“Talk about your clichés,” I say. But Rachel is gone, and William H. Macy is standing over me, waiting for me to get out of his seat.
***
It turns out that William H. Macy is named Bobby Beauchamp. Mr. Beauchamp counts his resemblance to the actor as a tool in his amorous arsenal.
“See that chick over there?” he says, pointing to a blonde woman who looks like she has firsthand experience with the plastic surgeons you see advertising in the LA Weekly. “I fucked her in the ass while doing that accent from Fargo. Oh yeah, you betcha!”
I nod, not really sure I can add much to the small talk of cinematic sodomy. We watch a male porn star with long, stringy hair live out his Nickelback fantasy.
“Do they do this a lot?” I ask.
“Every Friday,” he says. “Porn star karaoke is a great way to blow off some steam, and it’s nice to show the fans that people in the industry are just regular, normal people.”
“Normal people who have sex on camera, for money,” I say.
“Exactly.”
The Nickelback fan asks to do one more song. The DJ obliges, spinning a Creed song, which seems entirely too predictable.
“So are you...”
“Talent?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“No.”
I finish my drink and wave for another.
“I don’t have the cock for it,” he says. “I’m hung like a human, not a rhino.”
“Oh.”
Bobby Beauchamp hands me his card.
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Oh yeah, you betcha!”
Chapter 19: Doing something wrong
I’m trying not to ash my joint on Mary Jane’s white carpet, which looks expensive enough to be the subject of a dramatic plot twist on a Bravo show.
Unfortunately, the Tiffany ashtray with the Hustler logo feels like it’s a mile away from the couch—too far to travel in such a state. To get there, I’d have to push the catatonic girl off my shoulder without spilling her warm Heineken, fly over a labyrinth of red plastic cups, and drop the joint’s ash perfectly between a PND Award for best doggy-style scene and a brick of sticky icky that makes the stuff Miles buys look like ditch weed. It feels like a journey Odysseus would balk at, so I take another puff and admire Mary Jane’s condo.
The condo is plush, like a scaled-down version of a house you’d see on MTV Cribs. Sure, it’s in the Valley, but that just means more space, better parking, and neighbors who need a little more Botox and silicone to be mistaken for LA’s beautiful people. There’s even a hot tub, but there’s an orgy going on there, and after a week on the job I can hear Dean’s voice in my head: bacteria soup, dude.
If you believe cable television, people of my generation allegedly live in houses with wine fridges and vaulted ceilings. But Mary Jane is the first non-banker twentysomething I’ve ever met who owns a home. My friends all live in apartments with shag carpet, thin walls, and crusty stoves.
I exhale, wondering if the Pottery Barn catalogue mentions that the vintage apothecary cabinet is perfect for storing marijuana, Percocet, and Zoloft.
There’s a hand on my knee, and through smoke I see that it belongs to a woman with hard tits and an even harder face. She looks like she’d fight me or fuck me for the joint. I pass and go, leaving her to decide where to ash the joint.
In the kitchen, I open the stainless steel fridge. There’s nothing but Red Bull and eggs.
“There’s beer at the wet bar,” Booty says.
I help myself to a Red Bull because I’ll need the energy to make it home.
“Spark that sucker!”
I turn around in time to see Bobby Beauchamp sucking down on a gravity bong that someone rigged up in the sink, using a mutilated gallon water jug.
Sucking back the smoke, Beauchamp turns to a woman in a short gold dress sitting on the granite counter. He plants his hairy hands on her buttery thighs, parting her mocha flesh as she arches her back and cranks her right arm like Arsenio Hall used to do.
A man waving a bottle of Jack Daniel’s cheers them on while two stoner girls reload the bong at a zombie pace.
Fighting to hold back his monster hit, Beauchamp speaks in the halting, deep voice all stoners use for issuing proclamations.
“This one is for my client and dearly perverted friend,” he says, leveling his head even with the woman’s crotch. “Rest in peace, Johnny Toxic.”
“Smoke that coochie!” the woman yells.
Beauchamp obliges, exhaling a thick cloud of pot smoke between her legs.
***
In the living room I find a fat black dude with hipster glasses and three skinny white girls watching Pineapple Express. Mary Jane has HBO, and I’m just a little bit jealous. Apparently, writing about blow jobs isn’t as lucrative as giving them.
“B Money is a suitcase pimp!” Booty says, holding out a fist for the guy to pound.
“Boo-tay,” B Money says, returning the pound. “What up?”
Booty introduces me, but apparently I don’t merit a pound yet.
“B Money looks after the girls,” Booty says by way of explanation.
“He’s like an agent?”
“More like a pimp,” Booty says. “But yeah, that’s basically the same thing as a talent agent.”
“B Money be money,” one of the girls says before high-fiving her cohort and kissing B Money on the lips.
“He holds the suitcase when they’re on set,” Booty says. “That’s where the term comes from.”
I nod my head and try to picture B Money as a pornographic porter, holding a porn star’s luggage at the craft services table, debating between Red Vines and M&Ms, while she gets doubled-teamed a few feet away. But something tells me it’s a little more involved than that, and the same something tells me it’s not a good idea to ask for more information at the moment.
“Safety first, then teamwork,” James Franco says, pretending to be a well-meaning Jewish pot dealer.
I settle in with Booty, B Money, and the girls, trying not to rock the boat.
***
Opportunity strikes in line for the bathroom. Bobby Beauchamp is pretty sure the two girls in there are doing coke, which gives us time to chat.
“Maybe they’re having sex,” I say.
“They don’t need privacy for that.”
He’s right. There are people fucking everywhere in Mary Jane’s condo.
Beauchamp bangs on the door.
“Sorry to hear about Johnny Toxic,” I say.
Half-hearted condolences don’t bother Beauchamp. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and presses his sweaty forehead against mine.
“He was the best—a first-class pervert, a revolutionary!”
Beauchamp swivels away from me and bangs on the door again.
“Sorry my breath smells like weed and pussy.”
I nod like it’s just one of those things.
“I guess the cops are trying to figure out who killed him,” I say, hoping the prompt will get the ball rolling.
“What is with these fucking coke-whores? I gotta piss.”
“Have the cops spoken to you?”
“Fuck it, I’m pissing.”
Beauchamp storms off.
Chapter 20: Too high
I’m standing on Mary Jane’s balcony, my dick—literally—in the wind. Bobby Beauchamp is making it rain on some poor bastard’s parked car eight stories down.
“That fucking cop, Boyd—what kind of a name is that?” he says. “That fucking pig doesn’t know shit.”
“How do you know?”
“I know people.”
The peeing stops. Suddenly, we’re just two men waving our pricks at the San Fernando Valley.
“For instance, I can tell you’ve never peed off a balcony before,” he says. “That’s how much I know people.”
I tense. It’s already weird, and I’m beginning to doubt if I really want to turn pro.
“Don’t force it. Just bend
your knees, relax your hips.”
Beauchamp demonstrates, squatting and rocking back and forth, totally at ease.
“Nothing like pissing on the world,” I say.
“Fucking-A right, man” he says, unleashing a torrent of hot urine into the cold night air. “Either the world pisses on you, or you piss on the world. Johnny taught me that.”
I take a shot in the dark.
“Any idea who killed him?”
“If I knew that, I’d stab the motherfucker to death myself.”
“Really?”
“No, but I’d fantasize about it, and then turn him in to the cops—I don’t want to go to jail and get butt-fucked by some gangbanger with AIDS.”
“No, that makes sense,” I say. “It’s always better to let the justice system...”
“They’ll catch the fucker, and he’ll get butt-fucked by some gangbanger with AIDS.”
Apparently, Beauchamp’s biggest fears are forcible sodomy, sexually transmitted diseases, and gangbangers. But it’s difficult to tell how, or even if, he ranks the trifecta.
“I thought you said the cops were clueless.”
“They are. But it’s not like we’re dealing with a criminal mastermind here,” he says. “Killing Johnny with his own battle-ax, in his house. Shit man, they left the body there. I found it when I dropped by with Chin Chin’s and a new girl for Johnny to meet.”
“Chin Chin’s?”
“Yeah, for lunch. You ever have their Chinese chicken salad? It’s unreal. I think they mix crack into the dressing. I’d butt-fuck a gangbanger with AIDS for the recipe. But I’d use a condom, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I say. “Who was the girl?”
“Some chick just off the bus. She saw Johnny and she got back on the bus. She figured it would just be easier to grind on some dick in a Topeka strip club. Too bad, she had an ass that just begged to be fucked.”
I ignore the idea that an ass can beg for anything and ask, “So you have a theory?”
“No, but I have a motive.”
“Shoot.”
“Don’t say that when a man has his dick in his hand,” he says. “That’s just some friendly professional advice.”
“Thanks.”
“The lifestyle killed him,” he says. “Live by the pork-sword, die by the pork-sword.”
“You mean battle-ax.”
“Exactly,” he says, zipping himself up and leaving me alone on the balcony.
Chapter 21: Pissed off
December 28, 2011
Booty and B Money are heading for Jerry’s because one girl wants a burger, another wants French toast, and the third woman doesn’t know it’s a bad idea to order a quesadilla at a Jewish deli. But as Booty points out, this is the Valley, and there aren’t a lot of food options after midnight. I decline the invite, hoping that Miles left some pizza in the fridge.
As I round the corner onto a dark side street, I find myself mulling over Bobby Beauchamp’s cryptic remark. As far as I can tell, both the pornographer and his lawyer were living the same lifestyle. The idea that a lifestyle could be responsible for Toxic’s death is as enchanting as Rachel’s coy demeanor. He was living the life and it killed him—that’s a perfect kind of irony. It’s exactly the kind of bullshit story a magazine would suck down with glee and pay top dollar for. Trouble is, I’m not sure what lifestyle even means. The concept is as opaque and ethereal as the porn business, which feels more like a dysfunctional confederacy of outlaws and miscreants than a cohesive industry.
I reach for the keys in my pocket and press the unlock button because I’m not quite sure where my car is. I scan the block, but don’t see any lights. I turn around, planning to double back, but I hear a voice.
“Get your chicken-shit ass in the car.”
It’s dark and my first instinct is to run, but the driver opens the passenger door, which triggers the dome light.
Boyd raises his hand and waves me over.
“Detective,” I say, stepping next to the car. “What can I do for you?”
“You can get the fuck in the car and cool it with the questions, Heywood.”
I slide into the front seat, catching a whiff of urine as I duck my head under the roof.
“Why does your car smell like piss?”
“Because some asshole pissed on it, and when I catch the motherfucker, I’m going to crap in his mouth.”
“That sounds a little extreme.”
“You’re right. I’ll just break his jaw.”
Chapter 22: That’s what a hamburger is all about
Drunk hipster wannabes and sad-sack losers make up the late night In-N-Out clientele near Mary Jane’s West Valley condo. Inside it’s warm and the sweet smell of grilled onions and sizzling beef fills the air.
“This place is too clean,” Boyd says as he slides into a red-and-white booth.
“It’s supposed to be clean,” I say. “They’re a wholesome company.”
I hold up my cup and point to the religious text on the bottom, but Boyd looks confused, like he’s the only local who hasn’t heard about In-N-Out’s piety.
“They’re Christian,” I say, assuming, of course, that a corporation is capable of religiosity.
“Weird place for you porn people to eat,” he says.
“Doesn’t everybody eat here?”
“Shit no! The only locals who eat here are kids too young to know any better and SFV white-trash dudes who think Oakleys and Stussy make them upwardly mobile.”
“Where do you eat?”
“Finally, a good question,” he says. “Maybe you got some reporter skills after all, Heywood.”
A voice calls out our number and Boyd gets up, his hand telling me to stay put.
A second later, Boyd is back with one Double-Double and an order of fries, no ketchup. He puts the food down and slides into the booth next to me, his arm around my shoulders. I want to eat, but I can’t, not with Boyd so close.
“I’m an Astro Burger man,” Boyd says. “They know what the fuck to do with it.”
I look to the kitchen where Mexican men and white college kids hustle, apparently without knowing what the fuck to do with it.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Boyd asks.
“What about you?”
Boyd leans in. Without speaking a word, I gather his meaning. He really hates it when people answer questions with questions.
“I’m hungry,” I say.
“Of course you are,” he says. “I can smell the OG Pussy Kush on your breath. Back when I was a rookie, I would’ve taken you down on a reefer charge. You’d be trading your ass in county for protection, but things have changed.”
I’m not sure if Boyd can really detect the strain, or even if that was in fact the strain I was smoking. But when you smell like a Phish concert, it’s best not to engage an officer of the law in a frank discussion about marijuana use, even if things have changed. Such is the nature of the drug war in California’s hazy, gray political climate, where some stoners go to jail and others go for In-N-Out.
I unwrap the burger, careful not to bump into Boyd, who clearly doesn’t suffer from the same personal space issues that plague me. He looks at me, and I look at him.
It’s like a Mexican standoff over a Double-Double.
Boyd doesn’t flinch.
I take a bite. The hot grease and Thousand Island dressing hits every flavor button at once. Normally, I’d power through and polish off the Double-Double in a half-dozen bites, but Boyd makes me nervous. So I put the burger down and sip at a milkshake that’s too thick to come up the straw.
“Is this where those porno chicks learn to suck?” Boyd asks, watching me struggle with amusement.
“No, I think they’re pretty experienced before they become porn stars.”
“Taking one in the pink and one in the stink doesn’t make you a porn star,” Boyd says. “Jesus, even the whores think they’re famous in LA.”
I try my milkshake again. The straw is clogged, a harbinger
of the arterial hardening that is the logical result of making In-N-Out your go-to lunch spot. Perhaps, I think, the porn lifestyle is more dangerous than I initially realized.
“See, if they knew what the fuck they were doing, that shit-shake would be drinkable,” Boyd says. “You can’t just put chocolate ice cream in a cup, quote the Bible, and call it a milkshake.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“What does that mean? Fair enough.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Why are you nervous?”
I look at Boyd as if it’s obvious. But for all I know, he spends most Friday nights on munchie runs, driving stoned reporters around the Valley.
“You said this was a strange place for porn people to eat,” I say.
“You don’t miss much,” Boyd says, reaching for a handful of fries.
“How’d you know we eat here?”
Boyd jams the handful of fries into his mouth and wipes his greasy hand on my thigh. Before I can protest, he reaches into my pocket and pulls out my iPhone.
“You check in here constantly,” Boyd says. “Don’t look so surprised, cops know about social media.”
“You’re following me?”
“Get the fuck over yourself. Don’t you know that you’re supposed to adjust your privacy settings, if you don’t want people to know what you had for lunch every day this week?”
“But why me?”
“It’s not about you,” he says. “I’m investigating a homicide. You were one of the last people to speak to the victim, and the first one to report on the case.”
I smile a little. The scoop feels good.
“Don’t smile, Heywood,” Boyd says. “TMZ linked to your story. The Weekly is sniffing around. Shit, at some point even those clueless assholes at the LA Times will figure out that somebody snuffed out a pornographer with a battle-ax.”
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