SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #10

Gorman Bechard

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, films, books, songs, TV programs, universities, cities, politicians and incidents, in other words EVERYTHING depicted in SLOW FADE TO BLACK: is fictitious, or use fictitiously. The events in this work of fiction are not real, nor are they intended to be so interpreted. For example, any quotes, speeches, thoughts, newspaper headlines, histories, anything and everything contained herein is completely a product of the author's imagination and there is no intention to imply that any of it is real.

CUT TO:

FORTY-TWO

Paige, a half dozen video stills folded neatly in her purse alongside the automatic, was carrying the first suitcase filled with her belongings out to the VW Bug, just as Max pulled his Jeep into the driveway of the Elm Drive home. She had been watching, waiting, as per his instructions. They needed to talk, he said, calling immediately after wrapping up on the Healer set for the day.

She played her part perfectly -- Max, the director, would have been proud. The scowl, the door slam, a yell of, "I'll be out of your way permanently now."

"That's fine by me," he yelled back, slamming his car's door, sulking toward the house. "The sooner you're out of my life, the better."

That line almost made her cry. His reading was too cruel, too real. She'd have to keep convincing herself that he didn't mean it. He did not mean it. He couldn't possibly.

Brushing by her, catching her green-eyed gaze, Max wanted so badly to . . . to . . . well, he wasn't sure what he wanted to do. No, maybe he was, but that scene wasn't in their script. At least not in this act.

She followed him into the house. He turned quickly to face her as soon as the door was shut.

"What do you have?" she asked.

"The elephant pendant," he said. "It belonged to Eleanor Theilgard, Heather's mom."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Saw a photo. And Heather has a copy." He looked away. "I held it in my hands."

Paige nodded, wondering what else he had touched with those hands, but not really wanting to know. Her voice was calm, void of all emotion -- it had to be. "I'll tell Selden."

He nodded. "Yeah."

She wanted to say something, anything. But the words could not come. They choked up in her throat, a ball of feeling, regret, maybe even desire. So, she bent forward to pick up the garment bag, slinging it over her shoulder, then again to pick up the other suitcase. "I better be going," she said, a half smile that disguised an ocean of confusion. "See you later."

Max started to speak, but she cut him off.

"Don't," she said. "It'll be easier that way."

CUT TO:

FORTY-THREE

Wednesday morning, bright and somewhat early, James Utz, with Larry Moore in tow, scurried past Russell into Theilgard's office, slamming the door shut behind them. It was a curt I'm here to see Theilgard/black briefcase sort of day.

Randall just grunted and waved them in. Why bother arguing? And besides, he was tingling -- one of those falling-in-love/goose-bumpy-all-over kind of sensations. It was all he could do to keep his mind on Theilgard Studios-related business, and off Ted Taylor.

Inside, Utz essentially danced up to the massive marble slab of a desk. "Morning Jeffrey," he said, beaming.

Theilgard eyed him suspiciously. "What the hell are you so happy about?"

"Nothing. Everything," Utz said. "Just life in general."

Theilgard looked at Moore. "Isn't it a little early to be hitting the bottle?"

"We're bone dry," he said.

The big man caught a glimpse of the black briefcase. "Let me guess. You made a movie of your own and you're cutting me in."

Utz smiled. Placing the briefcase upon the massive marble slab, he popped the locks, and slowly opened the case. "I did make a movie," the hairless man beamed. "But it's not for sale." He removed a VHS video cassette -- one of the many copies he and Moore had made the previous evening -- and handed it to Theilgard.

"What is it?" the studio boss asked.

"A gift," Utz said. "Just consider it a gift."

CUT TO:

Max knocked on the door to Heather's trailer.

"Come on in," she said.

Max pushed open the door. Heather was lounging on a small sofa. She wore shorts and a lacy bra. She held a bottle of Snapple pink lemonade in one hand, her copy of the script in the other.

"Hello," she said, a sexy smile. The kind of smile Leanna reserved for Dr. Franklin.

"Hi," Max said.

"What can I do for you?" Heather asked.

"Just wanted to get away from everyone else."

"So, you hide in here?"

They were lines from the script. Max was joking around, but to Heather no other words would have seemed appropriate.

"Good a place as any. Wouldn't you say?"

A shrug. "I guess."

Heather waited for Dr. Franklin's next lines: "I just finished my rounds. And I'm due for a little break." But the lines never came, Max didn't realize he was supposed to be playing a part, this part.

She stared into his face expectantly. Always the trouper -- forge ahead unless you hear the magic Cut! She shrugged and smiled, and placed aside her script, then said her next line, the only words she knew would keep the scene moving, "Wanna fuck?"

Max shook away the tiny bit of wonder, and joined Heather on the sofa. What the hell, he figured, wasn't sex the great neutralizer? Couldn't it take his mind off everything? Perhaps . . . everything except Paige.

He cleared his mind as best he could and pulled Heather close, unaware that she was also in a different world, climaxing through a different universe, quite unaware of the fact that it was Leanna with whom he was about to engage in the most amorous of activities, and to his partner he was Dr. Stephen Franklin.

CUT TO:

Utz popped the video tape into the machine that sat atop the thirty-five inch monitor that was recessed into one of the walls of Theilgard's twelfth floor office suite. He hit PLAY, and took a seat on the sofa besides Moore. Theilgard was seated in the high back olive green leather chair of Swedish origin. He stared straight ahead at the TV monitor -- through the monitor, it seemed to Utz and Moore.

The action was innocent enough. John Maxwell slept on a chaise lounge by the side of the pool. Heather was swimming laps. She was nude. Theilgard knew of his daughter's penchant for swimming in the buff. He had even caught her a few times, more embarrassed for himself than for his little girl. But to have Utz and Moore see her thus exposed, made the big man uneasy.

"What's this all about?" he demanded.

"Just watch," Utz said. "You'll understand soon enough. Then you'll be thanking me."

Theilgard grunted his reply, turning his eyes back just as Heather emerged from the pool -- her shapely backside filled the TV screen. When making copies, this initial shot of her behind had made Moore gasp. "That's art," he had said at the time, half in jest, half serious. "God's supreme creation."

"A rose is a rose is a rose . . ." had been Utz's reply.

Theilgard shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He cleared his throat and started to unloosened his tie, but stopped himself short.

On the TV, Max and his daughter engaged in a little small talk -- something about blue jeans. Then, just as quickly as the conversation had begun, it was over, and Heather was straddling the young filmmaker, helping him out of those jeans. They kissed, pawed, squeezed, felt, probed and fucked -- all of it as crystal clear as the day is long -- thanks to the finest in Japanese video technology.

Between the conclusion of what Moore had christened the "chaise lounge frolic" and the start of the "diving board extravaganza," Theilgard stood and walked to the window that gave him that treasured view of his world. He felt nauseous. His legs weak, his hands shaking. What he had just witnessed made him furious and confused, so very jealous. Feelings that had been repressed. Feelings missing for going on eleven years.

"Want me to put it on pause?" Utz asked.

Theilgard's voice boomed, "No." He gazed out the window. Parked twelve stories below were the trailers that housed the stars of Healer. He counted two over from the left -- his daughter's trailer. Why? he thought. And, how could you? Tears formed in the big man's eyes. Possessive tears, tears of rage and vengeance. He wondered what his little girl was doing right at that moment. Was she on the set, his set? Or was she in the trailer, changing or resting? The answer was immediate -- too immediate for his frail psyche -- as Heather emerged from the trailer, arm in arm with her director, Mr. Maxwell.

CUT TO:

Playing the role of the lover scorned, Paige sat on the edge of the pool, her feet dangling in the silver cap of the Absolut bottle. Carrie lay on a chaise lounge -- her eyes shut against the warm southern California sun.

"You're too beautiful to be alone," Carrie said, seemingly from out of nowhere.

"What was that?" Paige had been spacing -- tripping through a day dream of half inch scars and switchblades.

"I said, you're too beautiful to be alone," Carrie said. "And I mean it. You need to get out. You need to meet other people."

Paige's voice sounded sad, "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Don't be silly." Carrie sat up and walked over to the edge of the pool, where she sat, also dipping her feet into the silver cap end of the pool. "We're worried about you."

"I just need time."

"There's a party. Saturday night at Theilgard's mansion."

"Which one?" Paige asked.

"Does it really matter?"

Yes, Paige thought, the location most assuredly mattered. "No," she said. "I guess not."

"It's to celebrate the premiere of Bill Wendenstein's new movie. Anatole and I are going and we want you to come. In fact, we insist."

"How many movies does this Wendenstein guy make every year?"

"Too many. Anatole explained he's a producer. Which really means he doesn't do much of anything except make phone calls, do lunches, and get his name in the credits."

"So, that's what producers do."

Carrie nodded. "That and fuck porn stars."

"You'd think they'd be a little wary of what they might catch."

"Who, the producers?"

Paige shook her head. "The porn stars."

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard sat motionless in the olive leather chair. The TV screen had long since gone black. The video tape had long since been rewound by the VCR's automatic rewind mechanism.

Moore sat on the sofa. He held his left thumb in his right hand, that right thumb nervously stroking the half inch scar.

Utz sat by the porn star's side. They were mostly silent except for a little necessary breathing. Both wondered if maybe this had been a mistake. That maybe, just maybe, in a jealous rage, Theilgard would do something violent to them. That the mere thought that these men had seen his daughter under such intimate circumstances would drive the big man over some deadly daddy-dearest brink.

"We obviously have a situation on our hands, gentlemen," Theilgard said.

Fuck, Utz thought. A situation -- this was bad, real bad. He remembered the one other situation -- it was bloody, and it was bad. But that was a long time ago. Maybe situations had changed. Maybe not. He could feel the sweat form on his hairless body, saturating his clothes.

Theilgard coughed violently, frightening both Utz and Moore. "What happened to Ms. Thompson?" he asked.

"Um, well . . . I guess . . ." Utz said.

"They split up," Moore said, matter-of-factly.

"And why wasn't I informed?" Theilgard asked. "We could have fed him other sweets that might have prevented this."

Neither Utz nor Moore knew what to say. They had witnessed the split. They had heard the argument at Spago. But neither had wanted to come right out and say, "Hey, I think your daughter's boffing John Maxwell." No, to say it was crude. To video tape it, well, that required finesse, a little class.

"We really didn't know," Utz said. "Until now." He opted for playing the friend. "And, well, we figured you'd like to know what was going on in your castle." Extra emphasis on the your.

Moore eyed the little man, thinking, what the fuck do you mean, we? I had nothing to do with rigging that gear. That was your brilliant idea. You only informed me after the fact, when you wanted a hand making copies, when you wanted someone to share the joke with, when you wanted someone else to witness little Heather Theilgard in action -- someone who'd appreciate her skill.

Theilgard was silent.

Bad sign, Utz thought. Maybe he's not buying the concerned friend bullshit. Maybe he's thinking about how to kill us both right here and now. Maybe he's . . .

The big man cleared his throat. "I appreciate that," he said, turning his attention away from Utz and Moore, staring ahead at the darkened TV screen. He sighed deeply. His heart ached. His mind went numb. This wasn't what he expected. Not at all what he wanted. Not at all.

Theilgard dismissed his friends, thanked them for their devotion, then returned to the olive leather chair. Using the VCR's remote control he hit PLAY. The video images once again filled the monitor screen. He watched and listened intently -- every move, every word. His daughter was loud -- a screamer. So much like her mother. The spitting image -- especially naked. Tears came to the big man's eyes as Max and Heather changed positions. Old tears, musty and hard.

He remembered back, so many years ago, finding them, his wife Eleanor and that, that, he cringed as the word sang streamers in his head, actor. He remembered watching from the second floor window as they, as they . . . copulated . . . in the pool. On the diving board. That fucking diving board. He had wanted to break it in half with his bare hands. To rip it from its base. He had tried, but to little avail. They thought he wasn't home. That he was away, at the shining new studio. They thought he was a fool. Eleanor, sweet Eleanor. How he missed her. How he longed for her touch, her mouth, her . . . He never meant to hurt her. He just lost his cool, lost his temper -- it was a situation beyond his control.

He gazed at the video, his eyes concentrating on Heather's sleek behind -- the way it, well, the way it moved. The way it swallowed up Mr. Maxwell, like the food chain. But it wasn't his daughter's ass he saw on the diving board, it was Eleanor's. Eleanor with Mr. Maxwell. He gasped loudly once, then began to wail. It just hurt so Goddamn bad. So bad. But he couldn't fall apart -- not now, not yet. He had new plans to make, a lot of plans. Plans that most definitely included ways to get even with his new director.

CUT TO:

FORTY-FOUR

By the end of the first week of shooting, the end of the fifth straight day, Max wanted nothing more in life than to crawl into his king-sized bed and snooze for a long luxurious time, only to be waken the next morning by Paige, softly kissing his lips. And while the latter wasn't possible -- but what a sweet fantasy it was -- the sleep part most certainly was.

Max had driven to the studio with Anatole, in the nap-inducing confines of the limo. He was too zonked out to attempt maneuvering the Jeep through the streets of L.A. And it was back in the limo he now sat. Joe the Chauffeur tooling him home.

"You going to Theilgard's shin-dig tomorrow night?" Anatole asked.

Heather had mentioned it. Something to do with the premiere of another Bill Wendenstein's project. "Maybe," Max said. "If I ever wake up."

"Christ! When I was your age I never slept."

"You're an aberration. You don't sleep now."

Anatole's eyebrows did a funny little tango atop his forehead. "Got better things to do in bed."

Max just sort of groaned.

"The lady misses you, y'know," Anatole said.

If only you knew, Max thought. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.

"That's what you always fucking say."

CUT TO:

Max stumbled into the house. Glanced through his mail, leaving all of it on the kitchen table, except for the June issue of Playboy. He'd bring that to bed, glance at the centerfold, read through The Playboy Forum section, then drift off to sleep with farcical musings about other people's sexual misfortunes doing the humpty-dance in his dreams.

He slipped under the cool cotton sheets, propped a few pillows -- his and Paige's, okay, he couldn't help himself, once she moved out he brought her pillow into his bed, it held her scent, and her scent held life for Max -- behind his back, got a chuckle out of learning that Miss June's favorite book was the Bible, then turned to the Newsfront page.

The first news piece was about a Prospect, Connecticut man whose penis got stuck in the tailpipe of his red Ford pickup. The man was curious to learn if his "wider than average member" would fit. It did, but when he suddenly became aroused, he was unable to detach himself from the pickup. Fire fighters, called to the scene, removed the tail pipe, complete with muffler, but were unable to free the embarrassed citizen, who was rushed to a nearby hospital, where doctors cut the tailpipe open with surgical scissors.

Max placed the magazine aside, turned and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine why any man would insert his penis into a pickup's tailpipe. And, more importantly, how such an action could possibly cause an erection. No reasons came immediately to mind. No theories. Not a one. The reasons and theories would have to wait -- at least until morning, when Max woke up.

CUT TO:

Heather had suggested spending the night at Max's house -- the castle was being readied for the Wendenstein party. She really hated the notion of dealing with the activity and all its accompanying commotion.

He explained that he was honestly exhausted -- which he was -- and wanted desperately to get a good night's sleep. And with Heather by his side, sleep would most likely be out of the question. She smiled sadly, and said she understood.

In reality, Max could not possible fuck Heather in the home he had so recently shared with Paige. He just couldn't. He had no desire to. Hell, such an activity had never even crossed his mind.

So, seated at the far edge of the pool, surrounded but alone on a Friday night, Heather, studied the scenes from Healer she'd be shooting that next week. All around her, workers set tables, moved furniture, strung lights, wheeled in this, carted out that. Even Akihiko Takei was there, making sure no one disrupted Jayne Mansfield's Vulva. Christ, she thought. It was all too ridiculous.

Then a burly man in a grey jumpsuit informed her that she'd have to move because a set of banquet tables was about to be placed on the spot where her chaise now rested, Heather grimaced, stood, and politely informed the man what he could do with the banquet tables, then headed into the house.

It was time for bed, or so she figured -- what choice really did she have? On the landing that gave stair climbers a short respite between the ground and second floors, she passed by her father who was watching the proceeding from this God's-eye view.

"Hello, Dear," he said. "Going to bed?"

"Yeah," she said, and not wanting to explain her frustration with the party planners, added, "I'm bushed."

"It's so early. Is this any way for a beautiful eighteen-year-old to spend a Friday night?"

"It is when she's in the middle of shooting on her first film."

"Yes," he said. "Of course. And how's that going?"

"Very well, I think."

"And Mr. Maxwell. Is he giving my little girl any problems?"

She smiled slightly.

Theilgard wondered what was going on in her head -- a rapid fire sequence of frozen framed images from Utz's video flashed in his mind. The thighs, the flesh, the lips -- his . . . hers . . . they were one, their sweat a lotion of lust gone astray. That Goddamn video -- how could they? How could he!

"No problems, father. He's a joy to work with."

"So, the two of you are getting along?"

"I'd say so."

"Good," he said, a false smile.

She nodded, and faked a yawn. "I better get to bed. I'm really tired."

"Of course. Good night, dear."

"Good night."

Theilgard watched Heather as she continued up the stairs. One step at a time, her hips swaying -- the food chain, he again thought of the food chain. He smiled, and repeated the "Good night." And even waved a little. But it wasn't his daughter he envisioned in all her curvy ecstasy, it wasn't his little girl walking away. It was Eleanor, his unfaithful Eleanor. His ex-wife going up to their bed, so transparently, so smug in her cheating ways. So soon to be no longer of this world.

He gulped back some bile, and returned to his God's-eye view. As he peered out at the workers below, a wild grin contorted his face, and he began to laugh, softly and to himself.

The burly man, who happened to glance up at Theilgard, wondered aloud, "What's so funny?"

But there was nothing funny about what was running through Jeffrey Theilgard's mind. Nothing funny at all.

CUT TO:

FORTY-FIVE

Dorothy Clairette Meeker was not born rich. She married that way. It was an even trade-off, she figured -- I get your money, you get me. And no matter how many millions Ronald Reginald Meeker had in the bank, in the stock market, or in land, bonds and mutual funds, no matter how many millions their Santa Catalina island ocean-front estate was valued at -- even in this recessed market -- swapping everything even-up for Dorothy would have been a bargain -- the bargain of the century. At least as far as Ronald was concerned. For a man of his age and considerable lack of charm and machismo, to have a woman like Dorothy by his side was a constant thrill of the bona fide boner variety. She was everything to Ronald. Dorothy had been everything to every man who'd ever laid eyes or more on her. She possessed that sort of power. And to the Japanese billionaires who gave Ronald their business -- he acted as an investment counselor and intermediary in their attempts to purchase prime American real estate -- she was a American goddess. A Rita Hayworth, of sorts, in her prime. And if Ronald could acquire such a wife, then surely he was the man who'd find them the loftiest investments for their yen.

Ronald was away. Dorothy figured she'd spend the night -- a Saturday night -- at home alone, watching an old movie classic -- something with Humphrey Bogart -- she really found him attractive in the most manly sort of way. Maybe The Treasure of the Sierra Madre or The Enforcer.

Looking through their extensive video tape library, she came upon a tape in a black leather case. It had no identification except for a silver X hand painted across the space where the label should be. She popped it in -- a little inquisitiveness showing through. She knew her husband watched X-rated films -- there were hundreds of them in the video library -- but they had labels, and names like Hannah Does Her Sisters or E.T. -- The Extra Testicle. He liked them, liked the kink in moderation. And she didn't really mind -- hell, she'd seem most of them. They'd watch a tape, and she'd demonstrate to Ronald that she could do it so very much better. But this tape, this X, was a curiosity.

Hitting the PLAY button on the remote control, she sat back and got comfortable, not really knowing what to expect.

CUT TO:

Half an hour later, Dorothy aimed the remote control and pressed REWIND. The color had drained from her face. She was frightened, appalled, not quite sure if what she had just seen was real or some sort of Hollywood special effect. No, it looked too real -- so real. Her mind swirled with questions. Why was this tape in her husband's possession? Could Ronald possibly enjoy watching such brutality? Could the man she married possibly get off on this? The thought sickened her, literally. Running to a small sink in the study's wet bar, Dorothy vomited up her dinner. A cold sweat covered her body. She was trembling. She felt anger -- not just at her husband, or at the ski-masked man in the video, but at mankind in general. How could one human being possibly do that to another? Is that what life's been reduced to? Was there really such little respect for God's greatest gift? She thought about what she had just seen. She remembered televised images of war. A montage of shots. Bang, bang, you're dead. Extinct creatures -- they never had a chance. The girl in the video never had a chance. Starving children never have a chance. The earth doesn't stand a chance. Never did. Stand a chance. Stand a chance. Stand a chance. The words echoed. "What the fuck are we doing?" she screamed, a question for all of creation. She hunched over and spit up more of her dinner. The tears were coming now. "Fuck!" she yelled to no one, to everyone. Fuck! She turned on the faucet, splashed some water on her face and into her mouth. The image of the young woman echoed in her head. The slashing of the knife -- over and over again. More tears. The blade. The blood. The look in the young woman's face.

Dorothy turned and looked about the study. The room seemed to be spinning, swaying. She needed to get out -- out of that room. She ran, toward the stairs, toward the bathroom. A shower. She needed to take a shower. She needed to take one now -- to wash that video away, wash those images from her head. Drown them. Drown those images.

She turned the water on and stepped in, fully clothed, not waiting for the warmth -- needing the cleansing power, immediate and terminal. She stood under the jets taking long slow deep breaths. Calming. Composing. Collecting. But no, the tears would not stop. The terror would not go away. She suddenly felt as if she were being stabbed. Metallic fingers of death breaking her flesh, piercing her vital organs. She wanted to bleed for the girl. She wanted to breathe for the girl. She ripped at her clothes, she needed to be free of them. Free of them now. Those clothes now reminded her of the video. They had to go, Go, GO -- be burned, incinerated.

"That poor girl," she screamed, the tears starting up again. "That poor girl."

CUT TO:

The next morning, still shaken, drained from a sleepless nightmare-filled night, Dorothy decided that she would wait and confront Ronald when he returned mid-week. In the event that he became violent, and she ended up much in the same way as the woman in the video, she wrote a letter to her sister Kathleen, in Seattle, explaining everything about the video tape -- everything that she knew -- everything. By the time Kathleen received the letter, either Dorothy would be dead, or she and Ronald would have taken the video to the proper authorities. She trusted, was willing to take the chance and in essence, bet her life, that Ronald would do the right thing.

CUT TO:

FORTY-SIX

The Wendenstein premiere party was in full swing by the time Anatole and Carrie sauntered in, Paige by their side. She had played it perfectly, letting them talk her into coming. She didn't want to seem anxious, and she hardly did. Dread was more like it.

"He's going to be there," she had told them.

"It's a big house," Carrie had said. "He'll be quite avoidable."

And though Paige knew for certain that Max could never be avoidable, running into him or not running into him at this party was hardly her intention. No. A little hand checking, more likely. Scars, anyone? She had a gut feeling. One, that if it paid off, would have her face to face with the ski-masked man before the party was over.

"Fine," she had said, the aggravation showing. "I'll go."

"I can die a happy man," Anatole had said.

She had smiled as she knew she should. "Anything to shut you guys up."

And in her room, Carrie had helped Paige select the perfect clothing ensemble: a snug fitting top and leggings -- all black. The self-same outfit she wore the night she first met Max at the Hammermill.

"You look great," Carrie had said, thinking, Max'll die when he sees her.

Even Anatole had to agree. "Damn, you've got legs," he said. "Two of 'em!"

CUT TO:

Max was outside with Heather. They stood by the pool, Rolling Rocks in hand. Pearl Jam was the entertainment of choice this time around. They were half way though "Daughter" when Heather turned and asked Max if he had had enough.

"Of this party?"

She nodded.

He hoisted his beer, this party was worse than the last -- at least then he had Paige by his side. "I had my fill before the first sip."

"Wanna flee?"

He jerked a thumb in the direction of the band. "I was sort of living for the moment when they play 'Jeremy.'"

Heather looked into his face, momentarily confused. "You're kidding?"

He nodded. "I'm kidding."

"Then we can go?"

He downed what beer remained in the long necked bottle. "We're gone."

CUT TO:

The old Jeep was blocked in by a Lexus on one side, and an Infinity on the other -- an American sandwich with over-priced Japanese bread.

"C'mon," Heather said. "We can take my car."

The silver Porsche Boxster pulled off the half mile long driveway, and headed east on Sunset Boulevard. The top was down, the stereo was blasting. The Violent Femmes' eponymously titled debut CD. The song of the moment, "Gone Daddy Gone." Max hadn't pegged Heather as a Femmes' fan.

"Your father ever hire any good bands?"

"Father doesn't know music from a hole in the wall," she said. "But I'm gonna try to get him to hire these guys for the Healer party. I figure if he can afford Van Halen or Pearl Jam."

"The Femmes should come as a steal."

"Exactly."

"So, where we going?"

"To Bel Air," she said, to Max's delight. "We've got another house there. It's got a great pool -- olympic sized. And, most importantly, it's not surrounded by Jayne Mansfield's Vagina."

"Vulva," Max said.

"Excuse me."

"Vulva. Your garden is called Jayne Mansfield's Vulva."

"Whatever. The guy who designed it's a loon. He had the nerve to ask if he could name a garden after me."

"Must have used up all of Jayne's privates."

"Yeah. Well, he's not using mine." She popped the car into fifth gear, and sped away on the surprisingly deserted stretch of Sunset Boulevard. "The house should be deserted tonight," she said.

"Nice and quiet."

"Except for the music," she said, turning up Gordon Gano's wail to drown-out-the-world.

CUT TO:

Eddie Vedder was singing a new song he had written about Kurt Cobain, as Paige and company made their way outside. She had missed Max, completely -- having spotted neither him or his leading lady. And though Anatole had caught a glimpse of their hasty exit, he mentioned it to no one.

"I can't believe they got Pearl Jam to play at this party," Carrie said. "I love Eddie Vedder."

"There you go with that Eddie guy again," Anatole said, beginning to roll up his sleeves as if getting ready for a fist fight. "Point the sonofabitch out. I'll take care of him once and for all."

Carrie pointed out the lanky, skanky, grunge god.

"You can't be serious?" Anatole asked, stopping the sleeve rolling mid-way.

She nodded and smiled mischievously.

"Jesus H. Christ!" he said. "I guess I got nothing to worry about."

CUT TO:

Larry Moore had been watching Paige since she first arrived at the party. From a distance he scoped out her every curve and more, the charm of her long brown hair, the charm of those eyes.

"Wha'cha doing?" Utz asked.

"Having a wet dream," the porn king explained.

"Well, wake up. The big man's looking for you."

They found Theilgard engaged in conversation with Bill Wendenstein and his date for the evening, Tori Lynn.

"There's a movie in it, I'm telling you," Wendenstein drunkenly joked. "A man and his red Ford pickup. A love story for middle America. One that'll clean up in Montana. That'll break records in Maine." He laughed stupidly. "Maybe we can get Ford to custom make us this really sexy pickup. Y'know, one with a few extra curves in all the right places, and the best looking tail pipe this side of, well, this side of." He stopped laughing. "Well, you know." He suddenly began laughing again, a high pitched cackle.

"Yes. Well, if anyone could turn that idea into a movie," Theilgard said, caustically. "It's you."

"Why, thank you, Jeff. For the vote of confidence, I mean."

"Hi, Tori," Moore said, interrupting, thinking, he now knew how she got the part in Healer.

She cleared her throat politely. "Hello." She would have said, "Hello, asshole," or maybe ignored him completed, if she hadn't been in such illustrious Hollywood company.

"Bill," Moore nodded.

"Larry Moore," Wendenstein said, extending first the three syllables of the porn star's name into an endless drawl, then his hand. "The most famous dick in the world. How the hell are you?"

"Fine," Moore said, not quite sure if he had just been insulted.

Tori tugged on Wendenstein's sleeve. "We'll let you gentlemen talk," she said, pulling him away.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Lynn," Theilgard said, a more-than-gracious smile.

"The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Theilgard," she said.