SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #11

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-SEVEN

It was pushing six A.M., when the Boxster pulled into the half mile long private drive that led to the Malibu castle. The passenger kissed the driver softly on the lips.

"See you on Monday," he said.

"Good night," she said.

And as Heather walked to the main entrance, the Jeep slipped silently down the drive. It wasn't until he pulled onto Sunset, that Max popped a tape in the player -- John Coltrane's A Love Supreme. Yeah, he thought, aching everywhere but feeling no pain, the intravenous dose of Coltrane's sax rushing through his system. Just a long, drawn out, yeah.

CUT TO:

"Good morning," Jeffrey Theilgard said, as his daughter entered the castle.

"You're up late."

"You're up early."

"How was the party?"

"It was a party. Like most parties, except for the presence of my daughter."

"I'm in the middle of shooting a film."

"I know that."

"Surrounded by assholes at a party is not my idea on how to spend a night off."

"But spending it with Mr. Maxwell is?"

A moment of silence. "I'm going to bed."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes. I did."

CUT TO:

Vagabond Books, on Westwood Boulevard in Westwood, was a unique species for the greater Los Angeles area. First editions -- Vonnegut, Salinger, et al -- line one wall of the shop, new releases another, Sci-Fi and Mysteries yet another. It's a book shop where you can most likely find anything -- new or used.

Paige was thumbing through a first edition hard cover copy of Healer, complete with dust jacket. He spotted her the moment he entered the store, the little bell above the door jingling frantically, in time with his heart which raced in spite of itself. He took a deep breath. He could smell her presence in the room. The same sweet smell that saturated her pillow -- the pillow he now slept on most every night.

"How are you?" he said, standing only a foot or so behind her.

Turning, their eyes locked. His racing heart stopped dead in its tracks for what seemed like eternity -- nothing moved, nothing dared to.

She smiled. "Okay."

He let out a deep breath, his heart pumping again, slowly at first. "Me too."

Paige replaced the Laferriere first edition on the book shelf.

"How much they getting for that?"

"Four hundred and fifty dollars."

"Christ!"

She nodded. "So, what do you have?"

No beating around the bush, he thought. "Well, Theilgard's got a wine cellar, throw some quotation marks around that phrase. It's in the basement of the Bel Air house."

"A lot of people have wine cellars."

"Not with two inch thick solid steel doors and enough locks to make the folks guarding the Mona Lisa feel secure."

"No exaggeration?"

"I went to school in New York. I know a thing or two about locks." Max shook his head. "Supposedly he's got over three million dollars worth of rare wine in there."

"And you're not buying it?"

"He's got Medeco deadbolts -- a four of them, a criss-crossing police bar -- gotta be two inches thick, and it's wired as well."

"Maybe the guy's just paranoid about his wine."

"I'd say there something a lot more valuable than wine in there."

"Such as?"

He swallowed hard, then lowered his voice. "A small production studio."

"But you have no proof."

"Not yet."

They ambled over to another part of the shop, Max made like he was interested in some science fiction paperbacks.

"How about you?"

"Nothing much new, except that I'm pretty sure I've discovered the identity of our ski masked man."

Max could feel his blood pressure rise.

"Rewatch the Gina video," Paige explained. "Nine frames past the five minute, thirty-six second mark, freeze fame on the killer's left hand. It'll be holding on to her face."

Max could picture the image. He wished he couldn't.

She gently fingered the snuff box of her left hand with the index finger of her right. "Check out the snuff box."

"The what?"

"Snuff box." She pointed to the area on her left hand. "Ever do coke?"

He shook his head. "What's there?"

"A scar, about a half inch in length. Never stitched up."

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Take a guess?"

"James Utz."

"Wrong," she said. "But close. I'll give you a hint. You almost killed the son-of-a-bitch a few weeks ago."

The color drained from Max's face. He suddenly felt faint, almost weak kneed. To think that he might have saved Gina's life . . . to think that . . .

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "I just . . ." He took a few rapid deep breaths. "To know I had my hand around that fucker's throat."

He looked into Paige's eyes. "You sure it's Larry Moore?"

"I'm sure," she said.

"Be careful."

"You too."

CUT TO:

FORTY-EIGHT

The telephone in Larry Moore's Hollywood Hills home rang once. He was seated at a desk reviewing the returns on his numerous Mutual Fund accounts -- one was up seventeen percent, another down twenty-two, and yet a third had returned a grand total of point zero seven percent on his one million, two hundred, sixteen thousand, four hundred, eight dollar and fourteen cents investment. Whew! You just can't win, he thought, checking the Wall Street Journal's daily index of current CD rates -- going up. Maybe it was time to roll over some funds.

On the fourth ring Moore grabbed the receiver. "Hello," he said, wondering what the hell Utz wanted now.

"Hello," the non-Utzian voice on the other end answered. "Is this Larry Moore?"

"Sure is."

"This is Paige," the voice said. "Paige Thompson."

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard sat at the breakfast nook in the Bel Air estate. He sat alone, as he had all day, all that Sunday. As he had that morning, at breakfast, two places set, one place empty. He wouldn't call her. He just couldn't. She'd give some excuse about studying her lines. "I'm in the middle of shooting my first film, father," she'd most probably say. And he'd be the ever understanding parent. "Of course, dear. Of course."

What a fool, he thought, sipping at a glass of bourbon. The countless drink in an afternoon of endless drinking. "I'm such a fool." He chuckled to himself, and poured another, then staggered to his feet. And walking out onto the deck, where on so many countless Sunday mornings he had shared a meal with his only child, Jeffrey Theilgard began to dance. Alone, he cha-cha-chaed. To the accompaniment of his own voice, as he sang in the most adulterated of whispers, "Hush little baby, don't you cry . . ."

CUT TO:

Paige was comfortable at Small's. Comfortable and confident that it was the last place on Earth in which Larry Moore would hang. She sat at the bar, sipping a cranberry juice, taking with the bartender about the upcoming election. Buddy Guy was cranking on the juke box. The porn king was about twenty minutes late.

"Thought you were standing me up," Paige said.

"Couldn't find the place," he said, taking a seat. He pointed at Paige's drink, and said to the bartender, "I'll have whatever the lady's drinking."

"A cranberry juice?" the bartender asked.

"Cranberry juice?" He shot Paige a glance. "No. Better make it a beer. Bud'll be fine."

"No Bud," the bartender said.

Moore was caught off guard. "Whatever, then." He turned toward Paige. "You like this place?"

"Love it," she said.

"Kinda seedy, don't you think?"

"Coming from you, I think they'd take that as a compliment."

He cleared his throat. "So, why'd you call?"

"I was bored. Felt like going out for a drink."

"Only a drink?"

"Only a drink."

"Cranberry juice?"

"It's a drink."

"I guess."

"So, tell me more about the wonderful world of pornography."

"Why, you thinking about applying for a job?"

"A girl's gotta make a living."

He touched her arm. "If you come back to my house, I can do a lot more than just tell you."

Paige pulled away. On her lap, her free hand squeezed her purse. She could make out the form and function of the Pocketlite through the leather. Touch me again, she thought. Just give me a reason. But smiling, forcing a grin, she said, "Just tell me. That'll do fine for now."

"Yeah." He sucked in his breath.

"Hard to get, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I remember."

CUT TO:

Heather was feeling antsy. Lounging by the side of the pool in Malibu, she wanted Max beside her, she wanted him inside her. And she wanted him now. But he had made plans, he was going out to some jazz club with Anatole. He said he'd call her when he got home . . . if it wasn't too late.

Ring.

Heather lunged for the phone, picking up the receiver before it had time to ring again. "Hello."

"Hi. Is this Heather?"

"Yes," the disappointment evident.

"It's Seth. Seth Fusco."

"You don't give up, do you?" Heather asked, an annoyed smirk.

"Never," he said. "Look, I was wondering if maybe you'd . . ."

"Like to go for a drink?"

"Well . . . ," there was some hesitation. "Yeah."

"No," she said. "Not really."

"No?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"Okay . . . , then . . ."

"But I've got an alternative suggestion," Heather said, the annoyance and disappointment suddenly succeeded by abject horniness.

"Which is?"

"Why don't you come on over and fuck me senseless?"

Silence.

"Seth?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Did you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Well?"

"I can be there in twenty minutes."

"Make it fifteen."

"I'll make it ten."

CUT TO:

FORTY-NINE

The second week of filming started slowly, with the cast and crew racking up their first overtime salary of the shoot on Monday night.

"We've got one more set-up, then we can wrap the scene," Kristine Jacobson said, "How do you want to handle this?"

Max thought for a moment. With every overtime hour eating and/or adding approximately ten thousand dollars of and/or to the budget, if wasn't a decision to be made hastily. "I say we do it," he said. "It's a heavy scene and Heather's got the tone down just right."

"You're the boss," Kristine said, turning and barking out orders to the awaiting cast and crew.

"Kristine," Max called.

"Yeah?" she said, turning back.

"What would you have done?"

"Honestly?"

Max nodded.

"Exactly the same thing."

The scene was the first in which the Leanna character realizes she has the power to heal. It's late, the middle of the night. Leanna's walking aimlessly down the hospital corridor. The staff is attending to an emergency, and fails to notice when she enters another patient's room.

CUT TO:

INT. PRIVATE HOSPITAL ROOM - NIGHT

Leanna enters the room, silently closing the door behind her.

ANGLE ON BED

LUCILLE FONTAINE, an attractive woman in her early forties, tries to sleep. She is suffering from advanced terminal cancer, and is obviously about to die. She MOANS.

Machines of every sort are connected to the stricken woman, oxygen, I.V.'s, etcetera.

ANGLE ON LEANNA

She walks slowly toward the bed. Her hand traces the outline of the wall as if she were walking in the dark, though the room is softly illuminated by the glowing monitor screens of the machines attempting to keep Lucille alive.

WIDEN

Leanna arrives at the foot of the bed. Her hand touches the clip board chart hanging there, but she does not read it.

She walks to the far side of the bed and leans over Lucille.

Lucille opens her eyes, and attempts to speak, though the breathing tubes attached to her nose make her words difficult to understand.

LUCILLE: Are you an angel?

Leanna smiles, just slightly. She takes her right hand, and presses her palm against Lucille's chest.

Lucille closes her eyes, and seems to sigh.

Leanna suddenly begins to shake, slightly at first, then violently. She grips the bed's side rails with her left hand for support. Her right palm remains pressed to Lucille's chest. Her body begins to convulse, her head is bucking back and forth.

Lucille remains silent and still. Her moaning has ceased.

Leanna begins to breath in short, spastic jabs of breath. She removes her right hand from Lucille's chest and clutches her own throat. She is having problems breathing. Taking her left hand from the side rail, she begins to beat at her own chest. Her face turns white, then light blue, from lack of oxygen. She collapses and falls unconscious to the floor.

The hospital room is silent for a moment.

ANGLE ON LUCILLE

She opens her eyes and cautiously looks around. Her breathing is regular. Raising her hands, she notices the I.V. needles sticking into each arm. Carefully, she frees herself from the needles, grimacing slightly as each of the I.V.'s are removed.

Moving her hands to her face, she pulls the oxygen tubes from her nostrils, and take a few long, deep breaths.

LUCILLE: (smiling) She was an angel.

Lucille sits up in her bed and looks around. She rubs at her eyes, then notices Leanna lying on the floor.

Lucille panics, jumps out of bed, and lumbers over toward Leanna.

LUCILLE: Now it's my turn to save you.

She reaches over and grabs the panic button that'll bring medical help.

CLOSE ON BUTTON

Her thumb holds the button down.

CLOSE ON LUCILLE

Tears stream from her eyes.

CLOSE ON LEANNA

She looks almost dead, as if she had inherited all of Lucille's disease.

CUT TO:

"Cut," Max yelled, then every-person-who's-ever-worked-on-a-film-set's favorite phrase, "It's a wrap."

A light round of applause for Heather Theilgard and the actress who played Lucille.

Max walked onto the set and stood by the two women. He was smiling. "You did great," he said. "Both of you."

"Thanks," said the actress who played Lucille. She smiled at the director and took a deep breath, the air rushing into her lungs ferocious and strong. It was the most wonderful breath she could ever remember taking -- not that she ever gave the slightest thought to her breathing. But that breath -- well, it was invigorating. Somehow. It was transcendent.

Max gazed at the woman. "You okay?" he asked.

"Marvelous," she said, suddenly smiling, turning to leave, "Simply marvelous."

Heather stood. She seemed dazed, still Leanna. She looked at Max for a moment, confused, as if she didn't know him.

Anatole walked onto the set. He lightly touched Heather's arm. "Good job, kid," he said.

Heather nodded and attempted to smile.

Max turned to face the author. "I'm heading home," he said. "I'm beat."

Anatole looked around at the tired faces, the sweat covered brows, the eyes filled with longing for a soft bed or a strong drink. He gazed at Heather -- the long lost look in her eyes. Leanna's look. "You're not alone."

CUT TO:

The next few days of filming were a breeze by comparison. And on the seventh day, production wrapped before four P.M., finally leaving Max time, some free time . . . though how he was about to spend it, well, it wouldn't have been his first choice.

Rewatch the Gina video, Paige had suggested -- and that's exactly what Max did. After washing down a cheese grinder with a couple of extra-large glasses of Tab, Max pulled out a note pad and a pen, then sat down to re-examine a young woman's death at the hands of a man he almost killed.

Max flipped through the video stills, then popped in the tape. He froze frames, any and every frame where some glimmer of Moore's personality shone though -- a twinkle of eye, a show of teeth, then finally the left hand and that snuff box scar. He examined frame by frame for any reflections that might somehow give away the identity of the cameraman or any others in the room. But nothing. The lighting was too precise, the death set too well thought out.

It wasn't until the very end of the film, some twenty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds, according to the VCR's counter, that something set off an alarm in Max's head. Gina was dead, she lay on a black tiled floor. Only her face was recognizable, only her head left unscathed -- her body, or what was left of it, resembled something of a zombie extra cut from George Romero's Night of the Living Dead because of make-up too grotesque. A zoom -- a slow motion zoom -- extreme slow motion -- two minutes, fifteen seconds in length, exactly, beginning with a long shot of Gina's mangled self, and ending on an extreme close up of her left eye, all glassy and so very far away . . . slow fade to black.

Where have I seen that shot before? Max wondered.

He hit REVERSE SCAN, and watched it again, then once more after that. He stood and began to pace. The cinematic library of his mind on SEARCH. His breathing became heavy. The room suddenly felt hot, the air heavy. The answer lay somewhere in the recess of his brain. But where? Where had he seen that shot before?

He ran to the kitchen, retrieved an ice cold Rolling Rock from the fridge and headed back to his living room where he rewatched the slow motion zoom again and again and again.

Why couldn't he breathe? He ripped off his shirt, flinging it to the floor, then pressed the cold bottle to his forehead. What the fuck!

He ran down to the basement, where unpacked boxed held a collection of video tapes, an odd assortment really -- a lot of bad dubs of his favorite films -- some rare, others popular -- copied from friends, classmates, and teachers during his film school years. They were in alphabetical order, he had packed them that way. He opened he first box of five, and let an index finger trace pass the titles, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, Animal Crackers, Annie Hall, Blue Velvet, Born Yesterday, The Cameraman, City Lights, Day For Night, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, Diva, Dumbo, The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur. His finger stop moving. It tapped the side of the VHS tape a few times. The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur, one of the films that most impacted Max's style. Beautiful, lyrical, every frame magic, every frame a work of art. Directed by Gunnar Thulin, the great master of Swedish cinema. And shot by a first time cinematographer, a then twenty-year-old Karl Svenwall.

Grabbing the tape, Max leaped up the stairs, and ran back into the living room, where he popped the video into the VCR and hit FAST FORWARD. The Thulin film was approximately eighty-two minutes long. When the counter reached the seventy-nine minute mark, Max hit PLAY.

Svenwall's black and white cinematography filled the screen. Shots of faces, children's faces. They were in a circle, holding hands, looking down. They were curious at first, then frightened. One child began to cry. Then another. A few ran away. Others followed, until only one child was left. That child watched silently, bravely, then shrugged, turned and skipped away.

The next shot was from the children's point of view -- a long shot of a fallen angel. Her wings crushed beneath the weight of her broken body. An arrow piercing her chest. She did not move. She did not breath. Max glanced at the counter as the zoom began. It read seventy-nine minutes, thirty-six seconds.

Slowly, every so slowly, the image changed from a long shot of the angel to a medium shot to a close up, ending with the extreme close up of her left eye, glassy, lifeless, followed by the slow fade to black.

He checked the counter. Eighty-one minutes, fifty-one seconds.

Damn, he thought.

He replayed the Gina zoom. Except for the subject, it was identical. Framing, every aspect of the way she was positioned, every everything was just so.

He flipped back and forth between tapes, two, three times to check and double check -- Max could find no discrepancies. Time for another beer, and an idea.

Running to his bedroom, he fetched a second television set and VCR, and set them up side by side with his larger living room monitor.

Putting the Swedish classic in one machine and the Gina tape in the other, Max cued up each to the beginning of their respective zooms, and pressed PLAY on both machines. Stepping back a few feet, he watched intently.

"Christ!" he said aloud to no one in particular.

Indeed.

CUT TO:

Max beeped Paige, then waited. He figured it would be a while before she could manage a quick getaway. So, he had another beer, and a bag of salted-in-the-shell peanuts. Then came the knock, at the back door.

"Who came up with Zen Arcade," Max asked, "you or Selden?"

"Who do you think?" Paige asked.

He smiled. "Does Selden know where it came from?"

"He hasn't a clue," she said. "He just told me to pick out a phrase, a code word, one that I'd never forget."

"Great album."

"Yeah," she said, her voice falling away. She really missed having Max around to talk to. She really missed Max.

A short pause. "How are you?"

She shrugged. "I really don't have too much time. Carrie and Anatole found it rather odd that I suddenly wanted to go for a walk. Alone." She motioned toward his beer. "You gonna offer me one, or are you in the mood to drink alone?"

He retrieved a Rock from the fridge.

She took a long swig. "So, what do you have?"

"Follow me."

In the living room, he sat Paige down in front of the two TV's. "Is this some new fangled way to watch movies?" Paige asked. "Some sort of weird wide-screen effect?"

"Just watch," he said. Then, pressing PLAY on both VCR's, he sat down next to Paige and watched her reaction, the way her eyes seemed to light up as the similarities became obvious -- the slow zoom, the slow fade to black -- as her Federal Bureau of Investigation brain clicked into hyper-drive. Then, once two minutes, fifteen seconds had passed by on both video counters, once the automatic rewind features of both VCRs kicked in, he said, "Well?"

"What are you suggesting, that Karl Svenwall is the guy who shot these snuff films?"

"Maybe."

"But . . . it's too circumstantial," she said, playing devil's advocate. "The cameraman could be a Swedish film buff for all we know."

"Everything about this case is circumstantial. Even the girls, remember. No bodies."

She nodded, then counted off on her fingers. "Karl Svenwall, Larry Moore, Theilgard's wine cellar, Heather's mom." "You can probably add James Utz to that list."

"Agreed. Still," Paige turned to face him, "we need more."

"Like what? To catch them in the act?"

"That would be nice."

"And what's the likelihood of that?"

"Actually," Paige said. "I've been doing some thinking."

Max sipped his beer and listened. And though there were some very apparent risks involved with what Paige was suggesting, he knew that, unless something else broke, something big, hers was, far and away, the best available plan of action.

"When?" he asked finally.

"This weekend," she suggested. "Saturday night, maybe?"

"Will he fall for the trap?"

"As long as I'm the bait."

"Yeah, then," he said. "I guess, Saturday night's perfect."

And it would be.

If both of them lived that long.

CUT TO:

Anatole checked his watch. Paige had been in the house for going on a half hour. Max's Jeep was in the driveway, so the author assumed he had to be home. What the hell was going on? he wondered, moving from his safe behind-tall-shrubbery hiding spot, to begin the short walk home. He'd tell Carrie that Paige did exactly as she said -- she went for a walk -- leaving out the part about stopping by to see Max. Carrie would just jump to conclusions -- they're getting back together, or something like that -- and eventually leak the glee to Paige.

Besides, Anatole wasn't sure. He had a few theories, but they were all so far fetched, even he couldn't buy them. He laughed to himself, and scratched behind his ear. Suddenly he was feeling frisky. Hypotheses and whatnots would have to wait. It was time for the old man to step up to the plate and hit one out of the park.

CUT TO:

Utz laughed out loud. He fucking roared. It was like some bad late night murder mystery on CBS, he thought. Here he is, sitting in his car, parked out on Elm Drive, minding his own business -- more or less. Dividing his time between a book on the greatest contortionists of all time -- Bending Backwards -- and the director's house. He's about to leave, seeing that Mr. Maxwell came home alone, and after a few hours of surveillance, no Heather. Then, out of no where, flatsy shows up, the ex-girlfriend -- maybe Heather's not satisfying the director like that video would seem to suggest. Or maybe old James Utz -- alias Jimmy Jones, James Johnson, Jimmy Bones, and so many others he'd forgotten most of them -- was correct again. Mr. Maxwell just could not keep his snake in its cage.

Then next thing, the old hoot shows up, and goes and hides in the fucking bushes. Man, wait till Moore hears about this. He'll die, Utz thought, laughing uncontrollably. He'll fucking die. Bet the old man wouldn't mind knowing either. It's bad enough Maxwell is diddling his little girl, the bastard can't even remain faithful. Man, after that diving board scene, Utz knew that he'd remain devoted to dear little Heather. At least until he and Moore made her the star of one very special film. One dedicated to her dear old dad. Yeah, the big man would love that. Probably pop a fucking artery.

Utz waited until Anatole had sneaked away and was well out of view. Then he turned on the engine, slammed the car into gear and took off. The roar of his laughter could be heard echoing throughout Beverly Hills.

CUT TO:

FIFTY

The next afternoon, while his boss was out doing lunch, Randall decided to eat in, and amuse himself by checking through some new starlet prospects for the big man. He had gone through the last few weeks' worth of head shots that morning, and decided that, what the hell, he might as well get through the videos as well.

Normally, or at least, lately, he'd been spending his lunch hours with Ted Taylor -- but that was over. Rumors had been flying, too many eyes had seen Randall and Ted together -- and Taylor had taken up with the left handed rhythm guitar player from an all girl rock band -- Tampex Brand, he believed they were called -- to quell any thoughts that he might be gay.

Besides, Theilgard was away for at least a few solid hours, so Randall could peruse these audition tapes in the comfort of his boss' high back olive green leather chair of Swedish origin. He grabbed the box of tapes, thirty-five in all -- most five to ten minutes in length, the girls reading a favorite scene, then posing in a variety of outfits, or, in some cases, no outfits at all -- and made himself comfortable in Theilgard's office suite.

Most of the tapes were ghastly -- stale readings from A Doll's House, or a few lines from some god-awful Sam Shepard play that no one ever went to see in the first place, or, even worse, a passage from some avant garde off-off-off-Broadway play -- and that was being kind. But every once in a while something magical was captured, though more often than not the magic was just something felt in the big man's loins. Randall just weeded out the dogs, those went into the circular file, and the dazzling -- the one in a thousand that went directly to the studio's casting department. As for the cute, the sexy, the long legged big breasted bimbo -- proceed directly to Jeffrey Theilgard's little jail, do not pass GO.

Pouring himself a shot of Chambord, he took a sip, then sauntered over to the VCR/monitor corner of the room. He attempted to slip the first tape -- from a young woman named Darlene Faye -- into the deck, but found a tape was already loaded. Pushing EJECT, the unlabeled tape popped out. Randall examined its blackness.

"Hmmm," he said. "Wonder what the boss is watching these days."

Reinserting the unlabeled tape into the VCR, Randall flipped on the TV, pressed PLAY, and stood back to see what sort of images would fill the screen. He half expected it to be one of Larry Moore's epics, The Hornymooners or some such thing. Or maybe it'd be something that little weasel Utz cooked up. He laughed to himself, thinking, that black briefcase was probably packed to the hilt with porno tapes. That why Utz was always in such a hurry -- Gotta watch them. Gotta watch them. Gotta watch them now. He pictured the hairless man drooling at the prospect.

But when the image of John Maxwell filled the screen, Randall's interest was immediately peaked. He sat down in the leather chair, sipped at his liqueur, and watched away.

Max slept on a chaise lounge by the side of the pool. The big man's daughter was swimming laps. She was nude. Heather emerged from the pool -- her shapely backside filled the TV screen.

Randall felt chills jolt down his back and arms. Chills, because if he was seeing Heather's behind, chances were that he'd soon be seeing Max's.

On the monitor, Max and Heather engaged in a little small talk -- something about blue jeans.

"Get on with it, already," Randall said aloud to no one. "That's the problem with straight people. They waste all their time beating around the bush." He laughed. "Literally."

CUT TO:

For a big man, Jeffrey Theilgard could be very quiet -- very, very wabbit hunting quiet. So, Randall never heard him enter the office. His back was to the door, protected by his boss' olive green leather chair.

Theilgard watched for a moment. His daughter and Mr. Maxwell were just beginning their diving board romp -- that mother-fucking diving board -- they each took turns lying back on the board, while the other, half submerged in water, would do the honors. Then they both climbed aboard, and well, if nothing else, it was amazing to Theilgard what a great sense of balance young people have.

"Christ!" Randall muttered. And though he was thinking unGodly thoughts of Max's ass, Theilgard, despite his knowledge of Randall's sexual preference, imagined the comment to be aimed at the other star of the video, who at that moment was doing a spectacular sort of acrobatic stunt supported only by her elbows.

"Eleanor," Theilgard whispered.

Recognizing the low growl of his employer, Randall jumped out of the chair, and turned to face the big man.

"I was going through some casting . . .," he tried to explained, no time to clear his throat, but Theilgard cut him off.

"No need to explain." He motioned toward the olive leather chair. "Sit. Enjoy the tape. Everyone else has."

"No, really," Randall said.

Theilgard raised his voice. "Sit," he boomed.

Randall sat.

Theilgard stepped behind the chair. "Life is sad," he said. "Wouldn't you say, Randall?"

Randall nodded. He just wanted to get out of that office. Watching Heather Theilgard's video fuck in front of her father was a little too much for his tastes. He laughed nervously, a inconsequential titter that squeaked from his larynx.

"What's so funny?" Theilgard asked.

Randall was silent, he didn't know what to say.

"I asked you a question," Theilgard said.

"Well, actually . . ." Randall stammered.

He was about to make up something about having once made love on a diving board, and that memory making him laugh, when Theilgard, tired of waiting for his explanation, reached down and grabbed Randall's face with his large right hand, then twisted hard.

His neck cracked easily -- sounding much like a serving of uncooked spaghetti being snapped in half to fit the under-sized pot of boiling water. His head hung limply, his chin resting unnaturally on his right shoulder. His eyes bulging as they had when Heather first removed Max's jeans.

Theilgard took a seat on the sofa and gazed at the TV. His daughter and Mr. Maxwell were now in the hot tub. He remembered back, back to when Eleanor and that actor also fucked in his hot tub. They fucked everywhere -- no place was sacred to that slut. No place, and no where.

"What about you, Randall," he bellowed. "Do you like fucking in hot tubs? Would you like to fuck my Eleanor in a hot tub?"

But Randall wasn't answering. Randall would never answer another of Jeffrey Theilgard's calls again.

CUT TO:

As the video tape was rewinding, Theilgard dialed Utz's number and waited for the hairless man to answer the phone.

"What?" Utz snapped, he had just popped his copy, the original, the master tape, of Heather Does Max into his VCR, and was about to get into position when the phone rang.

"It's me," Theilgard said, gazing over at Randall, sitting so comfortably in his olive leather chair. People looked so peaceful when dead, as if their every problem had vanished. Randall obviously had a problem, Theilgard incorrectly assumed. Randall had wanted to be intimate with his Eleanor. And now, that problem was solved. So easy, so quick, so Goddamn simple. But as usual, the solution to one problem very often leads to another altogether different dilemma. Not for Randall, mind you. But for his boss.

"I've been meaning to give you a call," Utz said. "Got some info you'd probably kill for."

"That'll have to wait," Theilgard barked into the receiver. "We have a situation."

The hairless man gulped hard. "What sort of situation?"

"I'll explain in my office," Theilgard said. "And bring Moore. We might need to make use of his carving skills."

CUT TO:

Utz hung up the phone and sat for a moment collecting his thoughts. A situation -- fuck! The last time Theilgard had called with that sort of news, his wife Eleanor and some actor she was boffing lay dead in the big man's basement. Theilgard had bashed her head in with a shovel, and as for the lover, well, Utz had no desire to recall about the condition he was found in.

Together with Moore, they cut the cheating hearts into easily manageable pieces, and made like they just ceased to exist. It was pretty easy, when he thought about it. Just making someone disappear. A snap! They had gotten quite good at it, actually. A fucking snap!

Utz picked up the phone and punched out Moore's number, all the while wondering whom he'd find in Theilgard's office. Little Heather -- he certainly hoped not. John Maxwell -- that would be a hoot. To see Mr. Director Extraordinaire bloodied and broken. Yeah, Utz would kill to see Max in that sort of state.

CUT TO:

FIFTY-ONE

Lunch break. Thursday. Max joined Karl Svenwall and Donald Bush over by the motorized dolly. The conversation began with him respectfully asking Karl about his days in Sweden, working with Gunnar Thulin.

"They were wonderful," Svenwall said, "At first. Shooting The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur is still my most pleasant filmmaking memory. There was a magic about the set. We understood we were making something extraordinary. But then as Gunnar's popularity grew, alas, so did his ego. He became intolerable."

"Not unlike your average American director," Bush added.

"Unfortunately," Svenwall said.

"I'm not that intolerable?" Max said.

"Not yet," Bush said.

The talked turned to cameras and lenses, with Bush and Svenwall comparing notes on models and accessories, then Max asked, "How about video?"

"Never," Svenwall said.

"You've heard of film snobs," Bush said, making reference to those in the film industry who consider video technology a fast road to aesthetic genocide.

Max nodded. "I consider myself a proud member of that group."

"Karl's the inventor of that very concept," Bush said.

"I find the video image very crass, very flat and uninteresting," Svenwall said. "Like making art with a Bic pen."

"See what I mean?" Bush said.

"Donald here is the video man," Svenwall said.

"I've dabbled a bit," he explained, a smile.

"One inch?" Max asked.

Bush shook his head. "Betacam. The quality's better and the gear isn't nearly as cumbersome. A good cameraman can hand hold a Betacam and get a good steady image." Bush took a bite of his lunch. "Why you so interested in video?"

"Just curious," Max said. "I remember back in film school, about half my friends were divided."

"Trust me," Svenwall said. "Those who extolled the virtues of video, did so only because they could not afford to shoot on film."

"See what I mean when I say, film snob?" Bush said. "Video does have its advantages."

"Such as?" Svenwall asked.

"Immediate results," Bush explained. "You don't have to wait for the lab to develop the film and make dailies."

"Art should not be rushed," Svenwall said.

"Also," Bush continued, "It's easy to edit, copy. Hell, you can be a one man production crew."

Svenwall shook his head sadly. "Alas, this is where the film industry is headed."

"The porn biz switched to video years ago," Bush said. "And they're the only faction of this giant consortium known loosely as the movie business to consistently turn some heavy profits."

"But even pornographers occasionally use film," Max said.

"Only when they want to win awards or make art films," Bush explained. "Listen. The average stroker doesn't care whether the movie's shot on video or film, they just want to be turned on. Period. Just like the average movie goer. They want to be excited. They want to laugh. They want to cry. They want to be frightened. And believe me, kid, things are just as sad or funny or scary when shot on video."

"Phooey," Svenwall said.

"That's all you have to say, phooey?" Bush asked, a smile for his old friend.

"We're talking about video," Svenwall said. "That's all that needs to be said."

CUT TO:

For the rest of the afternoon, Max did his best to concentrate on the filmmaking at hand, managing to say Action! or Cut! at all the appropriate times. But his mind was elsewhere, trying to piece together the puzzle. The snuff videos were obviously just that -- video. Betacam had been his guess all along. But Bush, he was a new ingredient to the mix. Could the two minute, fifteen second zoom have been his homage to his favorite cinematographer? Could it have just been some sort of sick joke. Or maybe the person who had special ordered the film was a fan of The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur. That, a good snuff film, and a six pack of beer -- what a way to spend a Saturday night. Max shook his head, trying to clear it, to organize the thoughts, the concepts, to get a fucking handle on what was actually going down.

"I think you better speak with her," Kristine Jacobson said.

"What was that?" Max asked, snapping back, trying to focus.

She motioned toward the set. "Heather. Talk to her."

Max turned toward the set. Heather was sitting on the floor of her hospital room. She had pulled herself tightly into a ball. She was rocking back and forth, crying loudly.

He stepped out of his director's chair and walked softly onto the set. He motioned for everyone to back off a bit.

Kristine clapped her hands a few times, then said, "Ten minute break. Everyone."

Max approached Heather. She was mumbling the word, "Mother," over and over and over again. He bent down, reached over and softly touched the palm of her open hand. The pain caught him off guard, the sting, the burn. He jerked his hand back immediately, and almost lost his balance. His finger tips were hot, on fire, it was a strange scorching sensation -- as if he had touched an electric range burner turned on medium, or maybe on high.

"Leave me alone," she shrieked.

"Hey," he said, very softly, soothingly. He sat down on the floor, able to face her. He wanted to touch her, to sooth her pain, but held back, not fully certain why. "What's wrong?"

She shot him a look, at once angry and pained. Her sobs turned to mild hyperventilation as she tried to speak. "Mother," she said. "I want my mother."

The scene Heather was shooting involved Leanna's reunion with her mother, whom she did not recognize or remember. "I don't know you," her character says. "I never have."

Heather shook her head violently. She was rocking back and forth between the reality of Heather Theilgard and the fiction of Leanna. "I'm sorry," she said, through a river of tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Anatole, who had been watching from the wings, tiptoed onto the sound stage. He leaned close. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked.

Heather turned, and buried her face against his chest. "I'm sorry," she said, the tears gushing. "I'm so very sorry."

Anatole stroked her hair, gently. "Don't cry."

"It'll be okay," Max said, wondering why the author wasn't getting singed to something resembling a crisp.

She pulled away from Anatole, turned and gazed directly into Max's face -- a look that seemed to challenge his very existence -- "Promise," she said.

He looked first at Heather, who waited expectantly, then at Anatole, who nodded encouragingly.

"Do you promise it'll be okay?" she repeated, with childlike urgency and anger.

"Yes," he said, with all the confidence he could muster. "I promise."

CUT TO:

FIFTY-TWO

Dorothy Clairette Meeker wasn't sure whom to call. Her husband, Ronald Reginald, hadn't been much help.

"I'll throw it away," he promised. "We'll burn it. Never mention it again. Please," he begged. "Please." He was frightened. Scared to death that because of a lark he might spend a good deal of years behind bars in some God awful federal correctional institution as a love slave to who knows what. "I'll never do it again," he cried. "Please."

"Shut up," Dorothy snapped. She so hated her husband when he whimpered like this. "Throwing it away is not good enough. We have to go to the police," she said, a shrug. "Or where ever it is one takes trash like this."

"They'll put me in jail," Ronald wailed.

"Oh, not likely," she said. "Not if you co-operate."

"Co-operate?"

"Yes," Dorothy said. "Co-operate."

Ronald's hands were shaking. He knew he shouldn't have bought that video. Just knew it. And now Dorothy was angry -- no, furious. She was definitely furious. He couldn't risk losing her. Without Dorothy he'd be nothing, he'd be worthless. His life would be over. Over! He knew it. Just knew it. And he knew she knew it as well.

"Tell them where you got the video," she said. "I'm sure the authorities are more interested in the creep who made this, than they are in you."

CUT TO:

Dorothy made the call. She doubted seriously that the Santa Catalina police department would know what to do with such a thing, so she bypassed them complete and instead contacted a law agency that was mainland based, the F.B.I.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation," said the Los Angeles branch switch board operator. "How may I direct your call?"

"I'm not sure," Dorothy said.

"You want information," the operator said. "Hold please."

The piped-in music entertaining those on hold was a Muzak version of Secret Agent Man. How appropriate, Dorothy thought.

"Information," a pleasant but official sounding voice said. "How can I help you?"

"I've come across a video tape that I think your agency might find interesting," Dorothy said.

"What kind of video tape?" the pleasant but official sounding voice asked.

"Well, my husband tells me it's called a snuff film."

CUT TO:

The pleasant but official sounding voice took down as much information as Dorothy could give over the phone and promised someone from the agency would be calling back shortly.

That was at a little after eleven A.M., Pacific Standard Time.

Noon came and went, and finally with it lunch.

"I can't eat," Ronald said.

"I can."

A little after two, thoughts that maybe the F.B.I. wasn't interested in a little old snuff film were running through Ronald's mind. Thoughts quickly superseded by other thoughts such as the guy who ran the snuff division was most likely out to lunch, or busy, or this was his day off.

By five P.M., Ronald's nerves were shot -- the waiting was killing him. He needed something to take his mind off the Goddamn F.B.I. He approached Dorothy who sat out on their deck. She was reading Mould, Hart & Norton's scientific primer, About UFO's.

Ronald touched her arm.

She turned. "Yes," she said.

"Let's make love," he suggested.

She shot him one of her you-can't-be-serious looks.

"It'll pass the time while we wait for them to call back."

"I don't think so."

"Please."

"Ronald," she said. "After what I saw on that tape, you're lucky if I ever let you touch me again." She pulled her sunglasses down low to the tip of her nose and glared over the top. "Understand?"

He nodded, sniffled, then took a seat on the other side of the deck, where he could stare out at Iron Bound Bay and watch the seagulls play.

CUT TO:

Seven o'clock. They ate dinner -- in silence. She had two helpings of desert. He drank too much wine.

Eight o'clock. He turned on Melrose Place. She shook her head and grunted with nothing but disgust. He shrugged helplessly.

Nine o'clock. He checked the phone to make sure it was still working. It was.

Ten o'clock. The doorbell rang.

"Who could that be?" Ronald asked.

"Don't know," Dorothy said. "But I'll find out." And walking to the front foyer, she glanced at her reflection in a mirror, beheld that she looked gorgeous, as usual, then opened the door.

A man stood on her front porch, his finger aimed at the doorbell, ready to pounce again. He wore a badly wrinkled dark blue suit. He seemed tired, shifting his weight from leg to leg, grimacing every time his weight hit the left leg.

"Can I help you?" Dorothy said.

The man held out a badge and laminated photo I.D. card for her to inspect. "Special Agent, Wesley Selden," he said. "F.B.I."

CUT TO:

Selden took the VHS video tape out of its black leather case. Seeing the silver X hand painted across the space where the label should be, the agent felt a sudden shiver -- revulsion, not excitement.

"The VCR's over there," Dorothy said, pointing toward the docile machine.

Selden nodded, and walked over to the unit. Dorothy followed him, turning on the television, while he slipped the tape into the front loading machine. He picked up the remote control and examined the assortment of buttons.

"I trust you'll understand if I don't stay to watch?" Dorothy said.

"Of course," Selden said.

"Can I get you anything? A beer? Some scotch?"

"Herbal tea would be dandy," he said.

"Coming right up."

She turned and headed toward the kitchen. Ronald, who had been sitting silently off in one corner of the room, likewise stood and followed in the footsteps of his wife.

"Where are you going?" Selden asked.

Ronald stopped dead in his tracks. Sweat immediately began to seep out of his every pore. "I, ah, well," Ronald tried to explained, pointing after his wife, shrugging helplessly. "The kitchen?"

"Don't think so," Selden said, taking a seat on the sofa, patting the pillow next to the one on which he sat. "Have a seat, Ronald."

"But, really, I think," Ronald said.

"I said," Selden said, his voice booming with authority, "Have a seat."

"Right," Ronald said, sitting.

"Not let's see what we have here," the agent said, aiming the remote, pressing PLAY.

The girl was beautiful -- they were all beautiful, Selden thought -- with long brown hair and long legs. She wore a baseball uniform and her hands were tied to an overhead bar. Her sneakered feet just barely able to touch the floor. Tears streamed from her eyes. The man in the black ski mask appeared before her. Grabbing the collar of her uniform, he savagely ripped it open. She cried out. He grabbed her face and squeezed it hard. "Shut up, honey," the ski masked man said.

Selden aimed the remote, hit BACKWARDS SCAN, rewinding the tape four or five seconds, then PLAY. The scene replayed itself: The ski masked man grabbed the young woman's face and squeezed it hard. "Shut up, honey."

"Damn," Selden said.

"What?" Ronald asked.

Selden ignored him, trying to remember every moment of every X film. The ski masked man never spoke. Never! He let the video play. Next came the sex and the violence. The agent shook his head. He turned toward Ronald. "You get off on this?"

"I, well, you see," Ronald tried to explain. "No."

"You're trying to tell me you'd spend a half million dollars on a video for no special reason? Just for the hell of it?"

"No, what I mean is," he muttered, then, "How did you know this cost a half million dollars?"

CUT TO:

It was pushing three A.M., and Selden was getting cranky. Real cranky.

"Mr. Meeker," he said, seated across from Ronald and Dorothy at a table in what would be considered the breakfast nook, "I don't know any other way to say this. And I've never been one for beating around the bush."

"Yes," Ronald said. "Go ahead."

"You're pissing me off." The agent stood and began to pace around the table. "I offer you full immunity from prosecution in exchange for the name of the person from whom," he stretched the one syllable word into two, "you purchased that video, and what do you do?"

"Well," Ronald said.

"You hem and haw, and," he leaned close to Ronald, "generally waste my fucking time. So, I'm going to give you an ultimatum. Either give me the name of the fucker who sold you this video, right now. Or I'll haul your ass in and you'll be spending the night in the holding cell at the Compton precinct house of the L.A.P.D. Do you understand?"

"Compton," Ronald said. He began to tremble, he stuttered. "What about bail?"

"Bail?" Selden laughed. "Not a chance."

"But I, I've never done anything wrong. Not even a parking ticket. I'm a model citizen."

"Put a plug in it, Ronald," Dorothy said.

Lady, you took the words out of my mouth, Selden thought.

"Either tell Mr. Selden what he wants to know," she said, "Or you can kiss my sweet little ass goodbye. For good."

"Dorothy," Ronald said, pleading, thinking about he much he adored his wife's heart-shaped behind.

Selden resisted the urge to smile, but there was something about this woman. He liked her. She had balls. And damn if she wasn't a piece of work.

"I mean it," she said. "And while you're serving your jail time, I'll file for divorce and take you for everything you've got. The bonds, the funds, the yacht. I'll even get the house."

"Not the house," Ronald said.

"Yes," she said, "the house."

Ronald sighed loudly. He shifted his gaze back and forth between his wife and Selden. "Okay," he said, after what seemed like an unbearable pause. "I'll tell you his name."

CUT TO:

It didn't ring any bells. Selden checked his notebook. It contained every name given to him by Paige and Max. It contained their every ounce of information. Their every bit of speculation. Their every thought, hunch, and lead. But nowhere did it contain the name Jimmy Bones.

"You sure it was Jimmy Bones?" Selden asked.

"I'm sure. He was short. Real short. Sort of weasel-ly."

"What about hair?"

"Brown. A little bit long," Ronald said, thinking, it looked sort of like a bad toupee. "And he had a goatee."

"Could you pick him out of a line up?"

"I gave the guy a half million dollars," Ronald said.

Dorothy sighed angrily and turned away. "Jesus," she muttered.

"You bet I'd remember him," Ronald added.

"Okay," the agent said. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, had been up for going on twenty-four hours, had been on this case for going on a lifetime -- or so it seemed. "Two agents will be spending the night here in the house."

"What?" Ronald asked. "Agents. Why?"

Selden continued without bothering to answer his questions. "I assume you won't give them any trouble."

"He won't," Dorothy said, firmly.

"I'll be at the Banning House Lodge," Selden said. "We'll fly to L.A. tomorrow. There's an agent I'd like you to meet with. She's quite familiar with this case."

"Why do I have to go to L.A.?" Ronald asked, panicking once again. "I gave you the guy's name."

Selden stood, he wanted so badly to deck the guy. Just one punch to the chin was all it'd take. But he took a deep breath, and walked to the front entrance of the house, where he signaled for the agents to come inside. Looking back, he spotted Dorothy, waiting patiently for instructions. Man, he thought, what's a woman like you doing with an asshole like that?

She smiled. "Thank you."

"It's been a blast," he said, sarcastically, moving aside to let the two agents enter. "See you in the morning."

He turned and limped out toward the awaiting car. Halfway down their front walk, he heard Dorothy call after him.

"Mr. Selden," she said, running his way.

"Yes."

"Level with me. Is my husband going to jail?"

"Probably not," Selden said, expecting to see some sign of disappointment in her face. He did. "But let's make him think he might. It'll be better for all of us."

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll make him sweat."

"I'm sure you will," Selden said, thinking that as tired as he was, he'd like for her to make him sweat -- right there and now on her front lawn, while Ronald Reginald Meeker watched from the living room window. He'd like to, well, he'd like a little bit of everything. If you please. Just hold the mayo. It had been too long since, well . . . too long. But sighing, shaking off the most basic of instincts, he turned and kept walking, muttering half to himself, "I'm sure you will."

CUT TO:

END OF INSTALLMENT #11

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

Gorman Bechard