Lassiter

28 The Pork Barn

Charlie Ziegler did not want to be on a porn set. He’d made his movies, done his blow, banged his girls, and was smart enough to bail out when amateur video hit the market, and every kid with a Wal-Mart camera and an uninhibited girlfriend became a porn director. Doubly smart, because he sold the production end of the business for a bundle, while hanging on to the library and the low-overhead, high-profit distribution network.

Today, Ziegler drove to a dingy warehouse in the crotch of pavement where the turnpike met I-95. Once it had been his production office and soundstage. Today he came to see Leonard “Lens” Newsome, the finest porn cinematographer who ever lived. The man could make a pop shot-spouting beads of jism-look like the Trevi Fountain.

Lens had called last night.

“Some old shit’s hit the fan, Charlie, and I don’t wanna talk about it on the phone.”

Which is what brought Ziegler to the pork barn on a stormy afternoon when he should have been casting Texaz Hold ’Em amp; Strip ’Em, a TV game show based on strip poker.

Much was still familiar. The crew dragging equipment carts, wheels clacking across concrete slabs. The smell of sawdust and fresh paint. Cables snaking along the floor, lights blazing, a makeshift dressing room with lighted mirrors, the girls pasting on their eyelashes. A metallic, air-conditioned chill in the air, goose bumps everywhere, nipples poking through flimsy lingerie.

Some things had changed, Ziegler knew. OSHA inspections, condoms, accounting departments with payroll deductions for taxes. Taxes! The party had become a business.

The crew looked younger, but maybe he had gotten older. Unshaven kids, earbuds plugged into their iPods, zoning out on the latest shit music.

Today’s set was a bedroom-big surprise-propped up on a platform of two-by-fours. Klieg lights were just clicking off, a sizzle in the air. Leonard Newsome bent over awkwardly and struggled getting down from the platform. A touch of arthritis, maybe. His beard had gone silver, his thin hair tied back in a ponytail.

Time, Ziegler thought, is a ball-busting mistress who will bend your body and break your will.

“Lens, how they hanging?”

“Lemme buy you some coffee, Charlie.” Newsome directed him to what passed for a craft service table. A sheet of plywood balanced on two sawhorses. A stained coffeemaker and a basket of pretzels. Two actresses in thongs and open bathrobes were sipping coffee and whining about an actor with a bent penis.

“Like it wants to sneak around the corner, but I don’t have a corner.”

“I know him,” the other one said. “They call him ‘Roto Rooter.’ ”

“Girls, why doncha go out for a smoke?” Leonard told them.

“Smoke? Do I look like I’d put a cigarette in my mouth?”

Lens rolled his eyes but kept quiet. The girls took off, shooting dirty looks at the men.

“What’s up, Lens?” Ziegler poured himself some coffee that could flush a clogged drain.

“A woman showed up at my condo yesterday asking about a girl from the old days.”

“Amy Larkin, looking for her sister?”

Lens nodded. “I was playing pinochle in the card room. I don’t even know how she found me.”

“The woman’s an insurance investigator, Lens. She’s not stupid.”

“No shit. She asked what I remembered about Krista.”

“What’d you say?”

“Told her, too many years. Too many girls.”

“Thanks, Lens.”

“Hell, it’s damn near true. I hardly remember any of them unless they gave me a dose.”

“What else she want to know?”

“That’s where it got hairy. Wondered if you ever shot snuff films.”

“Jesus.”

“Told her, hell, no, not your style. Asked if I ever went to your house for parties, and I said sure. Asked who else was there, and I said I’m just a photographer. I don’t see anything that’s not in the lens.”

“That end it?”

“She wanted to look at all the old films and videos, track down actors who worked with her sister. I told her there were a couple thousand titles and no one ever used their real names. It’d be like looking for a pubic hair in a haystack.”

All Lassiter’s fault, Ziegler thought. Giving the woman hope, stirring her up.

How the hell can I put a stop to it?

“I’d watch out for this woman, Charlie.”

“Whadaya mean?”

“You remember Kandy Kane, Charlie?”

Ziegler cracked a smile, thinking about the day Kandy bit into Rex Hung’s scrotum and spit out a testicle. It was Rex’s fault, slipping it in her back door when Kandy’s contract specifically forbade it. “Sure, I remember Kandy. So does One Nut Hung.”

“I was looking through the lens at Kandy, just a second before she chomped old Rex. Same look on Amy Larkin’s face when she mentioned your name.”

Ziegler was processing that when he heard his name called, as if being paged in a hotel lobby. “Charles W. Ziegler!”

A short, trim man with a set of headphones draped around his neck approached.

“What the fuck are you doing on my set?” Rodney Gifford demanded.

The guy had directed most of the Charlie’s Girlz videos and was as miserable a prick as ever told an actress to spread wider and moan louder. A dozen years ago, Gifford had bought Ziegler out, wildly overpaying for the studio. Instead of blaming his own stupid-ass self, he carried a grudge against Ziegler.

“Relax, Gifford. I come in peace.”

The director waltzed over to confront him. “Closed set, Ziegler!” Raising his voice to impress the crew.

“Why, you shooting The Da Vinci Code?”

Gifford seethed. “You never understood the craft.”

“What’s to understand? Suck, fuck, and pop.” Charlie looked to the growing crowd for agreement. “Your problem is, you complicate everything.”

Gifford was dressed as if Calvin Klein might pop in and ask him to pose for an ad. Even now, at fifty-something, he played the role of preppie with an artistic bent. Pleated khaki pants, loafers without socks, a black silk shirt, tinted glasses, and that exaggerated glide in his stride.

Gifford had gone to film school and thought he was Ingmar Bergman. His interiors always had odd angles, quick cuts, and shadowy lighting, when all the whackers wanted were brightly lit close-ups of winking twats. “Off my set, Ziegler.” Gifford pointed to the door.

“I’m leaving, Gifford. Only came by to say hello to an old friend, and that ain’t you.”

“Bullshit. I know why you’re here. It’s that Larkin woman asking questions.” Gifford smiled maliciously, his teeth bleached as white as a porcelain toilet. “You can’t bury your past, Ziegler.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I got a call yesterday from an Amy Larkin. Ever hear of her?”

“What’s your point?”

“Enterprising woman. She got my unlisted home number. Asked me to lunch.”

“So?”

“I had the salad nicoise. Want to know what we talked about?”

“Fuck you, Gifford.” Ziegler wouldn’t give the prick the satisfaction of asking.

“The woman thinks you’re scum, Charlie. I applaud her good taste.”

“Fuck you twice.”

Most of the crew were paying attention now. A topless Lolita type in a plaid cheerleader’s skirt put down her book-Sudoku for Dummies-and watched the two men.

“Maybe I should have told her what I know,” Gifford said, in a teasing tone.

“You don’t know shit.”

Gifford moved closer and whispered, his breath smelling of coffee and peppermints. “I was at your house that night, Ziegler. I know exactly what happened to Krista Larkin.”