by Butcher, Jim
“We do,” Arturo said.
She threw her hair back over her shoulder, a gesture filled with arrogance, and glared at me. “And who is this?”
“Harry,” I provided. “Production assistant.”
“Well then, Larry. Where the hell is my latte? I sent you for it an hour ago.”
Evidently, reality did not often intrude on Tricia Scrump’s life. It was probably shacked up with courtesy somewhere. I prepared to return verbal fire, but a panicked look from Arturo stopped the first reply that sprang to mind. “Sorry. I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do,” she said. She spun on one high heel, displaying her G-string and an ass that probably deserved its own billing in the credits, and stalked out.
At least she started to.
She abruptly stopped, frozen, her body tightening with tension.
A woman that made Trixie Vixen look like the ugly stepsister appeared in the door and blocked the starlet’s exit. I had to force myself not to stare.
Tricia “Trixie” Scrump née Genosa née Vixen’s beauty was up to code. You could run a checklist from it: lovely mouth, deep eyes, full breasts, slender waist, flared hips, long and shapely legs. Check, check, check. She looked like she’d been ordered from a catalog and assembled from a kit. She was a vision of a woman—but a prefabricated one, painted by numbers.
The newcomer was the real thing. She was grace. Beauty. Art. As such, she was not so easily quantified.
She would have been tall, even without the heeled faux-Victorian boots of Italian leather. Her hair was so dark that its highlights were nearly blue, a torrent of glossy curls held partially in check with a pair of milky ivory combs. She had eyes of dark grey with hints of violet twilight at their centers. Her clothes were all effortless style: natural fabrics, black skirt and jacket embroidered with abstract dark crimson roses with a white blouse.
Thinking back later, I couldn’t clearly remember her facial features or her body, beyond a notion that they were superb. Her looks were almost extraneous. They weren’t any more important to her appeal than a glass was to wine. It was at its best when invisible and showing the spirit contained within. Beyond mere physical presence, I could sense the nature of the woman—strength of will, intelligence, blended with a sardonic wit and edged with a lazy, sensuous hunger.
Or maybe the hunger was mine. In the space of five seconds, my attention to detail fractured, and I wanted her. I wanted her in the most primal sense, in every way I could conceive. Whatever gentle and chivalrous tendencies my soul harbored suddenly evaporated. Images swarmed over me—images of unleashing the fires burning in me upon willing flesh. Conscience withered a heartbeat later. Something hungry, confident, and unrepentant took its place.
I realized, on some distant level, that something was wrong, but there was no tangible, tactile sense of truth to the thought. Instincts ruled me, and only the most feral, vicious drives remained.
I liked it.
A lot.
While my inner Neanderthal was pounding his chest, Trixie Vixen took a step back from the dark-haired woman. I couldn’t see her face, but her voice crackled with too much anger. She was afraid. “Hello, Lara.”
“Trish,” the woman said, with faint contemptuous emphasis on the name. Her voice smoldered, so low and delicious that my toes started to curl up. “You look lovely.”
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Tricia said. “There aren’t any whips or chains on the set.”
Lara shrugged, perfectly relaxed. “I’ve always felt that the best whips and chains are in the mind. With a little creativity, the physical ones are hardly necessary.” Lara stared down at Tricia for a moment and then asked, “Have you given any more thought to my offer?”
“I don’t do bondage films,” Tricia said. A sneer colored the words. “They’re for wrinkled old has-beens.” She started forward with a determined stride.
Lara didn’t move. Tricia stopped a bare inch from her and they met gazes again. The redheaded film star started trembling.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Lara said. She smiled and stepped clear of the doorway. “Keep in touch. Trish.”
Trixie Vixen fled—at least as much as someone wobbling away on six-inch heels can flee. The dark-haired woman watched her with a smug smile on her mouth and then said, “Exit scene. It must be difficult to be the center of the universe. Good afternoon, Arturo.”
“Lara,” Arturo said. His tone was that of an uncle chiding his favorite niece. He came around his desk and walked over to the woman, offering both hands. “You shouldn’t tease her like that.”
“Arturo,” she said warmly. She took his hands, and they did more social cheek kissing. I shook my head while they did, and managed to shove my libido out of the driver’s seat of my brain. Captain of my own soul (even if my pants were considering mutiny), I began focusing my thoughts, building up a barrier to shield them.
“You are an angel,” Arturo said to her. His voice was steady and kind and not at all that of a man having most of his blood channeled south of his belly button. How the hell could he not have reacted to her presence? “An angel to come here so quickly. To help me.”
She waved a hand in a lazy motion. Her fingernails weren’t terribly long, and didn’t have any polish. “I’m always glad to help a friend, Arturo. Are you all right?” she asked. “Joan said you’d forgotten to refill your prescription.”
He sighed. “I’m fine. Lowering my blood pressure would not have helped Giselle.”
Lara nodded. “It’s horrible, what happened. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I am not sure I am comfortable to have Inari here. She’s a child.”
“That’s arguable,” Lara said. “After all, she’s old enough to perform now, if she wishes.”
Arturo looked startled and a little sick. “Lara.”
She laughed. “I’m not saying she should, dear fool. Only that my baby sister makes her own choices now.”
“They grow,” Arturo said. His voice was a little sad.
“They do.” Lara’s eyes moved over to me. “And who is this? Tall, dark, and silent. I like him already.”
“Harry,” Arturo replied. He beckoned me over. “Lara Romany, meet Harry, our new production assistant. He just started today, so be kind to him.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” she said, and slipped her arm through Genosa’s. “Joan wanted me to tell you that your prescription came in, and that she needs your help on the set.”
Arturo nodded with a strained but genuine smile. “And you are to escort me down to take my medicine, eh?”
“Via my feminine wiles,” Lara confirmed.
“Harry,” Arturo said.
“I need to make a quick call,” I answered. “I’ll be right behind you.”
The two of them left. Lara threw another look at me over her shoulder, her expression speculative. And hot. I mean, wow. If she’d crooked her finger, I think I would have been in danger of floating off the floor and drifting along behind her on a cloud of her perfume. Me and Pepé le Pew.
It took me maybe half a minute after they walked away before I was able to reboot my brain. After that, I ran a quick review of what had just happened through the old grey matter.
Pretty, pale, supernaturally sexy, and just a little scary. I could do the math. And I was willing to bet that Romany wasn’t Lara’s last name.
She looked a hell of a lot more like a Raith.
Son of a bitch. The White Court was here.
A succubus on the set. Strike that, the health-conscious kid sister made it two . . . succubuses. Succubusees? Succubi? Stupid Latin correspondence course. Or maybe she wasn’t one, because I hadn’t felt a thing like the attraction Lara Romany exuded when I was near little Inari.
It really hit me, then, that I’d wandered into a mess that might get me killed, regardless of how silly and embarrassing it sounded. Now I had to contend not only with pornography-syndicate conspiracies, but also a succubus of
the White Court. Or maybe more than one, which for grammatical reasons I hoped was not the case.
So in addition to a feisty new Black Court partner in the war dance between the Council and the Vampire Courts, I also got angry lust bunny movie stars, deadly curses, and a thoroughly embarrassing job as my investigative cover.
Oh, and bean-curd pizza, which is just wrong.
What a mess.
I made a mental note: The next time I saw Thomas, I was going to punch him right in the nose.
Chapter Thirteen
After two or three tries, I got Genosa’s phone to dial out to Murphy. “It’s me, Murph. You get that information off the Internet?”
“Yeah. And then I talked to some people I know out there. I dug up some goodies for you.”
“Peachy. Like what?”
“Nothing that will stand up in a court, but it might help you figure out what’s going on.”
“Wow, Murph. It’s as if you’re a detective.”
“Bite me, Dresden. Here’s the deal on Genosa. He’s a dual citizen of the States and Greece. He’s the last son of a big money family that fell on hard times. Rumor has it he left Greece to avoid his parents’ debts.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I continued searching through Genosa’s desk and found a big old leather-bound photo album. “I’m listening.”
“He wound up making and directing sex films. Did well investing the money, and he’s worth a little more than four million, personally.”
“Sex sells.” I frowned, flipping through the photo album. It was neatly packed with excerpts from newspapers, transcripts, and photos of Genosa on the set of a number of national talk shows. There was another of him standing beside Hugh Hefner and surrounded by a number of lovely young women. “That’s a lot of money. Is that all?”
“No,” Murphy said. “He’s paying alimony to three ex-wives out of some kind of fund set up to provide it. He’s got almost all of what’s left tied up in starting his own studio.”
I grunted. “Genosa’s under some serious pressure, then.”
“How so?”
“He’s only got about thirty-six hours to finish his movie,” I said. “He’s got one project done, but if he doesn’t get a pair of profitable films, he’ll lose the studio.”
“You figure someone is trying to run him out of business?”
“Occam thinks so.” I turned another page and blinked at the article there. “Damn.”
“What?”
“He’s a revolutionary.”
“He’s what?” Murphy asked.
I repeated myself redundantly again. “Apparently Arturo Genosa is considered a revolutionary in his field.”
I could almost hear Murphy lift a skeptical eyebrow. “A revolutionary boink czar?”
“So it would seem.”
She snorted. “How exactly do you get to become a porn revolutionary?”
“Practice, practice, practice?” I guessed.
“Wiseass.”
I kept flipping pages, skimming the album. “He’s been interviewed in about thirty magazines.”
“Yeah,” Murphy said. “Probably with illustrious names like . . . like Jugs-A-Poppin and Barely Legal Lolita Schoolgirls.”
I thumbed through pages. “And People, Time, Entertainment Weekly, and USA Today. He’s also been on Larry King and Oprah.”
“You’re kidding,” she said. “Oprah? Why?”
“Hang on; I’m reading. It looks like he’s got this crazy notion that everyone should be able to enjoy themselves in bed without going insane trying to meet an impossible standard. He thinks that sex is natural.”
“Sex is natural,” Murphy said. “Sex is good. Not everybody does it, but everybody should.”
“I’m the wiseass. You’re the cop. Respect my boundaries.” I kept reading. “Genosa also casts people of a lot of different ages instead of using only twenty-year-old dancers. According to a transcript of Larry King, he avoids gynecological close-ups and picks people based on the genuine sensuality of their performance rather than purely on appearance. And he doesn’t believe in using surgically altered . . . uh . . .”
My face heated up. Murphy was probably my best friend, but she was still a girl, and a gentleman just doesn’t say some words in front of a lady. I held the phone with my shoulder and made a cupping motion in front of my chest with both hands. “You know.”
“Boobs?” Murphy said brightly. “Jugs? Hooters? Ya-yas?”
“I guess.”
She continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “Melons? Torpedoes? Tits? Gazongas? Knockers? Ta-tas?”
“Hell’s bells, Murph!”
She laughed at me. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed. I thought breast implants were required industry equipment. Like hard hats and steel-toed boots for construction workers.”
“Not according to Genosa,” I said. “He’s quoted here saying that natural beauty and genuine desire make for better sex than all the silicone in California.”
“I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or a little nauseous,” Murphy said.
“Six of one and half dozen of another,” I said. “Bottom line is that he’s not your average pornographic artist.”
“I’m not sure that’s saying much, Harry.”
“If you’d said that before I met him, I’d probably have agreed. But I’m not so sure now. I don’t get any nasty vibe off him. He seems like a decent guy. Taking some measure of responsibility. Challenging the status quo, even if it hurts his profits.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s no Nobel prize for pornography.”
“My point is that he’s applying some measure of integrity to it. And people are responding well to him.”
“Except for the ones trying to kill him,” Murphy said. “Harry, this is cynical, but people who choose a life like that draw problems down onto themselves sooner or later.”
“You’re right. That is cynical.”
“You can’t help everyone. You’ll go insane if you try.”
“Look, the guy is in trouble and he’s a fellow human being. I don’t have to love his lifestyle to want to keep bad things from happening to him.”
“Yeah.” Murphy sighed. “I guess I know this tune.”
“Do you think I could convince you to—”
The skin on the back of my neck went cold and clammy, tingling. I turned to the office doorway in time to see the lights in the hall flick out. My heart pounded in sudden apprehension. A shadowy figure appeared in the office door.
I picked up the first thing my hand found, Genosa’s heavy glass ashtray, and flung it hard at the figure. The ashtray rebounded off the inner edge of the door and struck whoever it was. I heard a voiceless gasp of air. At the same time something hissed past my ear. A sharp thumping sound came from the wall behind me.
I shouted at the top of my lungs and ran forward, but my foot tangled in the phone cord. It didn’t tug me into a pratfall, but I stumbled, and it gave the shadowy figure time to run. By the time I’d recovered my balance and gotten to the hallway, I couldn’t see or hear anyone.
The hall itself was dark, and I couldn’t remember the locations of either light switches or doors, which made a headlong pursuit less than advisable. It occurred to me that I made a wonderful target, leaning out of the door of the dimly lit office, and I slipped back inside, shutting and locking the door behind me as I went.
I looked at whatever had thumped into the wall behind me, and found, of all the stupid things, a small dart fixed with exotic-looking yellow feathers fringed with a tinge of pink. I tugged the dart out of the wall. It was tipped with what appeared to be bone instead of metal, and the bone was stained with something dark red or dark brown. I had the feeling it wasn’t Turtle Wax.
A poisoned blowgun dart. I’d been ambushed before, but that was pretty exotic, even for me. Almost silly, really. Who the hell got killed with poison blowgun darts these days?
A buzz of noise came from the dropped receiver of the phone. I picke
d up an empty plastic cigar tube from next to Genosa’s humidor and slipped the dart into it, then capped it before I picked up the phone.
“Harry?” Murphy was demanding. “Harry, are you all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “And it looks like I’m on the right track.”
“What happened?”
I held up the cigar tube and peered at the dart. The poisoned tip gleamed with its semi-gelatinous stain. “It was pretty clumsy, but I think someone just tried to kill me.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Get out of there, Harry.”
“No, Murph,” I said. “Look, I think it was just someone trying to scare me, or they’d have used a gun. Can you get to those records today?”
“If they’re matters of public record,” she said. “We’ve got the time difference on our side. What are you hoping to find?”
“More,” I said. “This whole thing stinks. Hard to put a puzzle together when you’re missing pieces.”
“Get in touch if you learn something,” Murphy said. “Magic or not, attempted murder is police business. It’s my business.”
“This time for sure,” I said.
“Watch your ass, Bullwinkle.”
“Always. Thanks again, Murph.”
I hung up and flipped through the next several pages of Genosa’s scrapbook, expecting nothing but more articles. I got lucky on the last few pages. He had big, glossy color photos there—three women, and I recognized two of them.
A subtitle beneath the first picture read, Elizabeth Guns. The photo was of Madge, Genosa’s first wife. She looked like she’d been in her mid-twenties in the picture and she was more or less nude. Her hair was enormous and stiff-looking, an artificial shade of deep scarlet. She probably had to take off her makeup with a Zamboni machine.
The next photo read, Raven Velvet, beneath a picture of a nearly Amazonian brunette I didn’t recognize. She had the kind of build that fairly serious female athletes can get, where the muscles are present, defined with obvious strength, but softened and rounded enough to look more pretty than formidable. Her hair was cut in a short pageboy, and at first I thought her features were really quite sweet, almost kind. But her expression was an unsmiling, haughty stare at the camera. Ex-Genosa two, I supposed. He’d called her Lucille.