Evil Jester Digest, Volume 2

by Holly Newstein

  “Just as Kenneth Tynan dubbed the legendary Louise Brooks ‘The Girl in the Black Helmet’ in his masterful New Yorker profile,” Reilly had written (and Paul knew this word-for-word because he had memorized entire the essay), “it seems right to call Ms. Kane ‘The Girl with the Thirsty Eyes.’ Never in my 30 years as a film critic have I seen a performer, male or female, whose eyes were so simultaneously expressive and opaque.”

  Reilly’s piece was initially mocked amongst cineastes as a fan letter masquerading as film criticism. It didn’t help matters that he seemed unable to explain exactly what he meant by “thirsty eyes,” as well as his proclamation that Shaundra Kane “is not only the greatest film actress of this generation, but of any generation.” The critic, stung, laid low for some time before redeeming his academic reputation with a well-regarded study of the films of Michael Cimino.

  But there was something about her eyes: deep green with pinprick pupils, framed by the sleekest, most perfect eyelashes imaginable.

  Eyes that drew you in and then pushed you away.

  Now Paul found himself locked on an exact facsimile of those eyes through a window in the cold Amsterdam night. Give or take the overdone make-up and frayed lingerie, she was a replica of Shaundra Kane.

  The pixie cut strawberry blonde hair.

  The cheekbones that could cut a diamond.

  The body, simultaneously lean and curvaceous.

  And those eyes.

  Paul stared at this Shaundra Kane manqué through the window. She sat with her legs primly crossed, reading a book. Paul squinted and read the title: La Vita Nuova by Dante Alighieri.

  He wasn’t Dante and this woman was certainly no Beatrice, but their eyes met over the paperback. She lowered the book, smiled a red smile, and nodded.

  Paul entered the building.

  ***

  “I am Solange,” she said in heavily accented English, gesturing him to the bed in the dim, claustrophobic room.

  Paul stammered, “My name’s—”

  “I don’t care. You won’t tell me your real name anyway,” she said. “There are the terms and the terms are non-negotiable. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Paul felt hypnotized. “Your English is…very good.”

  “Do you think you’re my first American?” She suddenly went from hard to very soft, stroking her sinuous form. “When my body goes to shit, perhaps I’ll become a translator. English is the international language, is it not?”

  “Is this a trick question?” Paul asked.

  “Only if you feel tricked by it.” Solange suddenly reached out and stroked his cheek. “Now listen, Mr. American. These are the rules…”

  They were simple. Fee negotiated up front. Nothing rough, though if that was what he wanted, additional fees and options could be discussed. Paul did not want anything rough. He wasn’t sure what he wanted other than her. The required Euros went from his wallet to the nightstand. In a deft swipe of her hand, the money was gone.

  “So, Mr. American,” Solange said, “do you want to undress me? Or shall I undress you?”

  Paul, still quivering and nervous, opted for the latter. Solange smiled and unzipped his trousers. Reached in and grabbed his cock.

  He was limp, but her ministrations changed that very quickly.

  “You like this?” she cooed into his ear, hot breath sending a shiver down his spine. “Then you’ll like this even more.”

  Solange slipped an unrolled condom into her mouth and took his cock between her lips. An exquisite play of her tongue sheathed him before he even realized what she had done.

  By that point, Paul didn’t care.

  The sex was over very quickly. Months of carnal deprivation guaranteed that he was on the verge of orgasm before he even entered her. Afterward, they lay together on the bed, not speaking, Paul studying her body.

  “Do you smoke?” Solange asked. “Tobacco, I mean. Not hash.”

  Paul shook his head.

  She shrugged and reached for a pack of unfiltered Gauloises and a book of matches. Lit the cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “Solange,” Paul said. “I’m sure you’ve been told this before, but—”

  She cut him off with a dismissive wave. “Please don’t say you’re in love with me. One of the hazards of my profession: a quick fuck and they’re ready to marry you.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “Americans are the worst—romantic idealists. No doubt why you start so many wars you can’t finish. Like with…what was his name? Bin Laden. You started two wars to capture him. Wars are like love affairs. And yet how did you end up getting the monster? With a…what is the term? ‘One-night stand.’”

  “I have to admit,” Paul said with a laugh, “I would have never thought of it in that way.”

  She tapped her forehead. “Just because I’m a whore doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Back in Bosnia, before the war, I was an educated woman with prospects. Now…”

  Her words trailed off and she gestured around the dingy little room.

  Paul considered that for a moment. Then realized he hadn’t finished what he was going to say. “No. I mean, what I was going to tell you…do you know the movie actress Shaundra Kane?”

  “Oh, yes. Very beautiful. Very talented.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look just like her?”

  The thirsty eyes held his for a long moment. “You’re very sweet, but no, I do not look like her.”

  She got up, stubbing out the cigarette in a lacquer ashtray.

  “Now, Mr. American—”

  “Paul.”

  She smiled. “I think you’re actually telling the truth. Men usually don’t.”

  “My name is Paul.”

  “Well then, Paul,” she went on, “I think it is time for you to go.”

  He slowly pulled his clothes on, continuing to stare at her. He noticed a small mole just above her neatly trimmed pubic hair. And that was when he knew.

  This woman didn’t look like Shaundra Kane. This woman was Shaundra Kane.

  Like many actresses before her, Shaundra Kane began her career in low-budget films of dubious quality. Straight-to-Video movies, so-called “erotic thrillers,” that always required nudity on the part of their female lead. While her gifts as a performer rescued the actress from the exploitation tar pit that ensnared so many lesser talents, the films still existed. And as Shaundra Kane’s star rose in mainstream Hollywood, screen-captures from those movies became a staple of tawdry publications that specialized in naked photos of famous actresses.

  In the lonely months after the break-up, missing Natalie terribly, Paul had guiltily purchased a few of those magazines—in particular, the issues featuring shots of Shaundra Kane. He had pored over them, gaze lingering even after the release of masturbation. Drinking in every inch of her body, despite the low quality of the images. Obsessing in particular on the beauty mark just above her pubic triangle.

  Paul was now dressed, and Solange was leading him to the doorway. Not so much leading him, really, as pushing him. He stopped and turned around as she opened the door.

  Their eyes met one more time.

  “You are her, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I-I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Please go. We have bodyguards in this building for unruly clients.”

  Paul started to turn, and then said, “Shaundra?”

  “Yes?”

  He stared at her as tears streaked the overdone make-up down Shaundra Kane’s face. Paul reached out to wipe them away.

  That was when two men came up behind him.

  Shaundra shook her head and clasped her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream.

  The last thing Paul heard was the thunk of the shot from a silenced Glock 19, the hollow-point bullet entering the back of his head. His forehead exploded, spattering Shaundra Kane’s face with blood.

  And Paul went spiraling into those thirsty eyes and eternal darkness.

 
***

  It took the two studio men ten minutes to calm Shaundra Kane down. Though Parallax Pictures had leased the entire building, it still wouldn’t do to have a woman screaming. A woman’s scream in Amsterdam’s red light district was guaranteed to summon an army of cops and good-Samaritans. The Dutch took care of their working girls.

  While the Tall Man placed a plastic bag over Paul’s head and dragged the body out, the Short Man produced a syringe full of heroin and injected Shaundra. Once they got her back to the hotel, they’d have her on hourly doses of Norco until she fell asleep, but right now he needed her calm immediately.

  She was nodding out when the Tall Man returned. “He’s in the trunk.”

  “Okay,” said the Short Man. “Help me get her dressed.”

  In the car, on the way to the hotel, the Tall Man drove. The Short Man kept his eye on Shaundra Kane, who was in the backseat, slipping in and out of consciousness. They had one tricky moment when, stuck in traffic, the actress suddenly began to scream. A quick jab of the needle calmed her down, but the Short Man was nervous doing it. The higher ups at Parallax Pictures would have his ass if he accidentally overdosed one of the world’s biggest movie stars.

  “I don’t get it,” the Tall Man suddenly said.

  “You’re not supposed to get anything. You’re supposed to do your job.” Then, curious in spite of himself, the Short Man added, “Get what?”

  “Why’s she doing this? She’s got the part. They’re rewriting the script for her. So why? Does she get off on being a whore or what?”

  The Short Man laughed. “Actresses are crazy. You’ve been in the business long enough to know that. Plus they got this thing—”

  “But I just don’t—”

  “You want me to answer your question or not?”

  The Tall Man shrugged and beeped his horn, even though the car ahead of them was moving at a reasonable speed. He was twitchy. He was the one, after all, who pulled the trigger, and he didn’t feel good about it.

  “You ever hear of ‘Method Acting’?” continued the Short Man. “Like Brando and that stuff?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the princess back there—” he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating Shaundra “—is into that. I don’t get it much either, but when she got the part, she said she needed to live it or her performance was going to be shit. So here we are.”

  “With a dead guy in the trunk. Fuuuuuuck.” The Tall Man shook his head and blasted the horn again. “Dead ’cause he recognized her. Like someone wouldn’t, sooner or later. She’s only on the cover of Entertainment Weekly four times a year. The poor bastard—”

  “His name was Paul,” came her quavering, dreamy voice from the backseat. “He seemed like a nice man.”

  The minute she spoke, the Short Man grabbed for the syringe. But by the time he turned around, the actress was asleep and snoring softly.

  ***

  Just over one year later, at the Dolby Theater located at Hollywood and Highland in Los Angeles, an envelope was opened.

  “And the Oscar goes to…Shaundra Kane, for Window Girl!”

  The actress, looking radiant, ascended the stage to thunderous applause. Her victory, however, was hardly a surprise. Her performance as a Bosnian war refugee working as a prostitute in Amsterdam had won universal acclaim.

  What was a surprise—and endlessly speculated upon in that year’s post Academy Awards coverage—was the brevity of her acceptance speech, which consisted of three words.

  “Thank you, Paul.”

  We do a lot of dumb things for love, not the least of which involves paying it little mind for the promise of cold hard cash. Speaking of money, we do a lot of dumb things for that, too.

  Noir fiction, at its best, loves to put these truths in the same room to duke it out, and Trent Zelanzny’s “Slink” is nothing less than Grade-A Noir.

  But Trent doesn’t make it so easy. Never does.

  As he suggests here, the one who slinks most through the cracks in a disintegrating moral code, constantly analyzing the chess pieces in play, as well as the board, may actually be the least perceptive cog in the dark machine of humanity.

  Slink

  Trent Zelazny

  One word led to another, and when the chain of words finally came to an end, Sylvia had her elbows on her knees and her face in her palms as she made broken-hearted crying sounds.

  Kyle almost said things he didn’t want to. Comforting things he knew he wouldn’t mean. Sylvia’s crying sounds were an irritant, and if he said the things he didn’t believe, her crying would turn to pouting and sniffling, and that was more aggravating than the crying. Tired and not wanting to deal with it, he left her on the couch and went outside to the porch.

  An almost pitch-black night, the moon just a tiny hair glowing in the opaque sky. The streetlight several houses down acted as the moon, but its acting abilities were amateur. Kyle patted his pockets and found his cigarettes. Should’ve quit some time ago, but it was a habit he just couldn’t kick. He got one going and stepped off the porch and onto the sidewalk. He exhaled carbon monoxide into the presence of oxygen and it plumed and twisted up into the darkness.

  Six months. They’d been married six months, and almost every night it was the same stupid rigmarole. He’d spend the day operating machinery and dispensing liquid into bottles, testing them for safety, securing bottle lids, attaching safety seals, packaging the bottles into crates and boxes, preparing them for shipment to stores. It was stupid and mind-numbing work, and it was exhausting. Then he’d come home to Sylvia, who had never worked a day in her life, and watch her struggle with the role of housewife. Like the streetlight down the block, she was an amateur.

  He drew in on his cigarette, blew the smoke out with the words, “Gotta get outta this.”

  Did he love her? Good question, easy answer. No, he did not love her and never had loved her. Ten months ago he’d knocked her up. It had been in a moment of weakness, of desperate loneliness, a moment of dire need for human contact. Had he known at the time that her modus operandi had been to land a husband, maybe he wouldn’t have gone through with it. Then again, maybe he would have. It was meaningless speculation now. What it added up to was that he tried to do the right thing, the honorable thing. He married her.

  Both of her parents were dead; the only family she had was her grandmother, who, having been a heavy drinker all her life, now suffered from dementia. He’d seen himself as the baby’s only real chance.

  Then it happened. Three months after their wedding, which had been at a courthouse with only a couple of witnesses.

  Bleeding.

  Doctor called it a clinical spontaneous abortion. A miscarriage. In addition to a feeling of loss, a lack of understanding came from people who had not experienced it themselves. They showed little to no empathy. But after only a few days, it was back to the same routine, as if nothing had happened.

  Sylvia tried to cook. She was lousy at it. She cleaned the house, but you’d never know it. She was lousy in the sack, too. Like the house, he often didn’t know he’d had it.

  So why are you sticking around?

  Grandma.

  The woman might be bat-shit but she wasn’t going to be around much longer. She lived—or maybe “existed” was a better word—in a swanky, upscale place, with housekeeping and laundry service, a fitness center, spa, cable TV, Internet, and beauty services. Opulent as all get out. The woman, crazed as she may be, was worth a lot. Kyle didn’t know how much, but anyone who could afford a place like that when practically an invalid was doing just fine.

  Sylvia handled her grandmother’s money. She paid for the retirement home (or assisted living or whatever it was). But that was something she kept to herself. Kyle had never seen a checkbook, and since the mail always arrived when he was at work, he never once saw a bank statement. Nor did he know where she kept these things.

  “Fuck it,” he said with a cloud of smoke. He dropped the butt to the sidewalk and mashe
d it under his shoe. The old hag would die soon, and given that Sylvia handled her money, and they were the only two remaining of the bloodline, the inheritance would certainly fall to the granddaughter, which, in turn, also left it to him. There was no one else to leave it to. Not like the crazy old bitch had given them a bit of assistance while Sylvia was pregnant, when they got married, or when the miscarriage occurred. Granted, she was too nuts to know what was going on, but still.

  He walked to his car.

  Seemed it would be easy enough for Sylvia to write them a check every once in a while, but the only money they ever had in the bank was the meager sum Kyle earned bottling soda.

  He climbed into his car, drove down the block, made a left, went a few more blocks, made a right. Ten minutes later he was downtown. There were a lot of streetlights here, and light sprayed out from store windows and restaurants and flashed by from moving cars. Kyle found a parking space and climbed out. He lit another cigarette, then walked. After a couple of steps, he stopped, patted his pockets. Where was his wallet? He went back to the car and checked; it wasn’t there. Probably fell out at home. That was okay for now; he had cash in his pocket.

  He tried to make his walk look casual but knew it lacked the leisure he tried to exhibit; his body held too much aggravation, thus making his stroll rigid.

  It was summer but felt like spring. He walked a block, crossed the street, then walked up another block to Taco Cabana, where he ordered a chicken fajita with a side of rice and a coke. He paid Cassandra with cash, and as she gave him his change, he said, “How much longer you got?”

  “About another twenty minutes,” she said with a smile, such an adorable smile.

  He waited for his order, then took it to a table and sat down. He chewed slowly, methodically. There was no rush. Once Sylvia finished crying her eyes out, she’d take a bath, pop a tranquilizer, then climb into bed and read part of one of those god-awful romance books she liked. She often fell asleep with the book on the bed and the light still on. In the morning they would both do their best to act like nothing had happened. Kyle would go to work, and Sylvia would stay home and pretend to play housewife. Right now she was either sulking or soaking.