“I owe you, Dwayne,” I said. Dwayne shrugged.
“I’d say pay it forward, brah, but I know better. I’d get out of town if you can, Ballard. MS-13 is pissed about what went down at their crib and you whacking Francisco and Demir. You got every fucking mara in L.A. looking for you. Those guys were a valuable commodity in their business. If they get a whiff of you, they will rain down on you hard.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m hoping I can finish this bit of business up quick and be on my merry way.”
“May not be that easy,” Dwayne said. “She’s missed you and she wants to keep you here as long as she can.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The city,” he said. “She thinks you two belong together. She wants to hook back up with you like in the old days, wants to finish what you two started. Says you owe her something. Watch yourself, man. She’s crushing hard.”
I knew what this bitch of a town wanted from me, and I was half-tempted to give it to her. We had made promises to each other, vows, and I had broken mine—big surprise there. Who knows, before this was over, maybe I’d make good on my word and give L.A. what I owed her. Dwayne said he’d give me a heads-up if he heard of any badness headed my way on the gang, or citygeist, front. I tried to pet Gretchen good-bye; she growled, snorted, and padded away.
It was two hours before Grinner found me downstairs at the bar. I was on my third whiskey and “A Sorta Fairytale” by Tori Amos was playing over the hum of the client hive. Anna kept me company for a time.
“I recall when you first came here,” Anna said, her elbow on the bar, watching me drink. It should be an Olympic sport. “You got so frustrated you couldn’t find that silly drink anywhere.”
“Cheerwine,” I said, sipping my drink, “and it’s still hard as hell to find in some places. Besides, it’s not silly, it is a powerful elixir of all things good and pure.”
“No wonder it’s hard to find,” she said. We were quiet for a moment, letting the music and the conversations around us fill the gap. Most of the men and women in the room were watching Anna, wanting her, or wishing they were her. I knew she felt the attention. She was one of the most hyper-aware people I’d ever met; she could read the energies in a room without any supernatural abilities. She also presented as very comfortable in her own skin, and, for the most part, that was true. Anna had fought more demons than I, all in her head, and had conquered many of them and made strict bargains with the ones that she couldn’t. Just being near her, she radiated wellness, life.
“You used to drink a lot less,” she said. “Up until things got bad, near the end. You ever think about quitting it?”
“Yeah,” I said, gesturing to one of the bartenders to hit me again. “I do pretty good for a while, then I run into something that shakes me up, reminds me of what a fuck-up I am, and I fall down. No big.”
“Do you remember when we used to meditate together? The yoga? That could help.”
“Why do you care?” I asked.
“You know why I do personally,” she said, standing. “I love you, no matter how hard you make it to do that. I also hate to see potential go to waste. It offends me.”
“That should be my epitaph,” I said. She sighed and looked at me with those bright soul-stones she called eyes.
“I have an appointment,” she said. “Some music industry mogul that needs his ass minced into hamburger meat. To be continued.” Anna walked away and the whole world watched her, me included. The music had shifted to “Cold Desert” by Kings of Leon by the time Grinner took Anna’s seat and ordered a club soda. He’d had his blue AA chip for several years now.
“I found her,” he said.
“I thought you said an hour,” I said with a grin.
“Fuck you,” he said. “The attack took forty-eight minutes to crack that ugly bitch. The rest of the time was gift wrap for your sorry, ungrateful ass. I put training wheels on this, so even you can’t screw this up. Cheers, asshole.”
We clinked glasses and drank. Grinner nodded toward the elevator. “Come on.”
Upstairs, in an empty office Anna had instructed Grinner to use, he sat down behind the most heavily modded laptop on the planet. I stood behind him. “Here she is,” he said and clicked the mouse. An image appeared on the screen of a beautiful young woman, a few years older than the photo Dree had given me, with longer platinum-blond hair, blue eyes that seemed to burn out of the screen, and a wistful, sad expression that was eons away from the girl laughing beside her best friend at a concert.
“She’s using the name Karen Anew,” Grinner said. He clicked on a file icon, and an MP5 clip began to play. It was a clip from a porn movie called, in a flash of cinematic brilliance, Myth-Bust-Hers. The star of this tale of four guys trying in a very unconventional way to pay for their pizza was Caern, or “Karen,” if you prefer, in a pair of thigh-high, rainbow-striped socks and nothing else. “Her stage name is Crystal Myth,” he added.
I sighed. That minuscule, gnawed-on section of my insides that hadn’t turned to oily, black water had hoped the trail wouldn’t end up here. The majority of me that swam in that oily water knew better, knew it would. “Well, shit,” I said. Grinner closed the video clip.
“Yeah,” he said, “It’s a goddamned shame. ‘Crystal Myth’ has been huge in the adult entertainment biz for almost five years out here. She’s been in over four hundred films, been nominated for a ton of industry awards, if you can believe it.”
“Sadly, I can,” I said. “A faerie princess doing porn. I’m sure that’s a draw.”
“Well, at least you know she’s still in L.A., and now you know where to start looking for her,” Grinner said.
“Yeah,” I said, “unfortunately, I do.”
FOURTEEN
Most of my connections in the porn industry had faded, gone legit, or died, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Meat abided. “Meat” was born Christian Norlender. He was six foot seven, around two hundred pounds, blond with blue eyes like a Viking surfer, and endowed with one of the most infamous penises in the shadowy history of the industry.
Meat had worked with everyone in the biz. He was just coming up when I had met him in the nineties; by the end of the decade, he was a certified porn legend and one of the most recognized male talents around. Everyone in porn had a Meat story or two to tell, and Meat knew everyone else’s stories too.
Only a select few knew that Meat’s “endowment” was truly divine in more ways than one. He was the offspring of Priapus, a C-list, country-fried, slumming Greek fertility god who had been summoned up in L.A. during the Summer of Love by some hippie wannabe tantric magi. Priapus was the closest thing the Greeks had to a god of pornography, and there are still small, secret cults connected to the adult entertainment industry that practice rites to him in New York, L.A., Mexico City, Eastern Europe, and a few other places. His shrines are the peep-show booths with sticky floors.
We all know how great Greek gods were at keeping it in their pants, right? Well old Priapus literally couldn’t; there weren’t pants stretchy enough. In true Dirk Diggler fashion, the god was cursed with impotence, but the advent of cocaine injections and later, little blue pills from mortal medicine helped him enough with his problem to work in the adult entertainment field for decades under the cunning alias, Dick Knight. Mankind’s chemical magic also provided an opportunity for the god to impregnate Meat’s mom, a corn-fed USC undergrad by way of Kansas who was paying for college by stripping and the occasional porn shoot.
Old Priapus disappeared around the time AIDS started decimating the porn industry, perhaps no longer getting what he needed to stay corporeal. Some say Dickie Knight is still around and is a leather-skinned, dirty-Hawaiian-shirt-wearing old man who produces porn in Florida these days. The skin trade has as much mythology to it as Bullfinch.
Meat grew up in L.A. in as good a middle-class lifestyle as his dear mom could provide. Given his looks, his endowment, and his pedigree, he eventually was pulled into the g
ravity of the very insular porn world, where things like legacy can give you the keys to the kingdom. Meat did his first movie at sixteen, which was almost as big a secret as his divine blood.
These days, Meat’s income came from being a ’Roid Warrior, a dealer in all manner of anabolic cocktails to the wealthy and vain gym rats of greater Los Angeles. He still dabbled in the adult entertainment industry as a sometimes-producer, and on rare occasions, talent.
Vigil was now my official rock-faced shadow. I drove the Trevita toward the gym where, according to Dwayne and Dragon, he was conducting most of his business these days.
“If I get jumped by a gang of leprechauns dressed like droogs, or something of that ilk,” Vigil said, “I’m shooting you in the face first thing.”
“Then by all means let’s avoid Hollywood and Vine,” I said. “I’m too pretty to die.”
“Clearly,” he said.
We caught up to Meat on his sales route. This stop was at a chain gym on Hollywood Boulevard that I recalled having a really sketchy reputation. Meat was doing dumbbell curls with a gentleman who wore numerous gold chains in spite of having no discernible neck. The walking man-wedge possessed a torso that was the size of a frozen side of beef and a small, pinched, red face under the awning of a salt-and-pepper crew cut.
“Okay, Dutch, give me three more, come on, bro-mato!” Meat bellowed inches from the face of the human tunnel support. The guy’s face was twisted up in struggle and anger. It reminded me of a clenched fist. “Dutch,” or “bro-mato,” if you prefer, roared as he struggled through the last three reps of the set and dropped the dumbbells with a loud crash, making sure everyone else in the gym was made fully aware of his accomplishment. I thought of golf-clapping, but when I saw the slow head-shake of disgust coming from Vigil at the atrocious gym etiquette, I let it go.
“Meat,” I said over the rumble of testosterone thunder, “hey man.” Meat’s eyes widened with recognition and he lumbered over to me, scooping me up off the floor and giving me a big bear hug. The parts of me that were still a little ouchy protested, but I told them to shut the hell up.
“Ballard!” Meat shouted in my ear. “Ho-ly shit, man! How are you?” I patted his back and hugged him back as best I could. For a moment, I felt like Bugs Bunny in that old cartoon with the abominable snowman. Meat sat me down, and I nodded to Vigil.
“Meat, this is Burris; he’s cool. Sorry to barge in on y’all during business hours, but I could use your help.” Meat and Vigil fist-bumped, and Meat gave a thumbs-up to Dutch. Dutch nodded.
“See you next week, bro,” Dutch rumbled. Meat scooped up his gym bag and slid his dark blue Vans hoodie on over his tank top. I saw the flash of a small pistol butt in Meat’s hoodie pocket, and I knew Vigil had too, adding it to the violent equations he had running constantly in his skull. We followed Meat through the maze of free-weight stations and machines, weaving between beautiful people in five-hundred-dollar workout clothes with perfect hair and makeup, and old-school gym rats in tattered boxing trunks and cutoff T-shirts soaked in sweat. The music thudding through the gym’s sound system, “Pray to God,” by Calvin Harris and Haim, was at a volume so loud you couldn’t hear yourself sweat. Meat stopped several times to hug someone or to take a quick order whispered in his ear. The blond giant would nod, smile, and keep moving. Once we hit the doors and made our way to the parking lot behind the gym, Meat glanced back at me.
“You don’t look like a total loss, Ballard,” Meat said, inspecting me. “Looking pretty good. You still work out?”
Vigil gave me an odd look and then replied, “He’s kept up on his forty-ounce curls.” Meat laughed.
“Not in a while,” I said, giving Vigil a mock silent laugh. “Life tends to give me plenty of cardio.”
We reached Meat’s car, a fire-engine-red 2016 Mustang with white stripes. His nickname was proudly proclaimed on the tags. He put the gym bag in the trunk and then turned and leaned on the back of his ride. “What you need, Ballard? I owe you big, man.”
“We’re looking for someone in the biz,” I said. “She works under the name Crystal Myth. You know her?”
Meat nodded as soon as I said the name. “Yeah, yeah, Crystal, yeah, I’ve heard of her. That’s the only name I think anyone knows her by, though.”
“We know who she really is,” Vigil said. “We’re trying to find her.”
“I know folks who’ve worked with her,” Meat said. “She was working everywhere, for everyone, up until a few years ago, then she, y’know, kinda faded … the way a lot of folks do in the business. But she dropped off the ride at, like, the top of her game. She was making serious bank, man.”
“Who for?” I asked.
“Far as I know, she never had an agent,” Meat said. “She had a boyfriend, some producer that was looking out for her. I’m trying to remember the guy’s name—”
“It’s important,” Vigil said, interrupting. “We can make it worth your while.” Meat looked at Vigil with the demeanor of a deer in headlights, mashed up with the suspicious scan reserved for street predators and undercover cops. He glanced over to me for confirmation again that this guy was cool. I nodded.
“It’s okay, Meat,” I said. “Do me a solid and ask around a bit; see if you can shake loose some names for me. There is a finder’s fee involved. I’d like you to get it, man.”
“Yeah, sure, Ballard,” Meat said. “I can tell you this: Crystal wasn’t just working the teenybopper circuit. Before she dropped, she was doing the sick shit—gonzo, shaky-cam, semi legal stuff—simulated snuff and rape, extreme fetish—even grotto. She swam out to the deep end, bro.”
“Wait,” Vigil said. “Grotto? Porn with actual supernatural beings in it? That’s a real thing? I thought that was all bullshit.” Again, Meat gave him an incredulous look and shook his head.
“Yeah, right,” Meat said. “First time in the big city?” He looked back to me. “I know she worked one of the Weathermen’s parties a couple of years back. They might be able to help you.”
“Fat chance, but I’ll look them up anyway. Is the Iron Cauldron still in business?” I asked. Meat nodded and grinned.
“Yeah, it’s in Westmont right now, a couple of blocks west of Century and Vermont. You fucking owls are still trying to shut it down. You can’t catch what you can’t find.”
“Owls?” Vigil asked.
“The Nightwise,” I said. I was getting a little irritated with him now. “Dirty Fifi still run the Cauldron?” Meat shook his head.
“Naw, they did the ‘saw a man in half’ trick with Fifi back a few years ago, but they didn’t bother to put him back together. It’s Roland Blue’s place now.”
“Shit,” I said. Meat nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, “your favorite soul-challenged L.A. Mobster. I hear you and Dragon gave him hell back when he was coming up, working muscle for the Golem Father.”
“Son of a bitch is crazy, and that’s coming from me,” I said. “He enjoyed his work for Saul a little too much. But I’m pretty sure he’d rather rip me off for information than kill me.”
“Hope is a beautiful thing, Ballard,” Meat said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Dare to dream, but watch your ass and the officer’s here too, man.” Vigil bristled at the remark but said nothing. “I’ll put out some feelers and see what I can dig up on Crystal for you.” I gave him my number and like any professional street criminal he didn’t need to put it in his phone or keep it on paper. Meat snapped his fingers as he was opening the door to his Mustang. “Oh, shit!” he said as he slid into the car’s seat, “I just remembered, Elextra used to be Crystal’s roommate!”
“Elextra?” I asked.
“Elextra Dare,” Meat said. “Talent. She’s on her way up these days. She’s not in the Life, but Lexie and Crystal were besties back before Crystal took off. She’s one of George Wilde’s girls.” Meat named a few clubs where we could probably find Elextra and her manager partying. I slid him several hundred dollars as he clasped my hand. �
�Talk soon, man. Good to see you, Ballard.”
We walked back to the Trevita. I glared at Vigil, and he looked back at me.
“What?” he asked.
“That,” I said, jerking my thumb in the direction of the gym, “is why I need to do this alone. You were freaking him out back there. He almost bailed on us a couple of times because of you.”
“Look,” Vigil said, “first of all, the last time you went out on your own, I had to jump in to save your drugged-up, drunken, arrogant ass because you don’t think, you react, and second, I do not read like a cop, okay?” He stood on one side of the sports car and I on the other. We each leaned on the roof, regarding the other. “It’s not my fault that your sketch-ass contact got hinky.”
“Of course he fucking did!” I said. “He is sketch! You read like someone who doesn’t hang out with sketch-ass people.” I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “You are a damn knight of the houses of the Shining Lands. You don’t normally traffic with pornographers, lowlifes, and drug dealers, except for your boss, of course. You come off like a tourist, a cop, or the hand of wrath for some angry Mafia god, and it shows.”
“Good!” he said. “I worked damn hard for a very long time to wash the stink of that life off of me.” He gestured toward my cigarette. I handed it to him across the roof and he took a long drag on it. He savored the smoke in his lungs like a fine wine, exhaled it, and passed it back to me. “I tossed out the code of the street, all that bullshit from the bangers, the junkies, the players, the whores. I built something for me, something that didn’t make me want to eat a gun or drink myself into a coma every night. I’m never going to apologize for being who I am.”
I nodded and took a long pull on the smoke. “Look, right now, we’re heading into the deepest parts of the pits you dragged yourself out of,” I said. “I am a hustler, a player, and probably the biggest whore you’ll ever meet. This is my backyard we’re walking through, not yours, not anymore. Ankou knew that. He knew he’d need a scumbag to find his little girl. You send someone like me down into the sewer, because it’s my home. Let me do my job. It’s a pretty awful job, but I’m the best at it. Let me do it.”
The Night Dahlia Page 19
