by M. Z. Kelly
“Shit. Why can’t I for once have a good hair day?” I caught Bernie’s reflection. “Is that too much to ask?” He was probably not the best guy for hair advice. My dog is a follicle free-for-all.
Yamashiro’s was located in the Hollywood Hills above Grauman’s. Because it was on a bluff, it offered great views. To the south was the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel built in the 1920s—Marilyn’s haunt. I’m not sure why the ghost of the dead actress chose the Rosie. Farther west was Rodeo Drive. 90210 meant Fendi, Hermes, Versace. Eastward, the noonday sun lit up the Hollywood sign.
As I walked toward the restaurant entrance, I caught sight of myself in the windows. I’d tried on three outfits that morning, settled on a chestnut suede leather blazer, matching calf-length skirt, and tall suede boots.
A slow exhale and my shoulders sagged. Wrong choice. Dressing to impress is one thing. Dressing for your mother and disapproving little sister is another.
“The dog is not permitted,” the maître d announced as we entered.
I pointed to the collar badge, showed my credentials. After a whispered discussion, we were allowed entry. Not the first time I’d done battle over my partner’s pedigree.
I was shown to the table where my sister, Amanda, was already seated. We exchanged hugs, air kisses, fake smiles.
I took in my sister’s pale blue Moschino suit with polished silver buttons. Gray leather pumps and a matching Gucci handbag perfectly coordinated the perfectly expensive ensemble. A three-hundred dollar haircut and what was probably a recent facial completed the look. Amanda, two years my junior, came across like something out of Vogue. I looked like a Wal-Mart ad.
“You look divine,” Amanda lied as we eased down, my back to the wall. It’s a cop thing. Keep the crowd in view. Nice place. White china. Linen and flowers. Koi ponds and gardens.
I reciprocated the compliment and asked, “Where’s Mother? Don’t tell me she’s late?” A family joke. Mom’s always late.
“She texted me a minute ago. Stuck in traffic.”
I gave Bernie the hand signal to settle in the corner. It was apparently Amanda’s signal to criticize. “I see you’re still traveling with the hairball.”
“Speaking of hairballs, how’s my worthless brother-in-law?” Okay, I didn’t say it exactly that way. I’d mustered all my tact, left out a few key words.
“Geoff’s in London again, meeting with the attorneys. We’re about to close on another apartment complex. Just another mega-deal.”
Mega-bullshit. Geoffrey Keating had spent the better part of this century squandering his inheritance. Of course, keeping your spouse in Versace and Cartier and vacationing in Aspen and Nice pinched the budget.
We glanced at menus and ordered drinks—water for me, a Juniper Crush for Amanda. My sister then played the sympathy card, “I was devastated to hear about you and Doug. He’s such an outstanding person—one of a kind. I’m so sorry it didn’t work out.”
One of a kind asshole. Why was Amanda the only person in my family who got along with my ex? Maybe assholes had some kind of weird magnetic force—anal attraction?
“Is the divorce final?” Amanda asked.
“Single, almost a year.”
My sister brought out a verbal match and held it to my impulse control fuse. “Too bad. Don’t supposed there’s anyone on the horizon?”
I was about to say, why would you suppose that? when our mother blew out the match. “Sorry I’m late,” Mom said, arriving at our table. “I had an appointment with Dr. Rasheed.”
My mother, or Miss Daisy, as she prefers to be called lately, wore a beltless purple and red safari skirt and Birkenstocks—think Hollywood meets Woodstock. At five feet six, Mom’s three inches shorter than me. Her brown, sometimes frizzy, hair was fading to gray. I sighed. My future?
After more air kisses, Mom turned to Amanda. “Did you tell her yet?”
The server arrived. We ordered: a sashimi salad for me; house rolls, consisting of something called a reclining Buddha for Amanda, and roasted shishito for Mom.
“Mom’s having a little work done,” Amanda said, ending the suspense.
“What?” Our mother routinely disapproved of surgery to alter what she called, “gifts of the great spirit.” She proved the point by seldom wearing makeup.
Mom’s cheeks reddened. A giggle. “A little minor facial sculpting here and there. It’s really just a tune up.”
“Mom’s worried about her appearance,” Amanda explained. “She’s starring in one of her performance art pieces. It’s a New Year’s Eve exhibition.”
“I’m going to be nude,” Mother said, her voice lowering.
“Spare me the details,” I said. “I don’t want to have to arrest my own mother for being nude in public.”
“Not to worry, dear. It’s going to be in New York in Central Park. We’re spelling out PIECE ON EARTH. I get to be the letter A.”
My mother—the human letter A. Help me, great spirit!
Mom went on about her upcoming performance before changing the subject, “I’m sponsoring an actor’s workshop on the Westside. I’m looking for anyone who might be interested in acting and thought about Natalie.”
“I’ll mention it to her. Natalie’s always up for a new challenge.”
After lunch was served, we discussed nude art, skiing in the Alps, and local celebrity sightings, before I got down to business. “Robin and Clark are engaged. They’re planning to marry next spring. They’d like you both to attend.”
“Wonderful,” Mom said, smiling and turning to Amanda. Instead of a reclining Buddha, my sister looked like she’d swallowed a mouthful of tacks.
Amanda said, “My brother is planning on marrying another man. Let’s see, does that make him the bride?”
I didn’t respond. Mother took up the cause, telling my sister that she thought Robin and Clark made a good match, before she went down in flames.
“I’m sure Geoffrey and I will be out of the country,” Amanda went on. “We will be springing in Southern France.”
Springing? I’ve heard of wintering, but springing? “Robin wants you there for support, Amanda. Being there doesn’t mean you’re giving your approval to anything. It’s about showing your love and respect for our brother.”
“I’ll be unable to attend.” Amanda grimaced. “I have no desire to watch two men kiss in public.”
I tried one more time. “This is a matter of lending emotional support, not your personal desires or opinion.”
The grimace became a snarl. “Robin needs psychiatric help.”
My impulse control cork blew. “If anyone needs a psychiatrist it’s you!”
Amanda’s face contorted until she looked like Bernie before he bites. “I’m not the one who’s in divorce court and living with a dog above an appliance store.”
Like a credit card, my sister had just maxed out her verbal spending limit.
“No, you’re married to an idiotic little asshole who won’t be happy until he’s spent the last nickel he inherited. You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life. And you’re a bigoted, egotistical bore, just like your husband.”
Amanda tossed her napkin onto the table. “I don’t have to take this shit,” she huffed, then flounced out of the restaurant.
I was upset. I must have been out of my mind. What was I thinking? I’d let my sister leave without paying her share of the bill.
Mother and I settled the tab as she tried to excuse Amanda’s outburst.
On the way to our cars, Mom said, “I’ve been having these dreams about the president, Kate.” She smiled up at me, her frizzy gray-and-brown hair swirling in the afternoon breeze. “We’ve been having sex.”
“I think he’s married, Mom.”
“No. I’m talking about one of the dead presidents.”
“Sorry. I’ve had a trying week. I’m not up for a necrophilia discussion.”
“You don’t understand…”
“Gotta run. Call you later.”
Bernie and I sprinted for Olive. My sister was a bigoted, intolerant snob. My mother was a nudist psychic, who dreamt of having sex with the dead.
I wondered if there was a state where you could put your family up for adoption.
Chapter Thirteen
As Pearl and I headed down the canyon, Olive began to lurch and backfire. “Damn, this is all I need.” I’d taken off work early after my lunch disaster and picked up the retired detective. We were headed to something called Excite Entertainment where Pearl learned Roger Diamond had worked. We planned to meet Natalie there. I hoped my snoop sister wouldn’t be dressed as a porn star.
“Rough day?” Pearl asked.
Bernie was in the backseat, lapping air.
“Had lunch with my mom and sister today. Amanda and I have issues, as in a gay brother she doesn’t approve of.”
“Have an older brother in Cleveland. Don’t talk much anymore. Funny how you can grow up with someone and then grow apart over the years.”
As we hit the freeway, Olive’s engine leveled out. I was grateful for small favors.
“Bobby and I used to be inseparable as kids,” Pearl went on. “Course, if you’ve got a kid brother named Pearl, you’re gonna take a few lumps sticking up for him.”
“I just assumed your nickname was because of your silver hair.”
Pearl smiled, exposing the gap in his front teeth. “My given name is Paul Earl. Somewhere over the years my mother decided to combine the P in Paul with Earl. When I was a kid I hated it.”
“Seems to fit you.”
“I’ve settled with my fate. But it’s like most things in life, it takes a few years and a little perspective to accept the hand that’s been dealt. Maybe in time your sister will be able to see things in a different light.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
He smiled. “You remind me of your dad.”
It took a moment to register. “You…you knew my father?”
A nod. We were in rush hour traffic, stop and go now. “We attended a few training classes together, chatted a couple of times. Your dad was a good cop. Tried to do the right thing, even when other people didn’t.” His gaze came over in my direction. “You both have that in common. Something to keep in mind.”
My eyes misted. “Thank you for saying that.”
We spent the better part of an hour in traffic before reaching Excite Entertainment Studios in an industrial area of Van Nuys. As I parked Olive, I saw Natalie waving to us. Thank God she had all her clothes on.
“Hello, fellow snoopers,” Natalie said when we met up with her in the parking lot. I let Bernie stretch and sniff the flowers in the median. Natalie was eager to tell me, “While I was waiting I got an offer to be in a movie.”
Why wasn’t I surprised? Even in her halter top and jeans, my friend was stunning.
“I hope you didn’t accept, Natalie. You do know what kind of movies they make here?”
“Not to worry. It’s all on the up and up. I’m going to be in somethin’ called, Holiday Stewardess. Might even get to fly the plane. The script says it’s gonna have some mechanical problems and I gotta use me bra to keep the autopilot working.”
“What? Natalie you can’t do this.”
She gave me an impish grin. “I was just taking the mickey with ya. Don’t worry. Not ‘bout to ride some moose’s pink cigar for a little loot. I’ve got me standards.” She bent down and hugged Bernie who wagged his appreciation.
I stifled a grin. “Speaking of movies, I took a look at the DVD’s I borrowed from Roger Diamond’s house last night. He secretly videotaped himself having sex with different women.”
“Was Cassie Reynolds on any of the tapes?” Pearl asked.
I said no before securing Bernie back in Olive. I updated them on the Diamond investigation as we walked to the porn studio.
“Word has it the case is already cold. Crime scene was pretty clean. They’re questioning Diamond’s ex-wife and girlfriends, but don’t have a serious suspect.”
We stopped at the studio entrance. Pearl said, “My sources tell me Diamond was a player, used people for his own purposes.”
“So why are we here?” Natalie asked. “Do you think we’ll see some actors in the studio? Always wondered how you can lay around and let somebody dab the donut with a camera in your face.”
Pearl smiled, mouth closed. He then said to Natalie, “Most detectives follow the blood trail. But we’re here on the money trail.” Pearl looked over at me. “Are you sure you want to do this? Wouldn’t want the department causing you any more headaches.”
“Let’s hope they’re busy with the blood trail,” I said, opening the front door of Excite Entertainment. I lowered my voice. “I’ll just try to blend in; let you take the lead.”
We were greeted by a pale, overweight receptionist named Sandra. Pearl covered up the word retired as he flashed his badge. “We have an appointment with Monica Benson.”
Sandra barely made eye contact, pressed her intercom.
We spent ten minutes in an office full of awards that looked like Oscars for porn before the CEO of Excite Entertainment arrived. Monica Benson appeared to be in her early sixties. She was nervous, drumming her manicured red nails on the table as we sat down.
Pearl explained why we were there. He referenced Natalie and me as associates without giving our names. “As I mentioned when I called, Ms. Benson, we’re looking into the death of Roger Diamond. I understand he was on the production staff here.”
More finger taps. Benson’s thin blonde hair and painted brows framed a long serious face. The CEO didn’t fit my mental image of someone who ran an X-rated movie studio. She wasn’t bald and smoking a cigar.
“Have you ever considered acting?” Benson’s eyes fixed on Natalie, ignoring Pearl. “With your innocent looks you could make a small fortune.”
“Thanks, but I already got me a sugar daddy,” Natalie said. “Far as acting goes, sometimes Clyde has me dress up and…”
I coughed. Natalie went mute, her head slumped.
“Too bad.” Benson swung her gaze over to Pearl. “Let me help you understand something and make it perfectly clear, Mr. Kramer. Roger Diamond was a contractor. He had no business relationship with our studio. He was an independent operator who used our facilities for a fee.”
If Benson’s condescending tone bothered Pearl, he didn’t show it. “Nevertheless, from what I’ve learned, not only were the Excite Entertainment Studios used in the making of his films, your production crews were also involved.”
“Merely a financial arrangement. We provide prepackaged services for a number of projects, but, as I stated, it’s always on a contractual basis. We have our own company that produces films independently for our own purposes. Mr. Diamond had no direct connection to Excite.”
“Ms. Benson, it’s my turn to make something perfectly clear.” Pearl pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket and put on his reading glasses. “Black on Velvet, Heaven Scent, Married White Female.” He looked over the top of his glasses. “I could go on. Just a few of Mr. Diamond’s films, all made in partnership with your company.”
“As I indicated, all the films Mr. Diamond worked on were independent productions. I think I’ve heard about…”
“Do the names Blue Star Productions and First World Entertainment ring a bell?”
Benson pushed back in her chair; lit a long thin cigarette. A cloud of smoke swirled around her long, thin face. “Where are you going with this, Detective?”
Pearl folded the paper and reading glasses. “Not to the feds, if you cooperate. All I want is information. I’m not interested in initiating an audit of your company’s records.”
“Are you insinuating there’s been something illegal?”
Pearl’s already sonorous voice lowered. “Ms. Benson you and I know that if the feds decide to audit this company, as with any audit, there will be issues regarding financial arrangements. I certainly wouldn’t want to stir anything up; make thing
s difficult for you.”
Benson blew a stream of smoke into the air. “Of course not.”
“I’m merely here to find out about Mr. Diamond’s partnership arrangements. I know that Blue Star and First World are major players in the production of X-rated films. There was a relationship between Roger Diamond and Excite Entertainment, regardless of how you want to frame it. I want to know who the money was behind those companies. Once I have that information you’ll never see me again.”
Benson rose, walked to the window. She separated the blinds. The setting sun filtered in, motes of cigarette smoke drifted through the air. She turned back to Pearl.
“What I’m going to tell you is mostly a matter of public record. With some digging you would be able to find it out eventually.” She came back to the table and sat down. “Blue Star and First World are subsidiaries of Harper International Productions.”
Pearl glanced at me, then back at Benson. “Are you referring to Harper International, as in the Conrad Harper, Ms. Benson?”
She took a heavy pull on her cigarette and nodded.
I finally spoke up at the realization of what she was saying, “Conrad Harper is one of the major movie producers in Hollywood. Are you telling us Roger Diamond and Conrad Harper were partners in the production of adult films?”
“Yes.”
Natalie turned to me. She looked like a schoolgirl who’d accidently walked into the boy’s gym. “Bloody mother of Johnny Holmes!”
We all looked at Natalie. She became small, twisted her hands in her lap. “Clyde has this movie collection. Saw him once. The guy had a plonker the size of a fire hose.”
The tension broke when Monica Benson laughed, exposing large nicotine-stained teeth that reminded me of an old television show about a talking horse. She regained her composure and began to lecture us.
“The X-rated film industry is a multi-million dollar business. Some of the largest companies in America, including banking and insurance corporations, are involved in the productions. They all operate under the cover of subsidiary corporations created to conceal the identity of the parent companies.” More horse teeth; smoke. “Most people don’t want to believe companies that claim to be red, white, and blue, are in the business of paying America’s sons and daughters to fuck their brains out.”
