Fade to Black

by Ron Renauld

  “Hey, Binford,” Richie called out, flexing his biceps as he hefted a supply box to Bart, who had a habit of constantly squinting from the irritation of bad-fitting contacts.

  Eric tried to avoid them, but there was no other way to get to the Vespa.

  “Settle this, willya?” Richie asked, “What was the fat man’s name in The Maltese Falcon?”

  “That’s easy,” Eric said without stopping.

  “Okay, okay. What is it?” Bart demanded.

  Eric halted long enough to ask, “What’ll you give me?”

  “Hey, come on, man,” Richie said irritably, “we ain’t got all day. What was it?”

  “Casper Gutman,” Eric said unenthusiastically, fishing through his pockets for the key to the Vespa while Richie and Bart settled up their bet.

  Eric started for the bike, but suddenly had an idea. He turned back to Richie and Bart, calling out, “Listen. I got one for you guys. Only it’s gonna cost you money this time.”

  “Yeah?” Richie said, “What’s the bit?”

  “Casablanca.”

  “Hey, I know that film backwards and forwards,” Richie said confidently. “I must’ve seen it fifty times.”

  Eric bartered, “Only you gotta answer my question in forty-eight hours or you pay me twenty bucks . . . each.”

  “All right, no sweat,” Richie countered. “And what do we get if we get it right?”

  Eric thought about it a moment. He knew he’d have them if he could only get them to bite. The things he could do with forty bucks.

  “I’ll give you fifty,” he said, smugly.

  “It’s a trick,” Bart said.

  “No, no, no. Wait,” Richie said, raising his hand to signal Bart quiet.

  “And no fair looking at the print or the script in the meantime,” Eric amended.

  Richie came over to Eric and stabbed at his sternum. “Hey, you know I know that film better than anybody,” he accused. “You sure this isn’t a sucker bet, Binford?”

  Eric took a tentative step back from Richie, refusing to be intimidated. “No tricks,” he assured Richie coolly. “The answer’s in the film. Now put up or shut up!”

  Richie and Bart exchanged glances.

  “It’s a deal,” Richie finally said. “That’s a lotta dough but it’s a deal. All right?”

  Eric walked up to them this time, savoring the moment. “What was Rick’s full name?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “You mean Rick who owns the Café American?” Richie asked with disbelief. “The Bogart character?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a cinch,” Bart exclaimed.

  “Wait a minute,” Richie said, snapping his fingers, as if the answer were a genie he only had to summon, “I got it on the end of my tongue. It’s . . .” It was apparently stuck there, and as he stared at the ground, sorting through his memory, he frowned.

  “Take your time, Richie,” Eric said with satisfaction, walking off feeling as if he’d finally put his adversaries in their proper place.

  “Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute,” Richie called after him, “I know it like I know my own name.”

  It was obvious to Eric, however, that both Richie and Bart were stumped. Beaming, he strode over to the Vespa, a blue-gray two-wheeler. He loaded the things to deliver into a large delivery box welded onto the rear end and bearing the company’s initials. He straddled the seat and started the bike up, driving past Horace and off on his errands.

  Back on the loading dock, Richie spat before going back to work.

  “Hey, forget it,” he told Bart, “Binford, he’s . . . he’s sick in the head, he’s like retarded or something. We made a bet, right?”

  Bart nodded uncertainly.

  “Forget it,” Richie said. “A bet’s a bet. He’s gonna pay us.”

  “He’s strictly a low-class production,” Bart put in.

  “Man, he’s a space case or something. He’s a real asshole.”

  Having skipped breakfast, Eric was hungry early in the day. Fortunately, one of his errands brought him to Santa Monica, and he was able to make a short detour to a greasy spoon in nearby Ocean Park where he’d been able to set up a tab. He parked the Vespa in front of the diner and went inside.

  “Hey,” the cashier called out to him. He was a kid in his late teens, one of the few people impressed by Eric’s amassed knowledge of film trivia.

  “Hey, V.Z.,” Eric told him, stepping up to the counter.

  “How about the usual, Eric,” V.Z. said, leaning forward on the cash register to show off his own memory. “Two chocolate donuts, hot dogs with the works, fries, large coke?”

  Eric belched just thinking about it. He nodded his approval and climbed up onto one of the stools lining the lunch counter.

  It was still a half an hour before the lunch rush was due to start and the diner was only half-filled.

  Marilyn and Stacey were sitting on either side of one of the booths next to the front window, talking over what was left of their brunch.

  “You know,” Stacey told Marilyn, “I went to high school with this girl who looked exactly like Lana Turner. I always sort of felt like she looked down on me. Well, anyway, she went to Hollywood to be a big star.”

  “And what happened to her?” Marilyn asked.

  “She killed herself because she didn’t make it big,” Stacey said meaningfully. “Really.”

  Marilyn pursed her lips.

  “That wouldn’t happen to me. Don’t worry.”

  “It better not,” Stacey said, still concerned.

  Eric overheard their conversation and turned in his seat to take a look at the girls. His jaw dropped visibly when he spotted Marilyn.

  “Ohhh,” Marilyn said, plucking up a greasy onion ring Stacey had tossed onto her plate. “What’s this piece of grundge?” She flicked the ring into neutral territory between her and Stacey. They both giggled their way back to less melodramatic ground.

  “Okay, look,” Stacey promised, “no more advice. As of this minute you’re on your own.”

  Eric couldn’t take his eyes off Marilyn. The resemblance was too much. When she looked up and their gazes met for the brief second before Eric turned away, he felt as if he were staring at his lost love. A hot flash ran over him, and a single rivulet of sweat beaded beneath one armpit and ran down his side. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, conjuring up the face of the Marilyn he knew. When he sneaked another glance at the girls in the booth, it was her sitting there facing him.

  Marilyn.

  Eric had taken off his jacket when he came into the diner and set it on the stool beside him. He casually wrapped his fingers around the coat and lifted it over one more stool, then, just as nonchalantly, changed seats and moved closer to the girls.

  Halfway through his advance, Stacey noticed him and leaned forward, whispering to Marilyn, “Get a load of him.”

  “Don’t be cruel,” Marilyn said softly. “He looks sweet.”

  Once he was seated directly across from them, Eric slowly pivoted in his seat to face them. He already had their attention.

  “Are you an actress?” he asked Marilyn.

  “No,” she said.

  “It’s amazing,” Eric commented, “You look exactly like—”

  “We know,” Stacey interrupted coldly. “Everybody says that.”

  Eric recoiled from the intended insult, but slowly recovered and forged onward again. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I just wanted to meet you. I’m a great admirer . . .”

  “Enchanté.” Marilyn stumbled through a French accent as she extended her hand Eric’s way like royalty looking to have their rings kissed.

  Wiping the sweat off his palms, Eric took the hand and shook it as if it were breakable on contact. He let go almost immediately and withdrew his hand to his side so she wouldn’t see it was trembling.

  “What are you doing?” Stacey asked Marilyn.

  “Cut it out,” Marilyn told her, talking just loud enough for Eric to hear. “He’s
kinda cute.”

  Charmed silent, Eric roamed hurriedly through his mind for something to say, something profound and utterly witty, that immortal line that would make her his.

  All he could come up with was trivia.

  “What was the name of the movie that Tom Ewell took you to see in Seven Year Itch?” he asked, pushing at the words to force them out.

  Marilyn felt an immediate kinship with Eric. She played along, flaunting a teasing innocence.

  “I forgot,” she stammered. “Is it famous?”

  Eric smiled. “It’s a horror movie.”

  Stacey struggled to keep her mouth shut as she glared at Eric. Marilyn, bit daintily at a knuckle.

  “Hmmmm. Let me think.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Stacey said.

  “I’ll give you a clue,” Eric offered. “He was green, and he was slimy.”

  “Oh my God,” Stacey said, disgusted.

  “Frankenstein,” Marilyn guessed.

  To provide another clue, Eric slowly raised his arms, holding them close to his side, the fingers splayed downward like webbed claws. He made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat.

  “Jesus,” Stacey complained.

  Marilyn was amused. “The Werewolf,” she said, laughing.

  Deflated, Eric let his arms drop. A hurt expression came over his face.

  “Now you’re just guessing,” he grumbled sullenly.

  “Who the hell cares!” Stacey said.

  “It was The Creature from the Black Lagoon!” Eric cried out bitterly, adding to Stacey, “Stupid!”

  “Now you’ve hurt his feelings,” Marilyn told Stacey. She looked back at Eric and smiled. “Hey. Hey, how did you know that? That’s great!”

  Eric was still pouting, but her encouragement pacified him some. He slowly let a prideful smile work its way across his face.

  “I go to a lot of movies,” he bragged shyly. “It’s my thing.”

  “Thrilling,” Stacey said.

  Eric conjured up in his mind the Creature from the Black Lagoon again, staring at Stacey and wishing the scaly beast were in the neighborhood so that it could dispatch her to the murky depths. Stacey caught the glance and looked away from it, disturbed.

  “I love movies,” Marilyn said. She dabbed her lips, aware that Eric was watching her. “Uh, could you give me a lift back to work?”

  “Are you serious?” Stacey asked, incredulous.

  Marilyn smiled coyly. “Just watch me,” she whispered.

  She looked back up at Eric as she turned in her seat, swinging her legs out into the aisle. Bare, pale, and well-curved, they were exposed past her knees by her hiked-up skirt.

  “How about it?” she asked Eric again.

  Faced with the opportunity of a lifetime, Eric choked with fear, shrinking back from her advance.

  “I have two wheels, not four,” he blurted, gesturing with his head out the window in the direction of the Vespa.

  Marilyn stood on her tiptoes and looked at the motorbike.

  “Fabulous,” she said, undaunted.

  The decision made, Eric waded through his panic to act on it. He grabbed his coat and hopped down from his stool, following Marilyn toward the front door as Stacey remained behind, shaking her head with resignation.

  Seeing V.Z. approach the counter with his tray of food, Eric had to think fast. He had no appetite any longer, but he didn’t want Marilyn to think he was a cheapskate. He took the two dollars Mr. Berger had given him and passed it to V.Z., telling him to keep the change.

  “Ah, where do you work?” Eric asked Marilyn nervously as he held the door open for her.

  “Down on Windward, near the pavilion.”

  “Great!” Eric exclaimed. That was only a few blocks from his house. He figured he had just enough gas to take Marilyn to work and stop off at home for some money to fill the Vespa up before returning to the plant.

  Outside, Marilyn flashed another glimpse of thigh as she mounted the Vespa, edging her way to the back of the seat so that there would be room for Eric. He slipped his coat back on and sat down in front of Marilyn. When she put her arms around him and he felt her hair brushing against him, he came close to losing control of the bike on his way out to the street. He recovered and drove on happily, perched precariously on the front lip of his seat, in heaven.

  They headed south on Main Street. The sky was fully blue out now, and the air was warm with the noon sun.

  “You know, I once went to three movies every day for a year, and I never missed once,” Eric boasted, shouting over his shoulder above the whine of the bike. He didn’t elaborate about that being his year as a theatre usher. After being fired from the Fox Venice, he had learned his lesson and lasted a year and a half at the Santa Monica Twin. He’d been fired eventually from that job for continually taking down one-sheets and posters to take home without asking permission. The manager had put up with it until Eric had made the mistake of taking the poster for Jaws before it had even been put up.

  “You’re lucky,” Marilyn cried out. “In my town in the Australian outback, this man would come around in a truck, and he had the same two movies over and over again.”

  “What were they?” Eric asked.

  “Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music,” Marilyn laughed.

  Eric joined in, “You’re a big Julie Andrews fan, huh?”

  “You can only overdose on Julie.”

  “Well,” Eric told her next, “someday I’m going to own my own theatre, and I’m going to show whatever films I want, whenever I want. And you can come.”

  “Good,” Marilyn said.

  Eric wasn’t sure, but he thought she was holding him closer now. He couldn’t remember a time when he had been happier than he was now. This was as good as, if not better than, the movies. Don’t let it stop, he pleaded silently to himself.

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “Here in Venice.”

  “With your parents?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . sort of . . . not really. Do you stay in touch with your folks much?”

  “I never knew mine,” she said offhandedly. “My father was a drover, I’m told.”

  “That’s a sheepherder, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” she confirmed. “How did you know that?”

  “I saw it in The Sundowners,” Eric said, remembering Robert Mitchum’s performance.

  Eric turned down Windward Avenue, once the gateway to California’s largest amusement park, an honor long since passed on to Disneyland. A few buildings lining the street still hinted at the inspiration of St. Mark’s Square in the original Venice, but much had been lost in the translation. Instead of fine food or cultural enrichment, the shops housed beneath the multicolored colonnades offered the newest lifeblood for the street scene. Roller skates. Marilyn’s shop was just one of dozens spaced along the miles of beachfront cashing in on the latest fad.

  Overcome with an impending sadness, Eric stopped in front of the skate shop, bracing the Vespa with his feet on the ground as Marilyn climbed off.

  Over, so soon, he thought glumly.

  “Oh, thanks,” she said, stepping away from the bike. “You’re a darling. Bye.”

  Dejected, Eric backed the bike up and turned it around.

  “See ya in the movies,” he said, downhearted.

  Marilyn stopped several feet from the door to her shop.

  “Okay,” she called back to him. “When?”

  Eric looked at her. Had she said that? Or was it just his imagination? It was too much to expect.

  She was smiling at him inquiringly.

  “How about tonight?” he said hopefully.

  “Sure,” she said, “Where?”

  Eric lit up with joy. “Ship’s Westwood at eight o’clock.”

  “Fab,” Marilyn said. “What movie will we see?”

  “That’s a surprise,” Eric promised joyfully. He didn’t have the vaguest idea yet.

  “Ohhhh,” Marilyn purred
playfully, raising her eyebrows. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” Eric said, almost shouting it to the world.

  He revved the throttle on the Vespa and drove off, back toward Market Street. He remembered the returnable bottles in the garage. He could take them down to Brandell’s Brig and get enough money to gas up the Vespa. He’d have to save begging with Aunt Stella for tonight. Priorities.

  CHAPTER • 9

  He’d had to rent out a truck and spend all his earmarked funds allotted for furnishings, but by the end of the day, Moriarty had finished transforming the drunk tank into an office he felt he could work in. He figured it would take the rest of the week, though, if he hoped to touch up the rest of the basement to his liking.

  Cleaning several years of dust and grime off the windows had let in more light, and the newly painted white walls also helped to brighten up the place. He covered some of the walls with a few prints he’d bought at the Venice galleries, his favorite being a mother-and-child portrayed by dressed chimpanzees. To downplay the presence of prison bars as the other two walls, he had set up a bank of filing cabinets and a water cooler topped with house-plants, as well as a chalkboard. Scrawled across the green-streaked slate he had issued his first philosophical proclamation on the new job: “Life is just one damn thing after another.”

  To celebrate his day’s accomplishment, Moriarty sat back behind his desk, rubbing an admiring finger over the waxed top, then reached in a side door and pulled out his harmonica. After blowing a few tentative chords, he slammed the Hohner in his palm and helped himself to two more lines of cocaine. He figured that since he couldn’t hear anything going on upstairs, the converse was true as well. One had to find one’s contentment in exile.

  Warmed up, he launched into a rousing blues solo, accompanying himself with a scat chorus while he stopped to catch his breath. For as little as he’d played the past ten years, he still knew how to bend his chords. There was only one passage he had trouble with, and he stopped short when he missed it again, discouraged.