Death of a Blue Movie Star

of the houseboat Rune looked for something to offer him. Beer didn’t seem right after coffee and her only bottle of brandy had been capped with foil a year or two ago and a dark residue floated in the bottom.
    “Sorry.” She held up the bottle.
    “Bud’s fine.”
    They stood on the deck, looking over at New Jersey, feeling the nerves in their legs click from all the dancing and feeling tired and energized at the same time.
    She wasn’t quite sure what started it. She remembered saying something about the stars, which you couldn’t see very well because of the city lights, but they were both looking up, and then there was his face filling the sky as it moved toward her and they were kissing, pretty serious kissing too.
    She felt the slight prickle of his mustache, then his lips, and she felt his arms going around her. She’d expected he’d maybe be more cautious, like feeling his way along a pipe bomb, ready to jump back at any moment.
    But he wasn’t that way at all. No reluctance, no hesitation. She guessed maybe she was the first girl he’d kissed like this since Cheryl had left. She knew he wanted her. Her arms went tight around his neck.
    She maneuvered them into the bedroom.
    A huge stuffed dragon sat in the middle of the bed.
    “A monster,” he said.
    “A friendly monster.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “
Her
name is Persephone.”
    “My apologies.”
    Rune picked up the dragon and held the mouth up to her ear.
    “She forgives you. She even likes you.”
    For a moment nothing moved, neither of them spoke. Then he knelt on the bed.
    Her arms went around him, kissing hard, pressing, hands hungry. The dragon was still in between them. She considered making a joke about it. About something coming between them, ha, ha, but he was kissing her fast, urgently.
    Rune grabbed the toy and dropped it on the floor.

     
    When Nicole D’Orleans opened her eyes—gasping, gulping in air, mouth wide—when she came to, she was naked. Her arms were over her head, her wrists tied to the ends of the pot and pan rack. Her feet just touched the ground.
    Good. He was worried that he’d hit her too hard.
    He looked at the knots. Tied expertly, not cutting off circulation, but no way could she pull free from the binding.
    “No! What’re you doing?” She was crying.
    Tommy was wearing a black ski mask. He was naked to the waist, bending down under her, tying her feet the same way—with precision, care, devotion. He tied one ankle to a chromium rack on the bottom of the island.
    “Noooo!” A long wail, rising at the end. She kicked at him with her free foot. He dodged away easily.
    “Why are you doing this, Tommy? Why? …”
    The camcorder was trained on her and was running. The camera lights were hot and she was sweating from the heat as well as the fear.
    Patiently he bound her other foot. He was irritated, though, that there was nothing to tie it to. He had to wrap it around a cabinet hinge. “Doesn’t look right.” He stepped back and adjusted the camera upward, to avoid shooting the clumsy jerry-rigged job.
    “What are you going to do?”
    He had his hands on his hips. With his chest naked, his tight blue jeans, the mask, he was a medieval executioner.
    “What do you want?” she squealed. “Leave me alone.”
    It often got him how stupid some people were. What did he want?
    It was pretty fucking obvious to him.
    He told her, “Just making a film, honey. Just what you do all day long. Only there’s one difference: You tease. This is for real. This film’s going to show your soul.”
    “You’re …” Her voice was soft, shook with sickening terror. “This is a snuff film, isn’t it? Oh, God …”
    He pulled more rope out of his bag. He paused for a moment, studying her.
    Nicole began to scream.
    Tommy took an S & M gag—a lather strap with a red ball attached to it—and shoved it into her mouth. He tied it tight behind her head.
    “They sell so much garbage. You know, leather panties. Face masks, jockstraps out of latex. You ask me it’s too complicated. I go for the simple stuff myself. You got to get it just right. It’s sort of a ritual. You do it wrong, they don’t pay. This customer of mine—I’m making twenty-five thousand for this, by the way—he likes the knots to be just right. They’re very important, the knots. One time, this guy wanted redheads only. Man, that’s not easy. So I cruised two, three days along Highway 101. Finally found this student from some community