01: Anywhere You Hang Your Keys

It took me an hour and a half to get there, and by that time it was nearly dark. Szyzmanski Productions was in an industrial complex off Reseda Boulevard. I pushed the button at the door and a voice like honey buzzed me in. The walls in the lobby were lined with posters for movies with names like Muffy the Vampire Slayer. The young woman staffing the reception desk had long straight blond hair and blue eyes and if someone had told me she was a Viking goddess I wouldn't have argued too hard. She filled a light blue sweater and black slacks spectacularly. And she had magnificent posture.

I came up with a story about wanting to invest some money. The glorious specimen sent me down the hall. Charley Szyzmanski spotted me, held up a finger. I studied a poster for one of his opuses. It was called 25. The tagline was Jack Borer Only Has One Day To Save The World From The Libido Virus. A woman and two men. The woman wore a bustier and glasses. Each of the men held a long-barreled pistol. Or at least some artist's conception of one.

He said, "Who told her that? ... You're kidding me, right?" Looked at me, shook his head. "Okay, fine, give me ten minutes," and slammed the phone down.

I pointed at the poster. "I don't get the title. I mean, what's the, uh, adult connection?"

He indicated the guy on the left. "Twelve ..." Then the other one. "And thirteen. Look, there's an emergency on the set. You want to take a ride? We can talk on the way."

"Sure," I said.

He had a Jag. The top was down. Once we got going I asked the nature of the emergency.

"This actress. She's always done anal before. Now all of a sudden she won't."

"Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Her minister told her to stop."

"He told her to stop doing anal but the rest is okay?"

"That's the story I'm getting."

"That's some kind of minister."

"Ain't that the truth. I hear you have some money to invest."

I practiced my storytelling for the short while it took us to get to Encino. By the time we were there I was going to finance his next big production. We drove a little way into the hills until we came to a big house behind a sliding gate. Szyzmanski slid a security card through a reader and the gate opened. We drove up a circular drive, parked among an assortment of cars and vans, got out. In the front door, through the house. Came to a sliding door. The glass was open but the screen was shut. He whispered that I should stay inside until the shot was finished. Then I should go meet everybody. Since we were going to be working together. He was going to go find Serena. The actress who wouldn't do anal.

Outside the door the pool area was lit up like blazes. There were a bunch of craft types out there. Also two actresses. One was a voluptuous redhead wearing only a straw hat and gold hoop earrings. She was pouring copious quantities of white goop from a tube onto the other woman's breasts. The pouree was blond and thin and athletic and had nipples you could hang your keyring on. She was a better actress than the other one, but that wasn't saying a lot.

The women milked the lotion routine for all it was worth. Then a UPS man showed up. There was fifteen seconds of conversation. Then the women undressed him. This took less time than you might think, since he had no underwear on, which I would have thought was against company policy.

The UPS man was impressive enough flaccid. Then the blonde put her mouth to work. Then the redhead took the blonde's place and had at it, while the blonde amused herself diddling the redhead. The redhead must have been a magician. She made the UPS man's whatchamacallit disappear. When the director—if there even was a director—got tired of this, they moved on to good old fucking. First the blonde, then the redhead, then the blonde again. Somebody came up with a dildo and things got complicated. Eventually the blonde came, or at least did a fine job of faking it. Soon the redhead followed suit. She was even louder than the blonde. After they both got off, they both got off, and went back to oral persuasion. The UPS guy began to moan and writhe and announce that he was coming. I turned away before the money shot. I've seen a lot, especially since I went to work for John Santini. But I have my limits.

After a minute or two things quieted down and I glanced back outside. The lights were off and it looked like they were shutting down for the night. The UPS man, still naked, stretched his arms, scratched his pubes, and wandered out of view. The redhead had put on a terrycloth robe and was smoking a cigarette.

The blonde had wrapped a towel around her midsection. Her well-oiled breasts were still unfettered. She slid open the sliding screen and entered the house. She came in, said, "Hi," walked into another room. I was thinking it was time to track old Charley down when she came back in and took a seat on a U-shaped sectional. She'd replaced the towel with a pair of loose shorts and added a sleeveless white blouse she hadn't bothered to button. "Hi again," she said. "You an investor?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"You've got the look." She held out a hand. "Jessica Love Dooitt."

I moved over and took her hand. I hoped she'd washed it since her last scene. I said, "Joe Portugal," sat down. Tapped a rhythm on my thighs with my fingertips. Finally asked how long she'd been making porn movies.

"Almost three years," she said.

"Enjoy it?"

"It's a living."

More thigh-tapping, then, "You think you can help me find Charley? He drove me over, and I have to get back."

"I didn't even know he was here."

"He's talking to Serena."

"Oh. About the anal."

"Right."

The patio door opened. The UPS man came through. He was wearing sweats and carrying a copy of House of Sand and Fog. He said, "See you tomorrow," and went out the front door.

Jessica Love Dooitt stood. "There a part for me?"

"Where?"

"In your picture."

"There might be."

"I do other stuff too. Off-camera."

"Not interested."

"You might change your mind."

She reached into the pocket of the shorts, produced a business card, handed it to me. I didn't look at it. Just shoved it into my shirt pocket. Then I got up off the sectional and said, "I'm going to look for Charley."

"Try upstairs," she said. She bent down to shake my hand, making sure she gave me an excellent look at her keyholders. Then she went back outside, and I went upstairs to deal with Charley.

He was in a bedroom, with a black chick who I supposed was Serena. They were standing there hugging. When he saw me he held up that finger again. They broke the embrace, he kissed her on the cheek, and she walked out, flashing me a smile that seemed to have too many teeth.

"Sometimes," he said, "all they need is a good talking to."

"That seems to work for a lot of people," I said, closing the door behind me.

next: Everyone's a Comedian