NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - Chapter 25 -by Peter Nolan Smith

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 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 mozarella 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?"

"If you say so." Tony was all business. THe Mafia in LA wasn't what it was, but it had its fingers everywhere, especially in teh porno inustry.

"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 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 mozarella 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 apartness from the world. Their invention was not about sex, but not longer being alone, however he had disapeared 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. MOre than $50,000, 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 hid 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. I' e told thecameraman to concentrate on you.” 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.”

The dream of Hollywood glow in her eyes and everyone in the porno trade or movies 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.

"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. "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, however I see greatness in you. 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.

NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - Chapter 22 -by Peter Nolan Smith

TWENTY-TWO<

A toxic stench ferreted into Sean's nostrils. He coughed twice and sat up on the couch. A smooth-faced TV preacher was shouting for brimstone to cleanse the world. Armageddon was not the source of the chemical reek. The poisonous fumes came from the inferno video tapes in the fireplace, which was fed by Che Chasta. She was 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 warning that the super-hot gases would soon reach a dangerous flashpoint. Sean jumped to his feet and pulled Che away from the fire, but 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 smaller pieces of luggage.

He ran outside into a cold drizzle. A racking of coughs cleared the smoke from their lungs. Sean turned to the bungalow. Black smoke seeped from the windows. Dogs barked out warnings around the neighborhood, their ears alert to danger. Sean reached for the garden hose.

"Leave it." Che strode down the sidewalk to a dented lime-green Cadillac.

"You can't walk away.” Sean caught up with the blonde, as she threw the luggage into the back seat.

"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.

"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 told the truth not so much of your soul, but whether the picture-taker liked his subject. 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, which is 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 videos 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. She was alive with rage. Anger is a great pick-me-up.

"No.” The only face coming into his head was that of the old man in Vegas, but his being C he's persecutor was too great a coincidence, even for a city so wrapped up in the cinematic circumstances of normal lives.

"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. 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 making it in LA. The Chapter called Leaving Town.

"Things change.”

"Don't they?” She paused a second, then asked, "You watched those films this afternoon. 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 nose 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." Sean hoped she would offer him a ride, instead she shook her head like a lovelorn housewife on the prowl for some hitchhiking trash.

"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, opening her mouth 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 couldn't write a sequel to her deserting him in Texas and he 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. As he stood on 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 ripped up the 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 where they had come. He looked for a taxi, except LA is more like Queens than Manhattan. 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 got out of 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. Sean 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 lights flashing and sirens blaring. The cop's shoulder radio squawked out an indecipherable message. Visibly disappointed at being unable to roust Sean, 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.”

"Sure thing, 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 couldn't believe his good fortune. He 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 hitchhike 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, for if there's anyone a driver in LA hates worst than another driver, it's a pedestrian, but he had to ask himself, "What could have put these people in such a shitty mood?”

The answer was too easy, for having to drive everywhere in LA had imprisoned most Angelenos within these steel machines, depriving them of any human contact, but 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 drove away and 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.

"I've been wearing only a couple of days." Jack Kerouac wrote 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 played along with the driver's come-on, grateful to be out of the rain.

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. He knocked on the door.

"I thought you had gone." Lena opened up with visible relief. She smiled at her lover. Obviously the older woman had been betting on his being gone 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. Saw and old friend 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 had accepted his story.

"If you can live with then so can I." If she wanted him dirty, then he was going for it. He had seen her at her worse with Che. Sherri might be cleaner, but neither of them were saints. "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 twenty years ago or his wanting her more than ever, despite her hating men. Why was a question he could not answer, but definitely not one he would ask Sherri any time soon. Not if he knew what was good for him.

NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - Chapter 18 - by Peter Nolan Smith

EIGHTEEN

Sean woke in a strange bed and walked take to the window. He was unmistakably in LA.

Back in 1972 a speed freak in a Buick Riviera had picked up Sean outside Sterling, Colorado 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. 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.

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.

Someone had put the wallets and money in a paper envelope. His clothing was gone. ean sat on the bed with the wallets. Driscoll must have planted them after the first punch. He opened each one at a time. He recognized none of the names on the 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 back to their respective addresses would only re-awaken 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 was shut. The women were sleeping late. Maybe not. He had no idea of the time and thee wasn’t a clock in the apartment.

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. 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,, 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 opening of the bathroom door startled 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.

"That's fine. 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.

"Looks like a bad crash." Sherri regarded Sean's cuts and bruises. She reached into the medicine cabinet from a bottle of alcohol and cotton swabs.

"It was.” Sean shut off the shower and threw the soiled face cloth into the hamper.

"Not at all, but 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. "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 patted his neck with a red-stained cotton ball.

"No."

"Like I said there'll be nudity in this film. Do think you can do a love scene? PG-13. No penetration."

"That depends.” He cringed in reaction to the Mercurochrome's sting.

"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. Tempo."

"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. Tempo, 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. Tempo. 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 twenty five stories and five endings."

"Says who?"

"The classics.” Sean rose to his feet, several muscles protesting the move.

"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 were uneven. He had been in more fights than most men and lost a good share of them. Like her he had used his body roughly, 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. Tempo. 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.” Neither Driscoll nor deRocco were 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. Tempo. I’m washing your old clothes. I set you out jeans on the bed. 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 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 don't use 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 regarded this blonde man closely, 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. 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.” Sheri 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, Mr. Tempo. 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.

"You 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. Tempo, 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 and she asked brusquely, "Who is it?"

"Is Vic there?"

"Who is this?” she demanded.

Sean told the woman his name, thinking she was screening calls, but she rudely stated, "Call back tomorrow."

"Can you take a message?"

"I told you. Call back tomorrow evening."

The line went dead.

The only other number in LA he had memorized 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.