Death of a Blue Movie Star

wish. I’m in a summer share. A lot of the people from the firm go in together. When you said you wanted to get out of the city I thought about the Island.
    “I’ve never been there. Why do they call it that, I wonder. Fire Island.”
    Hathaway shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll look it up and give you a call.”
    Rune looked at the frown on his face as he memorized his task. Seemed like he still needed a little work at loosening up, according to mother’s instructions.
    They loaded their bags into the trunk and got into the car.
    “Put your seat belt on,” he said.
    “Yessir.”
    He started the car and drove out onto the highway, heading south.
    Rune didn’t even have to bring up the topic. Before they’d gone a half mile Hathaway said, “I’ve run a lot of numbers on documentary films. They’re kind of encouraging. It’s not a gold mine. But it looks like there’s money to be made. We’ll go over the details if you want.”
    “Well, sure.”
    He signaled and checked his blind spot as he cautiously changed lanes.
    In two hours they climbed off the ferry and trekked over the sandy sidewalks to his vacation house, halfway between Kismet and Ocean Beach on Fire Island. The place was a cheap assembly of sharp-angled gray wood and glass and yellow pine with polyurethane so thick the grain was distorted by the lens of the coats. When Warren finally got the door open—he had key trouble—Rune was disappointed. The windows were filthy. The grit of sand and salt was everywhere. The stench of Lysol and the sour scent of mold fought for supremacy.
    A crummy house, a romantic beach—and an accountant …
    Thanks tons, Sam.
    But, hey, life could be worse. At least he was a rich accountant, almost ready to invest in her documentary film.
    And besides, they had a fierce yellow sun and a case of Budweiser and potato chips and Cheez Whiz and Twinkies and the restless Atlantic Ocean.
    Who needed anything but that?

     
    Arthur Tucker, no longer dressed in his workaday suit but in an old work shirt and slacks and rubber-soled shoes, sat forward in the back of a taxicab and told the driver to go slower.
    They were cruising along the West Side Highway.
    “What’re we looking for?” the man asked in a thick accent.
    “A houseboat.”
    “Ha. You kidding.”
    “Slower.”
    “Here,” he said. “Stop here.”
    “You sure?” the driver asked. “Here?”
    Tucker didn’t answer. The Chevy pulled to a stop. He climbed out of the cab, picked up the heavy canvas bag beside him and paid the driver. He made a point of not asking for a receipt; the less evidence, he knew, the better.

 
    CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
     

    Harris said, “‘These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.’”
    John ran his finger along his tattered King James. “‘God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain…’”
    The two men, along with William, said a perfunctory “Amen.”
    John sipped his lemonade and marked the passage. There were no priests in their church. Since God’s terrible and just will touched every soul (every believing, nonsinning, white soul, that is) equally, there was no need for ordination. Laymen gave sermons and conducted services. John was a favorite speaker.
    He looked at his watch and glanced at the other two, who nodded. He then made a long-distance phone call.
    On the fourth ring, it was answered.
    “Gabriel? How are things? … Good. So pleased to hear it. Brothers Harris and William and I are here together. Our thoughts are with you…. We’re ready to do what you asked.”
    John listened, nodding. His graying eyebrows lifted and his face flushed with excitement. “What’s the number?”
    He jotted down a phone number in New York.
    He hung up the phone and turned to Harris. “He’s had a brilliant thought. Since no one believes we exist he said he’s decided to create a living testament to the will of God.” He looked at the phone number and began to dial.

     
    The room seemed smaller with his wife in it.
    Healy’s impression was that she’d grown. But maybe it was just that rooms are always smaller with your ex in them.
    “How you doing?” Healy asked.
    “Not bad. You?” Cheryl responded. “You’ve gained weight.”
    “I don’t work out like I used to.”
    “You’re not spending three nights a week at the