The Fontaines seemed to know many of the models personally and discussed them with near-parental concern. (“That’s Johnny Strong- he retired a couple of years ago and is selling securities up in Tiburon.” “Look, Gordie, there’s Laurie Ruth Sloan, the Milk Queen herself.” To me: “She married money. Her husband’s a real fascist and won’t let her express herself anymore.”)

I tried to look sympathetic.

“Onward,” said Gordon, “to the pièce de résistance.”

A click of the remote module caused one of the book-cases to slide back. Behind it was a matte-black door that swung open at Gordon’s prod. Inside was a large vault/screening room. Two walls were lined with racks of film reels in metal canisters and videocassettes. Three rows of black leather easy chairs, three chairs per row. Mounted on the rear wall was a gleaming array of projection equipment.

“These are the cleanest prints you’ll ever see,” said Gordon. “Every important explicit film ever made, all converted to videotape duplicate. We’re also trying really hard to preserve the originals. Our restorer is top-notch- twenty years at one of the studio archives, another ten at the American Film Institute. And our curator is a well-known film critic who must remain unnamed”- he cleared his throat-“due to lack of spine.”

“Impressive,” I said.

“We hope,” said Chantal, “to donate it to a major university. One day.”

“What she means by ‘one day,’ ” said Gordon, “is after I’m gone.”

“Oh, hush, Gordie. I’m going first.”

“No way, hon. You’re not leaving me alone with my memories and my hand.” He waved a fleshy palm.

“Oh, go on, Gordie. You’ll do just fine for yourself.”

Gordon patted her hand. The two of them exchanged affectionate glances.

Larry looked at his watch.

“Of course,” said Gordon. “I’m retired- I’ve forgotten about time pressure. You wanted to see Shawna’s loop.”

“Shawna who?” I asked.

“Shawna Blue. That’s the name Pretty Sharon used on the loop.”

“We always called her Pretty Sharon,” said Chantal, “because she was such a lovely thing, virtually flawless. Shawna Blue was her nom d’amour.” She shook her head. “How sad that she’s gone- and a suicide.”

“Do you find that surprising?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “To destroy oneself- how awful.”

“How well did you know her?”

“Not well at all. I believe we just met her once- am I right, Gordie?”

“Just once.”

“How many films did she make?”

“Same answer,” said Gordon. “Just one, and it wasn’t a commercial endeavor. It was supposed to be for educational purposes.”

The way he said supposed made me ask, “Sounds like you have your doubts?”

He frowned. “We put up the money based on its being educational. The actual production was handled by that first-class cockroach P. P. Kruse.”

“Peepee,” said Chantal. “How apropos.”

“He claimed it was part of his research,” said Gordon. “Told us that one of his students had agreed to act in an erotic film as part of her course work.”

“When was this?”

“Seventy-four,” he said. “October or November.”

Not long after Sharon began grad school. The bastard had been a fast worker.

“It was supposed to be part of her research,” said Gordon. “Now we weren’t born yesterday, we thought that was pretty thin, but Kruse assured us it was all on the up-and-up, showed us forms approved by the University. He even brought Sharon to meet us, here in our home- that was the one time. She seemed very vivacious, very Marilyn- down to the hair. She verified it was all part of her course work.”

“Marilyn,” I said. “As in Monroe.”

“Yes. She projected that same innocent yet erotic quality.”

“She was a blonde?”

“Platinum,” said Chantal. “Like sunshine on clear water.”

“The Sharon we knew had black hair,” said Larry.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Gordon. “Kruse may have been lying about who she was. He lied about everything else. We opened our home to him, gave him free access to our collection, and he turned around and used it to pander to the bluenoses.”

“He gave a speech in front of church groups,” said Chantal, stamping her foot. “Stood there and said terrible things about us- called us perverted, sexist. If there’s one man who isn’t sexist it’s my Gordie.

“He didn’t use our names,” added Chantal, “but we knew he was referring to us.”

“His own wife was a porn star,” I said. “How’d he explain that to the church groups?”

“Suzy?” said Gordon. “I wouldn’t call her a star- adequate style, but strictly second drawer. I suppose he could always claim he saved her from a life of sin. But he probably never had to explain. People have short memories. After she married him, Suzy stopped working, disappeared from view. He probably turned her into a docile little hausfrau- he’s the type, you know. Obsessed with power.”

It echoed something Larry had said at the party. Power junkie.

“Onward,” said Gordon. He went to the back of the room and began fiddling with the projection equipment.

“Kruse has just been appointed head of the psychology department,” I said.

“Scandalous,” said Chantal. “You’d think someone would know better.”

“You’d think,” I said.

“All cued,” Gordon called from the back. “Everyone get comfortable.”

Larry and I took the front end seats; Chantal got between us. The room went black; the screen, dead white.

“Checkup,” he announced. “Starring the late Miss Shawna Blue and the late Mr. Michael Starbuck.”

The screen filled with dancing lint followed by flickering count-down numbers. I sat rigid, holding my breath, told myself I’d been an idiot to come. Then, black-and-white images floated in front of me and I lost myself in them.

There was no sound track, only the whir of projection breaking the silence. Lettering that resemb

CHECKUP

STARRING

SHAWNA BLUE

MICKEY STARBUCK

A CREATIVE IMAGE ASSOC. PRODUCTION

Creative Image. A name on a door. Kruse’s neighbors in the Sunset Boulevard office. Not a neighbor after all, but the two faces of Dr. K…

DIRECTED BY

PIERRE LE VOYEUR

A jumpy black-and-white sweep of a doctor’s examining room- the old-fashioned kind, with enameled fixtures, wooden examining table, eye chart, chintz drapes, a square of six framed diplomas on the wall.

The door opened. A woman walked in.

The camera pursued her, spending a long time on the sway of her buttocks.

Young and beautiful and well-endowed, with long, wavy platinum-blond hair. She wore a clinging, low-cut jersey dress that barely contained her.

Black-and-white film, but I knew the dress was flamecolored.

A flickering close-up magnified a beautiful, pouting face.

Sharon’s face. Despite the wig, no doubt about it.

I felt sick and regretful. Stared at the screen like a child at a squashed bug.

The camera pulled back. Sharon pirouetted, gazed into the mirror, and fluffed her hair. Then a quick zoom- more pout, big eyes gazing out at the viewer.

Boring into mine.

A full body shot, shift to buttocks, a series of quick bounces from mouth to hands to bosom.

Shoddy, the cheapest of the cheap. But perversely magical-she had come back to life, was up there, smiling and beckoning- immortality conceived in light and shadow. I had to restrain myself from reaching out to touch her. Wanted, suddenly, to yank her out of the screen, to pull her back in time. Rescue her.

I gripped my armrests. My heart was pounding, filling my ears like a winter tide.

She stretched languidly and licked her lips. The camera got so close her tongue resembled some kind of giant sea slug. More close-ups: wet white teeth. A purposeful bend forward, flashing cleavage. Moon-cratered nipplescape. Hands stroking breasts, pinching.