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.

Theilgard, Moore and Utz watched the producer and the porn queen disappear into the swirl of celebrities and wannabes. "Quite a good looking woman," Theilgard said, unconsciously smacking his lips.

"She gives the best . . ." Moore began.

But Theilgard cut his vulgarities short. "I don't need to hear it," he snapped.

"Fine," Moore said.

"So," Utz asked, "What's up?"

"Have either of you gentlemen seen my daughter, or, for that matter, Mr. Maxwell?" the studio boss asked.

Utz and Moore exchanged glances. The former shrugged, the latter shook his head.

"Not that I remember," Utz said.

"I try to avoid the guy at gatherings such as these," Moore said.

"They seem to have disappeared," Theilgard said.

"Maybe they had better things to do," Utz said, wanting, oh, so badly, to crack a smile, but remaining straight faced for fear of his life.

The big man grunted.

"Want us to go look for them?" Utz asked.

Theilgard shook his head. "That won't be necessary."

Moore looked about the room for the long lean legs in black. He caught a glimpse of Paige. She was standing by the bar, getting what appeared to be a rum and Coke, but was in reality, nothing but the Coke. She turned, sipped at the straw, then fell into light conversation with screenwriter Bucky Gold.

"She's quite lovely," Theilgard said, following the porn star's glance.

Moore turned and noticed that the big man was staring in the same direction. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath.

"What you wouldn't give," Utz said, elbowing his porn star friend.

"Don't rule it out," Moore said, then, lowering his voice, "She's a free lady."

"Yeah, like she'd give you the time of day."

"You never know."

Utz swept his hand in Paige's direction. "She's yours for the taking."

Moore smiled, said, "Don't mind if I do," before walking off, toward Paige.

Utz called after Moore. "Give a holler if she starts beating the crap out of you." He turned to Theilgard, "Doesn't stand a chance."

But the studio boss wasn't paying attention. His mind was elsewhere -- lost on Planet Paige -- as he stared at the stunning woman with the endless legs. Elsewhere -- in a place that Utz knew well. And as the hairless man looked up into Theilgard's face, he recognized the twinkle in his eyes. It was one he had seen many times before. Usually just as Moore began to slice away. Usually just as Moore made the first of his many eventually fatal stabs.

CUT TO:

The Boxster zoomed down the private dead end street, then came to a crawl as Heather turned into the driveway of her father's small house.

"It's very quaint," Max joked.

"Only sixteen rooms." She mimicked a proper young lady of English descent.

"It's nothing but a cottage."

"Father was going through his modesty stage."

"Of course," Max said. "I do like the stucco and fieldstone though. Very unusual for this area." There wasn't a house on the street not made of stucco and fieldstone.

Walking to the front entrance, Max noticed the wild sculptured bushes that littered the front lawn, then the distinctive brass plaque which read, "Jayne Mansfield's Glands of Bartholin, by Akihiko Takei."

He pointed at the plaque. "I thought you said . . ."

"I said the pool was not surrounded."

"Christ. Does your father worship this guy?"

"Every millionaire in Los Angeles county worships Takei. It's like Scientology. Father doesn't have a choice."

The house was deserted. "The staff's in Malibu for the evening, to help with the party," Heather explained as she turned on some of the lights. Grabbing Max's hand, she led him into a wood paneled study. Picking up a remote control, she took aim at a bookcase covered wall, and fired away. The wall swung away revealing what had to be at least two thousand compact discs, as well as a floor to ceiling rack of some of the most advanced stereo equipment Max had ever seen.

"Four thousand watts. Custom made B&W speakers throughout the house."

"Impressive," Max said. To him, the one possession worth splurging on was a good -- make that, magnificent -- stereo system.

"What do you want to hear?"

"That depends on what we're gonna do."

Heather aimed the remote control at a wall of drapes. They gracefully parted to reveal a wall of glass that opened out and overlooked an expanse of Caribbean blue water.

"The pool?" Max asked.

"The pool," she smiled.

"In that case," he said, glancing over the shelves of CD. "A little Sonic Youth."

"Daydream Nation?"

"And we can float away."

CUT TO:

Bucky Gold held a drink in his hand. He smiled stupidly at Paige. "You're John Maxwell's friend," he said, in lieu of conversation.

"Not any more," she said.

"Oh," he said. His turn. "I'm a screenwriter."

"I remember," she said.

"Doing a little polishing up on a political thriller. An M.O.W." He raised his eyebrows. "That's Movie of the Week."

Paige pretended to be listening as she focused in on Gold's left hand. She doubted there'd be a scar. She doubted that Bucky Gold had ever experienced any pain, of any sort, short of having spent years listening to a whining mother. Or maybe that daily tortuous ritual of trying to decide what he should possibly do with that hair.

"It stars Tom Arnold as this corrupt presidential candidate. Heather Locklear is his mistress."

"Oh, really." Paige looked about the room.

"Yeah," Gold said. "Aaron Spelling's the Executive Producer."

"Always loved Melrose Place."

"Who doesn't?"

Gold was about to ask Paige if she was an actress or somehow otherwise involved in the film industry -- as if anyone at Theilgard's party wouldn't be -- when Larry Moore interrupted.

"Do I know you?" the porn legend asked.

Paige turned to face Moore. He held a beer bottle in his left hand, about chest high. Raising it, he took a long swig, smiled brightly her way, then took another swig.

And though to Moore it might have appeared as if she was gazing dreamily into his baby browns, Paige had locked eyes on that fleshy area between his thumb and index finger -- his snuff box. She had bolted her attention to a little scar -- a half inch in length, give or take an eighth of an inch. Christ, she thought, that scar rings a bell.

"No," she said, answering Moore's question. "I don't believe we've met."

He extended his hand graciously. "Larry Moore."

She smiled, took his hand and squeezed it. "Paige Thompson."

"Nice to meet you, Paige Thompson," Moore said.

Gold cleared his throat. Both Paige and Moore turned to face him. They eyed him awkwardly. He reached for the knot of his tie, and jiggled it somewhat.

"You sure we haven't met?" Moore asked, turning back to face her. He took a sip, then pointed an index finger her way. "Now I remember. John Maxwell. Aren't you two an item?"

Paige laughed. "Were," she said. "Past tense. Over and done with. And as far as I'm concerned John Maxwell has ceased to exist."

"And you're here alone?"

"I'm not here with a date, if that's what you mean." She glanced over at Bucky.

"In that case," Moore said, also giving Bucky and his hair a quick once-over, "Care to join me out by the pool? It's getting a little stuffy in here."

"I'd love to."

CUT TO:

Max sat at one end of the pool while Heather swam laps. She was nude, he was still fully dressed. He held a drink in his hand, bourbon, straight up.

The stereo blared with deafening efficiency -- "Kissability." Heather swam up to the edge. "This is my favorite Sonic Youth song," she said, breathing in and diving under.

"I get the impression you love this place," he yelled down, forcing his voice under water.

"I do."

"So, why live at the castle?"

"This is where father lives."

"The two of you can't share a house this size?"

Heather shook her head. "I visit every Sunday. That's more than enough." She climbed out of the pool, and sat down by his side, one leg propped up, the other dangling in the water.

He looked down, unable to keep his eyes off her. He blamed the booze -- the great fornicator.

"Like what you see?"

He nodded, then smiled, not bothering to look away.

Heather so liked playing with John Maxwell. He knew how to play back, the rules, the boundaries, where to put his pieces on the game board. And she could tell he had no interest in getting serious, which was fine by her. Hell, she wanted to fool around. She wanted to make out, to kiss. She wanted to fuck and suck and do anything nasty. But that was about all -- the limits to her crush.

Heather had no desire to fall in love. She saw what love had done to her mother. It made her disappear. It made her run away. It made her cease to exist. No thank you. Not in this lifetime. Or at least not now. Love could wait. But sex? Well, that was a priority -- uncomplicated, relaxing and oh, so very, very naughty. Especially with Max around. Especially with Max.

"Hungry?" she asked, seductively.

Max nodded again, then began to laugh. He honestly liked Heather, and it had nothing to so with the sex. But it was her sexuality, her edge, her admittedly perverse sense of humor. How many scars, he wondered, emotional or otherwise, were hidden behind her jokes? Down what dark demented road had the longing for her mother taken her? And did she maybe know, maybe suspect, that her father might have had a lot more to do with Eleanor's disappearance than, well . . . Max was sure that Eleanor Theilgard hadn't just up and left. He believed she was dead, believed it in his heart. And he believed she died at the hands of her husband. Call it what you will. A gut feeling, perhaps. But even Paige agreed. As dangerous as Jeffrey Theilgard seemed, they knew they were only scratching at the surface.

Smiling wildly, Heather lay back, then raising her legs, she wrapped them around Max's neck and pulled him down toward her. "Then dig in," she said, "before your food gets cold."

CUT TO:

Paige turned her considerable charms on high, not that she needed to, or even wanted to. Larry Moore found the lithe brunette dazzling and intelligent. But those attractions were hardly at the root of his interest. Like Paige, he had the most ulterior of motives. Hers was the scar. His, a little retribution -- and no matter who John Maxwell was screwing, Moore knew that a woman like Paige was hard to forget.

She listened as Larry Moore bragged about his film career. She feigned admiration at the thirty thousand plus notches on his bed post. She smiled bashfully at his barrage of compliments. And when the time came, the right time, she reached out for his hand, his left hand, held it tenderly, then raised it to her mouth. She lightly kissed first the palm, then the fingertips, then the back.

"A little scar," she said, coyly.

"I pissed the wrong person off," he exaggerated.

She ran the tip of her tongue over the scar, memorizing its every detail. Comparing notes in her head. Her computer brain center was acknowledging a perfect match. Just perfect.

"I find scars very sexy," she said.

"You have any?"

She smiled. "One. Be a good boy and maybe I'll show it to you sometime." She kissed the tiny scar one last time, blinking her eyes like a camera shutter to freeze the image.

Moore found himself getting quite turned-on -- a lot of blood rushing south. "Why don't we get out of here?" Moore said. "Go to my place?"

Paige smiled. "I can't. Not tonight."

Moore leaned close, kissing distance close. "Any chance I can change your mind?"

Not a one in a zillion chance, Paige thought. "Not tonight," she said again, leaning up, giving the porn stud a quick peck on the cheek.

"Can I at least call you?"

"Give me your number," she said. "I'll call you."

"You like playing hard to get?"

"I don't play hard to get," Paige said, a suggestive smile. "I am hard to get."

CUT TO:

"How about a tour?"

"Giving up after only one course?"

Max shook his head. "Taking a short walk after a long meal."

"Helps with digestion?"

"Something like that."

"Care to start off with another drink?"

"Don't mind if I do."

In the study, Heather poured out a Cointreau on ice for herself, and a bourbon refill for Max, while he flipped through the perfectly alphabetized CD collection. Arriving at the N's, he found what he was looking for. A little Nirvana -- their CD Bleach -- to set the mood.

"I lost my virginity during a Nirvana concert," Heather said.

"Which tour?"

"Nevermind," she explained. "A friend from school and I were in the mosh pit. We weren't really dating or anything. Just buddies who happened to like the same music. But in the crush of people we got really close. I remember him putting his hands on my hips, holding on to me so we wouldn't get separated. Anyway, Kurt started singing, "About A Girl."

"Great song."

"Umm." She laughed. "I was wearing this real short skirt."

"How short?"

She demonstrated by holding her hands only five or so inches apart. "It was a belt. And during the song, I don't know, the heat, his hands on my hips -- it all just sort of got to me, and I started rubbing myself back against him."

"This friend have a name?"

Heather smiled. "Ephain."

"Amazing how some parents begin punishing their kids at birth."

"Anyway, I reached back and unzipped him. He got the message real fast."

"I'll bet."

"We were through before they could even finish the damn song."

"Was it good for you?"

She smiled a mischievous, not-of-this-planet grin. "I liked doing it in public and not getting caught."

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen," she said. "I was a late bloomer for a Hollywood brat."

"What happened with you and," he put extra emphasis on her first lover's first name, "Ephain?"

"Like most cute guys in Hollywood, he turned out gay."

"Hmm."

She shrugged. "Thought it was my fault for about a week. Then I met somebody else, and, well . . . y'know?"

"I know." Max gazed at Heather. Her hair still wet -- half pool water/half sweat -- she wore an over-sized T-shirt, white and emblazed with the cover art for the Veruca Salt's American Thighs CD, and nothing else. And yet, even so unadorned, make-up-less and mostly wet, she was beautiful. Very beautiful.

"About that tour?" he said.

"Right." A distracted smile of freshly laid numbness. "Might as well start at the bottom and work our way up."

"To the bedroom?"

She nodded, took his hand, and led him away.

CUT TO:

Anatole pulled Paige aside. Moore's scar was doing the dance of the seven veils in her head.

"Why were you talking to that asshole?" he asked.

"I been talking to a lot of assholes, Anatole. This is Hollywood, remember?"

"Larry Moore," Anatole said, failing to laugh, thinking that he had the monopoly on satiric anti-Hollywood sentiment.

She waved it off. "I was amusing myself."

"The guy's a sleezeball."

"Don't worry, dad," she said, a sarcastic smile. "I was relishing his tales of cocksmanship."

"Is that any kind of language to use in front of your father?" Anatole joked back.

She became sassy. "What are you gonna do, wash my mouth out with soap."

The author smiled. "No. But I have a good notion to take you over my knee."

"What's that?" Carrie asked, joining their conversation, returning from a Pearl Jam autograph expedition.

"Your man's threatening to spank me," Paige said.

"Is he trying to talk you into a menage a trois?" Carrie asked.

Anatole turned away, his face turning a few shades of red. He suddenly wanted no part of this conversation.

"No," Paige said. "Why?"

"He's always suggesting it."

A smiled crept onto Paige's face. She somehow couldn't picture the fifty-seven-year-old author engaging in such amorous activities. Then again, he could drink most twenty-year-olds under the table, why not fuck? What was it Max told her Groucho Marx said? You're as old as the woman you feel. Yeah, something like that.

Anatole turned back to face the two women. He shrugged. "Hey, can't blame a guy for trying."

"Umm," Carrie said, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Actually, he was reprimanding me for speaking to Larry Moore."

"Yeah," Carrie said. "Why were you talking to that scumbag?"

"See," Anatole said.

"Yeah, yeah," Paige said, beginning to laugh. "Let's get out of here and I'll tell you all about the amazing Larry Moore and his thirty thousand women on the way home."

In the back seat of Anatole's stretch limo, Joe the Chauffeur behind the wheel, Paige joked about and mimicked the porn king's self importance, all the while reflecting -- visualizing the scar, that snuff box scar, the switchblade, the black ski mask, and the unnecessary, agonizing deaths of those helpless women captured on video for mother-fucker with a half million bucks to see.

CUT TO:

The kitchen of the Bel Air mansion was cavernous -- oak and marble, a Sub-Zero walk-in refrigerator, and two double Thermador ranges -- four ovens in all, twelve burners. Large restaurants have made due with less.

"This is the kitchen," Heather said, making like a real estate agent, though she wasn't dressed like one, though she wasn't dry like one. "Notice that all of the appliances are of the finest make. Sub-Zero. Thermador. No expense has been spared in the details." She walked to the far end, and with a Vanna White wave of her hand pointed out, "A charming little breakfast nook."

"The size of a large dining room," Max said.

She opened the double french doors, which led to a deck that connected with the pool. "Or if you prefer."

"Nice," he said.

"This is where my father and I usually eat our obligatory Sunday morning breakfast."

"Of course."

Heather closed the doors, and they continued through the kitchen, toward the ballroom. Passing a large paneled door, Max commented. "Lots of closet space."

"Actually, that leads to the basement."

"I'm into storage space," he said. "Lots of storage space."

"In that case." She opened the door, flipped on a light switch, and led the way down.

CUT TO:

Theilgard was standing by at one end of the castle's main ballroom, saying goodbye to his guests, when James Utz and Larry Moore sauntered over. The porn king was arm-in-arm with a petite young woman, with pale skin and jet black hair. She was a drugged-out porcelain Melrose Avenue doll.

"Jeffrey," Utz said, doing the introductions, motioning toward the young beauty. "I'd like you to meet Patience."

Theilgard glanced her way, then into the faces of his two associates, first Moore, then Utz. "Not tonight," he said.

Moore and Utz exchanged injured confused looks. "But," Moore said.

"Not tonight," Theilgard said, angrily, walking toward a handful of guests who waited for his presence a few yards away.

"What the fuck gives?" Moore asked.

"Damned if I know," the hairless man said.

"I thought you said we were going to a private party," Patience said, slurring her words.

Moore shot her an exasperated look.

"Well," she said. "Are we?"

He shrugged.

Patience pulled away -- a juvenile tug of war with her arm. "Then, fuck you," she said, heading toward the exit.

The two men exchanged hapless looks.

"Want to watch the Heather video again?" Utz whispered.

A shrug. "Might as well."

They walked past Theilgard who stood speaking to a group that included a slightly sobered Bill Wendenstein and Tori Lynn. They didn't bother to say good-bye or even wave. They knew better. The big man was in one of his moods -- one most probably daughter related.

Theilgard watched them leave out of the corner of his eye. Tonight, he was in no mood for their deviations. No movies had been contracted -- not when Bush was in the middle of a project. That was a rule. This would have been another game of share. A little for him, and a little for Moore, while Utz was off doing his thing in the corner of the room. No, thank you. Not tonight. And besides, Theilgard knew better. He knew the Bel Air estate was occupied. And he had no need to walk in on his daughter and Mr. Maxwell. That he could never bear, watching his little girl fornicate, copulate, fellate . . .

To see such a presentation live before his eyes would surely drive him to some unthinkably violent act for which he'd ultimately have to pay. It had happened before. But, no. It couldn't be that way. Not this time. This time it'd be different. And this type of revenge was most certainly sweeter. Yes, most certainly. He'd achieve his goal, and never get caught. What could possibly be better? he thought, suddenly grinning ear-to-ear, waving at his guests.

"Good night."

CUT TO:

A basement is a basement is a basement . . .

That thought was swimming through Max's head as he descended the stairs, following Heather's lead. His heart was racing by the final step, when Heather turned, arms extended, and said, "Voila."

They stood at one end of a wide hallway. The ceiling was at least nine feet high -- unusually tall, even for mansions. They began to walk. Doorway number one opened onto the first of many white walled rooms.

"Freezers," Heather said. And pointing to another doorway, "Laundry facilities." Then, "Here's the gym. LifeCycle, StairMaster, a treadmill, Nautilis, free weights." She pointed, "Sauna and steam room over there."

"Very nice."

"Only the best," she said, sarcastically.

The next three rooms were all for storage. Boxes upon trunks upon old bicycles, tires and Christmas tree ornaments. Even the rich had junk.

"What, no wine cellar?" Max said.

"Au contraire," she said, leading the way to the very end of the hall, to a steel door, over three feet wide, criss-crossed with two police bars, and lined with numerous locks.

"Damn," Max said. "Welcome to Fort Knox?"

"Father's very serious about his wine."

"Obviously," Max said, knocking on the door.

"It's solid," she said. "Two inch thick steel."

"How big is his collection?"

She shrugged. "Actually, I've never seen it."

"You've never been in there?"

"Never had any desire. I mean, what's the big deal about a lot of dusty old wine bottles?"

"You've got a point," he said, running his hand over the numerous locks. He looked up, pointed at the ceiling. "Where are we in relation to the first floor."

"Under the ballroom, I'd say. This is about the halfway point," she said. "It's a pretty big collection, if that's what you're asking. Father says it's worth over three million dollars."

"Three million dollars of wine!"

"We all have our vices," she said. "And his is in that room."

Max nodded his agreement and understanding. Jeffrey Theilgard's vice was most likely in that well guarded basement room. But it was not wine, as Heather suggested. She wasn't even close.

"Let's get out of here," she said, taking Max's hand. "All this talk of vice is making me horny."

"A woman who speaks her mind."

"I'll show you father's room. He's got a double king-size bed you are not going to believe."

"Your father's bed."

"Un-huh. I've always wanted to. You'll know why the minute you see it." She smiled seductively -- a guaranteed Wolfgang Puck delicacy grin of calorific proportions. "I like living dangerously."

CUT TO:

END OF INSTALLMENT #10

MAKE SURE TO COME BACK October 1st, 2000 TO CONTINUE.

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Gorman Bechard