Death of a Blue Movie Star

“There’s something, I dunno,
refreshing
about you, you know. I see all these women all day long—beautiful blondes and redheads to die for. Stunning, tall …”
    Oooo, watch the tall, mister.
    “… big tits. But, hey, you’re different.”
    She sighed.
    “I mean that sincerely. You want to come down to Atlantic City with me? Meet some wild people?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “One thing I am is talented. In the sack, you know.”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Plenty of recreational pharmaceuticals.”
    “Thanks anyway.”
    He looked at his watch. “Okay, tell you what, Uncle Danny’ll help you out. You want to shoot me, so to speak, go ahead. But let’s hurry. I got a busy day.”
    In ten minutes Rune had the equipment set up. She slipped a new tape into the camera. Traub sat back, popped his knuckles and grinned. He looked completely at ease.
    “What do you want me to say?”
    “Anything that comes to mind. Tell me about Shelly.”
    He glanced sideways, then looked into the camera and smiled sadly. “The first thing I have to say, and I mean this sincerely, is that I was wholly devastated by Shelly Lowe’s death.” The smile faded and his eyes went dull. “When she died, I lost more than my star actress. I lost one of my very dearest friends.”
    From somewhere, Rune had no idea where, Danny Traub produced what might pass for a tear.

 
    CHAPTER NINE
     

    The gruff man, in his sixties, with abundant white hair and cool eyes, looked down at Rune.
    “So you think you can act?” he asked sternly.
    Before she could say anything he turned and walked back into his office, leaving the door half-open. It was an old-fashioned office door, with a large window of mottled glass in it. The sign, in gold lettering, read: ARTHUR TUCKER, ACTING AND VOICE INSTRUCTION .
    Rune stepped into the doorway, but stopped. She didn’t know whether she’d been dismissed or invited in. When Tucker sat down at his desk she continued inside and closed the door behind her. He wore dark slacks and a white shirt and tie. His dress shoes were well worn. Tucker was slightly built, which made him seem younger. His legs were thin and his face chiseled and handsome. Bushy white eyebrows. And those piercing green eyes … It was hard to hold his gaze. If Tucker were a character actor he would’ve played a president or king. Or maybe God.
    “I don’t know whether I can act or not,” Rune said, walking up to the desk he sat behind. “That’s why I’m here.”
    The office on Broadway and Forty-seventh was a theater museum. The walls were covered with cheap-framed photos of actors and actresses. Some of them Rune had seen in films or heard of—but nobody was very famous. They seemed to be the sort of actor who plays the male lead’s best friend or the old wacko woman who shows up three or four times during a movie for comic relief. Actors who do commercials and dinner theater.
    Also on the walls were props, bits of framed fire curtains from famous theaters now gone,
Stagebill
covers pasted on posterboard. Hundreds of books. Rune recognized some titles; they were the same as Shelly Lowe had on her bookshelf. She saw the name Artaud and she remembered the phrase again: the Theater of Cruelty. It brought a jolt to her stomach.
    Tucker went through an elaborate ritual of lighting a pipe and a moment later a cloud of smoke, smelling of cherry, filled the room.
    He gestured to the chair, sat. Lifted an eyebrow, saying in effect, keep going.
    “I want to be a famous actress.”
    “So does half of New York. The other half wants to be famous actors. Where have you studied?”
    “Shaker Heights.”
    “Where?”
    “Ohio. Outside of Cleveland.”
    “I don’t know any academies or studios there.”
    “It was the middle school. I was in the Thanksgiving pageant.”
    He stared at her, waiting for her to go on.
    No sense of humor, she noted. “That’s a joke.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I was also a snowflake once. And in high school I painted backdrops for
South Pacific
…. That’s another joke. Look, sir, I just want to act.”
    “I’m a coach,” Tucker said. “That’s all I am. I improve, I don’t create. If you want to go to school, study drama, come back, I may be able to help you. But for now …” He motioned toward the door.
    Rune said, “But my friend said you’re the best in the city.”
    “You know one of my students?”
    “Shelly Lowe,” Rune said and pressed the button of the little JVC camcorder in her bag. The