Chapter Seven: A Barrel of Monkeys
The call came from Nicholas Pasquale, Head of Production and Creative Affairs for American X-Rated Entertainment, which was universally known by the acronym AXE. It was Nichola who had come up with the slogan, AXE, The Cutting Edge of Erotica, and designed the on-screen logo that was a sweeping blade on a shaft of white light. Nicholas was the most brilliant executive in the industry, with an Ivy League education, and cerebral interests in eclectic disciplines, like art and technology, far beyond the topic of pornography.
It baffled Travis that Nicholas saw Travis as his mental equal, because Nicholas was the one person Travis always saw as smarter than him.
Nicholas wore a trademark goatee, and kept his dark hair slicked back and in a ponytail, and although he was not especially big, he always seemed so bulky and barrel-chested that he was about to burst his seams. At work, he wore his suit without a tie, and an open collar, but his personal taste in wardrobe was more bohemian in his off-hours, with Indian shirts and mottled patterns. His dark eyes were alert, his smile was rare and controlled, his mind was always turning.
In the squat, monolithic black glass AXE building, he kept the lighting in his office low, sometimes even by candlelight, and he had a collection of his own gloomy and provocative paintings on the wall. There was a console of monitors for computers and televisions and a bookshelf with volumes on different subjects. He had all the latest electronic toys. He kept his own hours. His office had the scent of incense.
All his idiosyncrasies were tolerated and indulged by Duncan, who also thought that Nicholas was smarter than anyone he had ever met, but who also expressed that didn’t mean spit because Nicholas worked for him, and not the other way around. AXE was the undisputed flagship of the industry, and Duncan was a bold admiral, but anything that stumped him landed on Nicholas Pasquale’s desk. When Nicholas spoke, it was often with a diplomatic delivery of Duncan’s voice.
“I am calling to congratulate you,” Nicholas said.
“Thank you,” Travis replied, with no idea whatsoever why he was being honored.
“You are receiving an award from the F.A.A,” Nicholas explained further, in the gap that followed Travis’ acceptance.
“Why am I receiving an award from the Federal Aviation Authority?”
“The First Amendment Association,” Nicholas added hastily,
“We heard you turned in a child pornographer. You probably didn’t know this, but there is a standing reward for anyone providing information leading to an arrest of a pedophile. There is going to be a black-tie dinner. Executives only. You will receive a plaque and a check for $25,000 from the association.”
Publicity like this made Travis squirm. “That’s great news.”
“Duncan is very pleased.”
“Please send Duncan my best wishes, and tell him it was nothing.”
“No, he respects the deed you performed, and so do I. He’s pleased. We should talk about you doing another movie with us.”
The first time that they had made a movie together was the first time they ever met. It was Duncan who introduced them. Travis had gone in to pitch Duncan on Figurehead, his first picture for AXE. It all took place on an old-fashioned wooden boat sailing towards the edge of the world. He had convinced Duncan with drawings of what the sets and costumes would look like, and the mogul decided on the spot to increase the budget after Travis already had received his green light to produce it. Nobody threw money around so easily. Behavior like that was unheard of in the movie industry, and Travis always got nervous around someone in that position who was so volatile and extravagant.
Nicholas had been the executive in charge of the project, and from the first handshake, Travis came at him like an expert pilot navigating through a windstorm, which was just as well in the political tornado of AXE.
In the production office at the sound stage, after Travis hung up, Howard accepted the news with his typical enthusiasm, namely pure misery. “First of all, this dinner sounds like a barrel full of monkeys. A bunch of uptight executives who want to stab you in the back. You going to take
your wife?”
“You know that I like to keep my family out of the industry,” said Travis.
“I am sure Duncan will be there with his wife.”
Travis decided to give Howard a jab to reciprocate for his sardonic commentary. “I was thinking I might take Traci.”
“Traci? I thought you didn’t like to mingle with the talent.”
“I don’t. But I owe her one after the whole underwear controversy.” The producer always made an impressive appearance with a star on his arm.
“And secondly,” Howard complained about something else,
“Now we are going to have to make a movie for AXE….”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“That’s a lot of pressure, Travis, and they are right here in the valley breathing down your neck. You know, the best thing about New York Pictures is that they’re in New York. We have a good gig with them every month and there is a continent in between us.”
“We’re not going to lose our deal with New York, and besides, nothing is firm yet. It’s all just talk.” Travis recognized that the production manager had a valid point, but he tried to persuade him.
“You’ve been in the movie business long enough to learn that the only time you know for certain that you have a movie project is when you see it on the screen. Especially at a place like AXE with so many other producers and executives fighting to pull the plug on us. And that’s not counting what side of bed Duncan gets out of in the morning.”
“Are you really going to take Traci?” he asked.
In the evenings, Howard liked to lie on his bed in his first floor, one bedroom stucco apartment in North Hollywood, in his boxers, with the Cartoon Network or a reality program on television, with the volume muted, and have a heart to heart talk with a woman on the telephone. It did not matter which woman, he just liked to hear a female voice. He did not like to feel lonely at night, and could not fall asleep until the small hours, with the familiar groan of the freight train shunting through the valley in the distance, so he used to chat until his arm ached from holding the telephone. He would talk to old friends, family members, wrong numbers, sales calls and telephone operators, and of course, any actress from the industry who felt like pouring out her problems to a sympathetic ear.
He often had long, late night conversations with Traci.
It was around one in the morning, after they had spent about forty minutes discussing the anatomical peculiarities of various co-workers,
when he put it to her, “So, you hear that Travis is getting an award…?”
“Yes. It’s all over the grapevine.”
“The First Amendment Association.”
“I don’t even know that one. What is it? Honor your parents?”
“That’s commandments,” Howard explained, “First amendment is free speech.”
“That’s in the bible? Well, I’m not religious but as long as Ryder Mackenzie is locked away, they can give him a medal, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Yeah, I heard he’s out on bail, while the lawyers deal with it.”
“I knew Travis believed me,” said Traci, who seemed to be still laboring under the impression that Ryder had been incarcerated for stealing her panties.
“So, he wants you to go to the dinner with him,” Howard informed her.
“Oh. Cool. But I thought it was executives only.”
“All I know is that I wasn’t invited,” Howard remarked.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Traci said, “But I got to hang up now. It’s late, and I’m shooting for the Duchess in the morning.”
The Duchess was shooting in the west valley at a mansion in the foothills of Encino. There was a long, narrow driveway from the street with wrought-iron gates, and two pillars each crowned with a statuette of a lion. The house was two stories, with archways, a winding staircase, and extensive grounds where there was a gazebo and a rectangular swimming pool, in which a fountain shaped like a fish squirted water from its mouth. It was surrounded by high walls and hedgerows, although there was a gap in one spot where the neighbors could see in, and they liked to complain if there was a permit violation of visible or audible nudity. The crew got used to masking the breach with a large black cloth from the grip truck, and all they had to remember was to work quietly, and keep the moans and groans low during the outdoor sex scenes at the pool. The house was unoccupied, because it had been on the market for about six weeks, and the real estate agent who was handling the sale was making money on the side by renting it out to adult companies, who paid about three thousand dollars a day to shoot there. It was so popular that the realtor was considering taking out a monthly permit from the film office, and keeping the property off the market by inflating the asking price, because the location fees were so lucrative.
Travis drove the Mercedes down the tight driveway just before 11 a.m., and parked behind the grip truck. The Duchess had her own crew, and nimbly operated the camera herself, although Jack occasionally shot second camera for her, and Travis noticed his camera van in the lot when he got out of his car. There were two electricians, very occupied in sitting on the tailgate of the grip truck, who did not know Travis, but he walked into the house with such confidence and bearing that they automatically assumed he was invited. Travis Lazar, however, did not require an invitation to step onto an adult video set in the valley.
The producer walked through the house, nodding at the art director and two production assistants, who saluted him, and said hello to Colt who seized his hand, as he was going up the stairs. The ubiquitous porno handshake was an elbow bump. Travis never liked to shake hands with the male performers because they spent so much time stroking themselves during rehearsals. Colt was excited to tell him about the new girl on the set who had requested him as a partner, but Travis had more pressing matters on his mind.
The Duchess was holding court with her crew in the master bedroom, regaling them with witty production stories to entertain them while waiting for Summer Rainfall to come out of makeup. Her husband, Storm, was reclining in an oversized armchair dressed in a police uniform, a costume that caused Travis to react with a shudder, because he was still not certain whether he was an ally or a suspect of the Los Angeles Vice Squad after his involvement in the Ryder Mackenzie affair.
There was a sumptuous four poster bed, with a microphone dangling out of camera frame above it, and lights hidden in alcoves in the corners of the room. They had not shot anything yet, and with a heavy schedule, everyone was prepared for a long day.
“Hello, Travis,” the Duchess greeted him, and led him onto the balcony, through lace-curtained French doors with beveled glass, because his presence indicated that they needed to talk in private.
The morning sunlight reflected off the slate floor of the spacious balcony. A breeze was stirring. There were four wrought iron chairs, painted white, and a small outdoor table, but the two producers leaned up against the faux-marble balustrade, looking over the grounds.
“You had a conversation with Nicholas Pasquale,” he said.
“Yes, it was me,” she confessed to leaking, “We’re both on the board of the First Amendment Association.”
The only others who knew the real story were Beppo, and peripherally Billy Dallas, although it would start to spread through the grapevine now. He had ruled out Beppo because his style was tight-lipped, and in any event, he would not have found a trail to the corporate milieu of Nicholas Pasquale. Caught between the she-devil and the deep blue sea, Billy Dallas would not have wanted to add fuel to any fire, so it left only his fellow producer as the source.
“I thought it was supposed to be confidential,” he noted.
“No. You didn’t say confidential.” She was a little terse. “If you had said confidential, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“I thought that everything that we discuss is confidential.”
“No. You have to say it.” The Duchess stood her ground, although they typically bent over backwards to avoid confrontation with one another. “Besides, I made sure you looked like a saint.”
“Yes. I am going to receive a plaque and twenty five grand reward money.”
“Right,” she said, “We have to talk about that.”
At that moment, Traci came onto the balcony, blinking in the harsh midday light. She was wearing an open robe, and holding a blue sequined dress on a hanger in one hand, and a red sequined dress on a hanger in the other.
First one, then the next, she held each dress against her body. “Which one?”
The Duchess considered. “I think the blue. What do you think, Travis?”
“On Traci? The blue. She looks like a fire truck in the red.”
“Definitely the blue,” agreed the Duchess, “And tighten up your robe please. Your vagina is showing. The neighbors.”
“Oh, my bad.” Traci pulled the robe about her. “Sorry to bother you.”
It was clear that the producers were discussing items above her pay grade, and she bounced back into the house to get ready.
On the lawn below them, a stout, dark-bearded still photographer was setting up umbrella lights beside the pool to shoot the box cover of the movie. There was a tall model, with a mop of red hair, limpid blue eyes, smooth ivory skin, and firm, pendulous, five-thousand-dollar breasts above a tight waist. She was wearing a sheer silken robe, and smoking a cigarette with her arms crossed while she waited for the photographer to test his exposure.
“Do you know Ginger Vitus?” asked the Duchess.
Travis observed over the balustrade of the balcony. “No. She looks good.”
“I’ll introduce you. You’ll like her.”
They were startled by a sudden, urgent, rattling noise. The black cloth, which was being used to safeguard the privacy of the production, had caught wind like a sail, and was about to topple. Walking by, the caterer dropped a bag of onions and raced up to catch it in the nick of time. A production assistant came to his aid, but the gust had caught the fabric, and they had a hard time keeping it in place. It had got loose in one corner, and was flapping wildly, like a trapped bird beating its wing. More hands arrived to help. Alarmed, Ginger Vitus pulled her robe about her and side-stepped across the lawn to avoid the potential of being smothered beneath it, almost stumbling into the pool in her high heels.
“Put a fucking sandbag on that stand!” yelled the Duchess, from the balcony, and because she was back-lit by the blinding sun, some of the crew members rotated in confusion to see where her voice was coming from, as if it were a celestial command.
Two grips loped up, as bandy legged as frogs, because they were weighted with sandbags in each arm to secure the billowing spinnaker.
“You were saying…?” Travis prodded.
“What was I saying?”
“The money.” He knew there was going to be a story.
“Right. This is what you’re going to do. At the dinner, you will receive the plaque and the check for twenty five thousand. Then, you are going to announce that you want to donate the funds back to the association.”
An act of such ostentatious generosity was against the producer’s principles. “That’s very noble of me. So, I don’t keep the reward money?”
“You get to keep the plaque.” She saw the grim look on his face, and smiled. “Don’t worry. You get the movie.”
Summer came through the French doors in a French maid’s uniform that had been strategically torn in certain places, because she was portraying a crime victim in the storyline.
“Oh, you’re here?” the Duchess noticed.
“Nobody told me you were ready,” said Summer, “I was going to have a cigarette.”
Storm ambled out onto the balcony, swinging a nightstick dangerously close to the beveled glass of the French doors in a display of his practiced expertise.
“All right,” said the Duchess, “A few puffs, and then let’s start.” Then, she turned to Travis. “Do you want to watch the scene?”
“Maybe for a minute.” He still had a few things to do on her set, and he saw Jack in the bedroom. “I need to have a word with Jack.”
“Sure. Hang around as long as you like. Lunch will be ready soon. We’re having Asian fusion.”
Travis thought that it showed a virtue of great patience that the Duchess would break for lunch before she had shot anything. He left her explaining their motivations to Storm and Summer, while she smoked to the end of her cigarette, and went back into the bedroom to talk to Jack.
“How’s it going?” he asked the cameraman, who was checking the color balance on the monitors in an effort to seem occupied.
He looked about to make sure that the Duchess was not in earshot. “It’s not Travis Lazar Productions. We’ve been here since eight, and still haven’t rolled.”
“She has her own pace,” Travis defended his fellow producer-director, “She’s got two camera units. She’ll pick up the time.”
The cinematographer did not have a high regard for the directors who handled the camera. “I have to shoot striptease, while she shoots
the sex scene.”
Travis dismissed his complaint. “You ready to come back to work with me?”
“What have you got?”
“Nothing solid,” Travis said confidentially, “But there are rumors that we’re doing something for Duncan.”
“AXE?” He was impressed.
“I talked to Nicholas. They’re interested.”
“Do we know what we’re doing yet?” Jack asked.
“No idea. But it will be big. Howard is terrified.”
The cameraman shrugged. “I mean, we can handle it. We can get big. I say, bring it on.”
“It’s coming like a juggernaut.”
The Duchess stepped in from the balcony, followed by the loving couple, and clapped her hands. “Okay, everybody, places!” The crew took up their positions–an electrician with a handheld light, a makeup artist rushed in for a last-minute touch up, a production assistant manning the indispensable hygienic supplies. Summer crawled onto the bed, Storm fondled himself in preparation for his performance as a police officer coming to her rescue.
Travis slipped out of the bedroom, before the scene began. Even when he was paid handsomely for it, he did not like to watch people having intercourse. To him, it was like going to a fancy restaurant to watch other people eat. He went down the staircase and outside onto the lawn, where Traci was about to take her place at the pool. The still photographer was perched on a four-step ladder, and Ginger Vitus was posing spread-eagled on an inflatable pink pool raft, in the final shot of her layout. Travis had the opportunity to examine Ginger’s excellent work. The redhead was unabashed, had searing eye contact with the lens, and knew all the poses by heart before the still photographer instructed her.
Ginger finished up, and Traci stepped forward for her promotional photographs, as the Duchess came from the downstairs kitchen out onto the lawn, with a diet soda.
“I thought you were shooting a scene?” Travis said.
“Minor technical delay. She forgot to douche.” The petite director glared at the burly still photographer. “I need stills upstairs in five minutes, so move your fat fucking ass.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he acknowledged meekly.
“Do you need me?” Ginger asked in a girlish, breathy voice.
“I will need you to do a striptease at the gazebo with Jack in about twenty minutes,” she said to the actress, then she said, “Here, let me
introduce you. This is Travis Lazar, a very important producer.”
At the word producer, Ginger buckled her knees in a small curtsey, and held out her hand–not outstretched and firm, but flaccidly and bent at the elbow, so she came in close for the introduction, smelling like peaches. “How do you do?” she breathed, gazing into
his eyes, “I am so pleased to meet you.”
“We should do a movie,” Travis said, which was how producers offered a greeting.
A production assistant ran out onto the lawn. “Summer’s back. They’re ready.”
“Okay. Finally.” The Duchess went back into the house, trailed by Ginger who looked back over her shoulder at Travis all the way, and almost collided with the shrubbery. He was not fooled or flattered; it was apparent that she was working him.
Travis waited on the lawn, until Traci had finished posing. “Howard told you?” he said, as she came over.
“I heard Ryder Mackenzie turned out to be a creepy pediatrician.” Traci let her robe dangle open again. “Thanks for thinking of me. Just let me know the details.”
“Friday evening at eight. Chatsworth Lodge. Don’t look too porno, but wear something sparkly, and don’t be late.”
“Come on, Travis. When have I ever been late?”
“You’re right.” He still felt badly about the loss of her underwear.
“This makes us even, okay?”
“No blowjob for the dinner?” she checked, but it was probably a joke.
“You know I’m married,” replied Travis, but she could not fathom if his response meant yes or no.
He called his wife from the car as soon as he left the Encino set. He told her that Traci was going to come to the dinner with him, so that she was off the hook, and did not have to make an appearance. Even though it was executives only, Travis preferred to keep his wife and children at arm’s length from the industry. Home was his oasis. The children were a little too young to grasp exactly what he did for a living, but he would explain it as they got older. There was no reason to be ashamed of anything. In their universe, and in the valley, there was no stigma.
At eleven thirty-five in the evening, just as the late night talk shows were getting started, the telephone rang in Howard’s apartment. He turned down the volume on the TV, stretched out on the bed, and picked up the telephone.
It was Maria. “I knew you would still be awake.”
“I don’t sleep,” Howard complained. “I’m glad you called.” He settled in for a long conversation and tried to begin it on a titillating note. “I meant to tell you that I still have your vibrator. From when we used it on the set.”
“Keep it. I have a drawer full.” Maria had not called to discuss dildos. “What’s up with Mister Travis Lazar?”
“I never know.”
“I mean, how come he picked Traci? For the dinner. I took his side, and he picks her. I understand he doesn’t want to take his wife,
but would it kill him to invite me? One time?”
“How did you find out about it?” asked Howard.
“I have to do Traci’s makeup for the award. So, there goes my Friday night. So, she can look good for him. You know I clean up too.”
“I wasn’t invited either.” It was a sore point for Howard. “But, it’s not about her looking good, Maria.”
“I can give a blowjob, Howard. It’s not a skill limited to porn stars.”
“It’s not about a porn star on his dick, Maria. It’s about the mighty producer looking good with a porn star on his arm.”