I tried to sound reflective. “Let me think about it,” I offered. “Really. In the meantime, if you could just give me-”
“You come in, talk face-to-face, and I’ll give you whatever you want. Including five hundred bucks for the audition.” I heard another phone ringing.
Pierce called out, “It’s Cha-Cha on line three.”
“One second,” Mason said. He must have held the phone away from his face as his volume decreased even as he shouted. “Tell her to hold on,” he instructed his assistant.
His attention returned to me. “I have to take this call. You know Cha-Cha Rivera? She’s one crazy dame, but a great director.”
“Can’t you…?”
“Like I said, if you want to talk, come in. Call Pierce and set up a screen test. You show me what I want to see, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. See you soon, babycakes.” He hung up the phone.
I listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before pressing the “end” button. Despite having grown up in New York, working as a prostitute, stumbling across more than one murder in my time, and my study of psychology, people still shocked me with how awful they could be. In Mason’s case, it was his selfishness and attempted manipulation I found stunning.
Not only didn’t he show any concern about Brent’s welfare, he was already working to replace him. The fact that I was being considered as the potential successor, despite my repeated disinterest, didn’t endear him to me, either.
Meanwhile, it hadn’t escaped me how, by the end of our discussion, his offer to meet me for an “interview” turned into an invitation to an “audition.”
I’d seen some of the tapes in the SwordFight Audition series. They started with an interview and ended with nudity and masturbation. I wasn’t interested.
What a creep.
So, why was I considering calling Pierce to set up the appointment? Because I had no other leads. Maybe Mason didn’t care about Brent, but, to a probably inappropriate degree, I did.
Was it because Brent reminded me so much of myself? Not only in looks, but in occupation? Kristen and Mason might have been right-maybe Brent decided to walk away. But where to? And why?
For whatever reason, something about Brent’s disappearance set off my spider sense. I knew I’d worry until I was sure he was okay. Unfortunately, my best bet for tracking him down required meeting with Mason.
Maybe I could get my questions answered in this “audition” before having to do anything past a PG-13.
I had a feeling this was going to go horribly wrong, but I picked up my phone to call Pierce Deepley and schedule the shoot. I was about to hit “redial” when, at the last minute, I was saved by the bell.
Well, by the ringtone.
I thought I was the only person who cared what happened to Brent.
The incoming call proved me wrong.
9
In Hot Pursuit
“Hello,” I answered, not recognizing the number.
“Kevin,” the lightly accented voice asked.
“Yeah, this is Kevin.” My voice carried a who-did-you-expect-to-answer-my-phone tone of annoyance. After my last conversation, I was a little on edge.
“It’s Kristen,” the director said. “Kristen LaNue.”
“Oh, hey.” I tried to sound friendlier. “I’m glad to hear from you. Everything work out on set?”
“How sweet of you to remember.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, I snuffed out the problem and we’re on break. Did you call Mason?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Was he helpful?”
I wasn’t sure how close they were. “He didn’t want to talk on the phone,” I answered truthfully, without offering the fact that he basically tried to blackmail me into posing nude for him.
Kristen chuckled. “Let me guess-he insisted you see him in person.”
“More like he insisted he see me. All of me. For a screen test,” I clarified.
Another laugh. “Well, you can’t blame a dirty old man for trying.
…” Kristen observed.
Actually, given the stakes, I could. “Listen,” I said, “I’m flattered you guys think I’d be good at it, but I’m not looking for a job in adult videos-”
“I get it,” Kristen interrupted. “Mind you, I’m hoping you change your mind, but I get it. Sadly, I’m not sure Mason will be as understanding. He can be… unrelenting when he wants something.”
Now I was a “something.” This really was a business that turned people into objects.
“On a more positive note,” Kristen continued, “I did think of someone you could talk to. He’d probably know how to get in touch with Brent. In fact, Brent might even be with him.”
“That’s great!” I was excited. Partially because I was looking forward to getting in touch with the boy, partially because Kristen was redeeming my faith in humanity by offering something helpful without requiring me to be naked to get it.
“There’s this guy he was seeing. Charlie.”
I told Kristen I remembered Brent mentioning him. “Maybe that’s who he was talking to while he was on set with you,” I offered. “He wouldn’t be the first guy to run off and call his boyfriend at every opportunity.”
“I thought about that,” Kristen said. “But why would he be so secretive about it? Not to mention how guilty he looked when I’d find him.”
Good questions.
“So, do you have Charlie’s number?” I asked.
“Not even close,” Kristen said. “I don’t even know his last name.”
Great. I had to find a gay “Charlie” in New York City. That shouldn’t take too long-a decade or two at the most.
“I do know where he works,” Kristen continued, to my great relief. “He’s a bartender at Intermission. You know the place?”
“I do,” I said. “I can probably swing by in the next day or two.”
“Really?” Kristen sounded amused again. “Now, how would a nice boy like you know about Intermission, I wonder?” His tone was pointed, but teasing.
I should have feigned ignorance. Intermission was an off-the-radar establishment that catered to wealthy, often closeted men and the working boys who offered their bodies and discretion in fair exchange. It was an exclusive, expensive watering hole, where a bottled water cost a tenner and everything else started at double that. Unless you were a well-heeled buyer or a well-hung seller, the sedate atmosphere, cooly efficient servers, and imposing bouncers made it a particularly uninviting hangout. No, Intermission was a place to conduct a very specific kind of business transaction.
No sign announced Intermission’s presence on the first floor of a tony town house on the Upper West Side. I wasn’t sure I could even find a listing for it on the Web. Its existence was advertised solely by word of mouth among a select group of elite johns and the high-class hustlers who served them.
Kristen didn’t need to be a genius to figure out I didn’t belong in the first category.
I’d never peddled my papayas at Intermission, or any other bar for that matter. All my bookings were arranged by the escort agency I worked for, run by my favorite drag queen/possible transexual in the world, the charmingly eccentric Mrs. Cherry.
Although she appeared as dizzy as they come, Mrs. Cherry was a more efficient, protective, and intelligent businesswoman than a season’s worth of contestants on The Apprentice. She could have run a Fortune 500 company, except for the unpleasant compromises she’d have to accept in not being surrounded by beautiful boys looking to her for guidance and having to squeeze her size 20-something ass into something other than a caftan or housedress. All things considered, she was happier running her own show from her overdecorated apartment, ensuring the income and safety of a never-ending tide of available young men with the looks and breeding to satisfy her sophisticated clientele.
“Kevin?” Kristen asked. I realized I’d been zoning out.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
What had we been talking about? Int
ermission. Right.
Although I’d never gone there looking for work, I did have clients who had wanted to meet me there before proceeding somewhere more private. It was a safe environment for them to check me out in before committing to taking me home.
Although I kind of liked Kristen, I didn’t want to reveal any more about myself than I had to. “Intermission isn’t exactly an undisclosed location,” I answered, although it was. “It’s not like that’s where they hide the President in case of a terrorist attack.”
“No,” Kristen answered solemnly, “they secure him, I believe, in Mason Jarre’s bedroom. Not because it’s so well guarded, mind you, but because no one, not even suicide bombers, would willingly go there.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. Kristen was winning me over big-time.
“For the record,” Kristen said, dropping his voice in volume and by half an octave, “I never said that. Agreed?”
His deeper, conspiratorial tone was even sexier than his usual Latin lover lilt. I felt a guilty rush of heat.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I promised.
“Oh,” he said playfully, “I don’t have any secrets. But I think you do, Kevin. I truly believe you do.”
He paused, waiting for me to respond. For once, I was lost for words.
He mistook my awkwardness for strategy. “Smart boy. Keep your cards close to your chest. But someday, you clever thing, I’d like to see the hand you’re holding.
“I bet it’s a winner. A flush of hearts.”
He disconnected without saying good-bye.
A good director knows when to cut a scene.
Why, I wondered, did my conversation with Kristen have my stomach turning in knots?
Was it because I was worried about meeting with Charlie, the boy Brent had been seeing? Remembering my conversation with Brent, I recalled that Charlie had been strongly disapproving of Brent’s continued employment in the adult film industry. Maybe he’d convinced Brent to quit the biz. If so, my showing up at Intermission might be misinterpreted as a bid to, excuse the expression, suck Brent back in.
If Charlie took offense at my questions, he’d have no problem getting me out of there. I thought of the bouncers with biceps as wide as my waist and shuddered.
Or was it Kristen’s sly insinuations about my “secrets” that were making me skittish? Was I wearing a tramp stamp on my forehead that I thought I’d washed off?
I wanted to leave hustling in the past, but maybe, like Marley in A Christmas Carol, my previous deeds dragged behind me like chains, rattling and obvious to anyone who cared enough to look.
Another possibility: Could Kristen be playing with me? It didn’t seem out of the question that the sophisticated and worldly filmmaker might have been a client at Intermission. If not as a customer, than as a casting scout? I could think of less fruitful places for someone looking for attractive and sexually open potential models to spend their evenings. The working boys at Intermission had already demonstrated a willingness to walk on the wild side. How much farther down the road would it be for most of them to let their wandering be filmed?
If Kristen had used Intermission as a scouting camp, it wasn’t impossible he might have seen me there. Was he trying to tease out a “confession”? If so, it seemed more playful than mean-spirited.
The last reason I could think of for the butterflies in my stomach was the scariest of all. Maybe I was genuinely hot for Kristen.
During the time I’ve been reunited with Tony, I’ve had a few flirtations. Hell, I’ve had out-and-out sex, but only for business and never with anyone for whom I had feelings.
Kristen, however, was different. I thought he was attractive when I met him, but I hadn’t really dwelled on it. Two conversations later and I was struck by how much I might like him. He seemed smart, funny, and dead sexy.
Like one of the debate assignments from the seventh grade, I found myself comparing and contrasting him with Tony. Yes, I loved Tony, but it was so complicated. I wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get over my career as a prostitute, even if it was a “former” career. Sometimes, in bed, I’d purposely throttle back my performance lest he ask “Where’d you learn that?”
Someday, I feared, he’d call me a whore and I’d never be able to forgive him.
More immediately, there was the problem of trying to build a life in the closet. I may have “secrets,” but they’re not ones I’m ashamed of. They’re just things I’d rather keep private.
But I was Tony’s secret. The source of his shame. How horrible was that? How could we possibly be happy together if our entire relationship was hidden in the shadows? The only things that grow without light are mushrooms and fungus, neither of which were attractive analogies.
Compare and contrast.
Kristen not only could accept my past as a sex worker, he’d probably be thrilled. It was hard to believe he wouldn’t be as sex positive in his private life as he was in his work. If so, I bet he’d be scorching in bed.
How different would it be to date a guy who not only wouldn’t be afraid to be seen with me, but who would show me off proudly, like a jewel, not hide me like a disfigurement?
Of course, I was getting ahead of myself. It wasn’t like Kristen had even made an overt move on me.
Except, I didn’t need him to. If there was one thing I knew, it was when a man wanted me.
Kristen LaNue wanted me.
I think I wanted him, too.
The whole thing had me a bit giddy, kind of nervous, and more than a little nauseous. Romance always hit me in the gut and my stomach wouldn’t stop churning.
Kristen’s attention to me, and my attraction to him, were inconvenient distractions, unwanted temptations.
An excess of alternatives.
A flush of hearts.
10
Hard Cops
I decided to stop thinking about Kristen and instead turn my attention back to the boy this was about.
Brent Havens.
When I’d talked to Brent, he’d complained how his audience often mistook his onscreen persona for his real one. People projected on to him whatever they wanted him to be. Given the movies that comprised his, er, body of work, that person tended to be a youthful, energetic, and available hottie with not much on his mind beyond getting laid and showing his partner a good time. The definition of the best kind of boy toy: one who wants to play with you.
Confusing any actor’s performance with how he conducts his life off-camera is obviously absurd. As fun as it would have been to find myself in a Brokeback backbreaking three-way with Jake Gyllenhaal and the late but not forgotten (at least not by me!) Heath Ledger, I wasn’t holding my breath.
But we’re all guilty of some projection. Given the impossibility of ever truly understanding another person, it’s only natural we imbue them with traits based on assumptions and prior associations. If you’re a healthy person, as you get to know someone better, you replace those presumptions with his or her reality. In my experience, it’s at that point when a relationship starts to get into trouble-when the person you’ve been imagining and hoping for turns out to be the person he or she really is. It’s a trap I’ve tried to avoid.
Yet, wasn’t that what I was doing with Brent? I hardly knew the boy. In my mind, though, he was a good kid whose unconventional career choice did nothing to diminish his basic decency. A young man who sold sex not to exploit others but to help them, by making otherwise unattainable fantasies come true. A boy who needed love, understanding, and protection from the Big, Bad World.
Remind you of anyone I am?
Was I projecting myself on to the blank slate of Brent Havens? What did I know about him, really? Who’s to say he wasn’t some big cokehead on a bender? Or running a scam on some elderly aficionado from which he’d walk away relatively untouched and $50,000 richer? Was my assuming the best about a boy I hardly knew really any more reasonable that the less generous assessments of those who’d actually worked alongside him?
Or at least that was what I told myself.
It was a more flattering motivation than the other likely possibility-that my quest to rescue Brent was a subconscious effort to save myself.
I wish I’d gotten to know Brent better before he’d gone missing. Now, there was no way to assess whether he was more likely the victim or perpetrator of whatever happened to him.
Unless…
I agreed it was ludicrous to assume a performer’s true personality could be assessed in every film role. Still, sometimes the real person showed through. And given the weak plots and emotional nakedness of a sex tape, maybe even more of the star’s authentic nature came through.
Maybe I should check out the Brent captured on camera before making any more assumptions.
I could go to the local video shop or the nearest Web site and see what was for sale. Or, I could call the boy voted in his high school yearbook Most Likely to Amass an Astonishingly Large Library of Pornography.
I decided to go the cheap route.
First, I had to check with Tony to make sure he didn’t mind my being out for the evening.
“No problem,” he answered, lowering his voice, “baby.”
Tony worked in an open cubicle at a police station in midtown. I knew he didn’t want his fellow officers wondering who he was calling “baby.” As well meaning as his term of affection was, his whispering it made it hurtful.
“I have to work a case tonight, anyway,” he said. “We found a guy in the Hudson River. Been there a couple of days. At the least. Water’s always tricky-hides a multitude of sins.” Tony’s tone betrayed his resentment. “Really fucks up time of death.”
I found it endearing that, when it came to interfering with one of his investigations, Tony could get mad at water.
“Sorry,” I offered.
“Looks like a messy one, too. The victim had been beaten. Whipped, actually. There were also bruises on his wrists that indicated he’d been handcuffed but straining to get out.”
Third You Die (kevin connor mysteries) Page 7
