Dark Terrors 3: The Gollancz Book of Horror

The Last Reel DENNIS ETCHINSON

As soon as I saw her face, I knew where I was.

I’d been lost in the canyons, looking for a sign, and after a while all I wanted was out. I couldn’t even read the map book. The dome light flickered like a firefly in a jar and the streetlamps were hidden behind a scrim of leaves and branches. If there really was a street called Rose Petal Lane I couldn’t find it.

Then I made the turn on to Sierra Vista and there she was, bigger than life.

It was hard to judge distances but she must have been about a half-mile away, floating through the darkness over the trees that pointed towards the old reservoir at the top. From here I figured her face was at least ten feet tall, which made her mouth roughly the size of an open manhole. I didn’t want to think about the rest of her. But I had come this far — what was the point in turning back now?

I downshifted, grinding gears, and kept moving.

The sky grew bright with the glow of her skin and the waterfall of blonde hair around her face. Her head bobbed up and down like a flesh-coloured Zeppelin looking for a place to land. As I got closer there were other colours too, drifting in and out of a long beam of light trained on the reservoir wall. The numbers were worn off the curb but I knew I had found Donn Hedgeman’s house. Who else would use the side of the Stone River Dam for a movie screen? I’d heard that his parties were legendary. The man had outdone himself this time.

I had to park halfway back down the canyon. Porsches and Jags and Mercedes-Benzes were wedged across every driveway between here and Sunset. Walking up, I saw two college boys in red vests on one of the sidestreets, waving flashlights like ushers at a movie premiere. Somehow I had missed the valet parking. It was just as well. My Toyota hadn’t been washed in months.

On foot, I could have found Donn’s house with my eyes closed. It was only eight o’clock but already the voices were so loud they might have been screaming, trapped in the canyon and magnified by the concrete dam at the end. Over the top of a redwood fence I noticed a sea of blonde coifs, all the same colour as the one in the sky. I opened the gate and let myself into the backyard, looking around for Donn.

‘Skippy!’

I ignored the voice and kept walking as if I knew where I was going. There was a kidney-shaped swimming pool lit by underwater floodlights, and a pink shape wavered near the bottom, distorted by the ripples. A group of men gathered around the edge, some in jackets and ties, others in T-shirts and jeans. They cheered as the swimmer surfaced, borne up by an inflated life jacket. Then I realized there was no life jacket. It was her breasts that were inflated. She arched her body, as if hoping to thrust her nipples high enough to catch the beam of the projector, then threw her head back and dove again, the polished lips of her vagina cleaving the water. The men hooted and applauded. I worked my way around the pool, and headed across the patio.

‘Skippy?’

There was a burst of flashguns inside the house, turning the glass walls of the rec room blue-white. I spotted a man with huge, frizzy hair next to a billiard table, surrounded by photographers. It had to be Donn.

Now someone grabbed my arm. I felt it caught between two balloons, as if held there by static electricity. I tried to shake them off and glanced over my shoulder.

A stunningly beautiful young woman clutched my arm to her bosom. Her vinyl dress was cut so low it looked like two bald men were trying to fight their way out the front.

‘You are!’ She got a look at my face and dug her long black fingernails into my sweater. ‘I knew it.!’

‘Hi.’

‘I had the biggest crush on you!’ She did not want to let go of my arm. ‘You were a lot cuter than that other dude, the one who played your brother. ’

‘Tony.’

I could have told her all about Tony Sargent. How he ended up with a habit so big he couldn’t get a job pushing a broom at the studio, how he started knocking off liquor stores with his old lady’s pantyhose pulled over his head, and how he blew his brains out the night she o.d.’d on the last of his smack. I didn’t want to burst her bubble. The show had been out of production since the late seventies but the reruns wouldn’t quit. As far as she was concerned I was still Skippy Boomer. She was not alone. At least she hadn’t asked for my autograph. Not yet.

‘Was that his name?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘A great guy.’ I nodded at the rec room, the way I learned to do it in acting class: the gesture first, then the line. ‘Is that Donn?’

‘Which one was he?’

‘The Hedge Man,’ I said. ‘This is his party, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Her face fell and I thought I caught a glimpse of something fading out behind the layers of make-up, something almost sad. Then she blinked at me, fluttering her false eyelashes. ‘You know Donn?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘He’s such a trip! I’d work for him any time…’

‘Excuse me,’ I told her, retrieving my arm. ‘I have to say hello.’

I made my way across the patio. The actress in the sky was emoting with mounting fervour, closing her shiny eyelids and tossing her head from side to side as if lost in an opium dream, but no one seemed to be watching. I saw an old theatre projector set up on the buffet table, with several film cans stacked next to it. The reel that was on now appeared to be near its end. I opened the sliding glass door and slipped inside, as the tail of the film clattered on to the takeup spool and the beam of light went white.

Donn was in the middle of an interview. A man with tattooed arms and a baseball cap squinted into a Hi-8 video-cam and stammered through a list of prepared questions, while three ridiculously gorgeous women stood on the sidelines and laughed at each of Donn’s jokes. He was the centre of attention, as always.

‘What’s your next project?’ I heard the young man ask.

‘Magic Fingers Motel, for Vulcano Video.’

The women whooped and clapped their hands.

‘Starring?’

‘Lo Ryder,’ said Donn without missing a beat, ‘Charmin, Kerry O’Quim…How’s that for a cast? Did I leave anyone out?’

‘Rosie Gates!’ shouted a beauty in leather hotpants.

Donn snapped his fingers and nodded, rolling his eyes. ‘Yeah, Rosie! Wait’ll you see the tush on that girl! I met her at the FOXE Awards. Says d.p.’s not enough — she wants to do triple penetration! Maybe I’ll let Rocco break her in!’

The gorgeous women cracked up.

‘Anything else?’

‘Lemme see. The Ram Doubler, Seven Come Eleven, Close Shavers Part Two, another Bun Boy’s Big Adventure. and of course WetWork, starring the fabulous Celestine Prophet!’

Donn shot a glance outside. Now only an empty square of light showed in the sky.

‘What the fuck?’ He put his hand up, blocking the lens of the camera. ‘That’s a wrap.’

He brushed past me on his way out to the patio.

‘Hey, Skipper,’ he said under his breath. ‘Stay right where you are. We got business to talk about. ’

The gorgeous women started out after him. A fourth, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, had been lingering in the background, watching from the hallway. Now she stepped out of the shadows and followed tentatively, as though afraid to be seen. She hesitated by the door.

‘Pardon me,’ she said shyly, ‘but can I ask you something?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Are. are you an actor?’

Busted again. ‘I used to be.’

‘I thought so.’ She kept her head down, too nervous to meet my eyes. ‘The Boomer Family was my favourite, when I was little.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and almost meant it.

She didn’t look like she belonged at the party. She had on a simple summer dress with a high neckline and low-heeled pumps, no jewellery except for a small gold heart on a chain around her neck and hardly any make-up. She didn’t need it. She stood there with me and watched the commotion outside.

Donn was flapping his arms and chewing out a guy in ragged cut-offs who was supposed to be running the projector. For a moment I thought he was going to slap the kid across the face, in front of everyone.

‘What’s your name?’ I said.

‘Charlene.’

‘Hi, Charlene. I’m Rob.’ I held out my hand and finally had to touch her wrist before she would look at me.

‘I know. Rob Muller.’

That was a surprise. ‘Most people think my name’s Skippy, even though that was only the character I played.’

She grinned as she took her hand away from mine, embarrassed. Behind her, on the patio, women with matching turned-up noses and collagen lips leaned over the projector, allowing Donn to audition their perfect breasts while they helped him load the next reel.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘I mean, where are you from?’

‘Jonesville,’ she said. ‘That’s in Iowa.’

‘Did you come out here to go to school?’

‘Not really. I want to be an actor.’

She sounded like she meant it. ‘That’s a tough gig,’ I told her. ‘Are you taking classes?’

‘I was, back home.’

‘Do you have an agent yet?’

‘I just got one.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Jim Western.’

That sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. ‘Who’s he with?’

‘Global Modeling,’ she said, ‘on La Cienega. Have you heard of them?’

I had. They represented most of the nude models and dancers in town, and provided the talent for Vulcano, Silver Nitro and VibroFlix, the largest producers of tripleX films and videos in the San Fernando Valley. I didn’t know what to say.

‘That’s how I met Donn,’ she explained.

I nodded as if I understood.

‘Why don’t you try Dimension Films, over at Miramax? They might have something for you.’ I racked my brain to remember who else was making low-budget features at the moment, hoping to come up with a legitimate alternative. ‘Or TriMark. Or Full Moon. You’ll probably have to do horror movies at first, but at least it’s a start.’

‘I already have one lined up,’ she said, without a trace of pretension. ‘It might be a series, if it’s successful. They’re writing the script right now. It’s called The Last Whorehouse on the Left.’

At that moment the white light outside darkened and the enormous face of Donn’s newest contract player, Celestine Prophet, reappeared on the side of the dam above the treetops. Her mouth was open but it was not empty. A hoot went up from the crowd. Two starlets with impossible figures stepped out of their skintight dresses, dove into the deep end and began rolling through the water like dolphins locked in a slippery embrace, as the man with the video camera hurried out to record the action.

‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ Charlene said softly.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t,’ I said.

‘Not the way they do.’ She meant the starlets outside, those in the pool and the others with their synthetic bodies and sparkling clothes and desperate recklessness. ‘Should I change my name, do you think?’

‘Why? I like Charlene.’

‘Oh, that’s not my real name. ’

Donn was on his way back in. As I moved aside, she took my hand and clasped it tightly to her side. I felt the youthful firmness of her body moving beneath the thin cotton and realized that she was trembling. She leaned close and whispered in my ear.

‘Help me.’

‘How?’ I said, not moving my lips, as Donn approached the glass doors.

‘Not here.’

Donn hadn’t met my eyes yet. He was squeezing the buttocks of the one in the hotpants. He twitched his fuzzy moustache, made an O with his mouth and sucked air, moaning in ecstasy.

‘Where?’ I said to Charlene.

‘Later. I’ll find you…’

She separated from me and disappeared into the hall.

Donn entertained the troops in the rec room. I stood by while he told a story about a guy who became famous for having his penis cut off twice. I’d heard it before, the day I met him in the lobby of the SAG building, where he held forth with a slightly different version of the same routine. He had recognized me and later, over a drink, offered me a chance to direct. I didn’t know who he was then but I found out. I came to his party because he claimed that plenty of regular industry people moonlight in the adult biz under other names, and he threw around numbers that added up to more money than I had made from a whole season on CBS when I was a kid. That was all gone now, of course; there weren’t any decent residual clauses back then. I hadn’t had many acting jobs since puberty, except for some sci-fi motorcycle flicks and voice-overs on Saturday morning TV. The Boomer Family was a curse. My ex had thought she was marrying into show business but what she got was a part-time real estate agent. I couldn’t hack it any more, not after the divorce. Maybe Tony had seen the handwriting on the wall, after all.

Donn finished his story in the rec room and introduced the girls to the reporters from Hustler’s Erotic Video Guide and Adult Video News. Then he caught my eye and nodded towards the hall that led to the rest of the house. As we got to the end of the hall I saw an open door and a bright bedroom, where at least two very naked young women were engaged in an act involving a dildo of life-threatening proportions. A videographer with a handheld BetaCam circled around them, offering unnecessary advice as to positions and techniques. Donn led me to the den.

‘Strap this on for size,’ he said when he closed the door. ‘“Geoffrey Nightshade”.’

‘Who?’

‘Your nom de plume.’

He took a swig from a Heineken and smacked his lips, then set the bottle down and leant back in the leather chair, eyelids at half-mast.

‘We send out press releases, hinting that you’re a famous European director. They’ll beat their meat tryin’ to nail you. Is it Karel Reisz? Dario Argento? Michaelangelo Fuckin’ Antonioni?’

‘Antonioni’s in a wheelchair,’ I said. ‘He had a stroke.’

‘That’s just it — we don’t say! You’re this artsy-fartsy schmuck who came here for some real action. You want to do NC-17 but the majors won’t let you, blah blah blah. Maybe you’re Brian Fuckin’ DePalma, who the hell knows? Is it beautiful?’

‘Except for one thing,’ I said. ‘Everybody knows what I look like.’

‘Don’t be so conceited,’ he said.

That brought me up short. Right, I thought. But then I thought, He doesn’t know what it’s like. The red hair, the freckles… I couldn’t even go to the 7-Eleven at two o’clock in the morning without hearing the name Skippy! behind my back. Once, in Vegas, the men’s room attendant passed a piece of paper under the stall door and asked me to sign it.

‘You recognized me,’ I said.

A faint smile curled his lips as he sat there watching me, his pupils black. What was he looking for? The weakness, I decided. The character flaw that he could exploit. It was what he used on the beauty pageant girls, the high school sweethearts he talked on to their backs in front of the camera, the way he turned their vanity against them until they ended up begging him for a chance to be a star. I wondered if it ever failed.

‘Just kidding,’ he said. He winked, sat up and reached for a bowl of Doritos, stuffed his face reflexively and washed the chips down with the rest of the beer.

‘So what would we do,’ I said, ‘shoot on a closed set?’

‘There’s ways. Secret locations, midnight to dawn. ’

‘What about the crew?’

‘Wear a disguise. Pull a hat down over your eyes. Or a cape — that’s it, like Dracula! He walks around with the collar up, nobody can see his face. ’

He was indomitable. I had to admire the hustle. He was getting me to think about the possibilities. A few more minutes and I would be the one making the suggestions.

‘Thanks, anyway,’ I told him. I started to get up. ‘But it just won’t work.’

‘How does sixty thousand dollars sound?’ he said calmly. ‘Plus a buck for every cassette sold.’

‘Don’t jerk me around, Donn.’

‘I’m not! You don’t know this business. Six thousand titles last year — a two-billion-dollar gross, just for the rentals! How many did the majors release? A hundred and ninety-seven. And two-thirds of those lost money. That’s why Hollywood hates our ass.’

‘Sixty thousand,’ I said, letting it sink in. ‘For one video. Yeah, right.’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘Not video — thirty-five millimetre. First class all the way. Say a series of three or four. We move twenty-five, thirty thousand copies each, list price, no sell-throughs. Plus a soft version for cable. You do the arithmetic.’

I couldn’t, but I knew it was enough to catch up on the alimony payments, settle with American Express and get the hell out of LA.

‘What kind of pictures are we talking about?’ I said.

‘Anything you want. Anything. I’ve got so many ideas I don’t have time to do ‘em all.’

He shrugged in the direction of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with scripts. I made out some of the titles, written in marking pen on the edges: Rumper Room, The Cunning Linguist, Ready Whipped, Gag Ball, Rocket to Uranus.

I must have flinched as I read them, because he waved his hand dismissively.

‘But what I really want to do is a crossover. Semi-legit. You can write it yourself. Whatever turns you on, as long as it’s got the wood and the money shots.’

‘Like?’

‘You name it. My cameraman worked with Orson Welles, my sound mixer’s at Todd-AO, I got an editing bay at FotoKem. we’re talking class, not some home movie with a mattress on the floor!’

He reached behind the chair and handed me several tapes as if dealing out a hand of cards.

‘Latex Dreams, The PsychoAnalist, Harry Butts in the Outback… all directed by Peter Shooter.’ Donn looked at me expectantly.

I drew a blank on the name.

‘You know who he really is, don’t you? Drew Drake! The guy that does those perfume ads on TV? Lots of mood lighting, deep-focus — and the acting! Check out the stairway scene in Gummy and Pokey. Faye Way has six minutes of dialogue, no cuts, with Billy Backgate. Then they go right into a mish, a reverse cowgirl, around the world, and they finish with an inverted hole-in-one. Awesome!’

‘Okay, okay. ’

‘And I can get you stars. How about Foxe Bleu? Or Oral Robert? Ever hear of Paul Riser? Take your pick — they all work for me. Not to mention Celestine Prophet! Now you know what drop-dead gorgeous means. You saw the movie, right?’

‘Not yet. I just got here.’

‘Check it out. She’s got a lot of potential. Vulcano wants her to beat the world gang-bang record, three hundred guys in one day. Shit, she can do that, as long as they keep their fingers out of her — too many scratches. But I want her for something special first. Real class. ’

‘Why not get Drew Drake?’

‘He’s busy shooting that LaToya Jackson movie for Showtime. Diana Ross Raw or whatever the hell it’s called.’

‘Why me?’

‘I’m a fan.’ He shrugged, as if stating the obvious. ‘So sue me.’

‘You don’t even know if I can direct.’

‘You did three episodes of Blossom, two Space Precincts and one Jaleel White Show, before he flipped out.’

He had done his homework.

‘I was only first a.d. on those,’ I reminded him.

‘But you know the drill. Three two-day shoots. Think you can handle a total of six fucking days?’ He got up, went to his desk and opened a chequebook ledger. ‘I’ll give you an advance. How much to seal the deal?’

‘I don’t know, Donn. ’

‘Say five large?’ He scrawled his name on a cheque and tore it out of the book. ‘Think about it and call me. Just don’t wait too long. I’m back in Australia next week for Bun Boy Goes Down Under.’

In the hall ahead of me, a bimbo came out of the bathroom. She looked vaguely familiar. Her hair was teased and sprayed into a blonde waterfall like the other girls. When she grabbed my hand I did a double-take.

‘Charlene?’ I said.

She wiped her nose with a tissue and pulled me into the bathroom. Her eyes were moist, as if she had been crying.

‘Sorry,’ she said, closing and locking the door, ‘but I don’t know who else to ask.’

‘That’s all right. What—?’

‘I’ve only been in the business for a month. ’

She began to cry. First her wide, sky-blue eyes focused intently on my face, as if watching every shift in expression, every muscle tic, before deciding whether to go on. Apparently enough of what I was feeling showed, because she slumped against the door and lowered her face, wiping her nose again. When she raised her head the whites of her eyes were red and tears spilled out and ran down to her perfect nostrils and the cracked red skin there. She must have done a lot of crying lately. The tears dripped off the narrow point of her chin — too narrow, I noticed for the first time. She had already been to a plastic surgeon. Next would come the incisions under her small, flawless breasts, which might mean surgically repositioning the nipples, depending on the size of the implants.

‘You can still get out,’ I said. ‘It’s not too late.’

‘But I signed a contract.’

‘Contracts can be broken. I’ll find you a lawyer. ’

‘You don’t understand — I need the money. What am I going to do, go back to Jonesville and get a job at the phone company? Do you know what that pays? No way!’

She rubbed her nose, trying to compose herself.

‘I really don’t mind the work,’ she went on. ‘I never had an orgasm before my first d.p., and I’ve done anal plenty of times, with my boyfriend. It’s not so bad if you’re lubed.’

‘How many pictures have you made?’ I heard myself ask.

‘Two, counting the one that isn’t out yet.’

‘What’s the name of the first one?’

‘WetWork,’ she said. ‘Did you see it? Donn wants me to do a series next, if he can find the right actor-director.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A real actor, who can direct his own scenes…’

So that was what the sixty grand was for. He wanted to buy a face the public had seen before but never in porn. It was another stunt to generate publicity. I wondered how much Donn would offer George Clooney or Brad Pitt, if there was a chance he could get them.

‘Excuse me.’

She blocked my way, holding the doorknob behind her back.

‘I don’t mind the name, either. Celestine’s pretty, don’t you think? It’s just that Donn won’t let me use on the set, and I need something. ’

‘I have to go.’

‘Please?’ She pressed against me and guided my hand up under her dress, so that I could feel the latex thong bikini she was already wearing, in preparation for her introduction to the press. ‘I can’t make it straight. Do you have just a little coke? I’ll be nice, you’ll see…’

From the hall I heard Donn searching for his new starlet. I waited for him to pass, then lifted her off her feet. She was light as a plastic doll. I swung her around, set her down and opened the door.

As I ducked through the crowd in the rec room Donn was making excuses to buy a little more time. Then he went back into the hall. I heard him raise his voice and another voice sobbing. A minute later he returned and announced that Celestine Prophet was almost ready to make her entrance. Meanwhile, he reminded everybody, WetWork was running continuously outside. On the way down to the car I felt his cheque in my shirt pocket. It seemed to be pounding against my chest. I wondered whether he had made it out to Geoffrey Nightshade or Skippy Boomer. Either way I wouldn’t be able to cash it, but I wasn’t ready to look yet. In the sky a movie was ending or beginning, I couldn’t tell which. I decided it didn’t matter. The last reel would be just like the first.