Kill the Mother!

by Michael Mallory

  “And if the guy finds out what it’s really worth, comes back with a lawyer, and demands you sell it back to him?”

  “I deal with things like ‘ifs’ on an as need basis,” he said. “Now, what can we do you for this evening?”

  That was a good question. I looked over his classic noir shelf, but it was largely the same as the last time I’d been in. He had one or two new DVDs of 1950s and ’60s crime dramas from Hammer, the British studio that brought back Dracula and Frankenstein with stunning Technicolor success, but there was something about Brit Noir that wasn’t quite…real. Oh, hell; maybe after what I’d been through today I should just go for a comfort film. I picked out The Big Sleep with Bogie and Bacall. I never get tired of it. I probably should buy a copy of my own.

  “Ah, going for the good stuff,” Mac said as I laid it down on the counter. “Have you seen the 1945 pre-release version?”

  “Yeah, but I like the official one better.”

  “Me too.” He opened the box up and examined the disc, then said, “Okay.”

  “Okay what?” I asked.

  “Oh, I had a problem a month or so back, where someone came in to rent this and it turned out to be the wrong disc inside.”

  “What did they get?”

  “The Big Sleepover.”

  “Sounds like an eighties teen sex comedy.”

  “It’s a hardcore porn film.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know how it is with porn producers. They can’t come up with an original idea so they parody what someone else has done and slap a pun title on it. The worst I’ve seen is a spoof of Gladiator called Glad He Ate Her. Anyway, someone came in and ordered the real Big Sleep and Big Sleepover at the same time but they returned them in the wrong cases, and I didn’t catch it. Then a teacher came in to rent the Bogart film to show to her class on the last day of school.”

  “I went to the wrong school,” I commented.

  “Well, it was for the last day, or something, the classes had ended. But the point is, instead of Bogie and Baby, what she got was the skin parody. When she brought it back in here I wasn’t sure I was going to escape with my life.”

  “It almost makes me want to see what they did to Raymond Chandler,” I said, and before I could add the second almost, Mac reached down under the counter.

  “Have a look,” he said, pulling up a DVD. “I haven’t seen it all the way through, so you can give me a review.”

  “Why do you even carry stuff like this, Mac?”

  “Edendale Video not only caters to every taste, but every lack thereof,” he said, proudly.

  I glanced down at the cover of the DVD and saw a young man in a fedora and trench coat, which he was opening in flashing fashion toward a woman, while looking back over his shoulder toward the camera. While not unhandsome, the guy looked stoned, drugged, or maybe just naturally stupid. But it was the woman who drew my attention. She was young and clearly nude (though a streamer reading Starring Philup Marlo…and it took a lot to Philup her! had been matted across the nipples of her very large breasts), and she was reacting with shock at the detective’s exposure. The woman looked familiar for some reason. Could it be an actress who had since made it in the mainstream? I turned the box over to see if there were any photos on the back, and found that there were. “Oh no, oh my god!” I moaned.

  “You okay, Dave?”

  I didn’t reply. My attention was riveted on the photos, until it slid down to the company logo in the bottom of the box, “Triex Distribution.” Triex Distribution…the name of the porn company that had been operating, unbeknownst to me, downstairs at my office building! Then my eyes slid back to the photographs. They weren’t good photos, but they were clear enough to recognize the two “actresses” pictured. One of them was the same woman as on the front of the box, and in this shot I easily recognized her: it was Janelle, the busty young lady who worked at Max Gelfan Productions. But it was the sight of the other woman, who must be playing the Bacall role, that really caused me to gasp for air.

  It was Elena Cates.

  FIFTEEN

  Mac was surprised by my decision to rent six different Triex discs and leave the real Big Sleep behind, until I told him the reason for my interest, which was that I had only recently found out that the films were shot in a makeshift studio below my office. “Can I come over for lunch sometime?” he asked.

  “They aren’t there anymore.”

  “Damn.”

  “It wasn’t exactly run like a sports arena, where you could buy a ticket and watch. I didn’t even know what was going on down there.” I kept to myself the fact that I had personally met two of the “actresses” involved in the films, and that one of them had been murdered.

  “Let me know if you like any of those,” Mac said.

  I was particularly careful driving home, in part because of my broken mirror, in part because my sore hand still made turning the wheel difficult, but also because I did not want to be stopped for any reason and have the police officer spot the porn in the passenger seat. Even though porn was perfectly legal, I could read the headlines in the Valley Voice, the little toy newspaper that covered my small section of the sprawl: Local investigator stopped for traffic violation with rented skin flicks. “He’s an asshole,” says Hollywood Detective Hector Mendoza. I did not completely relax until the engine and lights were off in the parking garage for my apartment building. First thing tomorrow, I’d run the car into the shop and get a new side mirror.

  Once inside, I headed straight for the fridge to see if there was anything to munch on. I should have eaten more at the Mexican restaurant. Further search turned up a can of chunky beef soup whose label was not in Latin, meaning it was probably not too old to eat. After heating it up, I didn’t even bother pouring it in a bowl. I just carried the pan into the living room, and then took The Big Sleepover and stuck it in the DVD player. In addition to The Big Sleepover I had Abraham Lickin: Vagina Hunter, Pussy in Boots, Breasts of the Southern Wild, ’Ave a Tart (“He’ll shag you blue!” the tagline promised), and perhaps most cringe-inducing of all, No Cuntry for Old Men. I could only imagine what a porn version of The Big Clock, the film that had gotten me in trouble with Hot Ticket Home Video, would be titled. With more than a bit of trepidation, I sat down to watch, hoping the film wouldn’t adversely affect my eating.

  Since I’m not an aficionado of porn (or even Sharon Stone movies) I don’t know if this one was any better or worse than other examples of the genre, but by any standards of filmmaking, it was voyage to the bottom of the barrel. The best thing that could be said about it was that most of it was in focus. Not all of it, but most. Whoever it was playing Philup Marlo looked even more stoned and dopey than he appeared in the cover art, though I had to admit that Janelle, as the wild sister, proved to have a modicum of acting ability, though that was not why she had been hired. Not by a long shot. It was her bared, spectacular chest that stole the movie. The very sight of her breasts might have turned Charles Nelson Reilly straight. When Elena came on—not, as I had guessed, in the Lauren Bacall role, which was handled by an anonymous blonde whose attempts to talk in a sexy baritone was funnier than anything on Comedy Central—but as the wife of the gangster, patterned after the original’s “Eddie Mars,” I fought the urge to close my eyes. As it turned out, all Elena did was push up her breasts while talking dirty to Marlo, showing a lot less flesh than many mainstream actresses displayed in their successful quests for the Oscar. The epic ended with the drugged-out-but-well endowed leading man saying to the anonymous blonde, “Here’s licking out you, kid,” which offended me on a half-dozen different levels.

  I went on to the next movie, and then the next, until I had watched five of them. Janelle appeared in two more, and Elena was in four of the five, though as before, her performances teased far more than she actually showed. A scene in panties and a sheer bra, which could probably be shown on network TV these days, was about the height of her nudity.

  It was now nearly
three in the morning, and I had been right earlier: Thursday had not been a repeat of Wednesday. It had been a lot worse; maybe the longest, strangest day of my life. I was exhausted, and not so much aroused as numb. I can’t say I found anything in these films particularly appealing (even the sight of Janelle’s boobs began to pall after a while) but at least the answer to one lingering question seemed evident: that was how Nora Faust had known the Triex offices had been a makeshift porn studio. There were two points of connection between her and Triex, Janelle and Elena, either of whom, or both, could have informed her of the facility.

  But where did that leave me in regards to the murders? Did Triex have anything to do with Nora’s death, or Elena’s? Perhaps it was time to talk once again to Janelle.

  Tomorrow.

  * * * *

  It was nearly ten in the morning when I woke up. Even though there was nothing in particular I had to be awake for, I disliked sleeping late. Who knows…maybe I’ll miss something?

  Before heading to the office, I had to do something about my car mirror. Jumping online I found a place in Encino that specialized in auto glass, and after getting cleaned up and wolfing down the last of a box of Lucky Charms, I set out for it. The place was staffed by a group of guys who looked like extras from a prison movie. The supervisor was a bald, tattooed man roughly the size of a manatee. He knew his business, though, and within an hour I had a new mirror. The problem was that they took cash only; I had the seventy-five they asked for on me, but only just. I had never developed the going-to-the-ATM habit because I had rarely enjoyed the having-money-in-the-bank condition required to maintain it. I had a small stack of Nora’s bills stashed away in my work desk, though.

  There was nothing awaiting me at the office except another call from Mrs. Marsh, the woman who had called yesterday, informing me that my services would not be needed after all. Cha-Cha the Peke had made his way home on his own, little the worse for wear. I could only assume he was out kibbling it up with the boys. Fishing out the envelope I had hastily stuck in the bottom drawer of my desk, the one containing money, I grabbed another C-note and then close up shop again and headed out for Max Gelfan Productions. The whole way to Hollywood, I glanced every five seconds or so in my beautiful new side mirror. I paid for it; I was going to use it.

  Parking at Gelfan’s was a little harder on this day, but I managed to snare a spot on the street about three blocks away. Once inside the building, I signed in at front and then went straight to the elevator and up to the fourth floor, where Janelle’s desk was, and then made the mistake of trying to find my own way around without a guide. In this particular building, I might have needed a Sherpa. I finally spotted a reception area that I believed to be Janelle’s workspace, but it was inhabited by a striking young woman of East Indian heritage. “Hi, can I help you?” she asked, her voice betraying an English accent. She had a kilowatt smile and dark, deep eyes. Had I simply never noticed so many beautiful women around before, or was I just going to all the right places this week?

  Not that it’s going to do you any good, I heard in my head. Thanks, Mitch, now please go away.

  “Hi, I think I’m in the wrong place,” I said. “I’m looking for Janelle.”

  “You’re in the right place,” she told me, “but Janelle is no longer her. I’m her replacement.” Her voice was musical.

  “Oh. Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with her?”

  The smile faltered a bit. “May I ask what is this regarding?”

  “My name is Dave Beauchamp and I’m a private investigator, and I need to speak with Janelle. If you can’t help me I’d be happy to talk with Terrence Holving.”

  “Mr. Holving is busy right now—”

  “Then I’ll wait.” I took a seat in the reception area and picked up a Hollywood Reporter, which was only about eight pages thick. Apparently not much was happening in Hollywood these days. Every few seconds I looked up at her and smiled, a technique that stood Jack Nicholson well in Chinatown, and danged if it didn’t work in real life, too.

  “Look, you’re making me nervous,” she said.

  Olivia Hussey; that’s who she sounds like.

  “If I tell you where Janelle is, will you please leave?”

  “I don’t want to make you nervous. All I want to do is talk to Janelle.”

  “Fine, but I’m not supposed to do this.” She opened a rolodex on her desk and wrote something down on a slip of paper, then held it out to me. When I took it I saw an address.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Are you an actress, too?”

  “I hope to be,” she said. “Right now I’m just doing some loop group stuff, because of my accent, but there is a trend for young Brindians right now, so I’m hopeful.”

  “Brindians?”

  “British people of Indian heritage. Like Parminder Nagra.”

  “Oh, right, and Merle Oberon.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Yes, well, I’ll be looking for you,” I said, leaving the office. It would be a shame for her not to be able to get her face on camera, but hopefully she wouldn’t end up in the same kind of films as Janelle.

  The address on the paper was for Kings Road, which is in West Hollywood, which meant my trusty, shot-at Toyota was getting a far greater workout than usual. It was an apartment, which I figured, so I hoped that there was a buzzer directory out front. As it turned out there was, though it only listed the last names of the tenants. I did not know what Janelle’s last name was. I punched the “manager” button and a second later a voice said: “Manager.”

  Awareness of oneself is a wonderful thing.

  “Hi, I’m here to see Janelle, but I think I have the wrong apartment number,” I said. “I wrote down one-oh-seven, but the person who answers isn’t Janelle.”

  “Hold on,” the voice said, and a moment later came back and said, “Janelle Wynn is in two-oh-five. I don’t know how you got one-oh-seven.”

  “I don’t either. Thanks.” I heard the line click off and prayed the manager wasn’t of a suspicious nature as I punched the button for Wynn, 205. A second later a voice answered: “Got something for me?”

  “Um, no, Janelle, it’s Dave Beauchamp. We met at Max Gelfan Productions.”

  “You! You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” she cried, and I opted to treat the question as a rhetorical one. “It’s because of you I got fired, you fucking piece of dogshit!” I could tell her after-hours manner was considerably different than her office etiquette.

  “Um, I’m sorry about that, but I need to talk to you.”

  “You can bite me, is what you can do!”

  It vill be…a pleasure, the voice of Bela Lugosi said in my head. I ignored him.

  “Janelle, don’t hang up,” I said. “All I need is a couple minutes of your time.”

  There was a pause, and then she said: “How do I even know you’re who you say you are?”

  “Janelle, why would anyone lie about being Dave Beauchamp?”

  She laughed, and then said: “You got me there. I’ll be right down, and you’ve got exactly one minute.” A few seconds later, Janelle appeared, her Olympic-sized bust threatening to burst through the boundaries of the tee shirt she was wearing. She opened the door but refused to step back so I could enter the lobby. “Okay, what is it?” she demanded. “You here to get me thrown out of my apartment, too?”

  “No, I…Janelle, I know you act in porn,” I said. It wasn’t the greatest conversation opener I’ve ever used, but I figured I had limited time for small talk.

  “And what? You figured if I’d do it for the camera, I’d do it for you? Get the fuck out of here or I’ll call the cops.” She turned and started to walk away, but I was able to catch the door before it closed, so I invited myself in.

  “Wait, that’s not why I’m here,” I called after her. “It’s about the Brothers Alpha.”

  “Those little shits? Why should I care about them now?”

  “They were watched by Elena Cates.�
��

  She stopped and turned back to me. “So?”

  “Elena was in some of the films you did.”

  “So?”

  “Elena Cates is dead,” I told her. “She was murdered.”

  Her face suddenly drained of insouciance. “Mother Mary.”

  “Nora’s dead, too, and the Alphas are missing.”

  “Motherfuck! When did all this happen?”

  “Last couple of days.”

  She walked over to the cushioned bench in the lobby and sank down. “Are you here because you think I know something about all this?”

  “Do you?”

  “Hell no! I got canned at Gelfan’s thanks to your telling Terry I was taking money from Nora for getting the twins into auditions. That’s the last contact I’ve had with anybody.”

  “I never told Holving you were taking Nora’s money,” I protested. “I didn’t know you were taking Nora’s money, but I suspected it, so—”

  “So you set up a goddamned sting, and I walked right into it! Terry started checking my emails when I was on break and he found the one I sent to Nora about that crap callback you talked about. When I came back, he shitcanned me right then and there.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Really.”

  “Oh, fuck you, you’re sorry. But I’m not through with Holving yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know things…oh, why am I even talking with you?” She spun around and started to leave again.

  “What about Elena?” I said.

  She stopped and turned back again. “What about her?”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “It’s been a while. It’s not like we were particularly close. Elena was kind of high-handed. She wouldn’t do sex scenes, she’d only do dialogue, like she was Julia Roberts, or something.”

  “How did Elena make the transition from sex films to helping out the stage mother of a couple of twelve-year-olds?”

  Janelle Wynn appeared to deflate…most of her, anyway. “I put Elena in contact with Nora. She wanted out while getting out was still possible.”