He moved to the couch, pulled out his laptop. The Dago Productions logo flashed onscreen, the “o” of it the male symbol, a big proud cock of an arrow straining ever upward. It was strange, looking at it now. He felt, what was the word, conflicted. He owed everything he had to cocks straining ever upward. But still. Thirty years in the business, four-hundred-plus films, a dozen Woodys lined up on his mantel. But what did it all mean?
Stop, he corrected. Clouds do not have to bring rain. You are of the sun. Feel the rays of empowerment, and let them change you.
He opened the script, scrolled to the last page.
INT. HOLLYWOOD APARTMENT—NIGHT
It is a small room. JENNA ST. JOHN SIMONE, a beautiful woman with a pure heart who has come to Los Angeles to become a STAR, sits on her bed. She is wearing a beautiful white dress symbolizing her PURITY.
JENNA
I know that you are out there. Jenna bites her lip. She is sad.
No, better than sad. He highlighted the word, looked at the synonyms.
Jenna bites her lip. She is wistful. JENNA
Where are you? The man who will see that I am more than just a beautiful woman. Who will love me for my heart.
Jerry sighed, rubbed at his eyes. It was good, but what now? The books all said that a screenplay was about 110 pages, but he was on page 68, and so far, Jenna St. John Simone hadn’t had any luck either becoming a star or finding the man she knew was waiting for her.
Don’t lose faith. You are of the sun—
Someone moved on his patio.
Jerry came upright so fast the computer slipped off his lap and
hit the carpet. He killed the light, stepped closer to the window. Squinted. A man’s shape was framed against the railing, barely visible in the glow of his pool lights.
A boyfriend. About once a year some brokenhearted hick from Kansas tried this. They all had visions of rescuing their girlfriends, like D’Ago the Dago was some kind of fairy-tale monster who had enslaved them, instead of a businessman who knew talent when he saw it. Though none of the boyfriends had been dumb enough to sneak onto his fucking property.
Well, this one was going to get a lesson in business. He slid open his desk drawer, pulled out his pistol and racked it. Then he tightened his bathrobe and padded through the house. Squaring his shoulders, he yanked open the patio door.
“Asshole, you’re trespassing.”
The guy didn’t move, didn’t turn around. What the hell? Jerry stepped forward. “Hey! I can see you. Turn the fuck around.”
5
Bennett turned, leaning back against the railing with his elbows propped up. The wavering illumination of the pool lit D’Agostino from below, splashing a pallid yellow over his tan and glinting off the gun in his right hand. “Hell of a view you got here, Jerry.”
“Bennett? Jesus.” The producer heaved a sigh, lowered the pistol. He had that slightly pickled motivational speaker vibe: skin too tight, teeth too white, spray-tan too thick. Still, for a man who used to boast that breakfast was best served on a mirror, he looked damn good. “Didn’t know you were back in town. What are you doing here?”
“Calling in a marker.”
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
“Hey, whoa. You said we were even. After I did the thing.” “I lied.”
“You promised.”
“I lied.” He nodded at the gun. “And if you don’t put that away,
I might decide you’re being inhospitable.”
The producer paled, and quickly tucked the pistol into the pocket
of his robe. “Sorry.”
Bennett said nothing, just let the silence deepen. Every second
was weighing on the other man, he could see that. Poor Jerry had
always been a nervous boy.
“So. What do you—”
“I’m going to be staying here for a while.”
“Great. Let’s plan dinner, some drinks. I’ll have a couple of girls
join us—”
“You don’t understand. I’ll be staying here.”
“Here? In my house? I mean,” the guy tripping over himself, “we go
back a long way, you know I’m glad to see you, but come on. I can’t—” “Jerry.”
Just saying his name was enough. The trick was always in breaking them the first time. They would never forget. After that, it rarely
took more than a hint. Didn’t matter if you were talking about a
hard guy or a TV starlet or a porn producer.
Back in ’81, Jerry D’Agostino had convinced his girlfriend to let
him shoot video, fantasy stuff—the secretary who gave her all for
the company, the cheerleader raising team spirit—promising that it
would be just for them. That was back in the dawn of porn’s golden
day, when every home suddenly had a VCR and every video store
had a back room obscured by a bead curtain. The girlfriend hadn’t
lasted, but Dago Production’s first film had done quite well, and
hundreds had followed.
Bennett had heard rumors, did his due diligence, and found out
that the Dago kept two sets of books. A dangerous move, since the
men he was skimming had ties to Vegas and New York and a habit
of leaving bodies in the desert. He’d come at Jerry sideways, offering
a business proposition, a little sideline using some of D’Agostino’s
“stars” to run a honeypot scam.
Dago had tried to pass. But in the end he’d come around to
Bennett’s way of thinking.
“So. Um. You just need a place to crash?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay, yeah, sure. I’ll ah, I’ll make up the guest room.” “Sorry, Jerry, I wasn’t clear. I need peace and quiet.” He put on
his affable smile.
“I don’t—”
“You’re going on vacation.”
“What?”
“Tonight.”
“No, I can’t, I’ve got a shoot this week. This new girl, she’s dynamite. Eighteen and tits like artillery shells. Plus she’ll do it rough, doesn’t mind choking, spitting. She’ll throat-job and moan like it’s the highlight of her day. Shit’s hot now, near-rape fantasies. They