Virtual Virgin

Hector sighed. “I can always use my Ricardo Montalban and Cesar Romero CinSims, but fresh blood feeds successful TV series.”



“And your frequent autopsy scenes provide plenty of that.”



We were getting too close to the bone. My grievance: his already pimping existing images of Lilith and me for a new series. Time enough to broach that another day.



“We are so bored, Hector,” I said, getting down to business by twirling my instep and putting the marabou on my purple peep-toe shoe in tremulous motion.



Hector’s left eyebrow raised and his red Cupid lips pursed.



“I told Ric if anyone had the latest, most complete version of Metropolis, it would be you.”



Hector beamed. “You never underestimate me, my dear Miss Street. Of course I do, but why is the Cadaver Kid . . . apologies, Mr. Ricardo—”



“Mr. Montoya.”



“Yes, how careless of me. Why would your beau, who has always been rather indifferent to vintage films, wish to watch such an old, silent, and long example of the art form?”



“He doesn’t, but I love the imaginative clothes.”



“Yes, they are drool worthy, aren’t they? I believe you know figures of influence in Vegas who’d be willing to recreate any of the garb, particularly from the Yoshiwara nightclub scenes, for yourself, if you but expressed an interest and a suitable gratitude.”



Jeweled pasties and sheer concubine skirts, right. “I prefer my own collection and whatever the Cottage’s clever resident wardrobe witch can produce.”



“I do have an ample state-of-the-art home theater. I don’t suppose you’d care to have me join you?”



“Ric is such a novice at silent films that you’d find the experience wearing.”



“How can you consort with someone so lacking in that appreciation?” Nightwine shuddered as if he’d accidentally tasted a Cheeto. I fully expected him to display an orange tongue next.



“This is an educational outing for Ric’s sake, Hector. You can help bring another soul into the flock of film fanatics.”



“Play on my better instincts, will you? Very well. Have the lad up, but the dog must remain on the ground floor. I find him ungovernable.”



“So do I,” I said with a smile, rising. “I’m sure Godfrey will install us comfortably in your viewing palace.”



Hector’s smile grew sly as his chins dimpled against his brocade cravat. “You will adore it.”



I smiled back. On this, we spoke the same language. Sometimes I forgot he was a really lonely man, or whatever, and that was why I cut him slack.



Chapter Fifteen



RIC WATCHED GODFREY don an apron with aplomb and remove a platter of roast beef from the massive stainless steel refrigerator-freezer unit. A CinSim maid also clad in black with white cap, cuffs, and apron began making cold cuts for Quicksilver and a welcome sandwich for him.



Delilah needed a food break too. With all the morning’s excitement extending into afternoon, they’d been too busy to eat. Or too in love. Ric’s stroll on the Inferno’s wild side had stoked his desire for Delilah and now that the hang-up against lying on her back had been exorcised, they had a lot more exploring to do.



Ric returned his mind to Nightwine’s kitchen and found himself grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.



“Please sit down,” Godfrey invited, pulling out a stool at the central island. “The master has ordered a viewing supper later for you and Miss Street. I’m told the film is almost as long as three hours of network prime time.”



“Don’t you find this role demeaning, Godfrey?” Ric asked as he sat.



“Why should I, dear boy? I’m a successful businessman with a social conscience for the devastated unemployed of my Depression times and now, yours. I played along with being mistaken for a homeless man and took a butler job because the family involved needed serious emotional and financial help.”



“And you ‘help’ here too?”



“Indeed. The master is housebound.”



“Some house.” Ric eyed the huge, high-ceilinged kitchen gleaming with the stainless steel of innumerable gadgets.



“I do enjoy the surroundings.”



“So you feel some sense of loyalty to your ‘owner’?”



“Certainly. Loyalty has always been my greatest virtue. The self who underlies this incarnation got my ex-wife the lead female role in my namesake film because I recommended her for the job. And together we made screwball film history. An amusing sort of immortality, isn’t it?”



“Carole Lombard was once your wife?”



“I see our Miss Street has been explaining my role to you. She was also my wife again, in the film, although Miss Street is quite right that the character bulldozed me into marriage at the end. Don’t get yourself corralled in such a sneaky fashion, my lad.”



Ric waved off that notion. “Do you miss . . . Miss Lombard? Would you want her on these premises?”



“Not necessary, although Miss Street was instrumental in getting my . . . er, cousin at the Inferno his screen wife and even the dog.”



“Delilah got Snow to buy Nora Charles and Asta for Nick’s sake?”



“Indeed. Miss Street could get Christophe of the Inferno to do a great many more things for her, should she stoop to flattering his ego. He is not a hopelessly bad individual,” Godfrey mused while swiping a dishcloth over Quicksilver’s already bare and washed plate. “More misguided than anything. Next to Miss Street and the master, no one in Las Vegas is as considerate of CinSims as he. We do not forget our friends.”



“Are you familiar with the film Delilah and I will be seeing?”



“Metropolis? Of course. It came out only a few years before my best work.”



“Godfrey, you seem much more self-aware than most CinSims.”



“I am supposed to be the perfect gentleman’s gentleman.”



“Yes, but you know where your other . . . incarnations . . . are located in Las Vegas, and even recognize the actor beneath the character.”



“We are not stupid, Mr. Montoya, just limited somewhat in our memories, and certainly in our movements, through no fault of our own. My master’s love of film requires I discuss them with him and I’ve learned what many less advantageously placed CinSims may never access. Why all the personal questions, Mr. Montoya?”



“I was forced as a child to raise so many zombie ‘canvases’ that may have been used for CinSims.”



“Well, you have a special talent, then.”



“But now I’ve raised a CinSim directly from the screen and it . . . she . . . seems horribly dependent on me.”



“Ah. Which version of the stunning actress Brigitte Helm are you referring to?”



“I don’t know. The form is the silver metal robot zombie.”



“Actually a plastic, wood, silver-and-bronze robot zombie, I believe.”



“That doesn’t matter! The point is her image registers as all silver on the old nitrate films used then. The point is I brought her to ‘life,’ personally. I’ve never done that with a film creation. And now she has a bizarre second life, thanks to me.”



“It certainly will be interesting to see what she does with it.”



“Is that up to her? Snow owns her.”



Godfrey’s head shook from side to side in a maybe-maybe not manner. “In a way. In another way, it depends upon what we CinSims are exposed to, as I’d mentioned.”



“You’re like children, then? You can learn and develop a sense of self?”



“It depends on the sophistication of our underlayment, as it were. On what we’re exposed to in our environments.”



“And if that environment is an elaborate brothel?”



“Oh, dear. Not my style. However, all Hollywood was an elaborate brothel when it came to female actors.”



“And Delilah isn’t catering to Hector Nightwine when she dresses up to see him?”



“The master is a viewer, not a doer. What harm does it do to invoke his favorite things?”



He glanced up at a callboard. “I see the office light is on. That means I should install you in the home theater. Any particular beverage you crave? Nick Charles would recommend oodles of Boodles for a three-hour film like Metropolis.”



Ric shook his head in defeat. “Whatever you deem appropriate, Godfrey. You’re the perfect gentleman’s gentleman.”



DELILAH WAS WAITING for him against a background of looming doors of gilt and carved wood, the pale purple of her forties frock intensifying the dramatic effect of her blue eyes and black hair.



“I’m supposed to pay attention to a movie?” Ric asked as he came up to her.



“I know what you guys go for in darkened movie theaters. Really, Ric, you have to pay attention to the film. This is an investigative outing.”



“If you say so.” He pulled the huge door handle open and they walked into what resembled a gigantic vintage jukebox, uplit columns and arches of intricately carved glass in luminous colors of poison green, hot orange, vivid red, and neon purple.



The theater house was a sea of red-velvet wave after wave of seat backs, enough to accommodate a couple hundred.



“All this for us?” Ric asked.



“All this is for Hector’s aesthetic sense. I guessed from your morning activities you’d rather be obligated to Hector Nightwine than Snow.”



“I’d rather be obligated to no one.”



She led him halfway down the center aisle. “This okay?”



“I can snooze here as well as anywhere.”



“Trust me. You won’t want to nap through this film. Hector’s print lacks six minutes Snow’s has, but narrative title cards will bridge any gaps.”



“Title cards? It’s a ‘movie’ but not a ‘talkie,’ and now it’s a ‘readie’?”



Delilah leveled those police-car blue-light-special eyes at him.



“You’ve got to face the Silver Zombie in all of her many manifestations, Ric,” she said. “What you raised in Wichita will incredibly complicate the human and unhuman world in Vegas, and she is definitely a package deal.”



Chapter Sixteen



SOMETIMES OUR BELOVED Ricardo Montoya, Irma noted, can be as stubborn as a chupacabra.



So could I. We settled into the cushy seats, easing around the burl wood trays attached to one arm. I took advantage of the initial gawking period at the spectacular surroundings to study Ric’s profile. What had he and Godfrey discussed? I wondered.



Godfrey and his own silver tray arrived fast on our heels.



“Master Quicksilver is watching The Wolf Man in both forties and 2010 reboot on the servants’ quarters wide-screen TV,” he whispered to me. “The next feature is Ratatouille.”



He set out crystal martini glasses and platters of appetizers.



“No popcorn?” Ric asked.



“Mr. Nightwine finds crispy foods disruptive at film showings.”



“So what are these pale, damp-looking worms?” Ric asked.



“Cheese curls, sir. There’s Montrachet, English cheddar, verde capra, rustico limone, and drunken goat, for those well acquainted with El Chupacabra. No crunching to interfere with the exquisite symphonic score. Pop-up drink refills are on your left. Enjoy.”



I smothered a giggle as Godfrey retreated. “He sounded so contemporary waiter.”



“What the hell are all these cheese varieties? Drunken goat?”



“Delicious, I bet. I don’t see any evident insect legs, so I think it’s safe to snarf and sip.”



I leaned back in the reclining seat and aimed my eyes at the huge black screen set between swaths of red velvet curtains.



“I’m glad we’re not seeing this in Snow’s penthouse,” Ric said.



“I doubt it would be as pretentious.”



“Did you ever notice the blood-bruise in the hollow of his lily-white throat?” Ric leaned close to whisper. “It seems new since Wichita.”



“Ah, didn’t notice it, really.”



“That’s a relief. No decent chica should. It was half-concealed by his rock-god black-leather collar. Some long-stemmed skank tried to suck the soul out of him. I bet she was a looker.”



I cleared my throat.



Throat? Irma admonished me. What a Freudian slip. You ever going to ’fess up to laying that mark on the dude?



“Groupies are throwing themselves at Snow all of the time,” I said, loud enough to drown out Irma in my own mind, desperately wishing for a program for the upcoming film that I could flip through to hide my lying-by-omission eyes.



And so are we, thanks to you. Irma was being merciless.



If I couldn’t get me and Irma to understand why I’d ever thought taunting Snow with an irresistible turn-on was payback for my being in his total sexual thrall for the duration of what had seemed an endless Brimstone Kiss, I’d never convince Ric.



The BK had probably lasted a minute and forty-five seconds, one one-hundredth of the time the new, restored version of Metropolis would unreel. It had only seemed like a lifetime, as watching this early silent film would no doubt seem to Ric.



“This will be primitive,” I warned. “The makeup was garish and the acting is broad, yet oddly intense despite it. Especially between the men. There’s a father-son struggle and a romantic triangle involving a dead woman named Hel. One L.”



“The usual melodrama. Any action?”



“Lord, yes. A towering city of the future, an underground city of enslaved zombielike workers, a heartless CEO, an angelic young girl savior who’s turned into an emotionless robot, and a false double of herself to destroy the workers. Then there are riots, a flood, statues of the Seven Deadly Sins coming to life, and luxurious depravity at a nightclub.”