Death of a Blue Movie Star

company had moved months ago. In any event the elevator opened just as she got into the stairwell. She heard his footsteps, heard them stop, heard his muttered “Oh, no” as he saw the broken glass. She eased through the fire door and took the stairs two, then three at a time down to the ground floor.
    Outside, she saw a cop up the street. Her first inclination was to bolt. But then she remembered that no way would Arthur Tucker call the police. At best he was a thief. At worst, a killer.

     
    The lights were brilliant dots of pure sun.
    Rune, thirty feet away, standing behind greasy pillars, felt the heat from the lights and wondered two things. Why had the lighting man decided to use four 800-watt Redhead lamps, which were way too big for the size of the set?
    That was the first thing she wondered. The second was: What was going through the mind of Nicole D’Orleans, who was naked and grappling with a tall, thin, dark-haired man on a pink satin sheet, her long, perfect legs squeezing the guy’s waist with all their strength?
    “That’s it baby yeah there there ooooo you know what I like you know what I want give it to me fuck me fuck me….”
    When she got tired of delivering dialogue like that Nicole would simply wail and mew. The man above her mostly grunted.
    Sweating furiously, they changed position often—missionary seemed to be passé. Some of the poses were creative but seemed exhausting even to watch; it was good that Nicole and her partner were athletic.
    Jesus, Rune thought, I couldn’t get my legs up that high if you paid me….
    The sounds of their lovemaking sailed into the dark crevices of the Lame Duck studio.
    The T-shirted cameraman moved in close, as if the probing lens of the Ikegami video camera was the third member of a ménage à trois. The rest of the crew was bored, leaning on light stands and tripods, sipping coffee. Outside the hot glow surrounding the mattress Danny Traub—today acting as director—gestured impatiently and ordered the cameraman around the set. “You miss the come shot, your ass is grass.”
    “I won’t miss it.”
    “Yesterday, Sharon’s leg was in the way. You couldn’t see diddly.”
    “I won’t miss it,” the cameraman responded. And moved closer to the action.
    Rune returned to her meditation. What would Nicole be thinking about? They’d been at it for half an hour. She seemed aroused. But was it fake? Was she concentrating on—
    Then, a disturbance.
    The actor had stopped his pumping and was standing up. Dazed, bleary, breathing heavily. Nicole glanced down at his crotch and saw the problem. She leaned forward and went to work with her mouth. She looked pretty skillful but the man didn’t respond. He suddenly retreated out of the lights. Nicole sat back and took the bathrobe that a young woman, an assistant, offered her. The actor looked for a towel, found one and pulled it around his waist.
    “That’s it,” the actor called. Gesturing, palms out, with a shrug.
    Danny Traub sighed, then barked orders. The lights went out. The camera shut off. The grips and gaffers walked off the set.
    “Third time this week, Johnny,” Traub whispered.
    The actor was deeply inhaling on a Camel. “It’s too fucking hot in here. What’s with the air conditioner?”
    “The air conditioner?” Traub’s head swiveled to his imaginary mezzanine. “He needs—what?—thirty-two degrees before he can get it up?”
    Johnny was looking at the floor but focusing six inches beneath it. “I’m tired.”
    “I’m paying you a thousand dollars for a hard dick. This film shoulda been in the can a week ago.”
    “So shoot around me. Put in some stock inserts.”
    “Johnny”—like Traub was talking to a six-year-old—“people save up their pennies to rent tapes of you and your foot-long. They want to see the wand do its magic thing, you understand?”
    “I’m
tired
.”
    “You’re strung out is what you are. You know what coke does to your yin-yang. You can be a lawyer, a doctor, a musician, probably even a fucking airline pilot and do all the blow you want and it isn’t going to fuck up your job. But a man who makes porn can’t do as much as you’re doing.”
    “Just give me a couple of hours.”
    “No, I’m giving you the fucking boot. Get out.”
    Nicole had been watching from the side of the bed. She stepped toward them. “Danny …”
    Traub ignored her.
    Johnny muttered something. He walked to the corner of the set. From a leather shoulder