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.
Oh, honey. That’s special, mutters Jude.
On the third screen, I am stretched out in the gutter, getting bitch-slapped with my own gun by a fatass bouncer outside the End Up. Miller is kind enough to rewind that one a few times, so we can view it in slow motion. On television number four, I am crouched in an alley talking to an emaciated junkie who wears a yellow miniskirt. I give her money, then pull back my hand as if to strike her.
And finally I am in bed with Molly, trembling like a kid. She bends to kiss my forehead and there is a lingering, shadowy shot down the front of her nightgown.
Dynamite, says Miller.
Huh?
The way she comforts you when you have a scary dream. I wish you wouldn’t mumble so much, though. I can’t always make out what you’re saying.
I stare at him. I just don’t know what to say.
Maybe later, he says.
Miller eases out of the armchair, rubbing his belly. It occurs to me that he’s really a lot like Captain Kirk. His chest is completely hairless and he’s packing a nice set of love handles and he’s way too smug and pleased with himself all the time. He walks over to the entertainment console and fiddles briefly with the controls, then slips in another tape.
Fade in. The living room, day. The furniture is as it was before Miller redecorated. Jude sits on the couch in a black dress with slits up either side. Her bare legs are stretched across Miller’s lap. He stares at her legs but does not touch them. Jude leans close to him and begins to whisper or blow into his left ear. Miller pushes her away. Jude smiles as he removes a black Magic Marker from his pocket. Miller slowly, deliberately scrawls the word Mother on one pale thigh and Repent on the other.
Is that permanent ink? says Jude.
He shrugs. It’s as permanent as your skin. It will disappear in five, maybe seven days.
Jude climbs into his lap. She squats over him as if she is about to pee in the woods.
What do you want? she says.
Dominate me, says Miller. His voice is sarcastic.
I’m no good at domination, says Jude. That’s why I’m such a terrible mother.
Funny, says Miller. Very funny.
Jude kisses him, roughly. They wrestle for a moment, panting. Miller tugs at his belt buckle and she tries to
