Fade to Black by Ron Renauld Page B

passing Citroën by inches. The car screeched on its breaks and backed up. The driver leaned over the front seat and waved a fist out the window at Eric.
    “What you tryin’ to pull, Jack?” the driver shouted. “I ought to come out there and beat your fucking head in.”
    “I didn’t hit you,” Eric told the driver. “Leave me alone.”
    The driver burned more rubber racing off into the Village. Afraid he might be just driving around the block and coming back for him, Eric turned down a side street and disappeared into the shadows.

    Marilyn was halfway through her cherries jubilee when she remembered. She shrieked and jumped back in her seat, taking Joey by surprise.
    “I forgot,” she exclaimed. “I was supposed to meet this guy in Westwood hours ago.”
    “Oh, come on,” Joey groaned, dumbfounded. No one walked out on Joey Madonna.
    “Look, I’ve got to go,” Marilyn said, getting up from the table and unslinging her purse off the back of her chair.
    “What’s the matter?” Joey asked snidely, “don’t you like men?”
    “Don’t flatter yourself,” Marilyn told him on her way out the door.
    Eric tapped a cigarette against the brick facing of a storefront, then lit it. He blew smoke and walked off, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
    Stood up.
    He couldn’t believe it. He’d had it all planned out. They would have been able to spend a few minutes together after the movie, just walking around the Village and talking some more before he had to go home. Just talking, just being together. It would have been so perfect. There was something about her that brought him out into the open, made him feel free. He thought back on his impersonation of the Creature of the Black Lagoon. Sensational. But he would never have thought himself capable of giving that imitation in public. She drew it out of him, like a great director able to coax the best performance out of his actors.
    Damn her, why didn’t she come?
    They would have arranged for another date, probably for the weekend, when he had money from his paycheck. He would have had time to have planned out something special, something so extraordinary she would have never gotten over it. A day walk through Hollywood. The things he knew, the things he could tell her. If she only would have come . . .
    Marilyn wouldn’t have let me down, he thought. Not the real Marilyn. His Marilyn. She would have been there early, like he was, anxious for their date to begin.
    It was past ten-thirty. The theatres were filled, but there were no more lines. The last shows were halfway over. The streets were relatively empty.
    Like a set.
    Yeah, he thought. Like a set. Everything in place, the crew all in place, hidden from view. Going for the docudrama effect. He was the leading character, the cameras were on him. What was the movie? He had to figure it out. Ten seconds before they started rolling.
    Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .
    There, at the corner, A couple walking. Young, innocent enough. But there’s more to it. A twist. There has to be a twist. Am I a spy? Gumshoe? Maybe Tony Alabama.
    Seven . . . six . . . five . . .
    Ah! They’re walking off, through the parking lot, between Westwood Books and the theatre. Past the booth. No cars in the lot. The yellow lines are faded, marking off the parking spaces. Dark spots where the oil leaks, reflecting the lights.
    Eric walked until he was passing the vacated booth servicing the parking lot. Then he stopped, took a wide, sidelong step, merging into the booth’s shadow, cast by the spotlights affixed near the tops of both buildings touching up against the lot.
    Four . . . three . . .
    He peered around the corner, watching the couple step into the black shadow of the alleyway. He could make out only the dull silhouette of their heads, moving closer. Lips meeting. A kiss. Long. Sustained.
    Two . . . one . . .
    Down at his feet. An empty bottle. Southern Comfort. Empty. Well balanced in the palm of his hand.
    A prop.
    Zero . . .