Dark Terrors 3 (37 page)

‘Sixty thousand,’ I said, letting it sink in. ‘For one video. Yeah, right.’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘Not video - thirty-five millimetre. First class all the way. Say a series of three or four. We move twenty-five, thirty thousand copies each, list price, no sell-throughs. Plus a soft version for cable. You do the arithmetic.’

I couldn’t, but I knew it was enough to catch up on the alimony payments, settle with American Express and get the hell out of LA.

‘What kind of pictures are we talking about?’ I said.

‘Anything you want.
Anything.
I’ve got so many ideas I don’t have time to do ‘em all.’

He shrugged in the direction of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with scripts. I made out some of the titles, written in marking pen on the edges:
Rumper Room, The Cunning Linguist, Ready Whipped, Gag Ball, Rocket to Uranus . . .

I must have flinched as I read them, because he waved his hand dismissively.

‘But what I really want to do is a crossover. Semi-legit. You can write it yourself. Whatever turns you on, as long as it’s got the wood and the money shots.’

‘Like?’

‘You name it. My cameraman worked with Orson Welles, my sound mixer’s at Todd-AO, I got an editing bay at FotoKem . . . we’re talking class, not some home movie with a mattress on the floor!’

He reached behind the chair and handed me several tapes as if dealing out a hand of cards.

‘Latex Dreams, The PsychoAnalist, Harry Butts in the Outback
... all directed by Peter Shooter.’ Donn looked at me expectantly.

I drew a blank on the name.

‘You know who he really is, don’t you? Drew Drake! The guy that does those perfume ads on TV? Lots of mood lighting, deep-focus - and the acting! Check out the stairway scene in
Gummy and Pokey.
Faye Way has six minutes of dialogue, no cuts, with Billy Backgate. Then they go right into a mish, a reverse cowgirl, around the world, and they finish with an inverted hole-in-one. Awesome!’

‘Okay, okay . . .’

‘And I can get you stars. How about Foxe Bleu? Or Oral Robert? Ever hear of Paul Riser? Take your pick - they
all
work for me. Not to mention Celestine Prophet! Now you know what
drop-dead gorgeous
means. You saw the movie, right?’

‘Not yet. I just got here.’

‘Check it out. She’s got a lot of potential. Vulcano wants her to beat the world gang-bang record, three hundred guys in one day. Shit, she can do that, as long as they keep their fingers out of her - too many scratches. But I want her for something special first. Real class . . .’

‘Why not get Drew Drake?’

‘He’s busy shooting that LaToya Jackson movie for Showtime.
Diana Ross Raw
or whatever the hell it’s called.’

‘Why me?’

‘I’m a fan.’ He shrugged, as if stating the obvious. ‘So sue me.’

‘You don’t even know if I can direct.’

‘You did three episodes of
Blossom,
two
Space Precincts
and one
Jaleel White Show,
before he flipped out.’

He had done his homework.

‘I was only first a.d. on those,’ I reminded him.

‘But you know the drill. Three two-day shoots. Think you can handle a total of six fucking days?’ He got up, went to his desk and opened a chequebook ledger. ‘I’ll give you an advance. How much to seal the deal?’

‘I don’t know, Donn . . .’

‘Say five large?’ He scrawled his name on a cheque and tore
it out of the book. ‘Think about it and call me. Just don’t wait too long. I’m back in Australia next week for
Bun Boy Goes Down Under.’

* * * *

In the hall ahead of me, a bimbo came out of the bathroom. She looked vaguely familiar. Her hair was teased and sprayed into a blonde waterfall like the other girls. When she grabbed my hand I did a double-take.

‘Charlene?’
I said.

She wiped her nose with a tissue and pulled me into the bathroom. Her eyes were moist, as if she had been crying.

‘Sorry,’ she said, closing and locking the door, ‘but I don’t know who else to ask.’

‘That’s all right. What—?’

‘I’ve only been in the business for a month . . .’

She began to cry. First her wide, sky-blue eyes focused intently on my face, as if watching every shift in expression, every muscle tic, before deciding whether to go on. Apparently enough of what I was feeling showed, because she slumped against the door and lowered her face, wiping her nose again. When she raised her head the whites of her eyes were red and tears spilled out and ran down to her perfect nostrils and the cracked red skin there. She must have done a lot of crying lately. The tears dripped off the narrow point of her chin - too narrow, I noticed for the first time. She had already been to a plastic surgeon. Next would come the incisions under her small, flawless breasts, which might mean surgically repositioning the nipples, depending on the size of the implants.

‘You can still get out,’ I said. ‘It’s not too late.’

‘But I signed a contract.’

‘Contracts can be broken. I’ll find you a lawyer . . .’

‘You don’t understand - I need the money. What am I going to do, go back to Jonesville and get a job at the phone company? Do you know what that pays? No way!’

She rubbed her nose, trying to compose herself.

‘I really don’t mind the work,’ she went on. ‘I never had an
orgasm before my first d.p., and I’ve done anal plenty of times, with my boyfriend. It’s not so bad if you’re lubed.’

‘How many pictures have you made?’ I heard myself ask.

‘Two, counting the one that isn’t out yet.’

‘What’s the name of the first one?’

‘WetWork,’
she said. ‘Did you see it? Donn wants me to do a series next, if he can find the right actor-director.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A real actor, who can direct his own scenes...’

So that was what the sixty grand was for. He wanted to buy a face the public had seen before but never in porn. It was another stunt to generate publicity. I wondered how much Donn would offer George Clooney or Brad Pitt, if there was a chance he could get them.

‘Excuse me.’

She blocked my way, holding the doorknob behind her back.

‘I don’t mind the name, either. Celestine’s pretty, don’t you think? It’s just that Donn won’t let me use on the set, and I need something . . .’

‘I have to go.’

‘Please?’ She pressed against me and guided my hand up under her dress, so that I could feel the latex thong bikini she was already wearing, in preparation for her introduction to the press. ‘I can’t make it straight. Do you have just a
little
coke? I’ll be nice, you’ll see...’

From the hall I heard Donn searching for his new starlet. I waited for him to pass, then lifted her off her feet. She was light as a plastic doll. I swung her around, set her down and opened the door.

As I ducked through the crowd in the rec room Donn was making excuses to buy a little more time. Then he went back into the hall. I heard him raise his voice and another voice sobbing. A minute later he returned and announced that Celestine Prophet was almost ready to make her entrance. Meanwhile, he reminded everybody,
WetWork
was running continuously outside. On the way down to the car I felt his cheque in my shirt pocket. It seemed to be pounding against my chest. I wondered whether he had made it out to Geoffrey Nightshade or Skippy Boomer. Either way I wouldn’t be able to cash it, but I wasn’t ready to look yet. In the sky a movie was ending or beginning, I couldn’t tell which. I decided it didn’t matter. The last reel would be just like the first.

* * * *

Dennis Etchison
is the recipient of both the World Fantasy and British Fantasy Awards for his short stories, and he is recognized as a writer who has consistently expanded the boundaries of the horror genre. His incisive short fiction has appeared in various publications, and is collected in
The Dark Country, Red Dreams
and
The Blood Kiss.
Aside from the movie novelizations
The Fog, Halloween II
and
III
and
Videodrome,
his novels include
Darkside
(recently reissued as a limited edition hardcover with the author’s preferred text restored),
Shadowman, California Gothic
and
Double Edge.
He has also edited the landmark anthologies
Cutting Edge, MetaHorror
and
Masters of Darkness.
About ‘The Last Reel’, Etchison says: ‘This is the opening chapter of
Blue Screen,
a novel about reality and illusion in Hollywood. The title has a double meaning. It refers to a kind of special effects or process shot used in film-making, and to “blue” (X-rated) movies. It also stands alone as a short story complete in itself.’

<>

* * * *

MARK TIMLIN

People say, that when you lose someone close, it gets better as time goes by.

People are wrong.

If anything, it gets worse.

At first, when you think about them, they might just be down the shops. Or maybe away on holiday, and due back in a week or two. Or at worst, they’ve gone to the other side of the world to live. But even if they’ve gone to the other side of the world, there’s still a chance that they’ll come back for a visit, and you’ll bump into them one day in Oxford Street, and go for a cup of coffee or a drink, and catch up on their news.

Not if they’re dead you won’t.

And sometimes that truth hits you like a length of 2x4, and you suddenly realize with a gut-wrenching force that you’re never going to see them again.