Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  Apparently, she’d just finished brushing her hair because her ebony strands seemed to crackle with static. She wore white tailored slacks and a sleeveless blouse in various shades of violet and gold. A charm bracelet encircled one slender wrist. I had given her the sweet-sixteen charm that hung from its chain-linked middle.

  “Hi, Bon,” I said, as she began to retrieve her purse.

  Her black-rimmed, pansy-flower eyes met mine in the mirror above the sink. “Frannie! Oh, God, it’s so good to see you!”

  “You, too. We haven’t talked since New York. I tried to call you at the hotel, but ‑‑”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I got your message…messages, but I’ve been so tired. Victor added more Martine scenes, and he never shoots one take. I swear, Frannie, we’re lucky if he gets the scene he wants in fifty takes.”

  Momentarily, I felt green with envy. Bonnie had a real part; she didn’t double for someone else. Bonnie had slept with Victor Madison, even if the experience had been a tad weird. I hadn’t slept with Andre since the Night of Wine and Roses.

  “What’s wrong?” Bonnie said. “Your face is all scrunched up.”

  “Nothing. I suddenly letched for your Martine role, that’s all.”

  “You couldn’t play Martine,” she said with a wink. “Because the only French you know is Le Chocolatier.”

  “True.” I gave her a smile and a hug. “Tell me about you and Madison. Tell me about the shoot. Tell me everything.”

  Her dark-winged brows merged. “There’s been no publicity, Frannie, none at all. It’s unbelievable, considering how many people are involved. Aside from Cat Sands, Lynn Beth, me, and a dozen high school students, there’s the crew. Surely one person ‑‑”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The accidents.”

  “What accidents?”

  “Cat hurt her back. We all had mild food poisoning. Filming was held up by what the locals fondly call a tropical storm…I’d call it a hurricane….and we didn’t have electricity for two days. Then one of the electricians almost shocked himself to death. And there have been little things, missing props and a diamondback rattlesnake who ‑‑”

  “Whoa! A real, honest-to-God rattlesnake? You’re talking fangs and forked tongue?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  Bonnie gave me the ghost of a grin. “An egg, I think. Don’t mama snakes lay eggs?”

  I recalled, in detail, my bus ride to The Spa ‑‑ the “Birdman of West 56th Street” and the heavy woman’s pet carrier. “Please tell me where the snake came from, Bon. It might be important.”

  “I’m not sure where it came from, Frannie, but our technical advisor removed it.”

  “Technical advisor? Asmodeus has a technical advisor? Who is he? A priest? Evangelist? Presidential candidate?”

  “Not even close. Madison met this young black woman while he was in New York, or she met him, or they bumped into each other…who knows? He’s enthralled with her, and after the first few accidents he flew her to Houston. Frannie, she’s a witch. You don’t believe in Satanism or covens, but I do, and ‑‑”

  “Tenia,” I breathed, then watched Bonnie’s face turn one shade lighter than a honeydew melon.

  “That’s right,” she gasped. “How did you know?”

  I heard an echo: Ain’t got no cat. Snake. “Tenia and I ‘bumped into each other’ the day after my birthday, on a bus, following my psychic session. A man who looked and acted stoned gave her his seat, the only empty seat on the bus, which happened to be next to my seat, and Tenia said she had a pet snake.”

  Bonnie just stared at me.

  I said, “It’s got to be a weird coincidence. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Of course it’s coincidental,” Bonnie said, her voice too New York. Unless she’s agitated, she has no discernible accent.

  “Do you think Madison structured the accidents, Bon?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To make his actors nudgy, scared, in the mood.”

  “Get real, Frannie. He ate the tainted food, too. And he couldn’t order up a tropical storm, could he?”

  “How long has Tenia been a member of the crew?”

  “A week.”

  “When did the snake appear?”

  “Her second day. Damn thing slithered onto the set as if it wanted to audition. Cat christened it George W. Tenia picked it up and carried it away. Far away, I hope, like maybe the Houston Zoo.”

  “Have the accidents stopped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Tenia here tonight?”

  “No.” Bonnie giggled. “She’s attending this voodoo convention at a downtown hotel.”

  “A voodoo convention? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Frannie, they have name tags. The kind you stick above your breast. No…no pins.” Clutching the sink for support, Bonnie giggled helplessly.

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s not all that funny.”

  “No pins, Frannie. What are they going to use to pierce their little doll effigies? Laser beams?”

  “Bonnie, hey, cut it out.”

  “Sorry…tension. I’m okay. Really.” She wiped at tears with the back of her hand. “How’s Andre?”

  “Fine.” I bit my lower lip, stifling the urge to tell her the truth. If I did, we’d spend the whole night inside the mermaid bathroom.

  Instead, I brought her up to date on everything else. I told her about Rick and his duplex and Yoda the Toyota. I told her about the introductory cast party at Rick’s, where I had met the twins, Bambi and Fawn. I didn’t tell Bonnie that after the party I had tried to initiate sex. I didn’t tell her that Andre had mumbled something about drinking too much, sorry, couldn’t get it up. I didn’t tell her that I wanted to unzip Jeremy’s fly and determine if his bulge was as authentic as the restaurant’s jukebox.

  I ended my brief recitation with a question. “What’s your opinion of Jeremy Glenn, Bonnie?”

  “Epicurean,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Wild. Orgasmic. Bad. I hear he’s straight.”

  “As an arrow.”

  “Married?”

  “Once. A long time ago. Usual cliché. The wife couldn’t cope with Jem’s success. Divorce City. No kids.”

  “Jem?”

  “Wipe that look off your face, Frannie. I’m not his type.”

  “Who’s his type?”

  “Madonna.”

  “The Madonna?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “Sorry. I always get them mixed up. I meant Mary-Magdalene, the model who graced last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover. Mary-Mag visited our set the same day we found George W. Evidently Mary-Mag’s not a big fan of snakes because she packed her cosmetics case and said she was flying home. Jem’s gorgeous, Frannie, but he’s not my type.”

  “Who’s your type, Bon?”

  “Victor Madison.”

  “Wait a sec. I thought ‑‑”

  “Yes, I know. I can’t explain it. Despite his idiosyncrasies, he has this seductive charm.”

  Silently, I agreed. Except seductive charm wasn’t what my mother would call “the whole megilla.” How about magnetic omnipotence?

  Bottom line: there was something inside Madison that attracted even as it repulsed.

  Aloud, I said, “How does he behave when he’s around you? I mean, any chance of an encore performance?”

  “It wasn’t a performance, Frannie. He was totally sincere. Now, I crave his attention. But he’s been the perfect gentleman.”

  The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman!

  While Bonnie waited, I peed, washed my hands, and conducted an imaginary orchestra under the flatulent dryer. As we returned to the party, she said, “I saw your friend, Samson.”

  “Where?”

  “He was scanning the hotel lobby. I waved, but he didn’t wave back.”

  “Samson’s been doing rese
arch for a Victor Madison bio, Bon. He said it was unauthorized, so he’s probably lurking, sleuthing around for juicy tidbits, and he doesn’t want to be acknowledged. I’m fairly certain he’ll try and get in touch with me, though.”

  Actually, I wasn’t fairly certain at all. After our tête-à-tête at Starbucks, I hadn’t heard from Samson; not one word; not even a see-you-in-Houston-darlin’.

  “If Samson does get in touch with you,” Bonnie said, “please don’t mention my Madisonian fling.”

  With a wink, she headed toward Madison’s entourage. Walking toward my table, I saw Jeremy Glenn holding court near the jukebox, charming every female in his galaxy, including a pregnant calico cat who flashed me a feline smirk as she rubbed against Jeremy’s ankle.

  Lynn Beth and her mother, Dawn Sullivan, leaned against the piano bar. They, along with a few others, sang “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you…”

  “Please don’t take my sunshine away,” I sang, standing where Jeremy Glenn had stood, prior to our head-on collision.

  I swallowed a half dozen raw oysters, gulped down a white wine chaser, and was about to join Lynn Beth and Dawn when I sensed someone, or something, standing behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Oysters intensify desire, eh?”

  Jeremy huffed into my ear, his breath generating shivers.

  “Want some?” I clutched my wine glass for support. “Need some?”

  “I’m not an oyster kind of guy,” he said, grasping my elbow and leading me away from the table.

  “My name’s Frannie,” I said. “I’m doubling for Lynn Beth in the possession scenes. What kind of guy are you?”

  “For starters, I like girls with long hair.”

  “I’ve got long hair.”

  “Hard to tell with it pinned up like that.”

  “I thought it made me look taller, but I’ll take it down if you feed me more oysters, outside on the deck, in the dark, where we can be alone.”

  Dear God, I was flirting. I’ve never played a flirt in my whole life. I’m simply not a bat-the-eyelashes kind of girl.

  What kind of girl are you, Frannie?

  Well, for starters I like guys with tousled hair.

  Jeremy hadn’t introduced himself. Why bother? Unless I’d been locked inside a Jewish convent for the last several years, I’d recognize that famous voice and countenance. Nevertheless, I said, “You’re Jeremy Glenn, right?”

  “My friends call me Jem. Why do you want to look taller, Fanny? You’re cute as a button. Can I buy you a real drink?”

  “The name’s Frannie, Jem. What do you mean a real drink? Wine’s not real?”

  “Wine’s too mellow. No quick kick, eh?”

  “Tell that to my mother.”

  Mom had gotten drunk on wine one Passover, when I was just a little kid. She’d sobbed something about Gracie, poor dead Gracie. I, along with everyone else, assumed she meant Grace Kelly, her favorite Gentile American Princess. But now, for no apparent reason, I recalled what my New York psychic had said, and I wondered if Mom could have been blubbering over a stillborn child!

  “What’s wrong, Fanny?” Jem said, and I remembered Cat’s you’d-never-make-it-in-a-poker-game remark.

  “It’s Frannie,” I said again, “and I’d like a Cape Codder, please.”

  Maybe vodka and cranberry juice would blot out the memory of Mom and poor dead Gracie. As Jem walked toward the bar, Madison whistled through his fingers. “I’ve got a surprise,” he announced. His voice, like a switchblade, sliced through multiple monologues. “A preview. We’ve edited some of the film from the screen tests and…”

  The rest of his speech was drowned out by loud cheers, not to mention my involuntary gasp. Had Madison edited me?

  Of course not. I wasn’t important, a mere double. He’d show Lynn Beth Sullivan or Jem. Jem had screen-tested. So had Bonnie…

  The room dimmed. A beam of light projected images on a screen, and Robin, in full makeup, appeared.

  Was that Lynn Beth or me? Definitely me!

  No, not really. It was a conglomeration; Lynn Beth, me, and Asmodeus.

  Whoa, kill the Asmodeus bit, I told myself. Because the demon wasn’t an independent entity. He didn’t have a separate, distinct existence. Or even a conceptual reality.

  As I stared at the screen, my palms moistened. My forehead felt clammy. Even my toes sweated. Instinctively, I began to duplicate the demon’s gestures, so I found a vacant chair and sat on my hands…until Jem removed one hand and wrapped my fingers around a tall glass. He stood directly behind me. While I sipped from the glass, he caressed the nape of my neck, but I didn’t know if my spasmodic shivers were generated by Jem’s warm touch or Madison’s edited screen test.

  Probably both. I swallowed a moan. And more vodka. The bartender had added a mere splash of juice. Before you could say forever Asmodeus, I felt a rush. Heat zig-zagged toward my brain, sizzling rhyme and reason, leaving behind tendrils of satyrical lust.

  In other words, I had Andre’s concupiscence.

  Jem removed the empty glass from my fingers. “Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Move? Was he kidding? I couldn’t move a muscle. Mesmerized, I stared at the screen, stared at that demon on the screen, stared at conceptual reality. I felt a growl rise in my throat, and drowned it with vodka when Jem pressed another glass against my sweaty palm.

  With an effort, I resisted the urge to hurl my drink toward the demon, blot out that Frannie-Robin-Asmodeus character. Who was wonderful. Awful. Awfully wonderful.

  This time, the bartender had forgotten to add ice cubes!

  “Bartender forgot ice,” I told Jem, as screen images finally faded.

  “Sorry, Fanny. Want me to fetch you a new drink?”

  Shaking my head no, I watched party guests crowd around Lynn Beth. They were smiling, praising, kissing…hey, unfair! That was me on the screen. I played the demon.

  “That was me,” I told Jem, “on the screen.”

  “Sure, Fanny.”

  “It was!” Lurching to my feet, I stumbled toward the well-wishers. “Gonna tell ‘em.”

  Grasping my elbow again, Jem propelled me out onto the wooden deck. Round white tables with stupid umbrellas stood guard. Empty tables, because everyone was inside. Everyone was paying homage to Madison, exalting Lynn Beth, when they should have been worshipping me! Huzzah, Frannie!

  “You don’t want to hassle Madison right now,” Jem said.

  “But I’m the demon!”

  Stars blinked like yellow stoplights, and in the distance water whooshed against a rocky shoreline. I drained the last of my drink, tossed the glass over the railing, and, still furious, turned to face Jem.

  “You’re not a demon, Fanny,” he said, stroking my cheek with his first finger. “You’re an adorable imp.”

  “My name’s Frannie!” I shouted. “With an R! Like the ‘r’ in Lucifer, Lord of Vermin, Prince of Darkness.”

  “Okay, take it easy.” Tilting my chin, Jem lowered his head and kissed me.

  His kiss was professional. Wet. Warm. Sincere. His hands were everywhere; under my breasts; on top of my nipples; cupping my buttocks; crushing my crepe evening pants; unpinning my hair; between my thighs.

  “Stop,” I said, around his thrusting tongue. “Somebody’ll see us.”

  But my actions belied my words as I pressed my legs together, trapping his fingers.

  Jem maneuvered us to the darkest corner of the deck. I felt an explosion inside my body. Sinking to my knees, I unzipped his fly.

  Vaguely, I heard the jukebox. John, Paul, George and Ringo were singing about holding hands. I traced Jem’s emphatic trail of belly hair until I had him fully in my grasp of my hand.

  “I knew it,” he said. “I knew the moment I saw you. Something in your expression ‑‑”

  I flicked my tongue.

  “‑‑ something in your eyes.”

  I flicked again.

  And he
ard: Click. Click. Clickclickclick.

  No! Oh, no! Twisting my head sideways, I stared at the opposite end of the deck, where thousands of beetles were avalanching from the railing, falling to the deck floor, and righting themselves with a decisive click. As one entity, they crept toward Jem and me, covering the deck like a living, breathing, undulating carpet.