Tracy is twenty-two, Karl said as they walked to the end of the corridor between the cubicles. Just out of MIT and one of the best in our building.
MIT? Peter asked. Not USC?
She debugs our Slicer and NextMove software, Karl said. He took Peter up a flight of stairs into a long loft space filled with more posters, figures of dinosaurs and dragons, and a full-sized chrome-plated skeletal robot. Ah am pumping iron, the robot intoned as they walked by. It swiveled it's head and swayed it's arms menacingly. Scrahtch my bahk.
Sheilamy wife, I'm married now, believe it?she rigged that for my birthday, Karl said. He plopped down in a red leather chair and switched on a forty-inch flat-screen monitor. This is top secret. Not even Sheila knows. Just some of the boys. You're going to love it. He clipped on a receptionists microphone and earplug.
Jean Harlow glowed into being on the monitor, in black and white, seen from the shoulders up, her hair a dazzling silver cascade. A radiant, crystallized glow outlined her head.
Helllooo, Jean, Karl said. Where have you been all my life?
Harlow turned to face him. Is that you, Karl? she asked, and rewarded him with a bored smile.
None other. Id like you to meet Peter.
Is he rich? she asked.
Very.
Harlow peered directly into Peters eyes. Peter laughed nervously as she winked and threw him a kiss. Why don't you and I go dancing and leave Karl to his monsters? Ive been cooped up in this box all day.
My God, Peter said. She looks real. Is there a . . . ?
Model in the other room? Karl finished, and scoffed. Do you think I'm made of money? He tapped his nose. Jean, could you get Jane for us?
Harlow tossed her blond hair and assumed a could-care-less moue. She stepped aside and Jane Russell moved into view. Karl spun the mouse wheel to pull back. Russell stood on a soundstage with a wind machine and a cloudy-sunset backdrop. She was wearing the blouse and bra made famous by The Outlaw.
Jane, honey, how about a little cleavage?
The figure shrugged, said, Boys will be boys, and started to bend forward. Hands on her hips and elbows out, she gave a little wiggle. The resulting pendulum motion was very convincing.
They're all anatomically correct, and very willing, Karl said. We have Marilyn, Bettie
Davis? Peter asked.
No, Page, joker. And about a dozen others. They run off the same engine, and not even I can tell what theyll say next.
Wonderful, Peter said, but he did not sound convinced. In fact, he was starting to feel uncomfortable.
Karl brought Bettie Page on-screen with her trademark straight-cut black bangs. Dressed in a leopard-skin skirt, Page was in the act of pinning fishnet hose on a clothesline crowded with dainties. Behind her was a pink couch. She raised her head to deliver a summer-promise smile. Why, it's Karl, she said. Whos your friend? She sashayed forward until her face filled the frame. Could you boys help me move some furniture?
Not tonight, Bettie. Nice, huh? Karl said to Peter in an aside. Next up . . . Sascha Lauten. Our prize. I have to admit, your photos inspired us, Peter. The best-covered model we have, actuallyif what you did can be called coverage.
Sascha appeared on-screen before Peter could protest. And it was Sascha, right down to the way she folded her armsKarl had always been a master at capturing subtleties. She wore a filmy scarf and nothing else. Peter felt his face pink.
Good to see you, Sascha, Karl said.
Good to be seen, and by such talented eyes.
Peter Russell wants to say hi.
Is that really you, Peter? What a surprise! She sat demurely on an office-style chair, pulling down the edge of the scarf. Sascha had been his best-looking modelgorgeous, buxom, and classy, with a come-hither look that seemed not only natural but accidental. In Peters photos, she had appeared surprised and pleased at once that anyone could find her sexygiving her a nae vulnerability that belied her ample charms.
Lets skip Sascha, Peter said, but Karl was busy and did not hear him. Saschas image had frozen and bright red pixels were marching like ants across the bottom of the screen.
Damn, Karl said, clicking up a set of command buttons and picking through some digital remedies. Tracy refuses to debug this software. Leaves us at a disadvantage.
Peter could not take his eyes from Saschas face. White man steal soul, he said, his mouth dry. Even in still-frame, she looked healthy and natural. And she was no older on this screen than she had been when Peter had last taken pictures of her. I mean it, Karl. Please.
Karl looked up. Jeez, you look awful, he said. Are you feeling okay?
I don't want to see her like this, Peter said.
Sorry, Karl said, dumbfounded. Let me clear the buffer. He tapped the keyboard. Suddenly, the image jerked and became ragged at the edges. The eyes went milky white, then dropped out of sight completely, leaving black hollows. Peter watched Sascha de-rez. Her colors dropped out as if bleached. The copy stared at Peterdirectly into his eyeswith those blank hollows, and said through jagged lips, in a reedy skirl, You shouldn't leave me alone in here. I'm a very needy girl. Where have you been, Peter? Why did you leave me all alone?
Peter felt a shooting pain in his rear molars and down his arm. He reached up to his shoulder and stooped forward.
Sorry, she's caught in a loop. Karl tapped madly on the keyboard. He made another sweep of the mouse and reached for the monitor to just shut it off. Before he could do so, the image jerked, reversed it's last movements, and juddered to another freeze. He held his finger above the monitor button, curious as to what might happen next. Whoops, Karl said. Bad girl. Well, she's down. Shit. Karl punched off the monitor. My apologies. Good night, ladies!
Peter backed away from the monitor station, still stooped. Could we get some water?
BACK IN THE front office, Karl gave Peter a bottle of Evian and some aspirin and sat on the edge of the desk as Peter massaged his arm.
You look shook, Peter, if you don't mind me making an observation. Does your arm hurt?
I'm fine, Peter said.
My dad had angina pains in his head and arms. He had to
It's just indigestion, Peter said, slugging back the pills with a long draft of the flat-tasting bottled water. He usually hated Evian but the liquid felt good in his throat.
Have you had an EKG?
Last month, Peter lied. I just ate too much for lunch and it's pushing back.
After a moment, Karl looked crestfallen. You don't approve of our ladies, he said.
They're lovely, Peter said. Too lovely. Images, memories of the deadexcept for Bettie Page and Sascha, still alive but now disturbingly like wraiths, bits of information forced to dance through an endless loop of wet dreams . . . Male lust tuned to the nth degree. He felt a shudder creep up his back. It was too much like a nightmare distortion of his lifes work, his movies, his photographs.
Another important meeting headed for salvage.
You make me feel like a fifth wheel, thats all, Peter said. Just thinking about what it takes, with masters like you around, makes me jumpy.
Sure, Karl said, unconvinced. Well, the ladies arent commercial. They're just a hobby. Geeks will be geeks. We don't even have image licenses. Karl gave Peter a searching look, as if regretting the entire afternoon. We could get in trouble if someone found out, you know?
Don't worry.
Karl walked around the desk and put his hand on Peters shoulder. Hey, they want you, man. Not some MTV version of Ridley Scott. They want what you did so well, and theres no reason you can't do it again, right?
Peter nodded, gripping the plastic bottle.
Karl could not hide his relief as he accompanied Peter down to the parking garage. Standing by the Porsche, Karl said, If you need equipment, anything . . . let me know. We have sweetheart deals all around town. Id love to help.
Thanks.
Peter opened the car door. Karl was almost twitching to get back to work.
Man, it is great to have you visit
, he said as Peter slid into the seat. Just like old times. Hey, do you remember that class you taught?
Peter looked up. Class?
Lessons in oral sex. Cunnilingus.
Peter said, I don't remember you being there.
Karl grinned sheepishly. I was sixteen, a total nerd virgin. We looked up to you like a god. Jeez, you knew it all. Well, it worked. Sheila and I have been married for sixteen years. Thanks, man. I owe you.
But Peter could tell. The next time, Karl would not take his call.
CHAPTER 22
HE PULLED OFF and parked near the Santa Monica Pier. It was six oclock; he had three hours until Helen showed up at the house.
Peter rolled down the window and took a deep breath.
The sun was dropping slow and rich over the water, with that special light the coast manages to wear like a silk dress in the evening.
Maybe he should go get an EKG. He had responsibilities after all, and he had been making excuses too long. Besides, this had been an exceptionally hard week. Idly, he removed his black address book from his coats breast pocket, turned the pages, searching for old colleagues, those less well placed than Karl, less busy; an old boys network for the grumpy, date stale, and unpredictable.
Then, closing his eyes, he folded the book and felt a fresh wave of despair. Face it.
Face what? What was he supposed to face? His failure? He hadnt started yet; he hadnt had time to fail. Face up to a lack of confidence? Even in his so-called heyday, Peter had never felt confident beginning film projects.
He could not shake the de-rezzed images of Sascha. On the screen like that for all the world to see, forced to do whatever the world wanted, forever and ever. What if every photo Peter had ever taken, every frame of film he had ever shot, had stolen a bit of an actors soul? Would that explain why so many actors and models seemed to fade, to get more and more eccentric and desperate over time?
To become so needy?
Were they ever pushed to the point where they had nothing more to give, nothing left to be sucked away, and the camera knew?
Disgusted at his own imaginationthere were thoughts that did not deserve thinkinghe buckled up. He was done for the evening. He would get home a little early, fix supper, wait for Helen and Lindsey. Seeing Lindsey again would help.
Peter needed all the help he could get right now.
CHAPTER 23
A HUGE TRAFFIC jam had packed the 5 and spilled out onto the 10. Peter sat in his low, low seat behind a massive SUVa Porsche SUV, he noted with a slight curl of his lip, built like a stack of shaved hockey pucks. Was nothing sacred?
He could not see ahead to know whether to push right and get off at the next exit. When he edged right to reconnoiter, he saw the surface streets were already jammed and that traffic was, if anything, moving more slowly there than on the freeway.
It took an hour for the never-ending conga line of red taillights to ooze like cold molasses to the interchange. Peter glanced at his watchan old, scarred, gold-plated Bulova he had had since high schooland saw it was eight-thirty.
Damn it, he said, clenching his fists on the wheel. Helen would be at the house before he got there. He would not have food for Lindseys breakfast or ice cream for a late night snack. He was once again a loser, fulfilling Helens heartfelt expectations.
Suddenly, he hated Los Angeles, the freeways, his ineptitude for not foreseeing such a delay. He had lived here most of his life but had not in fact braved Friday-night traffic for years, his social life being what it was. Blame LA. Blame everything and everyone.
After ten long minutes of angry speculation, the Porsche finally crept around the slowdowns dreadful cause. Traffic was snaking to the right. Purple flares created a proscenium around a stage of spun and crumpled wrecks, like gaslights for a theater in hell. Firefighters and police waved red-muzzled flashlights to get traffic to move along, move along. Two of the wrecks, still smoking, had been doused with white foam.
Despite his vow not to look, Peter stared, thought for one plunging moment Helens car might be among the ruins, he might see them trapped or on stretchers. Two covered stretchers were being lifted into a big square white van. Cars had halted to let an ambulance push out from the shoulder of the highway.
The wreckage fell behind and still the traffic did not let up. He endlessly shifted and pushed in the clutch and brought the revs up for first gear and let the clutch out and turned the wheel minute fractions of an inch, watching the temperature needle move closer to the redit did that in prolonged slow driving. He crept along the last mile until he could get into second gear on the off-ramp.
Five minutes later, he pulled onto Pacific and breathed a sigh of relief, watching the temp gauge drop back to normal. Traffic here was light. He might make it.
Climbing into the hills, with less than a mile left to the house, the oil pressure pegged on zero. The Porsche made a desperate little grinding noise and coughed a chuff of blue smoke. The engine mercifully died. By dint of quick action slipping the car out of gear, he was barely able to coast to the curb.
The time was now 9:05.
Peter lifted the rear lid and looked at the engine, but he knew already that the problem was nothing he could fix, not here and not now. A tow and expensive days in the shop would be necessary. The Porsche had not given him this kind of trouble since an engine rebuild five years ago.
Gently, as if lowering a dead pet into a grave, he dropped the lid and latched it, then dialed Helens cell number on the Trans. Her network was busy. He tried the apartment number. All he got was a sharp run of wheedling chirps. He had left his own cell phone back at the house. After three more tries, face grim, he rolled up the car window and locked the doors and began the long walk.
At 9:37, out of breath but with, fortunately, no chest painand wasnt that proof it was only indigestion?he walked up the asphalt slope of the driveway and past the black hollow of the garage. The crickets were busy and the air was lovely and soft and cool and the house was dark and quiet and looked empty.
They have come and gone, Peter thought. He had not even left the porch light on. The sadness as he walked under the twining loops of jasmine was deep and hard, a determined letting down of something that had more in it than just Helen and Lindsey; a sadness that was totally bottom line, the sum of an indulgent life too deep in arrears ever to make good.
Bankrupt Peter Russell.
He removed his key and was about to fit it into the brass lock when he saw the French door was already open. Helen had come and gone and had left the door unlocked behind her, hoping perhaps he would be robbed, and wouldn't that teach him a lesson?
And what would the robbers takebooks? Vinyl records? An old TV and stereo worth maybe a hundred dollarsthat might go. But the even older magazines? Basement file cabinets full of moldering, feelthy pictures a lot less suggestive than what you could catch any night on cable TV?
Peter pushed the door open with a small squeal of the upper hinge and stood for a moment. He surveyed the darkened living room, the sun-warmed silence after a day of broken clouds, the faint mustiness of corners filled with dust that always eluded him during halfhearted attempts at cleaning. Empty life, empty house.
Peters shoulders sagged. He walked down the dark hall, not bothering to turn on the lights. In his bedroom, stumbling over a pair of running shoes, he relented and turned the knurl on the pullout wall lamp. Light flashed across the room. Normal light, normal night.
He had arranged the Enzenbacher chess set on his dresser, below the mirror, all the pieces neatly lined up, game ready. In the mirror, from where he stood, Alices copy of the chess set showed in reverse. He took a step forward and looked down at the real board. On the side of the silver pieces, good guys and ghosts, the kings pawn had been advanced two squares. Phils favorite opening move. Had he jostled the piece after setting them up? He distinctly remembered leaving them all straight.
Stillness, stillness, and then the creak of a roof beam settling, an almost laughable pause,
followed by the sharp crack of furniture or a wall stud somewhere, sounds he had heard for decades, often at this time of night. Chunks of wood pushed up against other wood, just happening to enjoy tandem moments of relaxation from the heat.
From the twins bedroom his ears caught a rustling as of disturbed linens.
His heart thumped a mighty thump and his throat itched as he heard, from down the hall, Daddy?
Suddenly everything changed, and he was happier than he had been in years, all his debts lifted and failings blown off through the roof to the stars and clouds.
Helen had come and left Lindsey behind, tucking her into bed.
I'm here, sweetie, he called, walking down the hall, pushing the door open, and stepping softly into the girls bedroom. She had chosen the right-hand bed, where she lay with her face poking out from under the covers, a small moon in the blackness above a pale smear of gray that was the coverlet, a band of lighter gray that was the counterpane, straight and tidy. Two thin arms lay folded on the counterpane. She looked smaller and younger, lying in the bed in the dark, and she sounded younger, too, perhaps afraid of the dark, waiting for him to come home.
That would give him some leverage with Helen, leaving their daughter alone in the house with the front door unlocked. Was any date hot enough to be worth taking that kind of risk?
And then she would come back at him for his not being there in the first place, when she needed him, betraying her once again . . .
Peter stowed all that and knelt beside his daughter.
Where have you been? she asked.
Stuck in traffic, he said, smoothing back the dark hair above her forehead. Her skin was soft and cool. It was a monstrous big beast that grabbed me. Nothing else could have kept me away.
Traffic, she echoed in just his tone of voice. A beast. She rolled to one side, facing him. He wished he could see her more clearly, but just touching her sent a thrill up his arm and into his body. It was the babies that mattered, the sex that made them was nothingit was the babies that made one feel so excellent and unworthy. He wanted to lay his head down on his daughters lap and beg forgiveness, spill his sorrows, but he was a daddy. None of that.