Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) by Tim Cockey

who would listen that he was shooting a movie. Correction. An ‘art’ film. Quote unquote. Now, here’s Terry Haden’s idea of what makes a film an art film. Are you ready?”
    I took a firm grip on the edge of the table. Julia leaned forward.
    “You put art into it.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “That’s right. Literally. Art. Sculptures. Ceramic pots. You name it.” She laughed. “The guy was literally auditioning
art works
at the Institute! Can you believe it? What a joke it was. He’d come around with a clipboard and a couple of Polaroid cameras hanging off his neck like some war correspondent and stalk around the place taking snapshots of different pieces, then he’d jot down the artist’s name and phone number and all the rest. He took pictures of the artists themselves too. See, if you
really
want an art film, you also fill the thing up with real, live bonafide
artists.
”
    “Tell me this is all a joke.”
    “Of course it’s a joke. And most of the kids at the Institute were smart enough to laugh the guy off. But there are always enough insecure wanna-bes who can get caught up in this kind of nonsense. You know how it is. Here’s this guy who tells them he’s worked on a couple John Waters films, and now he’s trolling around looking not only to put them in a movie, but their
art
as well. Maybe he’s the next Waters, right? Or Barry Levinson. Local boy makes good. Hollywood calling. Big bags of money and all that? To some of these kids it was actually enticing. Terry Haden brought his scam to the right place, and he knew it. I’m sure you can imagine the rap. It’s all guerrilla filmmaking. Independent. No professional actors. All part of the rawness and honesty. Just real people.”
    “Freebies.”
    “Exactly. I mean, it was ridiculous. He wasn’t even showing anybody a damn script. He was making it up as he went along. But you know, technically, that’s how these art house train wrecks happen in the first place. You set up your camera and hope that the muses will show up and save your ass. When they don’t, you edit like crazy then slap on a bunch of Phillip Glass.”
    The waiter came over to check on us. We each pulled our drinks protectively to our chests. Can anybody guess that we’ve known each other for years? I tapped my watch.
    “Julia, are we inching closer to the point? I’ve got plans for Memorial Day.”
    “Funny. I’m getting to it. I just wanted to give you some background.”
    “Fine. Can we move on to the foreground,
s’il vous plait
?”
    “
Oui oui, mon petit fromage.
” She finished off her drink and dropped the empty glass into her purse. “So. Anyway. Haden took one more shot at me. He tried to convince me to let him put some of my paintings in his so-called film. It was pathetically clear that he just wanted to exploit my good name. I turned him down. I told him that my agent would insist on a contract, a fee for each painting that he used, a percentage of the box office, all that.”
    “You don’t have an agent.”
    “I know. It didn’t matter. At the first mention of pay, he dropped the idea. In fact, he backed off from me completely. I guess it got through to him that I was on to his game. Haden wasn’t making any goddamn art film. That was all a pretense. I mean, who knows, maybe it started out that way. A way to get himself snaking around the Institute. But basically that was the lure. What he was looking for was freewheeling artsy kids who’d be willing to toss off their clothes and have a nice little orgy while Senior Von Stroheim rolled the camera.”
    “Great way to meet chicks.”
    “Exactly. The art house hustler. Some of these kids were like ten years younger than him. And it worked. I’m telling you, Hitch, I really don’t know what it is about guys with cameras. Some of the unlikeliest women will fling off their knickers at the drop of a lens cap. It’s perverse. Anyway, this is where Victoria Wagner comes in. Or
Waggoner
, as you put