Death of a Blue Movie Star

do you see the most?”
    He thought for a minute. “Well, I don’t know whether she’s famous but there’s one actress for Lame Duck that I see all the time. Her name’s Shelly Lowe.”
    There was a familiarity about the name.
    “Does she have a narrow face, blonde?”
    “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t look at her face very much.”
    Rune frowned. “You’re a dirty old man.”
    “You know her?” he asked.
    “There was a bombing in Times Square, this porn theater…. Did you hear about it?”
    “No.”
    “Just today, a couple hours ago. I think she was in one of the movies that was playing there when it happened.”
    Perfect.
    Rune put the address in her plastic leopard-skin shoulder bag.
    Stu rocked back in his chair.
    “Well?” Rune asked.
    “Well what?”
    “Aren’t you curious why I asked?”
    Stu held up a hand. “That’s okay. Some things are best kept secret.” He opened his magazine and said, “You ever made a
tarte aux marrons
?”

 
    CHAPTER TWO
     

    Contrasts
.
    Rune sat in the huge loft that was the lobby of Lame Duck Productions and watched the two young women stroll to a desk across the room. Overhead, fans rotated slowly and forced air-conditioned breezes throughout the place.
    The woman in the lead walked as if she had a degree in it. Her feet were pointed forward, her back straight, hips not swaying. She had honey-blonde hair tied back with a braided rope of rainbow-colored strings. She wore a white jumpsuit but saved it from tackiness by wearing sandals, not boots, and a thin, brown leather belt.
    Rune examined her closely but wasn’t sure if this was the same woman she’d seen in the poster. In that photo, the one on the front of the porno theater, her makeup had been good; today, this woman had a dull complexion. She seemed very tired.
    The other woman was younger. She was short, face glossy, a figure bursting out of the seams of her outfit. She had a huge, jutting—and undoubtedly fake—bust and broad shoulders. The black tank top showed a concise waist; the miniskirt crowned thin legs. There was no saving this cookie from tack; she had spiky high heels, feathery and teased hair sprayed with glitter and purple-brown makeup, which did a fair job minimizing the effect of a wide, Slavic nose.
    Wouldn’t be a bad-looking woman, Rune thought, if her mother dressed her right.
    They stopped in front of her. The shorter one smiled. The tall blonde said, “So you’re the reporter from, what was it,
Erotic Film Monthly?
” She shook her head. “I thought I knew everybody from the industry mags. Are you new with them?”
    Rune started to continue the lie. But impulsively she said, “What I am is dishonest.”
    Which got a faint smile. “Oh?”
    “I lied to the receptionist. To get in the front door. Are you Shelly Lowe?”
    A momentary frown. Then she gave a curious smile and said, “Yes. But that’s not my real name.”
    The handshake was strong, a man’s grip, confident.
    Her friend said, “I’m Nicole. That
is
my real name. But my last name isn’t. D’Orleans.” She gave it a Gallic pronunciation. “But it’s spelled like the city.”
    Rune took her hand carefully; Nicole had inch-long purple fingernails.
    “I’m Rune.”
    “Interesting,” Shelly said. “Is it real?”
    Rune shrugged. “As real as yours.”
    “Lot of stage names in our business,” Shelly said. “I lose track sometimes. Now tell me why you’re a liar.”
    “I thought they’d kick me out if I was honest.”
    “Why would they do that? You a right-wing crazy? You don’t look like one.”
    Rune said, “I want to make a movie about you.”
    “Do you now?”
    “You know about the bombing?”
    “Oh, that was terrible,” Nicole said, actually shivering in an exaggerated way.
    “We all know about it,” Shelly said.
    “I want to use it as sort of a jumping-off point for my film.”
    “And I’m the one you want to jump to?” Shelly asked.
    Rune thought about those words, thought about disagreeing with her but said, “That’s about it.”
    “Why me?”
    “Just a coincidence really. One of your pictures was playing when the bomb went off.”
    Shelly nodded slowly, and Rune found herself staring at her. Nicole was scrunching her broad, shiny face at the mention of the explosion and the deaths in the theater, closing her eyes, practically crossing herself, while Shelly was simply listening, leaning against a column, her arms crossed.
    Rune’s thoughts were muddled. Under Shelly’s