Night Show Read Free Page A

feet to the chalk marks, and they set her upright. As Jack left to fetch the other mannequin, the continuity girl held a Polaroid snapshot through the window: Dani’s final moment with Michael. Using the photo as a guide, she arched Ingrid’s articulated back and placed her fingertips on the sill.
    Jack set down the Michael mannequin behind Ingrid.
    Dani hadn’t bothered to rename it, hadn’t needed to. Constructing Michael’s duplicate, she’d felt none of the eerie discomfort she’d experienced in making her own. Even giving her model a rather silly name like Ingrid hadn’t been enough to dispel her uneasiness. At one point, she’d gone so far as to cover Ingrid’s terrified face with a paper bag.
    This morning, she’d let Jack do the dirty work on Ingrid while she worked on Michael: stuffing the hollow skulls with blood packs and calf brains fresh from the butcher. Jack had seemed reluctant, too. But he was a good fellow, always followed instructions.
    Now, they adjusted Michael so he pressed against Ingrid’s back, his lips against her neck. They raised his arms, placed his hands over her breasts.
    Ingrid, at least, would have no cause for modesty.
    Dani checked the final positions against the Polaroid. ‘All set,’ she called through the window.
    Roger strode forward. Dani handed the snapshot out to him. He stared at it through his oversized glasses, then studied the set-up. ‘Beautiful, beautiful. Okay, shut the goddamn window.’
    Jack lowered the window. He stepped back. He looked at Ingrid. For an instant, Dani saw a hint of sorrow in his eyes. It vanished, and he winked at Dani. ‘This is gonna be good,’ he said.
    ‘Hope so.’
    They walked around the wall. From the front, the façade appeared to be the side of a small, woodframe house. The young couple looked frozen behind its window.
    The set was crowded, people standing around with coffee cups, others busy adjusting lights, the sound man in headphones fiddling with dials like a HAM operator tuning in to exotic bands, Roger peering through the Paniflex and turning away to instruct the weary-looking cameraman.
    ‘I’m off,’ Jack said.
    ‘Give it your best shot.’
    He laughed, and headed away.
    While she waited, Dani made her way to the coffee machine. The aluminum container was nearly empty, the fluid black and grainy as it trickled from the spout. In her styrofoam cup, it looked like watery mud. She took a sip and winced at the bitter taste. As she set the cup down, someone reached from behind and squeezed her breasts.
    ‘Hey!’ She flung up her arms, forcing the hands off, and whirled.
    Michael grinned.
    ‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ she said, barely able to control her rage.
    ‘Whoa!’ He raised his open hands as if to ward off an attack. ‘So sorry. I just couldn’t help myself. My hands have been burning ever since . . .’
    ‘Don’t be a jerk.’
    ‘Come on. You enjoyed it.’
    ‘See how you enjoy a punch in the face if you ever try that again.’
    ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’
    ‘Think again.’
    ‘Quiet on the set,’ announced a nearby voice. ‘Scene forty-four, take one.’
    The studio went silent, and a red dome light began to spin. Dani stepped silently away for a better view. Michael stayed at her side.
    She spotted Jack near one of the cameras, dressed now in jeans and a parka, a blue ski mask over his head, a shotgun in his hands.
    ‘Action,’ Roger said.
    Jack ran forward, hunched low in front of the window, brought up the shotgun. But he didn’t fire. Instead, he looked over his shoulder. He stood upright and turned around, lowering the weapon.
    ‘Cut, cut, cut!’ Roger snapped. ‘What the fuck’s going on!’
    Jack shook his head.
    ‘ Jee zus! Dani?’ Roger twisted to face her. ‘Dani, did you tell your boy what’s going on? We’re making a goddamn movie here. This ain’t fun and games, it’s the real thing. If he can’t pull it off . . .’
    ‘He’s fine,’ Dani