“Sorta.” Alec repressed a shudder. “In some ways it's even better. The view, for instance.”
Now that his big worm was hooked, the producer grew impatient. “Why don't we start right now? Pack your stuff-or better still, don't bother packing. I'll buy you a pair of pants when we hit Cincinnati.”
In another minute they would have brushed past me. All I'd built up that summer shattered. Forgotten; Left to molder in the bushes. Ungrateful bastards! Both of 'em, including Alec.
“What about me?” I shouted.
“Gee, Doug, you can't come with us. You got a busy day tomorra, polishing.” Out of a more sophisticated mouth, I would consider Matt's remark unmitigated sarcasm.
I could make excuses for my buddy. But Alec really hurt me. He spoke jovially, like Santa passing out presents. “Come on along with us, Doug. We'll drop you off at the hotel.” He dug his hand into his pocket. “I want you to know I'm grateful for all you've done, and once I'm back in New York I won't forget you. Please accept this token of appreciation.” His hand touched my hand and left something crinkly.
A finif!
They say a guy gets what he deserves. What did I do to deserve this? What had I done wrong? My initial mistake was taking that piss in Beth's company. Now, a minute ago, I'd made another one. A matter of pronouns. “What about me?” I'd demanded truculently. If you want to get something out of a guy, forget the me bit. Toss the ball into his territory, use the second person singular. You. You, you bastard. What about you?
Swallowing my pride along with my spit, I said, “Thanks for the token, Alec. I'd show you mine, but you've already seen it.” Forced laugh from Alec. No sound from Matt; eyes popping, he was watching me shred a 5-dollar bill into confetti.
I took a deep breath. “What about you, Alec? Running away with an empty camera? Leaving the hinterland unexploited? Whatever happened to the social significance porn-opera, Blackwater Balling?”
“With Matt's schlang under contract, who needs social significance?”
“That's not the point, Mr. Producer. If you'd stay in one place long enough, if you'd give me a chance, you'd have a production. A production to make Backwater Balling look like The Birth of a Nation. Balling looks good in a title. You could call it uh — Barnyard Balling. Barnyard-that's it, Alec! The heart of America. Bringing fucking back to nature!”
Enthusiasm is infectious. I found myself listening to my patter and believing it. “What have you got in New York, Alec? Dirty lofts and fucked-out whores? Here you've got everything. Perfect setting, farm animals, the big brute-”
“Hey, you talkin' about me?”
I assured Matt that the big brute referred to a certain sheep of my acquaintance.
Alec was impressed but inquisitive. “Who's gonna play the all-American farm girl, son? Tessie?”
“Not Tessie. A local product. A girl with four times Iran's potential, because she's twice as pretty and half her age.”
Alec's ears perked up; Matt's started wriggling.
“The girl I have in mind is photogenic, voluptuous, available, and fourteen years old. Her name is Jeannie.”
“Jeannie don't put out,” Matt mumbled. “Doncha remember?”
“I've had a long talk with Jeannie since then. I've been meaning to tell you about it.”
Matt weighed my statement and reached a verdict. “You're a tricky bastard,” he said, almost admiringly.
The nerve of that prick, calling me a tricky bastard!
It's always easier to fool an expert. Alec, the old conniver, was convinced instantly.
“You have yourself a deal, boy. If this Jeannie and Barnyard Balling work out, you'll get your share. Now,” he became businesslike, “how soon can you get her here? An hour?”
“Fifty minutes. But I'll hafta borrow your ear.” Leaving Alec the thankless task of discussing montages and camera angles with his new superstar, I started the motor. How could I lose? Either I'd produce Jeannie and cut in on a porno production. Or I'd take Alec's car and Highway 47 the direct route from Iowa to Mexico.
XVIII
I boasted I'd bring home the bacon in fifty minutes. The first forty-three were spent circling Jeannie's neighborhood, pondering. How could I get to see her without ringing doorbells? If this were a schoolday, the task would be easy. I'd wait outside the building with the parents and pushers. There's no school in Iowa in August, however. When I get elected, I promise to sponsor a bill to change that. Roaming around the streets all summer, a girl can get into trouble.
I couldn't accuse Jeannie of roaming the streets, but that's where I found her. Strolling along, two blocks from her house, looking wistful. Alone. I honked the horn.
Please! Let her he friendly. Let her stepfather he in bed with something lingering or terminal. Let her climb in the car and say, Take me wherever you want; I'll do whatever you tell me. Let her be photogenic.
Jeannie hopped in, no longer wistful. '“I thought I'd never see you again, Doug. Where are we going?” She snuggled a little closer. There was a smudge of dirt on her bare knee. I smeared the dirt with my finger, and was tempted to give hygiene a kick in the ass and kiss it. Jeannie snuggled closer.
“Take me wherever you want. I'll do whatever you tell me.
“Don't ever say such things, Jeannie. Words like that can be dangerous. I wouldn't hurt you, but you don't know about the next guy.”
Jeannie had her own answer to warnings. Adolescent, slightly nauseating, but inviting. She drew one finger across my lips, sealing them, and said, “Fucky-wucky.”
For a minute I lost control of the wheel. The car swerved to the side of the road. And my hand swerved from Jeannie's knee northward.
“Don't talk baby talk, honey. You're a big girl now. Mmmm, a very big girl.” The fleshiest parts of her thighs were developing. Undergoing the transition from baby fat to satin smooth adjuncts, leading to provocative girl hips. Mmmm!
“Do you get an allowance, honey?”
The question jarred her, but she snapped back into form that I've never forgotten. “Yes, I do, Doug. A dollar-fifty every week. Do you need money? I could let you have all of it. I haven't spent anything — ”
It wasn't the amount, it was the way she made the offer. I felt mushy and lender all over-not quite alt over.
“No, darling, I don't want your money. I was thinking you might need some. See, I know a way you can earn a year's allowance; in a couple of hours.”
“Is Mr. Clint hack in Prescott?”
“No.”
She had been reading outdated novels. I could tell by her next tremulous query.
“Y-you're not going to ship me to Buenos Aires?”
Not unless Alec planned to go on location. The Cash and the Gaucho. Instantly I conjured up a scenario. Once that hug bites, you find yourself doing it all the time, liven when your hand is resting one foot due north of a compliant kneecap.
“How would you like to be in the movies, honey?”
“Then you do want to ship me to South America!” Jeannie declared, knowingly.
Shit! I'd forgotten. White-slavers traditionally offer girls careers in the cinema while preparing the hypodermic, etc. So Jeannie was sceptical. Then she started giggling. Let her giggle-till she saw Alec's camera and met up with Mathew.
The two men hadn't been idle during my absence. As I rounded the curve that brought us within sight of the cabin, I threw up my arm to shield Jeannie. “Don't look, honey!” Taking the long cut, I dropped her off at the shack.
“You make yourself comfortable inside. I'll be right back.
Then I waded back to the horrendous scene of beastly action. Alec had already started filming. Matt Hammond in Barnyard Balling with a ewe. The unlikely threesome-ewe, Matt, and Alec stood right out in the open in the center of the; field, which somehow made it more sinister. Bestiality should be furtive;.