James Sallis - The Long-Legged Fly

A big white dude in black socks was doing things to a young black girl. Alternately fucking and sucking and beating and lecturing her on the philosophy of the bedroom and woman’s natural submission. It sounded like something out of de Sade by way of Heffner and Masters and Johnson-the redeeming social significance, I guess.

It was cheaply made, frames jumpy, figures and faces out of focus. But the girl was undeniably Cordelia.

The film lasted maybe fifteen minutes. Nobody said a word the whole time.

“Your girl?” Polanski said when it was over and the lights were back on.

I nodded.

“Who made it-you know?” I said after a moment.

“Guy by the name of Sanders. You get to know them by their style after a while-camera angles, things like that. Bud Sanders. Rents a cheap motel room, turns a girl up high on speed or whatever’s going, and rolls the camera. Mostly the men are the same ones over and over.”

“You pick him up?”

“What the hell for?” Polanski said. “He’d be back out on the street before we started the paper-work.”

“What about community standards?”

“You’re kidding. In New Orleans?”

“We could try,” Verrick added, “keep him busy a while. But it wouldn’t be long. Nothing would stick. Water off a duck’s back. Then he’d just go out and rent a new camera and start all over again.”

I nodded. I’d seen porn films in my time, some in the line of business, a few for pleasure, but this one had really got to me. I was thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Clayson up on Jackson Avenue and what I’d tell them.

“Where can I find this Sanders?” I said.

“Who knows?” Polanski said.

“Turn over the nearest rock,” Verrick said.

“What happens to the film now?”

“We hold it for evidence, then we file it. But there are probably ten, twelve copies of it on the streets by now.”

“We can’t keep on top of it,” Verrick said. “You close one factory down, two more spring up. Like those dragon’s teeth or whatever they were.”

I nodded again. “Thanks, Polanski,” I said. “Verrick-let me know how it turns out. What becomes of the girl? If you find her.”

“Man, the girl’s nothing. They pop out of the woodwork like sweat on a hog. It’s Sanders we want. For good. The girl’s yours, if we ever get to her. But we won’t.”

I started out the door.

“And you got a room full of this stuff,” I said.

“This is just pending cases. You oughta see the vaults down at Central Holding,” Polanski said.

It was only then, walking out the door, that I realized that I had an erection. It made me remember some of the things my wife had called me.

The alarm clock was still buzzing when I got back to the apartment. I poured a cup of coffee-it was on a timer-and filled a pipe. Then I reached for the phone.

I got through to Dr. Ropollo at his office in the English building and after telling him what I’d been doing the past ten years (it wasn’t much, after all), asked him about Sanders.

“Bill Collins is the guy you need to talk to. Teaches cinema up at Tulane. But he’s probably home, or in his studio, this time of day.” He gave me the two numbers and I wrote them down in my notebook. I thanked him and hung up.

I poured another cup of coffee and tried the first number. Nothing. I dialed the second, studio number. It rang five times.

“Collins.” A high, slightly effeminate voice, though businesslike at the same time.

I told him who I was and asked about Sanders.

“Bud Sanders, you mean? That asshole. Talk about birthright and a mess of pottage,” he said. “Talk about pissing it all away. Be one hell of a filmmaker if he wanted to. Horrible waste of talent.” He said it as though he were a man who couldn’t tolerate much waste of any kind.

“You know where I might find him?”

“Well, he teaches a cinematography course down at the free school. You might get in touch with him there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to your epic now.”

“Epic, hell. I’m shooting another fucking TV commercial for ‘feminine hygiene products’ is what I’m doing.”

“I’ll look for it.”

“Along with the rest of the world.” And he broke the connection.

The free school wasn’t listed in the book and Directory Assistance had never heard of it. I finally called a flaky friend of mine, a stewardess who spent her off-time collecting lost causes, and got the address.

It was one crumbling building on the edge of Elysian Fields near I-10. From the look of it, it had been a hotel at one time or another. Now it was filled with long-haired sweaty kids and covered with graffiti. Don’t drop toothpicks in the toilet or the crabs will polevault to freedom, it said on one wall. God is watching you, it said above that. I wondered if he (or she) was watching Cordelia Clayson too.

I finally tracked down the Administrative Offices on the second floor and walked in. A girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen got up from a desk and walked toward me.

“Yessir,” she said.

“Yes’m. I’m looking for Bud Sanders, have a job for him but can’t seem to connect. Wondered if you might be able to help me.”

“A job, you say?”

“Right.”

“Well.” She considered. “You could leave a message with me, I’d see he got it.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid I’m in a hurry. I really have to get through to him today. If I’m going to use him, that is.”

“Well.” She looked around the room as though he might be hiding in it somewhere. “Wow, I don’t know.” She reached around behind her and grabbed her braids, tugged at them. “There’s money in it for him, huh?”

“Yes’m. Quite a bit, really.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t think he’d want me to let you get away.” That decided, she let the braids go. “He’s on location. Belright Hotel, on Perdido near Tulane and Jeff Davis.”

“Thanks, Miss.”

“Ms.”

“Right.”

“Room 408.”

The last time I’d been to the belright was on my honeymoon. We’d ordered chicken sandwiches “with extra chips” and they’d brought enough for a party. They’d also sent up champagne and a fruit basket. I guess we were pretty happy there for a little while. But it was the beginning, still, of a long decline.

The Belright back then had been pricey and plush. Declines were everywhere.

I pretended I belonged there, walked through the lobby and up the stairs, something I wouldn’t have gotten away with just a few years before. But now there wasn’t a porter or other service person in sight, only one youngish, half-bald guy behind the desk picking his nose with a ballpoint pen.

I heaved myself up the four flights and knocked on 408, waited, knocked again. Finally someone opened the door an inch or so and stuck his nose in the crack.

“Yeah.”

“You Bud Sanders?”

“Don’t know him.”

“Maybe I could introduce you.”

Inside the room someone, a man, said, “Who’s that?”

“Some wiseass nigger.”

“I interrupt something between you two fellows?” I said.

He opened the door wider and glared at me.

“Look, fellow,” he said. “We’re trying to get a little work done in here. Why don’t you just go away and let us get back to it.”

“Now let’s see. What kind of work would that be, in a hotel room with all those bright lights I see behind you there? PR film for the Belright, maybe? Hope your demographics are right.”

“Goddamn.”

It was the other guy. A second later the door opened and he stood there by Sanders, sweaty and naked at half-mast. I kicked him in the kneecap, then the stomach, and went on in.