Chapter Three: Uninvited Visitors
Tommy reported to Jack next, and then Jack went to the makeup room to get Travis, who was making sure that the announcement of Tiffany’s retirement from the industry remained premature. “You’d better come, Travis.”
The producer knew better than to ask why. “Okay.”
“What’s up?” Tiffany wanted to know.
“Oh, nothing…” Jack responded, over his shoulder, “Just a camera question.”
As soon as they were in the hallway, Jack said in a low voice, “The cops are out front again. Beppo took off, and I don’t know if you really want Howard dealing with the Vice Squad.”
Travis summoned up his courage. “No, I can’t let Howard go down for this. If Beppo’s not around, I guess I have to take the heat.”
“You’re going to take the heat for Beppo?”
Travis realized that taking the heat for Beppo would be an invaluable favor, which Beppo would be obliged to repay in a schedule of infinite installments. Travis would make certain Beppo would not forget. As the highest rank on hand, taking the heat fell under the duties of the producer’s job description. It was part golden opportunity, and part shit sandwich. “He’s done it for me. Which reminds me. I need you to do something for me, if there’s some story…”
“What? Bail you out?”
“My wife will come and get me, if it comes down to it. No, I need you to vanish the footage off the set.”
Jack grinned because he was an old hand. “During the first visit, we moved everything to the trunk of my car.”
Outside Sound Stage B, close to where Jack’s car was parked, there were three black and white police cruisers, and an unmarked Crown Victoria with a red light and a Styrofoam coffee cup on the dashboard. The cops lounged about, looking bored now, as if this really was a waste of their time, and there was no sign of the Organized Crime Task Force. Two LAPD patrolmen were talking to Howard, but he seemed to be in no danger of detainment.
“What’s going on?” asked Travis.
“He’ll explain.” Howard nodded at one of the policemen.
A heavy-set, heavily-mustached, fierce-eyed sergeant stepped forward. “We’re here to enforce a warrant of arrest.”
“Well, I’m the producer…” he confessed, bringing his wrists to gether in front of him because he was expecting to be shackled and carted away to prison.
“We know who you are,” the sergeant claimed, “We’re here to arrest a member of your cast.”
“The cast?” Travis was sure this was a new Tiffany problem. “This morning it was the executive producer.”
“Well, no. Nobody was arrested earlier, and only a warning was given. But while we were here, we did collect identity documents. We discovered an outstanding warrant for a member of your cast.”
“Tiffany…?”
“It’s Colt,” Howard informed him.
“Colt? For what?”
“He has an outstanding DUI,” declared the sergeant, who was strict in the execution of his duty, “He’ll have to come with us.”
Maria dashed through the stage door into the parking lot, waving a white cloth in a show of surrender. “He’s coming out,” she called through cupped hands, as if there had been five hours of high-stakes hostage negotiations.
Colt emerged sheepishly, his hands already cuffed behind his back, and a patrolman at his side. In the interests of discretion, they had giv en him time to change out of his towel into his street clothes, which consisted of flip-flops, baggy shorts, and a T-shirt with a slogan that read I Can’t Believe I Ate The Whole Thing. “Sorry about this, Travis.”
“Beppo will understand,” the producer assured him.
They bundled Colt into a patrol car, and after a few patrols to ensure the peacefulness of the parking lot, the law enforcement cavalcade departed.
“What next?” asked Howard, who had been thrown off his stride by all the surprises.
“We need a large pink dildo,” replied Travis, always thinking one step ahead.
When they were sure that the police squad was gone, the members of the production company trailed back into Sound Stage B. By now, the report had traveled so fast along the grapevine that there was practically nobody connected with the adult industry who had not heard that Colt had been apprehended.
With all of the interruptions, they were running horrendously late, and there would be overtime to pay that was less appetizing than poison to any producer. Howard announced that lunch was over, and everyone streamed back to work. Under Travis’ instructions, Tommy turned on the lights again on the bedroom set, and struck the house lights. One of the production assistants removed a sign that had been taped to a flat that said, HOT SET, so it had remained undisturbed while they were halted. Jack stood blinking at the empty bed.
“So,” Jack asked Travis, “How are we going to do a boy girl scene without a boy?”
“It’s going to be a solo,” Travis informed the cameraman. “Single girl?”
Travis nodded. “Tiffany with a rubber toy.”
Jack did not think much of the change in plans, and screwed up the corner of his mouth, as he tried to think of another solution. “Don’t we have anyone who could stunt?”
“Who, a member of the crew?”
“Hell, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Jack offered generously. “Yeah, Jack, and who would operate the camera?”
“You could run camera….” suggested the cinematographer, who would have been content to lock the camera on a tripod for the duration, especially considering his private opinion of Travis Lazar’s camerawork.
“And you do the scene as a stunt cock for Colt?”
“That way, at least, you’d keep your beegee scene.”
“You don’t care about the movie,” Travis noted, “You just want to pork Tiffany.”
“I have already been with Tiffany. On the way to Vegas. For the convention. That’s why I know she’d work with me.”
“Well, let’s not get romantic about this,” said the producer, although he was open to giving it a try, if, for nothing else, than to humor his cinematographer.
They went back to the makeup room to see how the star would react to the proposition. She was sitting in the makeup chair while Maria unwrapped her new ponytail, and tried to match her hair with the style that she had worn before the invasion. Traci, ever patient, was curled up on the couch again, listening to her headphones; she turned up the volume so that she would not get swept into the debate.
“Now, what, Travis?” Tiffany asked suspiciously.
“It’s just an idea, Tiffany… Jack offered to do the scene with you.”
“Since Colt was arrested,” the cameraman clarified.
“I thought it was going to be a solo. Now we’re changing it again?”
Travis wondered if there was going to be another surcharge. “We don’t have to change it.”
“It’s up to you,” Jack added hastily, not wanting to be the instigator of a new Tiffany problem, “I’m just saying… I would do it… Since we need the scene.”
“It was supposed to be a boy girl scene,” Travis emphasized.
“Jack’s dick won’t match with Colt’s, you know,” Maria interjected expertly.
“True,” agreed Tiffany, then she punched the makeup artist on the arm, “Hey, how do you know that?”
“I think you gave on a little more there, Maria….” Jack said.
“Oops,” she tried to cover up, “I mean, just based on their builds….”
“So, what do you say, Tiff?” Travis had to have a final decision, “Are you okay to work with Jack?”
Tiffany shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. As long as he has his test.” “You do have your AIDS test with you, Jack?” Travis checked, because Tiffany was immutable on that condition.
“Right,” said Jack, and here came the story, “Now, my test is up to date. But it’s at my house.”
“Sorry, Jack.” Travis was firm. “No test, no way. You’re on your own, Tiffany.”
“But, I still get my rate, Travis,” she reminded him, “Since it wasn’t my fault. I would have done the scene.”
Disappointed, Jack, who had no other excuse to linger in the hospitable confines of the makeup room, went back to the set to make sure they were lit for the upcoming solo. With nothing more than a stern look, Travis beckoned Maria into the hallway.
“So, what do you do?” he demanded, “Sleep with everyone on the entire crew?”
“First of all, no,” responded Maria, “Jack and me were just fooling around in there. Can’t you take a joke?”
The producer did not believe a word. “Come on, Maria.”
“So, what’s it to you, anyway, Travis? You’re married. You have your wife and kids….”
“I don’t care, Maria. You’re right. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Jack wanted to do Tiffany,” she said, by way of an alibi. “They already have. Vegas.”
She made as if she was going to go back into the makeup room, then she asked, “You going to go this year? Vegas?”
“The awards? If I get the nomination…You going?”
“Yeah,” she said, only slightly batting her eyes, “If I can get a room.”
Whenever Travis had moments of weakness at work, he called his wife. With this honorable intention, he went straight to the production office, where he found Howard sitting at his desk, picking at a miserable plate of cold chicken.
Howard put his head into his hands. “I can’t take the stress of all this, Travis. I hate the cops.”
“I stood up for you, you know,” Travis reminded him heroically, “Did you see that?”
“I noticed that.” Howard was totally grateful, and partly amazed, “Thank you, sir.”
“I wasn’t going to let you take the heat,” Travis promised.
The telephone on the desk rang, startling both of them. Howard did not reach for it. “I’m scared to answer it.”
“Go ahead,” said Travis, “It’s probably Beppo, checking up. I’ve got to tell him what happened.”
He took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver. “Travis Lazar Productions…”
Howard looked relieved. “Hold on.” He handed Travis the telephone. “It’s Billy Dallas.”
He stood up stiffly and walked around the desk carrying the plate of food with his clipboard as a tray, and went back to the green room to microwave his lunch, coleslaw and all. It was the first time that Travis had sat down since the police had prompted him out of his director’s chair. “Hello, Billy.”
“Hello, Travis,” the agent said over the telephone, “I just had a call from Colt at Van Nuys Police Station… What the hell happened down there?”
“Nothing to do with us. He had a DUI all on his own.”
Billy said, “I heard that. What were the cops doing there?”
“We’re shooting for Beppo today,” Travis offered, by way of explanation, “Majestic Movies.”
“Beppo the Bear?”
“Yes.”
“Is he there?” Billy checked, “Can you talk?”
“He’s not here.” Travis thought it best to avoid taking up Billy’s time with the circumstances of Beppo’s absence.
Billy lowered his voice anyway. “Can he afford you?”
“It’s a favor,” Travis explained, “I’m okay with him. Even though, he brings a little heat.”
“Last time, we had heat like this,” remarked the Texan, “I fried an egg on mah bumper. You’ll pardon me for saying it, Travis, but I’d get myself a better class of clientele. Y’all used to shoot for Duncan.”
“I think I prefer the cops,” Travis commented.
“Understood.” Billy had endured Duncan’s temper himself. “But I’m used to the heat, where I come from, and it’s pretty warm up here already.”
Then Travis had to hang up because Howard came back into the production office, without his chicken, and said, “We have another Tiffany issue.”
The star was sitting in the makeup chair with her arms fold ed across her famous bosom, and a pout on her face, and Maria was standing by helplessly with a makeup brush in her hand, apparently putting powder on air.
“I’m not doing the scene with that black dildo,” Tiffany declared, when Travis and Howard appeared.
“I think that’s all we have,” Travis said innocently.
“I don’t care, Travis. I’m not doing it. I don’t do interracial.”
“It’s made of rubber, Tiffany,” explained the producer.
“I don’t care if it’s made of fucking titanium. It’s in my contract. No black. I have my reputation, you know.”
“Howard,” Travis turned to the production manager, “Let’s get Tiffany something else to insert.” It was not worth getting into a battle over the color of a dildo, especially because they were running late and were headed for over time, when time was not only money, but money multiplied by one and-a-half.
Ten minutes later, while the crew was staring at the empty bed, Maria trotted onto the set to assure everyone that Tiffany was ready and would be out in a moment, as soon as she finished putting on perfume and cleaning her coochie (not the dog).
“This is going to be a solo masturbation scene, right?” Jack double-checked, although they were all beginning to grasp the idea that the way Tiffany saw it was that making love to herself was going to the romantic highlight of her career.
“Yes,” said Travis, “Tiffany and a…” he turned to Howard, “Did we manage to find something in a color appropriate to Tiffany’s liking?”
Howard seemed embarrassed by the question. “We did, in fact… I think, it’s a….”
“It’s a flesh-colored vibrator.” Jack saw where the set dresser had placed it on the pillow.
“The flesh-colored vibrator will be an excellent partner to her, Jack,” promised Travis.
“Okay.” The cameraman sulked. “I’m just saying I could be back with my test before Tiffany makes it out of the bathroom.”
“Thanks, Jack,” nodded Travis, as a production assistant came running in to indicate the Tiffany’s imminent presence, “We’ll wait for the performer.”
Tiffany made her dramatic and highly-scented entrance through the stage door in a flowing red kimono, warning, “All I’m saying is that this fucking thing better be clean.”
“Of course, it’s clean, Tiffany,” Travis assured her, with absolutely no knowledge of the sterility of the item, “We always make sure that they get scrubbed in hot water before a scene.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She lay down diagonally on the bedcovers, resting on one hip, her black pumps pointed to one corner of the bed, and her head angled towards the pillow.
Jack gave her final instructions as to where her key light was hanging, so she would know how to position her face and her body. He hoisted the camera onto his shoulder, and stepped onto a box to get a high angle for the opening shot.
“Where did we get the vibrator, anyway?” Travis asked Howard, so that Tiffany could not hear them.
“Maria,” Howard murmured.
“I had it in the back of my car,” the makeup artist explained. “It’s clean.”
Jack was impatient for his cue to get the scene going. “Is that action?”
“Fine,” Travis responded, “Whatever.”
The action began, and the scene rolled along, more smoothly than anyone could have predicted. Of course, it could not be too complicated, since Tiffany was the only one performing, and she could hardly complain about her partner. Since time was money, she had every interest in getting it over as quickly as possible, and it was driving Jack to distraction having to watch Tiffany through the viewfinder without being able to participate, so he moved through the camera coverage expediently. It was going so well that Travis, who had seen enough, decided to leave it in Jack’s capable hands, and walking on the balls of his feet, slipped off the stage with Howard, back to the production office, where he had one final unexpected visitor. The Duchess was waiting for him.
One producer was unpleasant enough, but with two producers in the office, Howard offered to go back to the makeup room to ensure that Traci was preparing for her scene that was to follow Tiffany’s, although, candidly, he had to make a bathroom stop on the way, because he was having second thoughts about the beans from El Porno Loco that he had eaten for lunch.
“You okay?” the Duchess asked Travis, as Howard closed the of fice door behind him.
“I think so,” said Travis, reflecting on his eventful day, “What do you want to talk about?”
“The ripple effect.”
“It started with Beppo this morning. He always draws heat.” She shook her head disapprovingly, so that the earrings dangling from her earlobes swung and rattled. “You should just say no to him, Travis.”
“It’s an offer I can’t refuse,” he smiled.
“Well, with friends like that….”
“I already know about Colt….” said Travis, wondering what other consequences were coming.
“Somehow or other, Colt led the cops to Billy Dallas. They showed up with Colt at his office, which I guess Colt had listed as his place of residence….”
“Billy’s office?”
“Yes. Now, nothing happened with the agent… But from there, somehow or other, they ended up at three different companies, one of which was Duncan….”
This was news to Travis. “They raided Duncan?”
“And two others. One of the Israelis–Mister Sunbeam, I think– and a gay company.”
“What were they looking for?”
“Do they need an excuse?” queried the Duchess.
“Anyone bust?”
“In the entire X-rated industry from Duncan all the way down to Beppo the Bear and the West Bank, only Colt.”
Travis shrugged. “So, no harm done really?”
“Poor Colt is in Van Nuys jail tonight….” she said sympathetically.
“Because of his own DUI….” argued Travis.
“It only happened because the cops came here to bust Beppo’s balls.”
“No,” Travis deduced, “This has nothing to do with Beppo’s balls. I mean, Colt, yes, but not Duncan, not the Israelis. Beppo just got swept up in the sweep, it wasn’t personal. It takes the Feds weeks to plan these things. They did a sweep today. Beppo was just the first one in the net.”
“But what’s the connection between Beppo the Bear and Big Duncan? And the gay company? Mister Sunbeam? Why go after them?”
“Oh, who knows? A fishing expedition, random, alphabetical… Beppo thought he had been singled out. But they weren’t just after him.”
The production office telephone rang, and since Howard was still dedicated to his duty in the makeup room, Travis picked up the receiver. “Travis Lazar Productions.” He flashed a gleaming smile at the Duchess. There was never anything wrong to report when you talked to the money. It was all as smooth as silk. “Hey, Beppo… I’ve got some good news for you.”