SAMPLE: Home

 

Chapter Two

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” commented Bekka as she backed the Falcon into its spot under our house. “Good to get away, good to be back. We need to do this more often.”

We'd done something very rare for us: take time off work. Five days away from the studio, all at once, felt like a near impossibility at this point. Between our writing, production work, Bekka's time in front of the cameras, and a near-constant stream of consultations, our work at Inana had nearly consumed our lives. The positives: genuine job satisfaction and loads of money. The negatives: a lack of a private life and long work weeks. We kept Saturdays sacred, no time at work at all...

… Which didn't mean there was no one around on those days. The La Costa mansion would be empty, but the Oceanside studio was such a focal point in so many peoples' lives someone was always there. I'd taken on a few more of the Hellbound outlaws as overnight security, to prevent any interlopers from trying to sneak in. There was always a small group of autograph hounds outside the gate during the day, hoping to get signatures from any Inana Girls and Boys leaving for the day... just like at a “real” movie studio. Up in the lounge, the crew guys and girls seemed to be in a constant, rotating game of poker, 24/7. Others would show up to make plans for the evening with each other, share a meal, play pinball or Nintendo, get high, or just plain hang around and gossip a bit.

Our own time off had been spent hiking in the mountains outside Idylwild, in Riverside Co. No phones, no video screens, no cameras, no computers, and no pressing questions besides deciding what flavor of power bars we'd eat for lunch on the trail. A looping three days on the trails, then two nights in a local bed & breakfast for sheer relaxation... although Bekka had to restrain me from using their phone, just to check in and see how things are, you know?

We parked under the house, retrieved our packs, and shuffled inside. Squeak greeted us, loudly complaining that he was desperately under-petted; our neighbors had stopped in to clean his box and double-check the automatic feeder, but Squeak didn't like strangers. The air inside felt stale, so I opened the sliders facing the ocean, stepping out for a breath of sea air. That's when I noticed one of the deck chairs was occupied.

This had happened before. The occasional late night party animal, walking the bluff path and carrying too high of a BAC, would hop over the low gate and land on some patio furniture for a nap... then oversleep; we'd find them in the morning, much to our ire. (The cover to the spa was kept locked in place to protect against interlopers.) But this wasn't late night, it was late afternoon, the sun still shining down on the beach. Far too early for drunks, and too cheeky of a move for even the most obnoxious surf-rat.

I stomped over to where the figure was, expecting to shake him awake and dispense a well-earned cussing. I gave him a yell as I approached, which seemed to be ignored. Stepping next to him, I opened my mouth to start swearing...

… And kept my mouth open, when I realized he wouldn't hear me. He was dressed in cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and leather sandals, a stereotype tourist. There was even a fanny pack around his waist. What wasn't common in his style of dress was the large amount of duct tape wrapped around his head, covering both mouth and nose. The face was purple, and dead eyes bulged out at me. He had been smothered, in a very ghastly way. A touch showed him to have the unique icy feel only corpses can carry. I stared down at him like a fool briefly, then stepped back inside to let know Bekka what was going on, and ring Johnny Law. We were customers again.

---

Within fifteen minutes of our call there were four uniformed officers standing around inside our living room, all looking slightly bored. I couldn't blame them: while this was now an active crime scene, there was no activity to be managed. The guy on the deck wasn't going anywhere without assistance, Bekka and I were being cooperative, and the uniforms knew enough to not start questioning us, beyond the basic facts. That was a job for the detectives.

When they arrived, I was relieved to see neither of them were familiar to me. Hopefully they had no predisposed bias toward Leonard and Bekka Schneider of 816 Neptune Street, Encinitas. It had been a while since any law enforcement had visited, and they'd have no reason to be suspicious of us in any way.

I was wrong.

Detectives Gorton and Fischer (I stifled a laugh at this combination of names) were exactly what you'd expect from police detectives: loose ties, off the rack suits, balding to various degrees. They also knew our names without introduction. The Schneiders were a sore spot with North County cops. Bias had come pre-installed, too much violence had swirled around us, both here and at our old homes in Encinitas and above the La Costa studio. Through no fault of our own, we'd stacked up murders and shootings like cord-wood. Now another one. For me, the only shock I felt was because I didn't feel shocked.

The two made terse introductions, and got down to brass tacks. Did we recognize the man? Who had found him first? Were the doors locked? How long had we been gone? Where had we been? Why was the body here? Did we have enemies? Who else had access to our house? And on and on.

After this boilerplate, both sprouted the same dishonest smiles all career cops have, the ones used on everyone they consider suspicious. Gorton said, “You too sure have rotten luck no matter where you are, what with finding bodies in your path and such.”

“All I can guess is we're cursed,” I replied. “We don't bring this on ourselves. So who is this guy?”

“You mean you don't know him?” Fischer asked in mock surprise. “Oh, that's right, you never do. It's always complete strangers who get offed wherever you live. Don't think we don't know about the stabbing at your old place in La Costa, or the woman who was killed here when it was under construction.”

“It must be in the fates,” sighed Gorton theatrically.

“Let me guess,” said Bekka. “You two are friends with detective Donner of the sheriff's department, and former detective Ross, now in Escondido. Both hold poor opinions of us, and shared their views with you two. Okay, we've had incredibly bad luck, but it's not like we make these things happen. Please gentlemen, do not let any bias you hold against us interfere with your jobs.”

“You never answered me,” I told them. “Who is he, and why is he on my deck?”

“His license says he's a Mr. Dorian Black from Oroville, north of Sacramento. Also, you need to tell us why he's on your deck.”

I shot back, “No, that's your job. I've never met Dorian Black, I've never heard of Dorian Black, and to hell with people named Dorian Black. So how long is he gonna be lying there, anyway? Madonna doesn't have her picture taken this much.”

Fischer grinned and asked, “Why? It is time to sit and watch TV, relax some?” Then he lost his grin and said, “This is a fucking crime scene. Take my advice and find someplace else to be until tomorrow, we don't want you in the way while we work.”

“Yeah yeah, we've done this before,” Bekka sniped. “Fine. We're going to pack some shit, get our kitty in his carrier, and bug out for a day or two. You can send one of your patrolmen up to our room with us while we take care of business, if you want.”

“Oh, we want. You don't get to remove anything from this house unless we get to look at it first, so pack your good underwear. Also, we'll want to go through those backpacks. Where have you two been, out hiking?”

“Well, we won't question your deductive skill, officer. You hit it on the nose. Now pick a patrolman to escort us while we pack. We have things to do.”

“Like what?” asked Gorton.

I glared and told him, “Like getting a motel room for the night. And as soon as we're in the room, calling our attorney to let him know the law in North County is gearing up to give us a hard time. Again.”

“Of course you're calling your lawyer!” cawed Fischer. “That's always the first thing people like you do, when dealing with the law.”

“And if you know our history so goddamn well, you know why. I swear, if any crime happens between La Jolla and Oceanside, our names are first on the list of suspects. My attorney has had to deal with Encinitas PD in the past, and knows what he can expect. We may as well give him the courtesy of an alert, before y'all start acting on dumb ideas.

“Oh, by the way? Our pistols and holsters are in our packs, and they'll be coming with us. I'm sure you already know we have our concealed carry permits, and use them. Given what's happened in the past, you're damn right I want to be heeled until all this crap is over with.”

Bekka said to us, “Actually, we'll take the packs with us after you're done. There's enough clothes in both for us to survive for the next couple days, we just need to visit a laundromat. So have at it, detective. But wasting our time is also wasting your time, capisce?”

With a sour look, Fischer instructed two uniforms to start digging through the packs. Then he and Gorton stepped back outside to stare at the corpse some more. Bekka and I landed on the sofa and lit cigarettes, gazing idly at the patrolmen as they dug through our dirty laundry and camping equipment. Our pistols were set to one side; the detectives would grudgingly hand them back to us after the packs were finished with.

In the interim, I wrote a note to Grant and Joan, our neighbors, letting them know we were back, the police would be present, and to aid them any way they could... like providing their times of arrival and departure when checking on Squeak and picking up mail.

As we turned to leave, I handed over a spare door key to Gorton, asking him to remember to lock up when they left. “Where are you heading?” he asked.

“The Days Inn on Encinitas Boulevard,” Bekka replied. “It's a dump, but we'll be okay for a day or so.”

“What room will you be in?” asked Fischer, as if it was a gotcha question.

I laughed at him again and said, “How the hell would I know? Call the front desk in a half hour, they'll tell you.”

He stepped close to me and quietly muttered, “Both of you are too relaxed for the situation. You're tied up in this, and I'm gonna prove it.”

“You know what? I wouldn't expect you to have any other position. Don't forget to lock up when you leave.” I picked up the packs, Bekka grabbing Squeak's carrier. We headed out.

In the car, we were quiet on the drive to the motel. Finally Bekka said, “The more things change, the more they stay the same, huh?”

“You're sadly correct.”

Chapter Three

Returning to my office the next morning, I found a yellow forest of Post-It notes had sprouted on the door, all vying for my attention first. I prioritized the ones written in Gina's handwriting, everyone else could wait a while. A half dozen were from Stefano, and revolved around merchandising in conjunction with Cinemax. I set these aside and began sorting through the others. This was hampered by the use of the word URGENT written across the top of nearly every note. Further inspection showed them to be fairly trivial matters, and most of which were out of my control: I'd have to remind several crew members that I'd delegated tasks for a reason, they were asking the wrong person.

A few were infuriating. They were notes telling me to ignore the previous note left by the same person.

So far as the discussion with Stefano went, I was adamant about three things: we'd have final say on graphic designs, no damn trucker hats, and no friggin' beer can cozies. Beyond that, I'd let Angel make the decisions about the nuts and bolts of merchandise co-production. Inana already had a huge line of products – even the original Bewitched shirts still moved well – and we worked as a team with Cinemax for the series line of products.

Shirts and posters made up the lion's share of products, of all styles. We sold a girl's baby-doll shirt with a shirtless, high contrast image of Roach. Another was a gift to the frat bros, a golf shirt with the Inana logo where the alligator would normally go. Jane's image graced another shirt, showing her in her breakout role as “Doxie” from Succubus II: Blacktop Harridans. Even if it was in a group image, every performer was on a shirt or poster now.

(One style of shirt would never be sold: a black pocketed t-shirt with the Inana logo on the pocket and the words “INANA STAFF” across the back. This style was reserved strictly for Inana Productions crew and performers. No member of the general public would ever get a hold of one, not without stealing it somehow. They amounted to our version of the club colors worn by the Hellbound.)

Despite our five day absence, there weren't any fires to put out. Bekka and I had a conference call with our writers (Mallory, Erica, and Eddie the Jew) that afternoon, but beyond that I would be working out on scripts in progress all day. Stefano, our COO, would probably drop by in the afternoon to summarize the business end of things at some point; he worked out of the La Costa studio due to its quieter environment. Me, I seemed to thrive in both the low-grade chaos our Oceanside studio had. There, and the windowless, cigarette-reeking isolation of my home office.

After completing the call with Stefano I rang Joan at her realty office. She wasn't happy. Her and Grant had introduced themselves to the detectives, and immediately began getting grilled about every breath they'd taken in the previous seventy-two hours. Did they know anyone named Dorian Black? Were they sure? Did they know anyone from Oroville, California? Were they sure? They hadn't noticed any unusual activity at the Schneider residence over the last few days? Were they sure? And on and on like that, the sort of low-grade harassment Bekka and I were used to from cops, but Joan and Grant weren't. This was not how the police were supposed to treat honest citizens like themselves.

Joan told me, “I don't know what they were expecting us to say, but they acted like we had something to do with... what happened. Like we'd killed that man.”

“That's their usual M.O., I'm afraid,” I assured her. “I think it's so they can kid themselves into thinking they accomplished something. I've dealt with it in the past, so has Bekka. Don't let them get under your skin.”

“I'll try not to. They said they may want to speak with us again. Hopefully they'll have better manners if they do.” She paused. “So was it really a tourist? They didn't say what, you know, happened to the man. Not to be morbid, but how was he killed?”

I hedged and simply said he'd been strangled. “So far as his tourist status goes, he fit the profile. Dressed like the stereotype, and his ID said he was from Oroville. No reason to believe otherwise.”

Joan paused, then said “It just struck me. He was out in the open, more or less. Anyone on the bluff path could have seen him. Why wasn't he noticed before we got there?”

“Because of where the chair sat, he'd be in shadow all day. With no movement, nobody would have any reason to look back there.” I sighed. “The main question is... why us? Why was he killed at our place, and not at any of the other houses on our street? Those time shares to the south are vacant half the time, why not at one of them? There's too many damn questions in my head right now.”

Joan and I said our goodbyes, her inviting Bekka and I to dinner the following night.

---

I was wrapping up for the day when Detective Fischer called, letting me know they had completed their forensic work at the house. I asked him if he'd learned anything about the late Dorian Black, and why he'd been killed.

“Not much, and no,” replied the detective. “Mr. Black is – was – thirty-eight years old, divorced, a lifelong resident of California, and unemployed. He'd been staying in one of the hourly rate motels on El Cajon Boulevard for five days. What throws us is he had money with him, and given what we know of his life in Oroville, he shouldn't have any. The guy was a nobody, his last job was as a rent-a-cop in a casino. Fired for having a pint in his pocket at work. Not the sort of man who would have over eight grand in traveler's checks in his room, and a rented Lincoln parked outside.

“By all appearances, he really was in the area on a vacation. His room had souvenirs from the zoo, Sea World, and Disneyland. The desk guy at the motel said he didn't have any visitors, not even any of the local talent.

“That's what is throwing us. Looking at the receipts he had on his person and in his rental car, Black was no cheapskate, he was eating at good restaurants and did some shopping in La Jolla. So why a shitbox motel in the middle of the stroll on El Cajon Boulevard? He had the bread, why wasn't he in a Hilton... or even a decent chain motel?”

“Out of curiosity, which motel was it?” I asked.

Fischer paused briefly and said, “The Best Rest, 5700 block of the Boulevard. Why do you care?”

“Again, just curious. In our early days here we'd get working girls wanting to perform for Inana, and a lot of times their addresses were motels along that stretch. They'd get shot down, their blood tests would come up positive for all sorts of things, and they weren't the best looking girls in the world to begin with. I'm glad we've left those days behind us.”

“That's right, you run Inana Productions. I suppose you do a lot of hiring from the girls down there.”

I bristled at this statement. “Yeah, no. Not on my watch, and I've been running the studio since 1988. Inana wouldn't be where it is if we were staffed by twenty dollar whores.” To change directions, I asked, “So how long had he been dead for, and where was he killed?”

“Why do you think he was killed someplace else?” Fischer asked slyly.

“Because of how he was killed. You think he let someone wrap his head with duct tape without a fight? No way, there'd have been a lot of commotion.”

A pause and a sigh, then, “Fair enough. We found signs he'd been dragged there up the path, from north of your place. Dead about eighteen hours, according to the coroner. And that brings us back to the main question: why was he dropped at your place? Whoever killed him could have left him anywhere. Nope, your home was chosen, and almost certainly on purpose. Who hates you, Lenny? You say you don't know the deceased, but circumstances say otherwise. It's time for you to come clean with anything you know, kid.”

I started feeling annoyed again. “You know as much as I do at this point, Fischer. I'm all for having this shit solved. Whoever killed him is a mean, sadistic son of a bitch, and I don't like having that person – or persons – running around loose. Yeah, someone picked my house on purpose, and knowing that scares the crap out of me. If you can find any connection between me and Dorian Black I'd love to know about it. But there is none that I can find. Just don't assume I'm being uncooperative for fun. I'll give you all the cooperation I can offer, believe you me.”

“You'd better. Talk to you soon.” (*click*)

---

That night Bekka and I called Jane up in Berkeley, for one of our routine chats. We filled her in on the recent events, to her mild horror. She said, “Wow. What a horrible way to die, being smothered like that... while someone was probably watching, too. That is the work of a complete psychopath.”

Bekka replied, “Yeah, we know. And whoever it was is familiar with us, to some degree. It's definitely a mob-style killing, but not even Cosa Nostra does shit like that anymore.” She paused. “We haven't mentioned any of this to Angel, have we? I think we should. This may be a situation where we could use the extra protection, and brain power.”

“Brain power?” I scoffed. “No. I don't feel like playing gumshoe again, that bullshit is behind me. Let the cops do their job. Still, Angel should know.”

Jane cut in, saying, “Did you say he's from Oroville? Hmph.”

“What's the matter?” asked Bekka.

“Aw... There's this guy in one of my classes at Haas, he's from Oroville. Everybody hates him, he's a loudmouth who always wants to bitch about how much the Bay Area sucks. This guy – his name is Jason – constantly talks shit about how the Bay Area is filled with fags and coons and weirdos. He thinks he's being funny, but all he does is bug everyone else. It's like, you were the one who chose to attend college here, if you hate it so much go the fuck back home and enroll in Chico State.”

“Does this guy ever give you grief?” asked Bekka. “Seems like he would, given his biases.”

Chuckling, Jane answered, “Naw. I think I freak him out a little, mostly because I'm always flying my colors. Screw him.”

We continued talking in a loose way for a while, gabbing about more pleasant subjects. She'd be coming down Friday night, to spend the weekend filming her scenes for Duane and Dolly's Place, one of our late night series on Cinemax. We were all looking forward to a bit of partying... but not too much of it. Trying to perform while feeling wrecked from the night before doesn't work.

Jane's character, “Hole,” was reaching critical mass in terms of popularity. She'd been showing up in every third episode, but the fans were screaming for more. Now she was down practically every other weekend, which concerned me. I didn't want the girl getting burned out, trying to fulfill her role on the show and still keeping up with her schooling. But if Jane showed up even briefly in an episode, Cinemax showed a spike in viewership. Not bad for a show that ran at two in the morning.

Really, Debbie LaLaurie – Jane's screen name – was starting to overtake other Inana stars' fame. This was impressive... but depressed Jane. She felt like she'd cut in line, getting far more attention than she deserved. By now she'd sat for interviews and done photo shoots with several adult magazines, including Hustler, and had her image on various Inana merchandise. Like Becky Page, Debbie LaLaurie's fandom demographics included a lot of young women – her core audience was young overall – but for different reasons. Becky Page was an erotic Wonder Woman, a postmodern sexual revolutionary and promoter of female strength. Debbie LaLaurie was embraced as a symbol of rebellion and independence. At least her fans weren't as rabid as Becky's had been at her height.

Attending UC Berkeley and also being a pop culture icon wasn't the headache it could have been. By her freshman spring semester an informal game of “spot the porno girl” was played around campus; with her blue mohawk Jane was a hard person to miss. The presence of her unique Hellbound Motorcycle Club colors also gave her an air of danger: whoa dude, she hangs around with the biggest, toughest biker gang in the country.

(The rumor machine about Jane “Debbie LaLaurie” Osborne ran constantly, and some was true. I heard she lived with Becky Page and her husband. I heard she has two boyfriends and a girlfriend. I heard she has mafia ties. I heard she also does dominatrix work, for like $2500 an hour. I heard she killed a guy in Long Beach last year. I heard she's a weapons expert, and the Hellbound use her as an assassin. And on and on.)

What trouble she'd had on campus was the result of fraternity bros who had conflated adult performance with prostitution. She'd had to dissuade them of this idea, in a direct manner.

So Debbie LaLaurie's star had risen in a big way. Her first appearances on video had been basic loops, filmed in the summer between graduating high school and her college freshman year. Then she'd become a semi-regular on the pornographic sitcom Duane and Dolly's Place. And what really clinched her fame was her second-lead role in the Inana feature Blacktop Harridans, playing a semi-feral girl named Doxie. Posters of Debbie LaLaurie hung in homes, apartments, dorm rooms, and offices all over the world at this point. And the popularity showed no signs of ebbing.

Chapter Four

Between her large amount of disposable income and the “Family discount” provided by Elite Charters, Jane had stopped using commercial flights when traveling to and from the studios. Elite would have her in the air within ten minutes of her arriving at the Hayward airport, dropping her at Palomar airport in Carlsbad in under an hour and a half. Someone loafing in the lounge would be drafted into picking Jane up, delivering her to the Oceanside studios minutes later.

Our schedule annoyed Jane. Friday nights were the party nights for just about anyone at Inana, as you can guess. However, Jane couldn't take part in the ragers that evening, as she had to be at the studios at the bright hour of eight a.m. for makeup and costuming. No partying until dawn and sleeping until noon, she had work to do.

On a few occasions, she'd brought company with her, lovers from Berkeley... and I wondered if her goal was to see their reactions when thrown into the maelstrom of the studio with little introduction. I could hear her sales pitch: I'd love it if you came down with me, I just hope you won't be too bored hanging around in the lounge while I'm on set.

Her first victim was Nadir, the closest thing to a “steady boyfriend” she had. They'd been keeping each other company since the beginning of their freshman years... In fact, she had relieved him of his virginity a few days after meeting. Nadir was a native of Orange County, but his family were immigrants from India and tightly held on to their ways. It must have been hell, trying to reconcile American and Indian culture with each other while going through adolescence.

Being around the Oceanside studio would prove to be nerve-racking as well... but that was the case for anyone visiting who was unfamiliar with the place. It came down to the fashion sense of performers working on any given day, which was no clothing at all. If you're going to be in front of the cameras but there's time for a smoke and some water, why put anything on? The same if you needed to talk to someone down in the offices, just walk down and debate the next week's schedule with Wes, our production manager. It was up to visitors to adjust to us.

On the day Jane showed up with Nadir, Anne Grenade was the one to volunteer to pick her up from the Palomar airport. She slid her car into the white zone and stopped, getting out to lean against the door and smoke a cigarette. Her clothing consisted of a loosely-belted robe which gaped in the breeze.

Jane and Nadir exited the terminal, Jane making a beeline for Anne's Cadillac. They hugged in greeting, the result of which was Anne's robe giving up pretense and falling all the way open. Thus it was a nearly nude woman who approached Nadir, smiling, hand out, and saying, “Hi, I'm Anne.”

“That didn't take long,” said Jane, rolling her eyes.

“What didn't?”

“Nadir being introduced to his first naked person down here. I figured we'd at least be at the studio first.” Bags were thrown in the trunk and they rolled out towards Oceanside.

On the boulevard, Jane said, “As a more formal introduction, Anne Grenade, this is Nadir, a friend and lover from UC Berkeley. Nadir, this is Anne Grenade, a strange woman who likes to wander around the studio naked, even on days she's not working.”

“Are you a nudist?” asked Nadir.

“No, an exhibitionist,” came the reply. “We all are.”

Jane laughed. “Maybe so, but you're pathological. I'm surprised you haven't been arrested somewhere. So who's in the lounge right now?”

Anne thought briefly and replied, “The usual gang getting ready to go creepy-crawling, and the crew guys are warming up for a poker game. Last I saw, Lenny and Bekka were in a meeting with some big-wigs from Cinemax. You two coming out with us tonight?”

“I can't, I'm knocking out some action with Stuart in the morning, and I hate working when I feel burned out. Tomorrow night I'm free, anything happening?”

“Probably, but I don't know what yet. So Nadir, did Jane mention how weird the studio lounge can get?”

“She's talked about the Inana studios for as long as I've known her,” smiled Nadir. “I'm still not sure if the place is a bastion of sanity or a scene from Caligula. From her descriptions it could be either one.”

“Like with most things, the truth lies somewhere in between,” intoned Jane from the passenger seat. “I have no way of telling.”

Anne suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! Leanne is certainly looking forward to your arrival. She hasn't shut up for three days about you being here all weekend. She knows you're working, right?”

“She should,” replied Jane. “I'd have told her if I was down here to party. If she was hoping for us to have some private time together she'll be disappointed. I'm going to be working, and I have Nadir with me anyway.”

“Well... What about all three of you? Nadir, how does that sound?”

Confused, Nadir asked, “How does what sound?”

“Leave it out, Anne,” Jane muttered. “We've never even talked about it.”

“What's going on?”

“Nothing, I'll tell you later.”

Moving on, Anne said, “Anyway, yeah, Leanne is positively pining for you. It's like she's pregnant and you're the father. You can probably guess she's waiting for you in the lounge.”

Jane huffed. “She can wait for me, I want to say hi to Bekka and Lenny first. So no clue as to why she's so eager for me to be here this weekend? I love her and all, but I want to show Nadir around San Diego some, that's why I brought him. She can come with, I suppose...”

They were waved in the gate of the Oceanside studio by Mama Bev, who grinned and bellowed a greeting at Jane. Pulling into a space she looked through the glass of the security booth and spotted Leanne watching her arrival, then bolting out the door and running towards the car. Jane was barely out of the car before Leanne had her pressed against the B pillar of the Cadillac, trying to auger her tongue into Jane's mouth.

Jane responded briefly, then gently pushed her away. “I'm happy to see you too, girl. Um, I'd like to introduce my friend and lover Nadir, a fellow student at Berkeley. Nadir, Leanne.”

Leanne untangled herself from Jane enough to smile and shake Nadir's hand. Feeling a bit red about the recent display of affection, he stammered, “So, uh, you two are friends?”

“Friends and on-again, off-again lovers...” Jane began to explain.

“Mostly off again,” grumbled Leanne. “I probably won't get any time alone with her until winter break, and even then that's assuming she doesn't spend all her time on the fucking sound stages.”

Bags were gathered and they headed to the security booth. Spike, that day's Hellbound security guard, greeted Jane with a big hug. Nadir was greeted the same way everyone was if Spike didn't recognize them (or have a vendor pass): a look of bare suspicion. “He's with you?” he asked, not looking at Jane to do so.

“Spike, meet Nadir, he's a friend from Berkeley. He'll be with me all weekend,” Jane explained.

His face shifting from hostility to a sunny grin, Spike gave Nadir a visitor pass, a friendly swat on one arm and said, “Welcome aboard, brother, welcome to Inana.”

Jane led Nadir through the offices and up the stairs, Leanna tailgating Jane the entire way. At the top they bumped into Small Steve and Sally, heading downstairs with a couple corporate-looking gents. “Lenny in his office?” she asked. “And are these new studs?”

“We're from Cinemax,” one of the suits smiled. “How are you, Ms. LaLaurie?”

“Here for another working weekend,” came Jane's reply. “Other college sophomores get their weekends off to party, I spend mine having fairly joyless sex in front of video cameras. Please appreciate my sacrifice, Cinemax.”

“We do, Ms. LaLaurie!” the other suit responded. “Right now you're one of our hottest commodities, we wish you were on every week. Is there any way to make that happen?”

“No, there isn't. Don't let me keep you.” Jane continued down the hallway and towards the offices. In a lower voice, she said to the other two, “Oh boy. Lenny hates it when the Cinemax people show up. He says they constantly ask for exceptions to contract points.”

---

The three kids walked into my office. Nadir was gawking around, Jane was trying to disentangle herself from Leanne, who seemed to be trying to dry-hump her from several angles at once. Jane finally gave her a genuine shove, saying, “Stop. Desist. It's not cute anymore, so cut it out.”

“Sorry.” Leanne looked genuinely chastised. “I just miss you.”

“And I miss you, babe, but put it on the back burner for now... Lenny, Bekka, this is Nadir, the boy I've told you about.”

We stood to shake hands with Nadir and give Jane a hug. I'm not sure if she did it on purpose or just from force of habit, but Jane slipped me tongue when she kissed me; I wondered if Bekka got the same treatment. I glanced at Nadir. He was too busy looking at the walls of my office, which were covered with all sorts of stuff. Every Inana Girl who had a centerfold in an adult magazine – which was all of them at that point – had it displayed on one wall. Movie posters, show flyers, sticky notes, and the occasional missive scrawled directly onto the wall. The vast majority of wall-crap was work related: when you're producing three projects at once, you need to make a lot of notes. Empty Marlboro packs were part of the motif. My desk was dominated by the PC monitor and a swath of paper, various drafts of scripts from our different writers.

To me, my office wasn't messy at all. Everything was exactly where I'd put it.

Addressing Nadir I said, “Welcome to Inana. I'll assume Jane has briefed you on what this place can be like sometimes...”

“We've already got his first naked person out of the way, thanks to Anne,” Jane interjected. “She couldn't resist the opportunity to flash the entire airport terminal.”

Chuckling nervously, Nadir asked, “Will I be seeing a lot more naked people this weekend?”

“It depends on where you spend your time,” Bekka told him. “Jane, what were your plans for this weekend? You've got full days tomorrow and Sunday, where is Nadir going to be all that time?”

Jane paused, then said, “Well... I figured he could sit in on the shoots, he could learn about what I do...”

“No,” I said firmly. “Closed sets, and you know that.”

“Come on, you could make one exception.”

“Ugh...” I raised my eyes skyward and spread my arms. “Your timing is particularly shitty. I just had to deal with a couple of grunts from Cinemax who wanted to make a couple 'exceptions' with our contracts. You know how I feel about that, especially when it comes to writing and production. Allowing them to butt in on the creative side of things would be a fucking disaster, and that's exactly what they were hinting at. Either Cinemax is paying us to be creative or they're not.”

“That bad, huh?” asked Leanne.

“We seem to be playing the same game with them every six weeks,” Bekka told her. “They'll want a meeting over something fairly mundane – today it was merchandising – then begin mentioning they had 'just a couple thoughts' about one of the shows. Today it was Knock, Then Enter they had a bug up their ass about, if they had their way the entire narrative of the show would change, it'd lose the surreal aspect we've developed and become a straight sitcom. No, the weirdness is what made the show popular to begin with.”

“It doesn't hurt you're in it,” Jane smirked. “Your star still shines brightly.”

“Fair enough... Anyway, that's why Sally was up here, so she could explain some of her production decisions to a couple guys who couldn't produce a children's Christmas pageant. There are so many polite ways of telling someone to fuck off and leave us alone, and we used them all. Like Lenny said, they're paying us to be creative, so leave us alone and let us do our jobs.”

“I just thought of a nightmare scenario,” Jane chortled. “Some bigwig at Cinemax has a nephew or niece that would love to be in front of our cameras, and they begin trying to twist arms here to get them on the board.”

“They can go through the interview process, like everyone else,” I grunted. “Anyone trying to throw their weight around like that is getting thrown off the lot by me personally. So Jane, we've determined where Nadir isn't going to be this weekend. Any suggestions as to where he should be?”

“Well... He can hang around in the lounge, and I'll be up here between scenes, maybe he'll join in on the usual poker games...”

This seemed to attract Nadir's attention. “You say there's going to be a poker game?” he asked. “Would they let a stranger sit in?”

“There's always a poker game here,” laughed Bekka. “People circulate in and out, but I don't believe the actual game has ended since the last time we were on lockdown.”

“Lockdown?” queried Nadir.

“It's what happens when we're under threat of attack again,” Bekka explained calmly. “Both studios get evacuated until Lenny says things are safe again. So I'm guessing you play poker?”

“I enjoy the game. What level of bets are we talking about?”

“I believe it's a five dollar ante. You want in?”

“I'll have to use an ATM, but I'd like to play tomorrow. Is that all right?”

I assured him that would be just fine, and I'd be around to make introductions. “What are the plans for tonight?”

“Jane said something about a firing range and a strip club, but I'm not sure how serious she was.”

Laughing at this information, I told Nadir, “She's probably serious, but the strip club is twenty-one and up. She can get in – they've never ID'ed her – but kid, they'll want to see your license. I don't know what she's thinking.”

“What about the firing range?” he asked.

“Do you know how to handle firearms?” I asked. He shook his head. “Well, you'll be learning tonight. I know Jane has been itching for some range time, and I guess she'll give you the basic safety training; I'll have to ask her which pistols she's going to bring.”

Overhearing this, Jane told me, “I'm meeting Terry at the Gun Range at eight, we're going to use her iron. She'll be giving Leanne and Nadir the safety training spiel, then we'll have them circulate through the pistols and see how they do.”

“Bringing that Colt 1911 into play, too?” I snarked.

She laughed. “I'll have Terry demo it, then leave it to their own discretion. You know what a wrist-breaker that cannon can be.”

Chapter Five

“Fuck yeah girl!” Terry (the Terror) yelled, and charged towards Jane. They didn't share so much an embrace as a collision. The two girls hooted and jumped up and down together, to the amusement of passersby.

Also watching were Nadir, Austen, and Leanne. Their respective feelings were mild shock to vague amusement to conflicting feelings of jealousy and lust.

Jane had explained to Nadir who Terry was and what she was like, but – just like with the studio – first-hand experience trumps academic comprehension. This was a woman in her late twenties who had lived with and around outlaw bikers since the age of thirteen. Terry is five foot six of solid gold Biker Bitch. Boots, tight black jeans (which she has the butt for), tight Harley Davidson t-shirts (ditto for her rack), long dark hair held back with a bandanna, a vocabulary that would embarrass a sailor, and a love for both Budweiser and methamphetamine. There's little room in the lexicon of Indian culture for outlaw bikers.

Austen was pleased both of her closest friends were present at the same time. Jane and Terror were the two people in the world she trusted without question, they'd both guided her through horribly traumatic events in her life. Beacons of strength when she desperately needed it.

Leanne felt jealous that anyone besides her was hugging Jane. The lust was built in.

Between Jane and Terry, there was a decent selection of pistols to choose from. Jane had borrowed my spare Beretta 92FS and had her own gun, a minuscule Beretta the size of a pack of smokes. Terry had brought three: a Colt Defender which was her “daily” pistol, her .22 competition 87 Target, and her Colt 1911, a bruiser of a .45 with a kick like a mule. The two agreed to start the novices off with the target pistol first, so they could get used to the feeling of different calibers starting at the low end.

After purchasing hearing protection for Leanne and Nadir and paying for two lanes, things got underway. Using her Colt Defender, Terry demonstrated the basics of handling a pistol: dropping the clip, breaking the gun open to check the chamber and breech, where the safety was and why it is so damn important, and a few basic safety rules....

• Treat every gun like a loaded gun until you've checked it yourself.

• Unless aiming for a target, the gun should always be pointed at the floor or downrange.

• Keep your damn finger on the outside of the trigger guard, unless you're going to fire. (Hollywood is responsible for a lot of bad behaviors.)

• Also, treat every gun like a loaded gun until you've checked it yourself. It bears repeating.

“You both enjoy guns,” Nadir observed. “How did it start?”

Terry and Jane looked at each other and giggled. “Blame fuckin' Lenny,” chuckled Terry. “He's the one who got me shooting, after him and Bekka decided they wanted me as their bodyguard.”

Jane added, “You already know Lenny and Bekka carry, it was weird to get used to when I first started living with them. They wanted me to have some basic knowledge of guns, so they started taking me here on Sundays. I realized how much fun it is and stuck with it.”

Terry brought Nadir forward into the lane with the target pistol. After emptying the clip as a demonstration, she passed the pistol and fresh clip to him, instructing, “Here, show me you were paying attention for the last few minutes.” Nadir smiled modestly and performed the tasks, setting the long-barreled Beretta back on the lane-side table. Terry handed it back to him. “Okay, time to fire the fuckin' thing. Remember, this thing barely has any kick, so you can just relax with it. Sight... and fire.”

The target distance was ten yards, which was just as well: Nadir kept the shots on the paper, and that was about it. He grimaced when it was pulled in. Over his shoulder Terry told him, “Maybe you're relaxing too much. Run out another and try a second clip. Focus on the target, not the sights.”

His second target was somewhat better: the rounds had all been within the target silhouette and the points areas. Terry congratulated Nadir on his improvement and called for Leanne to approach.

“I know what I'm doing,” Leanne snarked as she walked forward.

“Fuckin' awesome. Then you won't mind proving it to me. Break open my fuckin' Defender, put it back together, and run two clips through it. Please.”

“(sigh) I've never used your gun, how would I know how to do that?”

Half-listening, Jane interjected, “It's about the same as Lenny's 92, you know how that one works.” She went back to chatting with Nadir.

Glaring angrily at an unaware Jane, Leanne dropped the clip and checked the breech for a round. The gun went back together, minus the clip. It was in this condition that she picked the Colt up and dry-fired it at Nadir....

… and suddenly her right wrist was being twisted painfully up between her shoulder blades while the pistol was removed from her grip. From behind her ear, Leanne heard Terry say, “You're evicted, you dumb bitch. You're off the range.” In this position, Leanne found herself being quick-marched out of the range and into the sales/lounge area. “And I don't give a fuck if you were just kidding, you don't kid around like that on a range. Not around me, anyway.”

Terry let Leanne's wrist go as they departed the gallery, but held onto her arm and guided her to the seats by the coffee cart. “You can hang out here, you can walk up the street and shop for fuckin' porn, whatever. But you're not setting foot on that range while I'm here.” She called over to the customer service desk, “Hey Ollie, I'm evicting this girl, handling a firearm in an unsafe manner. She can stay here, maybe you can explain to her that you don't point a motherfucking gun at another person unless you want them dead. Just keep her out of the fuckin' range, man.”

“Got it,” the clerk replied. Looking at Leanne, Ollie smiled with no humor and stated, “If I didn't trust the woman who booted you, I'd already have you in the parking lot.” He turned away, still talking. “Buy a coffee, sit right there and relax. I have things to do.”

Having been raised Mormon, Leanne had some teenage attitude that hadn't burned off yet... but her common sense over-rid any urge towards petulance, at least directed outwards. She did as Ollie instructed and bought a latte, ignoring the vague glare the barista had on her. Then she sat and brooded, alternating a sharp gaze between the floor and the range doors.

After about forty-five minutes, the range doors dispersed Jane and Nadir, but not Terry. Jane read Leanne's mind and said, “Terry is still really pissed of with you, she's staying on the range for a little while. So... What the fuck is up with you?”

“Why didn't you come down alone?” demanded Leanne. “I wanted a little time with you.”

“We talked about this already. I know I told you these next couple weeks are all work, mostly. I've got tonight, I've got tomorrow night, and I plan on being asleep by midnight both nights. Sorry babe, but them's the breaks. I brought Nadir because... okay, maybe I wanted two bed-warmers, okay? Like I said before, we've never discussed it, but the idea isn't new to me.” Jane stopped and leered at Nadir expectantly.

Nadir picked up on her questioning look, but didn't know what to do with it. He queried, “Is there a conflict between you two? If I'm the cause, I apologize....”

With a sharp voice, Leanne said, “I think she's offering us a three-way, buddy. I'll say yes, but only because it's the only way I'll get any time with her at all this weekend.”

Jane spun at Leanne and snapped, “Okay, then the offer is off the table. We all share equally, or we don't at all. That's a hard and fast rule with me, and you know it.” She cut herself off for a moment, then said with a crack in her voice, “Dammit woman, I asked you once already: what the fuck is up with you?”

“I want you! I don't want to share you, you're all I want, bitch! I'm stuck down here and you're up there and when you are down here it's all about business, just suck and fuck and read your fucking lines and now the whole world is falling in love with you but I was here first!” And with that Leanne broke down crying in earnest. Jane sat next to her and held her in an aggressive embrace.

This was new for Nadir, whose previous apex of social discomfort had been introducing his (white) high school girlfriend to his grandfather... a traditionalist who still wore a burnoose. This was far more uncomfortable. The discomfort only increased when a cold voice behind him stated, “Yeah, I saw this shit coming.”

Standing at his shoulder was Terry of course, whose expression would have made any outlaw biker look at the ground and find other things to think about. Putting a fake smiling plastic sheen over her true expression, Terror wrapped a strong arm around Nadir's shoulders and guided him towards the exit, saying in a cheerful voice, “Hey man, you've never been to Smut & Stuff, have you? Of course not, you're from Oh Cee, you're in luck, they're right next door here. Those two need a minute, so I'll show you what a great neighborhood this is, but we're getting the fuck out of here for a few.”

Outside Nadir pleaded with Terror, “Can you tell me what's happening? I feel like I'm causing a lot of trouble just by being here.”

Lighting a Camel, Terror gestured with her elbow towards the sidewalk and said, “Let's walk and talk. You like porn?”

“Ahhh....”

She snickered, “Okay, that's like asking if someone likes eating food. How about live boobs? You like boobs? There's a strip club one block over, we can knock back a few and admire the talent. C'mon, let's head that direction.” Terror shoulder-bumped Nadir in the direction she wanted to walk through the parking lot and across the street, him complying partly out of fear, but mostly from curiosity.

The strip mall he was being guided to was like thousands of identical ones all over Southern California; they seemed to spread like acne blemishes. Just as attractive, just as anonymous. The motif was BROWN. Everything excluding the asphalt – which gave the eye some relief in the form of dark grey – was a BROWN color, of one gradient or another. Hazel, sepia, umber, mahogany, beige, tan, dusky BROWN. Like the interior of an AMC Ambassador had puked over a city block.

Dirty Dan's sat between an auto parts franchise and a local burger chain called Boll Weevil. Stepping inside, Nadir suddenly understood why Terror had kept her sunglasses on until now: she wasn't blinded by the sudden dark, the same way pirates were able to see in the dark due to the eye patches. Desperately blinking to get his vision back, Nadir was aware of a rough male voice stating, “Your ID.”

“He's with me,” Terror told the rough voice (now associated with a rather menacing outline on a stool). The outline was silent briefly, then made a vague gesture with one shoulder. Nadir finally caught the hint when Terror pulled him by the arm into the recesses of the club. She guided him to a table at the rear, holding up a hand and giving off a short sharp whistle as they sat. Almost instantly a waitress was present, smiling down at Terry (already knowing three Budweisers was the order) and giving a fuck-me wink at Nadir.

“What's your poison, baby? If you're with her, I'm guessing Budweiser.” Nadir gestured mutely in the affirmative, and the waitress boogied away.

The lighting was marginally better in the back, and Nadir's eye's adjusted to the dim. Across from him Terror finally removed her sunglasses – even in the dim he was a bit dazzled by her blue eyes – and gave him a gentle smirk. “So, you're probably wondering what sort of weird fuckin' interpersonal dynamics you've walked into. You know who Leanne is, right? Jane has talked about her?”

Nadir made an inquisitive gesture with his hands and replied, “She's mentioned her, as a friend and lover. I didn't know they were as, uh, tight as they are.”

“That's the problem, they're not. Okay, you're dating Jane, you know she's not exclusive with anyone. That's what's bugging Leanne so fuckin' much right now, she wants Jane all to herself or some shit. Don't ask me why, I stay out of Jane's shit. But she's my friend, and Leanne is stressing her out.

“You know why I threw her off the range, right? She pointed a fuckin' gun at your head. It was empty, and she knew it... but that's the more annoying thing. I'd expect that sort of thing from some dumb yahoo, but not an Inana Girl. One of the reasons we're over here is I can't be around that stupid fuckin' bitch right now. They may be a hobby, but guns ain't fuckin' toys. Being around her right now would only make my mood worse.”

The waitress – named Heather, for what it's worth – oozed back over and set four Budweiser long-necks on the table, one being immediately picked up and drained by Terror. Heather had arranged herself in a manner where her ass was centimeters from Nadir's face as she set the bottles down. Turning his direction, she asked him, “So, here to party? How hard and for how long?”

Terry the Terror let out a cackling laugh and tugged at the waitress' shoulder. “Leave out the sales pitch, bitch, he's here with Gator Bait.”

“He's – ” Heather straightened up and inhaled slightly... then frowned down at Terry. “I never saw her come in.”

“She's still across the street at the gun range,” smiled Terror. “I'm sure she'll be here in a little while, you can ask her then.”

“No-o, I'll trust you...” Pivoting back towards Nadir, Heather put on a too-wide smile and piped, “Hi, I'm Heather, and welcome to Dirty Dan's! Glad to meet you!” Then she scurried off.

At this point Nadir was feeling rather frustrated. “What exactly is going on? I keep on being introduced to people, and they seem to freeze up when they find out Jane and I are friends. The hostess at lunch was very obliging, we were seated before people who'd been waiting longer. The cashier at the gun range practically saluted, you and I are allowed to walk in here, Jane's name seemed to frighten our waitress... I'm nineteen, I'm not allowed in here yet, you know?”

“And yet here you are,” smirked Terror. “All I'm going to say is Jane has a lot of friends and acquaintances, and is given a lot of leeway. The colors don't hurt, either. Me and her wear the same fuckin' patches, and get the respect they deserve, both inside and outside the club. People know who the fuck she is, and who she's associated with, and extend a lot of courtesy. She doesn't throw her weight around, she's just well-known and respected.”

Nadir scrubbed his face with his fingers and replied, “Okay, fine. Jane has connections, I get it. But... I wasn't expecting any drama with anyone, okay?”

“I really fuckin' doubt Jane knew she'd be dragging you into any bullshit, it's not on you at all. It's all on Leanne, really. You know why I threw her out, right?” Nadir shook his head. “She pointed a fuckin' gun at you. It was unloaded, and she knew it, but you don't play shit like that on a range, ever... and especially if you're around me. I've seen what bullets do to the human body, it's ugly as fuck, and nobody gets to joke about it around me.”

Their exchange was interrupted by a bellowed “Hey Terror!” from the doorway. In walked four Hellbound: Roach (Fucker), King, Fatso, and Big Ugly. Also in attendance were Fatso's old lady Ginger and Mama Marta. As seemed customary, the two women aimed for the shuffleboard table; the bikers dragged a couple tables over to where Nadir and Terry were sitting and plonked down. This turn of events did nothing to calm Nadir, who decided drinking his beer sounded like a great idea.

“Indulging your sharpshooting habit?” grinned Fatso. He raised a hand for the waitress, but Heather was already hustling over with a tray of long-necks. (Knowing one's customer base is the mark of a service industry professional.)

“Yeah, me and Gator Bait wanted some fuckin' range time,” Terror said neutrally. “She's still over there. Shit, where the fuck are my manners. This is Nadir, he's down here with Jane for the weekend.” Hands were clasped all around, Nadir wincing with each handshake.

“So you're Nadir,” Roach stated warmly. “Heard about ya, glad to meet ya.”

King gave Nadir what he considered to be a playful elbow to the ribs; it nearly knocked him off his seat. “Yer keepin' that little girl happy, right? Haw!”

“So what major have you chosen?” asked Fatso. “Are you also a Haas student?”

Nadir nearly snapped his neck on the double-take: it wasn't the sort of question he'd expect from the societal ogres he was currently surrounded by. “Ah, no sir, I'm a computer major. Jane it taking an unofficial minor in computer science, that's how we know each other.” He wasn't about to bring up Jane picking a fight with the teacher on his behalf... an argument that got him moved to Comp. Sci. 301, a very high placing for a freshman, but it was where he belonged. She'd terrified him with the energy she'd put into arguing his case – one which he never wanted to make – but it had paid off. Her invitation to lunch that day also rattled his cage. They'd had sandwiches at a place on Oxford Street, and the experience hadn't relaxed him, but certainly changed his view of Jane: she wasn't a terrorist, but a superhero from a dirty comic book.

(Thirty-six hours later he'd lose his virginity to Jane, but that's a different story.)

Fatso gave him a friendly swat on the arm (which again nearly knocked him off his chair) and said, “I'm glad she has someone to rely on in her minor, bub. So what do you think of San Diego?”

This felt like a non-sequitur to Nadir, who'd been in town for less than five hours. “Well sir, uh, I've not seen much of it so far...”

Big Ugly chortled, “Lemme guess, the first place you went was the Oceanside studios, huh?” The entire table began laughing.

“Who picked you up from the airport?” grinned Roach.

“I think her name was Anne.”

This prompted more peals of laughter. “She flashed you, didn't she?” giggled Terry. “Porn is perfect for her, she's such an exhibitionist it ain't fuckin' funny.”

King provided another of his rib-breaking jabs and joshed, “People think Dago is pretty boring, we kin show ya otherwise! Haw!” He gestured loosely towards the stage and continued, “Half these broads will give you a ride if you got the green. How you like to party, bud?”

Terror reached across the table and whacked King. “What did I just say, fucknuts? He's here with Gator Bait.”

“Shit, you did, huh?” With a warmer grin, King said to Nadir, “Hey, welcome aboard, brother. Don't worry about us fuckin' criminals, you're around good people. Glad to meetcha.”

Nadir was not a drinker, but – trying to stay cool and look nonchalant – had downed his first beer and was halfway through a second. The table was crowded with unconsumed long-necks, and he'd grabbed one just to look busy. Now he was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol and found the voice to respond, “So you all know Jane well?”

“Shit hell, every fuckin' chapter west of the Rockies knows Gator Bait. Dago's her home chapter, so yeah, we know the girl.” Another cackle. “You met any of the brothers up in Oakland? Now those can be some scary bastards! You've probably met Riley, right? Her adoptive dad up there?”

Casting his mind back didn't take long; Nadir remembered the man: an older outlaw with a well-groomed beard and hair, and a glare like being hit with a frozen crowbar. When Jane later informed him of Riley's career as a successful criminal defense attorney, he first refused to believe her: the man carried an aura of menace, not the sort of thing useful when interacting with a judge. Jane assured him Riley was Jekyll and Hyde, he knew how to read an audience. He nodded.

King leaned closer and said in a sotto voce, “I ain't gonna lie, stay on that man's good side. He's not mean, he's no hot-head, but he's one tough motherfucker, and he loves Gator Bait like one of his own daughters. He's a good man to have on your side, so if he's there, keep him there. Riley really goes into Poppa Bear mode around Gator Bait.”

This did nothing to ease Nadir's nerves, so he polished off the rest of his Budweiser. He managed to reply, “Yes, I've met him a couple times. You're right, he's very devoted to Ja – Gator Bait.”

“Exactly.”

“Should I be worried about the man?”

King sat up in his chair some and said with some gravel, “You plan on fuckin' over Gator Bait?”

“What? No, of course not, I love her!”

“Then you don't have nothing to worry about.” King returned to his relaxed slouch and friendly voice. Nadir felt himself relax... but only a little. None of my friends are going to believe any of this has happened, he thought. I'll be here until Sunday night, it's Friday and we haven't even had dinner yet, oh please Krishna don't let things get any weirder from here.

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” came Mama Marta's bellow from the shuffleboard table. Everyone looked towards the entrance to see Jane strolling in, a nervous-looking Leanne in her wake. There were calls and cat-calls of greeting as she approached the assembled outlaws.

Casting her eyes about, Leanne saw Roach sitting among the other Hellbound and slid his direction, giving him a jittery greeting. He looked up and saw a fellow performer, and smiled back with warmth. “This isn't the first place I thought I'd find you... but you're with Jane right now, so that computes,” Roach chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess I am...” Leanne muttered.

Roach looked her directly in the eyes; she felt frozen briefly in the stare. Then he said, “You feel conflicted right now, I can tell. Why don't we go outside and talk for a few?”

Jane overheard this and sing-songed, “What a brilliant i-dee-aaa...”

Turning on his pantie-melting smile, Roach gently slid his hand down Leanne's arm, then firmly grasped her hand and stood up. “C'mon, we'll go have a quiet beer next door, you can talk to me there.”

Leanne had heard of Roach's ability to enchant, but never really believed it. She still refused to, even as she smiled and let him guide her towards the exit.

“Aren't they going to card us?” she asked as they stepped into the yellow glare of late afternoon.

“Did they give you any grief in the club?” grinned Roach.

The two stepped into Boll Weevil, a burger-and-beer joint next door. There was diner-like service, so the two slid into a booth, a bored-looking waitress already approaching. She got closer and perked up. “Hiya Fucker! Isn't Pint Size with you?”

“She's having a girl's night, Maggie. How's your evening?”

“Doing just fine, now. Who's your friend?”

Roach put her hand on Leanne's shoulder and said, “This is Leanne, we work together. She's having a bit of a crisis, so we thought a beer or two and some talk would help.”

“Comin' right up!” Maggie announced, and scuttled off towards the keg taps. She returned moments later with two pint glasses full of yellow fluid.

Sipping at his beer, Roach stated, “So what's up? I can feel there's tension between you and Jane... and you have Terror pissed off at you, too.” He paused for another sip. “I'll take a wild guess and say your romance with Jane has hit a pothole. Am I right?”

Leanne gulped down some of her own beer and said with sorrow, “You're right. I hate that she sees other people, I could keep her happy forever if she'd just let me...” A couple tears ran. Roach leaned over and gave her a squeeze, which only increased her crying.

She leaned into his chest and sniffled, “I don't want to share her anymore.”

With a sigh, Roach told her, “I have bad news: I don't believe it'll ever happen. Monogamy simply isn't in Jane's genetics, you know? Everyone loves her, and has to share her. I'm sorry, but that's just how Jane is.” He gave Leanne a genuine hug, then held her away and looked into her eyes. “Think about it, though. If Jane wasn't poly, would she still be the same Jane we know and love? You would have her all to yourself, but I don't think it would be the same woman you fell in love with.”

Leanne froze for a moment, and then had a flash of realization come across her face. She murmured, “Shit. You're probably right.” After a deep breath she continued, “Deep down I know you're right, I just hate it. I really have it bad for her, stronger than I've ever felt about anyone. Heh, I want to live in her skin, you know?”

“You and a million others,” Roach pointed out. “Consider yourself lucky: out of that million, you're one of the very few who can call Jane a friend, much less a lover. She's never gonna be all yours, so cherish the time you do have with her, and don't get jealous of the others in her life. They aren't of you.”

“Are you one of them?”

Roach couldn't help but chuckle. “That's how we started out. Hell, she's the reason I have my job with Inana... but I'll tell that story another time. So... are we clear? You can't harbor any resentment for Jane's other lovers?”

Leanne took a deep breath, exhaled, then looked at Roach with a vague smile. “You know what? It's probably just as well. Jane is so high-energy I don't think I'd be able to keep up.” She hugged Roach. “Thanks for helping me straighten my head out. I'll take what you said to heart.”

“Please do. And remember, Jane really does love you. It's just not unique.”

“I know. I know, I know. I just... I fucked with my own head, okay? I was hoping to have Jane all to myself when she wasn't working this weekend, and she shows up with that dude... Okay, we could all hook up together, he seems like a good guy, but that's not what I wanted, you know? That, and I'm really not into three ways. Not unless I'm being paid to be.”

“Have you told Jane that?” asked Roach.

“Well... Not exactly...”

Now Roach felt annoyed. “Yeah, maybe you should mention that. What the hell were you two talking about all this time, while you were still at the range?”

Leanne stared at the line of bottles behind the bar and muttered, “She was trying to get me to not hate Nadir. Umm... I guess I broke a cardinal sin on a range, which is never point a gun at another person, even if you're kidding and the gun is empty. I thought that chick Terry or Terror or whatever was gonna beat the shit out of me.”

“Honestly? I don't really blame her. I'm no gun nut like Terror or Jane or Lenny, but I've spent time on a range and yeah, that shit ain't funny.” Roach calmed himself and changed gears. “Okay, look. I thing the best course of action is for us to go back in the club – ”

This froze Leanne. “They'll kill me in there. Between Jane and Terror talking...”

“So I'll bring them out to you. But the three of you need to talk, and with no mediation. You'll all either be friends or kill each other, but at least matters will be settled, you know?”

Leanne stood and sweltered in the unique manner only sunlight on asphalt can deliver. Soon enough she was joined by Jane and Terry, and the three returned to Boll Weevil.

Constructive conversation was had by all.

Chapter Six

“Here's information about our friend Dorian Black,” Angel told me over the phone, “and I know the cops are hiding it from you. The spare tire in his rental? Stuffed full of China White. It's not a bad strategy: hey, you just rented the damn thing, who knows what the previous driver had going on? So long as your prints aren't anywhere, you're not looking at time.”

“How much was stashed?” I asked. “And if it's the reason Dorian Black was killed, why didn't the killers retrieve the dope? It's like a deal gone bad, but in reverse.”

“The answer is eight kilos, or over seventeen pounds. And that's the question of the day, why is it still there if the mule was knocked off? Who was the end customer? Why did this stooge Dorian Black spend so much time in San Diego, instead of doing the drop and heading home? Who financed him? Why was he staying in that shit-hole motel instead of someplace nice...?”

“I can answer that last one,” I interjected. “The traffic through there is constant, all those whores and johns. One guy doing a drop isn't going to get noticed in the crowd.”

“Okay, that's one question answered,” Angel stated. “Now it's up to you to answer the others. If the cops have a lead on the customer for all that junk, they're keeping it a secret. Really Lenny, it shouldn't be that hard: find the connection, and you'll find the killer. Remember, it's your ass on the line, so you have a vested interest in solving this.”

“Will I have any support?” I pleaded.

“Up to a point. You can't just foist this off on Paul or the strike team and forget about it. Sorry, but this is a mess that has nothing to do with the Family, so you're on your own for the most part. After you put the finger on someone... we'll see. Circumstances will dictate.” Angel paused. “We could be wrong, and this was meant to look like a mob killing. If that's the case, you're going to have the Family more closely allied, you understand me? You've played detective before, so get to it. Ciao.” (click)

I fumed at the dead receiver in my hand, “Angel, you bastard... I don't have time for this shit anymore, I'm too goddamn busy to pretend I'm a gumshoe again.” I looked pleadingly at Bekka. “Can you think of any reason I shouldn't just hire a fucking private detective to solve this shit for me?”

“I can,” she replied. “First, Angel will be pissed off you're not doing the work on your own. Second, what if the killing is connected to the Family? We could have some rando with a private license dipping into business we wouldn't want him in, you follow?” A sigh. “Look at it this way: it's an obvious plant, someone wanted to give us a headache... especially with that junk involved. You know how cop brains work: we're in a dirty business, porn, so why wouldn't we be involved with even dirtier business? You know Encinitas PD – or the sheriff's department – would love an excuse to put you away for a while. If this wasn't a set-up, then I don't know what is.”

---

My first stop that afternoon was the Best Rest Motel on El Cajon Boulevard. It was one of many motels along that strip of well-traveled asphalt, vestiges of when the Boulevard was also the main artery from the desert to the east into San Diego: still desert, but plenty of irrigation. Interstate 8 bypassed what was Highway 80, feeding travelers into the money-making parts of the city.

Now, like many others, the Best Rest had adapted to the changing demographics. Rooms “For The Weary Traveler” went for the bargain price of $15 per hour. It was amazing, the number of Weary Travelers who would visit the Best Rest (and many other motels with the same price policies) on any given day. Many local men would become exhausted in their day-to-day business, and need a short nap. With someone to cuddle with.

The stroll was busy, it was midday and those cruising for johns were hungry; monkeys on backs were letting themselves be known. Bargain time. While not as blatant as Hollywood and Vine, the talent was obvious, and not shy in advertising. Just stopping at a light could mean some desperate whore trying to get in the passenger side with a sob story to tell: cruel pimp, boyfriend in jail, short on rent, kids to feed. Not once would you have any tell you about their drug habit, and how suckin' dick for money was the easiest way to feed it.

I marched into the office of the Best Rest and grinned at the mound of suet on the other side of the counter. He looked annoyed, as I was interrupting his ingestion of a Subway foot-long. A second sat to one side, waiting. “Yeah?” came the food-gorged query.

“Yeah, hi, you had a customer a week or two ago I'm trying to learn more about. His name was Dorian Black – ”

This prompted an annoyed chuckle from the suet. Semi-chewed bits of sandwich escaped from his mouth, spattering the desk. “I'm sick of that fuckin' name,” I was told. “Go talk to the fuckin' cops.”

Continuing my grin, I responded, “Already have. I figured if I talked to you directly I'd actually learn the truth.”

The suet finally swallowed, but still chewed on matter wedged in his cheeks, like a cud. “Get the fuck out of my office, punk. I'm not in the mood.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw the hand not clutching a hoagie to slide slowly under the desk...

I threw down on him with the Beretta and told him to stand the fuck up, and hands where I could see them. He didn't believe me, so I put a round into the floor in front of his desk. He believed me then. “Fine, fine, the cash is in the third drawer on the left!” he bleated.

“Ugh. No, I just told you what I want, which is honest information. What do really know about this dude Dorian Black? Any of the local talent come to visit? Any other visitors? Did he ever have a flat tire in the lot? What were – ”

This question seemed to irritate the suet. Despite the gun pointed at him, he dropped his hands and approached the counter. “Okay, shit. You're the second bastard askin' if he had tire trouble... and the cops didn't care at all.