Stuart Kaminsky - Show Business is Murder

Having recited that unwieldy line, the script had demanded even more from his character: All that remains for your poor dear companion are the few moments left him before the rest of his brain dies, he’d said.

The actress playing the girlfriend had cried out inappropriately, as though startled, emitting a strange, sustained shriek, sounding more like she’d been goosed than expressing anguish. Broke the whole crew up-even the asshole director had laughed.

Corey attempted a deep breath, though couldn’t tell what was going on in his chest, thinking: got no smell. Losing sight. Can’t move. Margo dead. Christ, with all this crap there must be a pony in here some -

“My God, lookit the blood,” the female voice exclaimed.

Something about the exuberance in her voice made Corey want to scrunch up his nose and sneer… if only he could.

Because even spatial orientation was difficult, though he knew he was prone on a bed next to Margo-but it still felt like he was floating. A memory came to Corey as if it’d happened only yesterday… he’d been buoyed in a sensory deprivation tank on the set of a movie about regressive therapy; scene involved a portrayal of his character experiencing weird visions, archetypal images, and finally a kind of body-death, but with total consciousness. One line he’d had to recite: “I can almost touch my soul.”

Corey hadn’t wanted to say it but didn’t have enough clout back then to refuse. Now he’d tell the biggest director in Hollywood to shove that line where the sun don’t shine.

Complete darkness settled silently over him like a shroud of heavy ash… he was now totally blind- where the sun don’t shine . Couldn’t feel any movement in his chest, couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, didn’t know if he could still hear or not… for all Corey knew, he was dead, his consciousness remaining behind like a child at the top of the stairs, not wanting to miss anything going on down below.

LATER THAT LASTsummer…

“What if we get caught?” Corey whispered, his hand on Margo’s shoulder as they both crouched in darkness next to the house, suddenly feeling he might have taken a wrong turn in his quest for meaning.

“That’s the point, Gomer-things can go wrong-your crime could be reported in the tabloids, the cops would treat you like a felon, your career would be crippled by the notoriety… but you can’t have the juice without the risk,” Margo said.

She’d jimmied the door and turned off the alarm the way some ex-con crewman had shown her earlier that week at the sound stage. It was pretty dark in the foyer, though some faint light was coming from a distant room.

They made their way quickly up to the master bedroom, knowing they had less than an hour or so before the owner was to return to the house.

Making love was heightened by every tiny noise they heard, but it was as much the idea of trespassing that turned Corey on; brought up by an aunt and uncle who were fanatics about their privacy and respecting the privacy of others-step off the sidewalk onto somebody’s lawn and you got a good smack on the back of the head. He’d learned to avoid the edge, not even walk along it.

After the lovemaking, they decided to not straighten the covers, Margo reciting from “The Three Bears”: “Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed,” leaving washcloths and towels strewn about on the bathroom floor-then down to the kitchen where she made them sandwiches while Corey poured them stemmed glasses of wine, dribbling some on the counter.

They ate, drank, and talked until they heard the garage door go up-that would be Garry Howard, the former producer who owned the place returning home; this was a guy who hated Corey because he’d refused to do a couple projects and the industry rags had picked up on the rejection, ridiculing the executive, ultimately getting him demoted a few notches, assistant-assistant to someone or other.

Corey knew Howard would press charges if he caught them. Scream to the tabloids. Yeah, this little game was something of a risk-but they were both grinning at each other as they jumped to their feet, headed for the side door leaving the mess on the counter, laughing and giggling like teenagers.

DEAD.

An intense feeling of remorse flooded through Corey; he wanted so very badly to be able to look at Margo at least one more time-and in the wanting he could almost hear her breathing-no, that was the other woman, Vince’s squeeze.

“What’re we going to do?” the female voice asked anxiously, the sound of fingernails being nervously clicked together over and over.

“Jesus, why’s some movie star in here anyway-my wife doesn’t know anybody like that.”

“You sure, hotshot? Maybe you got that wrong, too.”

Corey heard a rustle of movement followed by a loud slap. The woman shrieked.

“I didn’t get nothing wrong, bitch-dammit, we gotta figure our way out of this!” Vince said. His voice held panic, almost strident.

Silence.

Finally, the woman’s voice. “Well, they don’t belong here, if we just leave and let your wife find them she’ll call the police and it’ll look like somebody broke in and shot them-let her explain it,” she said, adding, “when is she coming home?”

Vince snorted. “I didn’t even know she’d be gone-thought that was her in bed with somebody.”

“Well, why don’t we just leave and let her find them-you’re supposed to be in Seattle, right?” the woman said.

Corey could hear his own breathing, slow and shallow, hardly audible; like he’d been drugged or something.

Drugged?

– hell, that was it! Margo had told him that she knew the woman who lived here, heard she and her husband were not getting along and that he was out of town and the woman would be home at around-well, about now. So that was it; Margo had set it all up. They’d made love and afterward he’d dozed off like always-his ritual post-coital nap-and she’d injected him with something. The drug immobilized him, numbed him all over and temporarily shut down his vision. In fact, it was like a movie he’d refused to do for Garry Howard, the producer whose house they’d broken into-the plot was about a guy shot up with a drug that evoked catatonia. Too implausible, he’d told Howard.

Vince’s voice interrupted Corey’s musing. “I guess you’re right… we’ll take off and just let my wife find these bodies and call the cops.”

– empty wire hangers rattling, sound of something being taken from the closet - swishing sound.

“What’re you doing?” the female asked.

“Wiping for prints.”

“You live here, dummy, your prints belong here.”

Corey smiled inwardly. These people should get an Oscar for their performances. Very convincing. And how ’bout Margo’s acting-lying over there so quietly he’d thought she was already dead, doing it all so he’d appreciate life more, being on the edge of death.

From downstairs came the sound of a door opening and closing, someone moving about.

Vince whispered, “Jesus, must be my wife.”

Silence. Then more sounds of movement from downstairs. Humming.

The sound of a gun being cocked. “Vince, what’re you doing?” the woman in the bedroom asked.

Dull footsteps on the carpeted stairs could be heard, another woman’s voice calling up from below. “Vince, I saw the light-are you home?”

The woman in the room whispered harshly, “Watch that gun, dammit, it’s cocked.”

Vince whispering back, “I’m going to do her-make it look like she killed herself after a ménage à trois gone bad, killed them and then herself.”