CHAPTER 17
When she finishes, she grabs the pen and starts to sign her name, then stops. “There’s one thing that needs to be added.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve had trouble with guys messing with my image. I mean literally. They’ve put things in the shot that weren’t there, had me doing things I didn’t do. I need to make sure this deal with DigiArt is straight—no tricks with the computer.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “No can do.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s the whole point. Tricks with computers is what we do.”
Aurora Avenue turned out to be Highway 99, the major north-south road on the West Coast before Interstate 5 usurped it. Like most such thoroughfares, it had devolved into a string of faded motels featuring waterbeds and erotic movies, interspersed among an eclectic collection of establishments offering everything from auto parts to discount golf equipment with palm readings to spice up the mix. Of particular interest on this trip were a restaurant in the shape of twin teepees and a store doing business under the names of Chubby and Tubby.
The offices of Aureole Entertainment Enterprises occupied a nondescript building near the corner of Aurora and 135th Street. The sign on the front was surprisingly muted and the interior was almost tasteful in the way doctors’ offices are almost tasteful. The art on the walls was more bucolic than erotic and the nocturne on the sound system came by way of Poland, not Harlem.
The only person in sight was big and blonde and nearsighted; she squinted at me over the top of her computer the way jewelers squint at diamonds. “May I be of assistance?” The formal phrasing was at least as unnatural as her eyelashes.
Her hair and makeup were so theatrical it suggested she had been in the entertainment business herself not so long ago. Her dress was cut low in front, for reasons obvious from across the room. Her lips were as orange as a coxcomb; the fingernails that drummed the top of the monitor were dyed to match and double normal length. Only her eyes seemed dissonant—they were red-rimmed and raw despite her efforts to subdue them with wreaths of mascara.
“I’d like to see Mr. Krakov,” I told her.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not here. Plus you don’t have an appointment.”
“How do you know?”
Her smile was more from pluck than mirth. The effort sabotaged her elocution. “’Cause Victor don’t make appointments.” She seemed buoyed by the success of her ambush.
I grinned to show I didn’t hold it against her. “What if I said I was with the IRS?”
“I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“You got nice clothes. The field agents dress like car salesmen.”
“You sound like you’ve had some experience.”
She nodded somberly. “They were all over the place last year. Kept me humping for three months, dragging out files, digging out receipts, dusting off ledgers. They didn’t find nothing, though—Victor’s got a great accountant.”
“Well, you’re right about the clothes—I’m not IRS.”
She grinned. “I knew it.”
“If Victor’s not here, where is he?”
Her breasts bobbed in aftershock to her shrug. “Could be lots of places. I can beep him if you want, but he mostly ignores it. Victor don’t like phones—he likes face-to-face. He’s a people person.”
“Do you think he’s at one of the clubs?”
“Maybe. Or maybe the studio.”
“What kind of studio?”
“Where we shoot videos. We make great videos. Soft core only, though; not hard stuff.” She started to say something else, then stopped and cocked her head. “Who are you, mister? Why all the questions? The city attorney isn’t on another morality kick, is he?”
I shook my head. “My name’s Tanner. What’s yours?”
“I’m Lila.”
“Well, Lila, let me tell you why I’m here. I own a string of clubs in the Central Valley in California. Seven of them, to be exact—Modesto, Salinas, Fresno, places like that. And what I want is to talk to your boss about sharing talent with me.”
She squinted suspiciously. “How do you mean, sharing?”
“I send some of my girls up here; he sends some of his down there. Gives the customers something new and different to enjoy; gives the managers less headache than working with amateurs.”
Lila frowned with uncertainty. “Sometimes the customers don’t want new and different. Sometimes they like their favorites.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
She straightened her spine, then propped her breasts atop the monitor. She wasn’t flirting, she was resting—they must have been as heavy as mortar. “I danced for Victor for nine years,” she said.
“How is he to work for?”
“Some girls didn’t like him, but he was always nice to me so I was nice to him.”
“You still dance?”
She glanced at the jut of her chest. “Naw. When I had my baby my assets sagged so Victor put me on office work. I don’t make as much as I did with the tips, but I make enough for Marie and me to get by.”
“Marie’s your daughter?”
She nodded. “Two years old tomorrow. The terrible twos.” Her expression turned beatific. “I can’t wait. Sorry I can’t help you, mister.”
I hurried to salvage some treasure. “Maybe you still can. One of my girls has a friend who works for Victor or used to. Name’s Nina Evans. If I could talk to her, I could get a better idea of how close our operations are—Victor’s and mine, I mean—and see whether my plan is feasible. The problem is, Nina moved; the address I’ve got is no good.”
Lila was shaking her head before I finished. “We don’t give out the names of our dancers. Victor’s real strict about that. There are some crawly people out there—one of them walked into a club down the street and shot one of the girls while she was onstage. Thank God it wasn’t one of ours.” She reddened. “Not that it wasn’t terrible, anyway.”
“I understand completely; I’m strict about privacy, too. Protect the talent—that’s the most important thing. But, see, I already know her name. And I know where she used to live—Fifty-second and University—but they told me she moved a couple of months ago. So all I need is the new address.”
She pursed her lips and leaned away from the monitor. “I don’t know if I—”
“Tell you what. Check your records. You probably don’t have the new address, either, so there’s not even an issue. How about it?”
She thought it over, decided to make an exception, then punched some buttons on her keyboard. “What did you say her name was?”
“Nina Evans.”
The machine beeped and clicked. “Sorry. She must not work for Victor. Either that or she changed her name. Lots of girls do that. They think it’ll be a black mark on their record later on if someone finds out they used to dance. I don’t know why—dancers do lots of good in the world. I’d hate to think what some of these guys would do if they couldn’t at least look at some titty.”
Her eyes grew misty and she dabbed them with a Kleenex.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you feeling ill or something?”
“It’s not me, it’s one of the girls.”
“Who?”
“Mandy.”
There came that name again. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s gone back on skag.”
“Heroin?”
Lila nodded. “She got clean and straightened out her life real good and then something must have happened because she went on the spike again. She’ll probably OD just like all the others.”
“What others?”
“The kids in Seattle dying from horse. It’s as bad as the sixties, they say.”
“You’d think they’d be smarter than that.”
“They are smarter
. But that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt. Smart don’t kill pain, mister; smart makes it worse.”
As a matter of fact, I agreed with her. “Do you get many college girls working for you, Lila?”
“Oh, yeah. Lots. They don’t last long, as a rule—dancing’s harder than it looks. But they come in all the time wanting a tryout.”
“Would you have a record if someone tried out?”
“Not if we didn’t hire her.”
“Who gives the auditions?”
“Sometimes Victor; sometimes me.”
I pulled out my picture of Nina. “Ever see her at the auditions?”
Lila looked at it and shook her head. “If she’d auditioned, we would have hired her.”
I tried one last tack. “Ever hear of a guy named Richter? He’s a—”
“Gary?” She brightened, then darkened in the next instant. “Sure. It’s horrible what happened—you know about that, right?”
“Yeah. A real shame.”
Lila dabbed at her eyes again. “I couldn’t believe it. He was in here just last week, joking around like he does. He even brought me a double tall.”
I was afraid to ask what that was. “What did Richter have to do with the clubs?”
“He took our publicity stills. He was good, too; the girls look better in the stills than in real life, some of them. Good for business, too.”
“What do you do with the stills?”
“Lots of things. Sometimes we run ads in the paper. And we put them up in front of the clubs as a come-on, to let the guys know what’s inside. And we pass out flyers once in a while. We use our own girls, too; not L.A. models like some of the places. We send stills to our special clients, too.”
“What kind of special clients?”
“Businessmen, mostly. Or lawyers or doctors or anyone, really. They like to hire the girls for parties, sometimes. To spice them up. Sometimes to perform, but usually just to stand around and look nice. Mingle. You know.”
“Does it ever amount to more than mingling?”
She met my look without flinching. “You mean prostitution? No. Oh, I’m not saying it never happened, but it didn’t have to happen, if you get what I mean. It was strictly up to the girls. The thing was, though, if they slept with a guy, they couldn’t bring him around the club. That’s one of Victor’s rules—he don’t want the dancers emotionally involved with the customers. Causes problems, Victor says. He’s right, too. I had a guy climb on stage with me once ’cause I wouldn’t go party with him. Tried to tie me up and carry me out to his Bronco.”
I laughed because Lila was laughing, as though he’d only tricked her with a joy buzzer. “I’m interested in those special clients. I’d like to find out what the arrangement is in case I try to start something like that down in Fresno. Do you have a list you could give me?”
She shook her head briskly. “I couldn’t do that. Not without Victor’s okay. That wouldn’t be smart, I don’t think.”
“Why not?”
“You might try to take away the business, for one thing. The special clients pay real good.”
“How good?”
“I thought you weren’t IRS.”
I apologized for being a snoop. “Was Richter involved with the special clients? Did they hire him to take pictures at parties, for instance?”
Lila shook her head. “I don’t think so. I heard him say something about Jensen once, but I never heard him talk about the special clients.”
“Who’s Jensen?”
“One of the investors.”
“So Victor doesn’t own it all?”
“He got it started, but when no one would rent him space after the city attorney started raving about decency, Victor needed help to finance some real estate.”
“For the clubs, you mean.”
“Right. We own all our buildings now. That way we can keep them real nice.”
“Does anyone named Chris work for Victor?”
She shook her head.
“How can you be sure?”
“I make out the payroll.”
“What’s this Jensen do besides invest?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it makes him a lot of money. He gave me a diamond bracelet once, back when we were dating. Tennis bracelets, they call them. I still wear it sometimes.”
“Did you and Jensen date for a long time?”
“Couple of months, is all. It wasn’t serious, I knew that right off—man like that wouldn’t want anyone like me around all the time. But he treated me nice and took me nice places and we had some fun. Mostly he liked to look at me. Naked, I mean. We hardly ever had sex. Never, actually.”
Her voice was wistful and a trifle melancholy, as though his abstinence had been her personal failing.
CHAPTER 18
Compared to Gary’s makeshift studio, with its Kmart floods and coffee-can spots and bedsheets hung as a backdrop, this is as elaborate as a movie set. Fresnels and carbon arcs and tungsten halogens and tweenies; honeycombs and grids and domes and discs; reflectors of all shapes and shades and surfaces. A green screen for background projections; a dolly on tracks. A Steadi-cam, two Betacams snug in metal cases, several handheld Canons and Panasonics, and a Kodak digital still camera that she knows is priced at over twenty grand. Banks of computers, both desktop and notebook, with God knew what monitoring inputs, so that everything is defined and numbered and labeled and stored, all for future editing. Most prominent of all, there is the pride and joy, sitting like the crown jewel in the middle of it all—the digital video camera, ghostly under its drape, mysterious in its capabilities. An elaborate electronic menagerie, all in wait for her.
Chris has asked if she minds technicians on the set. She told him she’d prefer just him at first, till she is fully focused, but that once they get into it she doesn’t mind the others. He asked if she cared whether they were men or women. She said it didn’t matter, but when the time comes she is disappointed to see that they are all female except for the lighting guy, who Chris has told her is a genius, a ponytailed jokster who plays his light board like a Steinway.
But that comes later. At first, it is just her and Chris, who is not armed with the new camera but only a small Panasonic, filming as he would film a parade. Basic lighting, basic background. Pose, then move, then pose, relaxed and easy and improvisational, like the acting exercises she’d done back when she thought she wanted to be a movie star.
Once in a while he murmurs instruction, but for the most part he leaves it up to her. Once or twice, before she is even fully into it, what she gives him makes him gasp.
They take a break and technicians and gofers swarm in. The digital camera is unwrapped, then they get down to business. It becomes ballet for the most part, with a dash of aerobics at the edges. She twirls, she glides, she slides, she stretches. She bends, she twists, she kneels, she curls. She kicks, she hops, she tiptoes, she crawls. It is slow and languid, then vigorous and sweaty. The hour is over before she wants it to be.
Do men feel like this? she wonders as she towels off. No. Men are just equipment. As trim and taut as they might become, as athletic as they might be, what they are is accessories. Wrenches and pipes and hammers, used to make nice things, at times, but at bottom only instruments. Not concepts or abstractions. Not beauty. Men are all and only plumbers. She smiles as she heads for the shower.
By the time I was back in my car I realized what had started to nag at me, so I consulted the map, then drove south down Aurora until I could angle east on Green Lake. Twenty minutes later, I found a place to park on Roosevelt Way and entered the Erospace Gallery during normal hours.
The door was open, the lights were on, a small staff was on duty, and I was greeted with a smile by a tidy, officious woman wearing black tights, a leather miniskirt, and sandals that laced to the knee. On someone else, the outfit might have been erotic; on her, it was labored and slightly silly.
“I’m Fran Askwith, one of the proprietors,” she said with the gr
avity of a royal proclamation, as if the prurient nature of her stockin-trade would be legitimized by verbal decorum. “Are you interested in anything in particular?”
“Not really,” I said as I wandered toward the wall where Gary Richter’s work had been on display the day before. “Just getting a sense of what’s available.”
“We have some outstanding genitalia castings just in from L.A. Bronze and steel; male and female.”
“I mostly collect photography,” I said. “When I stopped by a few days ago, I was impressed by the work of a man named Richter. Then I saw in the paper he got murdered. I figured the market would jump when word got around—figured they’d make good investments on top of being decent erotica.” I looked at the space on the wall. “But I don’t see them.”
Fran shook her head with what seemed to be genuine sorrow. “We decided to remove them from the exhibit.”
“Why?”
“As a gesture of respect for Gary. We’ll be mounting a retrospective of his work sometime later this year. He was one of our most important eroticists.”
“So can I still buy the work?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Are you holding them back till the prices shoot up?”
She bristled at the insult. “Not at all. The work isn’t available because they were all previously sold.”
“Every one of them?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So that’s what the little blue dots meant.”
“Exactly.”
“Who bought them? Maybe I can talk him into letting a few go.”
“I’m afraid we don’t give out that information.”
“Why not?”
“Many of our collectors don’t wish their interest in erotica to become public. It is not a point of favor in certain circles, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“Then tell me this—was it someone off the street or an established collector?”
She thought it over. “I can safely say that those particular photographs will be part of the most extensive private collection of erotica in the entire Northwest.”
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