Money Shot

22.

The PDM offices were just what I had been expecting. I’d never been there but I might as well have. The Valley was riddled with hundreds of places exactly like this. A warren of mildewy, over-airconditioned rooms up front and a huge hollow warehouse space in the back. A couple of indentured editors lurking lemur-eyed and unshaven in rooms lit only by images of grinding flesh. Mexican and Salvadoran ladies slipping slick printed covers into thousands of plastic DVD clamshells. Fulfillment girls and a forklift driver and some poor sod on QC, watching hour after mindless hour of smut in a never-ending hunt for digital glitches. A busy little beehive all working tirelessly, day in and day out, so that you can look at naughty movies in the comfort of your own home.

The ‘B’ in B. Handerlan turned out to stand for Barbara. She was blonde, plain and mushroom pale with the same expression of weary, put-upon exasperation worn by employees at the DMV. She acted as though the enormous effort involved in getting up out of her spavined chair and walking over to the file cabinet to find the records Malloy had requested was almost more than she could bear.

“We appreciate your assistance, Ms. Handerlan,” Malloy told her.

“No problem,” she said, making it clear that it was, in fact, a major problem. “What was the title again?”

“Naughty Teens,” Malloy replied. “Seventeen.”

“Right,” the woman said.

While she searched noisily through the files, I let my eyes wander over her desk. She had a photo of two chubby boys in a frame that said “Mommy’s Angels.” A few more years and they’d be sneaking peeks at Naughty Teens themselves.

“Okay,” she said. “Naughty Teens 17.”

Malloy met her halfway and snatched the slim file from her hand.

“Thanks,” he said, laying the file open on the desk and thumbing efficiently through the contents.

In seconds he had sorted through the model releases and found one for “Kimberly.” The model release and attached drivers license scan said her name was not Kimberly or Lia, but Amanda Rose Temmens, age 19.

Malloy jotted down the number on the license and was about to snap the file shut when he paused. He frowned slightly and jotted something else down.

The woman had just made it back to the desk and was about to lower herself back down into her chair.

“Thank you, Ms. Handerlan,” he said again. “One other thing.”

Ms. Handerlan halted her descent toward the chair, scowling at the prospect of one more thing.

“What?” she asked.

“Do you have contact information for the person who actually shot this video?” Malloy asked.

“What?” she said again. “You mean the director?”

“Yes,” Malloy said.

“Well...” she replied. “It should be on the release.”

“I saw that,” Malloy said. “But the address is a just a PO box. Don’t you have another address or maybe a phone number?”

“If we did,” Ms. Handerlan said, “it would be on the release.”

“Well,” Malloy said. “What if something goes wrong with the film and you need to contact someone?”

She shrugged. “If it’s not on the release, I can’t help you. You’ll have to talk to the owner.”

“Okay,” Malloy said. “Can I talk to the owner now?”

“He’s not here,” she said. “He’s out of town.”

Malloy seemed to realize that he had gotten all he was going to get out of her.

“Right,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

The woman did not reply. Malloy shot me a look and gestured toward the door with his chin.

In the parking lot PDM shared with a chrome plating facility, a weight loss supplement company and a mysterious business whose sign read “J-Toc Fabrication,” Malloy lit a cigarette and spoke low.

“Got a license on Jesse Black,” he said.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? Of course Jesse’s release would have to be there too. Now that we had his real name and address, it would be a cinch to find him. The thought of it made me feel giddy—and a little nauseous.

“So now what?” I asked.

“I want to see what I can dig up on Amanda Rose Temmens,” Malloy said. “I’ve got an old friend on the job who owes me, but you can’t come. You’ll need to stay at the motel.”

I nodded, not really listening. I was still thinking about Jesse.