But the thing I liked most about his movies was the photography. Weber Gregston saw things in ways that either rang bells in your subconscious (hey, I never thought of it _that_ way before! . . .) or else amazed you with new angles and color combinations and visions of life that were not only unique and compelling, but also utterly recognizable and understandable at the same time.
While we waited, Eliot shifted his briefcase from hand to hand and made faces at me. Gregston rarely gave interviews and had allowed this one only because he thought what Eliot Kilbertus had said about his last picture, _How to Put on Your Hat_, was «offensive and interesting.»
When he finally opened the door, neither Eliot nor I knew what to do, so we just stood there and waited for Gregston's first move. But he didn't move; he stood there and looked at us coolly. The first words that came to my mind were «Scotland» or «Wales.» If his ancestors hadn't come from that part of the world, I would have been very surprised. He was a handsome man in his late thirties, but handsome in a rugged, burly way; he looked like a rugby player or an athlete who liked to jump in the mud and mix it up with the boys. His deep-set green eyes were quiet and reserved, his red-brown hair could have used a good brushing. He was wearing a T-shirt that said «AIDA COFFEE AND TEA RESEARCH VIENNA, AUSTRIA» and a pair of leather pants, the color of a candy bar, which must have cost as much as a Mercedes-Benz. He had on white gvm socks and no shoes.
«You're Kilbertus?»
«Yes. Hello.» Eliot put out his hand to shake, but Gregston ignored it and looked at me.
«Who's your friend?» He gave me an amazingly cold onceover. Well, I thought to myself, Fuck _you_, Weber.
«This is my friend, Cullen James. If you object to her being here, then I'm not interested in interviewing you.»
«Wowie Zowie!» Gregston smiled sunnily and whipped one of his hands down in a pretend-karate chop. «Tough guys! Come in, _both_ of you. Cullen, huh? What kind of name is that?»
He didn't wait for an answer. As he turned back into the room, Eliot gave him the finger and blew me a silent kiss. We followed him into a living room where the remnants of someone's breakfast lay unattractively on a side table.
While Eliot set up his tape recorder, Gregston flopped down on a couch and looked me over again. «You didn't answer my question. Where does 'Cullen' come from?»
I shrugged and wanted to go home. He had already popped my hero-worship balloon and I wasn't about to let him get to any others. I felt like a drowning person who's going down for the last time – only it was Gregston's life that raced through my mind rather than my own. Here was a prime example of a nasty, lucky son of a bitch who had probably got every woman he'd ever wanted by spitting in her eye. How many sad, sappy women had let him do that, then felt «privileged» to say they had spent a night or two under Weber Gregston . . . in every way?
Yet once the interview began, he opened up and showed both a brilliance and an insight which made it clear where all of those good movies had come from. Most of the time he spoke in a quiet, indifferent voice; later, Eliot said it was the kind you hear giving the stock prices over the radio. In the same tone he would talk about an old lover of his who had recently committed suicide, or a dwarf-throwing contest in Australia. I didn't know if he was putting on an act, but judging from both his initial rudeness and this distant tone of voice, I got the feeling he didn't give much of a damn what we thought of him.
About halfway through, Eliot excused himself to go to the bathroom. As soon as he was gone, Gregston asked if I would like to spend the rest of the day with him.
«No, thanks.»
«How come?»
«Well, partly because I don't like you, but mostly because I do like my husband and daughter.»
«Sticking to your guns, huh?» I think he was taken aback, but there was a faint stench of mockery in his voice. He rubbed his knees and nodded to himself. «Now you can go home and tell your husband you said 'No'. He'll like that.»
«Look –« I was about to say something, but decided to leave instead. As I got up, I asked him to tell Eliot I'd gone home and would meet him there.
«Maybe I should ask _Eliot_ to blow me, so it won't be a total waste.»
«He wouldn't be able to _find_ it, Weber.»
My back was turned when I said that, so I didn't see him get up. But faster than hell, I felt his hand on my shoulder, wrenching me around to face him. No man had ever touched me like that. Up close, he looked ten feet tall and as mean as a snake. Terrified, I flung up my arms to protect my face.
He drew back his hand to slap me, I think. I stuck one of mine out to block him and even at that ferocious moment, I thought how ridiculous it must have looked – like a cop directing traffic.
A giant arc of purple light flared out from the middle of my palm. I knew that light – I'd seen it in the dreams: Rondua light, Bones of the Moon light.
«Stay away!»
The light struck Gregston square in the chest and knocked him back across the room.
My hand, the light now gone, stayed extended toward him.
The baby-sitter had left and I was on the couch with Mae held tight to my chest when the doorbell rang. I got up and let in a wildly grinning Eliot.
«Cullen James, what did you do? I went out of that room for five minutes! When I got back, you were gone, Gregston was on his ass and he was looking at the door like Hitler had just left. What _happened?_
«Nothing. He's a hateful, horrible, _horrible_ man.»
«That's why you left? Why, I'm horrible and you like _me_.»
«Eliot, please just shut up. Could you leave me alone now?»
Mae patted my cheeks and it was hard for me to keep from crying.
«Cullen –«
«Just _go_, Eliot! Okay? I'll call you later.»
«Stop it! Calm down. Do you want some tea?»
He looked at me worriedly and walked into the kitchen. Half of me hated him for staying, the other half was grateful for his company. Being alone at that moment would have been bad.
The scene in the hotel room kept replaying in my mind in slow motion. My raised hand and open fingers, the blast of wavy purple light, Gregston catching it in the chest and flying away. It reminded me of watching Lopez's car crash on television: replay after slow replay until you couldn't help memorizing the worst. But this time it was my own mind that kept rerunning the film and not some hot-shot television producer in a control room. Raised hand, open fingers, shot of light. . . .
«Eliot!»
He ran into the room with a cup and saucer in his hands.
«Eliot, please sit down and let me tell you this. Don't say _anything_ until I've told you every little bit.»
I told him everything. And when I was done, what made me love him very much was that he didn't ask me one skeptical question. He believed me, thank God.
«Okay, Cullen. Let me call Mary. She'll tell us what's up, one way or the other.»
«Who's Mary?» The last thing I wanted was another person, a stranger, in my living room. It felt like my whole life was in the middle of the worst earthquake in ages.
«Mary's a good friend of mine who's probably the best palmist in New York. If anyone can tell what's happening to you now, it's her. You have to trust me on this one, Cullen. All I can say is that if the same thing had happened to me, I'd call Mary first and wait to hear what she had to say after she looked at my hand.»
«Oh shit, I hate this. I can't tell you how much I hate this whole damned thing.»
An hour later the doorbell rang and Eliot went to answer it. I wasn't any calmer, but being at home and having a friend there who knew the whole strange truth made it more bearable.
Eliot came back in, followed by a good-looking thirtyish woman with short hair, large soft eyes and a confident smile. I liked her looks.