Do it till we bleed
He was simulating sex with a diaphanous, winged beauty on her hands and knees in front of him, her wings fluttering with each and every thrust.
Donovan and Waxman exchanged glances.
This was certainly a first.
Sidney leaned in close. “Reminds me of college,” he said, and the warm breath against Donovan’s ear pulled him away again, churning up something he couldn’t quite put words to.
Something dangerous.
When he looked again at the scene before them, he was jolted by what he saw:
The rocker was Gunderson, eyes black as death, a malevolent smile fixed on his face as he assaulted the angel in front of him.
He turned those eyes on Donovan, the smile growing wider, the forked tip of a serpent’s tongue flicking between his teeth. For a moment, Donovan felt as if he were staring into a fun-house mirror. Somewhere in those black eyes, he could see himself.
Give us a kiss, Gunderson mouthed.
Donovan sucked in a sharp breath as the squawk of a megaphone sliced through it all.
“Cut! Cut! Kill the music! Give me some light!”
The music abruptly stopped as a bank of overhead lights came on, and before Donovan could blink Gunderson was gone. History.
The rocker was just a rocker. A tousled-haired punk drenched in sweat.
The residue of that brief moment, however, spread through Donovan’s body like a malignant growth and settled in the pit of his stomach-hard and sour, a terminal case of acid reflux.
Then Tony Reed stepped out from behind a towering light stand, the megaphone tucked under an arm. “As much as I appreciate the sight of a very lovely nipple,” he said, loud enough for his entire cast and crew to hear, “the key phrase is Standards and Practices, folks, and I doubt very much that MTV will be as appreciative as I am.”
The cast and crew chuckled obediently. Tony gestured to a mousy woman on the sidelines, then pointed to the nameless supermodel who played the part of the angel. The model’s left breast was in full view, its containment apparently hampered by her costume’s shortcomings and her enthusiasm for the part. Looking down, she sighed and popped the offending orb back into place.
“Sorry,” she said, offering Reed a wan smile.
“Maggie,” Reed said to the mousy woman, “do us all a favor and break out the duct tape.”
Tony Reed considered himself a patient man, but that patience was wearing thinner with each and every setback he was forced to endure. Sure, an exposed tit was nothing to cry about, but this was merely the latest in a long string of screwups that had made this shoot nearly unbearable.
The band he’d been hired to immortalize-a neophyte group of techno-metal punks who called themselves Scream, of all things-had about as much talent as Justin Timberlake’s evil twin. The song they’d chosen for their debut video was a weak imitation of Nine Inch Nails-as was their entire act-and Tony had little tolerance for imitators, no matter what style they chose to rip.
But, as usual, the record company embraced such larceny as if it were the second coming of Nirvana. The publicity machine had been pumped up so hard and high that it would be nearly impossible for the band to recover from the inevitable letdown of their first release. By this time next year, they’d be back at their jobs painting cars or rehauling transmissions or doing whatever the hell it was they did before fate threw them a nice, juicy bone.
While Tony didn’t care about the band or their music, he did care about his vision. Working with new, untested acts like this one allowed him greater creative freedom than he’d get with older, established artists. Now, if he could just keep the screwups to a minimum-which had so far proved impossible-and get this thing on film, he could retire to his office where the real creativity was born: in the editing room.
Summoning up every bit of patience he had left, he waited as Maggie crossed to Naomi with a roll of duct tape and got to work. He had no doubts that when Maggie was finished, the game of peekaboo would be over, but he couldn’t help wondering what the next screwup would be.
“Hey, Tony.”
Swiveling his head, Tony looked off toward the left side of the warehouse where the flats were stored and saw two familiar figures walking toward him.
Oh, goody. Agents Donovan and Waxman.
What an unexpected thrill.
“You got a minute?” Waxman was doing the talking, which wasn’t surprising. Donovan looked like he’d been stomped on, then run over by a truck. Tony had no idea what had happened to the guy, but he thought about Sara chained to those machines in Saint Margaret’s Convalescent Center and sent up a silent thank-you. At least somebody had gotten it right today.
“We need to chat,” Waxman said.
Tony sighed and threw a forlorn glance at his assistant director, who stood nearby, jotting something on a clipboard. “Take ten, Jimmy.”
The AD pulled his own megaphone out from under his arm and repeated the command to the rest of the crew.
Tony smiled at the two agents. “Let’s go to my office.”
On Reed’s office wall was a framed poster for Francis Ford Coppola’s One From the Heart, an obscure little gem that few people had ever heard of. In some circles it was believed to be a cinematic masterpiece. Donovan had seen the movie with his ex-wife, Joanne-Jessie’s mom-who had promptly labeled it a pretentious piece of crap.
He could clearly remember her saying this with a dour look on her face that, in later years, was as permanent as her smile had once been.
He also remembered being dazzled by the film, but would now be hard-pressed to tell you what it was about. It was different, he knew that much. And he figured the poster on Reed’s wall was a way of saying, I’m different, too. I’m an independent.
Joanne would undoubtedly label Reed a pretentious piece of crap as well.
This all, of course, shot through Donovan’s mind like grease through a hot pipe as Reed escorted them into the office. Donovan was still reeling after that moment of darkness he’d encountered back on the soundstage. The blackness of Gunderson’s eyes haunted him, along with the feeling that-for just an instant-he had been staring at himself.
Where the hell had that come from?
Reed crossed to a refrigerator in the corner of the room and grabbed a can of Coke. He didn’t offer any to Waxman or Donovan.
“Look,” he said, popping the top. He was trying for nonchalance, but the undercurrent of nervousness Donovan had sensed in their previous encounters was still present. “I realize you gentlemen have a job to do, but I’m in the middle of a bitch of a shoot right now, so why don’t we cut past all the crap and get to the point?”
“You first,” Waxman said.
“I haven’t seen him, I don’t know where he is, and I don’t expect to hear from him anytime soon.” He took a sip of Coke, smiled at them. “Anything else you need to know?”
“We’re still waiting for you to cut past all the crap.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, I barely know the man. Met him, what-twice? And that was before he made the transition from annoying to homicidal. Marrying my sister doesn’t make him my best friend.”
“Uh-huh,” Waxman said, unimpressed. “You happen to watch TV last night or read the papers today?”
“Are you kidding? Who has time?”
“Get any calls from friends or relatives?”
“I told you. I’m in the middle of a shoot. That pretty much takes up every second I have. And you two aren’t helping much.”
“Then I guess you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
Waxman looked at him. “Your brother-in-law is dead.”
Dead, Donovan thought, Rachel’s words drifting back to him. They told me you were dead.
He watched Reed, looking for a reaction to Sydney’s news. All at once Reed’s nervousness drained away. His whole body relaxed. He set his Coke on a desktop and sank into a leather executive’s chair. He didn’t have to say a thing to communicate exactly what he was feeling.