You like to throw that word around, I say. Postmodern. You realize it doesn’t mean anything?

Miller shrugs. I like the way it sounds.

Where is the boy?

Upstairs, says Jude. Downstairs. In a secret room.

Did you know about this? I say to Molly.

No, she says. Of course not.

I want to see him.

Jude shrugs. And if I say no?

Don’t fuck with me, Jude.

She lays one hand flat on her stomach and thrusts her hips once, twice. But it’s so much fun, she says.

I know this is a bad idea but I walk toward her, my hands out wide to show her that I am unarmed. I shuffle my feet, as if I want to dance with her. Jude raises her arms over her head and pumps her hips faster now, fucking the air. I am a terrible dancer but I’m not shy and I drift close to her, shaking my ass like a fool. I close my eyes for a moment and I see her in a Mexico City motel room, an electric bone saw dripping blood in one hand and a pint of vodka in the other. Her raincoat is covered in blood and she sways back and forth, slowly grinding her pelvis against mine. I look down and her boots are slick with blood, she’s dancing in blood and now I open my eyes and throw my right fist at Jude’s head, a short compact swing that should knock her flat on her ass but she vanishes, she ducks under my fist and when she rematerializes she is to my left and slightly behind me and she hits me with a jab in the side of the throat, then casually sweeps my feet out from under me. I go down like a sack of fertilizer and now Jude is squatting on my chest with a scowl on her face. I am having difficulty breathing and I will be eating nothing but ice cream for a while. I take shallow, gasping breaths, my hands at my throat and I have a feeling she pulled that punch, that she could have crushed my fucking esophagus, that she could have killed me if only she wanted to.

Wow, says Miller. I wish we’d got that on tape.

Are you okay? says Jude.

I see a dark and thorny bramble of emotions in her face. Worried that she has really hurt me, scared but angry as well. Jude bends to kiss me softly on the side of the mouth and I know she loves me, she hates me.

Don’t speak, she says. It’s going to hurt for a while.

Get away from him.

This comes from Molly, who stands a few feet away, a baseball bat in her hands. She has a nice, relaxed grip on it and I believe she knows how to use it. But she doesn’t know Jude very well.

I’m serious, says Molly.

Jude sighs. Honey, I could take that away from you with my eyes closed. I could make you suck it.

Easy, baby, says Miller.

The word baby rings in my head like hammer on stone.

But I won’t, says Jude. I’m done fighting for the moment. I’m tired and I have to pee.

She heaves a theatrical sigh and stands up. She stands over me for a moment and I get a nice view of her crotch. The velvet pants fit her perfectly and her package looks like a ripe red plum. Jude looks good from this angle and she knows it. Now she walks away and Molly bends over me.

Are you okay?

No, not really. My voice is gone, a ragged whisper. I sound like I have laryngitis.

Why did you do that?

I try to smile. I want to tell her it’s complicated. Molly helps me up and I don’t really mean to, but I push her away. I don’t want her to touch me, or something. I don’t want her to help me, to be tender with me. And I like Molly. I think I’m falling for her but right now I need to go talk to Jude. I glance at Miller and by the expression on his face I can see that he is very pleased with things so far.

It’s a waste of breath, I know. But I ask him anyway. Where is the boy?

Sorry, he says. The kid is Jude’s project.

I stagger down the hallway to the bathroom. The door is locked.

Jude, I croak. Let me in.

There is a brief, calculated silence.

The stink of melodrama, sweet and acidic. Then she opens the door, turning aside as she does so. I kick the door shut behind me and go to the sink. My face in the mirror is relatively purple and I don’t know if this is shame or anger or internal bleeding, in which case I’m dead in the morning and none of this shit matters. I take a long sloppy drink from the tap. Water runs down my chin onto my shirt. Jude climbs into the clawfoot tub and sits with her knees drawn up to her chest.

I’m really fucking mad at you, she says.

Oh yeah? I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy choking to death.

That’s hilarious.

Okay, I say. Enlighten me. Why are you mad at me? Because I didn’t fuck Molly last night, or because I wanted to?

You asshole. You ignorant asshole.

What?

I don’t care what you do with that wet bitch. I could not care less.

You’re lying.

Phineas, she says. You and I are never going to be happy. We are never going to be an attractive couple with a dog and a kid and a house in the hills. We are never going to file a joint fucking tax return.

Do you even pay taxes?

That’s hardly the point.

Tell me, then. Why are you mad at me.

Because you’re stupid. You’re so stupid. Because you don’t trust me anymore. Because you tried to hit me just now. And because you seem determined to fuck up this project.

This project is a nightmare, I say.

It’s barely begun, she says.

You should have told me.

I couldn’t tell you.

Why not?

Because I knew you would freak out, just like this.

Then it did cross your mind that I might not be up for an actual kidnapping.

Trust me, she says. You have to believe that I know what I’m doing. And it doesn’t matter because you’re already involved.

I stare at her. The only sound is the dripping tap and it suddenly occurs to me that we are probably on camera right now.

Is this fucking scripted? I say. Did Miller write this scene?

What. Why do you say that?

It’s just a little late in the game to talk about trust.

That hurts, she says.

Answer the question, Jude.

No, she says. This exchange was not scripted. But yes, the cameras are everywhere. Anything we say or do may end up in the film.

I smile because suddenly I have to take a tremendous shit and I feel just a little self-conscious.

What’s so funny?

Nothing, I say.

You don’t have to love me, she says. But trust me and you will walk out of here alive, with half a million dollars in an offshore bank account.

If you want me to trust you, then let me see the kid.

Jude sighs. Fine.

I follow her upstairs and through the kitchen. Molly stands by the stove, stirring a cup of tea. Jude growls at her and I understand that I need to keep an eye on them, that I should never leave them alone together. I smile at Molly, or try to. I tell her everything is under control and Jude laughs like a mad bird. I follow her down the hall and there are voices coming from the Lizard Room. Miller is in there and at first I think he must be talking to Jeremy but then I realize that one of those voices is mine.

Hang on, I say. What the fuck?

Miller is sitting in one of the black leather armchairs, his legs slung over the side. He wears thin cotton pants and no shirt. He is barefoot. He is smoking a cigar and lazily stroking his chest and watching five televisions at once and my handsome face is on every one of them.

Black and white video, poor quality. Fisheye perspective. I am in a room full of mirrors. Television number one features me and Jude in a stalled elevator with two very frightened senior citizens. Jude is so sexy it’s disturbing, and she clearly knows where the camera is. I look diseased, next to her. We are talking about money and blowjobs and whether or not I should kill the old man and pretty soon I am holding the gun to her head.

Motherfucker, I say.

On television number two, I am having my cock munched by Daphne at the Paradise Spa in grainy black and white, poorly lit. Miller chuckles and freezes the picture. I have to admit, the expression on my face is priceless. I look as if I’ve just seen God in the flesh and at the same time realized that I am terribly constipated.