Free Fade to Black by Ron Renauld Page B
Authors: Ron Renauld
Marilyn,” he said smoothly. “How you doing?”
“Okay,” Marilyn answered indifferently, straightening a few pairs of skates on the shelves behind her. “How are you?”
“Good,” Joey said.
“Oh, Marilyn,” Stacey cut in. “There’s a special delivery package for you. I put it under the counter.”
Marilyn purred to herself as she reached for the tube and pulled out the poster. When she unrolled it, she gasped, impressed. “Oh, must be from a wealthy fan.”
Joey sniffed contemptuously. “Oh, yeah, big spender. Those are selling for two bucks on the pier.”
“Look who’s jealous,” Marilyn told him, taking the poster over to the wall and hanging it up. She smiled at it approvingly, then turned back to Joey. “Big cynic. I love it.”
Outside the window, Eric smiled happily from behind his mirrored aviator glasses. He ducked away before he could be seen. Whistling to himself, he ran home, buoyant with expectation.
Back at the shop, Joey stepped back from the counter and toyed with his camera.
“I just got a job,” he told Marilyn casually. “I thought you might be interested.”
“Whatever for?” Marilyn asked.
“I’m working for an advertising agency now,” he said, casting the bait “I told them I even had some new faces lined up for models.”
Marilyn set down the skates she was tightening.
“Oh, did you now?”
CHAPTER • 11
It took Eric some doing, but a feverish search through his closets turned up a matching outfit that not only fit, but also complemented itself colorwise. Pressed pants and polished shoes, dress shirt and thin matching tie, topped off by a snappy gray blazer with padded shoulders. It was an outfit possibly worn by a leading man in the M-G-M stable of stars back in the forties. Some of the clothes were even back in style now, discounting the smell of mothballs that clung to him like a cheap cologne.
As he looked in the mirror, admiring his metamorphosis, Eric glanced out of the corner of his eye at the photo of Cary Grant taped up on the bathroom wall. He mimicked Grant’s smile and basked in euphoria.
Marilyn Marilyn Marilyn, he thought to himself.
Even the sound of Aunt Stella coming up the elevator and whirring into the room couldn’t dampen his spirits.
“You look trés elegant,” she cracked, marveling at Eric.
Eric looked at her reflection in the mirror, still Cary Grant. “Thanks, my dear,” he said sprightly.
“You even cleaned up your room,” Aunt Stella went on. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Certainly, my dear,” Eric said, swinging away from the mirror and striding like a peacock up to Aunt Stella. “I have a most important date with a most important young lady.”
“I’m Greta Garbo if you’re Cary Grant,” Aunt Stella said coldly.
Eric adjusted his tie as he accosted his aunt, refusing to give up the act, even enjoying the aggravation it gave Aunt Stella. “You’re absolutely correct, my dear. Absolutely correct.”
Aunt Stella was more than aggravated. Her fingers tightened around the armrests of her wheelchair. Her whole body was trembling subtly beneath her bathrobe.
“Who is this . . . young lady?” Aunt Stella asked, her voice strained and menacing.
“Ms. Marilyn Monroe,” Eric announced suavely.
Aunt Stella laughed spitefully.
Eric bent over his aunt.
“Sorry, darling,” he announced, whisking a finger delicately along Aunt Stella’s upper lip. “Must dash.”
He turned and started out the door, taking two steps before he remembered something and stopped. By the time he turned back to face his aunt, Cary Grant was gone, leaving Eric to beg, his voice flat, “Oh, ah, Aunt Stella. May I have a small loan at the usual rate of interest?”
It was her turn to smile. An eerie gleam came to her eyes as Eric came back to her. She had him, back the way she wanted him.
“Please,” Eric finished.
“On one condition,” she said, setting out her terms slowly, enunciating each word as if it were
“Okay,” Marilyn answered indifferently, straightening a few pairs of skates on the shelves behind her. “How are you?”
“Good,” Joey said.
“Oh, Marilyn,” Stacey cut in. “There’s a special delivery package for you. I put it under the counter.”
Marilyn purred to herself as she reached for the tube and pulled out the poster. When she unrolled it, she gasped, impressed. “Oh, must be from a wealthy fan.”
Joey sniffed contemptuously. “Oh, yeah, big spender. Those are selling for two bucks on the pier.”
“Look who’s jealous,” Marilyn told him, taking the poster over to the wall and hanging it up. She smiled at it approvingly, then turned back to Joey. “Big cynic. I love it.”
Outside the window, Eric smiled happily from behind his mirrored aviator glasses. He ducked away before he could be seen. Whistling to himself, he ran home, buoyant with expectation.
Back at the shop, Joey stepped back from the counter and toyed with his camera.
“I just got a job,” he told Marilyn casually. “I thought you might be interested.”
“Whatever for?” Marilyn asked.
“I’m working for an advertising agency now,” he said, casting the bait “I told them I even had some new faces lined up for models.”
Marilyn set down the skates she was tightening.
“Oh, did you now?”
CHAPTER • 11
It took Eric some doing, but a feverish search through his closets turned up a matching outfit that not only fit, but also complemented itself colorwise. Pressed pants and polished shoes, dress shirt and thin matching tie, topped off by a snappy gray blazer with padded shoulders. It was an outfit possibly worn by a leading man in the M-G-M stable of stars back in the forties. Some of the clothes were even back in style now, discounting the smell of mothballs that clung to him like a cheap cologne.
As he looked in the mirror, admiring his metamorphosis, Eric glanced out of the corner of his eye at the photo of Cary Grant taped up on the bathroom wall. He mimicked Grant’s smile and basked in euphoria.
Marilyn Marilyn Marilyn, he thought to himself.
Even the sound of Aunt Stella coming up the elevator and whirring into the room couldn’t dampen his spirits.
“You look trés elegant,” she cracked, marveling at Eric.
Eric looked at her reflection in the mirror, still Cary Grant. “Thanks, my dear,” he said sprightly.
“You even cleaned up your room,” Aunt Stella went on. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Certainly, my dear,” Eric said, swinging away from the mirror and striding like a peacock up to Aunt Stella. “I have a most important date with a most important young lady.”
“I’m Greta Garbo if you’re Cary Grant,” Aunt Stella said coldly.
Eric adjusted his tie as he accosted his aunt, refusing to give up the act, even enjoying the aggravation it gave Aunt Stella. “You’re absolutely correct, my dear. Absolutely correct.”
Aunt Stella was more than aggravated. Her fingers tightened around the armrests of her wheelchair. Her whole body was trembling subtly beneath her bathrobe.
“Who is this . . . young lady?” Aunt Stella asked, her voice strained and menacing.
“Ms. Marilyn Monroe,” Eric announced suavely.
Aunt Stella laughed spitefully.
Eric bent over his aunt.
“Sorry, darling,” he announced, whisking a finger delicately along Aunt Stella’s upper lip. “Must dash.”
He turned and started out the door, taking two steps before he remembered something and stopped. By the time he turned back to face his aunt, Cary Grant was gone, leaving Eric to beg, his voice flat, “Oh, ah, Aunt Stella. May I have a small loan at the usual rate of interest?”
It was her turn to smile. An eerie gleam came to her eyes as Eric came back to her. She had him, back the way she wanted him.
“Please,” Eric finished.
“On one condition,” she said, setting out her terms slowly, enunciating each word as if it were