19

It never became clear to Jenni just who had been the first one to yell, “Barry’s been shot!” She was performing a mechanical sex act on camera, using all the acting skill she could muster to feign rapture, when the director yelled “Cut!” Her partner pulled out more slowly than she would have wanted, so that she pushed him off her, got up, grabbed a robe, put it on, opened the door and ran out – all in a single movement, it seemed to her – toward her dressing room. The first person she ran across, the property manager, repeated the message “Barry’s been shot!” but added “He’s okay, it’s just a flesh wound, he’s at Cedars-Sinai.”

When she started her car, she noticed that it was almost three, and she tuned her radio to an all-news station.

“This report just in. A shooting incident in the Hollywood Hills resulted in a minor injury to the adult-film producer Barry Bergman, near whose house the shooting occurred. The alleged shooter is the prominent plastic surgeon to the stars, Doctor Paul Kruger, who has been taken into custody on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon. Doctor Kruger’s wife, the noted psychologist Nancy Fishman Kruger, was also present on the scene. Police have thus far declined to release further details, but stay tuned and we’ll keep you informed as more details come in. We’ll be back after this.” She snapped the radio off.

Doc? she asked herself, incredulous. Barry’s friend? Of course he was a jerk, she knew that, but shooting Barry? With a gun? The jealous husband, considering all the women he was fucking? What the hell was going on?

And where was Nancy at that moment? At the jail with her husband, or at the hospital with her lover?

Was Alan Marcus Doc Kruger’s lawyer? she wondered further. She hoped not. In any case Doc would need a criminal lawyer who could swing a deal with prosecutors, not a business lawyer like Alan. And what would the DA do? In his view a pornographer like Barry was a villain, not a victim. Would he get on his high horse and proclaim that Barry got what he deserved?

There were too many jerks running around in this world, not to mention running it.

The radio’s reference to a minor injury had eased her mind enough to let her dwell on the state of the world, but she soon began to wonder about the location and nature of the injury. Might Doc have aimed at Barry’s crotch?

She had a date with Mario for that evening. It was fantasizing about Mario that had enabled her to put on a halfway convincing performance earlier at the studio, before it had been interrupted. And to think that this was to be the last hard-core sex scene for Moving Around, maybe her last hard-core scene ever! She had already imagined herself saying casually, years later, “When I was twenty-four I made three porn movies, under the name Jenni Jarman. It was a worthwhile experience, and I was pretty good, if I do have to say so myself.”

Would Barry, once he was recovered and back at work, want to reshoot that scene? She would fight against it tooth and nail. He could easily make do with what was in the can, she thought as she arrived at the hospital’s visitors’ garage. She no longer felt herself to be Jenni Jarman.

She saw a public phone as she drove in. On her way out of the car she would call Mario and tell him what had happened, if he hadn’t already heard. But she would not, repeat not, cancel their date.

Had Paul Kruger waited ten minutes, he might have caught his wife and Barry in flagrante delicto, but in his impatience he fired the shot, without even getting out his car, when Nancy was still in hers and Barry was in the street. Nancy, in her declaration to police, denied any suggestion of impropriety and claimed that she was visiting their friend – she emphatically said “our friend Barry” – for coffee and talk, as she had done many times, with her husband’s knowledge.

“But your husband claims,” said the female half of the detective team that was questioning her at the Hollywood police station, “that he had absolutely reliable information about your having an affair with Mr. Bergman.”

“Not that this would in any way justify his action,” the male detective added. “It just might be a mitigating factor in his defense, if and when charges are brought.”

He was implying, as she told Barry the next day, that an admission of adultery on her part would help Paul. But Nancy wouldn’t budge, and kept her composure. “What kind of information? From whom? That’s ridiculous,” she said.

The detectives looked at each other. “From your daughter,” the woman said, almost embarrassed.

“What? Our daughter Helena? What does she know? She’s in San Diego, she’s having finals...”

“According to your husband,” the man said, “she had her last final this morning and drove right up, straight to his office, and told him to follow your car to Mr. Bergman’s house, which he did. Your daughter then drove off, and we haven’t been able to locate her yet.”

“How could she do something like that?” Nancy said, but quickly recovered her calm. “Of course she could,” she answered herself. “She’s been under a lot of stress this quarter, not sure if she wants to stay in pre-med, and she’s had some personal issues too. I’ve counseled young women in her situation, and stress like that can lead them to act out in various ways. Poor Helena!”

“So you, Mrs. Kruger...” the woman began.

“I’m also Doctor Kruger,” Nancy interrupted with dignity, “actually Doctor Fishman Kruger, to be exact.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” the woman said. “So you deny the validity of your daughter’s accusation?”

“Her supposed accusation,” the man corrected.

“Categorically,” said Nancy. “Is there anything else?”

The detectives looked at each other again. “No, doctor,” the woman said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“When can I see my husband?” Nancy asked.

“He’s probably being arraigned right now,” the man said in reply, “and I can’t imagine that he would not be out on bail some time this afternoon.”

“Thank you, officers. Good-bye.” She walked out of the station and into her car, and headed for Cedars-Sinai Hospital.

On her way into the garage she noticed a strikingly pretty auburn-haired young woman using the public phone. The young woman looked up and gave Nancy a smile of recognition. Who could that be? Nancy wondered.

When she was walking out, the young woman was gone, and the phone was free. On an impulse she stopped and dialed her own number.

“Hi Mom!” said Helena’s breaking voice on her answering machine. “I’m so sorry about what happened! So sorry!” it repeated, sobbing. “I had, like, no idea about what was gonna happen! No idea!” the voice almost screamed. “My own father! He’s crazy! I was just feeling so depressed, Mom, and hurt and angry! I’ve flunked at least two finals, including psych, and I thought about you, so successful and all, and I got jealous! I’m sorry! I was jealous of you and Mark, and of you and Barry, and I just didn’t know what I was doing, and I told Dad to follow your car! I had no idea what would happen. Uh, I can’t tell you where I am, but please, please don’t try to look for me! I’m...” The tape had run out.

Her daughter! Her husband! Her family! Her family, Doctor Nancy Fishman Kruger’s family, was crazy!

She would try to help Helena, if she could. But Paul was history. Screw Paul! She would file for divorce, and she would do it right away. She knew several divorce lawyers. She would call one that afternoon, before the possibility of filer’s remorse set in.

At the desk she was told that Mr. Bergman was in the ER recovery room and that yes, he could be seen. When she got there she saw him in profile, sitting up, with a big bandage around his right thigh, and standing beside him face to face was the young woman from downstairs. This must be the lovely Jenny, who lived in Barry’s guest cottage! In the room, brightly lit with fluorescent light, she looked even prettier than down in the dark garage.

“Hi,” said Nancy.

“Hi, Nancy,” said Barry. “Long time no see.”

“Hi, Doctor Kruger,” said Jenny.

“Call me Nancy, please. So... what happened?”

“Jenny here just told me that she had guessed that Paul might have aimed at my crotch. Luckily he’s better with a scalpel than with a gun.”

Jenny noticed Nancy’s splendid, large boobs and wondered if they were a gift from her husband. Later she would ask Barry about them.

“I’m leaving him,” said Nancy out of nowhere. When they did not respond, she reiterated. “I’ve had it with the bastard.”

“Good for you,” Jenny blurted out.

“So what happened with you, Barry?” Nancy asked before Barry had anything to say about her announcement.

“I was just beginning to tell Jenny,” said Barry. “The bullet grazed my thigh, it tore some flesh, but didn’t penetrate and didn’t hit any bone or nerve tissue. The paramedics and the police were there in a flash, for the second time in just a few weeks. Two of the cops took Paul down to the station, and while you” – speaking to Nancy – “followed them in your car, the paramedics cleaned the wound in the ambulance and brought me here, with one of the cops. They said that my good muscle tone helped,” he said with a smile. “It looks like I’ll be fine. The surgeon wants to keep me overnight for observation. What’s happening with Paul?”

“He’s going to be out on bail. I don’t want to be at home when he gets there. Can I stay at your house, Barry?”

“Sure, Jenny will let you in – won’t you, Jenny? But isn’t his car still there?”

“I had it towed back to our house,” said Nancy. She and Jenny smiled at each other. What a lovely girl, Nancy thought again. Not gorgeous like Helena, not glamorous like that famous Gina George that she had once seen with Barry, just lovely.

The phone beside Barry’s gurney rang. Barry picked it up. “Hello,” he said.

“Barry? Geoff here. What’s this about you getting shot? You do sound alive, I say, but then I haven’t talked with any dead chaps lately.”

From the smile on Barry’s face Jenny knew immediately who was on the other line. “It’s his friend Geoff in London,” she whispered to Nancy. But Nancy gave no sign of recognition. It occurred to Jenny that, while Nancy undoubtedly knew the nature of Barry’s business, she had no association with it, and probably didn’t know anyone associated with it, except her husband. What does she know about me? Jenny wondered.

“I’m alive,” said Barry, “though probably not kicking, at least not with my right foot. I can’t move my right leg too much yet. As to who did it and why, I’ll tell you when I know more.”

“It was that plastic surgeon chap, wasn’t it? Something about you and his wife?”

“More or less,” said Barry laconically.

“You know,” said Geoff, “Gina’s here in town, with Albert Bosch. They’ve already gone to bed – I had dinner with them – but I shall see them early tomorrow. Shall I tell her? She’s going back to California in two days, you know.”

“Then it would be better if she knew something, yes. Tell her it’s nothing much, okay? And cheerio, old chap! Thanks for the call!”

“Not at all,” said Geoff and hung up.

Nancy looked at the large clock on the wall. “You know,” she said, “I promised myself that I would call a divorce lawyer today, so I think I’d better get home and make the call before five...”

“I thought you didn’t want to go home,” Jenny interrupted her.

“That’s right! Thanks for reminding me. So...”

Jenny fished a key from her purse. “Here’s a key to Barry’s house. It’s to the back door...”

“I know,” Nancy said.

Of course you do, Jenny said silently as she handed Nancy the key.

“I may see you there later,” she said, “but I’m going out tonight.” Neither Barry nor Nancy missed the radiance that lit up Jenny’s face.

“Thanks, Jenny,” Nancy said as she stood up, “you’re great. And thank you, Barry,” she added as she bent down to kiss him, “you’re the best. I know you’re in good hands.”

“Bye, Nancy,” Barry and Jenny said almost in unison.

“Wow,” Jenny said after Nancy’s departure. “What a day!”

“How did it go at the studio?”

“I was in the middle of a shoot when we heard about you, and we had to cut. But I’d like to think that I’m done.” She looked at him intently.

“I’d like to think so, too,” he said after a pause, and smiled at her. He reached his hands out to her, and she took them. “You probably have things to do, don’t you? I’m fine here.”

“Well, I never got a chance to shower. And I’d like to take a jog. But is there anything you need?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. There’s a little stack of books on my nightstand, and I would appreciate having them here. I’m looking at potential stories for our film.”

“Sure,” Jenny said. “When Mario comes over” – once again Jenny’s face shone – “we’ll come by here together and drop them off. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

“Great. I won’t be here, by the way. They’ll be moving me to a private room any moment now. Just ask at the desk.”

“Sure, Barry. By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages, but I keep forgetting. Who was the guy with the video camera at Leslie’s memorial?”

“Someone I know from the gym, a film student at UCLA. He wants to make a documentary about Leslie.”

“Oh, I see,” said Jenny. “As long as I’m asking you questions, here’s another. Are Nancy’s boobs...”

“They’re natural,” said Barry without waiting for her to finish. “Doc has a picture of them in his office and he tells patients that he’ll try to make theirs like hers.”

“Wow! Now I know everything, I guess. Well then, see you later.” She kissed him on the cheek and left.

What a girl, Barry thought, as he had many times before. Did Mario, he wondered, who must have had women coming and going by the score, realize what a treasure he had found in Jenny?

Ten minutes later a nurse and an orderly came to move him. His room had a window facing the Hollywood Hills.

Another nurse came to change the dressing on his wound. “It’s looking good,” she said as she was doing so.

“How about the rest of me?” he asked flirtatiously. She was a pretty black woman on the plump side.

“It ain’t my job to tell you that,” she said without looking up. “I’m just doin’ my job.”

Touché,” he said, not sure if she knew the word, but, her job done, she looked up at him with a smile.

“You’re lookin’ good,” she said as she left him. She closed his door, and his room seemed eerily quiet after the bustle of the ER.

He thought back to the woman he had earlier seen at the gym, and wondered if he was suddenly developing a taste for zaftig women.

He dozed off, and was dreaming about a woman who seemed to combine the features of the black nurse and the woman at the gym when his phone rang. He picked up after the third ring.

“Hello!” he said.

“Barry?” It was a young woman’s voice that sounded familiar but that he couldn’t place.

“Yes?”

“It’s Helena. I’m sorry, Barry, this was all my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was the one who told Dad about you and Mom.”

“But... what did you know?”

“I knew. I know my Mom. At the party, after we did it, you and me, sort of, I saw you and her, and the way she was looking at you, and I knew she would go after you again.”

“You’re a pretty good psychologist.”

“Me? I’m a psycho! I’m a nutcase! I do stupid, crazy things and I don’t know why! I was jealous of you and her, but why? I’m not in love with you, we just do it once in a while! I was also jealous of her and Mark, this guy she was seeing, that I’d been seeing before, but I was the one who dumped Mark! My life doesn’t make sense, Barry!”

He felt sorry for her, but couldn’t think of anything to say that would not sound condescending. He sighed loudly into the telephone.

“I’ve got JDD syndrome, you know,” Helena concluded.

“What’s that?”

“Jewish doctor’s daughter. It may be specific to LA, but we do crazy things around men. Mom has seen a whole bunch of them in her practice.”

Once again, he wasn’t sure of what to say. “Thanks for calling, Helena,” he tried. “I’m sorry you’re feeling bad.”

“Another thing I feel bad about,” Helena said, “was that you and Dad used to be good friends, and I’ve put an end to that. But I didn’t really know him. He’s crazy too! Maybe I got it from him!”

Helena’s hysteria was getting tiresome. “We’ve all got problems, Helena,” he said, “and we just try to deal with them as they come up. I’m sure you’ll be able to deal with yours. Call me again when I’m back home and recovered.”

“Thanks, Barry. I’m sorry. Bye!”

“Bye, Helena!” he said, relieved, as he hung up. Any sense of responsibility he might have felt toward her as a result of having been her first man was gone. And there was one thing he was sure of: no more shtupping that girl, ever.

He was looking forward to looking at the books he had collected, all classics in the public domain that cried out for modern versions. Les liaisons dangereuses seemed especially interesting: Mario would make a great Valmont, and Jenny could be... well, he would have to look at the book again. He had heard that other studios had projects based on it, but he knew that none would be like his.

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