Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  I thought again about Max seeing Daemon fondle me onstage and figured, oh, well, it was too late to uninvite him. Besides, he was a man of the world, after all—albeit the Old World.

  Leischneudel asked, “Will he be all right, rubbing shoulders with the vamparazzi?”

  “Oh, he’ll be fine,” I said confidently. “Max has dealt with stranger things than vamparazzi.”

  Come to think of it, so had I.

  I added, “Thack, on the other hand, sounds like he’ll be a bit perturbed by the whole scene.”

  “I really appreciate you mentioning me to him.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Leischneudel.”

  We stopped talking when we reached the darkened wings and started preparing mentally for the performance. After a few moments of silence, we gave each other a quick “break a leg” hug, then took our places onstage.

  We wound up waiting there for about fifteen minutes. The frenzy outside on the street spread into the lobby as people who’d been unable to get tickets tried to force their way into the theater. We later heard there were some more arrests. However, despite that distraction and the late start, the first show went fine.

  Between performances, I repaired my hair and makeup in my dressing room while waiting for our usual pizzas to be delivered, then I joined Leischneudel in his dressing room to eat. We used towels as bibs to avoid staining our costumes while we ate our late supper, trying to satisfy our hunger without getting so full we’d feel sluggish onstage afterward. Back in my dressing room, Mad Rachel was picking at her own pizza while whining loudly to her mother, who apparently didn’t mind being telephoned so close to midnight.

  Daemon, as usual, retreated alone to his own dressing room. Despite the pretense that the star replenished his strength with a bottle of blood between shows, I assumed that Victor discreetly slipped some food (or at least a protein shake) into his room when everyone else was onstage. I also assumed this was why one of the few restrictions on Tarr’s access to Daemon was that he wasn’t allowed in the vampire’s dressing room during or between shows, though Daemon claimed (reasonably) that it was because he needed to focus and recharge in solitude.

  Unfortunately, rather than simply leave the theater and go live his life, this meant that Tarr often prowled around backstage, bothering the rest of us. Tonight he barged into Leischneudel’s dressing room to try to get me to answer some questions, as Daemon’s “costar” in the show. (Actually, Leischneudel was the costar; and Tarr had already cornered and interviewed him.)

  I was about to decline again when I realized that if I just gave Tarr his damn interview, he’d finally leave me alone. So, finishing my supper, I nodded in acquiescence and gestured to the only unoccupied chair in Leischneudel’s small, stark dressing room.

  To my surprise, Tarr had done his homework and was familiar with my career, including my stint as a chorus nymph this past spring in the fantasy-oriented Sorcerer!, a short-lived musical staged at a theater only a few blocks from here. He also complimented me on my recent appearance as a prostitute on D30 (which was what fans of The Dirty Thirty affectionately called the gritty crime drama).

  “You were really convincing as a streetwise crack whore,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, pleased—after all, it was my job to be convincing. “The writing on that show is so good, I really enjoyed that role.”

  Surprising me again, because it was a better question than I had expected of him, Tarr asked, “So what’s it like to go from that role to playing Jane, a virginal, sheltered woman living two hundred years ago?”

  So I talked for a little while about how I had prepared for a historical role, and the different choices I employed in body language, diction, tone, attitude, and facial expressions when playing a genteel Regency lady, as compared to playing a drug-addicted hooker living on the streets of New York’s 30th Precinct.

  And then Tarr decided to stop humoring me. “So fans are wondering, as you must know, how real is the sexual heat between you and Daemon onstage? And does it extend to your offstage lives?”

  “There is no sexual heat between me and Daemon onstage,” I said firmly. “It’s between Jane and Ruthven. Offstage, Daemon Ravel and I are colleagues and scant acquaintances, nothing more. Which you already know, Al, since you’re with him day and night!”

  “Yeah, but I gotta ask the question,” he said with his perpetual grin. “So how about onstage? What’s going on between the two of you there? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because everyone in the audience already knows better.”

  “Well, Jane is completely ensnared by the handsome, worldly aristocrat who’s wooing and seducing her. And since Daemon’s performance is so good, that’s easy for me to play, of course,” I lied.

  Actually, I thought Jane should have her head examined. Ruthven’s courtship of her was openly predatory and nearly sadistic at times, he was almost certainly a fortune hunter, and his conversations with her consisted of nonstop sexual innuendo. If I were on a date with this guy, I’d feign an attack of appendicitis after the first half hour.

  But I wasn’t reckless enough to say any of this to Tarr, whose article would be read by Daemon’s volatile (and occasionally violent) fans.

  Tarr proceeded to ask more “probing” questions about the heavily eroticized tone of Daemon’s interaction with me, which I continued deftly (and accurately) reframing as Ruthven’s interaction with Jane.

  “I know Daemon likes to improvise,” Tarr said after a few minutes. “And I’ve heard the two of you, uh, discussing it backstage. How do those unscripted moments come about between the two of you, and how do you feel onstage when he fondles your—”

  “Please stop right there,” said Leischneudel, who’d been listening silently until now. “You’ll need to change the subject, Mr. Tarr, or else leave my dressing room.”

  Sure, he was scared of vamparazzi; but he was quite capable of standing up to Daemon or Tarr on my behalf. I was capable of it, too, but I appreciated the support. I smiled at him to let him know.

  “Whoa,” said Tarr, his gaze flashing gleefully back and forth between the two of us. “Looks like I’ve been barking up the wrong leading man. So the two of you are an item?”

  “No,” we said in unison.

  “I’m practically engaged!” Leischneudel added.

  “Ah, so you don’t want your girl to find out about you and Esther,” Tarr surmised, grinning.

  “Mary Ann knows about Esther,” Leischneudel said. “I mean, she’s met Esther. I mean, there’s nothing to know!”

  Obviously enjoying himself, Tarr said with mock sincerity, “You mean, you and Miss Diamond are just good friends?”

  Leischneudel’s jaw dropped at how sleazy Tarr made the phrase sound, then he looked to me for help.

  I shook my head, indicating we should just ignore it. Then I said to Tarr, “I think we’re done here, Al.”

  “Just one more question!”

  “No.”

  “A real one this time,” he promised.

  I sighed. “Fine. Then the interview is finished, over, done.”

  “Okay.” He paused, apparently trying to build suspense, before saying, “What’s it like to work with a vampire?”

  I blinked. “That’s your ‘real’ question?”

  He shrugged. “I gotta ask it.”

  I thought it over, then said truthfully, “Actually, it’s pretty much like working with anyone else.” After all, it wasn’t as if I had never before worked with someone who had a few pretensions or eccentricities.

  “You gotta give me more than that,” Tarr said.

  “Why do I have to give you more than that? In one sitting, you’ve implied that I’m sleeping with each of my male costars. Throw in Mad Rachel as my lesbian lover, and you’ll achieve a perfect trifecta of slander.”

  “You call her Mad Rachel?”

  I said to Leischneudel, “Oops. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No, no,” Tarr said, waving his notebook in the ai
r as if to assure me he wouldn’t use that slip of the tongue in his article. “It suits her. And she drives Daemon nuts. Remember a few nights ago? He’s onstage alone, rising from the dead by the light of the moon, replenished and renewed after drinking Ianthe’s blood, and the audience is so absorbed in the moment you could hear a pin drop in that theater—”

  “And then everyone heard Rachel yakking into her cell phone backstage,” I said dryly. “Oh, yes. I remember.”

  Leischneudel caught my eye and giggled. We all remembered. Daemon had gone on a rampage that night. But despite his star status and the fact that he was dramatically impressive in his rage, Rachel had blown him off like a cheap attempt at a pick-up in a hotel bar. Her crass indifference to the show, the audience, and his anger left Daemon sputtering and discombobulated. It was the one time in our entire acquaintance when I sympathized with him.

  I consoled myself with the knowledge that, with behavior like that, Rachel’s career in our profession would be short-lived, despite how pretty she was and how well her voice carried to the back row. However, that knowledge wasn’t much of a comfort while I was still nightly sharing a dressing room with her.

  “Speaking of lesbian lovers,” said Tarr, “when I was out in Hollywood—”

  “Were we speaking of lesbian lovers?”

  “Yeah. You and Mad Rachel.”

  I said in exasperation, “We’re not—”

  “Hah! Gotcha! Just kidding.” Tarr winked at me. I found that quite grotesque for some reason. “Anyhow, when I was out in Hollywood, there was this big star I covered who was a secret lesbo. So one night—”

  “I’ve got a second show to go perform,” I said quickly, feeling like a cornered animal as Tarr began one of his Hollywood anecdotes. “We’re finished here, Al.”

  “Wait, no, seriously. What’s it like to work with Daemon ?”

  “He’s a fine actor, a true professional, and a great guy to work with,” I said, removing my towel-bib and standing up.

  Tarr frowned and said to my companion, “That’s exactly what you said when I interviewed you, Lei-guy.”

  Leischneudel winced at the nickname.

  Tarr repeated, “Exactly.”

  Leischneudel looked guiltily at me.

  Tarr saw that, and his habitual grin broadened. “Ah, so the kid got that line from you, huh?”

  “Let’s just call it a consistent reaction among the cast, shall we?” I checked my appearance in the mirror, expecting to hear Bill’s five-minute warning over the intercom at any moment.

  Tarr chuckled and closed his notebook. “Okay. How about off the record, in that case?”

  “Off the record?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. What’s it like to work with Daemon ?”

  I realized Jane’s lips needed a touch-up after my meal. I borrowed Leischneudel’s makeup kit for that. “This is completely off the record?”

  “Yep.”

  I found the color I wanted. “Off the record . . . He’s a fine actor, a true professional, and a great guy to work with.” I applied the lip rouge.

  “Hey, you don’t trust me?” Tarr feigned wounded feelings.

  “Go figure.” I blotted Jane’s mouth. “We’re finished now, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “So now that we’re done with business, maybe we should go out sometime. Just you and me.”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “Leischneudel, time for Act One places?”

  “Yes.” He recognized this cue and responded with alacrity. “Absolutely. Let’s g—”

  “No pressure,” Tarr said to me. “Just a drink. We’ll see how it goes.”

  I sighed. So much for the tabloid prince leaving me alone now that I had given him his interview. Determined to nip this in the bud, I said, “I want you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say to you, Al.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You and I will not be going out together.” I enunciated clearly. “It will never happen. Never.”

  “Hey!” He grinned wolfishly. “Do I have a rival?”

  Involuntarily, I thought of Lopez.

  Looking at (I was appalled to realize) my current suitor, an ill-mannered hack with the sensitivity of a bulldozer, I was suddenly swamped with longing for the attractive police detective whom I had refused to see again.

  Actually, Lopez had dumped me first (or, as he put it, he had given me up); and I tried to keep that fact in mind whenever I wanted to surrender to impulse and phone him. But when circumstances (or, rather, Evil) had reunited us after he broke up with me, he evidently reconsidered his decision . . . or at least wanted to talk about reconsidering it.

  “Is there another guy in picture?” Tarr prodded.

  By then, though, I knew that Lopez had been right in the first place; we mustn’t keep seeing each other.

  I said, “Um . . .”

  Now, as I gazed in bemusement at the man who was grinning sleazily at me, I was sharply reminded of my ex-almost-boyfriend, precisely because of all the ways in which he was nothing like Tarr.

  “I mean, if you’re not seeing Daemon or the kid . . .” Tarr said.

  “Esther doesn’t date actors,” said Leischneudel.

  Not that I thought Lopez was perfect. Far from it. For one thing, he thought I was crazy and probably felonious (although, admittedly, he had his reasons for the former and was not entirely wrong about the latter). He could be a little cranky and rigid. He was also critical, and sometimes he was too cynical—though I supposed that this was a natural result of his profession. And I had a feeling I’d rather try to disarm a bomb than meet his mother (whom he clearly loved—though their mutual affection mostly seemed to express itself in exasperated arguments).

  “Well, I’m not an actor,” Tarr said cheerfully. “So we’re good to go.”

  But Lopez was fun to be with, easy to talk to (well, most of the time), brave and reliable, shrewd about human nature, full of engaging quirks, very smart, and more patient that I usually gave him credit for. And when he looked at me a certain way, I felt sexier than the highest-paid screen temptress in Hollywood.

  Whereas with Tarr looking me right now, I just felt underdressed.

  “I know this piano bar where they play oldies,” the tabloid reporter said, apparently interpreting my awkward silence as a sign that I was weakening. “You’d like it.”

  I self-consciously tugged my barely decent neckline upward while I avoided his gaze, feeling depressed and dismayed by how much I still missed Lopez after more than two months of trying so hard not even to think about him.

  Tarr added, “And I have a coupon. I can get drinks half-price there if I bring a woman.”

  My powers of articulation returned to me. “Tempting though that invitation is, Al, I must decline, on the grounds that I am studying to become a nun.”

  “I thought you were Jewish.” Then his perpetual grin widened in appreciation of my sly wit. “Oh, I get it! Good one.”

  Over the intercom, Bill called for Act One places.

  “Oh, thank God,” I muttered.

  “Esther and I have to go.” Leischneudel simultaneously slipped into his frock coat and herded Tarr toward the door of the dressing room. “We open the show.”

  “I know,” said Tarr. “I’m here every night, after all. Watching this goddamn play over and over. Wondering why anyone would pay three hundred dollars to see it, let alone to see it again.”

  Leischneudel briefly froze in astonishment. “The scalpers are getting three hundred a seat? For this play?”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” said the reporter as we all exited the room.

  Out in the hallway, we encountered Victor—or, rather, we frightened Victor. He was pacing with his back to us and whispering frantically into his cell phone. When he turned around and saw us, he shrieked in surprise, dropped his phone, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Jeez, pal,” said Tarr. “You really need to cut back on the caffeine.”

  “Are you all right?”
Leischneudel asked in concern.

  Victor closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. He lowered his hand and said, “You startled me.”

  His voice was faint, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. He looked pale. Although the theater was (as I had good reason to know) drafty and cool, there were beads of sweat glinting on his forehead.

  “Victor, you don’t look so good,” I said as Leischneudel retrieved the older man’s phone from the hard cement floor and handed it to him. “And I really think you should breathe.”

  “Yes, breathe,” Leischneudel urged, patting Victor on the back.

  Victor suddenly started panting like a nervous dog. His voice still faint, he squeezed out the words, “It sounds like something . . . something terrible may have happened.”

  “Your call was bad news?” Tarr asked.

  Victor panted, “I think so. It might be. I’m not . . .”

  “Breathe a little more slowly.” Leischneudel demonstrated what he meant, encouraging Victor to imitate him.

  “Anything to do with Daemon?” Tarr asked.

  Victor flinched. “You can’t say anything to him!”

  The reporter opened his notebook. “Why not?”

  I took away Tarr’s notebook. “Surely that’s none of our business.”

  “Just keep breathing.” Leischneudel glanced at me, aware that we needed to get to our places.

  “Don’t say anything to Daemon,” Victor said frantically. “Please.”

  “Don’t say anything about what?” Tarr prodded, trying to retrieve his notebook from me.

  “It might turn out to be nothing. An ugly prank or a mistake ... God, I hope it’s nothing! It’s got to be nothing,” Victor babbled. “And even if it’s something, there’s nothing we can do about it right now, and I mustn’t distract Daemon.”

  But distracting the rest of us was fine, apparently.