ship sailing around the moon popped out into three dimensions. It was next to purple-and-orange tie-dye hangings. "I mix my eras. But you don't want to get too locked in, do you now? Never be too literal. That's my motto."

"Avoid it at all costs." Shelly had climbed up to the pilot house and was pulling the whistle cord. There was no noise. "Can you take this thing out for rides?"

"Naw, it doesn't drive," Rune said. "Oh, no wait, I'm supposed to say she. She doesn't drive."

"Drive?"

"Well, sail or whatever. There's a motor, but it doesn't work. My old boyfriend and I were driving up along the Hudson and we found it-I mean, her -moored near Bear Mountain. She was for sale. I asked the owner to take me out for a spin and he said the motor didn't work so we went out for a tow. We did a lot of haggling and when he agreed to throw in the Formica dining room set I had to get it."

"You pay to dock it here?"

"Yep. You pay the Port Authority. They still run the docks even though they don't have much ship traffic anymore. It's pretty expensive. I don't think I can stay here forever. But it'll do for now."

"Is it safe?"

Rune pointed out one of the picture windows. "That's still a working pier so this whole area's chained off. The security guards and I are friends. They keep an eye out. I give them good Christmas presents. It's really neat, owning a house. And there's no grass to mow."

Shelly gave her another wan smile. "You're so… enthusiastic. And you actually live on a houseboat in Manhattan. Amazing."

Rune's eyes sparkled. "Come here. I'll show you what's amazing." She walked out onto the small gray-painted deck. She clung to a railing and dipped her foot into the opaque oily water.

"You going swimming?" Shelly asked uncertainly.

Rune closed her eyes. "You know that I'm touching the exact same water that's lapping up on the Galapagos Islands, and in Venice, and in Tokyo and Hawaii and Egypt? It's so neat. And-I haven't figured this out yet-it may very well be the same water that splashed against the Nina, Pinta andSanta Maria and against Napoleon's ships. The same water they used to wash away the blood after Marie Antoinette got the axe… I'm guessing that it might be… That's the part I'm not too clear on. Does water, like, die? I remember something from science class. I think it just keeps recirculating." Shelly said, "You have quite an imagination." "I've been told that before." Rune jumped back on deck. "Coffee? Something to eat?" "Just coffee."

They sat in the pilot house. Rune was putting peanut butter on her toast while Shelly sipped black coffee. The woman may have been a celebrity in the flesh trade but today she looked just like a Connecticut housewife. Jeans, boots, white blouse and a thin, light blue sweater, the arms tied around her neck.

"Find the place okay?" Rune asked. "Wasn't hard. I would've called first but you didn't give me a number."

"I don't have a phone. When I tried to get one the New York Bell guys drove up, laughed and left."

A moment passed and Shelly said, "I've been thinking about the film. Even after you agreed to the final cut approval I didn't want to do it. But something happened that changed my mind." "The bombing?"

"No," Shelly said. "What happened was I had a bad fight with one of the guys I work for. I don't want to go into the details but it brought a lot of things into focus. I realized how sick I was of the business. I've been in it too long. It's time to leave. If I can get some legitimate publicity, if people can see that I'm not a bimbo, maybe it'll help me get legitimate jobs."

"I'll do a good job. I really will."

"I had a feeling about you." The pale blue laser beams of her eyes fired out. "I think you're just the person who could tell my story. When can we start?"

Rune said, "How's now? I've got the day off." She shook her head. "I've got some things to do now but why don't you meet me this afternoon, around, let's say, five? We can do a couple hours of work. Then tonight there's a party this publisher's giving. Most of the companies publishing skin magazines are also into adult films and video. There'll be a lot of people from the business there. Maybe you could talk to them."

"Excellent! Where do you want to do the filming?" She looked around the room. "How's here? I feel very comfortable here."

"It's going to be a great interview." Shelly smiled. "I may even be honest."

After Shelly'd left, Rune was at the window. She caught another glint of red from the roof of the pier across the spit of slick water.

And she remembered the color.

The same as the jacket or windbreaker of the person she'd seen-or thought she'd seen-in Times Square, following her.

She went into her bedroom and dressed.

Five minutes later the red was still there. And five minutes after that she was on her way toward the pier, running low, crouched like a soldier. Around her neck was a big chrome whistle, the kind football referees use. She figured she could get 120 decibels easy and scare the hell out of anybody looking to give her trouble.

Which was fine for skittish attackers. For the others Rune had something else. A small, round canister. It contained 113 grams of CS-38 military tear gas. She felt its comfortable weight against her leg.

She hurried along the highway. The river water gave off its rotten-ripe smell, riding on the humidity that the clouds-now covering the sky-had brought. The day became still. Several church bells chimed. It was exactly noon.

Rune twisted through the gap in the chain link and walked slowly up to the pier. It rose three stories above her and the facade was weathered down to the bare wood in many places. She could make out part of the name of the shipping line across the top, in a dark blue paint that she associated with old-fashioned trains. America was one word. And she saw, or thought she did, a faint blue star.

The twelve-foot wooden doors looked imposing but were off their track and Rune easily slipped through a seam into the darkness.

It was ratty and spooky inside. At one time these piers had been the places from which the great liners had sailed to Europe. Then they'd been used for cargo ships until Brooklyn and New Jersey docks took over most of that business. Now, they were mostly just relics. A barge half the size of a football field had appeared one day, moored next to Rune's houseboat, while she'd been at the studio. But that was the only commercial shipping traffic in the neighborhood.

Rune had been to this particular pier a couple of times since she'd docked the boat along this stretch of river. She'd stroll around, imagining what the luxurious liners of the nineteenth century must've been like. She also wondered if some of the ships had dropped off contraband (gold bullion was a front-runner) that had never been found. Pirates, she knew, had sailed the Hudson River, not far from here. She wasn't surprised that she found no chests of gold. The only salvage was empty cardboard boxes, lumber and big pieces of rusty machinery.

After she'd decided there was no plunder Rune would come occasionally to picnic with friends on the roof and watch the giants in the clouds play above the city until they disappeared over Brooklyn and Queens. Sometimes she'd come just to be by herself and feed the gulls.

In the portion of the pier farthest into the water there were warrens of rooms. These had been offices and the off-loading docks and were boarded up now. Whatever light snuck in did so through the grace of the carpenters' sloppy nailing. This portion of the pier contained the rickety staircase that led up to the roof.

And this portion of the pier was what she now slipped into. Rune eased through the back of the pier and started toward the stairs slowly. At the foot of the stairwell the floor of the pier had given way; a ragged hole three feet across led down into darkness. Water lapped. The smell was sharp and foul. Rune stared through the gloom at the hole and edged slowly past it.

She listened carefully on her way up but there was no sound other than distant traffic and the water on the pilings and the wind that meant the storm would hit pretty soon. Rune paused at the top landing. She pulled the white tear gas canister from her pocket and pushed the door open.

The roof was empty.

She stepped outside, then walked carefully along the rotting tar paper and gravel, testing each square in front of her. At the edge, she walked back toward the front of the building to the spot where she thought she'd seen the guy.

Rune stopped and looked down at her feet.

Okay, so it'snot my imagination. She was looking at footprints in the tar. They were large-a man's shoe size. And were smooth, like conservative business shoes, not sneakers or running shoes. But aside from that, nothing. No cigarette ash, no discarded bottles. No cryptic messages.

As she stood there a sprinkling of rain began and she ed back to the stairs. She started down slowly, reaching out with her foot to find the flooring in the dimness.

A noise.

She paused on the second-floor landing. Stepped through an open doorway into the dark, abandoned office. Her hand gripped the tear gas canister firmly. Her pupils, contracted from the brightness, couldn't take in enough light to see anything.

But she could hear. Rune froze.

He's here!

Someone was in the room.

Nothing specific told her-no popping boards, no whispers, no shuffles of feet. The message was transmitted maybe by a smell or maybe by some sixth-sense radar.

The wave came back with a message: Whoa, honey, he's big and he's pretty damn close.

Rune didn't move. The other figure didn't either though twice she heard the air of his breath across his teeth. Her eyes became accustomed to the dark and she looked for a target and slowly lifted the tear gas.

Her hands began to quiver.

No, not one but two of them.

And they were ghosts.

Two pale forms. Humanlike, vague, undefined. They both stared at her. One held a thick, white billy club.

She aimed the canister at them. "I've got a gun."

"Shit," a man's voice said.

The other voice, also male, said, "Take the wallet. Takeboth wallets."

Her vision was improving. The apparitions turned into two naked, crew-cut men in their mid-thirties. She began to laugh when she saw what the club was; it was now considerably smaller.

"Sorry," she said.

"This isn't a mugging?"

"Sorry."

Heavy-duty indignation. "Well, I just want you to know you scared the living hell out of us. For your information, this room happens to be reserved."

Rune asked, "How long have you been here?"

"Too long, apparently."

"For the last hour or so?"

The anger became giddy relief. One of the men nodded toward his friend and said, "He's good but he's notthat good."

The other, more sober: "Forty-five minutes?"

"Closer."

Rune asked, "Did you hear anybody come down from the roof?"

"Yeah, I did. Fifteen minutes ago. Then you go up, then you come down. Grand Central Station today."

"Did you see him?"

"Wewere a little busy…"

Rune said, "Please? It's important."

"We thought he was cruising but we weren't sure. You have to be kind of careful."

Sure. No telling what kind of degenerate you'll meet while having sex in deserted piers.

"So we kept mum."

"What did he look like?"

"Medium build. But otherwise I have no idea." Turning to his companion: "Do you?… No, we don't have any idea."

Rune said, "Did you see what he was wearing? A jacket?"

"A red windbreaker. Hat, an old-fashioned one. Dark slacks, I think," one voice said.

"Tight." From the other.

"Youwould notice that."

Rune said, "Well, thanks."

As she left she heard them whispering. Something about not exactly being in the mood anymore. "Well, you cantry."

She started the descent to the first floor.

Feeling her thudding heartbeats slow.

Rune laughed. Thisroom is reserved. Why didn't they pick a more romantic-

He got her from behind.

At the foot of the stairs, as she was stepping carefully around the hole, the hand grabbed her pony tail and jerked her backward. She saw a gloved hand, holding a razor box cutter, start for her neck. She grabbed his wrist and dug in hard with her short nails. It deflected the knife and for a moment they grappled for it. She knew if she let go of the banister she'd fall but there was no other way to get the tear gas with her other hand; it was deep in her pocket.

Rune released her grip and as she tumbled into her attacker she grabbed the canister and, without aiming, pushed the button. A cloud sprayed out between them, blinding them both. She cried out in pain as the attacker spun away, hands over his face.

But he didn't let go and Rune felt herself being pulled backward. Eyes shut, she reached out but grabbed only air and fell in panic and confusion. Her breath exploded from her lungs as she hit the floor hard on her back. She twisted onto her stomach, then was up on one knee, scrabbling away from him. The man bent down quickly and gripped her around the neck. He wasn't strong. But he had surprise on his side-and desperation. He kicked her in the chest, again knocking her windless. She curled into a ball, gasping. Vaguely she saw his blurry form groping for the razor knife. She smelled old wood and salt water and motor oil and rot, and she tasted salt-maybe her tears, maybe blood.

Christ, her eyes stung. Like alcohol.

She too began looking for her weapon, slapping her hand on the floor, trying to find the canister of tear gas.

He gave up on the knife and looked at the floor near them. Then he grabbed her by the collar and dragged her toward the jagged black opening that led down to the Hudson. A roar was in her ears. He pushed her head, then her shoulders into the hole. He gripped her belt and she started to go in.