SUMMER 1979
In her kitchen, Jess called Information in Las Vegas and asked the operator if she had an address for Martha Reed, but there was no listing by that name. She called the Tahitian, but the woman who answered told Jess the casino never gave out information on its employees. “We get a lot of creeps asking after the girls,” she said.
Jess hung up the phone. She was aware of her hypocrisy, searching for a woman who might not want to be found. Jess paid the answering service six dollars a month to avoid calls just like the ones she was making. But Martha was the only real lead.
She and Vince would have to go to Vegas. If they did find Martha, they would need to be careful. Jess knew their sudden arrival might feel like an ambush.
She called Deidre to get her messages: Gabe checking in about Jess’s meeting with Madeline Serrano, Anton Stendahl suggesting they consider starting a project together. Then Deidre said she had a message from Zack Shepard. His name sounded so strange in Deidre’s voice. Zack had never left a message with the service. He didn’t like anyone writing down what he said.
“He was very curt,” Deidre said. She sounded a little put off. “No hello, no goodbye. Just, Tell my sister I found something.”
“After we watched the news here, I asked around a little,” Zack said. “I thought somebody might have more footage.”
Jess stood with her back to the wall Zack’s apartment shared with the movie theater. She felt the low shiver of the soundtrack’s deeper registers, what sounded like city traffic, heavy vehicles crossing uneven pavement.
“I told someone your story,” Zack said. “A guy who collects art film, avant-garde, experimental stuff. He knew who you were, he’d heard about Zero Zone. He said there was another guy I should talk to.”
Zack sat on the stool by his worktable. He held a small screwdriver and turned it in his hands as he spoke.
“This other guy,” he said, hesitating, “is someone I’ve only dealt with a couple of times. And only on the phone, never in person. He’s pretty specific in his tastes. Old stag shorts, pornography. Some darker stuff. He told me he’d seen a film.”
“A film.”
“A film that was shot inside Zero Zone.”
The words clanged in Jess’s ears, meaningless for a second.
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know if it is,” Zack said. “He could be full of shit. Some of these guys just like to talk.”
“But you think he’s telling the truth.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not what you said in the message. You said you found something.”
Zack turned the screwdriver. He didn’t want to continue. Jess didn’t know if he was embarrassed about giving her this glimpse into the shadier corners of his world or of he was trying to protect her. Maybe both. But she couldn’t let him back away.
“Zack, tell me.”
“He said he saw this film once, after-hours at a gallery downtown, but a few minutes in, the director stopped the screening. Just switched off the projector and turned on the lights. This client thought it was some kind of performance, or maybe a way to increase demand for the print. He made an offer, a couple of offers, but it wasn’t for sale.”
A siren rushed by in the movie behind her. Jess felt it roll across her lower back.
“He couldn’t really describe it,” Zack said. “He told me he’d seen a lot over the years, but this was something else.”
A large, dark form moved into the edge of Jess’s vision. She knew better but still turned, chasing shadows, the form breaking into a flurry of dark spots, a snowstorm in photonegative.
She said, “You think he’s telling the truth.”
“I don’t know. But he gave me a name.”
“Whose name?”
“The director.” Zack set his screwdriver back on the table. “The woman who made the film.”