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Da
The house was getting hot. Da
HIM.
Da
Claire said, “Oh”; Loftis rubbed his hands together and blew on them, “Hark, what bad news?”
Da
Clean reactions: Claire giving her coat a brush, saying, “We’d heard. Charlie was a good friend to our cause”; Loftis tensing up just a tad—maybe because he and the lawyer had sex going. “That grand jury went down, but it took Charlie with them. He was a frail man and a kind one, and men like that are easy pickings for the fascists.”
Da
Loftis turned his back, moving into a shamefully fake coughing attack; Claire played supporting actress, bending to him with her face averted, mumbling, “Bad for your bronchitis.” Da
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Loftis drank, grabbed his coat and winked. He said, “So do I,” kissed Claire on the cheek and went out the door.
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Claire tossed her purse on the table holding the meeting ledger—too casual. Her tad too-studied glance said she’d arranged the still life for him—Loftis’ alibi—even though they couldn’t know who he was. The threads of who was who, knew who, knew what got tangled again; Da
Claire said, “My idea, too. Care to see a movie?”
“You’ve got a television set?”
“No, silly. I’ve got a screening room.”
Da
A test pattern; a black-and-white fade-in; a zoftig blonde and a Mexican with a duck’s ass haircut stripping. A motel room backdrop: bed, chipped stucco walls, sombrero lamps and a bullfight poster on the closet door. Tijuana, pure and simple.
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The blonde and the Mexican fucked with abandon; Claire kneaded muscles that would not yield. Da
Film snapped off the cylinder; Claire got up, hit the lights and exchanged reels. Da
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No music, no opening credits, no subtitles like in the old silents—just blackness—gray flecks the only indication that film was ru
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A black screen; Da
A quick cut; then Pretty Boy Christopher, naked and hard, pointing his thing at the camera, the head nearly eclipsing the screen like a giant battering ram, white background borders looking just like parted lips and teeth holding the image intact through rigor mortis—
Da