could be that color in real life?
At Elenor Nicholâs feet stood a chubby little girl with curly reddish hairâÂLittle Orphan Annie, Duane thought, chuckling to himself. Click. But where Elenor was composed and regal, radiating contentment, the little girlâs smile looked forced. Duane suspected that she was dying to scratch an itch.
He lowered the camera. Joelen Nichol . The daughterâs name came to him, as names did, had to: names and faces were his stock in trade. Poor little thing. Must have hated that name, JoelenâÂa monument to the oversized egos of her parents.
Elenor Nicholâs big break had been the sudden death of Joelenâs father, Joe Baumgarten until Universal christened him Fox Pearson. Sad story. He drowned in the Beverly Hills Hotel pool during a glitzy bash celebrating the premiere of a film that would have been his breakout roleâÂor thatâs what the papers said after, anyway. Didnât hurt that the name of the film was Dark Waters , or that heâd been dragged to the bottom of the pool by the cast on the broken leg he suffered while performing his own stunts in the movieâs final apocalyptic fight scene. Too bad Duane hadnât been the Johnny-Âon-Âthe-Âspot photographer whoâd snapped the famous picture of some screenwriter, Arthur something or another, attempting to administer artificial respiration.
The headline in the Sunday morning Los Angeles Examiner read: âRising Star Drowns in Dark Waters.â The photograph had lived on in the annals of Hollywood lore, long after Fox Pearsonâs celebrity status expired, and turned into something of a Hollywood in-Âjoke: as if a screenwriter could breathe life into an actor.
Elenor made headlines, too, as the photogenic grieving widow (she draped herself in black lace and carried baby Joelen to the funeral). One of the filmâs uncredited producers, Howard Hughes, supposedly paid her a condolence call. Duane wished heâd been a fly on the wall for that one. Soon the pair was spotted around town together. Chasenâs. Perinoâs. Ciroâs. Holding hands. Smooching. Arguing. Fighting. He called her Bunny, and the nickname stuck. With Hughes as her short-Âlived Svengali, Bunny was soon auditioning for roles opposite A-Âlist actors like Tony Curtis and Montgomery CliftâÂand getting them.
That oil portrait must have been made a few years after Bunny ended it with Hughes. She supposedly went on to have affairs with Dean Martin, wrestler Tony Altomare, and a parade of increasingly forgettable dark, husky men before hooking up with her current Argentine playboy. The National Enquirer called Antonio âTitoâ Acevedo âMr. Charm and Smarm,â and hinted that he had Mafia connections. Rumor had it that Tito would soon find himself recast as Bunnyâs ex. And that was if Bunny was lucky.
Duane shook himself from the Hollywood gossip and focused on the painting. How long had that poor little girl had to stand there? When his daughter Susan had been that ageâÂfive or six, he guessedâÂshe wanted to be outside, running around. Susan. He hadnât seen her or his now ex-Âwife in nearly a year, not since Marie packed up and moved to some god-Âforsaken corner of Maine, as far away from Duane as she could get. Marie had hated Hollywood, hated the movie business. Hated the way it was all about youth and money. The way surface was all that matteredâÂnever mind that capturing surfaces was how Duane made his living.
Susan turned sixteen next week, and it would be the first birthday Duane that wouldnât be there to capture her blowing out her candles. His daughter did not resemble the girl in the portrait, but he recognized the look in her eyes, the same look heâd seen so many times in his wifeâs, that urgent wish to be anywhere but here.
It was nine-Âthirty and still no guests had arrived. Duane turned
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