Death of a Blue Movie Star

us?”
    “I heard she did.”
    “Ah,” Schmidt said, smiling again. “Theatrical gossip. Never to be trusted.”
    “Then maybe you can set the record straight. You really don’t remember her?”
    “Miss Rune, you’ve got to understand. First of all, I do none of the preliminary casting myself. We have a casting director for that—”
    “What’s his—”
    “—who is no longer with the company, and I don’t know where he is. Second, most of the people who say they interview or audition with Michael Schmidt do nothing more than have their agent send a head shot and a copy of their resume to us or stand in line for an EPA or EPI that lasts ten seconds. Did this Ms. Lowe ever really audition for us? I doubt it. Did she ever audition for
me
? No disrespect to the dead … but if your friend said she almost had the part”—he turned his palms upward—“she lied.”
    There was a loud crash nearby. A stagehand had knocked over a huge stack of two-by-fours. Schmidt turned to him, the producer’s face twisted in fury. “
What
are you doing?”
    “Sorry, Mr. Schmidt. I—”
    “We’re behind schedule because cretins like you don’t know what on earth you’re doing. One more mistake and you’re out of here.”
    “I said I was sorry,” the beefy young man said. “It was an accident.”
    Schmidt turned back to Rune. “Idiots all around me … Next time you want to talk to me, call my office. Make an appointment. Although”—he turned and walked toward the stairs—“I sincerely hope there won’t be a next time.”
    Rune watched him for a moment. Saw that as far as Michael Schmidt was concerned she had ceased to exist. She slipped backstage and paused, watching the young stagehand angrily restack the lumber that had fallen to the floor.

     
    She yawned so hard that her jaw shivered and from her eyes sprang thick tears.
    It was ten p.m. Rune sat in the L&R studio, at the Moviola—an old flatbed film editing machine—rewinding the footage for the House O’ Leather commercial. Larry’d shot about an hour of the homely daughter doing retakes against the pimply backdrop. Rune was editing together chunks of the film, following Bob’s notes.
    Mary Jane—who Rune decided would have made someone a wonderful administrator—had left a note of her own, a long list of corrections to the estimate. She signed off with:
Please aim for 8:30-ish. And remember: big day tomorrow. Let’s all be bright-eyed. Ciao! M. J. C
.
    The door opened. Bob came in and walked right over to the gray machine, staring at the screen. He didn’t say anything to her for a moment. “‘Ow’re they coming, luv?”
    “I’ll have them for you in the morning.” He waved her hand away from the crank and turned it himself, studying the jerky scenes in the small screen. Rune watched his 18-karat gold bracelet as she said, “I didn’t know you did daily rushes when it’s just a commercial.”
    “We’re being a little more—whatsa word?—diligent with this one. The budget and all, you know.”
    “How was the client dinner?”
    “Guy’s an old fart and his daughter … Christ. She ’ad ’er foot up to no good, you know what I mean. On me thigh. Wanted a drink after, just the two of us. I ’ad to plead bloody exhaustion, get away from the crazy bird. And then Mary bleedin’ Jane—there’s an iceberg for you.” He spun the knob. He frowned. “Add two more seconds of ’er before the fade. Her old man thinks she’s some kinda Princess Di.”
    “I’ve already finished her sequence.”
    “Well, finish it again.”
    “Did you think about me, sitting here hungry, while you were eating a gourmet meal?”
    “Ah, brung you a present.”
    He handed her a paper bag with a grease spot on it.
    “Yeah?”
    She opened it. Inside was a foil swan.
    “Hey, you brought me something to go.”
    “Well, yeah.”
    She opened the swan’s back. She stared down at it.
    “It’s leftovers, isn’t it, Bob? This isn’t a swan bag. It’s a doggy bag.”
    “Thought you might like something.”
    Rune was poking at the contents with a pencil. “It’s green beans and potatoes. That’s all that’s left. What went with it?”
    “Dunno. May’ve been a steak.” He stretched and for a moment looked like the cute, innocent boy he had never in his life been and walked out the door. “Eight-thirty for tomorrow, doll. ’E likes croissants, so pick up some on your way in, could you?”
    The door shut behind him.
    She wadded the cold