Chapter One: Breakfast and Tiffany
When Travis Lazar went to work one bright California morning, leaving his wife and children in their white picket fence home in the lush suburbs of the San Fernando Valley, just over the hill from Hollywood, it was not unusual that—although they were running late by about twenty minutes—some distance behind him, there was a news van with a foreign crew of investigative reporters on the hot trail of a story.
The journalists were awake early, with lingering jet-lag, and left their hotel on the hour, but the geography of Los Angeles was more vast than they imagined when they studied the directions on the internet before leaving Germany. Irmalinda, the segment-producer-slash-presenter, who had been given the assignment by the television station in Frankfurt, was driving. Gunter, her cameraman, was in the passenger seat trying to figure out the GPS system. He dressed like a guerilla, in a beret and camouflage, and was wiry and intense, with the taut body of a twenty-four year old, and the complexion of an adolescent. In the back of the van, also in her young twenties, and overdressed for the occasion, as far as Irmalinda was concerned, was Deirdre, her production secretary. Blonde, she applied too much make-up, and looked more like a frosted pastry than a journalist. Irmalinda, in a business suit with a generous ruffle at the collar, wanted to make sure that they came across professionally, so Travis Lazar would not think that they did not regard their subject with gravity. She mentioned something to Gunter about the way that Deirdre was attired, but he did not seem to think it was inappropriate. Besides, Travis Lazar was accustomed to seeing all kinds of women.
“How far to go?” Irmalinda asked Gunter, “I don’t want to get there too late and miss anything.”
“What happens if we don’t get there on time?” Gunter inquired.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” shuddered Irmalinda.
The investigative reporter was determined to get her dispatch.
They drove past warehouses in an industrial neighborhood, the rental van bouncing over potholes and across the railway tracks. The streets of the sprawling valley were so broad and endless, and badly sign-posted, that they kept turning into dead ends. In one blind alley, she almost backed into a forklift truck trying to manipulate reverse. Gunter could not get the GPS to work. Deirdre started to complain about needing to go to the toilet. Irmalinda did not like to be the one driving, but the rental car company considered her junior colleagues to be too young to be included on the agreement.
“You’re not on the autobahn, you know,” Gunter cautioned her.
Irmalinda knew she was speeding, and she was nervous about being pulled over by the American police, with their sirens and badges and revolvers, but she did not want to be late. After so many preparations for the story, she did not want anything to go wrong.
It seemed like miles until they came to their destination. The van rolled through the open gates of the parking lot surrounding a group of buildings that all looked like warehouses. They drove around in a circle until they found Sound Stage B, passing it once by accident, and another circle to find a parking space that was not reserved. Irmalinda, Gunter and Deirdre bailed out of the van. Gunter swung his camera onto his shoulder-brace, ready to roll, as soon as Irmalinda gave the cue. Deirdre carried a folder of paperwork, and a clipboard with her notes. Irmalinda only took a moment to look at herself in the side mirror of the van; she hated her mousy hair, she wanted to cut it short in the summer. She would go on a diet too, when the weather got warmer; it was not that she was overweight, but the camera always added a few pounds.
On the stage door was a printed sign that read, in large letters:
DO NOT ENTER
This set is closed to everyone
Except the cast, crew and guests of Travis Lazar Productions.
Minors are not admitted under any circumstances.
“Do you have the authorization…?” Irmalinda began, but, before she could complete the sentence, with a flourish and a pout, Deirdre officiously produced a copy of the letter from Travis Lazar Productions, confirming their appointment.
Irmalinda pushed open the double doors, and they entered a small vestibule with a black floor, where there was a chrome-and-leatherette couch with a rip in the arm, and a small Formica coffee table with nothing on it but a week-old Los Angeles Times and a chipped mug. There was nobody about, but through the next door, halfway down a long, well-lit hallway, there was a slight, unassuming man in jeans and a t-shirt that was covered by an unbuttoned button-up shirt. He was bald on the pate, but let his hair grow long around the sides in compensation, and he liked to think that he resembled Benjamin Franklin, without the paunch. He blinked at them through thick glasses, as if they could be visiting not from Europe but from a distant galaxy.
He seemed so disheartened to see them that Irmalinda had the impression that he was about to slink away, and she was out of breath when she reached him.
“Hello,” she announced, with a quick smile, “I’m Irmalinda von Brandenburg.” This produced no response except another blink. Her immediate impression was that the man must be an imbecile. “This is
Gunter,” she tried, as her cameraman came down the corridor behind her, already filming something, although she had no idea what use this footage would be. “From the German television,” she explained
further, “We are here to do a reportage on Travis Lazar.” She looked for Deirdre, and the letter of introduction, but the production secretary was dawdling, peering in awe at the gigantic genitalia on the wall-size pornographic movie posters at the start of the hallway. “Did we miss anything?”
The man, whose name was Howard Finkel, gave her a vacant stare. “Well,” he said laconically, “I think you missed breakfast.” Howard already had a pressing enough problem to start his day, without having to deal with yet another documentary film crew who wanted to film his renowned boss. It was too bad they missed breakfast because now he was going to have to baby-sit them and figure out what to do with them. He had work to do. Still, he was trying not to let anything upset him. His day commenced with a cup of Pepto-Bismol. His stomach was acting up; he was not good under stress. He did not care if Travis Lazar got riled; he was the one making all the money. Howard was just trying to do his job.
He made his way to the green room, trailed by the German film crew, who did not know where to begin now that they had made their important introduction and gained access. The green room had lime-
colored walls to match the carpet, no windows, a television set and DVD player on an assemble-it-yourself floor stand, a small refrigerator with a microwave oven on top of it, and two large off-white sofas in an L-shape in one corner.
The remnants of breakfast were laid out on a long folding table, and the journalists immediately decided to begin there. There was a pink cardboard box containing three doughnuts–one coated with chocolate on the top, one dusted with glaze, and a soft sugary one–there was a plate with fresh baked bagels and a wedge of cream cheese, a bowl of fruit, and a vegetable tray with three different kinds of dip. Gunter made sure to get a panning shot of the bagels and donuts before they ate anything.
On the other side of the room, the subject of their investigation, the adult movie producer and director Travis Lazar, was talking to his cinematographer, Jack Limo. They were both seasoned veterans, getting close to forty, although Jack was a few years older than Travis. Jack was good-natured, sturdy, a little more grizzled, with something between stubble and a beard; Travis was clean-shaven, darker, sin-
ewy, eagle-eyed, white-teethed, charming. Jack dressed comfortably in khaki shorts, and a loose shirt; Travis, for the mystique, always dressed in black. When it came to political skills, Travis was a cut-
throat.
“Don’t tell me that’s another crew from the German television….” Travis began, as Howard approached, “Is every documentary filmmaker in Europe doing an expose of the adult entertainment business?”
“They said that you said that they could come,” Howard gave a flat response, working his way to telling Travis the real problem.
Travis shrugged, “How could I say no to my guys in Hamburg?”
“You don’t want to piss off the Germans,” Howard agreed, making a note or a perhaps a doodle on his clipboard.
“Good point.” Travis took a sip from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Let them shoot. But tell them to stay the hell out of our way, or we’ll have to build a wall.”
Howard nodded, and went back to where the Germans were concluding their breakfast to make sure they understood where the borders were drawn.
Jack Limo said to Travis, “You know, I almost fell over one of them last week.”
“Not the same guy?” They eyed the team from across the room.
“No, I’d remember, “Jack said, “I’m shooting a beegee with Traci and Mark, and get this…they don’t want any up and unders….”
Travis was only half-listening, his mind on other matters. “What do you mean? You were shooting hardcore?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“You can’t have that down under shot in softcore,” Travis noted, wondering what it was that Howard was not telling him. There were often unexpected crises first thing in the morning. Equipment failed,
weather changed, latecomers delayed production, and performers became emotional.
“Right. You can’t have an up and under shot in softcore, but they didn’t like the angle,” Jack explained.
Travis was more concerned about giving Jack direction than listening to his punchline. “I say it, Jack, because I don’t want any Australian coverage in my softcore shots.”
“I understand,” Jack said patiently, “That’s what I’m telling you. They said no downunders in the hardcore.”
“So where did you shoot from?”
“From the top. I’m up high, and I take a step back, and I come to find the German television reporter beneath my feet, and he’s shooting the up and under.”
Howard came back from his diplomatic errand, and he figured he had just better blurt it out. “Can I see you? We have a problem.”
Travis got that all business look, with his chin thrust forward. “What’s her name?”
“Tiffany.”
It was always Tiffany–that was no surprise–but there was not supposed to be a Tiffany problem today because Tiffany had already completed all her work on the movie. Tiffany problems were not on
the schedule today. She was the hottest new star in the industry, and she was always hot to handle. Travis gulped down the rest of his coffee, crumpled the Styrofoam cup and tossed it into the trash can.
“I’ll go and see how we are doing on the set,” Jack offered, not wanting to get involved in global politics.
They all walked out of the green room together. Jack went right to the set. Travis and Howard went left down the hallway to the production office. They had plenty of sunlight, because there was a long win-
dow that looked out onto the parking lot, on one side, so they could see whoever came up to the building. There were corkboards with schedules, notes and post-its, and there was a large white board, with columns drawn down it and the titles of movies written in black marker on the far left side; at the top of the columns were written name of studio, development, preproduction, production, postproduction, delivery. It was a way of keeping track of the status of different projects. There were five different titles on the grid, representing movies in various stages of the process. There were several overlapping projects. Their normal schedule was one week of pre-production, then a frantic buffer day of last minute preparation, a few days of shooting, then one day to return props and equipment and to complete paperwork. Then the project went to editing, which was scheduled to take two weeks, but was never completed on time. Finally, it would be ready for delivery to the executive who had commissioned the assignment. The process from start to finish took six to eight weeks. Travis had deals at a few studios, each one with slightly different requirements in style and content. There was an insatiable demand for a steady stream of movies, even though nobody in the world ever admitted to watching them. In the office there were two desks, one for each of them, although Travis, who was always on his feet, only sat at his desk if he had to write a check, something he tried to avoid as much as possible. There was a Xerox machine, and a love seat, which is where Howard used to sit if a girl ever came into the office. He would try to elicit oral sex from every woman who ever came into the office, no matter what. He was rejected about ninety-five per cent of the time, often with outright derision, but he persevered undaunted, and always fell in love with the few naive starlets who acquiesced.
“All right,” said Travis, shutting the door of the office, “What’s Tiffany’s problem? We were done with her yesterday. She’s off the picture. She was paid.”
“Right,” Howard tried to be delicate, “That’s the problem. Her check bounced.”
Travis knew that a star of Tiffany’s magnitude would not be content to be today’s problem. Tiffany’s destiny was to be the mother of all problems. She would rant and rave, and word would spread
through the industry like an epidemic of transmittable disease. Some of the other performers would get skittish and cancel; his competitors would get wind of it, and start to poison his name at the different studios; they had to fix this fast.
“The bank said that the account was empty,” Howard prodded.
\“The teller probably got suspicious because she went to cash the check looking like a porn star.”
“I don’t think she had a dildo in her mouth at the Wells Fargo, Travis. The account was empty.”
“Those fuckers!” exploded the producer, “New York! They always do this to us!”
“Well, what do you want to do?” Howard had to be firm because it was a race against the clock. “She’s on her way down here, and you
know how she’s going to scream. You remember that shoot when a construction crew complained about the noise. She was already screaming in Billy Dallas’ office.”
“What did Billy Dallas say? He’s her agent. Why didn’t he put something in her mouth?”
“Billy Dallas was just going to give her the money on your behalf, but some saga about his taxes….” Howard needed Travis to rally.
“All right.” Travis had it all under control. “Get me Billy Dallas on the phone, and get me New York. And get me the Duchess.”
To Howard, Travis had missed the whole crisis. “What do you want to do with Tiffany?”
“Just let me know when she gets here.” Travis was not intimidated by divas. “Don’t worry about Tiffany.”
“I have to worry about Tiffany. That’s my job.”
“Worry about New York.”
Howard was sympathetic. “That’s your job.”
The show must go on, Travis understood, and since they were already shooting on empty, they might as well just continue. They would try to keep a lid on it until the problem could be solved. He knew where he could get his hands on some short term funds in a pinch, since no reputable producer would ever consider making the catastrophe worse by going into his own pocket. He had an idea about how he could use his cinematographer to placate Tiffany. He started to walk back down the corridor to have a word with Jack on the set, when he was halted by Maria Blush, the make-up artist. She was a pretty girl, with fair skin, and light freckles, and a continuing struggle against her own red hair. Bra-less, she was wearing overalls, with a T-shirt underneath, that looked sexier than any pom-pom cheerleader outfit or nurse costume on the porn stars.
“So, no good morning for me….” she complained, adopting a coquettish posture.
“I did,” protested Travis, “I’m sorry, Maria. What did I do?”
“You kissed the girl in the chair, and you didn’t even give me a hello.”
“Maria, the girl in the chair was talent…” He had been distracted and regretted slighting her, but he could not think of an excuse. “I have to handle her….”
“So, don’t I get anything…just because I’m crew?”
Travis put out his arms. “How about a hug?”
Maria squeezed her warm, soft body against him. “Don’t work too hard.”
Across her shoulder, he saw Tommy Hargis, the key electrician, making a beeline for him, tools jangling from his work belt, and he already knew what that was going to be about. The electrician had certain abilities with respect to manual operations, but was much baffled by arithmetic equations and advanced communication skills.
“Morning, boss.” Tommy ran his big, dirty hand through his shaggy hair.
“We looking okay in there?” Travis checked, with an eye on Maria, who was trying to look as cute as possible from behind, as she scurried back to the make-up room.
“It’s pretty,” Tommy responded, so he could get straight to the point, “Look, I know it’s two days until payday, but I had a few sub-rentals on my truck, boss, and shit, how do I say this…Those HMI lights….” He glanced at some numbers scrawled in ink on the back of his wrist. “I’m not going to charge you any extra…but I was wondering if…uh…you might be able to spot me something around lunch time…?”
“Tommy, you know our policy on advances.”
“Shit, I knew I shouldn’t have asked you…” said the electrician, scratching his unshaven face.
“How much we looking at?” asked Travis, who had absolutely no money in the production account.
“Couple of hundred would really see me through the next few days.” Tommy wiped his hands on his T-shirt, which said in bold script, Travis Lazar Productions.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he offered, but then, thinking better of it, he added a note of caution, “You know the party only starts after we wrap.”
“If I tell you, it’s for my kid…School fees…Special ed…no party…Those days are long gone…and better left unsaid….” He grabbed Travis by the hand, and shook it vigorously.
“Check in with Howard at lunchtime,” Travis assured him. “I’ll take care of it.”
Before he got to the set, he was accosted again, this time by the German film crew, who had finished off what remained of breakfast, and were ready to embark upon their assignment with no further delay.
“Mr. Lazar.” Irmalinda held out her hand formally. “Hello. I’m Irmalinda von Brandenburg…with the German television…This is Gunter.”
Travis shook hands with each of them, including the production secretary who was not introduced. “Very nice to meet you. Klaus is very good friend of mine.” He mentioned their mutual acquaintance in Hamburg because he wanted to make sure that Irmalinda would thank Klaus when she returned to Germany. There would be a time in the future when Travis would offer Klaus an opportunity to repay the favor.
“We are going to stay totally out of your way,” Irmalinda said, with emphasis, “Could it be possible if we could have an interview with Tiffany West or Traci Gold?”
Travis knew just how to get rid of them. “You know what,” he suggested, “Traci is in the makeup chair right now. Why don’t you go back there and interview her and you can get behind-the-scenes coverage of her in makeup.”
Irmalinda was ecstatic, and gave a little clap of delight. “That would be fantastic.” Irmalinda began giving instructions to her crew in German, and the three Europeans all collided with each other in the excitement of trying to figure out which way to the makeup room, and Howard had to dance around them, as he approached.
It always gave Travis a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw Howard coming down the corridor with that blank, moronic look on his face. The production manager had his cell phone in his hand. “Billy Dallas.”
“Good,” said Travis, taking the phone from him, “And get me Jack, will you?”
Howard just wanted Travis to focus on the problem. “Jack is busy on the set.”
“Listen, Jack gave Tiffany a ride to Vegas for the convention….”
Howard saw where Travis was going with this. “I get it. Jack and Tiffany alone in the car for four hours.”
“Except that somehow the drive from L.A. to Vegas took them eight hours. They stopped four times along the way to fool around.”
Howard nodded. He knew that the seasoned cinematographer had a good way with the talent. He would much rather that Jack deal with the star than face the wrath of Tiffany himself. “I’ll get Jack.” Travis took the telephone.
Billy Dallas was a tall, slim Texan in his forties, with a face made of flint, who dressed in Western wear, although he could not get away with a Stetson hat in Los Angeles. He had to make do with massive belt buckles, and polished cowboy boots, and he maintained a broad accent. He worked out of a second floor office in Van Nuys, (which was previously occupied by a private detective) where he had a large
desk, and an even larger couch, (which was invariably occupied by a row of twenty year old, prospective porn stars).
“Why didn’t you tell Tiffany that I was okay?” demanded Travis.
“I did,” drawled the talent agent, over the phone, “Of course, I did. I know that you’re okay.”
“Now, she’s coming down here to bring havoc to my set.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Billy tried to calm down the producer by spouting nonsense, “And he’s a big fella.”
“Why didn’t you keep her there?”
“I tried to get her out,” Billy defended himself, “I had people in the office. She was making a hell of a scene.”
Indeed, at that very moment, Tiffany West was in a plum-red Mustang convertible, with hip-hop music pulsating at deafening volume, a latte in one hand, and a lap-dog in the passenger seat, as she hurtled through the valley on the way to the sound stage for a head-to-head confrontation with that piece of shit producer Travis Lazar.
Her co-star in the latest Travis Lazar epic was still in the makeup chair, in front of a mirror dotted with stage lights. They were each about twenty-two years old, but Traci Gold was the opposite of Tiffany in every way. Where Tiffany was a blonde, blue-eyed all-American, with a body like Jello on springs, Traci was a dark, doe-eyed brunette with a lean anatomy. Where Tiffany had allowed a little augmentation on her face, specifically the button nose and the collagen lips, Traci was all-natural. Where Tiffany was shaven clean, Traci sported a little patch of fuzz. Where Tiffany was notorious for her temper tantrums, Traci put up with anything. Tiffany refused to perform interracial scenes, for example, but Traci did not care whatever was inserted into her, and wherever anyone wanted to put it.
“Can you tell me something about what it’s like to be a star?” Irmalinda asked Traci, her eyes closed for Maria to apply eye-shadow, as Gunter filmed the close-up, “When did you first realize you were
a star?”
Traci responded, without opening her eyes, “I got best new starlet award at the show in Las Vegas, after only about twenty movies, so I suppose, after that….”
“How do you like being directed by Travis Lazar?” Irmalinda continued.
“Travis puts me in all his movies. I was in Cockstoppers, Sugarbush, and I was Dawn in The Crack of Dawn. Part One and Part Two. So, at least, I know it’s always quality product, and I get to choose which guys I work with….”
“What do you do about AIDS in the business?” Irmalinda thought it was a cutting edge question.
Maria stepped back. “Go ahead.”
Traci blinked her eyes. “Well, as you know, we always ejaculate outside the body, so there is not a lot of transfer of bodily fluids.” It was her standard, canned answer to a question that had been posed
to her many times. “I also practice safe sex, have regular testing, use condoms and avoid drugs. This is our life and our livelihood. We don’t screw around. Like I’m actually going to have sex with some guy off camera and have to lie there, and think about how much money I’m not making.”
“Who is your sex scene with today?”
Traci was stumped. She looked at Maria for help. “I think you’re working with Colt today,” Maria offered.
“That’s right. I think.” Traci always liked intercourse with Colt. He had smoky gray eyes, short brown hair, a hard-sculpted physique, hardly any personality, and before he got into the business, when he was working for his cousin’s plumbing company, he used to pleasure himself to her movies.
Jack craned his head into the makeup room. “Travis here?”
“Try the production office,” suggested Maria.
“He was looking for me,” Jack said, attempting to offer an excuse as to why he was in the makeup room. It was always an inviting oasis of fragrance, flesh and chatter, with a soft burgundy couch and friendly company.
The cameraman went to the production office, where Travis was sitting next to the telephone with such a preoccupied look on his face, he seemed to be telepathically willing it to ring.
“Can you handle Tiffany for me?” the producer asked, “She’s on her way down here in a fury and I don’t want her on the set.”
“I thought she was wrapped,” said Jack, as unnerved about the ire of Tiffany as everybody else, “What happened?”
“New York screwed me up. We bounced her check.”
“Ouch.” Jack wondered if his own check was going to bounce too.
The telephone rang–a testament to Travis’ extrasensory ability–which Jack used as a mystical cue to retreat back to the set. It was one of the two calls that Travis was anticipating. On the line was the Duchess, a hip, petite, razor smart producer in her thirties, who could best be described as an extremely friendly competitor, and possibly a lesbian.
“We’re moving along smoothly,” Travis told her, “But New York mixed up the dates.”
“They do that to me too,” the Duchess tried to set him at ease, “So I always lie to them about when we plan to shoot. You need me to roll over something to you? I’m rich with funds for next month’s production.”
“Thanks.” Travis knew he could count on her. “I’m trying to get hold of Sylvia in New York. Let’s not do anything drastic until close of business East Coast time.”
“Let me know if you need me to bail you out,” she offered helpfully, but Travis winced at her choice of phrase.
Howard came into the office in time to hear the end of the conversation. “She’ll keep it quiet?”
“As best she can.” Travis hung up the telephone. “The greens guy is here from the plant nursery. I’m going to need to issue a check for him.”
Travis did not miss a beat. “Go ahead.”
“You don’t want to stall him?”
“The greens guy will take his trees if we don’t pay him, and how am I supposed to do a forest scene on a stage–without trees?”
“I don’t know which is worse, Travis,” Howard commented, “A forest without trees, or a check without funds.”
There was a timid knock on the open door of the office, and it was Irmalinda and her two-man crew. “Mr. Lazar…?” she inquired, hesitant to set foot in the inner sanctum of the production company.
“Did you get Traci?” Travis asked.
Gunter said, “She was great. Too bad Tiffany West is not around.”
“Right,” acknowledged Travis.
Howard was filled with that queasy feeling in his stomach as soon as they mentioned Tiffany’s name. He wished he could sneak home to use his own bathroom, because he hated going to the pub-
lic restroom on the sound stage, which was sometimes used for sex scenes. He knew it would only be minutes until Tiffany arrived. He went out of the room so he could survey the front of the building, and get a breath of fresh air. Nobody even noticed him slip out because they were all busy trying to quiz the mighty Travis.
“What would be the possibility to have an interview with you?”
Irmalinda asked the producer, “At your convenience.”
“Start rolling.” Travis decided he had better get it out of the way during the quiet before the storm.
Gunter pressed the record button on the camera, swelling with pride that he could now include on his resume that he had received direction from Travis Lazar.
Irmalinda took the clipboard from Deirdre. “The first question that everybody wants to know is where do you find the girls?”
“They find me,” Travis gave his stock answer, and Irmalinda wrote it down on her notes.
“The next question that our viewers want to know is when will you make another movie in Europe? In My Lady’s Chamber is still very popular.”
Travis smiled. “Luckily, we are busy enough in America at the moment.”
“How did you ever get started into this business?”
“I was a student at film school when video was surging….Pornography is always on the cutting edge of technology…You know that X-rated movies practically invented the video industry…the internet….”
“You went to film school to make porno movies?” challenged the journalist.
“No, I wanted to make dramas…the classics…but someone approached me to make an X-rated film.”
“And what was your reaction?”
“I was horrified,” Travis remembered, “But he was persuasive…Nothing shocks me anymore.”
Howard came back into the production office. There was still no sign of Tiffany, but he knew he had better interrupt the shooting of the interview, so that they could start the shooting of the movie before the inevitable disruption when the Tiffany made her entrance.
“They’re ready for you, sir.”
They went to the makeup room, where Maria was putting the finishing touches of lipstick on Traci.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Travis asked, lightly touching her arm.
“Mmm.” Traci responded, not able to open her mouth because Maria had the makeup brush on her lips.
“She looks great, Maria.” Travis tried to compensate for not saying good morning to the makeup artist. “Thank you.”
Maria handed Traci a Kleenex. “Blot.” Traci bit down on the Kleenex, as if she was in a dentist’s chair, leaving a perfect impression of her lips.
“Sell that on the Internet,” Travis instructed, trying to put them at ease with a joke he had used many times.
“Let’s go.” Howard wanted to keep things moving, and had already heard Travis’ collection of witticisms.
Traci bounced out of the makeup chair, and bent over her open suitcase, offering a view that made Howard weak at the knees. She began to rummage through her collection of lingerie, flimsy blouses, tight short pants, and sequined dresses. “Shoes, shoes, shoes,” she muttered, “I can’t fuck without heels….”
“Did you do all your girly stuff?” Travis checked, before they went onto the set.
“Uh-huh,” said Traci, pulling a pair of stilettos out of the suitcase by the straps, “And you’re out of douche.”
“We can’t be out of douche,” argued Howard, “I bought like a whole case of that stuff. The girl in the drugstore must have thought I was the world’s biggest pervert.”
“She was right,” teased Maria.
Hand in hand, Travis and Traci walked down the hallway to the set. He held hands with her, partly to make her feel a little special before her scene, and partly so that on the stage floor, she would not trip over the obstacle course of struts and cables in her spiky heels, but mostly so that she would not drift off if left to her own devices. He wished that he could tell Irmalinda that the hardest part about making movies was the elusive process of getting the performers onto the set, but she would not have understood. It would sound flippant, but it was the truth that they wandered away like kittens.
The sound stage had been dressed as a forest, complete with a running brook and trees in carefully disguised pots. A fan created a flutter in the leaves. For a foreground effect, there was Spanish moss hanging down from wires, which would not show on screen. They had laid down a huge grass mat that had balls of crumpled newspaper beneath it to create the effect of a rolling lawn, and a there was a bed that appeared to be made out of flowers. In keeping with his motto of safety first, Tommy was standing on tiptoes on the top rung of a high orange ladder, adjusting the metal barn doors of a light over the bed, while Jack stood at the foot of the ladder giving him instructions and making sure nothing fell on his own skull.
Travis led Traci to the bed, where Colt was waiting naked, absently stroking his large genitals in preparation for his performance.
Travis requested, “Jack, do you want to jump in here?”
“Sure.” Jack approached.
“Okay,” the director began, “What do we want to do for this scene?”
“You want to start with a little bj action?” suggested Colt, as if it were a ground-breaking inspiration.
“That always works,” agreed Travis, “Traci?”
“Sure…is he going to eat me too?”
“Yes,” Travis assured them, noticing the look on Colt’s face, “He likes to eat.”
“Works for me,” Colt affirmed, grateful for the direction.
Travis was well-versed in the tastes, preferences and weaknesses of all of the performers, notwithstanding some members of the crew.
Jack asked, “Okay, what do you want to do for the fp’s?” They all looked uncertain.
Travis took the helm, “Want to start with spoon…Colt always works well in spoon…And it’s a more romantic position for this scene.”
“Spoon is fine,” Traci nodded, “Or a reverse cowgirl. I don’t want to show my butt. I did a bondage thing yesterday, and I have bruises.”
This was news to the director. “Howard!” bellowed Travis.
“So no doggie then?” Colt was disappointed.
“No,” Traci apologized.
“Just make sure I have running time.” Travis turned to Jack. “I need about forty minutes of footage here, Jack… lot’s of faces, okay… I want the trees, the water, cutaways…We’ve seen people having sex
before…Show the forest.” Jack took his position behind the camera, sitting on a wooden box to get a low angle for the opening shot.
Howard appeared. “You called?”
“Get Maria in here with some body makeup for Traci,” Travis instructed, “She has bruises on her ass.”
“I got spanked,” Traci said, with a twinkle in her eye.
Howard pictured it in his mind, then forced himself to concentrate on work. “Okay. Maria. Anything else?”
“No,” said Travis, “We got towels, lube, condoms, water?”
“It’s all standing by,” Howard confirmed, indicating a crate of assorted supplies manned by an entry-level assistant dedicated solely to catering to the requirements of the performers during their sex scenes, “They just have to ask for whatever they need.” There were condoms of different sizes, two rolls of paper towels, wet wipes, bottled water, and enough lubrication to grease a Buick.
Maria came running in and patted down the bruises on Traci’s rear, in which, even though it was not necessary, several cooperative members of the crew volunteered to assist her.
Travis was ready. He walked over to the director’s chair, which had his name embroidered on the back in flowing gold script.
“Oh, Mr. Lazar…” Colt had one more important question. “Where do you want the pop?”
“I always prefer the face,” Travis said, taking his seat in the director’s chair in front of the video monitor.
“I don’t think I can reach your face from here, sir.” Everyone grinned.
Jack chipped in, “He got you that time, Travis.”
“Traci?” Travis checked, keeping it professional, but he was pleased that they were making jokes now. He did not want them to take it too seriously. It was porno, after all, and as an Israeli producer had once advised him, it was not supposed to be Gone by the Wind.
“The face is fine.” Traci would agree to anything.
“So, face?” Jack wanted to make sure he would not miss the money shot, which would be considered a great blunder in a veteran cinematographer.
“Yes. Squirt on her face.” Travis made it clear, then, keeping it loose, he added, “In a romantic way.”
“Camera has speed,” announced Jack. “And…action!”
Exactly at that moment, the outer doors to Sound Stage B burst open, and undeterred by the stern Keep Out instructions posted on the door, two uninvited men in uniforms strode down the
corridor. They were Officer James Fleet and Officer James Plimsoll from the Los Angeles Fire Department. Fleet, with a dusky complexion, and a stiff, military bearing, was the kind of man who enjoyed being in authority; Plimsoll was a little older, with a ruddy face, a successful handlebar moustache, and noticeable progress towards an ambitious belly. They walked into the production office, as if all it required was a sliding pole and some cot beds to be their home station.
“We’re looking for the production manager,” said Fleet, with just the slightest click of his heels.
“That’s me,” Howard looked up, unruffled, “Howard Finkel.”
“Fire department.” Plimsoll stated the painfully obvious. They had not exactly charged in with gushing hoses and brandished axes, but their identities were in no doubt.
“Spot check,” declared Fleet.
“Yeah…I know you guys. You spot-checked me last month, remember…?”
“Can we see a copy of your permit?” demanded Fleet.
Howard had it ready in a yellow folder. At the top of the document, it read City of Los Angeles Filming Permit, and at the bottom, above the stamp, because there was no concealing that it was a per-
mit for an adult movie production, there was an official warning in large letters against any nudity that might be visible or audible to the general public.
“You guys shooting anything?” Plimsoll asked, trying to make it sound as natural as possible.
Travis came into the office, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the uniforms and shiny badges. “What’s going on?”
“Fire department,” Howard informed him, “We’re cool.”
“Spot check,” Fleet explained again.
Travis knew that even Howard the simple had this one covered. They did not shoot without the necessary paperwork from the City of Los Angeles, it would just be asking for trouble. There were significant fees to be paid, and penalties for infringements. The Los Angeles Fire Department was vigilant in their inspections. The Los Angeles Police Department made sure violators were brought to court. The producer respected how the City of Los Angeles had found such an unobtrusive and discreet way of participating in a modest share of the revenue that the valley was generating from the daily production
of pornography.
“You guys have perfect timing…” There was nothing as distasteful as Travis Lazar pretending to be cordial. “You want to spot check the scene?”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Plimsoll tried not to seem too eager.
“Well, sometimes there’s a lot of friction,” Travis pounced, with deliberate coarseness.
Howard relished the mischief of toying with the fire department, and jumped right on the bandwagon. “Yeah, if we run out of lube.”
“So, if you smell smoke, just throw a bucket of water on the naked girl,” Travis said. Plimsoll turned even more pink in the face.
“Well,” said Fleet, finding his way out of the office, and fumbling for the right words to respond, “I’ve got to check if your exits are clear.”
Travis sank into his chair behind the desk.
Howard was always uneasy whenever Travis was in the office, which he thought of as his own fortress of solitude. The production manager put the permit back into his yellow folder. “I thought you
were directing the scene.”
“I got bored…Jack’s got it. I can’t watch this crap anymore.”
“Well, the fire department hasn’t seen enough yet.”
“Let’s hope that they don’t see what Tommy did to the electric panel,” Travis remarked, as Tommy poked his large, unkempt head into the office.
“They want you, boss,” Tommy informed him.
“What do you mean they want me? The fire department?”
“Shit, fire’s here?” Tommy began panicking. “Who, Fleet? Fleet hates me. I got to go put my hands in that electric panel.”
“Are we going to lose power?” asked the director.
“Well, I don’t want to pull the plug in front of Fleet. He’ll get a strong hint that something is up if the lights suddenly go out.”
“Don’t zap your pecker,” cautioned Travis, knowing how often Tommy accidentally electrocuted himself.
“Well, this might require some heroics on my part.”
“I’ll try to keep him busy.” Travis got out of his chair. “Who wants me?”
Tommy had almost forgotten why he came back. “Jack needs you on the set.”
The performers were rutting away happily on the bed of flowers, oblivious to anyone or anything around them, but Jack was perched at his camera with a mournful and frustrated look on his face.
“How’s the scene?” Travis asked the cameraman.
He shrugged and gestured to the couple. “Pretty hot. They like each other.”
“Why are they in that position?” the director wondered, surveying the jumble of limbs and orifices.
“Ask them,” Jack said peevishly, “They got into it.”
Travis went up to the naked couple, who continued thrusting away, and could only converse in monosyllabic grunts and moans. “Great scene…it’s looking beautiful,” Travis encouraged.
“Uh-huh…uh…uh…uh.”
“You okay, sweetheart?” he checked with Traci.
“Mmm….”
“You see what I mean?” Jack complained glumly.
“They’re okay.” Travis did not see what he meant, and had to handle Jack now. “That’s a solid piece of oak.”
“Colt never has trouble with wood. He’s a broomstick. The problem with Colt is always his balls.”
Travis tilted his head to visualize the shot that Jack was indicating, and now he understood the problem.
“You see,” Jack clarified, “He’s got this baggy swinging ballsack, and every time he gets a stroke in, he covers the shot.”
“We never see the money,” Travis agreed. “I mean they’ve gone and got themselves into some sort of a sixty-nine, but all I’ve got is a teabag of balls across the nose.”
“Why didn’t they flip over with her riding the happy face? It’s much more comfortable for them, and then you get the arch of her spine and her sweeping hair, instead of his hairy back.”
“She’s got the bruises on her ass, remember?” Jack reminded him.
“Well, shoot something. I’ve got the fire department in the audience and we’d better put on a show so they don’t notice if Tommy executes himself.”
“Uh…Mr. Lazar….” It was Howard, with that look on his face.
“I’m directing,” sniffed Travis, not wanting to be disturbed.
“Well, come and produce.”
Travis knew it was important. “Tiffany?”
“New York.”
He picked up the telephone in the production office, and it took some restraint to be polite to Sylvia, the controller at the studio headquarters in New York. “Hello, Sylvia, it’s Travis Lazar.”
Sylvia had not the slightest idea that they were shooting today because the executive in New York who was responsible for the production had forgotten to tell her to wire the production funds. It was not the first time that this had occurred, because the executives in New York had no idea about how movies were made on the West Coast, but they knew how to sell them and make a profit on the East Coast. As soon as Travis explained the situation to Sylvia, she assured him that the funds would be transferred first thing in the morning, since it was already too late in the Eastern time zone to go to the bank today.
“The bonfire’s out,” Travis said to Howard, when he hung up the telephone.
Howard was gazing hopelessly out of the window. “The bonfire’s outside smoking in the parking lot.”
Tiffany parked right in front of the stage doors, blocking the lane of traffic, and perched against the hood of the convertible with her arms crossed defiantly beneath her bust, and her perfect round derriere in tight leggings, warmed by the engine. She was ready for battle, and to calm her nerves before bursting onto the set, she lit up a cigarette.
Travis Lazar came out with a broad smile, and his arms even broader, for a hug. They went into a sort of a pugilistic clinch together, which was just as well because she was so incensed that she was halfway ready to take a swing at him. He gave her another smile, showing his white teeth. “Sweetheart, you should have talked to me…Everything’s fine.”
“Oh yeah?” she snapped, resting onto the body of the car, “Then how come your fucking check isn’t worth a cum stain?”
“There is plenty of money in the bank.”
“You want to talk to the bank?” Her voice was shrill and rising.
“Because I just came from the bank, and you have zero.” To underscore her point, she touched the red, pointed fingernails of her thumb and forefinger together to make an O in pantomime, which in some
cultures–appropriately enough–was also the gesture for sphincter, her eternal opinion of the producer.
“Well, first of all I’m going to pay you right now. So let’s get that straight.”
“All my money? In cash, right now?”
“Yes. We always pay.” He went into his wallet and counted out every dollar that he had, and everything that he had managed to scrounge from Howard and Jack until tomorrow, when the wire would post. He handed her the wad of bills.
“I knew you would pay me,” she said triumphantly, pocketing the cash and waving the useless check in front of him.
He plucked the check from her hand, and tore it in half, then in half again, and so on until there was nothing left but tiny paper squares. Now Travis pivoted politically and turned on her, keeping her in her place. “Didn’t Billy Dallas tell you that I was good?”
“I suppose.”
“You bad-mouthed me up there, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know what to think.” Tiffany went on the defensive, in her own political swivel. Now, that she had her money she wanted to keep a good relationship with the producer. She did not want to lose work with Travis in the future.
“You’d better take it back.”
“Yeah, yeah….” she tried to make it sexy.
“Now you owe me a blowjob for next time,” he said, but she didn’t understand if he meant on screen or personally, since fellatio was her signature specialty and also the currency of the realm.
“Promises, promises….” Tiffany responded, with a jiggle, because peace had broken out between them–for the moment.
There were only two small crises that took place, after the Tiffany incident, one of which was her own fault. Before Tiffany drove off in her convertible again, she chirped out an interview with the German news crew, and while that interview was being taped, the fire department on their way out of the building, after a close inspection of the sex scene, which was deemed to be acceptable to their high standards of safety, wrote Tiffany a ticket for obstructing a fire lane. This produced much shrieking and stamping of feet, and a string of nautical terms, and an assurance that Tiffany would not pay the fine under any circumstances short of hell freezing over (although, circumstances allowed that she did eventually accept culpability, and hell presumably remained unaffected by climate change.)
The second crisis had nothing to do with Tiffany, and it occurred during lunch, when Irmalinda’s crew inexplicably disappeared. Irmalinda was moved by visions of kidnapping and white slavery, but, pressured by the movements of his digestive system, Howard fortunately discovered Gunter and Deirdre together in the bathroom, where they were attempting to re-enact the sex scene that they had just witnessed in their professional capacities. Howard brought the matter to Travis’ attention, who thought that since the amorous encounter had transpired during lunch, when everyone was officially off the clock, it would best be not mentioned to the German segment producer.
By nightfall, there were no more crises, and with production on the movie completed, safely, on time and on budget, Travis called wrap.
He raced home so that he could make it back to his house before the kids were in bed, and as soon as he came through the front door, he dropped to his knees with his arms open, so they could hurtle their bodies towards him in their pajamas for a hug and a tickle.
“Hi honey!” The weary breadwinner embraced his children, as his wife came down the staircase. “I’m home!”