Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  She powered down the computer and went to the closet, stripping out of her filthy pajamas. She dragged out her suitcase, the only one she owned.

  It would be plenty.

  Dave hadn't expected this. In all the scenarios he'd played out in his head—and he had certainly run through a number of unpleasant ones—this hadn't even occurred to him. Now, parked in the long term lot at LAX, he took a deep breath and pondered what was next. TJ was in the passenger seat, his own car under wraps in his brother-in-law's garage. He'd been driving a rental for the past two days, ever since the Feds showed up at his apartment, looking to ask questions.

  He’d gotten lucky. The Feds hadn't pushed past Phil, the apartment complex manager. Phil had a thing about cops. He didn’t like them. He absolutely hated feds. Without a warrant, they didn’t get past the gate. Unless TJ invited them in, they were shit out of luck until they came back with paper. They’d tried flashing badges and blustering, but Phil had stood his ground. They’d mentioned a video they were interested in talking to TJ about, but that wasn't all that unusual.

  Phil ran one of the nicer complexes in L.A. He also had a reputation for keeping the activities of his residents quiet. He had, at one time or another, rented to half the talent in the industry. He kept his mouth shut when cops came sniffing around, which happened quite frequently. The maintenance fee was particularly high for a place that only offered a pool and a swing-up entry gate, but that covered a service that wasn’t listed in the lease agreement. If somebody came around looking for you, with or without a warrant, Phil would tip you off.

  Like he had done for TJ, by disabling his entry gate card.

  When TJ realized the card wasn't working, he rolled into a nearby 7-11 and dialed the manager's office. Phil picked up on the second ring.

  "Hi, Phil, how's it going?"

  The complex manager recognized TJ's voice immediately.

  "Heya, Teej, not bad. Listen, you had two packages come today. They looked like they were pretty expensive. I didn't want to leave them outside, and I couldn't get my master key to open your door, so I didn’t accept them and they got sent back where they came from."

  TJ decoded Phil's message. Two guys, well-dressed. Probably feds. Not LAPD, not for what those guys got paid. They'd asked Phil if they could look around, but he’d turned them away. They didn’t have a warrant, so had returned to base to regroup. TJ was betting they planned to get one, though, and were probably working on it.

  "Thanks, I appreciate that."

  "Hey, if you want to stop by and pay the rent, I'm gonna be free all morning. I'll fix that problem you were having with the gate, too."

  He jumped back in the car and returned to the complex, Phil having reactivated his swipe card. He guessed that the coast would be clear for at least an hour, maybe two. Unless they’d had a warrant ready or being processed, which he doubted. A warrant took time, unless you were public enemy number one. TJ, regardless of what had happened at the studio, was far from that. An hour would be plenty. Enough time to cover his ass and get rid of what the flatfoots were looking for. Or, to forfeit his security deposit and drop off his key in the rent drop box.

  When TJ stepped into the office a few minutes later, Phil didn’t look surprised, merely disappointed.

  "You didn't bring me a Big Gulp?"

  "They were all out of diet, big man."

  "But I don't drink diet," came Phil's retort.

  "That's why you're the big man," TJ shot back. Rumor had it that back in the seventies, Phil had been talent for a slew of pre-VHS flicks. Now, easily topping three hundred and fifty pounds, most of the new tenants scoffed at the notion. But TJ believed it. Jette Black was one of Phil's former tenants, and she claimed he was swinging a ten inch bat. If anybody knew how to eyeball talent, it was Jette, who only gagged when a guy resembled a kielbasa more than a human being.

  "Suits?" TJ asked. Phil nodded.

  "DEA?"

  "Don't think so," Phil said, shaking his head. He was probably right. Over the years, he’d met up with agents from every branch of law enforcement. Especially during election years. If Jette could eyeball talent, Phil could certainly finger a feebie.

  "They were asking about your schedule and if you’d been doing any shooting this week."

  "What did you tell 'em?"

  The big Hawaiian laughed. The buttons on his shirt threatened to turn into projectiles.

  "I told him I sure hoped so. This is porn, I said. You don't shoot all the time, you can't pay the rent."

  "Thanks," said TJ. “Appreciate it.”

  "So, you gonna pay the rent?"

  "Yeah, you bet," TJ confirmed. "Whatever they were nosing around for, I'm not worried about it. But I did just have a pretty good run in Vegas the past two days. I'm going down to the sun and sand and easy living south of the border for a while.”

  "Sweet. You need any help breaking in some fresh, young talent down there?" offered the big Hawaiian. "You give me a call. I been needing a vacation myself, you know."

  TJ shook his head. "Nope, no talent run. Just real, honest-to-goodness R&R, sorry."

  When TJ first moved into the complex, he hadn't much liked Phil. The hefty Hawaiian had a thing for young girls, and everybody in the place knew it. Once, Phil had TJ up in the manager's suite. He’d been privy to a screening of one of Phil's special import DVDs. Teen Asian runaway stuff. Fake, but low-budget enough to look real. The girls might have been legal, but that didn't stop them from dressing like middle schoolers. Or looking like twelve year olds when their clothes came off. The sex wasn't even all that hot, but that wasn't really what the video was about. It was the fringe element of the fantasy, the kidnap and rape part. TJ had declined a follow-up invite some months later. Phil had understood. There had been no further invites. But he and Phil got along, and TJ wasn’t the kind to be judgmental.

  "Hey, you guys aren't shooting any Tracies out there, are you?" Phil asked.

  Tracies was a reference to Traci Lords, who'd shot a slew of blazing hardcore flicks when she was only sixteen. Though she sure as hell looked old enough, the release dates on some of the early tapes suggested she’d been even younger. Maybe fifteen. Maybe. TJ wondered if Phil was asking because of the visit from the Feds, or for other reasons. Personal reasons.

  "Nah, we leave the young girl stuff alone. Hustler can take the heat with Barely Legal. Less headaches we have to deal with, the better."

  "Aah, okay. I hear you."

  TJ slipped an envelope full of fifties across the desk. Rent for at least another month, plus a little bonus. He nodded at Phil, who didn't bother to count it. At least, not in front of him.

  TJ hopped into his car and shot off towards his unit. He didn't want to spend unnecessary time hanging around. The faster he booked his flight—to Tahiti, not Mexico as he'd let on to Phil—the better off he’d be.

  He was thinking about the basics, passport, cash, a couple of changes of clothes, when he saw Phil come out of the office, heading for the pool, where he could usually be found. Ostensibly to keep an eye on things. Now that it was summertime, those things were most likely the kids.

  TJ had initially been repulsed by Phil, but the longer he worked in the business, the more he'd come to understand him. Phil wasn't a freak because of his fantasies, he'd simply been in the biz too long. So long, in fact, that eventually, he’d run out of normal ways to get his rocks off. Happened to everybody, sooner or later.

  Unless, of course, you knew when to get out.

  Was that what Dave was doing? Getting out?

  TJ doubted it, but for the first time in their ten-plus years working together, TJ couldn't read him. As well, and also for the first time, Dave didn't have all the answers.

  "What about the kid?" Dave asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  "Jack took care of it. His dad's got land near Barstow. Jack left him under the floorboards in an old metal shed. There’s critters up there can get in, but the thing’s padlocked. He’ll be gone soon
enough."

  "Did Jack at least - I mean, he didn't just bur—"

  "No, he plugged him first," TJ assured him. Whatever had spooked Dave had started a conscience growing, too. That caught TJ off guard. Dave sure hadn't shown any signs of one when he'd been using the mallet to pound the steering column into Danny's chest.

  "Here," said Dave, extending an envelope. So this was it. Either payoff money or severance. TJ opened it. There was a thick stack of hundreds inside.

  "I have to let this thing blow over for a while," Dave explained. "Marcus doesn't even want to touch it." Marcus meant Marcus Minervini, the lawyer who defended some of the most high-profile names in the industry, on everything ranging from drug possession to federal obscenity charges. He was the best of the best, had ties to the mob, and went out of his way looking for legal battles to wage. And here Dave was telling him that Marcus didn't even want to get involved.

  "How long you plan on leaving for?"

  "I'm thinking a month, maybe two. Dieter wants to see the thing first hand. He understands the heat, but he has a shadow company over there he can use to start recouping some of the cash. Ivan doesn't care what we do, he's secure based on Cum Freaks. He knows he's getting paid back no matter what."

  "Dieter isn't worried?" TJ asked, feeling skeptical.

  "No, he has concerns. But he's got a few countries over there where he could distribute it. Places where there aren't necrophilia laws on the books. Yet."

  "So much for a big US release," TJ sighed, wondering if there was a way the Feds could prove who’d been at the studio that night. He’d only brought in people he trusted, and all of them stood to lose if they rolled over on one another. Still, if the feds were playing hardball with Sean or Lucy to get to Dave...

  "Dieter thinks we should stream it on a password protected site out of the Ukraine for $39.95. He's looking into getting the servers set up."

  "Sounds like a good idea," TJ replied, not really sure that it was. True, the money would come back clean, having gone through banks in Europe. But the Ukraine…that meant the Russians would take their cut, and their rates weren’t known to be negotiable.

  "What about the studio? Everything there taken care of?"

  "Yeah. We repainted the flats, got rid of all the props. Donated the furniture to four different charities. The cleaning crew did a white tornado on the place, and we painted the whole floor over. Rent’s paid through the end of the year. The computer is in pieces, we tossed it out on the way to Barstow. We're clean."

  "Okay then. I guess that’s everything.” He handed TJ the keys to the Escalade and got out. "You'll do a magic job and make this disappear too, right?"

  TJ nodded. "I know a chop shop I can take it to. By tonight it'll be spread out over four counties. You'll be able to file a stolen car report when you get back."

  TJ slotted the key in the ignition and extended a hand. "Have a good trip. Stay in touch."

  "I'll call you from Germany," Dave promised, grabbing his carry-on from the back seat. TJ nodded, but he doubted it.

  Sextreme Sinema, he believed, had just gone out of business.

  Emily went down to the hospital pay phone and looked around. She didn't know why, considering that there was no reason for anyone to be suspicious of her. She hardly bore any resemblance to America's number one sex goddess now, dressed in an oversized fleece jogging suit that would leave most people guessing as to whether she had breasts at all. She had no make-up on, and her hair was cut short. A Clairol out-of-the-box dye-job had turned her platinum tresses back to her natural, dirty blonde. The lips were still there, there was nothing she could do about them except wait out the collagen. The lack of sleep since she'd arrived in Pennsylvania had left circles under her eyes, giving her face a narrow, hollow look. She was certain that nobody back home was suddenly going to turn around in the Piggly Wiggly and recognize her as Sextasy Chase. As far as Emily Chassen was concerned, Sextasy Chase was dead. Hopefully, in time, nobody would bother to look for her.

  The change rattling into the coin box, Emily wished she'd waited to use the phone at the public library again. The hospital only had a pair of open phones standing back to back. The library, though, still had an actual booth, with a door and a corner-cut wooden seat. Emily was amazed to find a touch tone phone inside—the rest of the booth probably dated back to the ‘50s.

  She dialed the 818 area code and waited to hear her—no, Sextasy's—voice. Soon, Emily's Pennsylvania accent would return, and the last traces of Sextasy would disappear. The implants, she wasn’t worried about. If guys were staring at your tits, they weren’t paying attention to your face. She didn’t want anyone looking too closely at her face, not for a while, at least.

  As soon as she heard Sextasy’s greeting, she punched the asterisk key and then her message retrieval code. The machine announced that she had nine messages. She thought it likely that at least eight had been left by Lauren. She waited, finger poised over the seven. The message delete command key. Each time a message began with Lauren's voice, she pressed it without listening all the way through. She had been nearly prophetic. Seven of the messages were from Lauren, each growing more and more angry at her for not returning her calls. The last two were from Dave. The first was brief and to the point.

  "Hi, sexy. Wanted to let you know, I have to go out of town for a while. If you need to get a hold of me, leave a message on the service, I'll call you back. Bye.”

  Emily thought Dave had sounded rushed. Not like himself. The second message, left eight hours ago, hinted at the reason why.

  "Hey, babe. Listen, we got some problems brewing on this end. I think if you were planning that trip we talked about, now's the time to book it. We're running into a few legal problems with that last project, so I'm going overseas to try and cut some deals. I'll let you know when I'm back in town. Take care of yourself."

  Emily replayed the message once, purged it, and hung up. Legal problems meant bad news. If Dave was traveling overseas, he wasn’t conducting business, he was going into hiding. Dave hated to fly, and was terrified of having to cross over an ocean. If he was going to such lengths, it wasn't to cut deals. It was to disappear.

  What that meant for the video, she didn't know. She could only hope that it was so hot—and not in the good way—that it would never see the light of day. She found that extremely unlikely, though. If Paris Hilton couldn't keep her sex tape from getting out, the chances of this footage simply disappearing were less than zero.

  Emily felt drained more by the phone call than from spending the night at the hospital. She longed to go home and get a decent night's sleep, but guilt wouldn’t allow her to. Instead, she washed her face in the ladies room and trudged back upstairs. Maybe today her mother would look at her. Or at least, open her eyes. Perhaps squeeze back when Emily held her hand.

  A nurse was standing beside her mother's bed when Emily entered the room.

  From the size of her ass, it was Colleen, on afternoon rounds.

  “Anything?" Emily asked.

  "No, nothing, I'm sorry,” informed the nurse. “You know, you should really go home and get some rest. If there's any change, we'll call you."

  "Maybe you're right," Emily said, unable to hide the defeat in her voice. "I have to change into some fresh clothes, anyway."

  She could tell that fat Colleen didn't believe her, but she couldn’t blame the nurse. Emily had been saying the same thing for the past two days. The sweat suit was getting gamey, though. Today, she really would have to head home.

  Colleen went on her way without another word. Emily dropped back into the chair where she’d spent most of the past few days. On the nightstand was the stack of books she’d checked out of the library. The Horse Whisperer, Black Beauty, National Velvet. She was almost done with them. When she took them back, she would need to ask the librarian for help finding more. They were the only books about horses—her mother's favorite thing in the world—she was familiar with. But there had to be more, right?

/>   Emily read aloud to her mother most of the day, and well into the night. She’d been doing so since she'd arrived. It did little to assuage her guilt, but it was the only thing she could think of. It was something, she reminded herself. But still, the frail woman did not stir.

  "I gotta run up to the house for a little bit, Mom. I'll finish reading to you when I come back, okay?"

  No answer. No reaction whatsoever.

  She stroked her mother's tiny hand. The veins showed through her skin like it was paper. She had gotten so thin that it almost hurt to look at her. Emily wouldn't show it, though. Not here, even if her mother was unaware of her presence. She kissed her on the cheek, careful not to shift the oxygen mask, then turned, and rushed out of the room before the tears came.

  On the drive home, Emily collected herself and tried to think about happier times. It was difficult, though, because it always came around to Emily's leaving, which she knew had broken her mother's heart. Her mother had never gotten over her father abandoning them, and then her one joy, her own daughter, followed suit. It was no wonder her health had declined so rapidly.

  Stop it! Emily chided herself. The Alzheimer's hadn't been her fault. She wasn’t to blame for that.

  But what about the stroke? What about the stress her mom had been under when the tax people started calling because Emily hadn't sent the money? She had put her mother off for the better part of a year, telling the frail, old woman that it was all a mistake. What else could she do? Admit that she’d forged the power of attorney to take control of her mother’s finances, and then taken out a second mortgage on the house? Confess that she’d put the woman in the hole for over a hundred thousand dollars, most of which had gone up Emily’s nose?

  The Alzheimer's had struck at an opportune time. But even when her mother was moved into the nursing home, Emily wondered—had she suspected? Had she figured things out before the disease provided Emily with the perfect cover?