ahead of him, in her hoop earrings and beaded false lashes. She gave off a powerful incense smell. “You want to buy me a drink?” she said in her husky voice. “Or do you want me to buy you a drink? Women’s lib and all that. We could have dinner. It’s not too early.”
Dave still couldn’t see so he reached out and laid fingers on her face. Under the heavy makeup was beard stubble. He laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The Triumph started with a splutter of loud little valves. He backed out of the shadow of the white van. “I have to see somebody at the marina,” he said. “Do you like to eat at the marina?”
“I like to sit and drink mai tais at the Warehouse and watch the little boats sink in the west.”
“It’s those tiny parasols they attach to the mai tais.” The Triumph raced down the alley and into the street. “Poor butterfly and all that, right?”
“’Neath the blossoms waiting,” Randy sighed.
The decor at the Warehouse was barrels and cargo nets. On the wooden decks big pots of flowers perched on tarry pier stakes. It was three. Most of the lunch tables stood empty. The tourists had gone away with their neck-strap Minoltas full of out-of-focus blue water and white boats. The boats tilting around the long, narrow bay had sails striped red and orange. The moored boats sported blue canvas covers. None of these was Fullbright’s. Fullbright’s was over yonder. He’d visit it next.
“No,” Randy Van said, “Spence doesn’t want to be fooled. He knows I’m a TV. Does he ever! If he could figure out how, TVs are all he’d use. But for obvious reasons, at least one girl has always got to be real.” He twisted the dinky bamboo-and-tissue-paper parasol off his drink in fingers with scarlet nails. He’d abandoned the turban and most of the scarves in the Triumph out on the lot by the big wooden tanks of koi fish. He smiled at Dave. “Boo-hoo,” he said. “Reality is always messing up my life.”
“It can’t be a career,” Dave said. “He doesn’t make any money. He couldn’t pay union scale.”
“Be serious.” Randy sipped at the big drink that looked like laboratory blood. “He pays eighty a day, but even if he paid scale, he shoots in two days. Then he lays off for months. My career is running a double-needle sewing machine in a loft full of lady Mexican illegals. They think they’re a persecuted minority. Hah!”
“He says he never used a skinny little tyke called Charleen. Blond? Hardly out of grammar school. Did he?”
“Never.” Randy shook his head. It loosened his wig that was shiny black Medusa curls. He set it tight with both hands. “I’ve worked in every flick he’s made, so I know. If he wanted to, he couldn’t. The Iowa hicks that line up Saturday nights on main street would be outraged. Down Alabama way, they’d burn out the theater.” Randy sipped his mai tai. A lot of lipstick had accumulated on the rim of the glass. “I mean, he wants me, but he sighs and hires big tits and lots of corn-fed ass. Like Junie.”
“She looks like a college girl,” Dave said.
“Pepperdine.” Randy nodded. “She does it for laughs.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t think it was hard-core, did you? Oh, no. She and Harold will roll around naked on that brass bed and kiss and moan a lot, but that’s all. The rednecks would burst a blood vessel if anything really happened. That’s what skinflick means—what you see ain’t what you think, but it makes you think it is.”
“And he shoots them in two days?” Dave asked.
“On a lavish ten thousand bucks. Can I have a cigarette?” Dave pushed his pack across the shiny planks of the tabletop. He lighted cigarettes for both of them. “Thanks,” Randy said. “Most of the budget goes on lights, equipment, studio rent. Music? He sneaks tape recorders into jazz clubs. Crew? College film students who want the experience and beg for the chance. Pay? What’s pay?”
“Cameraman too?” Dave
Dave still couldn’t see so he reached out and laid fingers on her face. Under the heavy makeup was beard stubble. He laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The Triumph started with a splutter of loud little valves. He backed out of the shadow of the white van. “I have to see somebody at the marina,” he said. “Do you like to eat at the marina?”
“I like to sit and drink mai tais at the Warehouse and watch the little boats sink in the west.”
“It’s those tiny parasols they attach to the mai tais.” The Triumph raced down the alley and into the street. “Poor butterfly and all that, right?”
“’Neath the blossoms waiting,” Randy sighed.
The decor at the Warehouse was barrels and cargo nets. On the wooden decks big pots of flowers perched on tarry pier stakes. It was three. Most of the lunch tables stood empty. The tourists had gone away with their neck-strap Minoltas full of out-of-focus blue water and white boats. The boats tilting around the long, narrow bay had sails striped red and orange. The moored boats sported blue canvas covers. None of these was Fullbright’s. Fullbright’s was over yonder. He’d visit it next.
“No,” Randy Van said, “Spence doesn’t want to be fooled. He knows I’m a TV. Does he ever! If he could figure out how, TVs are all he’d use. But for obvious reasons, at least one girl has always got to be real.” He twisted the dinky bamboo-and-tissue-paper parasol off his drink in fingers with scarlet nails. He’d abandoned the turban and most of the scarves in the Triumph out on the lot by the big wooden tanks of koi fish. He smiled at Dave. “Boo-hoo,” he said. “Reality is always messing up my life.”
“It can’t be a career,” Dave said. “He doesn’t make any money. He couldn’t pay union scale.”
“Be serious.” Randy sipped at the big drink that looked like laboratory blood. “He pays eighty a day, but even if he paid scale, he shoots in two days. Then he lays off for months. My career is running a double-needle sewing machine in a loft full of lady Mexican illegals. They think they’re a persecuted minority. Hah!”
“He says he never used a skinny little tyke called Charleen. Blond? Hardly out of grammar school. Did he?”
“Never.” Randy shook his head. It loosened his wig that was shiny black Medusa curls. He set it tight with both hands. “I’ve worked in every flick he’s made, so I know. If he wanted to, he couldn’t. The Iowa hicks that line up Saturday nights on main street would be outraged. Down Alabama way, they’d burn out the theater.” Randy sipped his mai tai. A lot of lipstick had accumulated on the rim of the glass. “I mean, he wants me, but he sighs and hires big tits and lots of corn-fed ass. Like Junie.”
“She looks like a college girl,” Dave said.
“Pepperdine.” Randy nodded. “She does it for laughs.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t think it was hard-core, did you? Oh, no. She and Harold will roll around naked on that brass bed and kiss and moan a lot, but that’s all. The rednecks would burst a blood vessel if anything really happened. That’s what skinflick means—what you see ain’t what you think, but it makes you think it is.”
“And he shoots them in two days?” Dave asked.
“On a lavish ten thousand bucks. Can I have a cigarette?” Dave pushed his pack across the shiny planks of the tabletop. He lighted cigarettes for both of them. “Thanks,” Randy said. “Most of the budget goes on lights, equipment, studio rent. Music? He sneaks tape recorders into jazz clubs. Crew? College film students who want the experience and beg for the chance. Pay? What’s pay?”
“Cameraman too?” Dave
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