by Lee Bellamy
"Oh, really?" Doris asked, her voice as warm as early-morning ground fog. "Why?"
"Well, my goodness," Velia answered, "we must keep looking."
Doris glared at me. "You're after the money, aren't you?"
"Of course." Did she think I'd lie? I stared her down. "You have a problem with that?"
Velia jumped in. "Please! It's all right, Doris, please!"
I could see poor Velia was about to have an attack, afraid of a "scene." It was time for me to get out of there. "No problem, Velia," I said smoothly, "I'm nearly finished here. All I need is the names of some of Crystal's friends."
Velia looked relieved. "There are two, mainly. Crystal went all through school with Gussie Kerkorian and Joy Daniel."
"I recognize Joy's name from the newspaper. Wasn't she Crystal's roommate when she disappeared?"
Velia said she was. She gave me Gussie Kerkorian's phone number. "But I'll have to phone you with Joy's number when I find it. She bought a farm out in Sanger not long ago. Grapes, I think. As a matter of fact, Rudy used to visit her. We had a little romance going there."
Doris snorted. "Some romance! Rudy was after her money. He sure as hell couldn't have been after her."
I squashed my desire to say look who's talking. Instead, I thanked Velia and tucked my notebook away. "By the way, I saw you on television the other day."
"Oh, dear." She looked pained again. "I hate the publicity, but abortion is an issue I feel strongly about. Mind you, CWL isn't Operation Rescue. We wouldn't dream of breaking the law—blocking entrances to abortion clinics or anything like that. But we know God is on our side. We do what we can."
On my way out, I passed Nevada's wheelchair. I thought she was dozing, but her claw-like hand shot out and grabbed my wrist with a strength that surprised me. "Bend down here," she commanded. I bent, and looked deep into her faded old eyes. Senile my foot! There was a knowing spark in there, a still-sharp mind.
"Just you be careful," Nevada croaked in my ear.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't turn your back, girlie, these are dangerous times."
Nonsense from a senile mind? I didn't think so but wasn't sure what she meant. I liked this gutsy old lady. The older I got, the more I realized, wimps don't live to be ninety. I gave her hand a warm squeeze with both of mine. "You're going to live to a hundred! You're going to see men walk on Mars!"
"They ain't rid of me yet. I'm going to get there."
I honestly believed she would.
***
On the way home from the Champions' I stopped at the Golden Tiger Karate School and demonstrated my disastrous defense of last night to Master Yashuhiro Otsuka and his son, Jiro. In an ultra-polite manner, they told me what I was doing wrong. "You must put your feet in the 7 o'clock position so that you don't lock when you turn. You must have your foot inside your opponent's. You're getting too close—" and on and on.
What disillusionment. I wasn't the Karate queen I thought I was. Soon as I could afford it, back to Karate School.
I stopped to take my pallet pictures at three grocery stores, then headed home. Midday traffic was light. I could let my mind wander as I drove along. That was a strange scene I'd just witnessed. What a bunch. You could have Doris. Ship her off to Afghanistan would be fine. Velia was okay. I sensed a warm and caring person there, though slightly sanctimonious. I feel uncomfortable when someone appears to have a direct line to God. Nevada was a delight. Even scroungy Tyler's zeal had a certain charm. He was just doing his thing, your typical angry young man, bursting with a youthful rebellion that was bound to fade. Then he'd settle into complacency like everybody else.
But something registered wrong in that household. There was an undercurrent that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. A common denominator. I drove along puzzled for a few blocks and then it occurred to me: the three of them—Velia, Jay, Crystal—were just too, too wonderful.
Was Velia really that perfect? Or was a volcano simmering, ready to erupt, beneath her serene, tightly wrapped surface?
And Jay. He was serving in the Middle East; therefore, he was a hero. And heroes, as everybody knows, are flawless. But was he? Or in all the patriotic fervor had his faults conveniently faded to oblivion?
Then we had kind, thoughtful, loving Crystal, who went to church every Sunday and never stayed out late. A regular saint.
The gracious church lady—the consummate hero—the straight-arrow sister. So much sweetness was a little sickening, like having nothing but dessert for dinner. Something didn't ring true.
Now that I was on my hotshot, fifty-thousand-dollar case, I decided I'd better draw up my scenario. Step One: find out about snuff movies. Dirty Movies...porn movies. Of course I could rent one online, but I wouldn’t find out much. Where would I go? Most video shops in town had a little walled-off section in the back marked, "Adults Only" where you could rent...what? I wasn't up on the latest porn movies. Debbie Does Dallas and Deep Throat were the only ones I could think of, and they belonged in the Smithsonian. But where would you find a snuff movie, if they existed, which they probably did not?
Still pondering, I turned into my driveway and parked under the Weeping Willow. The second I stepped inside, Mother called, "Holly, is that you? Your Mister Perez phoned. He wants you to call him." She handed me a pink message slip. "Right away he said."
I informed Mother he wasn't my Mister Perez and dialed the number. "You were supposed to call me," he said.
"I was?"
"Last night, after you got home, remember? To let me know you were okay."
"Darn, I forgot." Lie. I didn't forget. His card was still out in the car. I just hadn't bothered.
"Yeah, sure." He didn't believe me, obviously, but wasn't going to make an issue of it. "Barnicut tells me you've got a hot case."
"Yes, photographing pallets."
"Not that. The other."
"You mean the missing girl? It's crazy. I doubt anything will come of it."
"Need any help?"
"Not really." Having said that, I remembered my problem with the snuff movie. "Well actually maybe you could...can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"How would you find out about a snuff movie?"
He didn't hesitate. "For starters, you check at the adult book stores. They all rent porn movies."
"I don't know where they are in Fresno."
"There are two on Blackstone. If that doesn't work, try Milo Archibald."
"And who is he?"
"They call him the porn king of the San Joaquin Valley. He owns a chain of adult book stores. He ran the Pussy Cat Theater until the city shut him down. If anyone knows about snuff movies, Milo would."
No way. A porn king was the last person I'd want to deal with. "Well, thanks, that's helpful."
"Want me to call him?"
"You know him?" I sounded surprised despite myself.
I caught Perez's subdued laughter. "I know a lot of people in this town. I can arrange—"
"That won't be necessary. I'll get along just fine without having to talk to some sleezeball porn king."
"Holly, if you're going to be a P. I.... "
"If I'm going to be a P.I. what?"
"Don't be so picky. Get beyond that North Fresno tunnel vision mentality of yours. The world's a cruddy place out there beyond Old Fig."
"You don't have to tell me that. I wasn't born yesterday." I winced at the hackneyed lines that escaped my lips, but he made me so annoyed I couldn't think straight.
"Okay, okay!" Perez said. "If you change your mind about Milo, call me. I'll go with you."
"I won't change my mind, and I won't be needing you."
He chuckled. "Okay, M. T. Good luck." He hung up the phone.
M. T.? Oh, sure, Mother Theresa. Well, one thing about Perez—he got my attention. In fact, he kept getting under my skin for some reason. Maybe he was just trying to be nice. More probably, he was keeping an eye on me to protect the interests of B & P. I knew nothing
about him. Maybe he used to be a policeman, like so many P.I's, yet he didn't come close to fitting the ex-cop mold.
Someday I'd ask, when I had the time.
Chapter 7
First thing next morning I looked in the yellow pages and got the names of two adult book stores. For what it was worth, Perez was right. There were several in town, two on busy Blackstone Avenue. I jotted down the names and addresses in my notebook, then had toast and coffee with Mother. After that, I washed Ashley's hair, then read practically every word in the Saturday Bee including the classifieds and obituaries. I realized I was dawdling. I had never walked into a sex shop before and dreaded the thought. Think $25,000. I dressed in jeans and a brown sweater and got myself out the door.
I tried Benny's Adult Books first. It was in a sleazy area along Blackstone, located at the back of an Antiques & Collectibles store, a small, walled-off area full of tables piled high with porno books and magazines. Shelves containing X-rated DVD's lined the walls. Behind the counter, a young, long-haired clerk leaned on his elbows, staring into space, eyes glazed with acute boredom.
All the other customers were men, quietly browsing. They hardly noticed me, but even so, I would have felt more comfortable standing nude at half-time in the middle of the Super Bowl. Head down, I browsed the videos for a while, careful not to meet anyone's eye, studying the labels on Hot Gypsy Love, Fist Full, etcetera, as if my sole interest in life was renting this movie.
"Hey, lady, something I can help you with?"
I froze. Everyone was looking. The clerk had yelled from clear across the room. Trying to look nonchalant, I replaced Greek Studs in Heat, and strolled to the counter. In a near whisper I asked, "What can you tell me about snuff movies?"
"Snuff movies?" He regarded me as if I had just announced I had leprosy. "Did you want to rent a movie or what?"
"Uh, no, thank you very much, I was just looking."
I made a fast exit. "Escaped" would be more accurate. When I got past the collectibles and back outside, I was disgusted with myself. I had not been professional. I had allowed my school-girl embarrassment to get in the way. So okay, lesson learned. Next place, I'd do better.
Sam's Fantasy Shop was bigger than Benny's. It had books—magazines—DVD's—and more. Sam's was full of customers, some of them women who didn't look the least bit embarrassed. I browsed. There was something in a box called, "Mr. Perfection—Looks and Feels like a Real Man." An inflatable doll maybe? At the rate my love life was going, I could probably use one of those. I strolled down Dildo Row, a long wall filled with every shape, length, and thickness of penis imaginable, and some unimaginable, like the fifteen-incher called The Destroyer.
Finally I approached the bald, sour-faced man behind the counter. He might be tough, but I'd be tougher—get him to open up through clever questioning. This time I introduced myself and gave him one of my cards. I flashed my super sparkler smile. "I'm on a case, and I need to know about snuff movies. Can you help me?"
He drilled me with a glassy-eyed stare. "I don't know what you're talking about, lady."
Hopeless.
Back in my car, I realized I'd get nowhere walking into a sex shop—a stranger who could be the police, the FBI, anybody—blatantly asking about snuff movies. I had accomplished nothing. There was only one option left. I picked up my cell and called Perez. "Is your offer still good? About Milo Archibald?"
"Let's find out."
"Let's."
"I'll pick you up tonight at seven. Dress warm. Wear your jeans."
"But what—?"
"You want to wear a skirt on the back of my motorcycle? Be my guest."
***
By seven I was dressed in jeans, blue and gold U.C. Berkeley T-shirt, short leather jacket. A red headband held back my hair. I was still in my bedroom, putting on my lipstick, when Mother came in. When she saw me, she was not thrilled. Had I gone insane? I was going to ride a motorcycle? Didn't I know that all bike riders were Hell's Angels? Didn't I know that to get on a motorcycle was to break my neck and either die or become paralyzed for life?
"Mother! I've been making my own decisions for quite some time now."
I needed a place of my own. Soon.
The doorbell rang and Mother went to answer. When she returned, she was up-tighter still. "Your Mexican friend is here."
"He is not—" I stopped abruptly. What was the use?
In the living room, she got worse. "So nice to meet you, Mr. Perez...call you Gil? Well, isn't that nice. Perez is an Hispanic name, isn't it? Are you from Mexico?"
Perez stood easy, helmet under his arm. "Yes, Mrs. Wallace, I'm from Mexico. Would you like to see my green card?"
I got us out of there fast.
We walked across the lawn, out to the street where his cycle was parked. "Have fun at the sex shops?" he asked.
"Just shut up," I graciously replied.
Sex shops weren't my main concern right now. The problem was I'd never been on a motorcycle before, although I wasn't going to let Perez know that. I sauntered up to his machine, casually hooking my thumbs through the loops of my jeans.
He swung onto the Harley, sitting the motorcycle like Son of Easy Rider, body lean and sinewy, totally in command. At least he was clean-shaven. I could see the humor lines around his mouth and decided I liked his tanned, thinish face. Even so, he looked like a Hell's Angel to me, although with a mother like mine, it occurred to me I might be a tiny bit prejudiced. "So where are we going?" I asked.
He handed me a helmet. "Hop on, I'll tell you."
I stared at the helmet, trying to figure which way to put it on.
"Here, like this," he said. "If you want to talk—" he pointed to a bar that went over the chin, "you talk in there. It's got earphones inside so you can hear."
"Oh," I said, and stood there, feeling like a dolt, staring at the motorcycle. If I planned to fool him, it wasn't working. I started getting angry, whether at myself or him, I wasn't sure.
He said, "Climb on the back, hold on, and lean when I do. The seat's big enough for two. I'll go easy."
"What do you mean, go easy? How do you know I don't ride these things all the time?"
"Sure you do." He arched his eyebrows and leaned forward, a knowing grin breaking across his face. "So I won't presume to give you any advice. Hop on."
I swung my leg over the elongated leather seat and sat down, noticing immediately there wasn't much room. I had to press tightly up against him.
"Put your arms around me," he said.
"You didn't have to tell me that." I slid my arms around his waist. That made us cozier still, and there was no way of avoiding crushing my breasts against his back.
He did start off slowly, thank God. My heart hammered. I squeezed my eyes shut. But after a smooth couple of blocks or so, I opened them again, started to look around, and relaxed. That's when I noticed—we were so close I could feel his body heat. Looks like a man, feels like a man. Oh yes, Perez did. What with all my momentous problems, I hadn't even thought about sex lately, but it suddenly occurred to me—it had been a long, long time.
But Easy Rider here was not Mister Perfection. If I went looking for love, it would certainly not be with Guillermo Rivera Perez.
When we got on Shields, I asked, "Where are we going?"
"To the Tower District. We're meeting Milo at the Sequoia Brewing Company.”
"Well, all right!" At least he wasn't taking me to some dump. The Tower District is one of Fresno's treasures. Back in the 30's, it was an ordinary, nameless neighborhood, a couple of miles north of downtown, with nothing going for it except a big movie theater on the corner of Olive and Moroa called The Tower. Now it was our own Haight-Ashbury, inhabited by artists, writers, students, retirees, and a large population of gays. So Fresno hasn't kept up? Each summer a Gay Pride Parade marches right down Olive Avenue. Last time it was led by the Dykes on Bikes contingent from San Francisco.
The pièce de résistance of the Tower District is the theater, a hug
e white stucco gem, its interior refurbished in ultra-plush art deco. It really does have a tower: seventy-five feet high, neon-lit at night, tipped by a golden ball. The theater's such a classy place now they don't show regular movies anymore, just special events.
The bar at the Sequoia Brewing Company was crowded. Milo had not yet arrived. We settled at a table. "Want a drink?" asked Perez.
The amiable murmur of voices gently reminded me how long it had been since I had a friendly drink in a bar. I'm not much of a drinker, but my thought was, high time. I'd had enough of the weight of the world on my shoulders. "Yes, I want a drink," I told him, with an emphasis he couldn't possibly understand. "Let's see, what shall I have?"
"Try a Black Oak porter."
I slipped out of my jacket. "What's that?"
"Their specialty. Made with absolute citron...lemonade...champagne...put it in a sugar-rimmed cocktail glass."
"Is it strong?"
"It'll blast your socks off, but don't worry. I'm not having one, you are." He called the order to a bartender who wore an earring in one ear and a pony tail. "And give me a Coors, David," he added. Sitting back, casual in his Perez-like way, he stretched his arm over the back of the next chair. "You surprise me," he said.
"Oh?"
"I can't figure why someone like you wants to be a P.I."
"What do you mean, someone like me?"
He took some time observing me. "You're poised, you're elegant, and you're beautiful. You're articulate. You dress like a Vogue model. I see you teeing off with your lady friends at the Fig Garden Country Club. I don't see you on a midnight surveillance, freezing your ass off."
I laughed at the image he'd drawn. "What do you want? Some tough, wise-cracking broad? Well, I'm not. I'm not the Ice Queen, either, so don't make me sound like one."
"You're not an ice queen, although some men might find you a little scary."
The waiter brought the drinks. I waited until he'd left before I asked, "Do I scare you?"