sell out,” I said.
“To quote a friend of mine,” she said, “everybody sells out.”
“No,” I said. “People sell out to get what they want. Getting her face pasted onto somebody else’s body isn’t what she wanted. She wanted to dance in the movies.”
“Maybe she needed the money,” Heada said, looking at the screen. Someone whacked Howard Keel with a board, and Russ Tamblyn took a poke at him.
“Maybe she figured out she couldn’t have what she wanted.”
“No,” I said, thinking about her standing there on Hollywood Boulevard, her face set. “You don’t understand. No.”
“Okay,”
she said placatingly. “She didn’t sell out. It isn’t a paste-up.” She waved at the screen. “So what is it? How’d she get on there if somebody didn’t paste her in?”
Howard Keel shoved a pair of brawlers into the corner, and the barn fell apart, collapsing into a clatter of boards and chagrin. “I don’t know,” I said.
We both stood there a minute, looking at the wreckage.
“Can I see the scene again?” Heada said.
“Frame 25-200, forward realtime,” I said, and Howard Keel reached up again to lift Jane Powell down. The dancers formed their lines. And there was Alis, dancing in the movies.
“Maybe it isn’t her,” Heada said. “That’s why you asked me to bring over the ridigaine, wasn’t it, because you thought it might be the alcohol?”
“You see her, too.”
“I know,” she said, frowning, “but I’m not really sure I know what she looks like. I mean, the times I saw her I was pretty splatted, and so were you. And it wasn’t all that many times, was it?”
That party, and the time Heada sent her to ask me for the access, and the episode of the skids. Memorable occasions, all.
“No,” I said.
“So it could be it’s just somebody else who looks like her. Her hair’s darker than that, isn’t it?”
“A wig,” I said. “Wigs and makeup can make you look really different.”
“Yeah,” Heada said, as if that proved something. “Or really alike. Maybe this person’s wearing a wig and makeup that makes her look like Alis. Who is it anyway? In the movie?”
“Virginia Gibson,” I said.
“Maybe this Virginia Gibson and Alis just look alike. Was she in any other movies? Virginia Gibson, I mean? If she was, we could look at them and see what she looks like, and if this is her or not.” She looked concernedly at me. “You’d better let the ridigaine work first, though. Are you having any symptoms yet? Headache?”
“No,” I said, looking at the screen.
“Well, you will in a few minutes.” She pulled the blankets off the bed. “Lie down, and I’ll get you some water. Ridigaine’s fast, but it’s rough. The best thing is if you can—”
“Sleep it off,” I said.
She brought a glass of water in and set it by the bed. “Access me if you get the shakes and start seeing things.”
“According to you, I already am.”
“I didn’t
say
that. I just said you should check out this Virginia Gibson before you jump to any conclusions.
After
the ridigaine does its stuff.”
“Meaning that when I’m sober, it won’t look like her.”
“Meaning that when you’re sober, you’ll at least be able to see her.” She looked steadily at me. “Do you want it to be her?”
“I think I will lie down,” I said to get her to leave. “My head aches.” I sat down on the bed.
“It’s starting to work,” she said triumphantly.
“Access
me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I said, and lay back.
She looked around the room. “You don’t have any more liquor in here, do you?”
“Gallons,” I said, gesturing toward the screen. “Bottles, flasks, kegs, decanters. You name it, it’s in there.”
“It’ll just make it worse if you drink anything.”
“I know,” I said, putting my hand over my eyes. “Shakes, pink elephants, six-foot-tall rabbits, ‘and how are you, Mr. Wilson?’”
“Access
me,” she said, and left, finally.
I waited
“To quote a friend of mine,” she said, “everybody sells out.”
“No,” I said. “People sell out to get what they want. Getting her face pasted onto somebody else’s body isn’t what she wanted. She wanted to dance in the movies.”
“Maybe she needed the money,” Heada said, looking at the screen. Someone whacked Howard Keel with a board, and Russ Tamblyn took a poke at him.
“Maybe she figured out she couldn’t have what she wanted.”
“No,” I said, thinking about her standing there on Hollywood Boulevard, her face set. “You don’t understand. No.”
“Okay,”
she said placatingly. “She didn’t sell out. It isn’t a paste-up.” She waved at the screen. “So what is it? How’d she get on there if somebody didn’t paste her in?”
Howard Keel shoved a pair of brawlers into the corner, and the barn fell apart, collapsing into a clatter of boards and chagrin. “I don’t know,” I said.
We both stood there a minute, looking at the wreckage.
“Can I see the scene again?” Heada said.
“Frame 25-200, forward realtime,” I said, and Howard Keel reached up again to lift Jane Powell down. The dancers formed their lines. And there was Alis, dancing in the movies.
“Maybe it isn’t her,” Heada said. “That’s why you asked me to bring over the ridigaine, wasn’t it, because you thought it might be the alcohol?”
“You see her, too.”
“I know,” she said, frowning, “but I’m not really sure I know what she looks like. I mean, the times I saw her I was pretty splatted, and so were you. And it wasn’t all that many times, was it?”
That party, and the time Heada sent her to ask me for the access, and the episode of the skids. Memorable occasions, all.
“No,” I said.
“So it could be it’s just somebody else who looks like her. Her hair’s darker than that, isn’t it?”
“A wig,” I said. “Wigs and makeup can make you look really different.”
“Yeah,” Heada said, as if that proved something. “Or really alike. Maybe this person’s wearing a wig and makeup that makes her look like Alis. Who is it anyway? In the movie?”
“Virginia Gibson,” I said.
“Maybe this Virginia Gibson and Alis just look alike. Was she in any other movies? Virginia Gibson, I mean? If she was, we could look at them and see what she looks like, and if this is her or not.” She looked concernedly at me. “You’d better let the ridigaine work first, though. Are you having any symptoms yet? Headache?”
“No,” I said, looking at the screen.
“Well, you will in a few minutes.” She pulled the blankets off the bed. “Lie down, and I’ll get you some water. Ridigaine’s fast, but it’s rough. The best thing is if you can—”
“Sleep it off,” I said.
She brought a glass of water in and set it by the bed. “Access me if you get the shakes and start seeing things.”
“According to you, I already am.”
“I didn’t
say
that. I just said you should check out this Virginia Gibson before you jump to any conclusions.
After
the ridigaine does its stuff.”
“Meaning that when I’m sober, it won’t look like her.”
“Meaning that when you’re sober, you’ll at least be able to see her.” She looked steadily at me. “Do you want it to be her?”
“I think I will lie down,” I said to get her to leave. “My head aches.” I sat down on the bed.
“It’s starting to work,” she said triumphantly.
“Access
me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I said, and lay back.
She looked around the room. “You don’t have any more liquor in here, do you?”
“Gallons,” I said, gesturing toward the screen. “Bottles, flasks, kegs, decanters. You name it, it’s in there.”
“It’ll just make it worse if you drink anything.”
“I know,” I said, putting my hand over my eyes. “Shakes, pink elephants, six-foot-tall rabbits, ‘and how are you, Mr. Wilson?’”
“Access
me,” she said, and left, finally.
I waited
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