Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

She retrieved some from her belly, licked her fingers. Winked at the camera again.

Blank screen.

A checkup turned carnal. Follow-up visits…

I felt suffocated, angry. Sad.

The room stayed mercifully dark.

“Well,” said Gordon finally, “there it is.”

Chantal got up fast, smoothed her dress. “Excuse me, I have something to attend to.”

“Everything all right, hon?”

“Just fine, dearie.” She kissed his cheek, curtsied, and said, “Nice to see you again, Lawrence. Nice meeting you, Dr. Delaware.” She left the vault.

“The late Mickey Starbuck,” I said. “How’d he die?”

Gordon was still staring at his wife’s exit route. I had to repeat the question.

“Cocaine overdose, several years ago. Poor Mickey wanted to break into straight films but couldn’t- there’s terrible discrimination against explicit stars. He ended up driving a cab. A sensitive soul, really a fine young man.”

“Two actors, two suicides by overdose,” said Larry. “Sounds like a jinx.”

“Nonsense,” said Gordon sharply. “Explicit films are like any other aspect of show business. Fragile egos, instability, big ups, big downs. Some people can’t cope.”

“The production company?” I said. “Creative Image Associates- a shadow for Kruse?”

Gordon nodded. “Protection. Foolish of me not to smell something rotten when he set it up- if he’d really gotten University approval, why the need for a shadow? When I saw the finished product I knew precisely what he’d done, but I didn’t call him on it- he was the doctor, the expert. At the time I thought he was brilliant, visionary. I figured he had a reason.”

“What had he done?”

“Sit back down and I’ll show you.” He returned to the rear of the vault, the room returned to darkness, and another movie came on the screen.

This one had no title, no actors’ credits, just grainy, jumpy action, the camera work even more amateurish than the first, but clearly its inspiration.

The setting: a doctor’s office, same kind of furniture, same square of framed diplomas.

The stars: a gorgeous woman with wavy blond hair, long-legged, stacked, but several inches shorter than Sharon, the bones smaller, the face slightly fuller. Similar enough to be Sharon’s twin.

Twin. Shirlee. No, that was impossible. The Shirlee I’d met had been crippled in childhood…

If Sharon had told the truth.

Big if.

Film number two was barreling along at a Keystone Kops pace: striptease, hair-fluffing, a tall dark man entering through the door.

Close-up on him: fortyish, shiny hair, pencil mustache. White coat, stethoscope, clipboard.

A crude resemblance to the late Mickey Starbuck, but nothing striking.

And no leer. This doctor seemed to be showing genuine surprise at the sight of the naked blonde lying spread-legged on the table.

No shifts of context, either. A stationary camera, fullview long shots and occasional close-ups that seemed less concerned with eroticism than identification of the actors.

Of him.

The blonde got up and rubbed herself against the doctor. Showed herself, pinched her nipples, stood on tiptoes and licked his neck.

He shook his head, pointed to his watch.

She held him to her, ground her hips.

He started to pull away again, then loosened- like something thawing. Allowed himself to be caressed.

She moved in.

Then the same progression as in Sharon’s film.

But different.

Because this one wasn’t staged. This doctor wasn’t acting.

No mugging for the camera, because he didn’t know there was a camera.

She knelt before him.

The camera concentrated on his face.

Real passion.

They were up on the table.

The camera concentrated on his face.

He was lost in her, she in control.

The camera concentrated on his face.

Hidden camera.

A documentary- real peep-through-the-window stuff. I closed my eyes, thought of something else.

The blond beauty working like a pro.

Sharon’s twin- but from another time. His Alfalfa hairdo and pencil mustache authentic.

Contemporary…

“When was this made?” I called back to Gordon.

“ 1952,” he said in a choked voice, as if resenting the interruption.

The doctor was bucking and gritting his teeth. The blond woman waved him like a flag. Winked at the camera.

Blank screen.

“Sharon’s mother,” I said.

“I can’t prove it,” said Gordon, returning to the front of the room. “But with that resemblance she’d have to be, wouldn’t she? When I met Pretty Sharon, she reminded me of someone. I couldn’t remember who, hadn’t seen this film in a long time- years. It’s quite rare, a real collector’s item. We try to avoid exposing it to unnecessary wear and tear.”

He stopped, expectant.

“We appreciate your showing it to us, Mr. Fontaine.”

“My pleasure. When I saw Kruse’s finished product, I realized who she’d reminded me of. Kruse must have realized it too. We gave him full access to our entire collection, and he spent a lot of time in the vault. He discovered Linda’s film and set out to ape it. Mother and daughter- an intriguing theme, but he should have been truthful about it.”

“Did Sharon know about the first film?”

“That I can’t tell you. As I said, I only met her once.”

“Linda who?” said Larry.

“Linda Lanier. She was an actress- or at least wanted to be. One of the pretty young things who flooded Hollywood after the war- still do, I guess. I believe she got a contract at one of the studios, but she never actually worked.”

“Wrong kind of talent?” said Larry.

“Who knows? She didn’t stick around long enough for anyone to find out. That particular studio was owned by Leland Belding. She ended up being one of his party girls.”

“The basket-case billionaire,” I said. “The Magna Corporation.”

“You’re both too young to remember,” said Gordon, “but he was quite a guy in his day, Renaissance man- aerospace, armaments, shipping, mining. And the movies. He invented a camera that they still use today. And a no-shimmy girdle based on aircraft design.”

I said, “By party girl, you mean hooker?”

“No, no, more like hostesses. He used to throw lots of parties. Owning the studio gave him easy access to beautiful girls and he hired them as hostesses. The bluenoses tried to make a thing of it, but they never could prove a thing.”

“What about the doctor?”

“He was a real doctor. The film was real, too- the vérité is almost overwhelming, isn’t it? This is the original print, the only remaining one.”

“Where’d you get it?”

He shook his head. “Trade secret, Doctor. Suffice it to say I’ve had it for a long time and it cost me plenty. I could make copies and recoup all my original investment plus, but that would open the floodgates for multiple reproduction and dilute the historical value of the original, and I refuse to bend my principles.”

“What was the name of the doctor?”

“I don’t know.”

A lie. Fanatic and voyeur that he was, he wouldn’t have rested before gleaning every last detail about his treasure.

I said, “The film was part of a blackmail ploy, wasn’t it? The doctor was the victim.”

“Ridiculous.”

“What else, then? He didn’t know he was being filmed.”

“Hollywood practical joke,” he said. “Old Errol Flynn bored peepholes in the walls of his bathrooms, used a hidden camera to film his lady friends on the commode.”

“Tacky,” muttered Larry.

Gordon’s face darkened. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Dr. Daschoff. It was all in the spirit of fun.”