Undead L.A. 2

by Sagliani, Devan

  The phone rang and rang as she drove, but she didn't seem to hear it anymore. There was a dull throb behind her temples threatening to blossom into a full-blown migraine.

  ***

  Benjamin jammed on his brakes and swerved to the left without looking, narrowly avoiding slamming into the back of an older red Toyota Corolla that had cut him off with no warning, and dropping his cellphone in the process. He'd been distracted, reading a series of panic texts one of his clients was sending him about buying out their contract, not wanting to shoot any more scenes for fear of catching AIDS. He'd received several emails and texts like it over the last few days before the crisis had died down. United Testing Services had revealed just that morning that the spread was contained to three performers, one of which was a gay male actor, and that the quarantine was officially lifted, ending the production moratorium. Over the last few days the media had jumped in with both feet, plastering headlines about porn being brought to a standstill as an “outbreak” of HIV “brought the industry to its knees” on every newspaper and website, not to mention the hourly updates on nightly news. He'd gotten calls from the Huffington Post, the Los Angeles Times, and the LA Weekly every hour as well; all desperate for updates to keep the story going.

  The AIDS Healthcare Foundation used the infection as the perfect opportunity to harp on their condom legislation, holding their own press conference and inviting the media to speak to former porn stars who'd been infected with the disease—the vast majority also being gay men. The only trouble was, no one knew for sure whether or not the infections occurred on set during filming since there was no clear way to tell. To make matters worse, the “gay side” and the “straight side” of porn had been split for over a decade and lived by totally different rules. For one thing the gay side didn't use regular monthly testing for venereal diseases including HIV, since so many of their performers already had it and were being treated for it. Instead many of them chose to use condoms or worked out viral load details before the scene. The straight side of the business was fastidiously tested in a repetitive cycle to prevent the spread of any potential diseases, but every now and then… well… shit happened. Still it was way better than dating in the general public.

  “It's ironic,” Benjamin had told a reporter from the New York Times, “with all of the talent pool tested with the latest cutting edge technology every three weeks for venereal diseases ranging from gonorrhea to chlamydia your average porn star has far more to fear from the general public than they do from her. My girls are tested by PCR DNA, which can detect the presence of HIV up to a week after infection, not the standard ELISA test you get when you go to your doctor, which tests for antibodies in your system that might take as long as six months to develop. When you go out to a bar and hook up with a random stranger you're taking a huge risk since most people never get tested unless they notice a problem, and symptoms often don't manifest until well into an infection, or in some cases not at all.”

  Despite the sound nature of the argument, he'd received mostly incredulity from those outside the business he shared it with. No matter. He was used to not being well received, and it had never stopped him in the past. He'd fought his way up from being male talent in a cutthroat industry to the top of the food chain as the most powerful agent it had ever seen. He worked every day from the moment he got up to the moment he closed his eyes. Not that the multi-billion dollar smut machine hadn't given him his fair share, mind you. He had a gorgeous house in the Hollywood Hills where he took up residence, and another in Studio City where he put girls up when they came in from out of town. He'd nearly paid off the latter in full in less than three years by over charging them for rent. A car fanatic from an early age, he'd picked up a DB9, a Roush Cobra, and a jet black Rolls Royce Phantom with the curtains in the back windows instead of the traditional tinting that most people in Los Angeles opted for. He watched Lakers games from the floor of the Staples Center sitting courtside with the Kardashians, Justin Bieber, and even Jack Nicholson. Bringing his girls along guaranteed celebrities would approach him, the perfect introduction for his thriving not-so-secret escort agency. Not too bad for a guy who used to rob tourists visiting Piccadilly Circus, or let guys suck him off in the alley near the sex shop for a few pounds. America had been good to him.

  The day began with a long drive from his palatial home in the Hills out to Canoga Park, taking the Hollywood freeway to the 405 heading north. From there he passed the Anheuser-Busch Brewery in Van Nuys where they made Budweiser; the familiar smell of lingering hops in the air, reminding him of toasted corn flakes. He'd connected onto the 118, hooking up and over on a thin bridge that shot him up into the air over a tangle of interconnecting freeways, and deposited him moving west towards Porter Ranch. Despite his best efforts to ignore his fear of heights he always recalled the story he'd heard about a motorcycle cop dying instantly after flying off the end of the collapsed bridge in the foggy morning hours after the Northridge earthquake in 1994. He tried not to look, but always caught a glimpse of the green posted sign they'd put up when they fixed it, naming the stretch of highway the ‘Clarence Wayne Dean Memorial Interchange' in the dead man’s honor.

  Terrible way to go, Benjamin thought, free falling without warning to certain death. When my time comes I hope it is quick.

  When he reached Topanga Canyon, the last exit for the top of the San Fernando Valley before crossing over the Santa Susana Pass and sloping down into Simi Valley—the city that became synonymous with the Los Angeles riots after the Rodney King police beating not guilty verdict was announced there—he turned left. Winding down the hill he passed Stoney Point Park, an outcropping of rocks and trails popular with hikers. To his right was an equally rocky terrain dotted with big houses with large windows overlooking the rest of Chatsworth and as far off as the smog would permit. The 'shoot house' he was headed to was nestled there, near the hidden aqueducts, overlooking the water reserve. It had belonged at one point to a former one-hit-wonder band from the 70's, earning it the nickname the ‘Captain and Tennille House.’ Benjamin couldn't drive this stretch of road without also thinking of the Manson family murders, the darker downside of the flower power generation, since the 500-acre Spahn Movie Ranch that was used to film old Westerns was just a stones throw over the hill. The now mostly defunct ranch was originally made famous as the murderous clan’s primary residence during their reign of terror.

  Helter Skelter, Benjamin thought to himself.

  The last time he was at that location he'd simply been male talent, a stud for hire relying on a bottle of pills to keep him at full attention long enough to get the scene done. There were guys he knew who used to use the needle, shooting Caverject into the base of their penis before shooting a scene to keep their erection, but he was never one of them. Viagra and Cialis had changed all of that for good. Not that he had trouble getting or maintaining an erection under normal circumstances. That's what people didn't understand about porn. It wasn't about being aroused. It was about being rock hard and ready on a moment's notice to get the shot, no matter how many hours you'd been waiting to do your scene, or how long you'd been on set under those blazing hot lights. Back then it had been hot all the time and his shitty Honda Civic didn't have working air conditioning. Benjamin laughed to himself as he remembered that it had been at the tail end of July, during the sweltering Valley heat wave. The temperature gauge inside his jalopy had reached 112 degrees. He remembered because he took a picture of it with his iPhone and posted it on Facebook after the shoot was over. It was always hot during the summer in the Valley. He recalled praying for shoots in Malibu from June until the end of September, but rarely getting them.

  That's what my father used to call Murphy's Law, he thought, picturing him in his orange jump suit in the visitation room at the prison. He'd been fourteen at the time, and if he was being honest with himself he'd been particularly vulnerable at the time and in need of a father figure in his life. His mother would argue in hushed tones, hurling insu
lts at him in between complaints about their current state of affairs as the homeless family of a convicted murderer, despised and turned away by friends and family alike. Benjamin just sat quietly watching the smile on his fathers face grow as his mother got more and more wound up.

  It was as if he was happy he didn't have to come home to deal with her anymore, Benjamin mused, as if he was better off in prison than at home with us.

  When the time had come to end the visitation he'd blurted out the only question on his mind, the one that had been burning a hole in his chest ever since the judge had stolen his father out of their lives, the sound of the gavel ringing with finality.

  “Why are you leaving us? What did you do, Daddy? Why can't you just come home with us?”

  “Murphy's Law,” he'd said with a shrug, the guard pulling him away before he could explain himself further. It was the last time he'd gone to see his father. He had no idea if he was still in prison, if he was dead or alive, or if he'd found out yet about his new profession and all the wealth it brought.

  Then again, if he had known, he would have gotten in touch with me by now, Benjamin thought. He'd be asking for a handout for sure. I hope they never let him out. I hope he rots behind bars and dies there, sad and alone and filled with guilt at abandoning us.

  He pulled up into a shaded parking spot under a tree and shut the motor off. Benjamin had come to drop off one of his girl’s ID's, a task he normally relegated to one of his drivers, but it was a burden he took on in an attempt to meet a new girl he'd been hoping to poach from a rival agent. The girl, Jaymee Pink, had huge potential, but needed guidance and management that her current representation could never give her. Benjamin knew the people she'd need to work with to cut a path straight to the top of the business. He wasn't going to leave until he'd “accidentally bumped into her” and made his case. Instead, he found himself bumping into an annoying, short, bald 'suitcase pimp' intent on convincing Benjamin to sign his wife.

  The only thing guys like that are good for is carrying their wife's suitcase, Benjamin thought. That's how they got the nickname. And this one isn't even good for that.

  He'd seen it countless times since he’d started in the business: overly eager boyfriends and husbands of female porn performers who hung around set annoying everyone with their uselessness, and endlessly running their mouths off in-between takes. A 'suitcase pimp' was a curse on set, hanging around offering opinions on everything from what the next shot should be to the stud his wife should work with. Once he'd seen a hapless director allowing one to direct part of his wife's scene and even call out changes between sex positions. Benjamin despised them on principal. He'd never asked anyone for a handout and he couldn't understand how a grown man could stand around holding his wife's panties while other guys had sex with her, and not feel like a worthless loser.

  He'd been making a beeline for the director in the kitchen when Boris accosted him.

  “I've been trying to reach you about my wife joining your agency,” he said, his thick Russian accent making the words nearly impossible to understand. “But you haven't been returning my calls, bro.”

  Benjamin stared at him, gobsmacked by his gall and complete lack of shame. He couldn't have made it more obvious that he'd been blowing Boris and his wife off, but clearly not responding wasn't going to get the job done. The combination of his heavy-lidded eyes set against the soft folds of baby-like skin and big drooping ears made him look like a sinister version of one of Snow White’s seven dwarfs, more than a grown man.

  Yeah, Benjamin thought. He would come right after Dopey. We could call him Sneaky.

  “Hey, Boris,” yelled the director, Mike Hunt, looking up from adjusting his camera settings. “What are you doing here? Your wife was finished yesterday. Did my production manager tell you she was needed both days? I will kick his lazy ass if he did.”

  “No,” Boris replied, looking deflated. “I was in the neighborhood so I just dropped in to say hello.”

  Mike shook his head, stifling a laugh with the back of his hand.

  “Sorry buddy, but this is a closed set,” he informed him. “Our talent for the day gets spooked real easy, so we told her we'd keep the crew to a minimum. It's just gonna be me and a PA in there. Once lighting gets set up we're kicking them out, too. Any other day you could hang, but right now I've gotta ask you to leave. Sorry, man.”

  “No problem,” Boris hissed, trying his best to hide his embarrassment. He turned back to Benjamin, but was interrupted again.

  “Benjamin,” Mike shouted. “Glad you made it. I've only got a few minutes to talk if we're going to keep on schedule. Let's head up to set.”

  Without saying another word, the director turned and climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor. Benjamin hurried after him, leaving a deflated-looking Boris behind. When he got to the top of the stairs he saw Mike standing near the bay windows of the master bedroom looking out over the San Fernando Valley.

  “There he goes,” Mike said, not turning around, his eyes locked on Boris as he headed back to his car, shoulders slumped, head down in shame. “The coast is clear.”

  “Thanks for getting me out of that,” Benjamin said. “That guy's been all over me lately. He called my office ten times in the last week trying to schedule an appointment.”

  “Frankly I'm surprised he bothered showing up again,” Mike confessed. “He was a real pain in the ass yesterday. If he wasn't trying to get a girl to sign up with him as a manager he was trying to use his wife to lure them into having a three-way with him. He's a pest. Too bad his wife is so hot. After today's little stunt I'm going to make it clear he's not welcome on set anymore. Ugly little fucker creeps the girls out.”

  “Good luck with that,” Benjamin said, handing the director copies of his clients missing IDs and her current test.

  “It's a long drive out here just to hand me some paperwork,” Mike said with a knowing smirk. “You wouldn't be here trying to meet Jaymee and steal her away from the competition, would you?”

  The instinct to lie kicked in, but he fought against it. He'd come to learn over his time in the business that often the bold approach was the one most respected and got the best reward.

  “Would you be opposed to introducing us if I was?”

  “Not at all, my friend,” Mike said, his smirk blossoming into a full-face grin stretching ear to ear. “I'm not a big fan of her current representation to be honest. Too many conflicts. Jaymee has the potential to go supernova, but that's not gonna happen if she stays with some fly-by-night modeling agency who can't keep her bookings straight.”

  Benjamin felt himself relax, knowing now that he was on track to getting his way. Nothing in the world made him happier.

  “I also wouldn't be opposed to collecting a finders fee of some sort for making the introduction and talking you up, of course.”

  So it's a business deal he's after, Benjamin thought. He'd come to expect it, and he was rarely disappointed. Most outsiders viewed the business as one cohesive entity with its own set of rules and guidelines, when in reality it was more like the lawless Wild West with everyone on the take, always looking out for what they could get for themselves. Benjamin didn't mind. It made the terrain easier to navigate.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking that rather than ask for a cash payout I might just get a month off from agency fees,” Mike suggested.

  “What if she doesn't want to sign?”

  “She will,” Mike assured him. “We've been seeing each other on the down low. Don't repeat that. I don't want my wife to find out. I've already laid the groundwork for you by telling her all the big stars go with you. So, do we have a deal?”

  “Sounds like you've got it all worked out,” Benjamin smiled. “It's always a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Great,” Mike shot back. “Then follow me.”

  True to his word Mike talked Benjamin up to Jaymee, telling her she'd be crazy not to switch agencies an
d sign her life away. Benjamin explained how things worked under his management, while the stunning starlet with the perfect B cup breasts silently drank in his promises of fame and fortune with her big, crystal blue eyes. Within a half an hour he was leaving set with the ink still drying on her newly signed five-year contract. He was halfway down the 118 freeway when he got the call from David Lord about Jezzabella quitting. By the time he got to the 405 and the 101 he'd already talked to Cherry Haze and confirmed with David that she would be the replacement.

  “Tell her to hurry, but be careful,” Lord suggested. “There is a lot happening downtown today. They're announcing the verdict in Jenna's murder trail, so the streets are full of fans and media people, and there is a street fair as well. I saw about a million food trucks when I got down here at six this morning. They were all getting off at the same exit, blocking traffic.”

  “Don't worry,” Benjamin assured him. “She lives down there. She should be walking onto set any minute now.”

  “And make sure she brings her current test,” David reminded him.

  “I'll bring it by myself right now,” Benjamin promised. “That is, if you don't mind me visiting set.”

  David hesitated for a moment before replying. It was no secret that Benjamin had made enemies along the way. On a show as big as Raw Blue he was bound to bump into several people who'd love to see him dead or in jail. The last thing David needed was a distraction derailing his big show. Still, saying no to Benjamin was a decision that came with consequences, like being cut off from his stable of top tier talent. Benjamin had been more than happy to make examples out of people who crossed him along the way, power tripping on anyone he perceived had slighted him. He'd run several girls out of the business, along with a handful of new directors who thought they could go behind his back and sneak scenes with his girls without paying him. The last thing a successful director working with a big company needed was Benjamin as an enemy.