Third You Die (kevin connor mysteries)

by Scott Sherman

As long as the last reason wasn’t the problem, tracking him down shouldn’t be too hard.

  I checked my Rolodex (otherwise known as frantically shuffling through the completely disorganized piles of papers that littered my desk) and found the business cards for Kristen LaNue and Mason Jarre of SwordFight Productions.

  Kristen was the not-bad-looking, friendly, and seemingly polite director of some of the films in which Brent appeared. Mason was the grossly pushy owner of the company. It wasn’t hard to choose which of them to call first to help put me in touch with Brent.

  8

  Kiss Off

  “Of course I remember you,” Kristen purred. His sexy Latin accent reminded me that he was more than just “not bad-looking.” He was a generous slice of hottie pie. “The beautiful boy who’s wasting his life behind the camera. To what do I owe the considerable pleasure of this call? To schedule an audition, I hope?”

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t that much less pushy than Mason. But he was certainly less obnoxious about it. Coming from him, it was actually charming. Complimentary rather than creepy.

  Or was it just his swarthy good looks and come-fuck-me honeyed voice that let him get away with it?

  I explained the problem I was having getting in touch with Brent.

  “Now why would you…?” Kristen began, then paused. “Ah, yes. I suppose a better question would be ‘Why wouldn’t you want to call Brent?’ And, since he gave you his number, I assume he was interested in you, too, no? Why wouldn’t he be? You two were the loveliest things in the room that day. Your coming together-and I mean that in every sense of the word-is as it should be.”

  Clearly, Kristen assumed I was calling for a hook-up, which was just as well.

  “Of course, if I do help you two lovebirds connect, I must insist you let me film it. If only for my own enjoyment, no?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Only teasing,” Kristen reassured me. “Although… if you wanted a souvenir of your time together, I’d make myself available.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling.

  “And I will pass your message along to Brent when I see him next. If I see him, I should say.”

  Another pause. In this one, I heard background noise. What sounded like grunts and slaps. Someone said something. “Could you make it a little tiger?”

  What?

  No, not “tiger.”

  Tighter.

  I tried not to be distracted.

  Focus, Kevin, focus.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He’s dropped off the map for a bit,” Kristen explained. “Didn’t show for the most recent two shoots he’d signed up for. Didn’t call, either, at least not as far as I know.”

  “You wouldn’t know?”

  “I’m the creative on the team. Mason and his people handle the business end of things. Scheduling, booking the boys, finding locations. Brent may have called him to say he couldn’t make it, but normally that would have led to Mason arranging for a replacement. Didn’t happen either time. We had to do solo scenes, as I recall.” I heard a shudder in his voice. “They bore the shit out me, to be honest. There’s only so many ways you can shoot a guy whacking off. From an artistic perspective, masturbation is not a terribly satisfying subject.”

  “You take your work seriously.”

  “Dead seriously,” Kristen assured me. “I know people view any movie with explicit sex as pornography, and thus of no artistic merit, but why? Why is it we believe ‘serious’ cinema can explore any genre, whether it’s romance, or comedy, or drama, but only as long as everyone keeps his pants on? What’s more real than sex or death? Films are supposed to move you. If you laugh, or cry, or find yourself rooting for the hero, the movie is considered successful. But if it turns you on? Somehow, that’s wrong. Why the double standard?”

  I had to admit, he had a point. But I’d seen some of the movies he’d directed-well, fast-forwarded through most of them-and they were hardly works of genius. Better than most, perhaps, but I didn’t remember seeing anything particularly ambitious in them, either.

  He answered my question without my even asking it.

  “Of course, the work I do for the mainstream companies, like SwordFight, has to follow certain conventions. There isn’t much room for artistic expression. But my smaller films, my art movies, are my true passions.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen any of the them,” I said.

  “Well, then, you’ll have to come by for a private viewing sometime,” he said. The invitation was flirty, but not sleazy.

  “Still”-I thought it best to avoid the “private viewing” discussion-“you’ve been successful even within those limitations, right?”

  “It’s rude to extol one’s accomplishments. But, yes, I have been able to do as much as I can with my studio work. I’ve been nominated for Best Director every year for the past five by the Gay Video Awards. Won twice, too.”

  Was everyone obsessed with winning awards? We’re all so insecure.

  I liked Kristen, but this review of his resume wasn’t going to help me with the job at hand. I switched topics abruptly. “How long has Brent been off the grid?”

  “Oh.” Kristen thought for a moment. “It’s probably been three or four weeks since that first time Brent didn’t show.”

  “No contact at all?” I asked.

  He paused again.

  “Oh yeah,” I heard a voice from somewhere not far from him. “Like that. But harder. And faster. And just a little to the left.”

  Sounded like someone was topping from the bottom.

  “Not that I know,” Kristen answered.

  “Do you think he’s okay?” I asked. “I mean, if Brent’s never disappeared like this, maybe something happened to him.”

  Another thoughtful silence. “Oh, yes!” I heard a shouted cry in the background. “That’s it!” There was a snapping noise, like the smack of a cracked whip. “Hurts so good!”

  I found it hard to ignore. “Is this a good time to talk? You sound

  … busy.”

  Kristen chuckled, a warm laugh that made me flush. “Oh, I’m on a shoot. But my assistant can handle the models for a few minutes. Sure you don’t want to come down and talk in person? Get a look at what you’re missing. It can be quite… stimulating.”

  I bet.

  “I’d really like to get in touch with Brent first, actually.”

  “Of course. And I’m afraid I forgot what you just asked me.”

  I reminded him of my question: Was it typical for Brent not to show up when expected?

  “No, I’d never seen that kind of behavior from him. He was actually one of my more dependable models. He took the work seriously.

  “Still, I can’t say I’m totally shocked. Boys in this business tend to come and go. They don’t all share my commitment to the art. These models tend to be young, self-centered, and easily distracted by the next shiny thing. When they’re ready to move on, they just stop showing up. I’ve learned,” he said, his tone mixing weariness with wryness, “not to expect formal letters of resignation.

  “It’s possible”-Kristen paused, as if he were putting together things he’d seen into a coherent picture-“he was working on putting something together for himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On that last film we were shooting, he kept wandering off set. Every time I’d find him, he was on his cell phone, whispering. The conversations always looked intense, but not in an unpleasant way. He was usually smiling during them, even laughing. When he’d see me approach, he’d hang up before I got close enough to hear.”

  “Maybe he was just talking to a friend.”

  “Perhaps. But I don’t think so. There was something… conspiratorial in the way he was acting. Like he had a secret. One that brought him both joy and guilt. He looked like… what’s that expression?… a boy caught with his hand in the cocaine jar.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him. Given
the world in which Kristen operated, the revision was probably more accurate than the standard cliche.

  A secret, huh? Kristen started by saying he’d interpreted Brent’s clandestine phone calls as being an effort to “put something together for himself.” Did he mean a deal with a rival studio? It had come up before as a possibility. I was just about to ask when we were interrupted by a loud shout.

  Whoever had minutes ago been screaming in pleasure about being “hurt so good” had something new he wanted to announce to the world. “Hey, wait a minute, is that a-”

  “I’m afraid I must go,” Kristen interjected loudly. “They’re waving me over. The stereotype of the temperamental actor is only too true. Looks like they need me to offer some direction.”

  “Thanks for your time,” I offered.

  “No problemo,” Kristen said. “Do call Mason, though. He may know something I don’t.”

  “I will.”

  “And if you get in touch with Brent, tell him to come back. He’s more than welcome. He’s simply too beautiful not to give another chance.”

  He disconnected just as the actor he’d been filming screamed with pleasure.

  I took Kristen’s advice and called Mason Jarre.

  “Mr. Jarre’s office,” a deep-voiced man answered. “Pierce Deepley speaking.”

  I asked to speak to Mason.

  “And what, may I ask, is the nature of the call?” Deepley clipped his words in such a way that he sounded irritated by me already. It usually took longer.

  Or, maybe he just didn’t like answering phones. In which case, he had the wrong job.

  I explained that Mason knew me and I was trying to get in touch with Brent Havens.

  “We don’t give out personal information about individuals who may or may not be employed by SwordFight Productions or any of its subsidiaries,” he answered. “Thank you for calling. Have a…”

  The creep was going to hang up on me.

  “Wait,” I said, “I’m not asking for personal information. I’m just trying to see if Mason can help put me in touch with Brent. Brent gave me his number, but-”

  “I’m sorry,” the officious screener interrupted, “but I’m afraid the details of how you may or may not have met said individual who is possibly known or unknown to us are quite beside the point.”

  Deepley’s legalistic double-talk was making my head spin. Had I taken my medication today? All those qualifiers were hard to follow.

  Focus, Kevin, focus.

  Deepley monologued on. “We understand many of our customers enjoy our products and imagine they have… personal relationships with our models. If, as you say, you met Mr. Haven, and he wishes to… encourage your interest, I’m sure he’ll return your call at his earliest convenience. If not, well, perhaps it simply wasn’t meant to be.” Deepley sounded inordinately satisfied at the prospect of Brent not calling me.

  Unfortunately, since I didn’t know how to get to Mason without going through this asshat, I had to be polite. “I apologize. I haven’t been clear. I’m not calling on a personal matter. It’s business.

  “Mr. Jarre and I met on the set of Sophie’s Voice. I’m a co-producer. I’m trying to contact Mr. Haven as a follow-up to the successful appearance of another of your models, Brock Peters, on the show. I thought perhaps Mr. Jarre would appreciate the additional exposure for SwordFight. But if he isn’t available-”

  “Sophie’s Voice? ” Pierce Deepley squealed. “Oh my god, I love her!” His inner queen blazed through his previously icy imperiousness. “She’s so funny, so real, you know? That episode with Brock was fabulous! Hold on, let me see if Mr. Jarre is available. May I have your name?”

  He may, and I thanked him as well. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the power of celebrity open a closed door.

  A minute later Mason picked up. “Kevin,” he said. “Pierce tells me you’re thinking of having us on the show again. That’s marvelous news. I have a few models I think would make wonderful spokesmen for our company. Are you familiar with Seymour Cox? Or Tag Emnow?”

  “Actually,” I said, “we were hoping to feature Brent Havens. He and I were talking after Brock’s appearance and-”

  “Oh,” Mason cut me off, “Brent’s absolutely adorable, but he’s not the brightest bulb on the tree. No, I believe you’d be better served by one of our more… articulate performers.”

  He took a moment before announcing, “Now that I think about it, Hugh Jestman would be an excellent guest. He’s actually a classically trained actor who’s performed on Broadway. Would you like me to arrange a meeting?”

  “No,” I answered. I regretted fibbing to Pierce about wanting to schedule another show, but it was the only way I could think of to get through to Mason. Unfortunately, I’m not the greatest liar. I tend to lose track of the details and get easily confused by my own deceits. “That isn’t necessary. I’m sure the other guys are great, but we’re really interested in Brent.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Mason said, his tone no longer quite as accommodating. “There is no show, is there, Kevin?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Cut the shit, sunshine. I saw the way you and Brent looked at each other. The heat between you was enough to set off the fire extinguishers. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for you to call. What happened, did you lose his number?”

  Okay. I was still going to lie, but this one was easier to manage. “You got me,” I said. “But I didn’t lose his number. He’s just not answering. I hear he hasn’t been showing up for his work with you guys, either.”

  “Yes,” Mason answered, “the little brat left us high and dry on two shoots. Unacceptable. Sorry, but you’re not the only one he’s stiffing. Or, not stiffing, as the case may be.” He chuckled at his play on words.

  “Are you worried?” I asked.

  “Worried? Why would I be worried? Yes, we lose money if we have to cancel a shoot, but in both cases, the director was able to use the sets and crew to shoot solos. Although, that doesn’t excuse Brent’s unprofessionalism.”

  Wow. A young man goes missing and the only thing this guy cares about is how it affects his bank account.

  “No,” I said. “I meant, are you worried about Brent? ”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well.” I was almost at a loss for words. Did I really have to explain this to him? “My understanding is that Brent was always very responsible. All of a sudden, he drops out of sight and stops answering his phone. Maybe something happened to him.”

  Mason laughed. “Oh, that’s sweet. I’m sure something did happen to him, sweetcheeks. He hooked up with a sugar daddy. Or he found religion. Or he met a nice boy-or a nice girl-and he plans to settle down. White picket fence and all. Of course, there’s always the more likely possibility he’s on a meth binge holed up in a crack house somewhere.

  “My point is: Something is always happening with these boys. They’re not exactly the most stable employees. They come and go. They’re young, self-centered, and distracted by whatever shiny thing comes along next. One learns not to worry, Kevin. Well, not about them.” That also got a little laugh from him. “My business, though, that I worry about. I don’t think Samuel Goldwyn had to put up with this kind of nonsense when he built MGM.”

  Parts of what Mason said sounded almost exactly like Kristen LaRue’s responses. Did they rehearse these lines? Or was it more likely the case that the “whatever happened to…” question had come up in regard to so many men before Brent that the answer became rote?

  I knew from my time as an escort that boys dropped in and out of the biz frequently, sometimes for the reasons Mason described. I could see where it would get tiresome for him and Kristen to constantly face questions from fans and press wondering why their favorite performers weren’t making new videos.

  At least from Kristen, though, I got the sense he thought of Brent as a human being worthy of consideration. Mason’s cold assessment made it clear he regarded Brent solely as a
product-one that concerned him only to the degree it was no longer profitable.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d feel better if I knew Brent was okay. All I have is his mobile number. Do you have any others? Or an address? Did he give you contact information in case of an emergency?”

  “Come in and we’ll talk about it.”

  “I’d love to,” I lied, “but it’ll probably take me a few days to get over there. Could I get the info now and call you later in the week for an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Listen, kid, I’m running a business here, not a dating service. Whatever Brent is up to, he isn’t making me any money. I need a fresh face to replace him. A studio like SwordFight runs on archetypes. We have the muscle daddy on deck with Brock Peters. We have a popular group of Chelsea gym types like Tag and Atlas. We’ve got bears, circuit boys, a couple of trannies on call. We’ve got S amp;M stars like Pierce Deepley and The Dominator. We…”

  Pierce Deepley? Where had I heard that name before? “The guy who answered your phone? I thought he was the receptionist.”

  “ ‘Pierce Deepley’ doesn’t sound like a porn name to you?” Mason asked somewhat incredulously. “Five years ago, he was one of the biggest names in the business. But the market for staged S amp;M has kind of bottomed out, excuse the expression. He makes an occasional film, but he mainly works as my assistant now.”

  Nothing like an S amp;M master to run an efficient office, I imagined.

  “What we’re missing,” Mason continued, “is our Boy Next Door. A fair-haired darling who looks like he should be delivering your morning paper until he winds up spread like butter across your kitchen table.

  “It’s a place in our lineup you could fill, Kevin. You and Brent are practically twins. If what you’re hiding under your clothes is anywhere near as good as it looks like it’ll be, you could be pulling a couple of hundred thou a year, working ten hours a week, mostly lying on your back. You seem like a smart boy. Is that something you should walk away from without giving it serious thought?”

  Actually, I’d already walked away from similar employment, although there was no way Mason could have known that.