The Long-Legged Fly by James Sallis Read Free Book Online Page B

out of focus. But the girl was undeniably Cordelia.
    The film lasted maybe fifteen minutes. Nobody said a word the whole time.
    “Your girl?” Polanski said when it was over and the lights were back on.
    I nodded.
    “Who made it—you know?” I said after a moment.
    “Guy by the name of Sanders. You get to know them by their style after a while—camera angles, things like that. Bud Sanders. Rents a cheap motel room, turns a girl up high on speed or whatever’s going, and rolls the camera. Mostly the men are the same ones over and over.”
    “You pick him up?”
    “What the hell for?” Polanski said. “He’d be back out on the street before we started the paper-work.”
    “What about community standards?”
    “You’re kidding. In New Orleans?”
    “We could try,” Verrick added, “keep him busy a while. But it wouldn’t be long. Nothing would stick. Water off a duck’s back. Then he’d just go out and rent a new camera and start all over again.”
    I nodded. I’d seen porn films in my time, some in the line of business, a few for pleasure, but this one had really got to me. I was thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Clayson up on Jackson Avenue and what I’d tell them.
    “Where can I find this Sanders?” I said.
    “Who knows?” Polanski said.
    “Turn over the nearest rock,” Verrick said.
    “What happens to the film now?”
    “We hold it for evidence, then we file it. But there are probably ten, twelve copies of it on the streets by now.”
    “We can’t keep on top of it,” Verrick said. “You close one factory down, two more spring up. Like those dragon’s teeth or whatever they were.”
    I nodded again. “Thanks, Polanski,” I said. “Verrick—let me know how it turns out. What becomes of the girl? If you find her.”
    “Man, the girl’s nothing. They pop out of the woodwork like sweat on a hog. It’s Sanders we want. For good. The girl’s yours, if we ever get to her. But we won’t.”
    I started out the door.
    “And you got a room full of this stuff,” I said.
    “This is just pending cases. You oughta see the vaults down at Central Holding,” Polanski said.
    It was only then, walking out the door, that I realized that I had an erection. It made me remember some of the things my wife had called me.

Chapter Four
    T HE ALARM CLOCK WAS STILL BUZZING WHEN I GOT back to the apartment. I poured a cup of coffee—it was on a timer—and filled a pipe. Then I reached for the phone.
    I got through to Dr. Ropollo at his office in the English building and after telling him what I’d been doing the past ten years (it wasn’t much, after all), asked him about Sanders.
    “Bill Collins is the guy you need to talk to. Teaches cinema up at Tulane. But he’s probably home, or in his studio, this time of day.” He gave me the two numbers and I wrote them down in my notebook. I thanked him and hung up.
    I poured another cup of coffee and tried the first number. Nothing. I dialed the second, studio number. It rang five times.
    “Collins.” A high, slightly effeminate voice, though businesslike at the same time.
    I told him who I was and asked about Sanders.
    “Bud Sanders, you mean? That asshole. Talk about birthright and a mess of pottage,” he said. “Talk about pissing it all away. Be one hell of a filmmaker if he wanted to. Horrible waste of talent.” He said it as though he were a man who couldn’t tolerate much waste of any kind.
    “You know where I might find him?”
    “Well, he teaches a cinematography course down at the free school. You might get in touch with him there.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Collins,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to your epic now.”
    “Epic, hell. I’m shooting another fucking TV commercial for ‘feminine hygiene products’ is what I’m doing.”
    “I’ll look for it.”
    “Along with the rest of the world.” And he broke the connection.
    The free school wasn’t listed in the book and Directory Assistance had never heard of it. I finally called a