Chapter Two: A Favor for Beppo the Bear
As Travis came down the steps from the agent’s office, his meeting completed, he saw an obese man in a loose Hawaiian style muumuu with a rolled-up twelve-page script in his hand, lumbering down the sidewalk towards him. There was no mistaking the doughy shape of Blimp Pullman.
“You’re on the way up to see Billy Dallas?” Travis greeted him.
“Can’t do it, Travis,” breathed Blimp, “Those steps kill me.” Ascending the staircase was a hurdle not only because of the expedition up the steps, Travis realized, but also because Blimp Pull man was carrying the weight of his financial debt to the talent agent.
“How are things going? I heard you’re shooting for Paradise Media now.”
“Yes. They got rid of Flannigan. It’s my spot now. You know they loved Titanus.”
“So, what are you doing here?” Travis inquired casually. “I’m supposed to meet a girl. Give her a script.”
“Oh.” Travis acted like he did not know anything. “Who’s the talent?”
“Tiffany West.”
Travis decided not to linger outside Billy’s office in fellowship with Blimp. Without waiting for the light to change, he crossed the street, and got back into the Mercedes in the supermarket parking lot. As he drove away, he honked once at Blimp, who waved at him with the script in his hand, and Travis watched the muumuu recede like a colorful blob in the rear-view mirror. He could still see the blurry reflection all the way back to the onramp. He had a feeling that Blimp might be waiting for a long time.
He called Howard again to get an update.
Howard said, “You have a ton of messages. Maria called twice, Irmalinda from the German television crew, Sylvia from New York, Miles Flannigan–I already told you–came by the office, your wife, the editor of the forest movie that is ready for your approval, and some French guy who kept calling me Dickward.”
“Nothing yet from Tiffany?”
Howard responded wearily, “I told you that she was booked with Blimp Pullman.”
“Well, we need her,” insisted Travis, who had never taken no for an answer.
“And what am I supposed to say when she asks who we are shoot ing for? Majestic Movies?”
“We’re doing a favor for Beppo the Bear.”
“It doesn’t look good on your resume, Travis. Majestic Movies.”
“Those guys helped me when I got started. You never know when we might need their help again. Let’s try to do a half-assed decent movie. It will be okay if it stars Tiffany West.”
“I have a headache already,” groaned Howard.
“Did Jack call?” Travis asked, changing the subject, “Do you know if he got laid?”
“Do I know if Jack got laid?” Howard echoed. “I don’t even know the last time I got laid.”
Travis moved on, “Okay. Let’s see what Flannigan wants. And see if you can find Traci.”
By now, Traci, who had not stayed at Billy’s office any longer than it took to say hello and sign a model release, was naked in front of the camera on Sound Stage B having intercourse with Colt, as Tommy squatted behind them out of the shot, wearing thick work gloves because he held a hot light in his hand.
Miles Flannigan, a tough, stocky forty year old, with piercing eyes and a square jaw, who wore his ash-blonde hair cropped short and dressed in fatigues like a military man, was fulfilling his final directing commitment for Paradise Media, although one of the performers had requested a cut in the middle of the scene. Colt warned Tommy, “Don’t get that bulb too close to my ass.”
“Oh…I almost singed you…Sorry about that.…” Tommy mumbled.
“I knew I smelled something burning,” said Traci.
“Yeah…I thought that was one of my lights….” Tommy peered at the ceiling.
Traci wrinkled her nose. “I thought someone farted.”
“No,” Colt explained, “It was the hairs of my ass on fire.” Tommy lowered the light he was holding. “Sorry about that, uh, Colt…I guess I must have lost my concentration…Just for a minute there…” He shuddered to think what would have happened if Officer Fleet, his nemesis from the Fire Department, had selected that moment for a spot check.
“Let’s all take a break,” Flannigan called, since the romance of the mood had been sullied, and there was a fragrance of charred flesh, which needed to dissipate.
Outside, the sky was darkening, and the evening air was cool after the stuffiness of the sound stage. To steady his nerves, Tommy went to sit on the liftgate of the grip truck, smoking something that he had rolled himself, when, half-unsure if it was a hallucination, he saw Howard.
“Hey, Tommy.” Howard was apparently real. “Taking a break out here?”
“Yeah, just thought I needed a little personal time off the set. You try staring at that thing for eight hours straight and see what it does to you.”
“How’s the shoot?”
“Well…let’s just put it this way….” Tommy scratched his head, trying to find the words to express himself. “It’s…uh…not Travis Lazar Productions.”
“Seen Traci?”
“Yeah. She’s in make-up…touch up. While Colt is soaking his butt in ice.”
Howard did not even want to hear the explanation.
He went straight to the make-up room, where, in answer to his prayers, Traci was sitting nude in the chair, except for her shoes and a rhinestone necklace, while Maria reapplied her lipstick. They hardly glanced up when Howard came into the room.
“Is the whole team here?” he scoffed, “Did Finnegan steal every one?”
“Tell Travis that we are all independent contractors and we have to eat too,” Maria retorted, “And one day by miracle he might return a telephone call. And, by the way, the producer’s name is Flannigan.”
“Whatever.” After almost a decade in the employment of Travis Lazar, Howard had zero respect for any other producer. “Are you okay for Wednesday?”
“It’s in my book,” the makeup artist assured him.
“We’re shooting for Majestic Movies,” he said, wondering how Maria would react.
“I’m sure Travis has his reasons,” she replied, then said to Traci, “You’re done.”
Traci hopped out of the chair and blinked at herself in the make up mirror. “Thanks.”
“Travis wants to know if you talked to Tiffany,” Howard asked her, before she scampered out of the room back to the missionary position with Colt.
“Tell Travis I tried.” Traci said simply.
“Travis says thank you.” Howard said.
“Tell Travis no big.”
“Is Tiffany going to do Pullman’s movie?” Howard asked bluntly.
“Hell, no,” Traci assured him, but it was a stupid question be cause nobody could say anything for certain in the movie business.
It was night now, but Travis still had two more stops to make before he could go home. He headed back along the 405 freeway north towards Chatsworth. Traffic was thick, and there was a line of red rear lights ahead of him, and the dark hills were silhouetted in the distance. He called his wife from the car to tell her that he would be late and would not be able to put the kids to bed. She promised to keep dinner warm for him and tuck in the children herself, although Travis was the only one who could sing them their songs.
After he hung up with his wife, he called the Duchess, who informed him that Summer Rainfall and her tempestuous husband had decided not to work with Mister Pullman and had been cast in a hastily written role in her new epic, with the oxymoronic title, Forbidden Desire. Travis could not confirm if Mister Pullman had lost any other members of his cast, since they were still waiting for a final response from Tiffany West. He had heard the grapevine reports from Howard, but had not received official verification from her agent, since Billy kept strict banker’s hours, as a bulwark against inconvenient crises from sensitive thespians, who did not feel restricted by clocks and calendars. On the bright side, however, Travis explained that in further, and perhaps unrelated developments, Howard had arranged a late night meeting for him with Miles Flannigan after he wrapped.
“Pullman took his spot at Paradise,” the Duchess figured it out, “If Pullman’s shoot falls apart, Flannigan might be able to get his spot back.”
Neither of the producers wanted Flannigan looking for work with New York Pictures.
“Maybe I’ll make a new friend,” said Travis, before he hung up the telephone, and headed down the offramp.
To Travis, politics was all about allegiance and adversaries. He wondered what Flannigan wanted to discuss. Producers were natural hustlers, and with no other prey in sight, they would hustle each other. It would have to be handled delicately, saying things between the lines. Bonds were formed by common interests, even selfish interests, where there were mutual advantages. If you made friends, you were certain to make enemies too; the trick was to make sure that your friends were stronger. A single enemy could be dangerous, and you could never have enough friends, Travis believed, especially when they were the right kinds of people.
Travis turned into the dimly-lit parking lot of a strip mall, which was deserted except for a lonely seven year old polished black Cadillac Coup de Ville in excellent repair, parked in the far corner near a cigar store and a nail salon that were closed for the night. The pavement was wet, where it had been washed down, and a gentle breeze tossed around litter from a nearby fast food place.
The producer pulled up the Mercedes alongside the Cadillac, and with the engine off, paused in his car to survey the environment, an old habit that could not hurt, under the circumstances. Lights were on in a liquor store across the street; there were a few customers at a donut shop. Feeling halfway secure, he slipped out of the Mercedes and opened the passenger door of the Cadillac. The interior lights of the Cadillac came on, and he saw Beppo the Bear sitting in the driver’s seat with a grin on his face, and a brown paper bag in his lap. With a quick glance to make sure that there was nobody skulking with a garrote in the back seat of the vehicle, in retribution for some unintended slight, Travis slid into the passenger seat and shut the door.
The lights went off instantly and he leaned over and kissed Beppo on the cheek, getting a whiff of his cigar-tainted cologne.
Without saying a word, Beppo handed Travis the paper bag. Travis peered inside, and saw it was full of hundred dollar bills. Beppo beamed. Travis did not count the money, and quickly tucked the bag inside his European leather jacket and pulled up the zipper. Beppo just had one question.
“So,” he asked, “Did we get Tiffany West?”
Travis only had one more stop to make before calling it a night. There was an Irish tavern, just off a main thoroughfare in North Hollywood, with scenic pictures of the Emerald Isle, and Gaelic sayings framed along the walls, even though it was frequented mostly by Mexicans. He left the paper bag full of Beppo’s cash wedged under the front seat of the Mercedes and locked the car. He darted across the street, jaywalking between light traffic. It was a neighborhood that had become seedier with time, and the green lights outside the establishment flashed broken letters, so that the place had become known by misinformed locals as THE HAM ROC.
Inside, there was an Irish jig playing in the background, competing against the TV set that was tuned to a soccer game with Spanish commentary. He stood at the bar, nursing a Corona, because he was a little early and the first to arrive. It was a relief to take a break. There were no average days as a porn producer, but it had been a typical workday for him. He had started the afternoon in a restaurant, and was ending the evening in a bar, after picking up thousands of dollars in cash, inspecting young nubiles, and in keeping with his generous nature, taking care of his friends, old and new.
Flannigan came in after about twenty minutes, still dressed like he was about to go on maneuvers, although he was wearing a baseball cap, pulled down low. He looked around, lost, but Travis waved his hand, and Flannigan weaved his way between the low beer-stained tables, almost at a jog. Either he was eager to see Travis, or he was particularly thirsty.
The bartender brought him a pint of Harp lager on tap. “So, how did your shoot go…?” Travis began.
“Wrapped an hour ago,” boasted the Irishman, raising the beer to his lips, “I heard you are shooting for Beppo the Bear. Is that true?”
“We go back a long way. Since when I was in film school. Where did you hear it?”
“Maria. Make-up.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his camouflage sleeve.
“We’re trying to get Tiffany West for the production,” Travis closed.
“I heard she was shooting for Blimp Pullman,” Flannigan said warily, eyeing Travis over the rim of the glass.
“I don’t know,” Travis said, “Is that shoot still on?”
“I could find out.” Flannigan rested his tankard on a coaster. “I still talk to the executives at Paradise. We’re not on bad terms. It’s just that Pullman promised them the moon for a nickel….”
“That fat evil fuck,” Travis muttered, in a show of support. “He’d steal your eyes with the lids on them, Travis.”
“I heard he lost Summer Rainfall and Storm,” Travis contributed.
“Oh, he did?” Flannigan perked up. “I didn’t know that. I was shooting smut all day.”
“Yeah, I saw them this morning over at Billy Dallas. They told me they were working for him, but then I heard they had booked with the Duchess.”
“Everyone knows the two of you are thick as thieves,” he com mented, without waiting for a reply, “What did Billy Dallas say?” “That Pullman owes him money. Billy was talking about taking it to Duncan.”
“Don’t get Duncan involved,” advised Flannigan.
“That’s what I said,” Travis agreed, “We can figure this out with out going up the ranks.”
Flannigan checked that the talent agent was on board. “So Billy was tickled at Pullman too?”
“Well, everyone seems to have a reason. Except me. I don’t have anything to do with it. Billy won’t take it to Duncan, but he is going to complain to Paradise.”
“They won’t like getting the complaints.” Flannigan considered it over a sip of beer. “He already lost Summer Rainfall?”
“Summer Rainfall is a big name to lose,” Travis confirmed, “It sounds like his movie is falling apart.”
“I’ll talk to Paradise in the morning. They can’t make a movie without stars. If there is even the slightest rumor that Tiffany West might walk, Paradise will pull the plug on Pullman’s shoot.”
That was all the pressure that Travis Lazar could put on Tiffany West for one day, so he went home to kiss the kids in bed while they were asleep, and to get some rest himself.
On Wednesday morning, Blimp Pullman tried to reach Travis Lazar at Sound Stage B, where he had begun shooting Hard Time, his new production for Majestic Movies.
Howard took the call in the production office.
“Is Travis Lazar there? This is Blimp Pullman.”
“Sorry,” replied Howard, “He’s busy on the set.”
“Can you ask him to call me…” he continued, “Maybe he can help me…I’ve got a real problem…I’m hearing all these rumors… Look, do you know who’s there…. I was supposed to start tomorrow…Is Tiffany West shooting for you or not?”
Howard knew better than to disturb Travis for the call, under the best of circumstances, but since Travis was directing Tiffany West in a bedroom segment at that very moment, he was relieved when Blimp Pullman’s cell phone cut out in mid-sentence. Howard wandered down the corridor to the set, where the sex scene with Tiffany and Colt was in early progress, and Beppo the Bear was standing close to the video monitor with an unlit cigar in his mouth and his arms folded across his chest in a picture of contentment.
“What do you think?” Travis asked him, turning in the director’s chair.
“It’s fantastic,” Beppo responded, “Thanks for getting her. I owe you one.”
But that was all before the Vice Squad, the FBI and a SWAT team stormed onto the premises.