"You don't know where it is?"
"No."
"Do you remember the scene? What he said?"
"It was a closed set, and when we were through with the shot Phil took my tapes and Alex Karsandi's film and said he would take care of the processing and the lab himself. He'd never done that before but he's the boss, so we gave it to him." It was the most Artus had said at one time since we'd been there and appeared to tire him out. It was plain he didn't have much more in him, and we'd have to get whatever other information we needed fast.
"What did he say, Rainer? What kind of things did he talk about in that scene?"
He rubbed his face with both hands and looked at us vaguely, as if only having just gotten up for the day. "He did it ad lib. None of that scene was in the original script. We all got the feeling he was making things up as he went along. He talked about evil and pain . . . but nothing you haven't heard already. A bad guy telling why he's bad. Nothing special.
"What was bad came at the end of the scene when Bloodstone killed the little girl. Christ, it looked real! None of us knew how he did it. This great-looking kid, maybe eight or nine. He went through this 'Why I'm bad' spiel and then brought her out from the wings, like a magician about to do a trick on someone from the audience.
"None of us knew what he was up to, but Phil was a good ad libber so we just left him alone. Matthew Portland had brought the girl on the set, but she'd been hanging back in the wings so quietly I'd forgotten about her."
"What was her name? Do you remember her name?"
He rubbed a hand over his face again. "Yeah, I remember because it was a funny name: 'Pinslip.' He didn't call her anything else. Brought this little Pinslip out and a moment later, with the camera rolling, Bloodstone cut her throat while she was singing this song he told her to sing." His mouth started moving as if he were chewing gum. "In my town when I was a kid there was this crazy woman we called 'Salad.' I don't know where the name came from. We used to go around scaring her whenever we could." His mouth kept moving. He looked at me, and his eyes cleared for a moment. "Ever since we finished that film I haven't felt so good. I don't want to make another Midnight. The money's good and Phil's a king, but I'm not going to do it again. I've got to call and tell him that. Is he back in town yet?"
"There she is – by the car."
Shading his eyes against the sun, Finky Linky looked toward the street. Pinsleepe was standing by a tree with a bright orange ball in her hands. Seeing us, she waved happily.
"If she's an angel then she can save me, can't she, Weber?"
"I guess so, Wyatt. Maybe she can."
We started off the porch toward her. She moved toward us.
"Hello, Finky Linky. Yes, I can save you."
He looked at me. She looked at me.
"Why didn't you tell me about that scene?"
"I can't tell you everything, Weber. Phil told you that on the tapes, didn't he?"
"Why do you talk like a child sometimes and like a grown-up others?"
"Because I'm both. Today I look like a kid with an orange ball. What did you find out from Rainer?"
"What happened to him? What's the matter?"
"Midnight Kills is the matter. So you know about me being killed in the film?"
"Yes. Did Phil know he was going to do it?"
"I think so. When he asked me onto the set, I thought it was to show how he'd decided to change the scene for the good. But he was too far gone by then. Whatever little good was left in him, he had to kill and show the whole world. No better place to do that than a movie."
"Is the scene gone?"
She tossed the ball into the air, caught it. "The film's gone, but that's not important. He burned the film and the sound tapes before he died, but it was too late and he knew it. He'd done the scene, so it was alive. It still is. That's why he killed himself."
"Then what am I supposed to do? What can I do?"
Pinsleepe tossed the ball to Wyatt. She looked at me. "You have to shoot another scene, Weber, one to replace Phil's. If it's better, things'll be all right again. Sasha will be okay. So will he."
"That's it? Is that what you want?"
"Yes."
"How do I make it 'better'?"
Someone screamed behind us. We turned around to see Rainer on his porch, still in his underwear, waving. "Hey, thanks a lot for coming, guys! Love your show, Finky. If you ever need a sound man, let me know!"
When we turned back to Pinsleepe, she was gone.
5
Look at this splendid room. Come, I'll show you around.
Sasha's always been a big collector. When you have money you collect "objects," when you're poor you collect "things." Sasha has objects. I bought her some of them. By the time that happened, I was so rich and untroubled by money I could walk into a gallery or antique store and not haggle over price, not turn the thing here and there, pretending to look for flaws or hidden cheapness. I'd say how much. They'd say some crazy price. I'd say all right.
That Maris York skyscraper, over the fireplace, and the painting by Jorg Immendorff were from me. I brought the painting over in my car with the top down. It was so big, it flapped in the wind like a sail. The gallery owner was horrified, but I wanted to give it to Sasha immediately and see her reaction. She put it down on the floor and walked around and around it for minutes, checking from all angles.
Sasha is . . . oh, don't worry, she won't be back for a few hours; she's still at the hospital having tests. We have time to appreciate her place: the two Chinese carpets, one the color of dusk, the other of dessert; an old ink bottle my father would love on the desk next to the round stone she found when we were in New Mexico. . . .
A woman who can demand or coerce millions of dollars from hard-edged money people, she also likes to laugh while fucking. When she wakes up in the morning, she's usually in a good mood. Sasha buys hardcover copies of books people recommend she read. It's ridiculous making a list of someone's good qualities. Anyway, I'm supposed to be giving you a tour of her apartment, not her personality. But our books, the two pairs of black running shoes, how often and how carefully we water the plants . . . haruspication. Remember the word? Study the order, find the answer. Why did she pick up that round rock and not another? Here, would you like to hold it? The size is unimportant, I can tell you that. Size, color, where exactly she found it: not those things. Rather the totality, the dots of a life connected by a smart eye. The stone and ink bottle on her desk, a bad drawing of a dinosaur that hangs in the bathroom. A little nothing that amuses her and which she can never take down, even when she thinks of doing it. Because I gave it to her.
Nothing I gave her has left this house. Not before, not after I died. I check every day, take a walk through the house when she's not around to see if some of me is still alive here. If even one thing were gone I would worry.
Sometimes when she's here I'll sit in a near room and listen to her going about the small acts of her life. The whish of her shower, the way she often hums, the quick click of channels when she tries to watch television but finds nothing – nothing to put an hour of her life into because there is nowhere else to put it right now.
I almost never sit in the same room with her. Too close. Too sad. From the looks on our faces, you wouldn't be able to figure out which of us was sadder, the pregnant woman or the dead man.
Can I tell you about this? Do you mind? I'd be very grateful.