Death of a Blue Movie Star

gaze she felt young and silly, a child being indulged.
    Nicole took a package of sugar-free gum from her pocket, unwrapped a stick and began to chew. Rune said, “Anyway, that’s what I want to do.”
    Shelly said, “You know anything about the adult-film business?”
    “I used to work for a video store. My boss said the adult films gave us the best margin.”
    She was proud of herself for that, saying something about
business
. Margin. A mature way to talk about fuck films.
    “There’s money to be made,” Shelly said. Hers were eyes that sent out a direct light. Pale blue laser beam. They were intense at the moment but Rune sensed they were switch-able—that Shelly could choose in an instant to be probing or angry or vindictive by a slight touch to the nerves. Rune assessed too that her eyes wouldn’t dance with humor and there was a lot they chose not to say. She wanted to start her documentary with the camera on Shelly’s eyes.
    The actress said nothing, glanced at Nicole, who chewed her gum enthusiastically.
    “Do you two, like, perform together?” Rune blushed fiery red.
    The actresses shared a glance, then laughed.
    “I mean …,” Rune began.
    “Do we work together?” Nicole filled in.
    “Sometimes,” Shelly said.
    “We’re roommates too,” Nicole said.
    Rune glanced at the iron pillars and tin ceiling. “This is an interesting place. This studio.”
    “It used to be a shirtwaist factory.”
    “Yeah? What’s that?” Nicole asked.
    “A woman’s blouse,” Shelly said, not looking down from the ceiling.
    Shelly is tall and she isn’t a stunning beauty. Her presence comes from her figure (and eyes!). Her cheekbones are low. She has skin the consistency and the pale shade of a summer overcast. “How did I get into the business? I was raped when I was twelve. My uncle molested me. I’m a heroin addict—don’t I cover it up well? I was kidnaped by migrant workers in Michigan
….”
    Nicole lit a cigarette. She kept working on the gum too.
    Shelly looked down from the tin panels at Rune. “So this would be a documentary?”
    Rune said, “Like on PBS.”
    Nicole said, “Somebody wanted me to do one once, this guy. A documentary. But you know what he really wanted.”
    Shelly asked, “Still hot out?”
    “Boiling.”
    Nicole gave a faint laugh, though Rune had no idea what she was thinking of.
    Shelly walked to a spot where cold air cascaded on the floor. She turned and examined Rune. “You seem enthusiastic. More enthusiastic than talented. Excuse me. That’s just my opinion. Well, about your film—I want to think about it. Let me know where I can get in touch with you.”
    “See, it’ll be great. I can—”
    “Let me think about it,” Shelly said calmly.
    Rune hesitated, looked at the woman’s aloof face for a long moment. Then dug into her leopard-skin bag, but before she found her Road Runner pen Shelly produced a heavy, lacquered Mont Blanc. She took it; felt the warmth of the barrel. She wrote slowly but Shelly’s gaze made her uneasy and the lines were lumpy and uneven. She gave Shelly the paper and said, “That’s where I live. Christopher Street. All the way to the end. At the river. You’ll see me.” She paused. “Will I see you?”
    “Maybe,” Shelly said.

     
    “Yo, film me, momma, come on, film me.”
    “Hey, you wanna shoot my dick? You got yourself a wide-angle lens, you can shoot my dick.”
    “Shit, be a microscope what she need for that.”
    “Yo, fuck you, man.”
    Walking out of the Times Square subway, Rune ignored her admirers, hefted the camera to her shoulder and walked along the platform. She passed a half-dozen beggars, shaking her head at their pleas for coins, but she dropped a couple of quarters into a box in front of a young South American couple giving a tango demonstration to the rattling music of a boom box.
    It was eight p.m., a week after she’d first met with Shelly and Nicole. Rune had called Shelly twice. At first the actress had been pretty evasive about doing the film but the second time she’d called, Shelly had said, “If I
were
to do it would you give me a chance to review the final cut?”
    From her work at L&R, and her love of movies in general, Rune knew that the final cut—the last version of the film, what was shown in the theaters—was the Holy Grail of the film business. Only producers and a few elite directors controlled the final cut. No actor in the history of Hollywood ever had final cut