CAUSE CÉLÈBRE

By Courts Mroch

David, a decade of show business under his belt, now considered himself a seasoned veteran. He was at the top of his game, but he was getting older. Lately all performances were leaving him spent. Like last night's. While it was still every bit as exhilarating as when he'd first stepped into the spotlight, nowadays he returned home aching for a hot shower, a stiff drink, and soft sheets. Used to be he'd come home, barely able to sleep, eager for morning and the reviews it would bring. Any thoughts of critics or how the public would receive his latest endeavor were far from his mind as he hit the hay these days.

But this morning, refreshed and recharged, the thought of reviews propelled him from bed. He wasn't the nervous Nellie he knew some stars to be, afraid of criticism or any inkling of disapproval. Quite the opposite. He relished any kind of attention. If they were talking about him good, bad, or otherwise then he'd succeeded.

He needed java in order to properly savor the newspaper and television limelight. He started the coffee brewing, wondering if he would live up to his public's expectations. They did expect so much, and even though he didn't like disappointing them, sometimes it was inevitable. Though it usually wasn't his fault. Most times inadequate leading ladies were to blame.

But such would not be the case with the woman who had co-starred with him the night before. She wasn't as seasoned as he preferred, but she'd held her own. She'd been a petite, plump blond of twenty. She hadn't been as sultry as some of the others he'd worked with, as she had a certain innocence about her that no amount of thick makeup could conceal. Yet, she possessed sex appeal and verve all the same. Enough to command his attention, and he was sure she'd draw a sympathetic enough reaction from the audience.

Their intrigue had revolved around an age-old theme he had played out many times before. There was the innocent young beauty (in this case, Brandi) forced to make her way in the cold, cruel world the only way she knew how, by selling herself. Enter stage right, the debonair stranger (himself) who happens to make her chance acquaintance. Enchanted by her plight, recognizing her inner beauty and potential, he possesses the means to save her and plans to do so.

David smiled as he remembered Act One, and how smoothly it had gone.

Brandi standing on the street corner, a red mini skirt revealing a great deal of her stockinged thighs. She'd been alone, waiting, smoking a cigarette to pass the time. It was cold, she was wearing a cropped faux fur jacket, her mass of ash blond curls whirling around her face whenever the wind blew.

He wasn't supposed to be in that part of the city. He was lost, an out of town businessman navigating his way from the airport. But his wrong turn was no coincidence – it was Providence intervening. He stopped to ask for directions. Something about her intrigued him, made him feel sorry she was out there selling herself in the cold.

He offered her a ride; she accepted.

Act Two, in the car, driving.

“So why do you do it?” he asked.

“What?”

“You know.”

“You a cop?”

“No. Why?”

“I'm not about to entrap myself by admitting I'm a hooker, mister, if that's what you're angling for.”

He chuckled.

“I'm not a cop and I'm not trying to trap you. I'm just curious. Making conversation.”

“Why do you care?”

He shrugged –and remembered also shivering. She'd delivered the line with the perfect touch of vehemence in her voice. Brilliant!

“Just asking.”

She lit up another cigarette without asking if he minded, but she did have the courtesy to crack the window and direct her exhaust outside.

“Why do you do whatever it is you do for a living?”

“To make money.”

“There you go.”

“What if I'd said because I like doing what I do?”

“My answer would have stayed the same.”

The car was silent for a few moments. Then she broke it.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“If I offered to help you change, would you accept?”

Her heavy makeup and the play of light and shadows in the car's interior contributed to wizening her expression. She rose an eyebrow.

“Let me guess, you're a Bible thumper?”

He chuckled and shook his head.

Palpable relief softened her features.

“Good, because the ladies from the churches come every week preaching to us that Jesus can save us and I'd tell you the same thing I tell them.”

“Which is?” he asked, amused.

“That I'd blow Jesus, too, if he offered me ten bucks.”

David laughed.

“That's the going rate for a heavenly blowjob, huh?”

It was her turn to laugh now.

“Seriously, Brandi, what if I could make all of your troubles go away? Would you let me?”

She looked at him again, her expression the perfect portrayal of doubt.

“Mister, I don't know what you're selling but I'm not interested. Now if you want to get your groove on I can accommodate you. Otherwise, we ain't got no business together.”

Then she looked around, suddenly aware of her surroundings.

“Hey, where are you going anyway? I told you to take a right back at Tremont. Your hotel's not around here. This is all industrial.”

He smiled, pulled over, and reached for the glove box.

“Let me just get the map.”

“You don't need no frigging map. I'm telling you this ain't right.”

But the map was a ruse. He lunged for her, wrapped his hands around her throat, and squeezed hard.

Act Three, the death scene.

“Whether you want my help or not, I will set you free.”

Her rendition of dying had been rousing. She'd succumbed with believable gasps and not overdone spasms. He could still feel her struggling in his grasp, clawing at his hands, but finding no purchase on his gloved hands.

Yes, it had been a top-notch performance for the both of them.

His coffee was finally ready. He poured himself a steaming mug full, shoved the paper under his arm and made his way to the television in the living room.

He sat down, put the paper and coffee on the coffee table, grabbed the remote and clicked on the local morning news broadcast. Then he opened up the paper.

To his pleasure he'd not only made the front page, but he was also the morning's top news story. His satisfaction was short lived, however, when it quickly became apparent his career was in serious jeopardy.

The paper's headline said it all: “After Ten Years of Terror the Springhill Strangler Finally Fouls Up, Police Get Big Break.”

The pretty blond morning anchor's chirpy voice cinched it: “A friend of the victim provided police with their first eye witness description of the suspect. She's heard here, her face concealed to protect her identity.”

Cut to the witness: “It could have been me. We were working in pairs, trying to prevent something like this from happening again. It was her turn to work the corner, my turn to get out of the cold in the lobby of the abandoned building that's there. Dark inside because the light had been busted out a long time ago. He might have seen me, might not have, but I don't want to take no chances since I sure got a good look at him.”

Back to the chirpy anchor: “If you have any information about who this man is, police of course want you to contact them immediately.”

And then there it was. His close up of all close ups. A very good pencil sketch of his likeness.

Not ten minutes later, thanks to the many neighbors in his apartment building who'd now woken, saw the paper, or tuned into the news, came a knock on his door.

“David DuPree? Police! Open up!”

And so the curtain fell, effectively ending his long-running act.