NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - Chapter 28 -by Peter Nolan Smith

NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD by Peter Nolan Smith Chapter One Six women crowded the honeymoon suite of the Coastal Motel north of Ventura. The buxom 'groom' patiently lay on the bed for her 'bride', while the brutish camerawoman glanced at the director and tapped her watch. "Lena, are you ready yet?" A bead of sweat trickled down the wiry director's spine, as she knocked on the bathroom door. "One more minute," the female lead shouted from inside the tiled room. "That's fine as long as it's sixty seconds." Sherri Conti signaled the camerawoman to prepare for the money shot, acutely aware that the different segments of a movie set operated at contradicting speeds within the same time frames. Technicians were habitually fast, except when they had downtime and the talent was traditionally slow, especially when they were being rushed by the producer. A director's job was to ensure the contrasting sides of the camera meshed during the actual shooting and Sherri checked the equipment for any potential miscue. Everything was in place, except for the girl in the bathroom. There was no way that Lena was suffering stage fright. The young starlet had performed sex before a camera over fifty times and had not once gone up or blown her scene. Lena was simply dropping into her persona. Sherri had undergone the identical transformation in hundreds of hotels, condos, and ranch houses over her twenty-year career in XXX films. The extra time had been worth the wait, because once Sherri had heard the word 'action', her body had exhibited a tangible hunger for sex and the camera had never lied in an industry with no special effects. During the 1980s Sherri's name had blazed on the Times Square marquees and her naked body had filled millions of TV screens for audiences of one. A devoted fan had amassed a list of her on-screen lovers. The number ran into the thousands. In the 90s the standouts had vanished from the Valley like animals hunted into extinction. Sherri could have easily joined the missing, except her near-miraculous rise from the dead had granted the forty-five year-old director the status of a living legend. The accolades, setbacks, or sins were meaningless to Sherri, Porno was a business run by men. Women were strictly a commoity. She turned to the black woman on the queen-sized bed. "Josie, give us a sound check." "You got it, boss lady." Big Josie Cane had worked for Sherri ten times. The ex-actress' production company paid better than the standard daily of $500 and the director had never blindsided the actresses with bizarre requests, so Josie saved her best performances for Sherri. These girl-on-girl scenes were especially easy with Lena, for the Spanish girl shone in a business where most actresses were mere light bulbs. Rising off the mattress Josie spoke into the overhead boom. "Testing, one, two, three." Josie cinched the belt of the strap-on dildo, which she didn't want to slip out of place during the shoot. This was going to be one long take and she meant to make the most of it. "How clean is it?" Sherri asked the soundwoman. Even with the taped windows and heavily blanketed door the microphone caught the wet sizzle of 18-wheelers on the rain-drenched Ventura Freeway. "Nothing I can't fix in the sound studio." The soundwoman had heard worst background noise. The battery of Soft Ks, 10Ks, and Mighty Mole lights around the room raised the temperature. Sherri surveyed the sheen of sweat on Josie and figured that the film's viewers would appreciate the glistening ebony skin. "It's a go, once the 'jig inky' is in focus." The stocky gaffer in jeans studied the bed without seeing a shadow on the sheets. "Okay, we'll deal with that when Lena is in place." This scene needed to be shot and Sherri nervously fingered back her brown shag-cut hair. "Lena, that minute is up." "Ready or not here I come." The raven-haired actress emerged from the bathroom and struck a provocative pose displaying the natural tautness of her girlish body. A neutral-toned blush heightened the smoothness of her olive skin, while kohl-black mascara accented her green eyes' Oriental cant. Her coal-black hair was cut to mimic Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile and this suggestive exoticism converted into star quality, which had earned Lena a 'best new starlet' nomination in the upcoming XXX awards in Las Vegas. "Finally." Sherri clapped her hands and the crew snapped to attention. Lena crossed the room to her off-screen lover. The actress was an inch shorter than Sherri and her pouting pelvis grazed the director's thigh. The older woman stiffened, wishing that she were on the bed, instead of Josie, however the director had retired from that side of the camera five years ago. "Nervous?" "Nervous? I was born for this." The younger woman glided out of reach and the gaze of every women on the film set followed her nakedness across the room. Lena wouldn't have it any other way. She was as much an exhibitionist as a voyeur. Her character in the film was called Desiree, a runaway who had never been with a woman. Lena had fled her home in Madrid at the age of sixteen. This character lived in her blood. She lay on the bed to become a white trash virgin at the mercy of a bull dyke. The metamorphosis was simple, for young actress had lived every aspect of this role over the past six years. The market for most adult entertainment was predominantly male. Lena’s audience was evenly split between men and women, despite the purely lesbian content of her films. A good part of her appeal had to do with Lena's youth, however the invulnerability of her years hadn't lasted long in the meat grinder of adult film industry and the director was determined to protect Lena from suffering her fate. The young girl deserved to be in real films and Sherri had a plan to get her on the silver screen, but now was not the time. This was time to make money for all involved in this shoot. "Everyone set?" Sherri asked the crew. "Ready, when you are, boss lady." The gaffer retreated from the lights and Lena's hand dropped to her shaved vagina. Soon it would be replaced by that of another woman. The chorus old Rayattes' song SALLY GOES ROUND THE ROSES popped into Sherri's head. "Saddest thing in the whole wide world is to see your baby with another girl." "Josie, take your position.” Sherri waved the make-up woman from the bed. Filming Lena with another woman was becoming increasingly difficult. In the end she was a professional. "Places." Big Josie Cane assumed the 'top' position for the classic 'cowgirl reverse' shot and the Sony Betacam SP video camera transmitted a pixilated image of Lena speaking her lines onto the monitor, sharp enough for VCR cassette tapes. "Sharpen it a little," Sherri ordered the crouching camerawoman. "Got it." The camerawoman crystallized the focus with the deftness of a safecracker. Sherri prayed a technical failure would halt the filming, except the words, "Lights, camera, action" transported the crew and actresses into the magic world of movie-making. While the camera wasn't 35mm and the budget was less than $20,000, every woman in the room regarded today's film as a magic carpet to Hollywood, that most promised of Californian lands, and no one was refusing a shot at the silver screen matter how big or small the stage. Any god or goddess would have known the truth, that only the very lucky and the very good are blessed with such opportunities, although sometimes the very bad reach the Promised Land and one look through the viewfinder was proof that Lena de Gama was destined for that heaven, because the camera never lied about the truth. Chapter 2 
 A baby’s plaintive cry bounced down the airshaft into the pitch-black bedroom. The middle-aged man on the mattress opened his eyes. The upstairs neighbors must have brought their infant home from the hospital. Yesterday he had congratulate the Merinos on their first-born. Cherie. He now had a new alarm clock. The bawling ceased as soon as his feet touched the bare wooden floor. Sleep belonged to another day and Sean Coll stumbled from his bedroom into the sunlit living room. Its blinding brightness meant another beautiful winter day for January in New York. Sean wished the city had been buried by a blizzard, a good excuse for leaving his apartment since New Year’s Day. Celebrating the First Night at his best friends’ loft had been a time-honored tradition. A kiss on both cheeks their angelic daughter at the stroke of twelve was a drastic detour from other parties. Sean had known Allee, since she was three. She was now twenty. He had fled the loft after wishing ‘Happy New Year.’ to her parents and set to walk to East 10th Street. Union Square had glowed with thousands of reveler’ high expectations for the infant millennium ten years distant. Everyone was with someone. No one noticed the tuxedoed man. This solitude was too familiar and Sean arrived home with a resolution to not die an old person in New York. A fast accompanied by a vow of silence should have brought on revelations. The days of starvation simply unearthed visions of pork satay, French toast, bacon and fried eggs in bacon grease, chicken pots pies, fried clams and finally this morning corn flakes with bananas drowning in cold milk. Hunger had him in the submission hold, yet six days in a New York apartment were no forty days in the desert. Stretching his stocky body reminded of his age. 48. His left knee popped from thirty-five years of basketball, his right torn shoulder was torn after pitching relief in a fastball game at forty, and his crackling knuckles had busted from too many heads as a nightclub bouncer. Thankfully his face had abandoned its beer bloat and his weight was nearing ten pounds above his fighting prime. He dressed quickly for a foray outside to the nearest diner. His waist fit into 34 Levis, although not today and he dressed in khaki trousers, Irish sweater, and black leather coat. Exiting from his cold-water flat he passed the Merinos with little Cherie. Everyone was smiles. As safe as New York had become during the recent mayor’s regime, the city was packed with people firmly intent on remaining strangers, except in the poor neighborhoods. Outside on the sidewalk he weaved through the discarded Christmas trees to his motorcycle. A handful of parking tickets fluttered from the 1970 Yamaha 650cc XS. No parts had been stolen and he continued west. The block between 1st and 2nd Avenues was under siege by a dozen RVs and scores of burly film technicians. Their walkie-talkies squawked out orders from the director and the cameraman across the street was focusing a 35mm camera on two diminutive actors. Their names escaped Sean. His love of the movies had been ruined by over-bloated budgets, gun ballets, parking lot car chases, and the digital FXs. Even sitting in a theater had become a chore, since most of the art houses had succumbed to high rents. When one PA tried to bar his progress, Sean stepped onto the pavement rather than start an altercation. Passing through the police barricade Sean entered Veselka’s. He sat at his usual corner stool and picked up the front section of a discarded NY Times. Panama was still under US occupation an the Tower of Pisa was still standing. The short Ukrainian counterman came over with a glass of water. “Happy New Year, where you been?” Sean shrugged to indicate nowhere. Anton was accustomed to his long-time customers’ quirks. “The usual?” Sean nodded and Anton stuck his order above the grill. Across the counter three French tourists studied the diner, as if they were on an anthropological expedition. Back in the late-70s, these foreign gawkers would have been plundered for their last franc by Lausida’s junkie thieves.. That era’s thieves were dead, imprisoned or burnt out. Junior execs paid good money to live on the Lower East Side. Sean was an anachronism too and a quick read of the Help Wanted Ads reinforced his stranglehold on true meaninglessness. No one would hire him for a sales person, cook, or tugboat captain and a rescue from ruin appeared uncertain at best. The Trappist Order had accepted Tony Curtis in THE GREAT IMPOSTER in his thirties. Their vow of silence was a welcome vacation for the film’s flimflam man. They served good food and Sean’s late avocation to the Cloth would please his mother in Boston. Another plan was to sublet his apartment and after six months have enough money for a trip to Asia. If you walked around Mt. Khailash, all your sins were forgiven by the gods of the Tibetan plateau. A swim in the Ganges couldn’t hurt either. Anton delivered his coffee and buttered bagel. Sean wrapped his hands around the ceramic mug and thanked God for having left him that one last move to save his soul, until a gruff voice commented, “That’s not much of a breakfast for a grown man.” Frank deRocco was five years younger than Sean. Drinking laced Ninth Precinct detective’s face with red veins, tobacco had yellowed his teeth, and his scalp gleamed under his thin white hair. The ol age truck had run him over several years ago. “Been callin’ you the last couple of days, but you ain’t been answerin’ the phone. You sick?” Sean shook his head glumly. deRocco isn’t care about him. The two men weren’t friends. “What’s the matter, Seano? You lose your voice?” deRocco spoke out of the side of his mouth, so no one else could hear them. “No matter, you only gotta listen. You know, it’s funny, but the other day I’m up in Midtown South, readin’ some bulletins to kill time, when I find this Identikit picture of that skinny French bitch you were runnin’ with last year. A blonde, no tits, no ass. Just like a boy.” deRocco opened the complimentary notebook from an off-shore Cayman Island bank, then paused, as if he had forgotten what to say. The stalling ploy played as badly in real life as it did on TV. “Seems a year ago there was a series of robberies in Midtown and East Side hotels. I’m from the Ninth and normally don’t give a shit for what goes on outside the precinct, but this set-up was cute. A skinny French broad shows up at a hotel bar and she’s a piece of ass. Now your typical out-of-town businessman hits on her, though he’s not typical, since he’s wearin’ a gold Rolex or Cartier or somethin’ foreign. They talk, have a few drinks, get touchy-feeley. He invites her upstairs. She agrees, and, like friggin’ magic, once in the room she gets naked and the guy’s lickin’ her breasts like ice cream, because she says it drives her nuts. Then the lights go out for the guy. Wakes up eight hours later with a killer headache and no gold watch, cause here comes the cute part. The French broad coated her nipples and tits with a very strong knockout drug. I can’t remember what. Anyway she works this scam fifteen times we hear about, probably another ten where the suckers are too embarrassed to tell the police. The watches run for ten to twenty thou each. Definitely Grand Larceny. Midtown stakes out the hotels, only gettin’ a nibble from some whores workin’ the hotels, but no blonde French broad. She made her nut and bolted.” Sean had met Mira Lachelle in Paris. She had been a fashion model before a heroin habit banished her from the runways. The aristocratic Frenchwoman said she was here on holiday. Sean gave her a place to stay. Resistance to the wasted princess’ advances was impossible. Mira said the watches were presents. Sean didn’t ask from whom and for the six months after she had left New York, he had come to view Mira as a failed morality test. He reached into his pocket to pay the bill. “I ain’t got to the story’s happy ending yet.” The cop gripped his forearm. "Anyway I put one and one together with her being the ‘perp’ and you fencin’ the ‘swag’ through your Jew friends in the Diamond District.” The chances of Mira ratting him out were nil. She barely spoke English. “The way I figure it, those out-of-town suckers got what they deserved.” The cops can claim how much DNA, fingerprints, and evidence help their investigations, however 95% of the crimes are solved by informers and the other 5% from dumb luck. “I mean, New York’s not New York without a few hicks gettin’ ripped off. That’s how you rationalized it, right? Rob from the rich and give to the poor. Anyway I reckon you and the broad grabbed maybe like a hundred thou and out of that you owe us ten grand.” deRocco was rousting him on a long shot uncomfortably close to the truth and Sean speechlessly moved his head from left to right. The only real score had been a platinum Audermars-Picat Royal Oak, otherwise the bands, cases, and movements of limited edition watches were etched with corresponding numbers and no fence on 47th Street would give more than ten cents on the dollar. “Stop shakin’ your head like a dog that’s gonna get beat.” deRocco’s bloodshot eyes regarded Sean, as if he was a pet turtle on his back. “I know you’re busted, but you still owe me and my ex-partner. You remember Kev, right?” Kevin Driscoll had been invalided off NYPD after a Dominican dealer holding out on their cut had popped off a lucky shot into his knee. Driscoll had succeeded with an even luckier shot and the perp had arrived DOA at Bellevue, forestalling any departmental investigation into the bagman’s wrongdoings. “You should thank your stars, that you’re talkin’ to me and not him, because Kev’s real pissed, but me I like you. I mean we go back to when? 1980. The National Club. You never spoke to Internal Affairs and I respect you for holding your sand.” Due to a juvenile belief in the criminal code of honor, Sean had not informed Internal Affairs about the precinct cops accepting bribes to turn a blind eye to an after-hours nightclub, thereby adding one more chip to his leaning tower of wrong turns. “A long time ago, but it has to count for something, which I’m giving you an out to get straight with us. You’re goin’ to whack a stranger.” Frank deRocco’s lips barely moved, as the words crackled like old leaves off his nicotine-stained tongue. “Do it and we’re quits.” Sean blinked in disbelief. “What are you lookin’ at,.” DeRocco sneered at the French tourists across the counter. "This ain’t no Martin Scorcese film. You want a free show. Go to friggin’ Mickey Mouse Times Square, you Froggie bastards.” The tourists retreated to the restaurant’s dining area and Frank deRocco demanded, “So what you have to say?” If Sean refused the cop’s offer, Frank deRocco would undoubtedly drag him out to 2nd Avenue and throw him a beating. One by one the jumbled syllables crawled onto his atrophied tongue. “First, that I owe you 10K is bullshit. Second, you want someone to killed for free, then go up to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and pray for God to strike him dead with lightning. Otherwise it’s twenty thousand.” “Balls, lotsa balls. I thought it’d come to this, but twenty thou’s a lot, considering we weren’t gonna to pay you squat.” “That’s the deal,” Sean took a bite from the bagel. His demand for money would buy time, which is always a valuable commodity, when your moves are down to none. “Okay, you get the ten up front.” The burly detective had counted on Sean’s being greedy. “And you get the other ten, when the ‘vic’s’ history.” “I do?” Sean didn’t have any time to ponder why the cop had so quickly accepted his counter-offer. deRocco yanked Sean off the stool. “C’mon, we’re out of here.” The early morning passers-by on the sidewalk thanked their stars that they weren’t being stuffed into an unmarked Chevy Caprice. “Relax, Seano, you’re going to Las Vegas, not the Meadowlands. America West out of JFK at 9:30.” “That’s an hour from now.” “Plenty of time.” The cop stepped on the gas and the Chevy lurched into the Second Avenue traffic. “I got your getaway bag from the apartment. Always ready to go, right?” “Be prepared.” Sean quoted the old Boy Scouts motto and breathed a little easier spotting the old leather bag inside which everything he needed to affect a getaway. Everything other than money and deRocco seemed willing to take care of that problem. The cop lit a cigarette. “You always talked about writing a big book. This is as big as it gets as only as you change the names to protect the guilty.” “Thanks for the inspiration.” Sean had given up on writing years ago. There were already too many words being scribbled for television, movies, books, greeting cards, and ads without the need of another writer adding the tower of babble about lives better left secret. “I mean you got Vegas, a murder, two dirty cops, a loser, maybe a hooker and an Elvis imitator thrown in for a little color and changing the names to protect the guilty.” “This isn’t going a kamikaze job?” Sean had to ask, whether or not he intended to commit the murder. “No, you get to ride into the sunset. Up twenty thou. Can’t do better than that.” Frank deRocco knew his passenger’s fate. “No, I guess I can’t,” Sean replied with the reggae chorus ‘Murder, she wrote.” repeating in his head.
 Sean’s lawlessness began with joy-riding in the 1960s, pot-dealing in the 70s, and working illegal after-hour clubs and money laundering in the 80s, yet he had never killed anyone and he had no intention of breaking the Fifth Commandment. Somewhere between New York and Las Vegas the chance to vanish into the crowd would arise and he would avoid becoming the executioner of a faceless stranger. Sean would have take advantage of that moment, but thankfully Las Vegas was all about luck, unfortunately sometimes more bad than good. Sean could only bet on the latter, because he didn’t need to crap out again in this lifetime or the next. Chapter 3   The twentieth-floor suite's view of the Las Vegas Strip was backdropped by the desert's sunset horizon. Most tourists were awed by this vista, however its occupant was transfixed by his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Louie Sinreich looked good for thirty-five. His sandy hair was a tribute to the technological advanced in salon coloring and his smile gleamed like the keys of a new Steinway piano thanks to his new caps and monthly dentist visits. Five hours a week at a Hollywood gym maintained his musculature. He avoided all short cuts, which was more than he could say for his overnight guest, a surgically-altered blonde sprawled atop the king-sized bed’s satin sheets. He drew a blank of her name, since she couldn't have been born with the one with which she had introduced herself at the casino bar last night. Amber or Cheryllle. Two drinks into her come-on she had commented on his resemblance to James Wood. Louie had heard the line before. Narrow face, pock-marks, the stiff hair, thin. "He's my third cousin." Louie had told this lie so many times he almost believed it himself. "What's a third cousin?" "The son of my uncle's nephew." "That's funny." She had a nice way of faking amusement. Everyone in Vegas was working an angle and $1500 had persuaded the blonde bombshell to join him for a nightcap. He had dropped a Blue Boy on the elevator and inhaled a rail of meth inside the suite. Now erect and awake he had exacted his money's worth from his guest; five happy endings in eight hours. She had negotiated another $500 during this marathon. Louie had gladly paid the overtime charge.  Returning to the bed he slapped the showgirl hard on the ass. The blonde whelped awake and raked back her Malibu-blonde hair with lacquered fingernails. "I hate Viagra." "Don't worry, honey, party time’s over." Louie waved for her to get out of the giant bed. "I have guests in five minutes, so you gotta go." "I understand business before pleasure." The curvy showgirl jumped to her feet and stepped into her form-fitting leather sheath, then strapped on her high heels, as if they had materialized from thin air. "You need a date for later?" "I know where to find you, if I do." Louie hid his erection, since he disliked any woman, especially a hooker, thinking she had power over him. "Then I'll be seeing you around." The blonde blew him a kiss. "I'll be around too." The door shut and Louie ventured over to the double-paned window overlooking the canyon of casinos. Across the street a fake volcano's fiery eruption magnetically drew hick tourists into the gambling hall like the ants to a picnic and Louie's mind crunched the numbers. "$600,000,000 makes someone a player in this town. When I build my casino, it'll cost a billion, maybe even more. The biggest and the best. A regular Tenth Wonder of the World." Louie Sinreich's grandest scheme was to construct a casino catering to the wicked of this world far from family-oriented Vegas. Deep in the desert BABYLON crowned his five-year dream to dominate the adult-film industry and the buzz at the hotel room's door was a small step in that direction. "One second." Louie pulled on the hotel’s cotton bathrobe and opened the door to a middle-aged couple in matching purple jogging suits. The redheaded woman's heavily made-up eyes grazed at his torso and her slightly overweight husband grasped Louie's hand. "Sorry, if we're a little early." "Nothing to be sorry about." Louie released the handshake and led the woman inside the room. "Please sit down. Can I get you a drink? Some coffee maybe?" "Just some water.” The older man settled onto the sofa next to his wife and patted her thigh. "Dorrine and I have given up caffeine." "Living healthy helps us live long." "We agree, Mr. Sinreich." Dorrine unzipped her warm-up jacket. His wife’s braless breasts sagged onto her ribcage. "On the West Coast we go on a first name basis.” Louie handed them two glasses of water. "Call me Louie, please." "Sure, Louie, I want to thank you for flying us out here, but I don't really see how we can help you." "Henry, why are you always so negative?" Dorrine planted herself on her husband's lap. In their hometown, Rockford, Illinois, Dorrine Johns stopped cars. In Vegas she was an over-sexed woman vainly fighting off the years. "Kids, it's love not war." Louie signaled a time-out with his hands. "Henry's right to wonder why I flew you two out here. Sure, there's the computer convention, the awards ceremony, gambling, and shows, but when I said ‘business’ I meant business." "What kind of business?” Henry put down his water. "Ten years ago if anyone had told me amateur videos would grab 15% percent of the market, I would have laughed in their face. That’s how big the home videos are and whether you like it or not you are on the cutting edge of the porno industry." "Dorrine and I never intended to sell videos. They were just a way for people like us to get in touch with each other. With themselves. I was a big mover in the key clubs of the seventies, free sex between couples. Open minds to just choice by picking a key. They tried to commercialize sex, but AIS killed that side of the business.” "Henry thinks of 'Swinging' as a religion to free both body and soul." Dorrine tapped her husband's face. "However it started, you’re running America's biggest swinging network. 150,000 couples coast to coast happy to pay you $150 per year to join a swinging network. Pretty good money any way you cut it, but I can increase your earnings." "I'm quite happy where I am," Henry fidgeted under his wife. "I know you are, but you have obligations to the public now. The viewers were tired of Barbie Doll starlets faking orgasms. They started buying your videos. When you have a 'product' people want, money comes to you. No one's asking you to betray your members or beliefs and I respect protecting your members by HIV tests. I do the same for my actors and actresses. Every twenty-one days they’re tested for diseases. You and I may have different goals, but when it comes time to defending our sexual freedom, you, me, and Dorrine all get naked on the same side of the bed." "I guess so." The years of harassment by the various anti-porno prosecutors had proven allies in the battle for a free libido were few and far between. "Henry has trouble accepting being 'King of the Swingers' made him a millionaire, right, Henry?" "Swinging isn't about the money. You may see hundreds of starlets a week, but I see Dorrine with another man, I see her alive with his desire. Almost like the first time I saw her." "I was nineteen older and married . You were married, but this isn't about us, honey, listen to what the man says." "Thanks you, Dorrine." Louie sat on the sofa and stared into Henry's eyes. He looked, as if he wanted to cry. He probably looked the same way every time Corrine flirted with another man. "I understand your feeling for Dorrine. I felt the same way the first time I saw her and I also saw that she wanted more excitement than any small town can offer her," Louie Sinreich seamlessly explained how the Johns could expand their access to swingers by having his production company professionally edit and license their catalogue of amateur videos for online access to the internet. "Not only will you make millions, you'll be stars of the Internet, plus the Internet will enlarge your swinging community beyond your wildest dreams.” “I don’t know.” “There are millions of people out there like you two. They want the same thing you want. To be free.” "Just say yes, darling, just say the word." The redhead bounced on her husband’s lap. "When have I ever been able to refuse you?" Henry smiled like a little dog and his wife kissed her husband with a conspiratorial wink at Louie. "You won't regret this, Henry. Not one bit." Louie derived zero thrills from watching regular John and Jane Does mimicking porno films. Still snaring a major share of a multi-billion dollar industry was good morning's work for a man just out of bed and he reached over to free Dorrine's breasts from her track suit. The 42 longs were not a pretty sight, but this part of the game never was pretty, until you signed a contract. Then it was all happy faces all the way to the bank. FOUR The light on the departure board next to Las Vegas flashed red. America West's non-stop flight was in the final stages of boarding and Frank deRocco rushed Sean through the JFK's crowded terminal. The detective's gold shield got them through the metal detector and Sean's bag passed the X-ray test. They reached the gate and deRocco brandished his NYPD gold shield. "I gotta get this man on the plane." "They're shutting the door." The Dominican attendant shook his head. deRocco was out of breath. Cigarettes were killing him. "This is police business.Tell them to hold the plane." "I wish you people could get here on time.” The gate attendant hated late passengers, but he picked up the phone and told the ground crew to hold the flight. "I could always catch the next flight." Sean tried to shrug off the heavy cop's grip. “No, I paid for this one and this is the one you're taking." deRocco dragged him down the slanted corridor to the Boeing 757. Once more the badge was presented and the ground crew reopened the door. deRocco's face was a florid red. "Are you sure you're going to be alright?" "Stop stalling and get on the plane." deRocco pushed Sean through the jet's door. "What about you?" "I'm not going anywhere." "I'm going alone?" "Yeah, you're going alone, but someone will meet you in Las Vegas. He'll tell you the what, where, and when." "What about the money?" "The money?" The detective stuck an envelope in Sean's pocket. "You just do like I told you. It'll be a snap." The 757's door shut with a slow thunk and the stewardess asked Sean to take a seat. "Does this flight make any stops?" "No, it's direct to Las Vegas." "Figures." A non-stop flight excluded his deplaning at a hub airport. deRocco's contact would be waiting in Las Vegas with Sean's photo in hand and probably a gun in a shoulder holster, but that fate was hours away and he walked down the aisle. He almost sat in first-class. No one ever questioned an intruder, but decided to not push his luck and settled for snatching three magazines from the overhead bin. Economy was almost as bad as a charter flight, since nearly every passenger was white-haired and overweight. American tourists. The black steward motioned for him to buckle up and Sean sank into his seat by the window. The near-empty 757 had pulled away from the gate on time and taxied onto JFK's main runway. The big engines ha hrottled up with a roar and the jet's acceleration had driven the tons of steel down the runway, till the plane climbed into the air in defiance of gravity. Seventeen seconds later the pilot banked the aircraft, offering Sean a slanted vista of Manhattan's spires and towers and for the first time this morning he realized that he was leaving New York. He checked the envelope. The stack looked like $10,000. Leaving New York with money on his way to Vegas. Something was not right Once the 757 leveled off at 24,000, the flight crew passed out free nuts and drinks. Sean scrounged three packets, which he devoured in a minute. Once the seat belt sign went off, he dug his bag for a leather toiletry bag. The cop hadn't touched a thing. With Las Vegas only five hours away he had a lot of work to avoid violating the Fifth Commandment. Back on the ground at JFK deRocco punched a ten-digit number on his portable phone and a gruff voice answered after three rings, "Who's this?" "Like the only person who has this number. Me." "Where are you?" "JFK." "Where's Coll?" "On the plane" "What about you?" "I don't fly, you know that." Throughout their long collaboration Kev had played the ‘away games'. The ex-cop had insisted on his partner joining him for this last contract and now shouted, "You and your fuckin' flyingaphobia. How am I gonna do this?" "You're not doin' nothin'." Normally Driscoll could have executed this contract in his sleep, except every pro only has so many 'games' in him and Kev was well into overtime. "You got the Fed-Ex package from the buyer, right?" “Yeah." “I gave Sean 10K. He expects another ten upon completion.” “You did what?” “It was the only way I could get him on the plane. Take back the 10Gs once you get rid of him. Just do like I told you and we're in the clear." "Is he clean?" "Coll?" "Who else?" "He's an altar boy." deRocco fought off the urge to light up a cigarette in the non-smoking terminal. “You tell anyone about Sean?” He was a wanted man by Internal Affairs. “No.” "Good, this is going to tie up more than one loose ends. "What's the weather like out there?" "What'd you care, you fear-of-flyin' freak? I'll call you later." The line went dead. Outside the terminal building deRocco lit up a cigarette and lifted his eyes to a jet lumbering into the sky. What scared him most about flying was the lack of control. All you could do was sit there and pray the plane didn't crash into a swamp or cornfield. Shaking these fiery images, deRocco sucked on the burning tobacco and congratulated himself on another job well done. No one else would have, of course very few people did what he did and after this job neither would he. FIVE The warm California sun flayed the storm clouds into fleecy shreds and soon the morning reminded every non-native why they had moved to Los Angeles in the first place. Two days of rain had painted the hillside scrubs a verdant green and the palm trees wavered with the waning wind. By mid-morning the temperature in the Valley rose into the mid-seventies and a superbly conditioned brunette touched up her tan on the back balcony of the unoccupied apartment complex near Sherman Way. Any voyeur would have mistaken the naked woman to be a mindless sun worshipper, but Sherri Conti was thinking very hard about how to get money to finish her first non-pornographic project ADAM AND TWO EVES. She had the crew, the equipment, and the two actresses, Lena and herself for this low-budget feature about the last man on earth. They had shot 70% of the film throughout December. Neither woman had exchanged Christmas gifts, since they had financed the film through their credit cards. All their plastic was maxxed out to the limit. Another $20,000 would finish the film, however money wasn't the biggest problem for this project. Sherri could get the money with a single phone call. They had not been able to fin a male lead. Hollywood fees prized any actors out of her budget and most of her friends in the business weren't risking their careers on working with an unknown director connected to the porno industry. Sherri had scavenged every casting book in the business. She had auditioned almost a hundred unknowns. None had fit her vision for 'ADAM AND TWO EVES' lead, a man like the saint from Bunuel's SIMON OF THE DESERT. Beaten by weather and cursed by God. Forty, yet still handsome. He had to be out there somewhere. Sherri turned her head to the bedroom. Lena was packing an overnight bag for her trip to Las Vegas. After forty-one films together their relationship had become more than simply sex for the older woman. Lena was unlike any other of her previous lovers and Sherri wasn't the only one who felt that way. Men and women at gas stations, supermarkets, and coffee stores demanded autographs, as if Lena was a budding Hollywood star. Most of them had seen the young actress in XXX videos online. Sherri had portrayed women in control of their own desire rather than receptacles for men's lust and Lena's uncanny metamorphosis into the films’ characters had created a massive cross-over demand from the mainstream audience. In recognition of these phenomena, this evening the XXX-RATED Awards ceremony in Las Vegas would recognize Lena as the 'Best New-Comer' title. She deserved much more. Several minutes later Lena came out on the terrace. The young actress wore a matching combo of gold silk hot pants and a tube top. A white leather jacket dangled from her fingertips. "All ready to go?" Sherri shielded her eyes from the sun. "After a kiss, yes." "Aren't you going to be cold?" "That's why I have the leather. I wish you were coming with me." "I have some editing on the last shot, besides this is your big night.” Twenty years ago Sherri had been a young girl straight out of the Jersey Pine Barrens on the way to the top, completely blind, deaf, and dumb to how much the lifestyle of a porno actress demanded from body and soul. "I'll go to the gym later." "To exorcise the demons." Lena was too young to be haunted by an adult past. "It's the only way." A strict diet and daily exercises fought off the tidal tug of her old life. She was in good shape for a woman her age or ten years younger, but her heart had been a wasteland from too much sex and too many drugs until meeting Lena. "There are other ways besides gym and hard work." Lena rubbed the back of her heel. The straps of her new high heels bit into the flesh, but she liked hearing their click on tile. "Like you." A psychiatrist had diagnosed her condition as 'adonia mixed with apathy'. This inability to feel pleasure stole any chance to fall in love and Sherri prayed that Lena was the cure, but as long as they were involved in porno, nothing would fill the emptiness of her soul. "Yes, me." Lena knelt between Sherri's bare thighs. "You know I want you with me." "I know, maybe next year.” Lena was young and the only thing Hollywood worshipped more than beauty was youth, which was the one commodity that money could not buy anywhere. "I know the real reason you can't come.” Lena inhaled the fragrance of burnt peaches off Sherri's skin and her finger skated along the raised tracks of scar tissue inside her lover's arm. “You can't see any of those people. Those people from your past. You think it would kill you, if you did, but I wouldn't let that happen to you." “Sorry, I'm still not strong enough.” Sherri stroked Lena's head, so the long black tresses tumbled onto her belly. "Nothing to be sorry for, Sherri, but if you don't mind, I want to wait a few more minutes before I go.” Lena shucked off her clothes and the morning sun melted their nakedness together, until Sherri tapped her shoulder. "If you don’t leave here now, you won't make it there." "Only if you insist." Lena picked up her clothing from the tiled floor nd dressed as quickly as she had undressed. "Go have a good time.” She had lived through her own wild period without listening to anyone and understood Lena was too young for domestication. The two women kissed without parting lips. How long Sherri could hold Lena was a question she would never ask the girl. "If you see anyone suitable to play the male lead for ADAM AND TWO EVES, get their number." "Anyone?" Lena had met tens of men who could have performed the role and Sherri had turned them all down. "You know what I'm after.” "Yes, a man in his forties. Blonde hair. Slightly beat-up. Not too thin, not too fat. A rough voice and a not just another pretty face." Lena wouldn't have been so strict as Sherri. After all it was just a movie. "And he has to look like he has lived on the road." "Slightly brutish. Like Robert Mitchum with a heart of gold,” Lena joked, but Sherri remembered the actor’s darker roles. "Not from NIGHT OF THE HUNTER." "Or CAPE FEAR." "And he's too nice in HEAVEN KNOWS." "And too young in THUNDER ROAD.” They were seeking one man in a million if not more. Lena dangled the keys to the Skylark parked downstairs."I have to get going." "Drive carefully." "I'll come back in one piece." Lena could not bring herself to tell Sherri she loved her for letting her run free. She had heard the word 'love' from too many men and women in a multitude of languages, when they meant something else, instead she stepped into the hallway from where she would have blown Sherri a kiss, except the apartment door shut. Accustomed to no good-byes, Lena pressed the elevator button for the garage. The Buick's V-8 powered the Skylark onto the Ventura Freeway. Lena's finger hit the stereo's PLAY button and Madonna's MUSIC blasted from the speakers. Her body wriggled to the beat under the fastened seat belt. A warm wind blew through the driver's window. Once she was out of the city, she pulled to a Glendale gas station to fill up an put own the rag top. All things go, she got on I-270. She was happy to be on the road, for like a river overflowing its bank, there was no controlling youth once she were free. SIX The 757 descended for its final approach to Las Vegas. The passengers tightened their safety belts and the male steward knocked on a bathroom door. A single passenger was missing from his seat. "Sir, you have to get back to your seat." "Just a second.” Sean Coll unravelled the turban of toilet paper in front of the bathroom mirror. The blonde man in the reflection resembled an aging extra from a 1960's biker flick. The paper towel wedges inside his shoes added another inch of height and his rumpled black suit blessed his persona with a nondescript aura. He exited from the bathroom and said to the steward, "Thanks for being so patient." The steward was visibly puzzled by the passenger's bizarre appearance, especially since no brash blonde man had boarded the plane at JFK. "What seat are you in, sir?" "32-A, I can show you my ticket, if you would like." "No, that won't be necessary." Satisfied by the steward's bafflement, Sean proceeded past the passengers glue to the portholes gaping at the wonders of Las Vegas below the 757. They should have been recoiling in fright like they were meeting a thief in a dark alley, yet none of them cared a fig whether they won or lost at the gaming tables or slots as long as they weren’t home watching television on the sofa. A black boy about eight years old was in his seat. Probably for the view. He looked at Sean. Ike was written on a nametag attached to his shirt. "You the same guy here before?" Sean raised his eyebrow to indicate ‘maybe'. “You changed.” “A little. Ike, where’s your mom?” “I’m by myself. She’s waiting for me at the airport." The boy peeked out the porthole, as if he might see her on the ground. Once in the late 1950s, Sean had traveled alone on a train between Portland, Maine and Boston. His grandmother Edith had tipped the black porter to take care of him. Now was his time to return the favor. "First time flying?” "Yes, sir.” His small hands gripped the armrests for dear life. "Empty planes never crash." Sean imitated the exact tone with which his own father had calmed his son on his first shuttle flight from Boston to New York decades before. The boy slouched fearfully into the seat. Sean stashed his bag before buckling into the aisle seat. “My name is James.” Always his alias. "Mister, last year I seen this movie, where a plane crashes in the mountains. Everyone had to eat everyone else.” Sean knew the movie "We’re not going to crash, and if we do, I make sure no one eats you.” Sean reached over to tighten the boy's seatbelt, as the 757 dropped with a wiggle of its wings. Seconds later the tires touched down on the runway. The young boy had survived the worst of his fears and proudly announced, "That was nothing." "Just like I said and you'll be with your mom soon." The 757 stopped at the terminal gate and the young boy was escorted off the plane by the steward. Sean positioned himself behind two beefy men in New York Giants paraphernalia and shuffled from the plane in a slouch. Inside the gangway a bearded air marshal dismissed the bleached-blonde man as a danger only to himself. Two old ladies elbowed him out of the way and scuttled over to the nearest WHEEL OF FORTUNE slot machine. All seniors loved that show. Waiting friends, relatives, lovers, and drivers ignored Sean. He only had one bag and exited from baggage claim into the arrival terminal. No one called his name on the ride down the escalator or when he walked out of the terminal into the warm desert air. He had visited Vegas in 1971 and gazed dreamily at the hazy outline of distant mountains. Somewhere over those peaks lay Death Valley and California. A rough voice short-circuited his attempt to hail a taxi. "Nice outfit, , though a little late for Halloween, ain't it?" "You know the East Village. We dressed for the occasion.” Sean turned around hoping the voice belonged to a mirage, but he should have known that deRocco would have never sent him on that plane without his maddog partner being on the receiving end. "Yeah, it's Halloween all the time with those losers." Driscoll's eyes ping-ponging back and forth. The invalided cop was binging on meth. Obviously. "So I didn't fool you at all?" "No, but I almost bust a gut seein' you do this hobo thing. Where'd you learn that shit anyway?" Driscoll was in a dark suit a size too small for his waist, but his belly didn't matter, because ex-cops like Driscoll never ran from trouble. "I dated this married make-up artist in Paris. She disguised me to keep from finding out her husband from seeing that she was going out with a man." "She did you up as a woman?" "Yeah." Sean was telling the truth. "This lasted about six months and finally the husband came up to me at a bar. He was a big guy about your size and showed me some pictures. At first I thought they were me, but the husband told me they were of her old boyfriends." "Why he tell you that?" "He thought I was her lesbian lover and wanted to go out with me." "I woulda liked to seen you as a girl. You have nice hair." Driscoll’s laugh stuck in his throat. “I woulda thought you got the disguise thing from your ex-wife. She's an actress, right? Or your friend, Vic Granollers. Now he's really big in films now, right?" "I didn't know you were such a movie buff." "I like to know all about my friends and their friends.” They entered the shade of the parking garage and Sean asked, ”Where we going?" “Not far.” Driscoll ran his hand through his thick hair. A blue-jacketed peace officer was ticketing a car and Driscoll jabbed Sean's ribs with something solid. A pistol muzzle. "He's havin' a good day, so why would you want to spoil it?" "Not me." Sean walked past the local cop to a fire engine red Mustang 5.0. A rental. Driscoll forced him into the front passenger seat and handcuffed his wrist to the door. "Just think of the cuffs as an extra safety feature." "What if we get into an accident?" "This piece of shit has dual air bags, Seano." Driscoll sat behind the steering wheel, and revved the engine once before peeling out of the parking lot. Sean took the wedges out of his shoes and the ex-cop chuckled at the show. "What's so funny?” Sean rubbed his feet. "Whatcha gonna do with your hair?" "Let it grow out." Sean smoothed down the brittle blonde hair and looked out the window at the throngs of tourists. The sorriest of the casino fodder was luckier than him even with the 10K in his pocket.. "Might take some time." "And I have plenty of that, right?" Driscoll didn't answer him, as he drove under I-15. The glittering hotels and tourists on holiday were replaced by car repair shops, sleazy go-go bars, truck stops, cheap motels and homeless transients permanently down on their luck. Driscoll pulled into a heat-warped parking lot of a run-down motor lodge and stopped the car before room #7. He undid the handcuff from the door. ”Carry your own bag, cause I ain't no bellhop.” Sean stepped out of the car. Dust devils swirled across the vacant lots into the desert where Las Vegas ended for better or worse. “Ain't nothing to see here." Driscoll pushed him into the small room. Two single beds were topped by faded polyester spreads. A Formica card table and two plastic chairs leaned into the corner and the bureau was missing its bottom drawer. "How romantic." Sean dropped his bag on the mildewed carpet. "Cheap and cheerful, not in the middle of town, so no one sees us come in or out." "Place stinks." The disinfectant had failed to kill the smell of a thousand illicit affairs, cigarette butts, and doper weekends. "This might help.” Kevin Driscoll twisted the AC to the max. "Now strip.” "What for?" Fear crawled like a million fire ants on Sean's skin. "Cause I said so." Kevin Driscoll had performed the finger-breakings, the baseball bat beatings, and the killing for the two-man team. The ex-cop took off the gray suit jacket. Sweat stained his white shirt. A shoulder holster held a 9mm Beretta, his weapon of choice. "What if I don't want to?" "You don't want to know.” Driscoll hated people telling him 'no'. "Since you put it that way." Sean took off his jacket, trousers, and shirt. Once he was down to his boxers, Driscoll said, "Stop there. I don't need to see your pecker." "You sure?" Several years back deRocco and Driscoll had been staked outside a cocaine warehouse on Avenue D. A lookout spotted the unmarked car and three Dominican gunmen surrounded the car to discover one man fellating the other. The dopers told the maricons to get lost. When the spot was busted, Driscoll capped the three witnesses to his giving head and earned a citation for the killings. Later deRocco had joked that his partner was the only cop in NYPD history to get a medal for sucking cock. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing." Everyone in the precinct knew about this incident, but no one had the balls to ask either cop about it. Sean was following their lead. He lifted the handcuff on his wrist. "What about this?" "Thanks for reminding me." Driscoll holstered his weapon and snapped the open manacle onto the TV stand. Both men eyed the telephone and Kevin Driscoll tugged the wire from the wall. "Sorry, it just broke." "I wasn't calling anyone anyway." "That's for sure." Driscoll punched Sean's arm. It was not a playful gesture and Sean slumped into the wall. "I'll see you." The door slammed shut and five seconds later Sean tugged at the chain, but the TV stand had been bolted to the wall by anti-theft experts. These four cinderblock walls were his Las Vegas. No showgirls, roulette, blackjack, craps, or even a nickel slot machine and he couldn't help from asking himself aloud, "What I ever do to deserve this?" His first bad deed had been erased from his memory, but his most recent deadly sins shone crystal-clear; greed for fencing those watches, lust for trusting Mira, and pride for thinking he'd fool Driscoll. He slammed his fist into the wall. The shock of pain to his long-abused knuckles was enough to prevent any repetition and Sean turned on the TV. Its bright glow wavered across the bleak room. He was in purgatory and his only release from this limbo depended on his breaking the 5th Commandment. Sean attempted to visualize whether his target was a man or woman, good or bad, young or old, usually ending up with the image of a lowlife criminal deserving of this death sentence, as if this boldfaced delusion could render homicide more doable in his eyes and Sean once more tried to free himself from the TV stand. After futile five tugs he rubbed his chaffed wrist, resigned to the fact that the world's population had been savagely reduced down to three people; Driscoll, himself, and the unknown victim. Everything had become very simple, when kill or be killed were your only options. Ten minutes later Kevin Driscoll entered the room with two paper bags from McDonalds. "Dinnertime." "Great. I guess the condemned man doesn't get a choice of last meals." "What's wrong with Mickie Ds?" "The beef has everything of a cow other than the moo and I don't think there's any potatoes in the fries." His mouth watered upon smelling the fries. "You're wrong. The fries are 65% potato. I read it on the wall, besides it’s not going to kill you, so stop the drama." Driscoll flipped one bag to Sean, who caught it without spilling the soda inside and lifted the cuff. "Think the prisoner can eat with his hands free." "Stop rushin' me." Driscoll snapped before freeing Sean from the TV stand. The cuff stayed on. "My teeth are floating. Mind, if I go to the bathroom? "Knock yourself out," Driscoll mumbled through a mouth filled with fries, as Sean entered the bathroom. "Don't shut the door." "Can't I do this in private?" "What and let you slip out the window? No way." Once Sean finished, he squeezed past Driscoll to sit on the bed with his food. The barely-warm cheeseburger tasted good after having eaten nothing today other than the snacks on the plane. The ex-cop ate a second burger in three bites. "Everything is go for tonight." "Tonight?" Sean choked on his food. "Yeah, tonight. Better this way. You come into town and do the job, then you're history. A quick in-and-out." "You mean, no checking out the killing ground. I go in, kill him, and come out alive? No one seeing me?" The burger trembled in his hand. "That's the way it's supposed to go. I’ll run you through it once we are there." "And who am I killing?" Sean doubted whether Driscoll had any idea as why the victim was being targeted. To him it was just another job. "You ask that question, when your French whore poisoned those businessmen? Take it from a pro. The whos and whys are unimportant. Names only make you remember the faces later." "So I kill a total stranger and then what?" "You go your way and I go mine." "After you give me the other ten grand." "You think I'm gonna welch on you." "Sorry to hit your sensitivity button, it's just that I never killed anyone before." "Don't think nothin' about it, this is basically your 'wham-blam-thank-you-ma'am' deal." Driscoll stroked the barrel of the 9mm inside his jacket. "Nice to put a sexual angle on it." "Hey, everyone gets their kicks different ways." "If you say so." Sean had no doubt murder gave the ex-cop a hard-on and finished his meal in silence, as Driscoll brushed the crumbs from his lap. "Get dressed, Seano. We got places to be." "Now?" "Now." Driscoll repeated with a directness detouring any argument. Sean dressed in his black suit and the ex-cop patted him down. He pulled out the $10000 from deRocco and handed back the roll. "All you gotta do is pull a trigger. Boom, and you get another ten Gs. Twenty large or a day's work. Good deal?" "You keep telling me that and I might believe it." Sean stuffed the money in his pant pocket and checked himself in the mirror, thinking he looked more like a defrocked priest than an initiate to murder. "You'll be thanking me once it's over. 20 Gs for a minute's work." "Too bad I'm not working every day." "Too bad is right." Driscoll left $50 to cover the mini-bar and the damaged telephone. He swiftly policed the room for any trace of their presence and plucked an empty Fed-Ex package out of the trash, then pushed Sean toward the door. "I'm not going anywhere, till this cuff comes off." Sean dug in his heels. "No?" Driscoll flexed his knuckles and the tendons of his neck stuck out like a garrote was cutting off his wind. "No." Sean prepared to dodge a punch, however the ex-cop unlocked the handcuff. "You happy now?" "Happier, yes. What about you?" "I would have been happier killing you a few seconds ago." "You wouldn't kill someone who owed you $10,000." "I'd grease 'em like lightning," Driscoll spoke with a cold-bloodedness of which only true killers are capable. "When you want to kill someone, screw the money. Now pick up your shit and let's get out of here." Sean grabbed the leather bag, stuffing the extra French fries and a packet of ketchup into his jacket pocket. "I thought you didn't like Mickie D's." "I didn't, but I might get hungry later." “Have it your way."" The two men exited from the motel room. Only two other cars were in the parking lot. Their passengers had not come to the Desert Inn to look out the windows. Across the street a piggyback of train engines hauled a long line of boxcars southward on the Union Pacific's tracks. The squeal of the steel wheels on the rails mingled with the peal of a couple's laughter from a motel room. "This why I like this place. No one is nosy, so nothing can connect us to here." "I'll remember that next time I want to kill someone.” Sean pulled up his collar against the cold wind and lifted his head to the sky. The stars seemed bigger in the desert night. "You'll have plenty of time to stare at the stars later." Driscoll shoved Sean into the Mustang's passenger door. "Throw your shit in back and get in the car. The door's not locked." "Okay, okay, chill your jets." Sean strapped himself into the seat, wishing he was a couple of inches taller or had studied Kung Fu or Frank deRocco had not found him at the diner this morning or he had not blown the money Mira Lachelle had left him or he had not met her in the first place. deRocco started the car. "Put on your seatbelt. I don't want the Vegas PD stopping us for somethin' stupid." The car's V6 revved into the tach's red zone and Driscoll stomped on the gas. The Mustang burned rubber out of the parking lot to cut off a commercial van, then accelerated through a yellow light to catch up with the flow of traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard. "So much for doing nothing stupid." Sean shook his head. "Just driving like the rest of the losers. How about a little mood music?" Driscoll tuned on a country-western station playing BORN IN BLACK AN WHITE. "Country?" Sean reached for the dial. "Yeah, country." The driver karate-chopped his left arm. "Don't touch that dial. I love Willie Nelson." Sean rubbed his wrist and stared out the window. The only signs of human life were the heads and shoulders wrapped inside cars. "We're goin' to where we'll do it later.” Driscoll steered past a slow-moving camper with Michigan plates. “It's a glassed-in stairway. You wait on the second-floor landing. Out of sight. There are no video cameras. No guards either. When the 'guy' shows up, you stick the gun in his ear and pull the trigger. The bullet will do the rest. You get his wallet to make it looks like a robbery. You come out and meet me. I give you your money and we split. You go your way. I go mine. One, two, three, maybe four, five, six, sounds easy, huh?" "A snap." Sean rotated his wrist, which he had broken a year ago on the Thai-Burma border, when an opium farmer's pick-up truck rammed his motorcycle head-on. He had been shocked to have survived and sometimes thought that this existence might be the After-Life, though tonight was not one of them. "After checking out the hotel, I'll take you out to the desert to pop off a few shots. "Target practice?" "You're gonna be too close to miss. Just get used to pullin' the trigger, so you don't freeze up." "You have a picture of this person or do I have to guess who he will be?" Sean scratched at the day-old stubble. "You're doing him." Driscoll handed Sean a photo of old man in his seventies. "Why don't we give him a couple of weeks to die of natural causes." Sean passed back the photo. "Cause that's not the way this works. The next time you see that guy, you're gonna do him." Driscoll inspected his passenger's shadowed face, trying to ascertain whether he could go through with this. Not many people could, but twenty-two years ago he had witness Sean nearly beat a Russian Mafia member to death, which meant somewhere in him he had the balls to go all the way and, if Sean couldn't, then doing, Driscoll would give him the right motivation for doing the stranger. "It’ll be over before you know it." Driscoll drove into a hotel parking lot across from the Casino Center. "Yeah, that's real comforting.” All that was required was a little nerve and a few ounces of pressure on the trigger. A little more than a breeze. How easy a steel-jacketed bullet ended the universe for another human being bothered Sean, but he would find out soon enough how hard it really was. All that was required was a little nerve and a few ounces of pressure on the trigger. A little more than a breeze or a breath. How easy a steel-jacketed bullet ended the universe for another human being bothered Sean, but he would soon find out enough how hard it really was. SEVEN The sensory test's visual program ended with incandescent lava flow washing over the computer-generated image of a naked woman and the old man in the laboratory lifted off the lightweight HMD or Head Mounted Display with a smile on his lips. He blinked several times, as his eyes recovered from the vivid intensity of the Virtual Reality images laser-beamed into his pupils and he said to the two shadowy outlines standing in front of him, "Very impressive." "You really think so?” Bob Olsen’s belly jiggled under his Megadeath tee-shirt. "I've never seen anything like it." Isaac Conti handed the lightweight helmet to Ur Bell, Bob’s meticulous partner. "Something like this won't hit the marketplace for decades from any other source." Bob Olsen undid the Velcro stays of the sensory suit, whose inner skin simulated another person's touch through a network of tractor electrodes snaking over the body's most erogenous zones. "It shows you've put a lot of work into this." Isaac wiped his wrinkled face with a towel. “But the suit sells it. I actually felt like I was having sex." "Most people think we press a few buttons to create a program, but it took a lot more than that.” Bob was proud of their accomplishment. "Most of our competitors are gearing up for software to show porn on the internet and the Japanese are devoting most of their efforts to developing sex robots for shut-ins and agoraphobics, but we aiming at the virtual market. The possibilities are endless. "L-l-less money. L-l-less space." Ur Bell swiftly packed away the laptop, as if the programs had been stolen from a top-secret laboratory, which wasn't far from the truth, for both of them could be hauled before a grand jury for espionage should the man-hours stolen from their fellow Livermore Lab workers to produce the highest CGI resolution possible come to light. The VR program ability to ape every physicality of sexual intercourse came from his six months of work in his mother’s basement and this self-exile from the real world had left him nearly speechless. At least now he could stutter. ”T-t-t-thank you, we worked very hard on the imaging." "Have you boys shown this to any of the companies at the electronic convention?" “No. You're the only person we trust." Bob‘s explanation came too fast for the truth and Isaac demanded, "Have you copyrighted any of this?" The two inventors glanced at each other and Bob shrugged. "Most of it." "The suit will be worth billions alone." Isaac combed back his steel-gray hair. "If we wanted rich, we would be speaking with stockbrokers or bankers." Bob pulled down his T-shirt without covering his belly. "What we're after is greater than money or fame." “ "Which is?" Isaac loved dreamers. "We're after the perfect cyberEve. The goddess of SOMA." "Boys, you know whatever exists within that program or any touch you get from that suit isn't real?" Someone had to burst their bubble. "Y-y-yeah, we're aware of that. It doesn’t feel that way, does it?” “No, it feels real.” "We believe we can create a world as real as this one and in some ways it could be better for people like us, because we belong somewhere other than here." Ur folded the suit with the solemnity of an acolyte returning a sacred robe to an ancient saint's crypt. "And where is that?" Isaac had lived on this planet for over seventy years. There was nowhere else to go. "On this planet, but inside another world. Look at us." Bob spread his arms to include Ur. "Who wants us?" "Bob, there's someone for everyone." "M-m-most people think we're w-w-weird." Ur Bell stowed away the Virtual Reality HMD into an aluminum case, which also doubled for the computer terminal. "What we have created will keep us happy. So we never have to go outside. That isn't a crime, is it?" "No." Isaac understood that the millions of people like Bob and Ur constituted an enormous market for cyber-companions. "We could have gone two directions with the suit. One where people connected to each other for a one-on-one experience." "Or o-o-one on m-m-many." Ur was sweating like he was trapped in a sauna. "And?" Louie asked from the bathroom, despite the hotel room's maxxed out AC. "That connection for distant people was too complicated for present-day technology, so we decided on creating a dead-end SOMA or Sexual Orientation Manipulation Application." Bob scratched his chubby arm. "In other words we use an SPI or sexual preference identifier, which is in the control glove, by which the viewer can modify his fantasy." "Bob, the technical end isn't the source of your problem," Isaac pulled the suit below his waist and the two young inventors from Marin County turned away for the sight of an unclothed man. He shook his head. In some ways they were merely children. "What is it?" "Truthfully speaking the woman in this device lies like a dead person and men don't have to go into cyberspace to experience laying with a starfish." "Starfish?" "Yes, a woman lying on the bed with her limbs spread like a corpse." "And our girl is like that?" Bob frowned with disappointment. "Yes." Only the truth could set them free their inhibitions. “We tried to feed the computer the sensory readings of an orgasm based on reading medical books." "Why didn't you ask a real woman?" "We don't know any." Bob lowered his head. "None?" "Our mothers and sisters." "And they didn't want to be volunteers?" In all likelihood the two inventors were virgins and they had depended more on desperation rather than necessity to father their invention. "I know a lot of women in the business, maybe one of them could help you." "It isn't that we want any woman." Bob looked at Ur. "You want one specifically?” Isaac tugged on his gray trousers. "Yes.” Bob handed Isaac a glossy photo. "And this is the woman we want. We tried to get in touch through her 800 number and letters, but only reached some women talking like her." Isaac had expected a picture of a famous model, movie actress or even the late Princess Diana. He had been wrong, but he recognized the woman in the photo. "Why do you want her?" "We think that her kinetic responses might create the perfect simulacrum or SOMA in cyberspace." "Boys, my industry isn't a slave trade. Some of these women, they don't want to have any contact with men. This woman is one of them. I can get you hundreds of other women, who would love to do this.” Isaac finished buttoning his shirt to the top. "W-w-we w-w-want her." Ur's sputtering urgency proved that this woman meant more than anything else in any world of their creation. "I can see that, but why?" Isaac put on his suit jacket. "Most of the actresses in your films are faking it.” Bob's fingers scrambled on his chest, as if he was playing a video game. “Lena de Gama never does. She's real. Ur agrees too." Over-saturation of supply had debased adult films to the point where even the most loyal customer's senses were deadened by the lurid visual presentation. TV was reaching its diversional shelf-life, DVDs had another maybe five years before the internet on computers swamped the industry like a rogue wave, but even that would lose its audience over time, however these boys' invention could carry pornography in the 21st century, since they were seeking love, not sex, and that emotion was rarer than a mere orgasm. "Everyone might have a price, only if they’re willing to do what is asked of them." Isaac tightened his tie. "We need her." "Boys, I can't guarantee anything." "We know that, but we'll really appreciate your trying." Bob returned the photo to his Ur, who stammered, "T-t-t-thanks." "Thank me, if I succeed." Isaac handed them two tickets for the XXX awards ceremony at the convention. "Maybe you'll see Lena tonight." "You really think so." Bob clapped his hands. "You never know, unless you go.” Isaac reached into his jacket for the $50,000 inside his jacket. “This is a gift. Is there anything else I can do?" “Thank you. We're good for everything, but the girl." "Like I said, I'll see what I can do.” Isaac shook their hands and exited from the hotel room, passing the bank of elevators before continuing onto the stairwell. Several years ago he had been trapped in the MGM Hotel fire. The smell of the charred bodies stacked in the elevators from that day still rankled his nostrils and he climbed down the steps with a slight limp. Isaac could still swim 1000 meters under thirty minutes every day and his heart rate was 90/60. Not many men his age could say that, especially after his life. On the ground floor Isaac headed into the casino and stopped at a crowded blackjack table. He handed the pixyish blackjack dealer $3000 to change into $100 chips. Over the next thirty minutes he racked up several streaks of wins, but all good luck comes to an end. Isaac held two fives against the house's Jack of Hearts and the down card. Any player would figure the down card for a ten, making the house's hold a twenty. "Do you want another card, sir?" the dealer asked with a smile, hoping for a tip. "Yeah, Gramps, it's either hit or sit.” The small-time gambler in a recently purchased Western rig pointed to the table. Isaac indicated that he was staying with his deal. The surprised dealer flicked the next card to the 'cowboy' and the Queen of Spades busted him with 23. As the new dealer racked in the chips from the losers, the cowboy griped, "Pops, why you sit on a ten?" Isaac dropped over $5000 in chips into a leather pouch. The pseudo-cowboy grabbed his left arm. "I asked you a question, Gramps. Why?" "Cause I figure the next card would break you, sonny." Isaac's lackadaisical tone infuriated the cowboy. Before the dealer press the security button, the cowboy gripped the blackjack table for support. Unseen by the video cameras or standers-by Isaac had sapped him in the groin with the weighed bag of chips. He tipped the dealer a $100 chip and said with a grandfatherly voice, "Thanks for the cards." "Better luck next time, sonny." Isaac patted the white-faced cowboy on the shoulder. Emerging from the casino into the Glitter Gulch's mega-watt blitzkrieg, Isaac stepped aside to avoid young swaggerers on the broad sidewalk. Two of them laughingly bumped into him and he mumble to himself, “No respect, that's what the young people of today have. No respect for anyone or anything." In the old days it was different, however anytime he mentioned the 'old days' to a youngster, their eyes glazed over with a hyper-stimulated boredom and he had been the same at their age. Fifty years ago Las Vegas had been a sleepy desert crossroads of vacant lots surrounding a small county court house with a couple of gaming houses/bars as a diversion from the dust. As a gangly 20-year old Isaac had wanted little more from life than to hang with his friends in Brooklyn. All that changed when an infamous racketeer from Brownsville asked him, "What do you think of pornography?" "Nothing." Isaac figured that was what he was supposed to say, plus it was the truth. Later he learned that the first skin film FREE RIDE was back in 1904. "Good." The gangster brought Isaac out to California, where the porno trade had been re-located to the Valley to take advantage of the cheap Mexican labor. His boss stuck him in a secluded North Hollywood studio apartment furnished with a bed and 8mm movie camera. His stable of stars consisted of buxom strippers, aging b-movie starlets, and starving actors. Films were one-reelers shot by down-and-out Hollywood directors. Stroke books were penned by writers blackballed for communist ties. The after-hour blue movies played in hick cinemas and at VFW stag parties. Isaac even arranged special live shows for the elite of Beverly Hills and no one cared as long as the police were given their bone. Throughout the Fifties the business remained small time. The Sexual Revolution freed the porno industry and the money grew from thousands to hundreds of thousands to millions. During these bonanza years Isaac Conti had been satisfied to produce the best sin films possible and resisted any urge to go BIG, for the semi-illegality of the industry allowed the city, state, and Federal government to crush any consolidation of power threatening Hollywood. Only the First Amendment prevented them from being shut down by the Feds and while the country's forefathers had never intended the freedom of speech should apply to deep throats, the Constitution was a wonderful document, because anyone could interpret the forefather’s words according to their beliefs. At Las Vegas Boulevard Isaac hailed a taxi to the convention center and he studied the hordes of tourists on the Strip. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought these waddling pedestrians were at a mall, which was probably the only time most of them use their feet. The taxi pulled up to the fortress-like convention center. An overhead banner welcomed visitors to the International Consumer Electronics Exhibition, the national showcase for this year's generation of super computers, DVD players, flat screen TVs, stereos, and video games along with any gadget you needed to plug into a wall socket and Isaac joined the throngs of exhibitors, businessmen, and buyers entering the Las Vegas convention center. The VCR had opened the home to the porno market and thereby liberated the industry from the threat of local obscenity charges, though the fast-forward button also meant the budgets shrank and the scripts disappeared, as the mostly-male audience sought out only the hard-core segments. Presently the adult videos composed nearly 14% of all sales and 25% of the rentals in multi-billion dollar home entertainment market, but more importantly XXX content dominated the internet. Porno knew how to lick the hand that fed it and linked the annual adult entertainment awards ceremony to the closing of each year's electronic convention in Las Vegas. Isaac Conti presented his VIP credentials and the uniformed security guards waved him through the crowd. He passed various production companies' promo stands catering to every pornographic genre; hard-core, soft-core, amateur, S&M, foreign, Homo, Lesbian, until a curvaceous blonde wrapped in a shiny pink plastic sheath pressed her rock-hard breasts against him. "Mr. Conti, it's nice to see you again. Would you care to give a donation to the Free Speech Alliance?" "Certainly, my dear. Anything for a good cause." Isaac fervently supported the Alliance's fight against any infringement of the Constitution's First Amendment. "You don't remember me, do you?" The blonde caressed the crook of Isaac's elbow. "Sure I do. 1989. Spring. Seven years ago. PIZZAGIRL II." He had paid her $300 for three money shots and the total production cost of $22,561 and the film had netted over $370,000. "Always great to see a star like Che Chasta." He slipped a $100 bill down her stacked cleavage. "So you do remember me?" the porno actress whispered in his elephantine ear, "Maybe you'd care to make a more private donation later." "Maybe." Isaac remembered her as his niece's companion during her hellfire period. "But I'm old enough to be your grandfather." "Some girls like older men." Che's heavily lacquered fingernail skated a feathery Figure 8 over his chest and her other hand dropped down to caress Isaac to swift tumescence. "Besides you don't look a day over fifty. Don't feel fifty down there either." The elderly producer calculated how long he would last at the awards ceremony. "You can collect another donation at the Desert Winds in about an hour. Room 253." "Why you staying there?" The seedy hotel was scheduled for demolition next year. “This event as always is for the young like you.” Same thing goes for people." "Whatever you say, Mr. Conti." Che Chasta winked to several fans begging for a flash of her flesh. An arrest for an impromptu sex show after last year's convention had tightened the boundaries of indecency in Vegas. Nevada was a Mormon state. Still Che Chasta was a mistress of desire and she wiggled before the Free Speech booth, fingering her wild blonde mane to her fans' applause. Whereas some people display their achievements with diplomas and honors, Che's sexual exploits both on and off-screen were her claim to fame, although few of her playmates came out to play anymore. They had either heard ‘Taps' or joined the near-religious cult of the sober and even she was wearying of being the only one left standing. There had to be someone here like her, but most of the women in the business were plastic versions of America's female ideal. Che liked natural. She loved crazy even more. Before she could sign the next promo poster, a hand snatched Che through the curtains of the booth and she almost screamed, until seeing who it was. "Louie, you're hurting me." "I thought you liked pain." Louie Sinreich pinned Che Chasta against the rough wall, clumsily reinforcing his 'top' position over her 'bottom'. "So?" "I did like you told me." Che squirmed futilely for effect. "You did?" He had watched too many of his own films and believed they showed men how you were supposed to treat women. "Yeah, I arranged a date at his room in an hour. I do good?" The pain Louie inflicted did not turn her on, but she shuddered for his pleasure, hoping he would leave her alone after he got his kicks. "Very good for once." Louie kicked her high-heels apart. "You've been such a good girl, I might have got you off." "You did?" Che had imagined his talk about getting the pandering charges against her dropped was strictly talk. "All state charges will be dismissed in a few weeks." Louie eased up on the curvy starlet's arm. "You'll be free again." "Thanks, Louie." Che Chasta allowed him to lead her through the crowds of wide-mouthed tourists and star-stunned fans. She had been Best Starlet of 1988 and 1989 and won Best Oral Performance for 1990 and 1991. The dream ride of dating rock stars and traveling around the world in 1994 ended with an arrest for solicitation/possession and a six-month bid in the LA County Jail. The next five years were duly noted in several police blotters around the country culminating the disappearance of her boyfriend/manager followed by Louis Sinreich's resurrection of her career as gang-bang queen. "Where are we going?" Che tottered on stiletto heels. "I want you to see someone." Louie stopped near a booth topped by the banner WOMMIN IN WOMMIN FILMS. A huddle of male and female fans fought for the attention of an exotic woman with shoulder-length black hair. The leather Catholic schoolgirl outfit accentuated her youth and a frisson of lust crackled through Che’s body. "Lena de Gama." Louie destroyed her admiration with a twist of her arm. "Biggest starlet in Lesbo films. Grossed over two million from some forty films. No one does that volume. She's a star and I want her in my films." "She only does women on women films." Gossip within the girl-on-girl circuit had it that she was hot on the set, but also her director rarely let the young girl out of her sight. "If she did straight fuck films, she could make a bigger fortune, which is where you come in." "How?" Che arched her back to relieve the pressure on her socket. "Very simple. You seduce her tonight and bring her back to your place in LA. I'll visit later and take over from there." "What if...?" "Spare me the 'what ifs', Che. Just think about those bull dykes in the prison," Louie punctuated his threat with an upward push. Her three months in the LA County jail had not been half as bad as the stupid prison rape videos Che had made for Louie. Still jailing was no holiday. "Louie, I'll do it." "That's my girl, now go shake those 36-DDs in the little muff-diver's face and make her an offer she can't refuse." Louie released Che's arm. Blood flowed back into her hand. "I can handle her." "See that you do." He stopped, spotting Bob Olsen and Ur Bell approaching Lena De Gama's booth. Two months ago Louie had heard of their invention and visited their Sherman Oaks lab to offer of money and sex as an investment. They had rebuffed him thanks to the nerds' loyalty to Isaac Conti. After tonight they might be more willing to accept his largesse and he pushed Che forward. "Go get her." Louie vanished into the crowd and Che daubed at her crocodile tears with a crumpled tissue. Her favorite movie was CINDERELLA, except all her Prince Charmings ended up as ever-worsening versions of her stepfather. "Bastards." She took a deep breath, then sashayed through the fans' feeding frenzy to where the young girl was finishing an autograph. Lena gazed up at the famous veteran of over a thousand XXX films, loops, and videos. She was her idol and Lena lifted a pen. "You want an autograph?" "What about signing me?" Che scanned the crowd for undercover vice cops and bared her breast. “You only wanted an autograph?" Lena swirled the felt nub around Che's nipple. Cameras clattered rapidly, as they mugged seductively for the cameras. "I can think of a more personal souvenir I'd like to have." The flash of strobes seared their eyes. "I can only guess." Lena rubbed against Che's thigh and the blonde's pink dress rode higher up her legs, revealing more and more thigh to the snap-happy fans. "I just wish it was a little more intimate." "That could be arranged. I mean, we like the same things, I think." "You might be right." The throbbing whiteness faded from Lena's vision. A warm female hand guided her away from the WOMMINS ON WOMMINS booth. By a fire exit Che encircled the smaller girl's waist. "What are you doing later?" "I had no plans." From the beginning Sherri and Lena had agreed to an open relationship. The only stricture was that they came home alone. Unless it was for a menage a trois or more. "I'm driving back to LA, though I was thinking about stopping in Death Valley for the sunrise." Two women, a car, the desert night. The story wrote its own ending. "You care for some company?" "If company is only the two of us." The two women walked arm in arm to the Convention Center's banquet room, at which the AVFA honored its actors, actresses, directors, and producers. An award for 'BEST LESBIAN PERFORMANCE' would reward this year’s winners with more work and more work meant more money and more money meant you had to play the game of those in power, such as the sharply dressed man in his forties confronting Che and Lena near the entrance. "And here are two of my favorite ladies in the world." "You say that to all the two women in here," Che remarked dryly, since Carl James’ talent agency controlled nearly every actresses and actors in the Valley. "I suppose you would be right, if it weren't for Lena here." Carl extended his hand. "I'm pleased to finally meet you." "The answer is no," Lena replied with a quick sharpness. "How do you know the answer, if you haven't heard the question?" "Because you want me to be in a film with a man." "And is that so awful?" "If you have to ask, then you don't accept the answer." "Lena, don't be so hard. Everyone in this room. All your fans, male and female, want this from you. You can't imagine the number of phone calls I receive from directors, producers, and magazine editors wanting___" "I can imagine, since I get the same phone calls and the answer remains no." "If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me. Once more congratulations for tonight’s award. You deserve it.” Carl James noticed Che's scowl and smiled, recognizing three was one person too many for these two. "And what about you, Che? you're not angry at me too?" "Me angry at you?" Che wished the ground would swallow him whole. "You're the only man I love." "The only man?" "Yes, all the other were strictly practice." "Then that's a lot of practice," Carl James commented snidely, as the tuxedoed emcee on the podium requested that everyone be seated. "I hope I see you after the show." "Only in your dreams or on the screen." Che laughed as soon as he was out of earshot. "I'll meet you at the exit ten minutes after the final award." Lena kissed Che. "I'll be on time." Che walked away to her table and Lena spotted an older man staring at her. Normally she would have attributed his attention to obsession, but she knew perfectly well who he was and went over to him, "You look like you have seen a ghost." "No, young lady, not a ghost." Thousands of women entered the adult entertainment industry every year and only hundreds made films, however a few legends grabbed the audience by the balls and their bodies acid-etched into millions of men's libidos. "People like you are few and far between." "Should I take that as a compliment?” Lena had heard a million versions of this line. "Yes, one from an unknown admirer.” "Not really," Lena stated, as the audience sought their places to a bass and drum version of PROUD MARY. “You were the first producer to test all your actors and actresses for PCR/DNA HIV and require a clean bill of health before any on-screen copulation. You also supported a clinical disclosure about who had what and from whom." "Yes, and everyone squawked how it was an invasion on a person's right to privacy.” He would not win any medals from Congress, but Isaac was more than glad to enact policies to protect the workers in a business where too many performers get hurt in more ways than one. "Better that than dying.” AIDS was only one of the reasons for Lena's refusal to perform in male/female films. Several women had already been infected by gay co-starsand Lena insisted every actress on the set had bloodwork papers to lessen the risks. Isaac Conti was of the same mind. "I also know that you're Sherri's uncle. She and I are a thing.” “Really?” Sherri hadn’t been with anyone in years. “She told me all about you." "Everything?" That couldn’t be good. "The good and the bad." "Such as?" "How you came out her fifty years ago and worked in the porno industry, whenXXX films were criminal. How after Sherri's father died, you took up with her mother and dumped Sherri in a convent school. How she ran away from school and became a stripper, then did skin flicks and___" "I'm glad she didn't leave anything out." Isaac raised his hand in surrender. "Be happy that she doesn't speak about you like other men." "And how's that?" "Total hatred." Lena had never heard Sherri say a good word about her uncle, but he had his uses and she was playing him for one tonight. "I can tell she's grateful for your producing her films as well as letting her live for free in that condo. Not grateful enough to mention it of course.” Lena had always heard that Isaac treated his actors and crews with more respect and figured him for a good guy no matter what Sherri and her friends thought about men. "No, I couldn't expect anything like that.” Isaac was glad Sherri had someone like her. "How is the work on her film going? The one about the last man on earth? She find a male lead yet?" "No, you would think it would be a snap to find an actor for the part in LA." "She has the man in her head." "I know. The lead from SIMON OF THE DESERT." "You know the film?" "Bunuel didn't have enough money to shoot an ending, so it ends it with the saint in a nightclub. Not easy finding a man like that in LA." "Especially since if she hates all men.” "Are you the same way?" Considering most of these starlets' histories with men, Isaac did not fault Sherri's animosity toward his half of the species. "I'm too young to hate all men.” She cocked her head to the side, so the black hair fell across her face. "I only hate the ones I don't like." "I can only hope that I'm one of those you don't hate. Maybe this will help." He gave Lena his winnings from the blackjack table. “If she needs more, have her call me.” Lena pushed back the stray strands and squeezed the envelope. Only money felt this thick and hard. Sherri wanted ADAM AND TWO EVES to remain a strictly 'woman's film' and probably would have thrown the packet in the old man's face. Lena was more practical and stuck it into her pocketbook. "Thank you." "Give my love to Sherri and congratulations on your award." Isaac backed away. "Here's my card. You can always reach me at that number. Just in case." "Sure." Lena joined her table of adoring lesbians. At the main exit Isaac Conti observed the gathering with a bittersweet eye. Che Chasta was seated at a table with Carl James and Louie Sinreich. Isaac had had many dealing with the former, however the latter had arrived in California in the late 80s and thrived on the innovative exploitation of CD-ROM, the 970-telephone numbers, and soft-core satellite broadcasts from Canada to the rest of America. While Louis might be technically cutting edge, he was constantly scheming to take over someone else's action, as if he were on a mission to control the business. Isaac had seen his type come and go. No one could harness this industry. Not the police, not the government and certainly not anyone within the business, but Louis Sinreich would have to learn that lesson on his own. The lights dimmed and a canned fanfare blared through the PA. A spotlight shone on the emcee, a veteran stud staging a comeback to pay off a delinquent tax bill. His off-key MY WAY was greeted with applause. This was an easy audience. Always was, then again all old people think that, mostly because it's true. Isaac took a last glance at Che Chasta. If the blonde planned on meeting him later, she would have a hard time leaving that crew. He was only slightly disappointed by her deceit. At his age he could indulge himself in believing a lie, for he had little else to lose, but sleep, and he could catch up on his rest in the next life. It was not so far away. EIGHT By 10PM everyone in Las Vegas was either gambling in the casinos or sleeping under TV's warm glow. The rear lot of the Desert Winds Inn was deserted other than by out-of-state vehicles. Sean and Driscoll got out of the Mustang and walked to the back entrance. The ex-cop opened the stairwell door,. ”This is the place.” “Here?” “No, you go one flight up. The old man doesn't take elevators. No one uses these stairs. No closed-circuit camera either.” Driscoll screwed a long silencer onto plastic-gripped .357 revolver. “The casino security is too interested in catching skimmers and card-counters to worry about the back stairs. When you see him, stick the gun about three inches from the back of his head and pull the trigger. The silencer will make it real quiet. He drops to the ground and you steal his wallet, and then meet me outside. One more thing, don't stick the gun into the back of his neck, because he could whip around and you'd have a fight with an old man on your hands. You got it?" "Yeah." Sean listlessly accepted the revolver and Driscoll tapped the stairwell's window. "I'll be watching from out here." “What if___” Sean turned on Driscoll. "Does 409 Seaview Road mean anything to you? Mom and Dad Land, right? You hit me and Frank will take out your WonderBread family in Boston. You got that, Seano?" Sean lowered the gun to his side and Driscoll shoved him inside the stairwell. "It'll be over before you know it, Seano." Driscoll left him to climb the stairs. Sean's knees buckled on the second-floor landing and he leaned against the concrete wall for support. His killing someone was an act, which thousands around America committed everyday in scores of different ways, he wasn't killing any stranger, not for money or the threat of death. The ex-cop was expecting a free show and Sean was fully intent on giving him one. His finger hooked around the trigger and he pressed the cold steel circle of the silencer's extended barrel to his temple. The suicidal twist of the killer killing himself would screw up Driscoll's and deRocco's plans, yet he couldn't gut up the nerve to find out waited beyond life. Another man's existence was unimportant. A man entered the stairwell and slowly climbeding the stairs. It had to be his victim. Sean lowered the muzzle from his skull and aimed the revolver where his target's head would appear. Two seconds later the old man from the photo stepped into the gun’s sights. Sean's index finger tightened on the steel. A little more pressure and the trigger would flick the hammer down onto the bullet. Sean stopped breathing, as the old man turned to focus his brown eyes on him rather than the silencer's black hole. "You don't look like a murderer." The old man arched his left eyebrow. "And what does a killer look like?" Sean's finger stalled on the trigger. "Like he's killed more than once," the old man stated matter-of-factly without fear. "You want to bet?" Sean centered the red-dotted gunsight on his victim's forehead. "I'm already gambling." "Then you lose, cause I have to kill you." "Nobody has to do anything they don't want to, but if you 'got' to, then do it already. In the meanwhile I'm going to close my eyes, because I don't want to watch." The old man's wrinkled lids shut, signaling his resignation to either of his assassin’s options. Sean would have done the same and this situational synchronicity forged an unforeseen link between the two. The old man opened his eyes. "See, you don't have a killer inside you." "Maybe not, but someone in the parking lot does and he'll kill us both, if I don't kill you." The old man lifted his hands higher and contorted his creased face into a parodied plea for mercy. "You ever play 'Cops and Robbers', when you were a kid?" "Yeah,” Sean replied, although coming from the suburbs he was more into ‘cowboys and Indians’. "Then we fake this killing." "Fake it?" "Yes, you pull the trigger. I fall down like I've been shot. You walk out. I lay low for a couple of weeks. You get lost. No one gets hurt. How's that sound for a plan?" "Like one I'd make up?" Sean asked himself whether he could trust this stranger. He had no other choice and he pulled the trigger. The silencer reduced the explosion to a metallic spit. The revolver recoiled up and away. The old man slammed against the wall and slumped heavily to the floor. Bitter cordite fumes snaked into Sean's nostrils, and he knelt to rifle the pants' pockets for the wallet. Standing up Sean again pulled the trigger. The second shot seemed quieter than the first and he leapfrogged down the stairs two at a time, clumsily sticking the gun into his jacket. Outside he jumped inside the Mustang and slammed the door shut. "Where's the piece?" Driscoll demanded, as the car squealed from the parking lot to merge with the 25mph traffic on Fremont. Sean grabbed the gun inside his jacket and his fingers dipped into the busted ketchup packet among the cold French fries he had stashed earlier. "Here." He handed the gun to the ex-cop, who spotted the red stain on Sean's hand. "First blood, Seano. Way to go. But get rid of it, cause blood is evidence." "Sure." Sean wiped off the red condiment with the paper towel. "So what'd the old man say?" Driscoll licked his lips like a lizard on cocaine. "He begged for his life." Sean half-expected the cop to high-five him. "A lot of them do that." Driscoll had been deaf to pleas for mercy. "Frank would be real proud of you. Not for nothin', but you came through like a pro. Showed no mercy. Where’s the wallet?” "I have it." Sean flipped the ex-cop the stolen wallet. "A stone-cold killer." Driscoll checked the IDs. "Damnit, you got the right guy too. You'd be surprised how many killers screw that up. We're out of here, Seano." The Mustang broke free of traffic and the two men rode in silence past the futuristic casino's fluorescent facades. Driscoll drove across Tropicana Wash's dry riverbed south out of town and Sean reflected on this evening's miracle. He lifted his eyes to the millions of stars overhead. He was up $10,000. Soon $20,000 and he hadn't killed anyone. Tomorrow he would be in California and fly to Panama. Once Driscoll and deRocco discovered how he had fooled them, they would be pissed, but would never find him on the San Blas Archipelago. Stars had to like him and he sat back, his body relaxed with his new freedom, laughing inside. He should have had more trust in his luck, but then everyone should when they can't count on anything else. NINE None of 273 Louie Sinreich's 1990 video productions had been recognized by his peers at AVFA awards. Each film had earned good profits, but more disturbing was that none of his stars had been nominated for the final award of the evening, Best New Starlet. The Emcee was a veteran XXX actor. Ray Savage. He wore a tuxedo. No shirt. At 43 still in great shape. "Fuck it." He shrugged off the rejections, satisfied that Steven Spielberg must have felt the same at the Oscars. "Excuse me." Bob Olsen's droned from his left. "Nothing. What were you saying?" Louie had been humoring the hippie blob by nodding his head, as if he really was listening. "Now most of the people working on Virtual Reality are interested in the visual stimulation. Just like we were nothing, but eyes. They think that VR will be a movie we can only watch, instead of feel. You know the first VR we programmed at Livermore labs was an interactive sex dream and we used hypnotic brain wave patterns and the proper hertz levels to lower the senses' defenses. Once the Pentagon figured out I was trying to make love, not war, they pulled me off the project. For about one day, because____" 'B-b-bob." Ur Bell admonished his partner with a withering glance. "You're talking t-t-too much." "About what?" Bob had a beer in his hand. Half the bottle was gone. He talked too much to drink too fast. "Ur’s right." Louie was good at keeping his mouth shut. "The best secret is the one you never tell." Before he could continue, the emcee tore open and envelope and announced Lena de Gama as the winner for the Best New Starlet award. Everyone in the auditorium rose to their feet to applaud the young actress attire in white, as she climbed up to the podium. Ray Savage stepped aside and handed her the microphone. "I want to thank you all for this honor. I don't know whether I deserve it, but I sure earned it and I couldn't have done it without help. I'll make it short." Bob Olsen and Ur Bell were spellbound. Che Chasta gazed on the young vixen with her heart melting. The Johns stood with their mouths agape and the rest of the audience wore mixed expressions of desire, longing, and hope. Louie had underestimated her sexual allure, for even he was drawn into this gathering's cult of worship and even telling himself she was just another woman couldn't break her hold. His cell phone silently vibrated against his ribs broke the spell and Louie lifted it from his jacket. "So?" "Your itch has been scratched," the ex-cop from New York informed him. "Great." Louie had eliminated another barrier to his future and he leaned over to Che. "I want you to get her coming off the stage, so no one else can grab her." Lena finished her speech and the crowd cheered, as if she had discovered a cure for AIDS. The young actress curtsied with a ballerina's grace and descended from the stage to a mob of admirers. Hands groped at her breasts, pinched her ass, and tore at her clothes. Bodies pressed closer. Tighter. She couldn’t move. As a child in Madrid she had gone swimming in a crowded pool. The lifeguard had whistled for everyone to leave the pool. She had been knocked under water by the rush. She couldn’t breathe then and was out of breath trouble now. A hand snatched her away from the maelstrom. Che Chasta. The surging throng stepped back in anticipation of the two putting on a show. They groaned with disappointment, as Che led Lena from the hall. It was time to call it a night. Louie Sinreich was more pleased with the evening's events. All charges had been dropped against Che, the Johns were ecstatic to meet the stars, Che had Lena, and once the geeks learned that old man had been whacked, they would have to work with him. All in all today had been as good as it gets and Louie smiled, "How sweet it is." The truth was that it was very sweet and promised to only get sweeter. TEN “Where are we going?” Sean was nervous. “Why aren’t we going to the airport?” “No one saw us. I don’t want to take the risk. “ The fastest way to LA from Las Vegas was the Interstate. The Mustang had a full tank of gas, but Driscoll exited into the desert. Route 160 was no short-cut. They were climbing into the mountains. Sand and rocks. Sean repeated, "Where are you going?" "There's a place up ahead I wanna stop at." Driscoll's eyes concentrated on headlight’s funnel boring through the night. "Stop where? There's nothing out here." Off the unlit two-laner not a single dot of electricity challenged the star-lit desert and Sean grasped the door handle, ready to bail out at 80mph. The car locks popped down and Driscoll turned on the radio. Elvis singing LOVE ME TENDER. "Sure, there's nothin', but nothin' out here, except Pawrump." "What's Pawrump?" The name sounded like a bodily function. "Two roads crisscrossin' in the middle of nowhere between a coupla golf-courses, though they're closed now." "So why we going, if everything is shut?" Sean hated surprises. "Because they have a couple of whore houses that never close and nothin' makes me hornier than murder." Elvis was a welcome change from the boy band drivel on the other stations. "I like the idea of driving straight to LA better." "And I like the idea of killin' a couple of hours with some trailer park whores. I'll get you LA tomorrow morning. How's that sound?" "Like it's my only choice." “Free will doesn’t exist in this life.” ”Only things you had to do.” "No one ever said anythin' about this bein' a democracy," Driscoll interrupted the discussion by turning up the music. The DJ put on a new tune and Driscoll hummed out of tune NOW OR NEVER. The Mustang accelerated to 90mph. "Seano, I know how you feel." "I don't think so.” Their only common link was 9th Precinct. "Hell, I felt the same as you after my first time. Me, I popped my cherry back in 1980. I go into an Avenue C apartment on a 1054 call, expectin' to clonk some PR for beatin' up on his wife, only I walk in the wrong apartment and stumbled on a heroin deal. One of the spics whips out a piece and pulls the trigger. I almost shit in my pants. I mean I thought I was dead, 'cept the greaser's gun jams. You shoulda seen his face, when I popped 'im. Boom. One shot to the head." The ex-cop laughed with the recollected relief of having dodged fate. "This old guy was scared.” Sean looked at the desert. It was empty. "You’d think after living that long he’d be happy someone put him out of his misery." The car raced toward Mountain Summit Springs. Mountains got tall. And then taller. "No, he wanted to live." And Sean had spared him. "What he wanted was unimportant, Seano. I'm proud of you for pulling this off like a man." "Thanks.” Driscoll might have bought the faked murder, but this detour was wrong. The DJ announced the rest of his shift was dedicated to Elvis and Driscoll tapped on the steering wheel to the beat of DON'T BE CRUEL. At the top of the pass, he pointed to a ball of light shimmering on the dark horizon like a star fallen to earth. "That's Pawrump up ahead. Maybe another thirty miles. You're gonna love it there." "Yeah, I can hardly wait." It sounded like the perfect place to disappear off the face of the Earth. "Once we get to the whorehouse, I'll give you the other ten thousand, but you be careful, cause the 'girls' out here are kinda fast with their hands, if you get my drift." Driscoll stepped on the accelerator and the car sped up to 110 mph. After several minutes the car slowed to less than seventy. “Damn, I gotta take a pee. I'll stop at the next road." "What road?" The desert was untouched by man. Sean never saw the punch riveting four knuckles into his temple. His mouth tasted metal, as if all the fillings in his teeth had come loose before he tumbled down a narrowing black hole to hover above a pool of unconsciousness. Something had gone horribly wrong and he didn't need any fingers to add up what, because sum came up snake eyes. The Mustang rocked onto a rutted dirt road for a quarter mile. Driscoll's right foot stomped the brakes and the car skittered to a stop. He opened the passenger door and Sean Coll slumped from the car like a bag of potatoes. The ex-cop squinted back to Route 160. No headlights lit either direction. Driscoll might have lost his taste for killing strangers, bu he relished kicking Sean Coll several times, but burying shoe into the fallen man's ribs knocked his left knee out of alignment. ”Goddammit.” The big man turned Sean face down in the sand and slipped the five wallets his partner had Fed-Exed him into Sean's jacket, then dropped the empty .357 revolver on the sand. "Frank, you're a genius." Tomorrow the local cop would investigate the buzzards circling in the air. The police chief would wire the NYPD about the wallets and revolver on the corpse. If the NYPD were on the ball, they would link the revolver's forensics to five unsolved New York murders and tonight's killing in Vegas, clearing any suspicion on his partner and him.A car was coming from Las Vegas on Route 160. Probably two miles away. Driscoll lowered to the 9mm’s muzzle to his victim. "Seano, you won't feel a thing." The ex-cop's words broke through the rushing in Sean's ears. Black shoes bracketed his head. Why sand was in his mouth and what the cold metal stuck into the base of his skull came to Sean. Driscoll was ignoring his own instructions about placing the muzzle to the back of his victim's neck. Sean twisted his head to the side. An explosive crack broke the sound barrier next to his ear and a sword seared across his neck without decapitating him. He rolled over and wildly swung his fist. The punch connected with the ex-cop's knee and threw Driscoll off-balance into the Mustang. Sean scrambled to his feet and juked from side to side. Shots rang out and bullets hissed through the air. Sand squished beneath his feet., as he ran for his life. Driscoll emptied the 9mm at the disappearing target. He jammed another clip into his automatic and popped off every round without hearing a shriek of pain. “Godfuckingdammit.” The ex-cop ha hit nothing, but the wind. He jumped in the Mustang and shoved the shift into DRIVE. The spinning rubber excavated a hole in the loose sand and buried the rear tires up to the hubcaps. Driscoll beat the steering wheel and screamed, until a chunk of phlegm popped out of his lungs. Looking into the black desert, the ex-cop rubbed his aching knee and said aloud, "Frank's not gonna like this." And that was the god-awful truth. ELEVEN The winter wind whistled over the Skylark’s ragtop. The heat was on full and Che Chasta slid across the seat to caress Lena's thigh. Neither of them could wait till Death Valley. "Is there a town close?" Stopping in the middle of nowhere might look good in a movie, yet there was no telling what kind of homicidal maniac was lurking in the dark and Lena stepped on the gas. "I see a light up ahead." Che hadn't never been on this road. "Might be a town." Good." Lena spread her thighs and the blonde’s hand slipped inside her panties. "You know I've dreamed about meeting you for a long time.” "Not a gang-bang film." Che groaned, for while she could handle more than a hundred men at a row by imagining her body belonging to someone else, the recovery time from the all-out assault took weeks. "No, it was a old film with Sherri.” Lena clenched the blonde’s hair tight like Sherri had in one scene. “Just the two of you.” "GIRLS LIKE US was our only solo film.” Che didn't see any reason to tell Lena that they had done the film to pay off a drug debt. "You really like it?" "No, but it was like your bodies were unattached from your souls." "Yeah, we were damned." "Drugs?" "Crazy too." "What was Sherri like back then?” Lena wished she could have been them with them for a night or two, only no time machine could resurrect that Sherri without killing her. "Sherri didn't care about anything. Certainly not herself. She would fuck anyone for a fix and rob them. A lot of people were after her and not to wish her good luck, but she was so wild, no one would touch her, since it was real apparent that she was going to kill herself sooner or later. Why? She never told me why. Maybe because she fucked too many men for no good reason or maybe she realized she could never go back to whoever she was before she started in the business. I don't know, but she was crazy and even worse once her brother died. She never tell you about this?" Before Lena could say, "No.", a blonde man in the black suit stumbled onto the road. She stamped on the brake. The sudden deceleration threw her passenger onto the floor. Lena braced for the expected impact, except the car swerved to a stop without her hearing the sickening thud of metal hitting a human body. The overpowering stench of burning rubber filled the interior and the Skylark's V-8 purred at low revs, its headlights pointing into the shadowy undergrowth. Che climbed onto the seat. "What happened?" "I might have hit someone" Lena also might have killed a human being. "What?" The blonde's eyes darted upward, as if a UFO might be fleeing into the heavens. "A man.” Lena looked behind the car. A prone form lay on the road’s shoulder lit by the red glow of the brake lights. "Men always show up, when you need them least." Che quickly pulled on her dress. Lena put the car in neutral and opened her door. "Where are you going?" Che clutched the younger girl’s arm. "I am going to see, if he is dead or alive." Lena picked up the heavy Maglite under the front seat. "Who gives a shit? Let's get out of here. No one saw nothing out here." "Except us." Lena got out of the car and focused the tight beam on the horizontal man. "Is he dead?" "I don't think so, but you take the wheel. If I shout, be ready to get out of here." Lena cautiously approached the man on the highway. He was in no shape to hurt anyone. His blonde hair was splotched with blood seeping from a cut over his left eye. Blood from a furrow on his neck was splattered on his white shirt. Neither wound could have come from her sideswiping him. When the flashlight's beam touched the man's face, he flinched and covered his eyes. "Are you okay, Mister?" Lena was relieved he was alive. "I'm just a little banged up, that's all," His left shoe was gone and he gasped for breath like he had been running a mile. "I got into a car crash back off the road." "Anyone with you?" The headlights of a car blinked in the desert. She had no curiosity to find out whether or not the man was telling the truth. "No, I was alone." The blonde man in the black suit blindly outstretched his hand. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise." "How can you be sure?" "Cause I'm in no shape to hurt anyone." The man shivered with an icy wind ripping across the road. "Help me." She played the light on him. There was something familiar about his face. Not from a photo, but Sherri’s description of the man they needed to cast in her film. Her grasping voice was in character, his beaten face was forgettable and the dusty suit completed the image of the last man on Earth. Like the repentant saint from Bunuel's SIMON OF THE DESERT. Trapped atop a Roman column safe from sin, yet not satanic temptation. There was no guarantee that he could act or would do the film or that he wasn't dangerous other than her having a feeling that he had been put here to star in that role. She just had a feeling and helped him to his feet. "You better not be any trouble.” "Just get me out of here and I'll love you forever." "That won't be necessary.” Lena was scared, but only for an instant, for the man sighed, "Good, because forever seems like it's coming real quick." When he flopped onto the trunk of the car, Che poked her head out the window. "Girl, are you out of your mind? Let's get out of here." "Open the back door," Lena ordered the blonde. "I'm not leaving him." "Great, just what the world needs. A good Samaritan for drifters." Che cleared their bags off the backseat and Lena released the man, who keeled through the car's open rear door. Half onto the seat. Half onto the floor. Lena shut the passenger door and sat behind the wheel. Both women regarded the man sprawled across the backseat. "What do you think?" Lena asked Che, as if she might be a better judge of men. "He looks no different than the hundreds of fuck-ups I've fucked for the camera or for the fuck of it. Just another man screwing up my night. We should dump him at the next town." "No hospitals. No cops," the man muttered from the backseat. "All I want is a ride to LA." "What if we're not going to LA, big boy?" Che rubbed her chilled skin. "Then you're out $500." The blonde man produced five crisp hundred-dollar bills. "Once we hit LA, you can throw me out of the car." "Deal." Che snatched the money from his hand. The blonde man crumbled into the seat, sapped to the bone by whatever had happened to him. "I hope he doesn't snore." Che checked the bills. They looked good. "Men like him talk in their sleep." Lena stepped on the gas and the Skylark raced along the forlorn two-laner. Che gave Lena $300. A 60/40 split. "So I guess our ride to Death Valley is shot." "The faster I get him to LA the better.” Even at 80mph it would take three or four hours, but she could tell the blonde man would be out for even longer. "I guess I'll have to give you a rain check." "I was afraid you would say that, because it never rains there." "You like his type?" Lena peeked in the rearview mirror. "You're asking the wrong girl. Remember I'm the gang-bang queen. I'll do anyone," Che boasted, though it was all an act. "I'm not asking about anyone.” Lena was having doubts about this man, whose face she couldn't see in the dark. "I'm talking about this one." Che studied the man for several seconds. "He's a little older than I like them, but I'd do him, if they was no one else in town. What about you?" "I haven't been with a man in two year.” She couldn't say she missed intercourse with men. "Hey, I told the truth. Now it's your turn." "If he was the last man of Earth, maybe." "Out here he's the only man on Earth." Che laid her head on Lena's lap. "Just remember that." The Skylark picked up speed and left only the tang of a V-8's exhaust on the passing wind, which was better for everyone and everyone on this highway was only the three of them. TWELVE A pale streak of dawn slithered below the charcoal black storm clouds impaled on the city's tallest buildings, as the streetlights dimmed one by one up Fifth Avenue. Traffic on the icy avenue was sparse and only a few dog-walkers braved the snow-clogged sidewalks in front of the Plaza Hotel. This morning most of New York would stay in bed except for those who had yet to go to sleep. "C'mon, ring, you bastard." Frank deRocco glared at the hotel telephone for the hundredth time since 3am. He had yet to hear from Driscoll. Never a good sign. Something had fucked up and the detective poured himself another glass of whiskey, which he downed it in one go. There was only two more glasses in the bottle. No way he was making the morning roster call at the 9th Precinct. Derocco dialed the station house and told the desk sergeant he was sick. With only seven months to go until his 'twenty and out', none of the white shirts at the 9th Precinct were going to bust his hump for a sick day or snow day and the detective flopped onto the mattress, his head drowning in a sea of swirls. A half-hour later the telephone rang and his hand groped for the handset on the night table. Only one person knew he was here. Driscoll. "It's me." His partner sounded high on cocaine. As usual. "Of course it's you. Who else is gonna call me here. My ex-wives?" deRocco slurred with the wind shivering against the windows. "I been waitin' all night for you to call. What's wrong?" "Nothin' really, but...." "I hate hearin' the word 'but.'" deRocco sat up too fast and keeled over onto the pillow. "Get it over with. But what?" "He did it. I saw Sean kill him with my own eyes." "And?" "I took Sean out to the desert like planned." "And?" Static interference answered deRocco. "You still there?" "Yeah, I'm calling you from a payphone in the middle of the desert.” "I don't care where you are. I'm gonna ask you one question, and I'm not wantin' to hear you say, "No." Ready?” deRocco was sobering up fast. “Did you take him out?" "Yes and no." "Whatcha mean, yes and no?" His partner explained about shooting Sean and his escape into the desert with the wallets along with the car stuck in sand and his bad knee. “I followed his tracks to the highway. Nothing. I finally got the car out and tried to find him. I drove to the nearest town. No sign of him. So what do I do now?" "You mean, "Now you fucked up." This news had ruined his day and it was only seven hours old. “Do you think he’s dead?” "Sorry." Kev’s voice was as contrite as that of an altar boy caught drinking the sacramental wine. "Save your 'Sorrys' for Judgment Day." deRocco rubbed his unshaven face and spoke deliberately, "This is what I want you to do.” ”What?” “Nothing.” ”Yeah,. do nothing till dawn. When it's light, go back to where you were and follow his tracks like you were an Indian. Maybe there's a God and you did kill 'im. If so, look for vultures overhead. Got it?" "I think so. Anything else?" "Yeah, you better spend some quality time on your knees prayin' you did kill 'im." "I already been doin' that." "Well don't stop, cuz his those wallets are a death warrant." deRocco stopped his harangue. Kev needed reassurance everything between them was same as always. "Everythin' gonna work out." "What if I can't find him? I mean I might have hit him, but it's a big desert out here." "Forget about it." "What about them wallets?" "Screw them too. We go to plan B. You head to LA and pick up the money for the hit." They had stashed around $400,000 in a Cayman account. That cache plus their pensions should keep them going for years, if not till death parted one of them from the other. "I'll meet you and we'll head anywhere in the world we want." "You comin' out?" Kev sounded like he had won Lotto. "Yeah, I have some vacation time I gotta take or lose." DeRocco was already visualizing his trip cross-country. "Not for nothin', but everythin' is gonna will be fine. Trust me." "Who else can I trust?" "Me and no one else, partner. If you find the body, call me. The last thing I want to do t is go out to L friggin' A." "I know, I know. Maybe I'll be lucky like you said." "Yeah, right, it's always darkest before the dawn" What worried deRocco most was that bad things usually came in threes. Even worst somehow that stupid song CALIFORNIA, HERE I COME popped into his head. Not getting rid of the ear worm had to be number two. He only prayed number three wouldn't be as bad as the first two, but the way his luck was breaking he couldn’t count on anything other than the worst and thankfully he always had known how to handle that end of the business. THIRTEEN Lena’s passenger remained unconscious the entire ride to Hollywood. An hour before dawn no one was on the streets and Che suggested dumping the stranger on the lawn of the Church of Scientology. "They know how to take care of people like him." "I'll take care of him." Lena had plans for 'the man from nowhere'. "Suit yourself, just drop me at my house." Che didn't say another word. Upon arriving at her bungalow she got out of the car and slammed the door, as if to wake the man in the back seat. Not a move. His breathing was the only sign of his not being dead. Che cleared the blonde mane from her face. ”When will I see you again?" "Here's my number." Lena scrawled the info on a fast food wrapper. "Sherri won't mind me calling?" "You and me. We're just friends?" "So far." Che kissed the young actress through the window of the LeMans. Their lips melted whatever faults they possessed between them. "You be careful of that man." "I can handle men." Lena looked over her shoulder. The man was dead to the world and almost dead men weren't trouble. "Call me." Lena drove over to the freeway. Traffic was light, but a heavy rain lengthened the drive over the Hollywood Hills. Lena shut her eyes. It had been a long drive from Las Vegas. Car horns woke her and she opened the window. The cold wet air revived her long enough to reach home in North Hollywood. A half-finished apartment complex within earshot of the Ventura Freeway. She parked the LeMans in the sheltered garage and turned around to the back seat. "Mister?" Nothing from the man. He was out cold. "Mister, I can't carry you." She shook his arm for several seconds, then slapped him in the face. "Where are we?" His hands covered his face. "LA." To Lena he seemed a million years old. She figured him for slightly over forty. "Can you walk a little?" "Maybe." The man pulled himself off the seat. Lena slipped from the car and helped him out of the car. He smelled of dust and old clothes. His blonde hair rubbed stiff against her skin like a brush. felt, She picked up her bag and led him to the elevator. without locking the car. It was safe. No one else lived in the condo building which had been condemned in the 1990 Upland earthquake. "Don't fall down," Lena told the man, as she pressed the elevator button. "Where we going?" His words stuck like mush in his mouth.. "Someplace safe." The elevator stopped on the 4th floor and the man in the black suit sagged against the wall. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't on drugs. Someone had beat him into this state. Lena knocked on the door to her apartment. "Sherri, open up. It's me." "Did you forget your keys?" Sherri opened the door. "Who is this?" “I'll tell you later. Help me carry him into the guest bedroom?" "Are you crazy?" “No, just do it." The two women dragged the man to the back bedroom and dumped him on the single mattress. For all intent purposes he was dead to the world. No danger so far. Lena stripped off his bloodstained clothes and bundled them in a ball. The swelling bruises to his head suggested that he might be suffering from a concussion. Sherri checked his pulse. Strong and steady. Lena went out into the bathroom and returned with their medicine kit and a wet towel. "He's going to live." "Good." Lena tended to the naked man's cuts. "Because I have plans for him." "What kind of plans?" Sherri surveyed the pale stranger's body and pointed to the ancient tracks from a needle. The older woman wore the same tattoo. "You don't get these for graduating from a seminary." "I know, I know.” Lena threw the covers over him and explained about finding the blonde man on the highway without mentioning Che Chasta. "I wanted you to see him." "Why?” This stranger didn’t belong inside their home. No man did. "You don’t see what I see.” "No, I don’t.” Sherri could only see a man. “Plus this wasn’t the deal.” ”What deal?” ”You and me. No men’.” "I didn't sleep with him and I have no intentions to sleep with him." Lena cleansed the wound on the man's neck. He was too far gone to feel the sting of alcohol. "But you said I could bring home strays." "Cats not men?" "I couldn’t leave him to die in the desert?" "A dead man in the desert sounds better than a dead man in my house." "He asked for my help." Lena reached up to stroke her lover's hair. Sherri pushed away the gesture. "I can understand that, but why didn't you dump him on the sidewalk like he asked? Plenty of people get their start out here like that. I want the truth." "I told you I had plans for him." "Like what?" "I see this man in the desert and I think SIMON OF THE DESERT.” ”He looks nothing like the saint.” ”Shave the saint." Lena pointed to the man. "Now you see what I see?" "You’re kidding." Sherri had to admit the man on the bed met the physical requirements for her road film’s lead. "Not at all. This is the Man from Nowhere. Look at him. He has been screen-tested by the road. As soon as I saw him, I saw the last man on Earth." "He's a complete stranger." At this point in Sherri’s life most men were little else. "ADAM AND TWO EVES will never be completed, unless we find a man for this role and who better to play a man from nowhere than a man from nowhere.” ”They are actors. “And you’ve rejected them all.” "I hate men." "I know you do. I've heard you and your friends talk about a world without men. -50% one of them called machocide. I respect your beliefs, but we'll never finish ADAM AND TWO EVES without a man, unless you want to play the role. This is our 'Adam'." Lena could sense Sherri’s buying to her suggestion. The final push had to come with cautious reason. "We do not have to love him or even like him. All we have to do is to film in a few scenes with him. Maybe you are a little jealous of this man?" “Not jealous, but he could be a rapist or a murderer." "He does not look the type." Lena stood over him with a bemused smile. ”What’s so funny?” ”If I drove past that spot in the desert two seconds earlier and I wouldn’t have seen him.” ”And a second later you would have killed him.” ”Life’s a question of timing.” ”He still could be a killer. ”Not him.” "And how can you tell?" "I have been with enough men in my life to know the difference between the good and the bad." She searched his pockets, uncovering a stack of hundred-dollar bills, five wallets, cold French fries, and an Irish passport.. "What are you doing?" Sherri half-expected the man to wake during this frisking. "You want to know who he is." Lena opened the wallets and examined their IDs. Only the passport matched the man’s face. She handed it to Sherri. "Sean Coll of New York." "At least now he has a name." "That doesn't prove whether or not he's dangerous." Sherri flipped the passport onto the suit in the corner. "Maybe to himself, but not us," Lena stated defiantly, yet she had to demonstrate that she wasn't buying this 100% and examined the wallets. "He might not be a killer. Maybe a pickpocket. Maybe a thief. But that doesn't change his looks?" "Are you sure you want to cast this man?" Sherri dropped the wallets on the floor. "Yes, he is better than some stupid actor pretending to be the real thing." "Everything in my body says get rid of him.” ”And everything in mine says he’s perfect.” ”This is crazy, we don't even have any money to shoot the film." "Yes, we do." Reaching into her backpack, Lena poured Isaac Conti's money from an envelope. Seeing the banded stacks of $100 bills, Sherri asked, "And where'd this come from?" "Your uncle gave it to me last night at the award ceremony to finance ADAM AND TWO EVES." "My uncle. I can't keep them out of my life." Sherri started to cry, until Lena caressed her cheek. "Don't be scared, baby. You’re the one always saying we have to make this film. How ADAM AND TWO EVES can save me from whatever happened to you. It would be easy for me to keep thinking it was a dream and nothing else. I have had a lot of those in my life. I believe in you and believe in this film. I think ADAM AND TWO EVES can change us, but we need a man to finish it. If not him, then nobody.’ Lena stared at the still form on the bed. No man was harmless in this condition and even unconsciousness was no guarantee of safety. “You got me, remember that and nothing else." "How can I forget? Without you I'd be like everyone else in LA. Wake up, drive my car to work, come back home, watch TV, sleep alone." "You might have a lover sometimes." "Strictly for sex in films and that doesn’t count. So let's make a movie.” Lena pulled Sherri out of the back bedroom into the living room, where they lay on the sofa. The young girl's jade eyes gazed up at her lover, as she arched her back to get closer. “You have the money. You have the actor. You have me. What else do you need?" "Nothing." ADAM AND TWO EVES could transport Lena and her to another world away from having sex on film. She visualized them on a movie theater screen with the man in the distant background. Sherri wrapped her arms around Lena, as if to protect the young actress from all the harm she had ever experienced as a woman. A last fear arose and she asked, "What if he refuses?" Lena trembled with anticipation of her lover's caressing her secret places. "Everyone wants to be in the movies." And that was no lie. FOURTEEN Sone was pounding on the bungalow's front door. Che Chasta pulled over her head. The someone did not go away. Finally she tossed back the warm covers, screaming shrilly, "I'm coming, I'm coming." Che slipped out of bed naked. The years in the porno business might have stripped the youth from her face, but the hours at the gym, a starvation diet, and flawless silicon breast implants had honed her body into an erotic temple for her male audience. She pinched her nipples, hoping the cute pizza boy was at the front door. Twenty-two. Off with the uniform. Naked blonde. In her bed Che knew that movie by heart. She had been in three of them. Che peeked through the curtains. Not the pizza boy and she took a couple of breaths before opening the door with a smile. "Louie, I wasn't expecting you." "You don't answer your phone, you get unwanted visitors." Louie's creased tuxedo revealed he had just arrived from Las Vegas. Same as her. Only later. Seeing the familiar black leather bag in his hand, she sighed, "I'm really tired, Louie." "Really? I'll tell you tired. I haven't slept all night. Why? Cause I was working, that's why?" Louie forced Che into the living room. Piles of unwashed clothing buried the furniture in the 1950s bungalow. "Che, you really should clean this place." "What for?" Che rarely spent any time in the house on McFadden Street. “I’m either on the road dancing or shooting a film.” "What if guests come over?" Louie groped her breasts. They almost felt real, but only almost. "I don't entertain here." Che never used the term 'home' for any of the motel rooms, beach shacks, trailers, condos, or rented houses at which she had stayed during her ten years in LA. Even the family house in Texas was just someplace from which she had run away, so her only valid images of 'home' came from watching re-runs of THE BRADY BUNCH. "This is just a house, not a home." "If you fixed it up, then it might be a home." Louie kicked a tee-shirt off the dusty carpet. "I didn't leave Texas to become a homemaker with two kids and an ex-husband, Louie." She had left that behind in Abilene. The kids live with her mother. She saw them four times a year. The ex-husband never. Che was happy with a warm bed, a parking space for her old Cadillac, and the freedom to walk around the house naked. Once too many people had her address or the police received too many complaints or the garbage got too high, she moved on and right now this bungalow had three of those strikes called against it . "No, I didn't think that you had." He rolled her nipples between his fingers like the tips of Cuban cigars. "Stop it, Louie, you're hurting me." The wide-open blackness of his pupils indicated that the producer was sizzling on Meth and she wished she had never answered the door. The door was strong and the lock stronger. "What's wrong? You don't want to play with Mr. Nice Guy?" Louie twisted her left arm behind her back. "You think you can leave me, just because that Vegas charge is history?” "I'm sorry, Louie." Che tried to play along and said, "I'm just tired." "I'm keeping you from Mr. Pillow, am I?" Louie pushed her out of the living room. Che almost screamed for ‘help’, except everyone in this Hollywood neighborhood minded their own business. Only palm trees were a witness to everything. "Tell me, Che. Were you a good girl and did like I asked?" "No," Che sobbed, since Louie was really hurting her. "No, what do you mean, no? I saw you leave with the bitch." "I went with Lena. We were in the car. We were heading to a dessert motel," "And what went wrong?" The producer hooked a finger under her rib and tugger her forward like he was dragging her soul out of her body. Louie was playing a lot rougher than normal. " The blonde quivered with fear. It wasn’t an act. "I did nothing wrong, I swear it. Some guy appeared out of nowhere and we almost hit him. Lena stopped and put him in the car. We drove him back to LA. She left me here. That's the honest truth, I swear it, Louie." "What do you mean a man from nowhere?" "Just like I said. He came out of nowhere. Lena said he looked like some guy in a foreign movie.” ”What movie?” ”I don’t know. Steve of the Desert.” She slid sobbing down the wall. "Che, who picked you up, when you were down and out?" Louie lifted the bone off her haunches. "You." Louie had paid the bail on a prostitution charge. His lawyer had squashed a trial. Che had never worried about the cost. Knowing now the price of his help, she wished she had done the time. "And this story you're telling me isn't bullshit?" Louie released his hold on the blonde. "No, it's the truth." "This man from nowhere. You ever see him before?" "No." Her head swiveled from left to right. "What'd this guy look like?" "Bleached blonde hair, black suit. He said he'd been in a car crash, but he looked more like he had been beaten up or shot. He was white, maybe in his late thirties, maybe more. Maybe less." "This guy, he say anything?" "Just to take him to LA, that's all." She skipped the $500. that she had earned her $200 for not throwing him out of the car. "Where?" "I don't know. Lena took him with her after she left me here.” "I believe you and you've been a good girl. So good I brought you a present." Louie patted his bag to indicate he was holding drugs. "Louie, I'm tired." Years ago this act might have excited her, but Che had experienced this routine with too many men. Men better and worst than Louie. "I can take care of that." Louie forced Che into the surprisingly neat bedroom. "Louie, let me go to sleep, then I'll do anything you want. Anything." "I know you will." Louie tossed her onto the bed and raised a threatening hand. Understanding her role in this scene, Che submissively extended her hands. The tuxedoed producer withdrew two sets of leather cuffs from the bag and strapped the restraints to Che's wrists and ankles, then he strapped a gag over her mouth. Seconds later she was bound, face-up and spread-eagle on the bed. Louie set up a video camera and approached the bed with a knife. The scream of their safety word died under the rubber ball gag and she futilely struggled against the restraints. "Che, stop the drama. This isn't a snuff film." Louie grabbed a handful of blonde hair and stuck the blade under her nose. "Not unless you move. No, I'm here to make you feel good. Just inhale." Che had been clean the last two months and now a combo cocktail of cocaine and heroin was on the tip of the knife. Her only defense was to stop breathing. "The funny thing is no matter how much you want to stop breathing, your body gets the better of you.” Louie clamped his fingers over her nostrils and within twenty seconds the room shrank from the corners of her vision. All of a sudden Louie let go. "This should wake you up, girl." Che greedily sucked in air along with the powdered narcotics. The burning attack on her nasal passage was all too familiar and she tried to sneeze out of the drugs, however the purity of what she had sniffed was already charging through every vein in her body. Her heartbeat accelerated from the rush of cocaine. A bell tolled in her ears, as blood roared inside her head. Che bit on the gag and waited for the coke crescendo to meet the trump card of heroin. It didn't take long and her body floated away on a warm opiated carpet, as she hummed the theme song to THE BRADY BUNCH. She didn't get past the first four bars . "Doesn't that feel good?" Che wished this sensation would last forever, so she wouldn't have to feel guilty once she came down. "This was just a little show of force to remind you who's on top here. You get the picture?" Louie watched the blonde's eyes roll into her skull. He went back to the camera to make sure it was running. He'd come back to free Che tonight. At her age she could use the beauty rest. Several minutes later the slam of the bungalow door echoed throughout the quiet neighborhood and Louie Sinreich crossed the deserted street to the Cadillac, then stopped before the new car to reflect on the image of a bloody man sprawled across a highway. The man from nowhere. There were about a hundred thousand losers in the LA Basin fitting Che's description. If not more.The blonde man didn't matter a rat's ass to his scheme of things. He was only after Che. A raindrop hit his head and Louie lifted his head to the sky. Heavy, black clouds boiled inland from the Pacific. The dense humidity in the air promised a winter storm and Louie got into the Cadillac. Seconds later the car pulled away from the curb. No one on the tree-lined street had seen him come and no one had seen him go, which was just why he bought the house in the first place. Easy come. Easy go. FIFTEEN Sean opened his eyes. Slashing sheets of rain spattered against the window. Palm trees whipped with the wind. Los Angeles. The sparse room was cold. Only a bed, a night table, and a lamp. Bare walls. He had been in LA five times in the 70s. Twice in the 80s . Sean wished it was colder. Snow was quieter than rain. His took a deep breath and coughed with pain in his right ribs. Driscoll must have booted him across the desert, while he was unconscious. His fingers' examination confirmed that his ribs were intact. Sean was a lot tougher than he looked, although the raw burn on his neck convinced him that he ha been lucky. Very lucky. Turning his head an inch the wrong way or a second later and he wouldn't be feeling anything right now. Someone had applied an oily antiseptic salve to the wound. The lack of medicinal odors excluded that he was in a hospital and the absence of shouting men ruled out jail. His left eye was swollen shut and Sean opened his right. He was lying naked under a crisp sheet and duvet on a bed in a small white room. He rose stiffly from the mattress and looked for his clothing. They were gone. A new pair of black jeans, a white tee-shirt, and black Levi jacket hung over a chair. A pair of work shoes lay on the floor. He flashed on this bare room being the After-Life, except this world felt too much like the last one to be the next. He stood and went to the window. The steady downpour washed over the flat suburban plain of tract housing. A few palm trees competed with the electrical power lines under a leaden sky obscuring the horizon. Even without any discernible landmarks This was not the LA of TV. It didn't matter if this wasn't Hollywood. He had been spared the end. Hobbling over to the chair, he tongued his teeth. Several were loose. Whoever had picked out the clothing had been correct about his size. Even better his US and Irish passport and the wad from deRocco were inside the jeans jacket. Some of the money was missing, however he was puzzled by the five additional wallets. None had money and the IDs of each belonged to different men. The names on the credit cards were unknown to him. Knowing deRocco and Driscoll he guessed the owners were dead. Sean put on the jeans combo. The shoes fit too. Opening the bedroom door he stepped into a hallway. The photos on the wall were of a young woman. Some were nude. It was evident from the look in her eyes that she was no angel. Sean crept across the entrance alcove, hoping to leave without any good-byes or thank-yous, except as his hand reached for the knob on the front door, a female voice said, "Welcome to back to the land of the living." Two dark-haired women in terry-cloth robes sat on the sofa in the living room. A tartan blanket lay across their laps. Twenty years separated their ages. The younger one was the girl from the photos. The older woman’s hand was under the blanket. It could only be holding one thing. "How long was I out?" Sean let go the knob and adopted a non-aggressive stance with his arms out from his side. "It’s been almost twelve hours since I picked you up in the desert." The younger female tilted her head to rest on the other woman's shoulder. “And I slept all of it?” “More like a coma than sleep.” The older woman circled her left arm around the smaller woman. "So you drove me here?" Sean vaguely recollected a woman on the highway, but little else. "From the desert." "We arrive here a little after dawn." The young woman answered, though any additional information was cut short by the overhead rumble of a plane. "When the weather gets bad, the air controllers at Burbank swing the over-flight pattern this way,” explained the older woman, as the raindrops replaced jet’s fading reverberation. "Where am I anyway?" Sean were drawn to the black-haired girl. Youthful smooth skin covered a sympathetic face balanced by full lips full and gem green eyes. He could have spent the rest of the day or time staring at her, but everything about her companion said lesbian. Even more so that the older woman hated men. "Sepulveda." The older woman recognized the word meant nothing to him and said, "It's in the Valley over the hills from Hollywood." "Yes, we live in North North Hollywood," the young girl stated, as if it were a popular joke. "So I made it to LA?" He had seen the older woman before. XXX films in Times Square Theaters. He had seen more than one. Sherri Conti. That was her name. He almost said it aloud. "Mostly in one piece." The younger brunette looked at him as if she knew him. "Thanks for the doctoring." "More like nursing." The young one's breezy manner demonstrated a youthful lack of fear. "My name is Lena and this is Sherri." “My name is___” Sean was in a position to bury his life-long persona under any alias. James Steele might work good. "Sean Coll." The older woman short-circuited Sean's attempt to re-IDed himself as his alias James Steele. “Mine is Sherri an this is Lena. We checked your passport, when we took off your clothes. We were a little curious, you understand?" "I would have done the same thing." Sean buttoned the jacket to leave. "Thanks for the ride and the place to stay. How much do I owe you for the clothes?" "Nada." Lena's robe slipped open to reveal a vee of olive skin and she smiled at him. "You gave me $500 for a ride to LA." "Oh, yeah." The unremembered trip had been worth every penny, since he had almost $9500 in my pocket. "Thanks again, I guess I'll be moving along." As Sean reached the front door, the older woman curtly advised, "I'd be real careful about spending that money in your pocket." "Why?" Sean braced for the bad news. "Cause most of it is fake." She clearly enjoyed telling him this. "They're good fakes, but fakes no less.” "Shit." Sean reached into his pocket for the stack of hundreds. The first four were good. The rest were fugazi. "I discovered that at the mall this morning, when I buy you the new clothes," Lena said with a sultry voice contradicting the virginal vision in the white nightgown. "I used one bill. It is bad. The other four were 'good'. I told the store manager a story with tears in my eyes and he does not call the police." "My little actress." The older woman pulled Lena closer to her. "What you have in your hand is commonly called a______" "A Minnesota Roll." Sean had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, where a conman salted a roll of cash with good money to hide the 'bad' from the mark. "Sorry, you got burnt, but better you hear it from us than the police." "Always is." Sean's dream of Indian Ocean sunsets evaporated into a rainy afternoon. Passing bad paper an unknown town was always a bad idea regardless of his desperation. "Are you okay?" Sherri asked without any real concern. "Great." Sean shrugged with indifference and put his hand on the doorknob. “I’ve been broke before.” "Ask him," Lena told her companion. "Ask me what?" Sherri regarded the younger girl and shook her head. "He has places to go. Let him go." "He has nowhere to go." Lena turned to Sean. "Where you came from, we don't care. What you did before, we don't want to know. How you got that money is none of our business. We don't ask questions and we don't answer them either." "I hear a 'but' coming." "No 'buts'.” Sherri motioned for Sean to sit on the only chair in the living room. "But you don’t want me to go." Sean crossed the wooden floor to sit on a chair opposite the two women. "No, we don’t." “So are you going to tell me why?” "It's like this. We want you to be in a movie. While your role is small, it's pivotal to the plot. The bulk of the film has already been shot. We need you for two weeks at the most. It'll be long and hard work, but you'll get a place to stay, food, a per diem, and $3000 upon completion. Of course it depends on a few things." Sean rubbed his left eye and pried open the crusted lid. He wasn’t blind. "Such as what?" "First of all this." Sherri's right hand came out from under the blanket. Sean flinched, except instead of the expected gun she pointed a Polaroid camera, whose flash momentarily blinded him. It spit a photo onto Sherri's lap and Lena picked up the developing picture. "Consider this a screen test. If the Polaroid hates you, so will a movie camera." “And if it likes you, the movie camera will do the same.” Che waved the photo in the air. Sean's vision returned with spots floating across the room. "So what's next?" "Read this line." Lena handed him a typed page, pushing a raven-black tress from her face. Sean scratched his head. Grains of desert sand trapped in his hair dropped on the paper. He assembled the letters into words and the words into a sentence. "So tonight doesn’t involved love?" "Wooden, but not too bad," Lena held the photo up to the light and showed it to Sherri. "He looks like he fell off a truck." "You're right, he is the Man From Nowhere, though he could do with a few less pounds. You have any problem with a diet, nothing too radical?” “Such as.” “No drinking and only one meal a day?" Sherri asked with a harshness expecting only one answer. "no problem, I’ve stopped drinking." "I've heard too many people tell me their drinking was no problem only to discover later on how big a problem no problem was." She was giving him one chance and one chance only. "If it does become problem, you're out. Also we don’t nee you hitting on us or the crew. That happens and you’re out on the streets again.” "Fair enough." This was too good to be true, yet Sean had to be honest. "I'm no actor." "We don't need an actor. We need the Man from Nowhere and no actor in LA has a face like yours." Lena assured him. "Man from Nowhere?" His left hand reached up to cover his puffy left eye. "You ever see Simon of the Desert?” “Yes, Bunuel’s short film. He ran out of money and ended it with the saint transport to a nightclub. Brilliant.” The older woman leaned forward and handed him a neatly bound screenplay titled ADAM AND TWO EVES. “You look like that actor in the last scene. Only damaged good. Read the script and you'll see why you have the part. Any questions?" "Who are the two 'Eves'?" Sherri's glare betrayed her deep-rooted machothropism, but he would not break from her stare. He had grown up with two sisters. "I'm one.” Lena on the couch shape-shifted from a woman to a girl and back to a woman in a matter of seconds. "And I'm the other." Sherri put the Polaroid camera on the coffee table. "The two Eves." Sean was thoroughly bewildered by the illusion. "That's us, so will you do the film?” Every post-high school waiter and waitress in New York and LA would have instantly thrown in the towel of their wage-slave existence and responded with a 'yes', but they didn't have two madmen on their tail. "This isn't a 'adult' or a 'snuff' film?" Sherri shook her head. "When we are finished, you'll be proud to have been in this film." "Oscar time?" Sean saw himself on the red carpet. "You have big dreams for a nobody." "Is that a sin?" Sean was inside from the rain. Starring in a film was his best move since refusing a kiss from his friend's daughter. "We don't believe in sin." "Where we shooting?" LA was too small for him. "Death Valley." "I'll do your film." No way deRocco would find him there. Lena gleefully clapped her hands together and kissed Sherri. The older woman was visibly displeased about his acceptance of her offer. "I'll go read the script." The room’s equation was for two not three. "You do that." The words were more a command. "Okay." He returned to the back bedroom like a child exiled from the dinner table and shut the door behind him. Giggles snickered through the thin sheet-rocked walls. If he were uninvited to be a voyeur, then he would block out being an erotic eavesdropper. Sean chewed two pieces of tissue paper. Once soggy wads, he stuck them in his ears. Almost silence. He stripped off his clothing and hung them over a chair. Sean lay on the bed and opened the screenplay to page one on the bed. Within five minutes the script fell off his chest. Sleep. Not dead, although dead wasn’t so bad as long as he didn’t die in a dream. SIXTEEN A early evening heavy rain drummed against the three story modern building on a cul-de-sac next to the Van Nuys Airport. Winter in Southern California. Storms out of the Pacific. Louie Sinreich's office was warm and dry. Just the way he liked it to interview new talent such as the skinny redhead seated before his desk. Her starstruck eyes studied the various publicity posters of airbrushed naked actresses. portraying the glamor of the sex industry. "Your poster could be up there?" Louie commented to get her attention "Really, Mr. Sinreich?" She sat up straight on the post-modern sofa, as if she was applying for an airline stewardess job. "Louie, call me Louie," he told the young girl. Her name escaped him, mostly since he would be changing it soon. Her pasty skin gave her the appearance of having lived underground, but also rejuvenated her younger than her eighteen years and young sold big in the XXX industry. "How long you been in Southern California, honey?” "About three months." The redhead bit her chapped lower lip. "Not easy getting settled in out here, is it?" "No." Like most of the girls his scout sent him, she was too embarrassed to look him in the eyes. "Maybe I can changed all that," Louie said, because many of these newcomers were straight off a farm or ranch, barely finished high school, and in LA for the sun and a chance to become someone other than who they had been back home. few months they fell behind the rent and a MODELS WANTED ad in the local paper seemed to answer these girls' prayers. At the most recent open call the 'photographer/scout/talent agent' had seen something in the redhead that separated her from the rest. He had phoned Louis and arranged an audition. The producer always scheduled them for late in the day. Louis never knew where they might lead. "I really like these shots. They show real potential." He held up a glossy black-and-white photo. His words were music to the redhead's ears. Her life was at a deadend. "Yes, seeing them I got real excited and said to myself, "This girl could go someplace.” "I could?” "Yes, you can, but I have to ask you a few questions. You're over 18, right?" The Vice Squad would arrest any video producers engaged in breaking the Mann Act with minors, so Louie prohibited all under-age girls from his set, even as spectators. "I'm almost 19." The redhead pulled out a wrinkled driver's license from her tight jeans. Louie handed back the license. "I also have your HIV test results, which were negative.” The free and easy 1980s and 1990s had suffered too many casualties to repeat those mistakes, especially since only two years ago one big name had killed herself after having received a positive result. "Now the next questions might be a little more difficult. All I need is a yes or no. Think you can handle that?” "Yes." She answered with certitude of a girl willing to sell her soul. ”You understand my films don't get airplay on the Family Channel.” "Yes." She didn't want her parents, family or friends back in Kansas seeing her naked with strange men. "And that they are adult films, meaning you and another person have sex on film?” "I'm okay with that." The redhead had been dreaming about stardom on the big screen ever since the men and boys back home fed her the line that she should be in movies. "You ever see an adult film before?” "Yes." "Did it excite you?” "Not really.” "Answer yes or no." "Yes, it did.” "Do you like sex?" Finding beautiful girls for his films was easy. People needed money. More difficult was finding women to show their inner fire, while having sex with a man, woman, or machine. Her tiny breasts rose against her flannel shirt. "Yes, I like sex.” More like men liked sex with her. For the most part she faked it. "Do you like oral?” "Yes, both giving and getting." The little redhead blushed, for no one had ever asked these questions. "Anal?" "I've never tried.” 'Girls?” "Yes." The redhead nodded, although never with a real lesbian. That innocence sold videos and Louie pressed forward asking, "Have you ever been with more than one man?” "No." "Would you like to?" This question was important, because the audience were keen for more than one-on-ones for newcomers. "I mean, could you get it on with a couple of guys in front of a camera?” "I guess I could." The redhead squirmed on the couch, imagining the actual act of having two men at the same time. Doable if she was paid. She needed money. Louie smiled at her naive eagerness to forsake her innocence and planned out a career trajectory. First year as the classic farm girl runaway. Second year soul sold to Satan. Third year S&M princess. He pulled the office's curtains shut and sat on the edge of his desk. "I like these photos, but there's nothing like seeing it in the flesh. You don't have a problem with taking off your clothes, do you?” "None at all." The redhead wiggled out of her jacket, jeans, and tee shirt down to her off-white panties. "Dance a little, honey. You know how.” Louie Sinreich flipped on a CD of techno music. From long experience he had learned that people have sex the same way they dance and if 'Alice' could dance, then she could also be in the movies. The redhead swayed side to side with her hands roaming over her body. She wouldn't need any instructions on how to be sexy.The redhead teen had what it. Louie didn't have say a word. She understood where she was a stripped off her shirt and jeans. No underwear. He continued his silent assessment of the redhead naked body. The teen's pale white legs were Olive Oyl thin and her butt was the size of two 59-cent grapefruits. Her belly pouted without an ounce of fat and the rest of her body exhibited the effects of a no-food diet. Her arms were too thin and her ribs stuck out/ Two weeks of three square meals would fill her out nicely. Afterward he would tell her she was getting fat and put her on speed to keep her weight under control, for nothing controlled these girls like playing on their low-self-esteem. Her small breasts would be fine for a debut, though when her video shelf life deepened, implants would be a necessity, maybe 35 CC. Most of the girls and even some of the men in the industry submitted to cosmetic surgery on their breasts, butts, faces, stomachs, and even private parts to refine what nature had divined to undefine and add years, if not decades onto their careers. Striking several poses like a cheerleader drunk on beer, the redhead dipped two fingers under the panties' frayed waistband and peeled off her last piece of clothing. She sat on the shag rug. Her moon skin outlined by the black. The young girl was playing sexy. Louie wasn't into this business for games. ”You can stop, honey.” "Am I no good?" She stiffened with her hopes dying in his eyes. "Honey, you're more than good. I can already see you on the screen." It was only forty hours of no-sleep preventing Louie from making full use of his producer's couch. "You mean, I got the job." The redhead beamed with gratitude. Bright lights, cameras, the movies, men and women wanting her, money, and fame danced in her head like a mirage transforming into an oasis. "Yes, you're going to stop being a nobody. So get dressed. We'll take it slow at first." ”Slow?" "Maybe a lesbian film for starters.” Most of these young girls needed a time before moving onto the real hard-core. "Is that alright by you?" "Whatever. The sooner the better.” The redhead tugged on her shirt, shoes and jeans. "You are probably behind in your rent. I'll advance you $1000 to tide you over, till we begin shooting.” "Thank you, Louie, this chance means a lot to me." The first thing she was doing upon returning to her shabby studio apartment in North Hollywood was quit her minimum wage nurse's aide job. Stars didn't change bedpans. ”No thank you, because without you I can't make movies." His videos sounded more glamorous as movies to the newcomers, even though the porno industry had move away from shooting celluloid in the early 1980s to reduce production costs. "Now you're in the business, we're going to give you a new name. Alice BeBadd. How do you like the sound of that?” "Just fine, Louie." She pulled on her tee-shirt. "It's almost like I'll be a new me.” "Exactly, honey. Go out and talk to my secretary, Donna. She'll have you sign a contract and waiver, give you the advance, and tell you where and when your career starts.” ”Thank you,” Alice leaned over and kissed him on the lips. Like most newcomers she thought sex would seal the deal. He smiled with appreciation, "I might call you tomorrow. For an informal video test over my place. I mean you don't have a date or anything?” "No, I'm free for whatever. Whatever you want, Louie.” "Good, now go tell Donna she can go home.” The redhead blew him a kiss and shut the door. Louie was finally alone. He stretched his muscles. It had been long couple of days. Exhaustion had sapped his body. A little speed could eke out another evening of work. His doctor had cautioned him repeatedly that the drug would kill him someday, however other than collapsing into a coma at bedtime, the headaches, and his frayed nerves, Louie was fine and he checked his computer for the monthly figures from his line of gay porno books published out of New York. The Nokia cellular phone inside his jacket vibrated again. Louie almost answered, but didn't recognize the number and switched off the power. He needed right now was a few minutes by himself. His elbows rested on the edge of his desk, hands cradling his head. His eyes slid shut. Even in this semi-state of sleep Louie could only think about his work. Sex, videos, and money. Each videos from his various production companies had turned a profit. They were cheap. No story. Lots of action. Good-looking girls. Average guys with normal cocks to create viewer identification. Great box covers and titles. His films reaping five to ten times the cost. Even after paying taxes to the State of California and the Feds his earnings millionaired him every month. The numbers slipped through his dozing head to become dimensionless equations added, subtracted, and broken down to integers without ever lighting on a final resting place. Louie woke with the snap of his neck. His eyes opened to his office. The rain had intensified during his nap and it was night. Almost 5. Night came quick this time of year. He was the only one in the building. No one worked overtime unless it was on the film set. Only him. He packed several checks for deposit at the bank and the new issue of ADULT VIDEO NEWS into his briefcase and stuck a licensed 9mm Walther automatic into his shoulder holster, then exited through the 'slave room' where thousands of dupe machines copied the video for mass-consumption. Downstairs Louie stepped into the foyer. His bodyguard was speaking with the security guard. Something about his tale about being locked in a closet during the Northridge earthquake. "Jimmo, walk me to the car.” There were craze crack heads everywhere in LA, especially in the shadows. "Sure thing, Mr. Sinreich." Jimmo excused himself and popped open an umbrella, The rain was hard. The big man held it over Louis's head. Halfway to the Cadillac Jimmo asked, "You be needing me tonight?" "No, I'm going back to the house." He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth to stop grinding teeth. "You can take off.” "You sure?"Jimmo hated his abnormally long hours, but an ex-con with his record had few job openings. "Yeah, I'm sure." Louie snapped at the big man's question, then reined in his temper. The big guy was just doing his job “Tomorrow’s another day.” "Whatever, Mr. Sinreich." Jimmo shut the door and returned inside the building without another word. The ex-cop he knew how to keep his mouth shut. Louis liked that in a man. Women too. Louie sat inside the the two-months old. Louie settled into the custom leather seat and twisted the key in the ignition. The car's V-8 engine purred to life and he tuned the radio to K-Rock Aerosmith's DREAM ON. Louie pulled out of the parking lot. At the red light before the Freeway entrance Louie contemplated driving over to Hollywood. Che in restraints. If you were going to teach a lesson, more was always better than less. The fantasy faded with the sweep of the windshield wipers. The Cadillac sped onto 405 by the Sepulveda Dam. Traffic was light. The rain was heavy. Louie maintained the speed limit. The California Highway Patrol targeted hydroplaning cars. Getting off at the Encino exit, the Cadillac splashed uphill to the last hour on the cul-de-sac. Louie parked beneath the carport. His arrival should have triggered on the outer lamp. The storm must have damaged the bulb. He started toward the house, then stopped before the door. Someone was lurking in the bushes. His right hand dipped inside his jacket for the 9mm. "Don't even think about it." A voice ordered from the gloom. A voice he knew. Louie lifted both hands to shoulder height. A man skillfully plucked the automatic from its holster. "Turn around.” Kevin Driscoll's Jack O'Lantern visage greeted Louie. "Driscoll." Louie began to lower his arms. "Keep 'em up. I like it better that way." Driscoll poked him in the stomach with the pistol's muzzle. "What's up?" Louie asked calmly, showing panic to Driscoll was like chumming guts to a shark. "That's what I want to know." Driscoll roughly jabbed the 9mm into the producer's gut again. "I've been callin' you all day.” "The battery in my phone died," Louie said amicably, as Driscoll frisked him for the Nokia, which he switched on, and put to his ear. "It's workin' fine now." Louie shrugged and Driscoll tossed the phone into the bushes bordering the driveway. "Were you tryin' to stiff me and Frank?” "What gave you that idea?” The ex-cop was visibly high. Louie would have to handle him very carefully to keep his fuse from burning any shorter. "Like you weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow.” "So let me guess. You don't have my money.” Driscoll was pissed off that Sean had run off with the $10,000. Now he was down $60,000 according to his math. "I don't carry $50,000 on me. No one does. If you need money, I can give you five right now and the rest tomorrow after I go to the bank. That's the best I can do right now." Louie was telling the truth. "Have I ever screw you or Frank?" The three of them went back to Brooklyn in 1988. Driscoll had taken out a Pakistani XXX storeowner in 1988. Non-payment. Friendship had nothing to do with their relationship. It was all business. "There's always a first time." 8. Friendship had nothing to do with their relationship. It was all business. "There's always a first time." Driscoll sputtered, "I want my money now." ”Like I said I have five.” Louie was stalling in the hope that Driscoll would see reason once the cocaine died in his veins. "Where can I get the other twenty this time at night?" "At the fuckin' millionaire ATM in Beverly Hills." His fingers clenched the 9mm with bone-white intensity. Veins popped out from his temples and throbbed with each heartbeat. The ex-cop was seconds away from pulling the trigger and for once nothing Louie could say or do would save him. Just as Driscoll began to lift the 9mm, a hard object cracked into the ex-cop's head and the big man crumpled to the driveway. "You all right, Mr. Sinreich?" Jimmo held up a splintered two by four. "I spotted him following you from the parking lot. I figured he had to be up to no good.” "You took your time.” "Had to get the right angle. Not easy in this weather.” "Better late than later." Louie picked up his 9mm and patted down Driscoll's jacket to find Isaac Conti's wallet and $10,000. He pocketed both. While none of the Vegas papers had mentioned the old man's murder, a wallet confirmed his elimination. It wasn’t there. The cop had fucked up somehow. ”Where you want him?" Jimmo nudged Driscoll with his foot. Louie panned up and down the street. All the nearby occupants were watching TV. Same as everyone else in the Valley. It was that kind of night. Same as the days before. Same as the nights to come in the suburbs of America. Killing Driscoll would be easy. They could call it 'self-defense', except Louie was no murderer and neither was Jimmo, plus then he would have to deal with his partner. Louie told Jimmo, "Just take him inside and down to the basement.” "Sure thing." Jimmo hoisted the fallen man over his shoulder without the slightest sign of exertion. Louie unlocked the door and his bodyguard lumbered inside the darkened house. Louie recovered his phone and the shattered pieces of two by four. He entered the house and the door shut behind him. Same routine for every house in this neighborhood. There had been no witnesses to Jimmo taking out Driscoll. All the nearby occupants were watching TV. Same as everyone else in the Valley. It was that kind of night. Same as the days before. Same every night in the suburbs of America. Everything nice and quiet and safe. SEVENTEEN The rented Taurus crossed the frozen Missouri at Omaha and deRocco flexed his arthritic fingers. His knuckles crackling and popping like Rice Crispies in milk. Even at 85mph through the stubble cornfield of Illinois and Iowa, this cross-country journey was taking forever. On their last call on his cell phone outside of Chicago his partner had stated that he had only found footprints leading back to the main road. Somehow Coll had survived a flurry of bullets and now deRocco was stuck driving across country in the dead of winter. He took out a cellular phone and dialed Kev's portable. No signal and south of Omaha deRocco pull into the sprawling Sapp Bros. Truck Stop off Interstate 80 in Gretna. First filling the tank with high tests he bought a cup of coffee and went to the payphone, dialing Driscoll’s number. When the other end finally answered, no one spoke and DeRocco asked, "Kev, that you?" "He can't come to the phone right now,” the man on the other end informed him. Kev's banging a rent-boy, while he had been stuck in this rented car for the last day didn't improve deRocco's mood and he spat, "Get him on the phone, you fag." "This is me." "Yeah, what's up?" deRocco recognized the voice, though Louie answering Kev's phone meant his partner had screwed up yet again and he could only hope Kev had kept his mouth shut about the fuck-up with Coll. "Listen, your friend went a little crazy. We had to sedate him." "You sedated him?” A civilian like Louie Sinreich getting the drop on Kev spelled out the end of a stone-cold killer in big letters. "I had to soothe the savage beast the only way I could and you wouldn’t want the other way?" "No, I don't want anything bad to happen to him." deRocco caught Louie's drift, but no Hollywood sleazeball like Louie Sinreich was going to whack Kev. deRocco divided the remaining 1800 miles by 80 mph. The numbers added up to more than thirty counting pit stops. "I'll be out in another twenty-four hours, maybe less. Take care of him until then and I don’t want to hear nothin’ ‘bout not havin’ the money. I’m not as forgivin’ as my friend.” "There's a little hitch. The job never made the paper." "So you're in LA." "No, it didn't make the Vegas papers." "So what are you saying?" "Just like sometimes things aren't what they seem, that's all." This job was getting more and more hinky, for the only murders the media did not crawl over like maggots are those where there is no body for anyone to find like Sean Coll. "You still there?” "I'm here." DeRocco gazed enviously out the window at a nearby farms. The quiet life. "Whatever the problem, I'll make it right." "I can count on that?" "Like you can count on your fingers." DeRocco's intuition was taunting him with the premonition of things getting a lot messier and he signed off, "I'll call you real soon." "Good, I'll be waiting." deRocco hung up the phone and searched for the bottle of aspirins in his jacket. Everything was fucked. Kev had flipped out. Coll was loose with the wallets tying them to five murders. The hit in Vegas might have been faked and Louie Sinreich was possibly reneging on the twenty-five Gs. "What will you do? What will you do?” echoed in his head and for a minute no solution seemed feasible, but only because the answer was more obvious than the big Hollywood sign telling you where you were. Pencils had erasers and deRocco planned to use his version out in LA. Resolved to this task, he returned to the Taurus an settled into the seat. figured out how hours it would take to reach Las Vegas. Somewhere around twenty-five. LA couldn't be much further. He lit up a cigarette and, after taking a single puff, stepped on the accelerator. Only one thing was for sure. The faster he reached LA, the faster he could make things right, even if he had no idea what 'right' meant to him. Someone had to know that answer. All he had to do was time the right person to ask the right question and LA had millions of people. One of them had to be right, even if the odds were a million to one. EIGHTEEN Sean woke in a strange bed and walked to the window. He was in LA. He had been here before. The first time in 1972 a speed freak in a Buick Riviera had picked up Sean outside Winnemucca, Nevada and muttered what sounded like, "I'm going to San Francisco." A straight shot to the coast had sounded good. He was headed to Big Sur an fell asleep for the first time in days. Somewhere in Nevada the hype-up driver had turned south. The desert landscape looked all the same at night and Sean woke up as they passed a highway sign saying 'San Fernando'. It took him several seconds for his awakening mind to realize that the meth-head had earlier said San Fernando, instead of San Francisco. The speedfreak had dropped him off on the highway next to a gigantic orange grove. It was the dead of night. Sean was disappointed by his 400-mile mistake, but too tired to hitchhike on the highway. He walked into the orange grove and fell asleep breathing the scent of night jasmine. The throttle of the throttling semi-trailers on the highway lullabyed his dreams. It was like a remake of Kerouac's ON THE ROAD, which was impossible in 1995. The next day he hitch up the PCH to Big Sur. The ensuing twenty-five years had been cruel to the Valley. The suburban sprawl had obliterated the Southern California immortalized by the car, surf, and hippie songs of the 1960s. Endless fields of orange groves had been reduced to individual trees in backyards bordered by a freeway congested with slow-moving traffic. The Valley suffered from too many people, then again not everyone could live in Hollywood Hills. For the moment Sean was happy. In some ways Driscoll's almost killing him might have been just the catalyst to jump-start his life, though he could skip another close encounter with death. A paper envelope were on the night table. His clothing was gone. Sean sat on the bed and opened the envelope. Money and the wallets. Driscoll must have planted them after the first punch. He opened each one. He recognized none of the names on the IDs and credit cards. The names meant nothing. The faces on the IDs belonged to normal men. The oldest was sixty-five and the youngest thirty-seven. The addresses were mostly from LA and New York. Sean figured each man as dead. He had been very lucky f in the desert. With that in mind Sean wondered what to do with the wallets. Sending them anonymously to their respective addresses would answer the families' anguished questions. Posting them to One Police Plaza in New York with a note explaining the connection between the wallets and the two cops from the 9th Precinct might spark an investigation,. There was no guarantee the package would reach Internal Affairs intact. The Wall of Blue have a tendency to misplace any evidence incriminating another cop. Getting rid of the wallets was probably the best solution and Sean stashed them along with the counterfeit money in a manila envelope under the bed. They might come in handy. Sean walked quietly to the living room with ADAM AND TWO EVES. The other bedroom door in the corridor was shut. The women were sleeping late. Maybe not. He had no idea of the time and there wasn’t a clock in the apartment. His internal clock said 9 something. AM. He lay on the couch and began to read the screenplay. The plot flowed easily through the post-apocalyptic tale of two women driving through the wastelands. The last two people on Earth are happy with this empty world, until meeting a derelict man. They agonize over whether to kill him outright, but opt to be impregnated by him to resurrect the human race. Surprisingly the monologues about the preservation of humanity were darkly humorous and the love scenes were more tableaux of comic desperation than pornography. The sex scenes happened behind closed doors. Upon reaching page 105, the women are about to kill off the man, There was no page 106 or the words THE END. He rifled through the script to find the final page. Nothing. He flung down the screenplay and stood up, feeling the grime from the air travel, a day in a cheap motel, the tumble in the desert, a long car ride, a night's sleep in a strange bed crawling on his flesh. Almost a repeat of his 1973 trip. What he needed now more than the ending to the script was a hot shower and a shave . Sean tiptoed down the hallway and stepped into the bathroom, an orderly shrine to feminine hygiene. He lifted the toilet seat to relieve himself. His kidneys hurt from the booting. His urine was its a bright yellow without any reddish tinge. A good sign He put down the seat cover, then stripped off his underwear and tee-shirt and turned on the shower. The water was hot and strong, the way a real shower should be. He borrowed a new Bic razor from the cabinet and pulled back the plastic curtain, thinking, "This is going to be good." The bathroom door opened him and he grabbed a towel to cover himself. "Relax, I've seen plenty of naked men before." Sherri surveyed his body like a butcher deciding how to slice up a slab of beef. Her body in white cotton underwear was as lean as a welterweight. Her stomach muscle were a hundred times more defined than his. "I'm not shy." Sean clutched the towel tight to his waist and sucked in his guts. "Good, because you'll be naked in this film. In the meanwhile no shaving.” Sherri took the razor from his hand. "My beard comes in white.” Sean noticed the Interstate of narcotic abuse inside Sherri's arm. They were old. His were a lot less. "You're the man from nowhere. The more beat-up the better." She ignored his interest and shut off the water. "I also want you grimy. Like there were no more showers in the world. Just wash yourself off in the sink. And hurry up, breakfast will be ready shortly." "I'll be quick, I had two sisters.” Sean released the towel and wiped his face, underarms, and groin with a hand towel. The grim of the desert was a dark brown. Sean shut off the shower and threw the soiled face cloth into the hamper. He wasn't saying nothing about nothing. No man from nowhere has a past or a future. Sherri regarded Sean's cuts and bruises. She reached into the medicine cabinet from a bottle of alcohol and cotton swabs. "Let me tend to that cut on your neck. No sense in letting it get infected." Sherri sat him on the toilet seat and expertly probed at the seared flesh on his neck with a cotton swab. The wound was from a gun. A near-miss. This man was lucky to be alive. "You ever been in a film before?" "Only one.” Sean twinged from the bite of alcohol. "I shot a Dracula film. 8mm. One reel." "How long ago?" Sherri daubed at the edges of his wound. "I was 8. The cast was my brothers and sisters. My mother discovered us playing bloodsuckers in the basement. She denounced us to the Church. The priests and nuns had us pray for our souls. My father never developed the film." "So you've never been in a film?" Sherri padded his neck with a red-stained cotton ball. "No." "There'll be nudity in this film. Do think you can do a love scene? PG-13. No penetration." "Me” He cringed in reaction to the Mercurochrome's sting. He hadn't been with a woman in years. "Depends on what?" "On who's getting naked." "In this case we are talking about you." Sean had read in the script that his character makes love to the younger woman for procreation and the older for recreation, but still had to ask, "Me?" "We don't have the money to use body doubles, Mr. Coll." "I don't mind looking all beat-up, but I don't want to look fat." Sherri put down the medicine and laughed aloud. "What's so funny?” Picturing their scene together in a deserted mountain cabin, his body responded in the old-fashioned way. "People no longer care about good versus bad, but the breaking the Eleventh Commandment, "Thou shalt not look fat.” Mr. Coll, we'll shoot you like Orson Welles shot himself. From the fifth rib up.” Sherri pushed his head forward and applied a greasy antibiotic salve to his neck. "You'll be the Man from Nowhere like you are now." "I didn't think either of us were after beautiful," Sean commented, having extracted from the script that the author would have been happier, if men were extinct. "No, we're not, but that decision belongs strictly to the camera.” So we are okay with being naked?” ”I am now. Why not later?” . "Glad we settled that, Mr. Coll. Will there be anything else?" "Yeah, the last pages of the script seem to be missing." "That's, because we don't have an ending yet.” She stared at him coldly in the mirror. "There's only seven to twenty-five stories and five endings." "Five endings?" "The classics?” Sherri checked him a little closer. His body carried deeper and older scars than those from his 'car crash'. The injuries to his face and busted knuckles on both his hands showed he had been in more fights than most men and lost a good share of them. Like her he had roughly used his body, but his eyes displayed more intelligence than his battered face deserved. She bit on the bait and asked,” So what are these five fabulous endings you're talking about?" "Good ending, bad ending, nothing ending, everyone dies in the end, or it was all a dream,” Sean quoted from either Boston College professor of English from twenty years ago or a half-forgotten men's magazine article. "Of course there's a sixth ending, where all the other ending are combined for the mega-finale. For ADAM AND TWO EVES, I can see how you'd like to kill off the male for a big pay-off. Me, I think it'd be better, if they left him back where they found him. Sort of the abandonment of Adam by the Eves. An ending for him. Not good not bad. Good ending for the women. The dream continues with their pregnancy. No one gets killed. No car chase. The new world." "Nice pitch, Mr. Coll. We'll have to think about it.” Sherri was surprised by his coming with such an unforeseen, yet logical ending. Maybe he was as different as Lena thought, except 'maybe' was a big word, when it came to men. "One more thing." "What's that?” Sean was thankful she had not asked what the twenty-five stories were, because he could only come up with boy-meets-girl. "Are the police looking for you?" "If you mean, is there a warrant out for my arrest? The answer is no. If I am suspected in a crime, the answer is still no.” Driscoll nor deRocco weren't the police to him and having only faked killing the old man in Vegas absented his name from any APB, but he admitted, "Sure, I've sinned, but I've been putting that behind me." "Sometimes that's not so easy." "I'm sure you know how hard that can be, but right now I don't want to be a problem to anyone." "That makes two of us.” A masculine musty stench rose off his body and Sherri's nostrils flared involuntarily with disgust. It would only get worse over the next two weeks. "You must be hungry, what about breakfast?" "Sounds good to me.” Getting something in his stomach would help to deaden the feeling that he had been dragged into town on a morgue slab. “Get dressed, Mr. Coll. I’m washing your old clothes. I’ve had men in my life. Some have left behind clothing. I set you out jeans on the bed. They should fit. We don't need you naked now.” It had been a long time, since she had been this close to a man and the old habits took their time dying, for as she left the bathroom her eyes glanced down at this crotch. His erection was to be expected. Not too big. Not too small. "Breakfast will be ready in five minutes." The bathroom door shut. Somewhere in this beaten body was the key to why these two women were taking a chance on him. For now he would heed his father's advice about not attempting to fathom the depths of a female mind. He had enough trouble understanding himself. After putting on the worn black jeans and a t-shirt, he hurried into the kitchen. The smell of sizzling bacon struck his nostrils and Sean greedily eyed the eggs frying in bacon fat on the stove. "Can I be of any help?" Sean had been living alone for a long time. Even longer in the company of women. Good manners were rusty but not forgotten. "Yes, just set the table for three." Sherri pointed to a kitchen cabinet. The terrace windows had been opened to clear out the greasy bacon smoke and the morning damp had worked its way into the apartment. He had never thought California could be this cold and he blew into his hands. "Sorry, we abstain from sugar or dairy products." Sherri handed him a steaming cup of coffee. "That's okay as long as it's real coffee." "It's real.” Sherri glanced at the rain outside. "We'll take you out shopping for warmer clothing later. It gets cold this time of year in the desert." Sean hadn't had a woman buy him clothes in years, though in this case Sherri was more like a sister annoyed at her ne'er-do-well brother than a loving girlfriend. Any question he was about to ask her about the desert died on lips, when Sherri lifted the eggs out of the frying pan and onto a plate of toast and bacon. It stayed on the counter and she placed a bowl of yogurt and fruit on the table. "What about me?” "That's for Lena. The clock for your diet is clicking. This is your one meal of the day. For the rest of the day you get vegetable juice and plenty of water. You want to look good for the camera, right?” Sherri arched her eyebrow. Sean almost protested, except Lena entered the kitchen, wearing a filmy teddy and kissed Sherri on the neck. She turned to Sean and asked with the most pleasant voice he had heard in years, "Did you sleep well?" “Yeah." Neither the yogurt nor fruit would fill the emptiness in his stomach. "It's amazing what a good night's sleep will do for your looks," Sherri was exhausted from spending the better part of the evening organizing the Super 16mm camera, sound and light equipment, a crew, a check on film permits, lawyers, and truck rentals. It was a mess and this was for a low-budget movie. Sherri was keeping as close to the bone as possible. There was no cast of thousands. Just the minimum. Lena leaned against the edge of the sink with her feet wide apart. She studied this blonde man, as he ate the yogurt and fruit. Sherri was right. He was just a man, but she couldn't help seeing someone else on his face. No one see had seen before. The man from nowhere. This was really him and soon she would be one of the last women on Earth and so would Sherri. Sherri disliked the distant cast in Lena's eyes and her suggestive body language even more. She grabbed the man's half-finished bowl. "That's enough for now. We have to go out for a few hours. Try and keep your face out of the fridge. The camera is no fat man's friend." "Thanks for the hospitality.” Sean planned on pigging out as soon as they left. "Thank you for being in the film.” Sherri dumped her food in the trash and bent over to kiss him on the cheek. The exotic scent of cinnamon and tar rising from her skin might have taken his breath away, except the plates on the table began to shake and the room vibrated with a low ominous rumble like a jet plane was going to crash in the apartment. Sean tried to get to his feet, but his legs were mushed by a series of monstrous oscillations. Just when it seemed, as if it was going to last forever, the trembling stopped and the roaring was replaced by the car alarms screaming throughout the neighborhood. The two women were white-faced and Sean figured he was too. "That wasn't no airplane, was it?" "No, that was a tremor,” Sherri stated calmly, having regained her native-born composure. "Was that big?" "Probably in the fours. Nothing like the last one. Nothing to be scared about out here, Mr. Coll. Not like back East. Hurricanes, blizzards, floods, crime." "I lived through New York in the Seventies and never got mugged,” Sean was protective about his adopted city, though he had been knocked out on countless occasions, stabbed twice, and shot once in the leg. “I had live there in the 70s. I got blind to the crime out there and here we are accustomed to the earthquakes, the fires, and smog. You will too, if you stay out here long enough.” Sherri wondered whether she had ever seen him in New York. They were the same age and the tracks on their arms meant they ran in the same circle. She had gone through too many men in her life to remember just one. "I'll be out of here long before the Big One comes along,” Sean predicted, though without any conviction, and Sherri added, "I think we all will be, but for now you be a good boy and make yourself at home. C'mon, Lena, we have places to go." The two women left the kitchen and re-appeared five minutes later dressed for the bad weather. "Mr. Coll, we'll be back in a few hours. Study your lines and stay out of trouble." "How much trouble can I get into by myself?" "I hope I don't have to answer that question later." Sherri grabbed her cars keys and the apartment door was locked from the outside. He wasn't their prisoner, but acted the good guest and washed the dishes in the sink. After drying them he brought his coffee into the living room and sat by the telephone. He dialed the first number he had ever memorized. After two rings his father's recorded voice said that he was in Florida for the month, which was reassuring, since he was out of harm's way. "It's your son. I'm in LA. I'll call you later. Everything is fine." Sean hung up and picked up the script. He had about 100 lines. He read them aloud and they sounded dead to his ears. He needed a crash course in acting and could only think of one person to help him. For some unexplainable reason Sean had written the actor's 310 number inside his Irish passport. Vic Granollers could give him advice. His old friend had been nominated for an Oscar, could. After the third ring a woman answered with a European accent. It was not Vic's wife. "Is Vic there?" "Who is this?” she demanded. Sean spoke his name and she rudely stated, "Call back tomorrow." "Can I leave a message?" "I told you. Call back tomorrow evening." The line went dead. His only other remembered number in LA was that of his ex-girlfriend from the late 70s. He dialed Tammi's area code, and then hung up the phone. She would be grateful that he had left her out of this. Despite tens of his friends having abandoned New York for LA in the last twenty years, his mind came up blank for anyone else he might know here. Once people came out to the Coast, they cut all ties to New York, fearful that the mere mention of New York might jeopardize their new lives on the Pacific. Most of those people would have been ecstatic to be the lead in a film, but Sean grasped that in another world and dimension a bullet had torn through his skull and vultures were now feasting on his corpse. It wasn't the first time he had come close to dying, but none of them prepare you for the next time. After his chills settled down, he picked up the TV remote control and flicked on the Weather Channel. The sun had to be shining someplace and seeing it would make him feel better, if only until he was long gone from LA. NINETEEN Che Chasta woke in bed and slowly shook off the effects of the drugs before she attempting to get off the mattress. She wasn't going anywhere. Her wrists and ankles were still cuffed to the bedposts. A gagball was stuck in her mouth. She summoned the dregs of her strength to free herself. The struggle lasted ten seconds. Her situation was almost hopeless. Thankfully the AC wasn’t on. The bedroom's curtains were tightly drawn. All incoming calls were handled by the answering service. In the middle of the room a video camera recorded her every move. Louis was recording her struggle for a new video, but she wasn't that girl anymore. She was a woman. Che yanked on the restraint attached to her right wrist, while at the same time working her jaws to pop the rubber gag. The ball plopped out of her mouth and she sucked down air grateful for this small break. "Help." Her cry died within the bedroom. Only the camera was listening and Che unleashed a long chain of curses aimed at Louie and all men. After thirty seconds she rested a few minutes before contorting her right hand to a small ball. a bound Chinese foot before jerk on the cuff. The muscles contorted her hand into a bound Chinese foot and popped free of the restraint. The effort had resurrected the force of Louie's injection and the darkness swarmed her vision. Finally her hand popped free, but she only had the strength left to reach for the phone. Calling 911 was out, so she punched out a number in the Valley, struggling to hold onto the receiver, as the ringing faded in her ear. A voice answered and she begged, "Help me, you have to help me.” "Where are you?” the man asked. Che mumbled her address. "Please come, I need you. Please.” The phone slid from her fingers and her eyes floated back into her head farther and farther, until a blanket of unconsciousness buried her not in sleep and not in death, but very close to either one. The camera at the entrance to the room was only programmed to capture action kept on filming and there would be very little of that for the moment. It was time to call 'cut'. If only someone came to cover her with a blanket and then everything would be fine. TWENTY Two seconds after the woman hung up, Sean Coll dialed 911. "Yes, may I help you?” the 911 operator answered within ten seconds. Sean explained the nature of the emergency and gave the operator the woman's address. Several seconds passed in silence before the operator stated, "EMS no longer responds to that address." "What do you mean? No longer responds?" "EMS has logged seven suicide attempts, four domestic violence calls, and four reports of attempted break-ins from that address in the last year. Always from the same caller. Che Chasta." The name strummed a chord in Sean's memory. Like Sherri Che was a famous XXX actress. "Which means?" "No one will answer that call. Not the EMS, the Fire Department, or the police. Sorry." "So what am I supposed to do?" "Go over yourself,” the operator suggested and signed off saying, "Have a nice day." If the State of California was abdicating its social responsibility, then he would answer this woman's plea, if only to drive her to a hospital. Sean star-69ed the caller's number. The phone was busy, and he reckoned the caller had dropped it on the floor. He searched the Yellow Pages for a taxi service. A dispatcher informed him that a cab would arrive in less than five minutes and the ride over to Hollywood at this time of the afternoon would take no more than twenty-five minutes. Sean hung up and stuck the sheets from the bed in the dryer, then plucked a real $100 bill in his pocket plus $00 of the fakes. He snatched a set of house keys off the kitchen counter and left the apartment. The door shut behind him. Maybe he should have left a note for the women, but every second counted in matters of life and death. The corridor led to the elevators. The light bulbs hung from the ceiling by a wire. The walls were unpainted sheet rock and the hallway smelled of damp concrete. Most of other unfinished apartments had no doors. Whoever had financed this repair project had run out of money. At least the elevator was working and Sean stepped inside the car. The doors opened on the ground floor.Sean ran through the dusty atrium to the waiting taxi. He gave the driver the destination and the Sikh driver pulled out of the parking lot. The taxi bounced over a curb onto the pavement of a broad boulevard lined with body, brake, and transmission shops. The lights ran in sequence to the Hollywood Freeway. Sean could barely see out the windows and cracked open the window. The driver chattered in Punjabi over the radio, as the taxi swerved through traffic. The cab narrowly missed sideswiping several trucks, although none of these close calls fazed the driver. At Highland he sliced across four lanes to the exit and slipped past the single queue of vehicles to stop abruptly at a yellow light. “Sorry, sir, there are too many policemen to burn the light." "No worries." The driver waited out the oncoming traffic, then swerved right onto the boulevard, maintaining the speed limit until turning onto a street of sad bungalows. The taxi halted before a dull green house with an overgrown lawn. The rain had let up, but the thick mist hung on the cold damp air.. "Just wait a few minutes." Sean opened the taxi door. "No problem, if you give me something to hold." "You mean like money?" "Exactly, sir." Sean was a little hesitant about handing the Sikh a hundred, but this woman might need a ride to the hospital, so he noted the driver's permit number and said. "I'll be right out." "And I shall be waiting, sir." The driver held up the bill. Sean got out of the taxi. Several stray cats sulked through the lawn's high weeds, ignoring a crow pecking at a crumbled piece of trash. The only sound was a dog barking in he distance. People lived in these houses, but no one was walking around in this weather. Overhead dark clouds threatened another downpour and a wet wind rustled through the bushes. Sean tried the front door. It was locked. On a hunch he lifted the doormat and found a rusty key. It turned the lock. Musty mildew welcomed him into the living room. An old RCA TV was surrounded by stacks of videos. Soiled clothing buried the furniture. The fireplace was filled with take-out containers and garbage overflowed from two trash cans. Whoever had called him earlier certainly didn't hold with cleanliness being close to godliness, the he heard a phone off the hook. "Anyone here?” No one answered and he studied the life-sized posters publicizing the various adult videos. They featured a semi-nude big-breasted blonde surrounded by muscular men. The photo told the storyline of the movie in one word. Gangbang. Many men with one woman. Sean connected the face and body with the name Che Chasta. Six years ago she had danced at the Triple Threat Theater in Times Square. Ten men at the afternoon show. He had been one of them. This had to be her place. He pushed open the last door. The busy signal came from inside. The bedroom was surprisingly tidy in comparison to the rest of the house. A video camera was pointed at the blonde woman on the bed. She was naked other than the cuffs restraining her to the bedposts. Che Chasta was in the proper position to perform her cinematic specialty. Sean wasn't sure she was breathing. He shut off the video camera and hung up the phone, then he touched her neck. His fingertips felt a pulse under the warm skin. She was breathing. He tapped her face. "Wake up." The blonde opened her eyes and croaked, "Who are you." "Me?" Sean stared at how her unnaturally firm breasts were stretched to a translucent thinness. "Yes, where did you come from?" Her eyes wandered in and out of focus. A needle mark reddened the inside of her elbow. Someone else had shot her up and tied her to the bed. The video was for fetishists into sleeping women. There was an audience for every genre in porno. "From Sherri's." He resisted touching her breasts, but undid the cuff from her wrist and then loosened the restraints on her ankles. "I came, because you sounded like you were in trouble." "I still am.” The blonde lazily rubbed her wrists, as her eyes drifted up inside her skull. The taxi blew its horn outside. "Who's that?" "The taxi." The smell of woman roiling in his nostrils. His arousal felt like a betrayal of Sherri and he stepped away from the bed. Sean was not the type of man to take advantage of a woman in this condition. Never had been. Even of a porno star. "Where you going?" "I was going to take you to the hospital." "No hospital." An expression of recognition passed over her face. "I know you." "How?" "You're the man from the highway." "I am?" He had no recollection of her. Like in 1972 he had slept all the way to LA. "Yes, the man from nowhere." "It seems to be my new name." Che had fit in another piece in his puzzle. He envisioned himself asleep in the back of a car with Lena and Che in the front seat. The horn blew outside. "I got to pay the taxi driver. I'll be right back." Sean threw a blanket over the blonde and ran to the street. The driver gave him the change and Sean handed him a $10 tip. He returned to the house and locked the door. Whoever had rug her might come back. He entered the bedroom and the blonde said dreamily, "Funny, you showing up again." "Why?" Sean sat on the edge of the bed. "Just we help you that night and now you help me." The blonde actress touched his face, as if she were a blind person trying to read his features. "So I guess we're even, but who did this to you?" The blonde licked her parched lips. "I'd love to tell you everything, but first I need a glass of water." "Sure thing." Sean went into the kitchen. There were no clean glasses. He washed a tea cup in the sink. When he got back to the bedroom, Che Chasta was crashed out in a distorted parody of Sleeping Beauty. Sean rechecked her pulse. It was strong, but she didn't react to his touch and he resisted the temptation of caressing her breasts. She was completely at his mercy. Sean pulled the covers over her body and unplugged the telephone, since Che needed sleep a lot more than any contact with the outside world. Sean entered the living room and cleared off the sofa room. He hadn't been with a woman in six months and nothing in the last two days suggested that this stretch of celibacy would end in the near future. The only women he had met in Los Angeles were two lesbian lovers and a drugged sex star. He sank onto the couch and noticed the scores of videos scattered around the TV. They were all X-rated. Che was in many of them. Sean flashed Che Chasta watching these videos as Gloria Swanson had viewed her old black-and-white films in SUNSET BOULEVARD. He fought off the disturbing image, since he cast himself as William Holden, and picked out a box titled NEW PUSSY ON THE TOWN. The video dated back to the early 80s. The starlet wore her unbleached hair in a Farah Fawcett shag and her body mirrored the nubility of a teenager out for her first wild fling. Sean was familiar with porno from moldy stroke books found in the hills behind his suburban neighborhood, forays into Boston’s Combat Zone for blue books, and wandering through Times Square’s XXX shops. I ha seen one movie. Sherri’s Sean decided to reward himself for saving her life by setting in motion a one-man Che Chasta Film Festival. He armed himself with a remote control and pressed the PLAY button for YOUNG AND BAD, which captured Che right off the pumpkin truck. He fast-forward through them. Most last only a minute. None of the bearded studs were memorable, while Che demonstrated a star quality ready to blaze nova. He sped through the inane dialogues and the repetitive sex scenes. Hundreds of males spurted semen onto her breasts, backside, thighs, face, belly, yet never inside, for long ago someone in the porno business had decided that the money shot was more visually dramatic than the man just groaning in pleasure. Psychologically this institutional coitus interruptus also helped the masturbating viewer regard his own onanistic orgasm as the greatest sensation a man could experience. None of it was the truth. Somewhere in the middle of the retrospective Che Chasta's body artificially morphed into the physical ideal the worshipped by American males and this corporeal modification thrust her into a maelstrom of more and more men and women. Sean remained unaroused. His next door neighbor, Mrs Adonro, had cursed him for ending his relationship with a gypsy dancer. Lena had been unfaithful. Not a sin, but she started giving away his clothing. It had been a year since he had been =with a woman. The curse. Sean held the XXX cartridge. A THING CALLED LUST’s cover portrayed Che and Sherri embracing a nude statue. Both women were ten years younger than now and their eyes glowed with scorn for damnation. He slipped this video into the VCR and returned to the sofa, pressing the remote control's PLAY button. The film's quality was low-grade, the dialogue worst, the lighting muddy, however the sex scenes between Che and Sherri was like watching two cougars fighting over the same kill and for the first time this evening Sean wished a time machine transported him back in time to the two women on the TV screen, yet he remained unaroused. No erection. Soft. Nothing. He had been alone for a long time. Drugs had been his escape from life with others. He didn’t have that crutch anymore. Sean turned off the VCR and the TV. He was tired of being alone, but that was not going to change tonight or any time in the foreseeable future, although he was pleased to be helping someone tonight. A complete stranger. He checked on the sleeping Che. She was safe. Shutting her door Sean went to the sofa and fell asleep to the sound of rain. He almost felt safe too. TWENTY ONE The elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor of the vacant apartment building and the two women lugged out a 16mm camera, sound booms, and lighting arrays piece by piece into the hallway. Outside the rain had let up, but the air inside the complex was damp and musty. There was no smell of people. "I bet Lina Wertmueller never had to schlep her gear." Sherri loved the political sexuality of the Italian director, especially LOVE AND ANARCHY. She opened the front door to their apartment, glad to have not strained her back lifting the equipment. "Maybe when she started in the business." Lena grabbed the reflectors. They were light. "I bet even then she had a crew." Sherri lifted the camera, feeling a tweak in her bicep. She hadn't been to the gym in several weeks. "Go get your man from nowhere to help us.” Lena had forgotten the man's name and yelled out, “Hey." No one answered her call and for the briefest of moments she feared the man might be lurking in the shadows to attack them. She turned on the lights. The only signs of his previous presence were the washed dishes and the telephone on the floor. She remembered his name. "Sean." Once more no answer and she to the back bedroom. The sheets were stripped off the bed. His black suit hung in the closet. The wallets were on the floor. His bag was next to the door. It looked like he was coming back, but she couldn't be sure and Lena cursed all men, as Sherri called out, "Is he coming or not?” Lena braced herself on the doorjamb and hyperventilated in anticipation of Sherri's rage. They had rented cameras, blocked out the crew's time, and reserved rooms in a Death Valley hotel based on Lena's intuition and her choice for the man from nowhere had done a runner. This was a disaster and Lena returned to the front door, where Sherri impatiently demanded, "Is he on strike?” "No, he's not here right now,” Lena stated with her eyes lowered to the floor. "What do you mean he's 'not here’?” Sherri stood with both hands on her hips and her head tilted back, as if Lena might be joking. "I think he's gone out." "Where?” Sherri couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had spent over $10,000 to get this shoot together. "I don't know. He didn't leave a note,” Lena replied, emotionally preparing for the storm about to burst from Sherri. "I should have known better.” Sherri clenched her hands and swore, “Goddamnfuckingmenbastardsbastardsbastards." "He'll be back,” Lena said, attempting to touch Sherri. The older woman knocked away her arm and guilted her young lover by saying, "And how do you know that?” "He left all his his money and passport behind.” Lena bent over to lift up several cans of 16mm film. Sherri watched for the several seconds before shouting. "Left what behind? A dirty suit and some stolen wallets. I trusted your judgment and now your man has blown town and I'm stuck with paying for a crew and rentals.” "He'll be back,” Lena repeated, though Sherri had more reason to be right than she did. "Of course, he'll come back to fuck you." Sherri sniped viciously, her jealousy erupting after being held in check the last day. "That was what this was all about anyway.” "Stop, please.” Lena pleaded, ready to turn on her heels, ready to run. "Why should I? I saw how he was looking at you and how you were looking at him? I'm not stupid.” Sherri snapped without thinking about how it sounded. "I didn't do anything.” Lena protested with a pitiful gulp, then bunched her hands into fists and pounded the wall. "I did nothing. Nothing at all." Lena’s cry evaporated the sea of Sherri's rage. She might be wrong, but no film was more important than Lena's feelings and the older woman restrained Lena with a tender embrace. "Stop it, Lena. It's not the end of the world. We'll find another man from nowhere.” "We never will. We spent three months trying to find one who wante to be in the film.” "We'll find another. I'll call the ones you suggested, maybe one of them is free.” "None of them were right.” "One of them had to be.” "This man was perfect.” "But he's gone.” “No, he’s not. A man like him has nowhere to go.” "So we wait, until he shows up?” "He'll come.” "How can you be so sure?” "Because you're right about the way I looked at him,” Lena put two fingers over her lips before kissing the older woman, not out of love, but from an unspoken understanding that two people together was not such a small thing in these days. However content Sherri was to hold Lena, she still had to say, "As much as I love you, I think the chances of this man from nowhere showing up are nil.” "How much you want to bet?” Lena demanded with all the confidence of someone who believes in her intuition more than the facts. "Not how much, but what?” Sherri whispered the stake in her lover's ear. The young girl whispered in her ear and they laughed in unison. Neither woman questioned the spontaneous laughter and after all the equipment was inside the apartment, the door shut, leaving the deserted hallway to the abandoned quiet, since whatever what went on behind the closed doors was only for the two women. For them and no one else. TWENTY TWO A toxic stench ferreted into Sean's nostrils. He coughed twice and sat up on the couch. A smooth-faced TV preacher shout for brimstone to cleanse the world. Armageddon was not the source of the chemical reek. Che Chasta fed video tapes into the fireplace inferno. Most all of them were gone. She wore in a tan raincoat and her blonde hair was fluffed from her head like a wilting Afro. Each cassette ignited with a whoosh and acrid smoke furled over the mantle to billow upward to a surly cloud under the ceiling warning that the super-hot gases would soon reach a dangerous flashpoint. Sean jumped to his feet and pulled Che away from the fire. She fought him off to throw another armful of videos into the fireplace. "You got to stop.” "Not until they're all destroyed.” Che was completely out of her head. "That's the only way to get at him.” "You're going to burn the place down." Sean dragged away Che, as the flames crawled up the wall blistering the paint. The fire would soon be a killer and the scorched air spoke in a primordial tongue, tempting his very bones to stay and watch. "Now we can go." Che handed him a heavy bag of videotapes and seized two small pieces of luggage. He gabbed his jacket and ran outside into a cold drizzle. Hacking coughs cleared their lungs. Sean turned to the bungalow. Black smoke seeped from the windows. Dogs barked out warnings around the neighborhood, their ears alert to song of fire. Sean reached for the garden hose. "Leave it." Che strode down the sidewalk to a dented maroon Cadillac Fleetwood four-door and she threw the luggage into the back seat. “I’m leaving.” "You can't walk away.” "Just watch me.” Che opened the Cadillac's door. "If you want to stick around and explain the fire to the Fire Department, be my guest, but the more distance between me and that shithole the better.” Several panes of glass cracked from the searing heat inside the bungalow. Che sat behind the wheel and started the engine. “No one knows I lived here. No one. It’s not my house and it's not yours." Her excuse made sense. No one was inside the house. A neighbor would soon call 911. The LAFD would extinguish the fire and the LAPD would ask who, what, when, where, and why over and over again, till the cops had a suspect on whom to pin the arson. The bass revving of a Motown engine forced Sean's hand and as soon as he jumped in the Cadillac, Che stamped on the gas . The big car swerved down the street, narrowly missing several parked vehicles. At Franklin Che braked impatiently and waited for an opening in the traffic before turning left. "You burnt all those other tapes, why not these?” Sean pointed at the bag in the backseat. "Those are the masters of the ones I liked. Somehow I felt, if I destroyed those, then I'd disappear.” "You mean like taking your picture might be stealing a part of your soul?” Sean didn't like his picture being taken, mostly because it betrayed the truth of your soul. He hadn't had a good photo in years, although the Polaroid from Sherri wasn't bad. "I don't have enough soul left for anyone to steal." Che threw back her head to shake loose the blonde mane. "Only what's left on these tapes.” "I understand that, but why'd you burn down the bungalow?” "You have to ask? You saw the way he left me. It wasn't the first time he treated like a piece of meat, but it was the last.” The wide lanes of Franklin were devoid of traffic. Cars are the only sign of life in LA in the rain, but Che stayed well under the speed limit. "I could have killed him, but without those master tapes he'll never make another penny off me.” "Who are you talking about?” Sean expected the flashing lights of fire trucks to appear any second. "You don't know, do you?” Che was far from the near-corpse of the morning. 911 had not erred in ignoring her call. Her rage filled her blood with life. "No.” The only face coming into his head was that of the old man in Vegas, but him as her persecutor was too great a coincidence, also he hadn’t seemed the type. "It doesn't matter now.” Che swung the wheel sharply and the rear tires skipped across the greasy pavement. She had obviously bought the car for surviving accidents, not handling. "I'm out of here for good now.” Sean had the feeling Che had said that last line too many times without ever leaving. "Why don't you go to the police?” "Don't play me for stupid. You weren't in any car crash in the desert. Someone tried to kill you. Someone a lot scarier than the police, so you ran and I’m running all the way to Johnson City, Texas. An old boyfriend has a ranch out there. No one will find me there. He’ll take care of me. Maybe even love me. Hey, if it's such a good idea now, why wasn't it back then?” Che Chasta was down to her last pages in the book of her making it in LA. The Chapter was titled Leaving Town. "Things change.” "Don't they?” She paused a second, then asked, "You watched those films.” “Some of them.” “All the men and women I did. You think it's too late to start all over?” "Not as long as you never have to walk back across the bridge you just burned.” "I hope you take your own advice,” Che smirked with the satisfaction of turning a new leaf. ”Never." "Me neither." Che jammed on the brakes and veered onto the southbound ramp of the Hollywood Freeway. The Cadillac scuttled to a stop on the crumbling shoulder and Che turned to him with a wrinkled nose "Is that you?” "I haven't bathed in a couple of days." Sean smelled his armpits without detection a strong odor, then again women have better noses than men. "That all?” Che cracked the window. "Where you heading, stranger? I could use some company on the way out to Texas.” "Back to the Valley?” "I'm never going back that way again. Tell that to all the assholes over there. Just keep quiet about where I'm going, huh, stranger.” "Sure.” Sean scowled with his hand on the door. "You angry at me for dumping you in the rain.” "I thought I might get a ride into Valley for saving your life.” "I wasn't dying." Che revved the engine. "And I'm not going into the Valley. No telling what might happen if I go over there. You understand? When you got to go, you got to go.” Che leaned across the seat and pulled him close to kiss him. Her tongue pushed apart his lips. Their hot breaths mingled for several seconds, till Che broke away and said, "If you were coming to Texas, I could thank you properly.” "It's tempting." Sean screened a ride to Texas with Che inside his head. XXX road trip with only one possible ending. "Somehow I see myself in the middle of Texas and you driving away to be with your cowboy.” "He's not into menage-a-trois." Che smiled with the promise of the open road lying before the Cadillac. "All I can offer is a ride.” “Thanks, but no thanks." Sean opened the passenger door. "You tell Sherri and Lena I love them. I really do.” "Anything else?" Sean wondered ho many years it had been since she had been home. "Yeah, you, like every other guy I ever met, want to ask how a nice girl like me ended up doing films. The therapists were always blaming my mother or father, but nobody ever forced me into this. I was born wild. I liked being in adult films. I love sex and enjoyed being a star, but you men, you're all scum. From Adam on up. Take my word on that.” Any chance Sean had to defend his half of the species died, when Che gunned the engine and motioned for him to get out onto the wet pavement. She opened the raincoat and flashed a parting shot of her naked body. "You're missing one hell of a ride.” Bald tires spit up mud and the car sped down the ramp to vanish into the Freeway's afternoon rush hour. The rain fell harder and a dirty flume of black smoke rose into the air over the trees from the burning house. He looked for a taxi, except LA is more like Queens than Manhattan. No taxis. A bus rolled a block away and he dashed across the street, only to have a siren whoop and megaphonic voice ordered, "Stay where you are.” A LAPD cruiser pulled up to the curb and a uniformed officer emerged the patrol car, right hand on his holster. Sean raised his hands thinking, "One of the neighbors called in my description. It's over. I'll tell them everything. About the fire, the attempted murder in Las Vegas, the wallets, deRocco and Driscoll, every crime I ever committed. I'll do time, but I'll come out of it clean and that's all I'm after, isn't it?” The cop regarded Sean's beaten face and asked for ID, which was not SOP for a felony arrest. He handed over his Irish passport. "What'd I do, officer?” "Jaywalking is against the law in California, Mr. Coll,” the young cop made a face. His nose scrunched up in disgust. Before the officer in dark blue could lecture Sean on pedestrian safety, three fire engines roared up Franklin with flashing lights and blaring sirens. The cop's shoulder radio squawked out an indecipherable message. The cop handed back the passport. "You have the luck of the Irish, Mr. Coll. There's a fire up the street. Cross at the lights next time.” "Yes, officer." Sean could play good citizen with the best of them. The cop retreated with his hand on his holster, just in case Sean tried anything, then got in the cruiser and chased the fire engines out of sight. Sean ran over to the Freeway's northbound on-ramp and stuck out his thumb. It was the only way he was going to get out of here. Standing by the FREEWAY ENTRANCE sign, Sean shivered in the cold rain and blew on his hands between surges of cars. Not many people hitchhiked anymore and Sean soon found out why the old tradition was gone. Each pair of motorists' eyes was locked on the road before them. Their backs were hunched over the wheel like they had evolved from turtles. He tried to look sympathetic, but every driver's faces with whom he attempted eye contact greeted him with scorn. Even those motorists in barely drivable wrecks deemed themselves worthier than the tramp they saw in Sean, because if there's anyone a driver in LA hates worst than another driver, it's a pedestrian. "What could have put these people in such a shitty mood?” The answer was too easy. Angelenos ha to drive everywhere in LA. Half their lives were spent imprisoned within these steel machines, depriving them of any human contact. While Sean regarded the car as the partnership between two Neanderthal inventions, fire and the wheel backed up by a little basic navigation, he would have given anything to be a driver now, but no one was going to pick up someone as roughed up as him. He was stuck here like a roadside museum piece and, when a van almost sideswiped him, and he swore, "Fuck Jack Kerouac.” He was ready to give up, but a Nissan Sentra pulled over to the shoulder ahead. Once inside the car merged with traffic and Sean said, "Thanks a lot.” "Been out there long?” The middle-aged man in a brown suit sneaked a glimpse at Sean's crotch. "Long enough,' Sean knew what was coming next. "I'll turn up the heat. That should be better.” "Yeah, lots,” Sean replied, but stiffened as the driver finished talking about the weather by saying, "Have you been with a man?” "Not since I was a young boy.” "I like your cologne. Is real musty." The driver eyed Sean with interest. “It’s new.” Jack Kerouac had written in ON THE ROAD that the worst part of hitching was proving to the driver that they hadn't made a mistake stopping for the hitchhiker. The heavy skies opened up and the deluge obscured the Freeway. He could still be out there, so he played along with the driver's come-on. Sean kept up the small talk, enticing the driver with tales of his youth in New York. Most of it was lies. Thirty minutes later Sean arrived at the complex in North Hollywood, damp, but not cold. The driver realized he had been played and cursed Sean. He didn’t care. He was back in the Valley. Upstairs he knocked on the door. "I thought you had gone." Lena opened up with visible relief. She smiled to her lover. Obviously the older woman had been betting on his disappearance had been for good. It was nice to be wanted and not wanted at the same time, although the first was better than the latter. "I did." Sean pulled off his wet coat. "Where?" Sherri was holding a video camera in her hands like she wanted to throw it at his head. There was nothing to be gained from telling the truth and he didn't want to lie. "I went over to Hollywood and came back." He picked up a towel and wiped his face. "She said I smelled like the dead.” "And did you take a shower?" Sherri eyed him as if he might have slept with this woman. Not with jealousy, but with disgust. She really hated men. "No, I'm as dirty as a bucket of sludge." "It's only going to get worse." Sherri accepted his tale. "If you can live with it, then so can I." If she wanted him dirty, then he was going for it. "Man, it was wet out there.” "It's supposed to clear up tomorrow,” Sherri countered and said, "We have a lot of work left before we leave in the morning. I suggest you get some sleep.” It was more an order and Sean went into the back bedroom without a single mention of her films with Che or even their fifteen seconds in an after-hour club in New York eleven years ago or her hating men. Why was a question he could answer, but definitely not one he would ask Sherri any time soon. Not if he knew what was good for him. TWENTY-THREE By the time Louie Sinreich arrived at the bungalow off Franklin, the firemen had extinguished the living room blaze. THe house was a total wreck. The producer responded to the LAFD inspector's queries by saying that the place had been vacant for months and suggested that squatters had started a fire with the videos for warmth. The fire inspector doubted the pock-marked man was telling the truth. 911 had received thirteen calls from this address from its well-known inhabitant over the last six months, yet he wrote up the homeowner's explanation, because the place being uninsured against fire ruled out arson and the only real damage was to the living room and a hundred porno tapes. Once the firemen and police left, Louie tallied his losses at around $30,000, mostly from the LAFD's hoses or the axes. He had bought the house cheap from an actor down on his luck, so he was still ahead of the game, but what hurt most was that Louie had picked Che Chasta up when she was down, He had made her a star again, had her a felony charge dropped, and she had repaid him by stealing the master cassettes from her Golden Classic's series, which were worth millions over the long run. He slammed his fist into the wall of her undamaged bedroom. "You fuckin' bitch.” The restraints were attached to the bedposts. Someone had to have freed her. Louie went to the video camera. The tape was still inside. It had to hold the identity of this meddler. Before he could review the action, the contractors arrived to begin the initial repairs to the bungalow. They haggled with the price for an hour. $45,000. Louie drove to the Encino Hills, his horn warning other motorists to stay out of his way the next couple of days. The night was well into its first hour by the time he arrived at his house. Louie stripped off his smoke-tainted clothing in the hallway. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into the kitchen. His bodyguard was stuffing a huge roast beef sandwich into his mouth. He had had a better day than Louie. "What you looking at?” Louie demanded, wanting to take out his anger of anyone. "Nothing." Jimmo wished the producer had shown up a few minutes later, so he could have finished his meal in peace. "How bad was it?” "Bad." Louie paced back and forth across the spotless tiled floor, until the rage subsided to a less-than-homicidal level. "How are our guests?” "The guy downstairs is out like you left him. Chained to the wall. I dropped his car outside of the rental office. No one saw me come or go.” "Good." At least Jimmo was goo at what he was good at. "What about the girl?” "She came over about a half-hour ago and I sent her into the bedroom." Jimmo figured the skinny girl to be another prospect for Louie's stable of starlets. "No phone calls either.” "Finally some good news.” Louie didn’t need another crisis today and told his bodyguard, "You can go home now. I'll see you tomorrow.” "If you need me, just call," Jimmo offered, wrapping up his sandwich. "I think I can deal with the upstairs guest by myself.” Once Jimmo drove away, Louie opened the basement door. A shaft of light from the kitchen fell on Driscoll's motionless body. Louie climbed down the steep stairs and crossed the cement floor to a medicine bag. He took out a syringe to load with 5cc of Morphine and 3cc of Dirsed. He tapped the glass cylinder to dislodge any air bubbles. Driscoll sat up and flicked a finger at the inside of his elbow, so a bruised vein swelled with anticipation of a shot. "Nice outfit.” "I was wet.” "Is it raining outside?” "Do you care?” "No, I don't care about nothing.” "You really like this shit?" Louie wasn't into any drugs other than speed. "I like it and you know what I even like being here. Chained to the wall like Popeye Doyle in THE FRENCH CONNECTION. You know where the big French dealer locks him in a room and gets him addicted.” "All I can remember is the car chase." "No one can drive like that under the El, but, if I were Popeye, I would have never escape from the drug den." Driscoll half-heartedly tugged his hand. The chain on his wrist was attached to the wall. "Not from paradise.” "This isn't a permanent situation.” Louie wasn't going to support a junkie cop in his basement for the rest of his life. "You could always let me go.” Louie had seen too many dogs turn on their master to take such a risk. "I think we'll wait for your partner." "Good by me.” He squeezed his hand to pump more blood into the vein. "You know you're like a candy-striper with that needle.” "You think you can do better?” Even chained and drugged Driscoll was dangerous, so Louie slid the syringe across the floor. "Have yourself a party.” "You got it." Driscoll shimmeyed the needle into a swollen vein. A red anemone of blood flowered within the glass cylinder. The ex-cop depressed the plunger to force the narcotic combo into his arm. The drugs hit quick. Driscoll booted the needle several times before he collapsed onto the bed. "Fucking junkie.” Louie swore, because this was getting expensive and, climbing the stairs, he told himself, "Nobody knows how hard I work.” All those fans at the convention had said how much they would like to have a job, where your day consisted of playing with starlets and shooting films of people having sex. No one outside the industry fathom the lengths to which he had to go to correct mess-ups like today's fire or the ex-cop in the basement. It was better that way, if only to protect the guilty, but just once he would like them to spend a day in his shoes and say, "Louie, you're doing a great job.” Today wasn't that once and Louie locked the basement door. He sat at the kitchen table and huffed out two small lines of Speed to take the fight off his fatigue. The sting was worse than ever and he reached inside the refrigerator for a bottle of Viagra. After popping two 100mg Blue Boys, he strode to the bedroom, where a skinny female with coal-black hair watched a lesbian scene between Lena de Gama and Big Josie Cane on the 32"TV. Hearing the man behind her, Alice Bebadd clumsily pushed back the black hair of the wig. "Sorry, I couldn't wait.” "You like this video?” In the TV's flickering blue light the disguised redhead's body could pass for Lena de Gama, though only just, which was enough for Louie in his state. "Very much. I'd like to meet her. I mean, she's really hot.” Alice moved over for Louie to sit on the bed. "If you're lucky, I can get you to do a film with her. She likes girls. Likes them a lot.” Louie caressed Alice’s thigh with a disinterested hand . "For now you'll have to be satisfied with being in a private film with me. Sort of your debut in the movie business.” "I can deal with that.” Alice spread her legs to show she had shaved off her pubic hair. "I did like you told me.” Louie hated the little vertical mustaches most porno actresses left above their vagina and nodded with approval at the bare crotch. "I hope it feels good.” "No one's complained yet." Alice's appetite for sex might be wrong, but if everyone else could have a vice, then she could too. "We'll see, if you can keep your streak going.” Louie went over to the VCR and replaced the Lena de Gama tape with the cassette from Che's bungalow. Alice had not seen any bondage movies, she had expected more action from one and asked, "Is this a S&M film?” "No, this is a special order from a Japanese client who wants to see a blonde tied up and unconscious." ”Why?" "Why's a mystery to me, but if someone wants, I give. That's show biz." "And she's acting?” Alice touched the producer's body. He was old, yet his muscles were as defined as men in underwear commercials. Louie was far from handsome, but she would do anything to assure her getting ahead in this business, although she had no idea what 'anything' meant yet. "None better." Louie hit the VCR remote's FF and Alice slid across the mattress to watch the blurred sped-up images of Che's futile exertions against her cuffs. "She's not going to get free, is she?” "She shouldn't." Louie recalled strapping the cuffs tight, but Che had been able to free a hand. When she dropped the receiver on the floor, Louie fast-forwarded the video, until a blonde man entered the room and shut off the camera. "He's pretty beat up to be an actor," Alice commented, thinking that the blonde man too old for her. Even Louie was old. She thought he might even be forty. "Once more that's what the client wanted." Louie stopped the video on this unknown man. He fit Che's description of the battered stranger from the highway. Maybe Che was gone for good, but Louie would bet the rest of his burnt house on this man being with Lena de Gama. Nobody in their right mind would run out of her. Twice this man had interfered with his plans and Louie suspected that he had not seen the last of him. "So you think you're ready for the big time?” Louie shut off the TV. "I guess so.” Alice lay back on the bed. Louie knelt between Alice's pasty white thighs. The Viagra was coming on strong. As long as he could get control of the two computer geeks' SINSEX system, his plans for dominating the porno industry were still on track. As for now only three words mattered. “Lights, camera, action.” TWENTY-FOUR The afternoon sun was warm for winter and the temperature was a good six degrees shy of the all-time summer record of 145F for Panamint Valley. Windblown sand whistled across the sun-blasted Route 190 into the unpaved parking lot of the Springs Motel. The resort might not have been the epicenter of nowhere, but it was pretty damn close. The blistered landscape was devoid of any greenery. Shriveled bushes and spiky cactus grew without any rain. To the south the dry valley stretched between bare mountains Someone had once told Sean that during cowboy movies in Tokyo the Japanese laughed enviously at such a sublime emptiness, however anyplace, whether it be Tokyo or Death Valley, could become too crowded with just the right number of wrong people. "I want to go to MacDonald’s.” In front of the Springs restaurant a young kid in the baggy clothes stamped his feet on the ground in preparation of launching into a familiar tantrum. "There’s no MacDonald's in Death Valley. We either eat here or you starve.” The father tried to grab his son's arm, but the eight year-old was too quick for him. "You touch me and I'll scream.” "Don't do that, honey,” His mother hushed and the red-faced kid taunted her, "And why not? It's not like you're going to hit me or something.” Coming from a generation where that type of talk would have earned you a whack, Sean was impressed by the young boy's bravery, but he was also irritated by his whining and stood up from the shaded bench. The father sneaked a glance at Sean, as if he might smack some sense into their kid for a price. Strangely enough the kid regarded the dusty man to serve up the same to his father. It was only a thought in their minds and like most people that was all it remained. The parents caved into their little terrorist's demands and drove off toward Lone Pine. As jealous as Sean was of people with families, there were sometimes he was very happy to be on his own, although that was only a Collrary situation, since at the far end of the dusty parking lot, the film crew was readying Sherri's Skylark for the first scene. Not one of them looked his way. Neither the two butch grips, who had driven him here in a white Chevy van, nor the camerawoman nor the other two crew members had spoken a single word to him, despite his being the star of the film. This unexpected persona non persona treatment might have angered him, except from what he had seen, heard, or read how his half of the species treated the other team, womankind was fully within its rights to rise up one night and murdered every man on the planet. Still his being only available target was unsettling, mostly because of his total ignorance about acting. Everyone has dreamed of becoming a movie star and Sean had often asked himself how hard acting could be. Just smile a little, look angry, or run with terror, yet confronted with reality of being filmed. His body shook with the first tremors of stage fright and he dropped in over $2 of coins to call Vic Granollers again. His friend, the star in over twenty films, should be able to give him a few pointers. Unfortunately the no one answered the movie star's phone. Sean hung up and walked over to where Lena was undergoing a transformation on by a septuagenarian make-up woman, who asked in exasperation, "What now?” "I was just wondering whether I needed any make-up?” The older woman in hippie clothing smirked, since the man’s bruises were natural. yet she humored him, saying, "You are looking a little shiny.” "Yeah, you might be right,” Sean said without any idea what ‘shiny ‘meant. "Yes, but I can fix that.” The old woman bent over for a handful of dirt and artfully applied the dust to his face and suit. She turned to Lena. “Much better, don't you think?” "A thousand times better,” Lena responded with a giggle. No one ever had treated Marlon Brando in this manner, then again he was no one. He drifted away to the motel's empty swimming pool and contemplated hitchhiking out of there to teach these women a lesson that they couldn't live without men. A hand gently touched his shoulder and Sherri asked, "Sean, are you okay?” "Yeah, I guess I am. But I'm still puzzled by why we're shooting the last scene first. It's not, because of the light like you told everyone last night.” "No, I said that, cause I didn't want 'them' to know the real reason.” With her brown hair slicked back and wearing a leather motorcycle jacket over a pair of loose blue jeans Sherri looked twice the man he would ever be. "You know nothing about acting and this last scene is the easiest way to get your feet wet. All you have you do is stand and cast a shadow on the highway.” She was on his side and he sighed with relief, saying, "I was getting really worried about that. I mean, no one was telling me what I should do.” "Very few people on a film set know what they should do. That's why they have a director Some people in the crafts think we should be called a dictator. Anyway a long time ago a director told me five rules for film acting. Number one, stay within the lens' field of vision. If you can see the lens, then the camera can see you. Two, don't move or speak too fast. Time runs slower on film. Three, don't turn your back to the camera or look into it, unless I tell you to. Four don't stop, until I say, "Cut.” And finally, don't think too much and make yourself scarce, when the crew is setting up. You got all that?” "One hundred percent.” "You do all that and the camera will take care of the rest, Mr. Coll.” She motioned for him to join her at the cars. "You ready?” "Never readier,” Sean proclaimed, buoyed by the director's advice. Sherri returned to the Skylark. A 16mm camera had been sstrapped on to the hood. Sean went to the equipment van, ready to get in the back like on the trip up from LA, however Sherri yelled "Mr. Coll, you sit in the front. You're a star now.” The smaller of the lesbian grips opened the van's passenger door. It was a small gesture, but a big step in right direction bolstered by the heavily tattooed driver asking, "How you feeling?” "Good.” There had definitely been a shift in their demeanor, though neither woman said a word to him on the fifteen-mile ride through the tortured valley to a long straightway and the Panamint Valley Road disappearing into a range of arid mountains to the south. Only a distant grove of Joshua Trees to the left broke the landscapes monotony. The Skylark pulls over onto the crumbling shoulder and the van parked behind it. Sean broke the silence. "Looks like no one's been on this road for years.” "That's why we're using it,” The driver shut off the engine. The heavier grip slid open the rear door and within minutes everyone was busy setting up the shot, except for Lena and Sean. They obeyed all of Sherri's commands, as if they had worked together for years. From what he had overheard during the trip from LA, most of these women worked on several lesbian XXX films with Sherri as director and Lena as the star and they worshiped both women. Sean would have too, if they would let him. On the Skylark Lena sat on the hood. The camera behind her. She looked like an abandoned runaway, lost for years. An alkaline cloud blew across the road. "You don't talk much,” Lena commented, shielding her eyes. "It's not like anyone around here wants to talk with me.” "Yeah, these girls are pretty angry. And with good reason.” The wind abated and Lena brushed back her dusted hair "And what about you?” "I've met some bad men in my life. A few good one, but only a few.” "And where do you think I fall in?” Lena tilted her head to the side and put her finger to her chin. "I'd have to guess you fall in between. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. I like that in a man.” "Why?” Sean felt completely at ease with her and demanded, “Why?" "Because we are what we are,” she answered bluntly, but before he could respond, Sherri shouted, "We're ready, whenever you are.” The camerawoman and the director climbed onto the red hood. Lena stood beside him with a battered leather bag in her hand. A grip sat behind the wheel. The rest of the film crew clambered into the van. As the camerawoman focused the 16mm Aaton camera, Sean licked at his lips. The wasteland was taking its toll on his body. Lena took her mark with a shiny revolver by her side. This was the last scene. A gun wasn’t in the script. Sean took a step back. "What's with the gun?” "Calm down, Mr. Coll, it's only a prop.” Sherri said calmly, though it was actually her unloaded .38. Paying $100 a day for a prop gun they would only have to fire once was out of their budget. "The script says nothing about a gun.” "Scripts had no ending. Last night I saw the ending. Two women. One man. The end of the world. They leaving you in the middle of the desert and driving off. No words. The gun works. Abandonment. ” Sherri waved for the other vehicle to leave. “Simply stand there. Lena leaves the bag and water on the road. She says her one line.She returns to the car. We drive away, then you run after us. You say nothing. You got it?" "Like a fly ball,” "Good, just don't drop it. Our light's fading, so the fewer takes the better.” Sherri said before starting the Skylark's motor. "Good luck.” Lena said with a smile, as she raised the revolver. "Camera.” Sherri raised her and hand and yelled, “Action." The woman in the cotton shift and leather jacket instantly changed into a killer, aiming the gun between his eyes. It was the same view the old man had seen in Las Vegas. He had been involved in pornography. These girls might even know him. He resisted raising his hands and waited for Lena to say the scene's single line. "So long, Mr. Nowhere.” Sean believed every word. Lena ran to the car and crawled across the trunk into the backseat like Jackie O in Dallas in reverse. The Skylark's tires pealed rubber and he chased the moving car at top speed. Within seconds the Skylark became a distant dot on the two-lane road. "They're not going to stop.” flashed through his mind and joined the paranoiac thoughts that this had been some weird feminist plot to murder him by stranding him on the edge of Death Valley in a raggedy-man's suit. "Bitches." He should have seen it coming all along, instead of buying that line about a movie. They hated men and would do anything to hurt them. After regaining his wind, he tramped back to the bottle of water and leather bag, squinting in the sharp light to make out how far away the mountains really were. A mile of two, but there was nothing there. Just dirt, wind, and sun. The Skylark had vanished to the north. Nothing in that direction until the Springs. The resort was at most fifteen miles away. A few hours of exposing his body and soul to the elements in this blistered wilderness would be long overdue a purification rite. He was about to take his first step toward salvation, when he spotted a black spot rushing toward him. The Skylark. Their abandoning him had just been part of the scene, but when the convertible pulled up, the three women inside fought to contain their laughter. “You thought we were leaving you?” asked Sherri. “Not at all.” Sean wasn't going to let them know that and asked, "So how'd I do?” The women glanced at each other, the camera on the hood, and then at the man in the black suit. Without a punchline to fall back on, Sherri said, "That take worked for me, but let's do a safety?” "Yes, sounds good to me,” Sean replied, unfamiliar with what a 'safety' was. Lena crawled out of the car, her dress hiking way up her thighs. “A star is born.” The dry wind blew through his hair and the setting sun warmed his face. The camerawoman readied for the next shot with the director whispering in her ear. They were talking about him. Lena stood behind them with the gun evocatively against her belly and smiled at him as few women had in the past years. Sean told himself, "This is the life.” Truthfully he was pretty close to being right for once. TWENTY-FIVE The 10' by 20' room in the back of the low-rent sound stage hummed with the rising crescendo of moans from the naked women linked in a classic daisy chain of multiple 69 position and the two bearded cameramen focused their Super 8mm video cameras on hands, tongues, lips, breasts, thighs, vaginas, but never the faces, since the audience for the 69-FEST III was not interested in the participants' identities, only action and action was exactly what Sinreich Productions would provide. The video had no plot, only sex sequences between anonymous women of every type. No viewer would have to fast-forward through dialogue. The girls, mostly first-timers, had no lines. Each getting paid $500 for a day’s work. Most legit jobs paid $100 a day. Everything was going perfectly, until one girl screamed, "God, oh, yes. God.” "Cut. Cut. Cut. Hey, like it's been a long day, but how many times do I have to tell you? No 'Oh God.' or 'Fuck me, God.’” Louie screamed, jumping to his feet. The guilty party, a slender secretary from Sherman Oaks, lowered her head and said, "I'm sorry.” "Nothing to be sorry about, just don't do it again.” Louie breathed deeply and looked in her eyes like he really cared. "I have enough problems without getting the religious fanatics on my case for blasphemy, so just moan and groan. Got it, girls?" "Yes, Mr. Sinreich," the naked women murmured collectively, as if they were involved in a synchronized swimming scene rather than of a lesbian orgy. Louie suspected some of them would have performed for free to have a stab at being in the movies. "Now, girls, act like this is the best sex you've ever had and all you want is more, more, more. In two minutes I'll give you a signal and then I want you all to 'cum' in a chain reaction.” Louie signaled the cameramen to resume filming. "Okay, girls, let's go for it. Camera, light action." Normally the producer would have relegated the direction of this video to some flunky. He had made an exception for his special guests, Bob Olsen and Ur Bell. The producer pretended to dive into the maelstrom of bodies and turned around to see the two geeks mesmerized not by real women just out of reach, but with the carnal imagery on the closed-circuit monitors. Louie checked his watch . ”Okay, girls, it's blast-off time." The feverish gasping and accelerated panting reverberated against the studio's thin walls. The veteran cameramen caught the best of this frenzied female free-for-all, for the most part was stock pussy-bumping for Louie, however Alice Bebadd shuddering was no act. He waited for her to finish, then shouted, "Okay, girls. CUT. You have a break for five minutes." The room was immediately filled by the sound of females regaining their breath. Most of these newcomers had been unprepared for how strenuous a XXX video was. Alice Bebadd was already up on her feet, reveling in the tingle in her body. As the women filed out of the studio to the bathroom or to smoke a cigarette, Louie asked the men from Sausalito, "So what did you think?" Ur Bell's face was whiter than normal and Bob Olsen nervously rubbed his hand, as if they were scared their mothers might find them here. Louie draped his arm over Bob Olsen's shoulder. ”You know, dudes, most of these girls would do anything you asked." "I'm sure they would.” Bob look at his feet. "See one out there you like?" "Not really.” Isaac Conti had understood their not being in this for just the sex, however he had disappeared and one of their compatriots at Livermore had threatened to go to the Attorney General, unless he received some money to pay off his credit card debts, so they had to turn to the devil for help. Hopefully they would only have to sell their souls and not their invention. “Not really, well I want you to watch the little redhead in the next scene. I think we could use her to test your invention." "We told you before,” Olsen spoke without looking at Louie. "We only want Lena de Gama." "What difference does it make?” Louie asked, hiding the irritation in his voice. "Just that....ah, that...."Bob stammered, uncomfortable with admission of his idolatry of the young starlet, but he blurted out, "We consider Lena de Gama a goddess. These other women are nothing in comparison. Sure, we could use them, but neither of us can guarantee the results. It's all very technical." Louie Sinreich had dealt with plenty of eggheads over the years and they loved to blow him off with the word 'technical'. "That's bullshit. The truth of the matter is that you had a 'thing' for Lena de Gama. Am I right?" Bob Olsen and Ur Bell nodded in agreement, then Bob avowed, "Both of us have taken a vow of celibacy. No sex, until the harness, the program, and the ideal female subject are together. That subject being Lena de Gama." "That's a great sacrifice, boys.” The fat boy's stubbornness brought out the schoolyard bully in the producer and his hand tightened on Bob's shoulder. His fingers dug under the tendons. "But why don't we go ahead? I'll give you the start-up money you need for a 'lab', and we'll sign a contract, something standard to protect our mutual interests." "Yeah, but how do you know you can get her?” Bob asked, cringing with pain. "Tell you what. Like I'm this close to getting Lena de Gama. The moment I get her, she swing into action, so we need to have everything online ready to go. I mean our window of opportunity might not be that long. So what do you say?" Bob looked over to Ur. Without Isaac Conti they really didn't have much of a choice. The silent inventor nodded and Bob said, "We'll go your way, but all bets are off, if you can't get Lena.” "I wouldn't have it any other way.” Louie had already had a lawyer draw up a special ironclad contract to lock up SINSEX forever and he released his grip on Bob's shoulder. His cellular phone vibrated inside his jacket. "Excuse me, boys. I have to take this call." He left the sound stage into the outer corridor and looked at the number on ID calling. It wasn't anyone he knew. He put his phone to his ear. "Yeah, who’s this?" "Having a tough day, huh?" Tony 'The Toe' Tannucci demanded over a scratchy connection worsened by the money man's tobacco-thickened voice. "No, no, just the usual headache of shooting a video with ten naked girls. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it, right?" No laughter came from the other end. Tony was all business. "So to what do I owe the privilege of this call?” "I got a question for you." "Shoot." Louie suspected his wanting to horn in on his project with the two geeks. "You seen or heard from Isaac Conti lately?" Louie quickly realized Tony had cold-called him and the fat man had probably ruined twenty other people's day trying to sucker them into spilling their guts. Louie was too smart to fall for that trick, especially since he was guilty. ”Like not since the Awards evening in Vegas.” It wasn’t a lie. ”If you see him, let me know." "Sure.” Louie replied, and the line went dead. He thought to himself, "If it isn't one thing, then it's another." Tony 'The Toe' Tannucci was searching for Old Man Conti. The whiz kids only wanted a lesbian who hated men. Problems just kept piling up; the money he owed them, the money he needed to finance the invention, the burnt house in Hollywood, Che's running out, the blonde mystery man on and on and on. Sometimes he felt, as if he was juggling bowling balls of razor wire. The younger cameraman popped his shaggy head out the studio door and informed him the girls were getting restless "Tell them to cool their jets and send out the skinny redhead, Alice." "The one with the small tits?" "That's her.” Louie waited for Alice, who wore a towel around her thin waist. "You want to see me, Louie?" "Yeah, you were great in that last segment.” A little flattery went a long way in this business. "Normally I don't rush anyone into anything, unless the camera tells me to and the camera isn't lying about you, Alice. You ready for something special?" "What do you want from me?” Alice was an eager volunteer. ”I want you to be a star,” Louie whispered what he wanted from her. His suggestion did not repulse the girl, though she said, "I'm pretty small back there.” "Which is why I want you to take this.” Louie presented his protégé with a quasi-aphrodisiac, Captagon, plus a bootleg Quaalude for a muscle relaxant. "These will make it easier. I'll give you an extra $1000. Keep this to yourself. After this scene we can go back to my place. How does that sound?" "Whatever you want, Louie.” $1000 was ten weeks work as a waitress. “You’ll be the star.” He saw the dream of Hollywood in her eyes and everyone in the porno trade will do almost anything to see their names up in lights. "You're my girl." Louie watched, as Alice went over to the water cooler to pop the two pills. The Captagon would hit first, rendering the farm girl into a spectacle worth two cameras. Back inside the studio Louie clapped his hands. "Okay. girls, break time's over. It's back to Showtime and I want you all to turn up the volume. Remember. We're not making a mayonnaise commercial here. Who's ready to be a star?” Every face in the naked circle said, “Me." "Good." Louie answered, for he was not in the mood to accept anything less than their bests. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not never, because this was show business and no one got anywhere without giving it their all. TWENTY-SIX Three days wearing the same suit from dawn to dusk under a Death Valley sun and six without a shower or a shave had fine-tuned Sean's dereliction along with less desired result of the ripening of his soiled clothing. Unlike a Hollywood set with scores of extraneous drones, the crew of ADAM AND TWO EVES consisted a camerawoman, light tech, two gaffers, one grip, a best boy, a PA, a soundwoman, and the make-up lady. All pros of the porno trade and serious man-haters. Their glares made Sean feel like he as on earth row. No one in the crew approached the male lead and Sherri also kept her distance, except for their shared scenes. Sean himself could barely tolerate what had become his second skin. Strangely his stench hardly bothered Lena. He dreamed of crawling out of his crusty suit and into the motel bed under clean sheets., except they weren’t done yet. The director glanced at the long shadows running away from the ruins of the mining town. No one ha live in Rhyolite in years. There wasn't much light left. Maybe thirty minutes. The last scene should have been simple, however Mr. Nowhere had bungled his one line every time. Time was money. The $50,000 from her uncle was going faster. ”We have shoot four takes. None of them work, let's get this last one right.” Everyone hoped Sean could snap off this forty-second monologue without a pause or a stammer or shifting from his mark or mispronouncing the word 'women', each of these being the previous reasons for the director having cried out, “Cut." "Water, I need water. Give me that, and I'll do fine.” His mouth was parched and his lips cracked, but he was only stalling, All the ease of the preceding three days of shooting had been evaporated by his inability to say his lines. "Okay, make it quick. The sun's going to be down.” Sean ran over to the crumbling skeleton of masonry and picked up a bottle of water from a folding table. Last night, this morning, and every chance between shots, Sean had recited these lines, but for the last two hour, the speech of macho-domination over women blurred in his head. "What's wrong, Mr. Nowhere?” Sherri asked with plain exhaustion. She had never called him by his name. None of the crew had either. "I just can’t get this right." Sean could not get around the fact that it was his character, the last man on earth, was spouting off these sexist barbs, not him, for these women certainly couldn't judging from their reaction to his words. "Calm down, Mr. Nowhere.” Eventually any actor was bound to forget his lines, no matter how professional they were, but Sherri had too much riding on this for him to go up. "This happens to us all. Usually when you least expect it and when it matters most. There's no explaining it. If we had the time, we could shoot it tomorrow, but we don't have time. We have a tight schedule. Just do your best. If you don't, no one's going to take away your birthday.” Emboldened by director's advice, he announced, "I'm ready now.” "Okay, let's do it." Sean returned to his mark by the facade of the ghost town's bank. Sherri lined up behind the camera next to Lena and the camerawoman and peered through the viewfinder. Lean took her mark. Five feet from the man. Sherri joined the other two by the bank. "One take. Let’s do it. Straight through. No stops. Ready. Camera.” The camerawoman, an old veteran of feminist porno, re-aimed the French-made 16mm camera and gently pressed the button. The film whirred at 24 frames per second. The lens captured the image of the three people and bounced the light off a mirror, reversing it through the gate onto the exposed film. The last three people on Earth. Two women. One man. The smaller woman with the gun orders the man to turn his back to her. He shakes his head. ”Go ahead and shoot me, but you're going to have to look into my eyes. Me, the father of the babies growing in your bellies, and what if two babies turn out to be both female? After them nothing. Is that what you really want? The end of the Us on earth. With me alive, you can have more babies. Our own little Eden. Adam and his two Eves. What's wrong about that? You hate men and what we've done to the world. Me, I did nothing to you. Maybe to other women, but now I know better. Hell, this time you women can ruled the world. Has to be better than men.” The two women regard one another, saddened to acknowledge the truth of what the man had said, and the younger woman in tattered white dress lowers the gun slightly, but lifts it swiftly and pulls the trigger. Blam. The man flinches. The young woman keeps the gun trained on him. "One chance. That's all you get.” "That's all I need." the man promises. “Forever.” "Cut." shouted Sherri and the wizened make-up artist commented cold-bloodedly, "I would have shot him dead and be rid of them.” Sherri smiled, figuring if Sean's monologue had sounded right in reality, then it would on film as well. "It's a keeper. Let's pack up and get back to the motel, girls. You too, Mr. Coll.” The film crew loaded the trucks with the camera, sound equipment, wires, and electronic gear. Sean stared at the dust devils swirling across the pancake-flat salt pans. Once more he reflected that, if he had not turned his head outside of Las Vegas, a bullet would have drilled through his skull. "Are you okay?" Lena handed him a paper cup filled with black coffee. "Just feel like the ballon leaking air." He sipped the bittersweet Java, wishing he had a dozen donuts to go with it. Not possible. "After a day like today I feel that same way too." Lena's rolled her head to relieve a cramp in her neck. Sean wanted to offer a massage. Everyone woman in the crew was watching his every move. and he steppe away from Lena.?” Sean asked. Her fingers worked up her neck into the Suzie Wong black hair. "You have a woman in your life?” "No, not for some time.” Sean confessed without an embarrassment. He had grown too accustomed to being alone. Even with her dress and his pants between them, he felt naked, especially when she asked, "Not even for sex?" "Not even for that.” The sun went down behind the shattered hills and sprayed an ultraviolet corona through the evening sky, transforming the old mining town's ruins into a mystical city on another planet. Even the gritty dust became perfume to him. "How long has it been?” ”A year. Maybe more. I've gone longer.” "I'd die.” "Sometimes I think I have.” ”Why?” Her elfin face shone with the sun's fading embers ”Just bad luck.” He hadn’t told any one about Mrs Adorno’s curse. Over by the Skylark Sherri was in conference with the camerawoman. Neither looks their way. This scene was over and Lena walked away. Sean stood alone. With the sun down and the wind blowing out of the mountains, the air rapidly lost its warmth. To the East the stars' pinpoints of light pierced in the evening sky. Sean lifted his head to search for a familiar constellation, as if finding Orion might tell him where he really was or what Lena saw in him. Sherri had been watching the two. So had everyone else on the crew. Maybe their new-found intimacy was all pure as snow, except throughout her career in porno Sherri had seen hundreds of leading men and ladies fall into bed like cats in heat. When you filming a movie, the worlds of the screen and reality often get confused. She had done it herself so many times that she had never imagined herself being faithful to just one person no matter how much she desired it. At least until she met Lena. The young woman greeted her with a kiss. "You like him, don't you?’ "He's not a bad person.” "For a man.” "For anyone, Sherri, but he's not you.” Lena caressed her lover's cheek and watched, as the van and the truck pulled away. The man in the black suit sat on a ruined wall. It was just like the movie had become life and Sherri feared how closely the real people would follow the characters in the script. She could only hope not at all, "You want to stay here all night.” "No, the motel sounds good to me.” He ran over and sat in the back of the Skylark. Sherri stepped on the gas and the Buick skimmed over the dirt away from Rhyolite. Where this man came from might be a mystery, but he would never get anywhere with Lena, because Sherri would stop him before the first kiss. No matter what it took. TWENTY-SEVEN Most motorists on the Ventura Freeway drove the same route several hundred times a year and swore they could drive home or to the office blind, which was exactly what they were doing this evening, as the rain bucketed down from the tangled storm clouds above the Valley. Even with the Cadillac's windshield wipers volleying back and forth at full speed, the taillights ahead of him are barely visible to Louie Sinreich. Today had been one thing after another. First,Jimmo had called in sick with the flu, next, his secretary's car had been washed down the Topanga Canyon followed by his double-mocha cappuccino from the Thai donut shop ending up being an expresso, and it didn't stop there. Due to a roof leak at a ranch house in Van Nuys, the BIG ONE III shoot had to be relocated to a studio.

The intellectual director had told Louie that 'money shots' were phony. He had instructed the director just keep shooting, then an electrical failure in the studio had forced him to cancel the shoot and send everyone home. To top it off HUSTLER had given his two latest releases JACK-OFF II and CREAM SCENE III 'limp dick' ratings.

"Shit."

Louie veered across two lanes to catch the Balboa St. exit, miraculously missing a van. He stopped at the light and glanced over to the van besides him. It was packed with Chinese men and he recollected reading about how in China there were a hundred million extra males than women. Louie calculated the returns for breaking that market, until his mobile buzzed. Louie put the caller on the speakerphone.

”Who is it?”

"Nothing like driving in the rain to put you in good spirits, huh, Louie?” Carl James, the owner of Angel Talent Ltd. commented. "So what's up?”

Louie got right to it and said, "I need Lena de Gama.”

"Unless it's a girl-girl or multi-girl flick, you are wasting your time and mine.” Carl James had fielded this request from almost every producer in the Valley and every one of them had been shot down by the young actress.

"I'm talking much more than the going rate”

"How much more?”

"Say $20,000 and it isn't for a film.”

"You really do need her. No promises, but give me a few days and I'll get back to you.”

If anyone could get Lena de Gama, Jame was the man. Louie stepped on the gas to run a yellow light on Ventura. The Cadillac barreled through the downhill waves sloshing over the pavement. Several teenage knee-boarders surfed the swift moving stream, proving there was a silver lining behind every cloud no matter how much rain fell.

Louie parked the Cadillac under the carport, glad to be home, until remembering his guest in the basement. Driscoll's fix could wait. Once inside he slipped into a silk robe and sat at the computer to go over the sales figures from TENDER BEEF CAKE II, the most recent gay release.

Having cost $25,192 to get the film into a box, the release had earned twenty times that from rentals and purchases along with the soft-core versions' sales abroad. The Feds would have loved to bust him from transporting obscene material overseas, except Louie had learned long ago that you only break one law at a time.

Louie crunched more numbers into the computer. Pluses, minuses, assets, debts, taxes paid and owed, loans given and taken. All of these figures were above the table. While skimming taxes was a great temptation in any business, the Feds considered no crime greater than evading your taxes and punished any offenders, especially pornographers.

Louie's fingers lifted off the keyboard and down-powered the computer, reflecting on Isaac Conti. While he had not been troubled the smallest pang of guilt about the murder, he was increasingly worried about the old man's complete disappearance. Driscoll's having produced the wallet didn't prove a thing at this point and neither did his saying that he had had seen the old man get whacked. Something was really off and he couldn't put his finger on what.

Louie almost did another line of crystal meth, but decided to take it easy and get some sleep tonight. He went to the kitchen and stuck a frozen lasagna dinner into the microwave. Five minutes later he put the heated tray on the table and pushed around the instant food, while watching the evening news. According to the meteorologist, there was ays of rain ahead. At least there weren’t forty.

A sudden soaking swarmed over the house with a howl threatening to rip off the roof. Louie tossed his dinner in the trash. On his way to the master bedroom, the doorbell rang. Friends and neighbors in LA do not call at this hour, so Louie went to the door with his 9mm in hand.

Peeking through the spy hole, he recognized the large man's face under a dripping fedora. Frank deRocco had finally come for his partner and the money he owed them. Louie could only hope that was all he wanted.

"Just a minute,” Louie yelled through the door and went to his office to get the $25,000. Nothing cures the maddog killer faster than the sight of cash.

Louie opened the door and the NYPD detective entered, dripping on the carpet.

"I'm glad to see you, Frank.” Louie poked his head outside. No one was in sight and he shut the door.

"You are?"

deRocco draped his soaked coat over a chair and went into the kitchen, as if he had already been inside the house. Louie told himself that it was just a paranoid thought, for if the detective had broken into the house, he would have freed his partner.

"Of course, like aren't I always.” Louie noted the rumpled suit and unshaven face. "You have a good ride cross country,

"Yeah, fabulous and you get time to think about things.”

"Yeah, it's a big country." Louie didn't like the sound of that and said, "I have your money and your friend is ready to go home.”

"He had his fill of LA, huh?" The detective searched the cabinets, until he found a bottle of whiskey and a glass. "He any trouble?”

"Not since the first day. Of course I've had to keep him under with drugs.” Louie watched the cop pour whiskey into the glass. His leaving fingerprints signaled that he had not come to bury Louie, only wrap up unfinished business.

"He must have loved that." deRocco drained the glass in one go. "So you have the money.”

"Yeah, I got it.” Louie place the stack of $100 bills on the table only to find himself facing the muzzle of a .45.

"Take that piece out of your other pocket. By the barrel. Be careful, cause this ain't no game.”

eRocco had vainly spent the last day in Vegas searching for any trace of Coll or the old man. There hadn't been a single mention of a murder in the Vegas papers and that omission was not good news. Something had fucked up big time and someone would have to pay for that mistake. In this case at least two people and he was looking at one of them.

"Like no problem.” Louie placed the pistol on the table next to the money. "The gun's your partner's. You can count the money, if you like. It's all there.”

"It better be." deRocco stashed the gun and the money in his jacket pockets, which a Chinese tailor on Mott Street had sized for such occasions.

Guns had been pointed at Louie before. No one had pulled the trigger and he could tell Frank deRocco wouldn't either as long as he could he divert the cop from whatever he had initial intentions.

"Listen, I have another job for you. To find a man.”

deRocco had come here to make a clean sweep, except the long ride had sapped his urge for murder, if only for tonight.

“Who?"

"C'mon, I'll show you,” Louie said, relieved his ploy had worked, if only momentarily.

"No funny stuff." deRocco trailed Louie into his office.

"Me, funny? Never.” The producer turned on the TV and rewound the videotape from Che’s house to the image of the blonde man. He might not hold the key to where Che had disappeared with his video masters, but he had not gotten this far up the feeding chain in this business by letting people biting him in the ass without his biting back. "I want you to find this man.”

deRocco recognized Sean Coll, but he asked without any emotion, "Who is he and when was this taken?”

"More than a week ago. I don't know who he is. All I want is for you to find him and bring him to me. There's ten thou in it for you.”

"Just for findin' him?" deRocco was positive the producer was clueless that the man on the videotape was the shooter in Las Vegas.

”That and maybe ask him a few questions.” Louie punched a button and the man's face was floated from a laser printer.

"You got any leads?" deRocco couldn't believe his luck and decided to put off getting rid of the producer, until he had Coll.

"Just one." Louie had a good hunch and handed the cop another photo with an address on it. "He might be with this actress, Lena de Gama. She lives on Sepulveda Boulevard. Here's the address.”

deRocco had seen the actress in a magazine circulating around the precinct. Everyone had raved about her. She wasn’t all that, though his mind boggled just thinking about the odds of Coll ending up with her.

"You want me to get the girl?”

"No, just him.”

"What, if he's a no-show?”

"Like then you get five thou.” Louie sensed the cop wavering between what he should do with him and that throwing the money into the equation shifted the balance between life and death. "That's fair, right?”

"Yeah, sure." deRocco took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. The producer had bought himself a week.

"What about your friend?”

"Kev needs a break. I'll send him back to New York." deRocco inhaled, the smoke futilely searching someplace tender to attack in his lungs.

"Not a bad idea. I'd hate to have him show up here crazy again.”

"Kev's gonna do what I tell him. Always has, so just answer your phone from now on or else I'll send back Kev.”

"I'll answer the phone,” Louie promised, leading the detective to the basement door.

Five minutes after Louis Sinreich and deRocco had carried the semi-comatose Kev out of the ranch house, the detective was southbound on Interstate 405 over the Santa Monica Mountains in the pelting rain. He concentrated on the traffic, but every so often he looked over his shoulder at his passenger in the rear seat.

The two of them had been through a lot, both on and off the force; arrests, shootings, bribes, strong-arming criminals, trials, drinking binges, vacations, and near or about seventeen killings, maybe five of them being legit. They had been to Internal Affairs more than any other officers on the NYPD and stuck to the same story every time, saving each other's skins and pensions.

A great team, but there was no sense in getting sentimental about Kev. deRocco could easily have forgiven his partner for blowing it with Coll and screwing up the pay-off from Louie Sinreich, his detective's intuition told him that Kev had been angling to be caught, just like that squealing cop in PRINCE OF THE CITY and given the chance his partner would sing to Internal Affairs like a Catholic Schoolboy at his first confession, not omitting a single sin, taking deRocco down with him and he had never heard about any cops doing easy time in jail.

There was only one solution.

Kev had to go.

"Where we goin’?” Kev struggled to lift his head from the seat.

"Going to a classy whore hotel for the night," deRocco said, as they exited from the 405 onto the Santa Monica Boulevard, the wet road shining orange underneath the anti-crime streetlights.

"How'd you get here?”

"I drove.”

If there was any consolation for Kev, it was that he wouldn't be going alone, though wasting the porno producer would be a pleasure, instead his being torn apart by what he had planned for his friend.

"What you do to that scumbag, Sinreich?”

"I offed him," deRocco lied, though it wouldn't be soon.

"Yeah, the bastard knew too much," Kev mumbled, then asked, "You get the money?”

"You know I did.”

"What about Coll?"

"What's my name?”

"Frank deRocco. NYPD." Kev half-sang before crashing underneath the heroin haze for the ride to the cheap motel in the Hollywood gay ghetto. After parking around the corner from the motel's office, he punched Kev in the shoulder.

"What now?" Kev's eyes were too glazed to discern their whereabouts.

"We're at the Happy Camper Motel. You go to the office and get us a room far from the street. Tell 'em only one person, that way we don't hafta pay double." deRocco handed Kev $50 and his partner stumbled through the rain past two transvestites under the motel walkway. The drag queens ignored the ex-cop, pegging him for a junkie, and he was too high to care what they thought. \Kev returned to the car and said, "Did just like you told me.”

"Good boy." deRocco parked with the car's rear end flush against the wall, then shut off the Taurus' engine and helped Kev through the rain to Room 122.

It was a hovel. Its guests were the homeless, junkies, whores, and other deviants from the norm. If the uneven walls of this room had a voice, they had an endless selection of ugly stories and the next was only good for fifty words of less.

He dumped Kev on the bed and his partner immediately stuck out his arm like an East Village junkie dying for a fix.

"You get anythin' for me. I'm really hurtin' real bad.”

Louie Sinreich had given him several packets of brown Mexican smack and a shooting kit, saying they might come in handy. deRocco put the syringe, cotton balls, and match on the table along with a glass of water and watched, as his old partner wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.

"Thank God."

Kev took the implements of self-destruction in his hands. He bent the spoon, mixed the entire package of heroin with water, and heated the concoction with a match.

"Go easy on that shit." His partner had been telling the truth. He was in a bad way.

"Easy, yeah, I can go easy." Kev was too deep in his heroin ritual to worry about how strong this dope might be, plus the hardnose viewed himself as indestructible. "One little taste, then a good night's sleep and tomorrow all we gotta do is get on a plane and sit on a beach drinkin' goddamned Pina Coladas.”

"Sounds like the dream." deRocco backed away into the moldy bathroom, where he put on a plastic glove and screwed a silencer on his .45.

The detective tried to psyche himself up for sticking the gun in Kev's ear. One shot to fake a suicide. Painless. deRocco had to ask himself, "Am I really going through with this?”

The answer was no.

The Beatles might break up, but Kev and he had been through too much. There was another way around this. Calling in his resignation to NYPD, he would still get most of his pension. They might ask questions, but the brass and IAU would be more than happy to close the book on both of them. If they went south of the border and Kev kept his mouth shut, his partner could live, though they would still have to take care of Sinreich and Coll. Relieved deRocco unscrewed the silencer and stuck the .45 back in his pocket. He wouldn't tell Kev how close he had come to being wasted, until one day when they had told the same war stories too many times. Then he could say, "You remember that time in LA?"

They would have a good chuckle, though deRocco would laugh harder.

He re-entered the bedroom and stopped short. Kev was sprawled on the floor, the needle still in his arm. All the packets were empty and deRocco checked his pulse. Nothing. Nothing at all. He stood up and kicked the body.

"You stupid asshole. I was gonna to work out all the shit and you had to go and do this. Why, motherfucker, why?”

The answer was too obvious.

His partner was no stranger to the rules of their game. He had seen the handwriting on the wall and chosen his own way out. deRocco swept through the room and wiped off all surfaces with a towel. Kev had nothing in his pockets. He said a quick prayer for the dead and left the room, shutting the door with his foot. No one was in the parking lot, as he ran to the car. Hand on the door he paused before getting into the Taurus, the guilt of leaving his best friend back in that room crawling under his skin like cocaine spiders.

Strangers would discover him and call the police. He might even end up in the John Doe section of the morgue. Of course the priest at his funeral would eulogize him as an altar boy gone astray. Kev would not have had it any other way.

There was little else deRocco could do for a dead man than have someone join him and it was only a question of time before he caught up with Coll. If not here, then somewhere else. If not tomorrow, then some time later and deRocco drove into the stormy night, his mindset one two things and only one of them was sleep. TWENTY-EIGHT

"You should have seen the look on the faces of girls in the brothel, when we walked in decked out in leather. They couldn't figure out, if we were lost or looking for a job. Then I tell the madame, I want one of the girls for an hour. The girl almost shits in her pants, till I double her price. I dragged her out back for some cowgirl reverse action. By the time the meter ran out, I had her screaming for more," bragged the big butch gaffer named Stevie, as she raked a comb through her short black hair.

"Since most of them girls only see dead-drunk miners, you might have been the best piece she's had in years,” Georgia, the steroid-pumped grip in dirty overalls, said, setting up the lights inside the mountain cabin.

"I was thinking about going back across the Nevada Stateline for another taste tonight," Stevie stuck the comb in her back pocket and laid out the cables on the dusty floor in preparation for the film's next scene.

"Me too, though I'd like to bring along the old Johnson strap-on for the little blonde I had last night,” Georgia chuckled, as she secured the camera's tripod.

"I'd like a crack at that Mexican bitch there," Stevie said, though while staring at the young actress on the bed, for with her skin slightly tanned by the desert sun the actress more resembled Inca princess than a low-budget actress. "She sort of looked like you, Lena. Not as pretty, of course. If you gave it up to me tonight, then I could save myself a hundred-mile drive. Save me some gas money too.”

The grip stiffened and Lena put the script down.

In most cases Stevie's come-ons were just talk, yet this time there was no mistaking that the gaffer's intent, as she gestured lewdly with her tongue. "So what about it, Lena? Do I get lucky tonight?”

Georgia would have paid her entire month's salary for a minute with Lena, if only to lick her feet, but she would not overstep the boundaries of sexual harassment and faced her partner. "Stevie, you're way over the line.”

"Stay out of this, truck bitch?" Stevie outweighed Georgia by fifty pounds, could out-press her by 30 kilos, plus Georgia was a 'bottom', when it came to S&M, besides the gaffer had been receiving what she thought were come-ons from the small Spanish actress all week and now demanded from Lena, "My talk bothering you?”

"No more than when a man speaks that way,” Lena’s reprimand stunned the gaffe, who had worshipped the young girl, since working on Lena's first video LOST VIRGIN. "I'm sorry. I was just joking.”

"I may make fuck films, but I am not a piece of meat like men think I am. You are a woman. You should know talk is never just talk.”

"I'm sorry," Stevie re-apologized and fought back the tears of shame, for Lena was right.

"And you should be." The actress stormed out of the cabin and heard a woman crying inside the cabin.

"Why did I do that?" Lena had been playfully clit-teasing Stevie throughout the filming. Just a joke like Stevie said. Her nails dug painfully into her palms, for her outburst had another source other than Stevie's comment.

The sun had descended below the broken spine of mountains across the shadowed valley and the warmth of the day was being sapped from the air. Sherri and the crew hogs were over by the van, totally immersed in preparing the 16mm camera, but Lena was looking for her co-star, who usually wandered someplace no one could see him between shots to visualize his movement in front of the camera and finally spotted the blonde man in the dusty black suit by the opening of a mine.

"Damn him." Her knowing Sean was simply a man she had picked up in the desert did not prevent her from admitting to herself that she longed to be with a man, even more so this one, since he had always been the man from nowhere. All week Lena had been plagued by the torrid fantasies of having sex with Sean. She had fought it, but her legs grew weak and her flesh pulsed with heat, as the itch ached deep inside her body. She grabbed a padding blanket from a pile of film equipment and ran barefoot to the mine entrance, into which Sean had disappeared.

Stale air mixed with the foulness of the man's odor issued from the hole and she turned around to look down on the film crew. Everyone was busy. None more than Sherri. Even Lena's loving the older woman could not deter her from going inside the mine and she entered at the black hole, fantasizing wildly about his body pressing inside her thighs and her nails furrowing red streaks down his back. His hands would pin down her arms, sweat dripping off his chest to create salty rivulets on her belly. He would thrash against her like a shark out of water, till he jetted inside her like lava.

At first Sean wondered who was at the mine entrance, but after taking a couple of steps closer to the light, he recognized Lena, though with her thumb in her mouth and the blanket scrunched up against her chest she could have been eight or eighteen. While puzzled by the pedophiliac phantom she presented, Sean reached out for her, but as soon as he touched her, Lena fell onto the ground to resemble a desert sleeping beauty, with whom he could whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted. Instead Sean lifted Lena in his arms and carried her into the last light of the day, the blanket trailing in the dirt.

All work around the van stopped, as Sean gently laid Lena on the floor of the van. A purple bruise was rising on her forehead and Lena's robe fell open. Sherri had never seen her so fragile and was on the edge of breaking into tears. "What wrong with her?”

"I-I-I don't know,” Sean stammered, for the crew instantly convicted him of assaulting the gypsy princess with their stares. "S-s-she fainted in the mine.”

"What were you doing in the mine?” The make-up woman asked in a threatening tone.

"He raped her.” the camerawoman accused, as the murmur of hatred bubbled to the surface like swamp gas searching a match.

"You bastard.”

"Macho scum.”

Sean's saying nothing was probably his best defense, however he had had enough of their blind detest for anything male, especially when he was completely guiltless, if thinking about sex with Lena wasn't a sin. "Fuck you all. I did nothing."

The big-boned gaffer shoved him hard. Sean normally didn't hit women, but this was nine-on-one, so he clipped the gaffer in the jaw with a light jab. It wasn't meant to hurt her, but effectively turned them into a lynch mob. Sean tried to evade their encirclement, only to be backed up against the cabin.

With the director tending to her girlfriend, the leash of control had been slipped and these women were out for his blood. They all picked up stones, indicating this was going be an old-fashioned biblical stoning, and the half-circle of women glanced at each other to see who would throw the first stone. When Stevie cocked the stone behind her, the other women began their wind-ups.

Sean wrapped his arms around his head and closed his eyes. He was going to die in the desert after all.

"Stop.” Lena cried out.

Every head turned to the girl standing in front of the van. Her black hair streamed in the wind. The robe had fallen off her shoulders. The magenta sunset reflected off the clouds and onto her olive skin, Collrarily shattering the astral pane between heaven and earth. Sean almost wished he had raped this unconscious Aurora, if only to be stoned in her honor.

"What are you doing?” Lena demanded.

"He almost killed you." Stevie, like the rest of them, trembled before the vision.

"What are you talking about? I fainted in the mine. That is all.” Lena’s tone softened and humanity regained possession of her countenance, as the aura disappeared with the further sinking of the sun. "Put down the rocks. Sean did nothing.”

The women dropped the stones, which raised little puffs of dust to be blown away by the wind. Light in the high desert tends to play tricks with one's eyes. No one standing before Lena was sure, if they had witnessed a miracle or a mirage, and Sherri did not give them any more time to think about it. "What are you standing around for? The show is over. We still have a scene to shoot. Are you ready yet?”

As the film crew returned to their final preparations, Lena went over to Stevie and spoke to the powerful gaffer in words only the two of them could hear. When she was finished, Lena closed the robe and went inside the cabin.

The entire spectacle had amazed Sean and his eyes searched for evidence for what had just happened, however the windblown sand had already drifted over iconography of the women's bootprints and the stones they had held resumed their eons-long anonymity. No one came over to apologize or explain, because none of the women could comprehend the emotions unleashed by the sight of Lena in his arms and neither could he.

When a cold gust from the north wrapped around him, Sean lifted his arms and his grimy black suit flapped in the wind like he was a scarecrow. In obeying Sherri's diet, his body had dropped six pounds closer to fighting trim. Of course the no-eating had a price and he understood how Christ must have felt one-third of the way through his thirty-day fast in the desert and reckoned visionary hallucinations were next on the menu.

After loading the camera, Sherri warned the crew that they would be shooting in a few minutes and went to her male lead, who was standing fifty feet away with his arms outstretched to catch the wind, as if he were having an out-of-the-body experience. Having blocked out his non-film name, she called out to him, "Are you all right?”

The five syllables reeled in Sean to the here and now and he replied. "Just a little weak from my diet, that's all.”

"I know this has been tough, but I have to keep pushing everyone.” The grinding pace had put them ahead of the schedule and in the movies that's all that matters.

"I understand. You have a film to shoot,” Sean answered, fighting the grumbling in his empty stomach. "Still it might be a good idea, if we keep the crew inside the cabin to a minimum. One brush with death a day is my limit.”

"Everyone gets a little weird, when we work too hard,” Sherri explained. "I'm sorry, I let them get out of control.”

Sean doubted exhaustion was the cause for his near stoning. "They hate men. My character is hateful. They love Lena. They were just being a little protective. We'll move on, right?”

Sherri usually only viewed him through the camera and took a couple of seconds to examine him more closely. The one meal a day regime had melted off his gut and the bloat from his face. The bruises and black eye were fading, though the make-up woman touched them up according to continuity. Brown roots were sprouting from his scalp under the blonde hair, yet these physical changes weren’t the source of his transformation into the man from nowhere.

"You know I've been looking at the dailies.”

"And?"

"You're surprisingly good for a first-timer.” A compliment could only help him settle down.

"Good enough to be a star.”

"It depends on this next scene.”

The next two shots required full nudity for both Sean and the two women, for she did not believe in faking sex like they did in mainstream Hollywood, where the stars looked like Ken and Barbie rubbing their formless groins together. "For this next scene, it'll only be you, Lena, the camerawoman, and myself. The crew will be outside. For the second scene, it'll be just you, me, and the camerawoman.”

"I wish I could have rehearsed this. I'm sort of a little shy.”

"Shy about what?”

"About having to be naked with you and Lena.” Like he had told Lena it had been a long time.

"Just pretend it's the end of the world and nobody else exists.” Sherri had started off nude modeling for an art professor at seventeen. The money was minimum wage and she moved onto go-go dancing, then nude photos and finally into hard-core films. Each step's trauma had lasted for a day or two. She reckoned Sean could live through the trauma too. Lena will lead you through the scene. It will be easy.”

"If you say so,” Sean said, though what concerned him most was the prospect of Lena on top of him, and his getting an erection. Last night he had masturbated, until every ounce of lust had been drained from his libido. He could only hope it had been enough and walked past the sullen crew into the cabin, where he picked his way through the equipment scattered about the cabin and found a place to sit in the rustic kitchen.

Lena sat on the bed with the .38 in her hand, acting as if nothing had happened outside, while Sherri's eyes swept the Ponderosa-style bed for any items out of continuity. "Okay, let's do this. Mr. Coll, down to nature.”

"All the way?” Sean had hoped to be able to wear his underwear, but Sherri said, "All the way.”

Once undressed Sean lay down on the bed's scratchy woolen blanket and stretched out his arms and legs. Sherri and Lena expertly tied his wrists and ankles to the four wooden bedposts. After the director arranged the pillow under his head, she asked, "Are you comfortable?”

"Never better,” he answered, though praying he would remain flaccid.

"Now remember, the only real important part of the scene is the dialogue. We'll go through that a couple of times from different angles. Afterwards we'll improvise on the lovemaking. Keep it going, until I say cut.” Sherri stepped behind the camerawoman and said, “Camera....action."

Sean had always thought acting, the theater, and the movies were phony, but once the camera started twirling, he became the last man tied on a bed in the house of the last women on earth.

Bare feet pad across the wooden floor. The girl in the robe nears the bed, the gun dangling from her hand. The man on the bed looks at her face, then the gun. He fights to free himself from the ropes.

"So it comes to this. You killing me?”

"Who said anything about killing you?” The girl puts the gun down on a chair and sits at the edge of the bed.

"Your girlfriend, she's talking about it all the time. Killing off the last man. A world only for women. Just the two of you and in fifty years, there'll be no one left, just bones. That's the only future left for us. No future.”

"There is another option,” the girl suggests.

"Like what?”

"You and me starting it all over again.”

"You mean, you and me breed?”

"It is a long shot.”

"Never thought I'd be Adam. Funny, huh?’

"Maybe God didn't have much of a choice the last time either.” The girl undoes her robe. She is naked underneath. The man tries the restraints. She shakes her head. "Sorry, I feel safer with you like that.”

The girl puts her hand over his mouth, telling him, "I've heard too much talk.”

She crawls onto the bed and straddles the man, then thrusts downward and groans. Rocking back and forth she is lost in ecstasy. Panting, she shudders with pleasure and her head drops onto the man's heaving chest.

"Cut.” the director finally yelled, for the last minute had seemed like an eternity to Sherri and she hid her shaking hands inside her leather jacket's pockets. After they repeated the dialogue part of the scene two more times, Sherri croaked, “Cut."

"That's it?” The camerawoman lifted her head from the 16mm camera. "What about a ‘safety'?"

"The last take was perfect," Sherri replied coldly, for while she had a lot riding on this film, she was more concerned about Lena's going hard-core with Sean than getting this scene right. "We can dub voices later. The scene works fine for me.”

"You're the boss,” the camerawoman commented with an accompanying shrug. "We have more than eight minutes of film left on the reel."

Lena's last reserves of energy had been drained by the pseudo-lovemaking and she climbed off Sean, bending over to grab her robe. "It is cold in here.”

"Yeah, what about me?” Sean was relieved, for throughout the last scene the young actress had been straining to get him inside her and her slick vagina rubbing against his member had brought him to precipice of orgasm. He had only fought off ejaculation by conjuring up the least sensual images possible; bags of worms, soggy bread, and unshaven female bodies. Now it was over, he wondered what he had been attempting to prove, for he had never taken a vow of chastity.

"We have one more shot here. You're not in it, Lena, so go out to the van and get warm.”

"Would you mind letting me loose.” Sean demanded, as Lena trudged from the cabin.

"We are doing our scene in a few minutes. Just be patient." Sherri tossed a towel across his groin and conferred with the camerawoman.

"Could you please undo the ropes?” Sean’s only chance was to go to the bathroom and relieve the increasing sexual stress, for the restraint he had exhibited with Lena would be non-existent with Sherri.

"We're almost ready,” Sherri said.

"I don't know the lines to this scene.” Sean was at her mercy.

"You don't have any." She was going to have her way with the lead. Directors always did. "I cut them all.”

After the camerawoman arranged the lights, she left the room and Sean asked, "So when she comes back, we shoot our scene?”

"She isn't coming back. The camera is in focus and eight minutes of film. That's all we need. I just turn it on and we go for it.” Sherri stripped off her leather jacket, then her boots, jeans, and t-shirt to cut short any further discussion and stood by the camera in a bra and panties. Her tanned body was devoid of any fat and her muscles visible under the skin. Her being years older than the woman whose videos he had watched a few days ago did not prevent him from wanting her any less than the first day he had seen her. Sherri switched on the camera and slowly transformed from a director into the betrayed lover of the last woman on earth, when she picked up a long stiletto and walked over to the bed.

Sean stared at her belly and then her breasts. Her nipples were two dark brown spots poking through the white bra. She had been right. He did not have to worry about saying any lines, because he was speechless.

"So she came to see you?” the older woman demands, whipping the towel from the man's groin. "Don't even bother to lie or make up an excuse. You're like any other man who ever lived. A snake.”

The woman gags the man with a towel in his mouth. Terror reads out of his eyes. She holds the knife to his neck. "I should have killed you the first time I saw you. Everything would have been much easier that way. Now you've fucked her. Probably knocked her up on the first try. That's how lucky men are.”

While the script described the older woman preferring to let the race of Man die out rather than have to copulate with a man, Sherri spoke the lines a little too close to the bone for his taste, especially when she pronounced murderously, "If it were up to me, I'd kill you right now.”

Sherri's fingers tightened around the knife's handle. Sooner or later and probably sooner, Lena and this man would have sex. Why was unimportant, but Sherri would die, if that happened, and there was only one way to prevent that union.

"I'm only doing this for her and God knows why she did it.” Sherri explained, though Sean was uncertain whether she was talking about Lena or the young actress' character.

While Sherri Conti had no idea how many cocks she had seen, touched, fellated, or had in her since being a high school wild girl through her career in porno, she could vividly remember the when, where, and why of her last.

Five years ago her stepbrother, a go-go bar owner, had been shot outside his club in Van Nuys and later died in the hospital. She sought out refuge from the trauma in a bindle of China white and accompanied Che Chasta to a biker bar to take on all comers. The attempt to burn the sadness out of her soul only OD'd her body on smack. The bikers could have left her in the alley to die, but being long-time fans of Sherri's films, they took her to the nearest hospital instead.

When Sherri had returned to the world of the living the next day, a doctor, another admirer, regarded her chart with puzzlement before saying, "That's funny, we had another Conti in this bed just the other day.”

What he had said made little sense, until she grasped that she was lying in the same bed in which her stepbrother had died. She had to be restrained from killing herself and was sent off to a detox clinic.

Several weeks later after kicking heroin and cocaine, she finally found the will to live through the simple beauty of a sunny day and swore that men would no longer be a part of her life. Blaming them than herself for her previous state of decadence was a lie she could live with, instead of dying with the truth.

Getting out of the clinic she attempted to lead a straight life, but every manager of a shop, restaurant, or bank to which she applied for a job would inevitably ask, "Aren't you in porno films?”

Porno was the only way she had been making money most of her adult life and there was plenty of work for someone of her talents in the girl-on-girl market. Since then women had been all she had known .

Now she was going to break her vow.

Tears came to her eyes and she plunged the blade plunged into the pillow, as her hands wrapped around the man's blood-hot shaft. She had fucked bigger and smaller. Thankfully her vagina was wet. She breathed in several times, then shoved herself down. The thick cock forced itself between her heated lips and ran along the vaginal channel, until the head rammed against her cervix. She had forgotten about that and gasped for breath.

The man forced himself up into her, mumbling incoherently behind the gag. His wrists strained vainly against the ropes, and his pelvis ground her clitoris flat. She rose and fell slowly at first, but this piston motion accelerated. It was not as bad as she had feared, but not as good as she remembered, then again this was for the only woman she had ever loved.

Her goddess.

Her star.

Her lover.

Lena.

Sherri had expected the man to come within seconds, however he was merely matching her move for move, adding to the long-neglected pleasure welling within her womb. She recognized each symptom's arrival. A growing warmth fevered through her body. The pounding of blood in her ears. The quickness of breath and snap, she came trembling and like that it was over .

She had not noticed that the man underneath her had ejaculated, until she slid off him. Sherri grabbed the towel from Sean's mouth and walked out of the camera's vision. Sean barely heard her say, “Cut."

Everything between them was going to be different between them all now, but then sex always has a funny way of doing that to people and Sean and Sherri would be no exception to that rule.