In Memory of Angel Clare Read Free

didn’t require seducing. Michael glanced at the stack of two saucers on the table and wondered if he was drunk. He hadn’t eaten anything all day.
    “What do you do?” And Tim giggled. “For a living, I mean.”
    “I’m a male stripper.”
    Tim giggled again. “I mean really.”
    “I’m a filmmaker.”
    “Really?” Tim paused, as if this too might be a tease. “Oh, like experimental shorts. Video or 16 millimeter? I guess nobody does Super 8 anymore.”
    So the boy knew about film as well as art and literature. Sublimation, Michael thought, those two years between knowing and doing. But he could put Tim in his place. “I did those in the beginning yes. But feature films now. Well, one feature anyway.” Michael heard himself and liked the picture he presented. “Just a low-budget horror film. But one has to start somewhere.”
    “Yeah? Wow. I had no idea. What’s it called? Maybe I saw it.”
    “ Disco of the Damned .”
    Tim laughed, of course.
    “The title was the producer’s doing. He said dumb titles are the best sell in that market. We wanted to call it Nightshade .”
    “You know, I think I read about that somewhere,” said Tim, surprised by the thought. “Honest. Something about it being better than it sounded?”
    Michael became excited. “Jack Arcalli wrote about it in Film Comment. In the front section. Jack was a good friend of Clarence’s.”
    “No. I don’t read Film Comment. But somewhere. Who’s Clarence?”
    “Clarence Laird. He was the director.”
    “You didn’t direct it?”
    Had Michael intended to give that impression? “No. I kind of codirected. Actually, I was more the screenwriter.” Which had some truth to it.
    “Still. That’s really something. Even a cheapo horror film. Some good people got started that way. Are you and Clarence working on something else now?”
    “A few possibilities. Nothing definite.” But saying that, Michael remembered there were no possibilities now, no future plans, no future. He released Tim’s knee and snapped his fingers at the waiter for another cognac. “What’s London like?”
    He pretended to listen while Tim talked about museums and plays. He let the glow of alcohol in his stomach and face fill up the sudden space inside him.
    The sensation of drinking while it was still light, combined with the parade of people on the sidewalk, made him feel as if he were already back in New York. Then he thought he saw Peter Griffith. Michael looked again. He saw a balding man with a red beard who looked very much like Peter. The man stood out on the sidewalk, looking through the smoky air and gesticulating hands of the café, as if at Michael. A stocky woman with iron-gray hair stood with her back to the café and furiously whispered in the man’s ear. She glanced over her shoulder, quickly looked away, and tried to haul the man down the street.
    “Livy!” Michael shouted, and jumped up. “Livy! Peter!” He stumbled around feet and chairs, hurrying out to the street.
    Livy Griffith slowly turned around and faced him. She set her teeth in a grin, crow’s feet spreading over her tanned face. Peter smiled more naturally and opened his arms to Michael.
    “Hey, hey. Small world,” he said with his Carolina drawl, and hugged Michael hello. “We knew you were over here. Never dreamed we’d run into you.”
    “Michael,” said Livy flatly when he hugged her, gingerly patting him on the back.
    He stepped away, looked at both of them, then at the street. “You’re in Paris,” he said. “That’s wonderful.”
    Peter wiggled his eyebrows. “Just for a few days. We fly home tomorrow. I’m doing the poster for a French film they’re distributing in America, and they thought I should see the thing here. Little junket to make up for what they’re paying me.”
    “I wish I’d known you were here!” Michael cried. “I’ve been here two weeks and don’t know a soul. We could’ve seen Paris together.”
    Peter gave Livy a sidelong