—

Johnny paid for my ride back to New York. On the train, I thought about what I’d learned.

Graus had been planning to watch Clown, not porn, that day with his newest chambermaid. Johnny had replaced Graus’s copy of Clown with what he thought was mine. Then the young filmmaker tried to kill me. Graus would be next to go, and then Johnny would have the picture all to himself.

Now it seemed that Katie, troubled by my escape, had come to truly fear Johnny and had called to help me out.

None of it explained how Johnny knew all of this, his presence at Troy Kevlin’s house or anywhere else. The story was becoming clearer but wasn’t yet clear.

I only knew that, if I could reach Graus through Katie, I might save the old actor’s life. I could also see his copy of The Day the Clown Cried. When it came to finding films, none of us was altruistic.

It seemed like a simple plan. Thinking of it gave me energy as the train pulled into New York. I headed from Penn Station to my apartment. A big Hollywood movie was being shot in Times Square, and I sidestepped officious, self-important assistants with good humor.

Bounding up my familiar cement staircase, the steps and walls covered with graffiti, I couldn’t deny it: I was happy to be home.

Then I opened my door.

Katie was standing there. She’d obviously been crying for a long time.

“Roy,” she said, “Graus Menzies is dead.”

I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO ADDRESS FIRST: KATIE’S INFORMATION, HER PRESENCE in my apartment, or the condition of my apartment, which was a sty. I noticed that Katie had moved a huge stack of my newsletters from the only available chair. If only she’d given me a “head up,” as Marthe might have said, I could have cleaned.

I decided to start with the most obvious question. “What are you doing here?”

“I told your super I was your cousin,” she said, sniffling. “He let me in.”

My ancient super was a fool for a pretty face, breast, or behind. I thought I was getting a big extended family, starting with my cousin Dena at Howie’s house. Still, this was an incomplete answer.

Katie seemed to waver on her feet; I guided her into the empty chair. I brought her some water in my only clean glass. As she drank, pulling out of the faint, I thought that Fred MacMurray had replaced Paul Douglas in The Apartment, and Kim Novak had replaced Vera Miles in Vertigo.

“I meant, what are you doing in America?”

Katie nodded. “Oh. We’re filming here. In Times Square. Graus was shot in Amsterdam. This is when he was still alive.”

I was confused for a second, then realized she meant: as the Nazi, in the movie. Going backward was customary in moviemaking; it caused trouble in real life.

“Johnny came with us. I tried to leave him behind, after Amsterdam, but he was so dogged. He scared me. That’s when I, you know, called you. Did you get my message?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see poor old Leonard—”

“Yes.”

I bent to retrieve the chapter in my bag, as Katie paused to sip more water. Then she stopped me, her words coming in a rush.

“We’re staying in a hotel near here. The day’s work was done. Johnny suggested a new movie scene. I didn’t want to play anymore, but how could I say no? Johnny said we’d re-create Psycho. Graus was still down the hall, in his own room.

“Johnny and I started with the bra scene. You know, at the beginning? Where Janet Leigh and John Gavin are having the affair? So the two of us were on the bed.”

I couldn’t help but blush a bit, imagining it. As ever, Katie was unembarrassed. As she spoke, hurriedly, she pulled her hair back and tied it with a rubber band. She looked particularly lithe and freckled. I glanced away, to change my focus.

“We were, you know, starting to canoodle, or whatever. Then there was a knock at the door. Johnny got up to open it. Graus was standing there, in the doorway. It took me a minute to recognize him.”

Katie paused, inhaling more fluid. She had piqued my interest and I felt impatient.

“Why?”

“He was wearing a woman’s wig and a dress. I figured he had stolen it from wardrobe. He stood there, with this strange look on his face. I could smell he’d been drinking and toking. ‘I’m Tony!’ he yelled. Then he slammed the door behind him.”

I was starting to get the picture, and my confusion and desire were turning into dread. I placed a hand on Katie’s, and her fingers intertwined with mine, gratefully.

“Graus came closer, and his face looked so weird under all that blond hair. He reached us at the bed. I couldn’t help it, I was afraid. In a second, Johnny was standing. He put his hand into his pocket. Then he pulled out that little knife he carries and put it in my hand.

“Graus came at me so quickly that I raised it, and … he ran onto the blade. He fell on the floor, and …” Katie faltered for a second. Then, gripping my hand tighter, she continued. “I looked at Johnny. He said, ‘It was him or you. Graus said “Tony”—he was Tony Perkins. He would have stabbed you, like the shower scene. Didn’t you see his eyes? He was nuts.’

“As horrified as I was, I was sure that he was right. I bent down and tended to Graus, lying on the floor, with his wig all funny. He was whispering something. I put my ear right next to his mouth, and then I heard it. ‘Curtis!’ he was saying. ‘I’m Tony Curtis!’ ”

Katie looked at me, sure I would understand. And if I didn’t, who would?

“Some Like it Hot,” I said, and Katie buried her face in her hands. “He was in drag, from that movie. And Tony Curtis was married to Janet Leigh at the time.”

Her face still hidden, Katie was nodding, helplessly. When she looked up, she was weeping again. “He was confused. He was confused.”

I nodded. “Poor Graus.”

The actor must have been addled ever since he lost his tape. And poor Katie, I thought. Johnny had her do his dirty work for him.

I bet he was long gone by now. He didn’t need me anymore; I didn’t have the movie. Johnny was holding Graus’s copy of Clown, and Katie was holding the bag.

In other words, I believed her story.

“Tell me,” I said, “who registered at the hotel?”

“Johnny had me do it. He said he couldn’t find his credit card.”

I sighed, having anticipated that answer. “So, what did you do … after, I mean, Graus?”

“I just ran. We both did, in different directions. Though I called nine-one-one, in case Graus wasn’t, you know, so dead.”

She said it with the hopefulness of a child. Katie was in over her head, as she was when she encountered any aspect of real life. Working for a living, dying—these things were no fun at all, so no use to her.

“I didn’t know where to go. So I called information and got your name,” she said. “I knew I could depend on you, Roy.”

Using my hand, she pulled herself up, leaned forward, and kissed me on the cheek. Someone found me dependable. Even if I spent most of my life in a movie dream, compared to Katie, I was an adult. My mother would have been surprised to hear it.