Chapter Two: A Favor for Beppo the Bear
Along the north side of the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, parallel with the 101 freeway, lined with boutiques, restaurants, brand name stores and palm trees, stretching all the way through the San Fernando Valley to the next county was a broad avenue called Ventura Boulevard, where Travis Lazar was at a square table beneath a painting of the King of Siam having lunch in a small, trendy Thai restaurant with his small, trendy friend whom everyone called the Duchess.
She had short, spiky, dark hair framing an impish face, with cinnamon lipstick and quick eyes that took in everything, and she always dressed in black with a flash of color, and wore chains, and bracelets, and rings, and the odd piercing.
Travis Lazar did not believe that his competitors were his enemies. In fact, one had a lot in common with one’s competitors. You shared the same problems, you had the same interests, and made money in the same way. The enemies, as far as all the producers were concerned, were the studios. Today, however, the two producers realized that the studios–in their infinite sagacity–had set them on a collision course with each other.
“I can’t believe that we’re all shooting at the same time,” the Duchess complained, eating lightly in comparison to Travis who was always lean and hungry, “I have this porno extravaganza to make but, in the meantime, you have dates booked, there are six other producers shooting, plus this ludicrous resort thing in Mexico, and where are we all supposed to get our performers? Or are we just going to make movies without stars?”
“There are too many big productions going on all at the same time,” Travis agreed, ”We should try to work something out. Who are the other producers?”
“Miles Flannigan is on his final engagement, now that he’s definitely out of Paradise….” she said, referring to another producer and another studio that never hired either of them.
“Flannigan is already shooting,” Travis noted, “His show will be wrapped before either of us start. Who else?”
“The million man gang bang.”
“That’s no problem,” Travis told her, “They’re only using one girl.”
“Then there’s that big high-tech movie for Duncan.”
Travis did not want to cross horns with Duncan, the bull-tempered mogul who imagined he owned the entire adult industry. “Let’s keep Duncan out of this.”
“Well, you asked who else?” She finished her vegetarian plate, deftly manipulating her chopsticks to gather up the last grains of brown rice. “That fat fuck who took Flannigan’s place at Paradise.”
“Blimp Pullman,” Travis said, “He’s a prick. He kept Colt on a set until four in the morning when he knew I needed him to have sex at eight o clock in a steam room.”
“He still owes me money for my equipment that he actually sank for that ridiculous boat movie.”
“All right.” Travis knew what he was going to do. “Let’s get back to work.”
They finished lunch, and argued magnanimously over the bill, which they eventually agreed to split. The higher rank always paid, and since they were at about the same executive level, it was not simple to figure out who should pick up the check that came to thirty four dollars, excluding the tip.
Sunglasses ready, they went outside into the bright sunlight to get their cars from the valet parking attendant. Travis drove a black Mercedes SLK, the Duchess had a gleaming silver SUV with a personalized plate that said SHTGRLS. It was supposed to mean, Shoot Girls, but it was sometimes referred to by the crew as Shoot Gorillas, which was ironic because the Duchess was an avid animal rights supporter, but more frequently as Shit Girls, which was perhaps even more ironic for the lady producer.
“Where are you off to now?” the Duchess asked, as the valet drove up with her vehicle.
“I have a pitch meeting in Chatsworth. Majestic Movies. My old friend, Beppo the Bear.”
“You still work for those boys?” she commented, with a hint of disapproval, “I’m surprised they can afford you anymore.”
“I don’t do everything for money, Duchess,” responded Travis.
She laughed, as she drove away. “Oh, Beppo the Bear you do for love.”
There was a time, during the golden age of film, when the famous celluloid of Majestic Movies screened in hundreds of adult theaters across the globe. Their movies became iconic, and entered the lexicon of popular culture. Millions of dollars poured in from the box office, which was fortunate for the producers because a lot of it was needed to pour out into the coffers of defense lawyers. The principal stockholders of the company hardly had the opportunity to disburse the rest of the earnings, since they spent most of their lives lodged at government expense on obscenity and racketeering charges. Now, the worldwide headquarters of Majestic Movies was a small cluttered desk in the back corner of a narrow warehouse in a dead-end street in the industrial area of Chatsworth. The stucco walls were scuffed and dented. The furniture was stained, and two lopsided chairs were missing their castors. There was a reception area in the front lobby, with a dead pot-plant, and a sliding window, like an orthodontist’s, and a dusty bell to ring in case the receptionist, a minimum wage twenty-two year old with a taste for Goth and chewing gum, was not at her desk. Some days, there were no visitors, and they went home early.
She slid back the window, as Travis came in. “You’re looking for…?”
“Beppo’s expecting me. I’m Travis Lazar.”
Beppo was a hairy bear of a man, in his fifties, who dressed as if he had just returned from the gym, or, at least, the tanning booth. He had white hair and a white toothbrush moustache, which matched the color of his wardrobe, and he wore a gold crucifix on a gold chain around his neck, and always had the mildly pleasing odor of cigars mingled with aftershave.
“Mister Lazarus,” he said warmly, as he came around a desk, strewn with invoices, old scripts and envelopes with notes and telephone numbers scribbled on the back. There was no formal handshake–he opened his arms for an embrace. “It’s been a while.”
Travis Lazar kissed him on each cheek, showing his respect. “You, too, Beppo. You’re looking good.”
“So, we going to do this thing…?” Beppo cleared a pile of papers and folders off a good chair for Travis to sit.
“It’s up to you. I’ll do anything for you, if my name on the box helps.”
“Okay. We’re good.” Beppo rested his buttocks on the edge of the desk, pushing aside a dirty ashtray and inadvertently getting ash on the back of his sweatpants. “How much do you need upfront?”
“You swear I’m going to get the rest after delivery?”
Beppo shrugged. “How long have we known each other?”
“That’s why I ask,” Travis said coolly.
Beppo was not going to lie, but the truth did not sound pretty. “Look, if there’s any problem with the money, I can always give it to you in product.”
“Figure out what you can come up with, and we’ll make it work.” Travis was not expecting a windfall. He tried to think where he could lay off the pallet of Majestic Movies classics that he was destined to inherit in lieu of payment.
“Your name on the box will help,” Beppo flattered him, before getting to what he was really after, “And Tiffany West’s picture.”
Travis had that sinking feeling in his stomach. “Oh no, really?”
“If you can,” Beppo said good-naturedly, but Travis understood it was a deal-breaker.
Travis called Howard from his cell phone, as soon as he got to the Mercedes. “Can we get Tiffany West?” he asked.
“Oh no, really?” Howard responded with the same words and more anxiety, as Travis had first reacted. “I think she’s shooting for Blimp Pullman, but I’ll find out. Did you get the money?”
“Tonight. Supposedly.”
“Waiting for the ink to dry on the bills?”
“Maybe Beppo’s having a sale.” Travis took the Nordhoff Street on-ramp onto the southbound 405 Freeway, heading towards his next appointment.
“Here we go again,” Howard griped, “Riding on empty.”
Travis did not want to hear Howard’s critique. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Miles Finnegan dropped by.”
“Flannigan,” Travis corrected, “I wonder what he wants.”
“He probably wants your job at New York Pictures.” Everyone in the industry knew that Flannigan had been fired from his position at Paradise, and Howard did not share Travis Lazar’s enlightened view of the competition.
Travis was not threatened. “Let him come and take it.”
The hard-working producer’s next stop was a meeting with the talent agent, Billy Dallas. It was always easy to find parking because Billy Dallas had made sure to rent his office opposite the huge parking lot of a supermarket. In his altruism, he was always thinking about how to make it easy for new applicants. He ran advertisements in the classifieds of six newspapers, and there was an endless stream of hopeful starlets parading through his offices. They came from all over America, seeking stardom. Like a beacon, there was a large neon sign out front, so it was simple to find, but you had to walk up a flight of stairs from the street to the office that was on the second floor. As Travis was about to go up the stairs, there were two porn stars coming down. Summer Rainfall had long, straight hair, which was usually brown, and a petite body, which, in defiance of gravity, somehow supported a pendulous pair of breasts. She had a tattoo on her shoulder blade that prompted different responses in whoever saw it, much like a Rorschach test. Her husband, who went by the eponym, Storm, was tall and muscular, with such chiseled features that he could pass for gay. He was a good ten years older than his twenty-three year old wife.
“Travis,” they both exclaimed at the same time, when they saw him.
“Hi guys,” Travis responded, “On the way out of Billy Dallas?”
“Dropping off some photos…” Summer Rainfall presented the producer with her portfolio of glossy nude shots.
“You got to check out the one in the stirrups,” her husband encouraged, “It’s awesome.”
“Beautiful,” Travis acknowledged, glancing over the photographs, “When are you guys coming to work again?”
“Travis, we’d love to…” said the actress, “We’ve been on the road, doing appearances. But I need to get on some box covers so we’re back in town…”
“Well, what’s the deal?” asked the producer, knowing how much she needed the box covers to promote herself in the strip clubs across the country, “You only work with your husband?”
“No, I’ll work with other guys,” she offered, “He’s cool….” Storm put his arm around her, and she nuzzled comfortably into his strong embrace.
“I like to see her work with other guys, Travis.”
“Or with girls,” she volunteered.
“Do you know anyone else who’s shooting?” asked Storm.
“The Duchess,” answered Travis, “But I think she’s cast. Stay away from Blimp Pullman.”
“Oh, no!” blurted Summer Rainfall, “He’s booked us.”
“You can’t breathe a word of this…” Travis said confidentially, “And if you do, you can’t say you got it from me.”
They both nodded solemnly, swearing their absolute secrecy, which was certain to endure until whomever they next encountered. The producer launched the attack he had been plotting all afternoon. “Well, that shoot is not going to happen. He’s about to lose his deal.”
It would be a quick, little war, and nobody would know what hit them.
The Duchess was already on board, as always. She would not bring much leverage–perhaps a little damage on the flanks–but she was a superb counselor, with a sharp mind for strategy, and her finger on some different pulses than the beats he measured. She thrived on gossip; she always had news. He would never go to war without her. Her help could certainly be decisive in tilting the scales, in their favor. They were always in it together. Of course, Travis would have done anything for her, not only because her strength was always in his interest.
Billy Dallas was another useful ally. Travis had begun on the wrong foot with him years before, and the two men had waged a brief skirmish against each other. Billy withheld performers, and Travis withheld money. When they finally realized that they could not really hurt each other, they decided to cooperate, and resolved their differences by starting from scratch. Travis kept Billy on the payroll, and generally avoided any of the other suitcase pimps who acted as talent agents, and Billy always made sure Travis had access to the top stars, steered him clear of the certifiably insane, and the two men always shared information.
“Did you know that your number one star, Tiffany West, is shooting for Blimp Pullman next week?” Travis began.
Billy Dallas gave Travis his full attention across his broad, glass topped desk. “The fat man is not taking my calls,” he said in his Texan twang, “He never paid me on that boat picture that he did.”
“…Where he sank the equipment…” Travis added, “The parody movie….”
“Titanus.”
“Well, I don’t like to see my friends getting hurt,” Travis said, with complete insincerity.
“Bool-sheet,” Billy was too smooth to fall for it, and he flashed an awkward smile in an attempt at Southern charm. “What’s y’all’s interest here?”
“One less shooter in the field,” shrugged the producer.
“I can’t have producers stiffing me over the girls,” said the agent, coming along, before Travis got too far ahead of him, “I mean, the talent is as loyal as the next silver dollar, but the producers should….”
“This is what I suggest,” offered Travis, who wanted to revisit ancient history, even less than Billy wanted to re-enact it, “Call all his clients, starting with Paradise. Tell them that he owes you x amount, and you want to collect it directly from them. That will get things rolling.”
“I have no choice, Travis,” drawled the agent.
“You know who he shoots for?”
“I can make a list. Does he shoot for Duncan? Duncan would be stomping mad about this if he found out.”
Travis shook his head. “Try not to get Duncan involved. Let’s try to settle it at a lower level.”
“Why are these hogs so stupid and greedy?” Billy moaned, then, with a slow, coy grin, he said, “I suppose I just answered mah own question.”
Travis steered him to his conclusion, “So, you’ll talk to Tiffany?”
“Okay.”
Billy Dallas got the point that Travis was done, but there was still a small item of new business on the agent’s agenda. “Now, did you meet Kimberly?”
There was a strawberry blonde, just turned eighteen, sitting patiently in a short skirt on the leather couch beneath a wall full of airbrushed photographs of famous stars on the agency roster. For the sake of privacy, they went into another office, used for casting. There was another leather couch, with a small side table upon which there was a fresh box of Kleenex. Before a white backdrop stood a video camera on a tripod with the lens cap hanging down from a cord and the lens pointing into white space. Beside the tripod, there was a high director’s chair, in which Travis perched, while she stood in front of him, and without any prompting, took off her clothes. “How long have you been doing this?” he asked.
“I just moved out here…From Ohio,” Kimberly made a slow twirl for him to inspect her pale, developing body.
“What made you decide to get into this business?”
“I never thought I would,” she said shyly, coming around the tight pirouette to face him again, “My parents were always very strict. No boyfriends allowed. We lived in a very small town. I sang in the church.”
“You have done a few scenes already?” the producer checked. “One test…It was a little scary at first, but I loved it. I just want to work and work, and stash away enough money for guitar school, and then I’ll quit.”
“Okay,” he nodded, “You can get dressed now.”
She put her clothes back on, even more quickly than she had discarded them, and she gave a jolly strut as he motioned her ahead of him back into Billy Dallas’ main office.
“What do you think?” the agent asked in a low voice.
“Not for me,” murmured the producer.
“Why? She’s great. Does an incredible scene.” This was the talent agent’s stock pitch for every girl on his roster. He never set foot on a movie set, if he could help it, and he never watched anything except college football, the poker channel, and country and western specials.
“I don’t like her background. She’s in it for all the wrong reasons. Revenge against her parents, rebellion against the church. She is trouble waiting to happen. One of these days, the guilt trip is going to kick in, and I don’t want drama on my set. I like mercenaries who are doing it purely for the money.”
With a pen in his mouth, Billy pretended to think for a minute, and then he asked, “Do you know a girl named Tiffany West?” They were both still laughing, when Traci Gold, on the way to a shoot, came bounding in the door to pick up a check, and wanted to know what was so funny.
Tiffany West rented a two bedroom West Valley apartment in an upscale security building that had an immaculate swimming pool, a games room and a gym in the complex. The only drawback was that the management did not allow pets, but Tiffany’s wire-haired mongrel, Coochie, was small enough to smuggle in and out of the building inside Tiffany’s bag, and if she barked too much (the dog), when she got over-excited, Tiffany used to crank up the volume on the widescreen TV and play one of her porno movies on the DVD. Nobody ever had the nerve to complain that the sound was too loud when it was all moans and groans.
The dog was barking, the TV was blaring, and the star was trying to get ready with one hand because she was already late for an important appointment. She was still in underpants and a wifebeater, and had not even had her coffee, when the telephone rang. It was Billy Dallas on the line, going on about something to do with canceling her booking for next week, which she was not about to do because she was saving her money to buy a house in Sylmar.
“…First of all…” she tried to set him straight, “I am not a flake, and second of all, the fat man offered me a lot of money…”
“I know, honey,” drawled the Texan, “But it doesn’t matter how much he offered you if he’s not actually going to pay you….”
“I always get my money, Billy…I got it from that Travis Bizarre, and…” The call waiting feature started clicking, so she came right to the point. “Look, if you want to know the truth, I worked hard to get this part.…”
“I get it.” The agent figured the star felt she was entitled to some compensation for whatever had been required of her at the audition.
“I don’t want to just waste a blowjob for nothing…” The call waiting feature was driving her crazy. “Hold on.” Tiffany clicked over. “Hello.”
It was Traci. “Hey, girlfriend.”
“Trace, can I call you back. I’ve got Billy Dallas on the other line….”
The doorbell to the apartment rang, and Coochie started yap ping and jumping, and she had to find the remote control, which had fallen under the couch, to turn up the volume so the neighbors would not hear the dog. “Shit…now the doorbell is ringing.…”
“It’s cool,” said Traci, “I’m on the way to a set, but I just wanted you to know something.”
“What?”
“Are you supposed to shoot for the fat man next week?”
“Shit. Everybody wants to know.”
“Don’t do it,” Traci cautioned, “That shoot is not going to happen.”
Tiffany needed two hands to work the latch, so she cupped the telephone against her shoulder, and unlocked the door. Jack Limo was standing on the doorstep with a six-pack of beer. “Hi, Tiff…Surprised to see me…?”
“Hey.” She hugged him, as he came in, and she closed the door behind him with a nudge of her hips. She held up her palm–noticed a chipped fingernail–because she was still on the telephone with two lines holding, and the dog about to pee on the carpet in the frantic excitement of Jack’s arrival.
“Traci…got to go…later, okay.” Tiffany hung up on Traci and clicked back to her agent. “Billy…you still there…?”
“I’m holding my breath.”
“Can I call you back?”
“Well, what do you want to do about Pullman? On or off?”
“Probably.” She said, committing herself to nothing, and put down the telephone.
She scooped up the dog before she could relieve herself (the dog), and deposited her outside on the balcony, where there was a bicycle and a barbecue, neither of which had ever been used, and shut the sliding door.
“What’s all that about?” asked Jack.
“I’m supposed to do this show for the fat man and he’s paying me a ton. I pick the guy. In and out. Condoms. And everybody is telling me not to do it.”
“They’re right. He’s full of it.”
“So, no?”
“If it was me,” said Jack, “It’s all through the industry.”
“So, anyway…” Tiffany sat down on the leather couch, moved aside a squeaky dog toy, and patted the seat beside her as an invitation for the cinematographer, “This is a surprise…What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Tiffany,” Jack grinned, popping open a couple of beers, “What do you think I’m doing here?” He was on his own time, now that he had delivered the message for Travis, although, as it turned out, Tiffany was all tease and the beers only made her feel sleepy.