Chapter Ten: The Devil Wears Blue
Travis Lazar had won his war against Duncan, even though Travis Lazar Productions had lost the deal at Paradise. The studio head’s tactical success was the producer’s strategic victory. By forcing Duncan onto the battlefield, standing up to him, and making him lose political capital, the producer had shown his mettle. The bigger the adversary, the better. He had fought the most formidable player in the valley, and he was still on his feet. He had made a stir in the industry, and burnished his reputation. Rumors rippled through Chatsworth. Everybody knew who he was. Nobody took him lightly. The problem now was that nobody would hire him.
Of course, AXE itself was sealed off to him. Duncan’s temper was slow to cool. Travis hardly spoke to Nicholas; they kept one another at arm’s length. It was not discussed between them, but they were both astute enough to let the dust settle, before they found an opportunity to renew their fellowship. Duncan would look on any contact between them as disloyalty, interference, or conspiracy. The mogul could not afford to lose face again. In the event of another skirmish with Travis, Duncan was sure to use nuclear weapons.
Paradise was shut to the producer. Selwyn had relinquished his interest in Travis Lazar, and his word being absolute to the freezing point, it would never be rekindled. Courtesy of AXE, Miles shot Tiffany for Wake, where a production romance developed between the director and the star. The pair disappeared together on a tropical vacation right after the movie wrapped, and were not heard from for weeks.
New York was down for the summer. Travis was in line right after the Duchess to shoot for the east coast company again, taking the second production slot, when the winter season began, but they had to survive through the long, blistering months of summer first.
That left Majestic Movies, and he had only just finished collecting his money from the last project, Hard Time, starring Tiffany West, Johnny Raw and the ill-fated Kimberly Kreeme.
He was a whisper at all the other studios in the valley. Any deal with him would be seen as a snub against Duncan, and nobody wanted to incur Duncan’s wrath. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of Travis Lazar either, and there was always a chance that–in any deal–things could go wrong. Caught between the power of Duncan, on the one hand, and the tough tactics of the Travis on the other, none of the executives at the other studios felt it was worth making a move in any direction.
They did not want to get into a fight they could not win either.
They were all in the heart of the summer, and the valley was a cauldron of stifling heat. The desert sun was merciless. Across the vast, flat plains of asphalt between Ventura Boulevard to the south, and the 118 through Chatsworth to the north, no breeze stirred, and on the freeways, the cars crawled along like beetles.
The sunlight glared through the blinds, as Travis and Howard sat glumly together in the production office, day after day, staring at the blank production slate. The only times that the telephone ever rang were when crew and performers called looking for work. Travis knew how much they were all depending on him; people had families, rent to pay, essential matters. He felt responsible. He was the locomotive that pulled the train. There was suddenly nothing to do. He was losing power. Every day without a project damaged the luster of his reputation. He had nothing but dead ends. Howard was full of useless suggestions and complaints. They both racked their brains, trying to think of a way to put together a deal somewhere in the interim. But, as Beppo had warned him, the valley was closed.
When the telephone rang after a morning of tombstone silence, they both perked up.
“Travis Lazar Productions,” Howard answered, and mouthed, “Maria,” to Travis.
Travis made a signal to indicate he did not want to talk to her, and rotated back and forth in the swivel chair behind the desk, like he was watching an invisible tennis match.
“Can I speak to Travis?” the make-up artist asked.
“He’s busy,” said Howard, “Can I help with something?”
“Yeah. Work. I’m broke. He’s always busy. Did you give him my message?”
“I’ll tell him again,” said Howard, as she hung up. He looked at Travis. “Maria. She called twice before. How come you don’t want to talk to her?”
“You talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.” Then, paradoxically for someone who did not want to talk to anyone, he asked, “Were there any other messages?”
“Irmalinda,” said Howard, turning over a scrap of paper, “She still wants to thank you personally for the interview. It aired on German television last week. You can’t find work in the valley, but you’re a big success in Hamburg.”
“Irmalinda,” Travis repeated, as if he had fallen into a trance, and her name was a magical incantation. “Irmalinda.” A strange look came over the producer’s face. “That’s it. That’s the answer. Get her on the phone.”
Howard was too mystified to question why, and followed Travis’ instruction as robotically as if he had fallen into a trance of his own, although since lunchtime was approaching, it may have been nothing more than a digestive rumble.
The German television presenter was overjoyed to hear that Travis Lazar was on the line for her. “I am so happy to hear your voice,” she said cheerily, “I was beginning to think…ja…maybe I was bothering you. I really just want to say thank you to you, so thank you very much…and…how are you?”
“I heard that the interview was a big success.”
“Ja,” she said proudly, “It was seen all over Germany, and there was an article in the newspaper. They mention your name, and my program.”
Travis spoke in his version of a European language. “What do you think about the idea to do another program on the set, if I make a movie in Europe?”
At these words, Howard suddenly emerged from his trance, and as if Travis had proposed principal photography on the surface of Jupiter, he blurted out, “Europe!”
Travis frowned at the production manager, because he should have known to be silent while the producer was pitching. “Maybe a sequel to In My Lady’s Chamber? What do you think?”
“You mean, you would come to Europe to shoot a movie?” she clarified.
“Yes. And you would cover it behind the scenes. For your program. Exclusive.”
Her breath was taken away by the proposal. “That would be fantastic.”
“Okay. Good. This is what I need you to do….”
“Yes.” The German presenter was all business. “How can I help?”
“Talk to Klaus. Tell him we’re coming, and convince him that he has to finance it.”
“I can talk to him,” she offered, “And tell him, ja, it is a good project. He should do it. But I don’t know how his response will be.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” predicted the producer, with a white smile into the telephone, “He owes me a favor.”
After Howard had worn off from his initial shock, the plans for Europe began in earnest, and the production office once again sprang to life.
Irmalinda dutifully consulted with Klaus, and after one telephone call and a fax from Travis, the Hamburg Film and Book Company wired funds into the account of Travis Lazar Productions, the transfer of currency to the producer like a transfusion of blood to an anemic.
Shooting in Europe meant production in Budapest, where there was an infinite supply of lithe 22-year-old beauties, and seasoned technicians who could work and drink just as hard as their counterparts in Chatsworth, and at half the price in Hungarian. Equipment was cheap, no permits were required, and the sweeping Danube flowing through lush hillsides crowned with great monuments and castles was a grand backdrop for a movie.
The production manager’s first challenge was to get himself assigned to the European location crew.
“You’re staying in the valley,” Travis insisted.
“You don’t need me in Budapest?” Howard asked pathetically.
“Can you speak Hungarian?” Travis demanded. “I need a local production manager. Besides, someone has to watch the store.”
Howard started to take notes at his desk, his sober professionalism a positive indication that he was not thrilled with the situation, “Well, who do you want to take with you?”
“Tell Jack to drop everything….”
“I don’t think he has anything to drop. Nobody’s working.”
Travis ignored his colleague’s acidic tone. “I’m going to need some American talent to star in the movie, so I’ll take Traci, and a male, probably, Colt….”
“Eff him,” said Howard, remembering the assault on his person at the fateful casting session in Billy’s office, “What about a couple, maybe Summer and Storm?” He did not like the idea of Traci on distant location either. “They want to go to Europe.”
Travis could get a package price for the pair. “Fine.”
“Who else?” Howard moved along. “What about Tommy? Maria?”
Travis shook his head. “I will pick up the rest of the crew on the ground.”
Howard knew there would be disappointments among the ranks, but Travis was thinking like a producer. His loyalty never extended further than the budget, which was considered ethical in his professional line. One way or the other he had to keep shooting to maintain his prestige, and a big European project would give him money, publicity and–most of all– keep him out of range.
Howard guessed that what he really wanted was to get out of town for a while. Eastern Europe would be a good place for him to lay low and let the heat fade. “So, if it’s not me, who do you want to use as your production manager in Budapest?”
The answer was no surprise. “Get me Evita Spumante.”
Evita Spumante was waiting at the airport on the outskirts of Budapest, to meet Travis and Jack when they flew in from Frankfurt on the early morning flight.
She had somehow managed to smile and wiggle her way past the customs officials, and was standing inside the gate in Hungary, as Travis and Jack came down the ramp from the airplane.
She was a natural Hungarian beauty, with an effervescent personality, and a candid innocence, even though she was an ex-porn star who specialized in double penetration scenes. Blonde, warm and ravishing, with dark, playful eyes, and a hard, buxom body, she had no secrets from the world, and she was truthful to a fault. She went bra-less, wore no make-up, and dressed like the girl next door, although there were greasy stains on her shirt and jeans where she had wiped her fingers after a roast chicken lunch in her car.
Travis threw his arms around her, and Jack could not hide a smile when they reached her.
“Welcome back to Europe,” she bubbled, “We are going straight to work. Location scouting today, casting tomorrow. We start shooting in four days. That’s insane. I’m sorry, Travis, but that’s what it is. When do the American performers arrive?”
“Storm and Summer will be here the day after tomorrow,” Travis informed her, as they walked through the airport at Evita’s jaunty pace.
“I have them staying at the Hotel Ibis,” she said, “Where we keep the Italians.” The Ibis was a utilitarian place, with clean, modular rooms, and a breakfast area, which fit the budget to Travis’ satisfaction, but she had booked the producer himself into the finest hotel in the city. “I have you at the Kempinski,” she told him.
“I’m good to stay at the Ibis,” Jack offered. “With the talent.”
They all piled into Evita’s small, boxy Fiat with the windows open. It was a squeeze with the luggage, especially because Evita had a lighting kit wedged on the floor of the front passenger seat, and it was a struggle for her to operate the stick shift. The car kept slipping out of gear, and they could hear the whine and grind of the engine.
“It’s funny,” she said, as she hurtled onto the freeway into town, “We don’t see Americans for a while–it’s all Italian, Italian, Italian…”
She circled her wrist in a repetitive gesture. “And now we have two productions from the States at the same time.”
“Who else is in town?” asked Travis, who was sitting in the front, in accordance with his primary rank, even though his knees were compelled towards the windshield, because of the bulky lighting kit.
“There is this fat guy…” Evita giggled shyly at her own choice of description.
“Blimp Pullman?” Travis and Jack looked at one another.
“Yes. Do you know him? We are going to the location where he is shooting. I think it could be a good place for the villa in your movie. He will be gone by the time we need it. Do you want to say hello to him?”
“I’ll say hello.” Travis owed Pullman a favor since he had persuaded Tiffany West to cancel on him, resulting in the termination of his employment at Paradise Media, a distinction that the two directors now held in common. “What kind of location is it?”
“It could be many things–it has different possibilities–a college, a hospital, a church–it depends on your needs.”
“Sounds good,” said Travis.
“I thought you would like it,” Evita beamed, “It used to be a whorehouse.”
They pulled up outside a walled estate, with a picket gate, manned by an empty guard post. There was a long driveway along well-tended grounds that ended abruptly in a dead end at a flight of brick steps that led sharply up to the brick house. Like a convent–ironically enough–a covered walkway with narrow arches surrounded the main building, and there were windows with open wooden shutters.
They approached the entrance quietly, not sure if the cameras were turning or not.
A production assistant, heavily made-up and scantily dressed, spotted them and came out with a walkie-talkie, as they approached, and Evita exchanged a few words with her in Italian.
“Are they rolling?” Travis checked.
“No, they are not rolling at the moment,” Evita explained, “But she says that Blimp is busy preparing the girl for her anal scene.”
“What does that mean?” asked Jack.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Evita said, leading the way. “We can go in….”
They went through a heavy front door, which had been left ajar, and down a dark passage past suits of armor, tapestries and wine-colored fabrics. Brightly lit with cinema lighting at the other end, the hallway opened onto a large rectangular room with high ceilings, crossed with wooden beams. They made their way onto the set, which was dressed as a barnyard, with straw in the background, farm implements, splintery barrels, and a rustic bed. Positioned on the bed were Blimp Pullman, in deep concentration, and on all fours facing away from him, a slender brunette with bare olive skin, and an uncomfortable expression on her face, probably because Blimp Pullman’s thick index finger was inserted into her rectum.
“I guess he’s preparing her for her anal scene,” Jack commented.
“He’s very dedicated,” Travis noted, in admiration for the other director.
“Do you still want to say hello?” asked Evita.
“I’ll say hello,” Travis said graciously, “But I won’t shake his hand.”
Evita’s office was on the fourth floor of a pre-war building off the busy pedestrian mall, Vaci Utca, a few blocks from the Danube on the flat Pest side of the river. There was an inner courtyard and an old cage elevator, which often stopped between floors, so experienced visitors always selected the four flights of stairs. Above the courtyard, the office itself was large and airy, sparsely furnished with a modern style, and high-tech electronics.
While Jack was at the equipment rental company, meeting a tall man, with a moustache, named Zoltan and the electrical crew, Travis sat behind Evita’s charcoal desk in her office. Evita herself sat, hands in her lap, on the leather sofa, like a nurse in the presence of a gynecologist, as one by one, the Hungarian female talent came in to audition for the famous American.
There was not much involved in the process. The young women squeezed onto two couches in an outer sitting room, and made small talk. They all knew each other, and there was a lot to discuss. Some went into the corridor for cigarettes, or to talk on their cell phones. Some touched up their makeup in the bathroom. The first girl, who called herself Nikita Sexi, had perfect features, straight black hair, and mesmerizing blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, offering a curtsey to the producer behind the desk.
Travis inquired, “Have you done movies before?”
Evita answered for her. “She works with the Italians.”
“Yes. I work a lot with Luigi Pinocchio.”
“How is your English?”
“Not so well.” Nikita winced, and pinched her fingers together.
“A little.”
Evita tried to help. “If she gets the script a day before, she will be all right. She won’t understand what she is saying, but she can memorize the lines.”
“Sure,” shrugged the aspirant, although she did not seem convinced. She was wearing nothing but a sheer dress, and heels, and without more discussion, she let what clothing she had fall to the floor, revealing a taut, tan body without a single flaw. She did a little twirl, remaining within the circle her dress circumscribed around her ankles.
“She’s perfect,” gasped the producer, “I have to have her in my movie.”
Evita laughed. “Well, she’s only the first one. There are twenty more to see.”
By the end of the afternoon, Travis Lazar had selected fourteen performers for a movie in which only five roles were available. He had turned down four girls with bad teeth, and one girl with braces.
He wisely agreed to allow Evita to finalize the female casting from the choices he had made, and they turned their attention to the selection of the males.
The problem with that was Salvador.
Salvador was pleasant to the point of obsequious, not unintelligent, and not a bad actor who spoke excellent English, despite his own uncertain national origin. He was tall, dark and not bad looking, and there was only one reason not to cast him. He took forever to achieve an orgasm.
Travis had a suggestion. “Put him on the last sex scene.”
“We can’t put him on the last scene. The last scene is the boat. We need the boat at night, and you don’t want to start the production with a night scene, or they’ll be tired for three days.” Evita knew her crew, and it was not just the hard days of working that concerned her, but the nights of relaxation that followed their labor. “You can’t put Salvador in the boat, because that’s the big scene for Storm and Summer.”
“That’s my centerpiece.” The producer was planning to film a sex scene floating down the Danube with all the monuments lit up on either bank. “It has to have my stars.”
“We can’t put him the last scene. But we’ll put him on the last day. That way, you just have his scene to do at the location during daylight, and then, you move to the boat at night and go down the river.”
The way she said it gave Travis a chill down his spine.
Irmalinda and Gunter landed in Budapest the next day, without Deirdre who had been transferred to a different department of the television station in Munich. Evita met the Germans at the airport in Budapest, holding up a sign in the arrival hall, although she was sure they would be hard to miss.
The German presenter marched right up to her. “I’m Irmalinda von Brandenburg.”
“Yes.” Evita looked her up and down in her ruffles and shoulder pads. “You are.”
Gunter, laden with hand luggage and camera equipment, stared at Evita with his mouth open, and suddenly sprang forward and extended his hand. “Gunter Weiss, German Satellite Magazine.”
“Hallo.”
“So. We are here.” Irmalinda breathed a sigh, and crossed her ruffled sleeves.
Evita gave no sign of moving. “Anyway, we have to wait. The Americans are coming on the next flight. They arrive in forty minutes.”
“Oh, so we wait,” Irmalinda agreed, “That’s crazy. To go and come back. Forty minutes is no problem.”
“If you don’t mind,” Evita touched her lightly on the arm, then she squealed with embarrassed laughter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t offer you nothing. I’m so bad. Would you like to have a coffee while we wait?”
Irmalinda and Gunter conferred and agreed that a beverage was an excellent suggestion. Evita led the way, and they all went for coffee at a smoke-filled kiosk in the airport, where they crowded around a square table, and drank espresso from white cups. Everyone thought it was another superb idea to have a shot of schnapps from Gunter’s personal traveling supply to accompany the coffee, by the end of which time, the two women, who approached one another with initial caution, were developing a keen understanding.
It hardly seemed like forty minutes until it was time to meet the Americans.
Howard had put Storm and Summer onto the flight in Los Angeles, and after a five hour layover in London, they made the connection to Hungary. Neither of them had been out of the United States before, and both were baffled by many small cultural differences along their journey. They tried to pay for their snacks and sundries with dollars, and were met with mystification whenever they asked for the location of a bathroom, which was called a water closet in England.
By now, the production had acquired a mini-van driven by Evita’s younger brother, Attila, a lean, muscular lad with a shaved head, and the same quick smile as his sister. In the van, the contented Hungarians with their four well-traveled passengers shared the remainder of Gunter’s provisions and an animated atmosphere as if they were all off on a road trip, even though they were only going to the Ibis.
“So,” Irmalinda turned her attention to the two American stars, “You are Summer Rainfall and Storm. This is your first time in Europe. How do you feel?”
Gunter swung around in his seat, so that he could aim his camera towards the celebrated couple, who were dressed in sweats, and suffering jetlag.
“Tired,” answered Storm, leaning his head against Summer’s in the back of the minivan.
“I will be doing the report for the German television,” Irmalinda announced.
“Cool.” Storm shut his eyes.
“What about Summer?” she inquired.
“Shh,” Storm said, “She’s got a headache.”
“I just need to eat,” groaned Summer.
“What’s that?” Attila demonstrated his driving proficiency by looking back at them while he was at the steering wheel. “She needs to eat?”
“Just tell Attila anything you need,” Evita assured them from the front passenger seat beside her brother, where she further proved her confidence in his prowess by traveling without a seat belt, and by providing him with the odd liquid refreshment, “And he will get it for you.”
“What kind of food you like?” offered Attila, “Italian? Hungarian is not so good for you, I think. Italian?”
“You have anything around here like a burger?” asked Storm, staring without hope through the window at the old gray buildings under clear skies.
Evita and Attila consulted for a moment, and then she said, “We can get you anything you want. But.” She stopped to smile. “If you can wait, just a little longer, Travis wants everybody to have dinner together tonight.”
The restaurant was in a stone cellar, through an archway flanked by large wooden doors, and down stone steps. There were long wooden tables, with benches on either side, and a wooden bar with a hinged flap in it to allow the bartender access. There were sconces against the dark walls with candles, historic flags, and in one upper corner, a TV set that broadcast nothing but soccer games.
The menu, which was written in cursive penmanship on a chalkboard, was Italian cuisine. With the help of a burly and experienced waiter, who was multi-lingual in Hungarian, Czech and Russian, the company all hazarded a guess on what they wanted to eat.
Everyone sat at a long table: Travis was at one end, and Evita at the far head. From her left, working down, were Irmalinda, then Gunter, then Salvador, Storm and Summer. On her right were Attila–at his elbow, Zoltan, the lanky Hungarian electrician–then Jack, and then–squeezed in–Nikita Sexi. Travis, of course, was seated with a star on either side of him, but Jack maneuvered around as adroitly as if he were operating a Steadicam to make sure he ended up sitting beside Nikita on the inside.
She was from a small town in the country, and she was staying in the room beside his at the Ibis. The cameraman shared a breakfast with her, and they chatted in the mini-van, going back and forth with Attila. Attila sometimes translated for him, but Jack chatted to her as if she understood. She was always nodding when he spoke.
His plan was to make his move after the dinner.
He figured that everyone would have a few drinks at dinner, and she would be in the mood for a nightcap. There was no bar at the Ibis, so he would suggest the mini-bar in his room.