Dark Handsome

Then I found out what everyone else in the industry was making, but I was locked in for two years. When my contract was up I told him to kiss my ass and went with someone else, for four grand. A year later he called me up, knowing I wasn't on contract, and offered me six per production. We settled on seventy-five hundred, and we did one about every ten days."

I was impressed. That was pretty good money by anyone's standard. I asked how long he thought he was going to continue. He sighed. "The porn industry is a dinosaur. There is too much shit out there on the internet you can get for free to have to pay to watch people fuck. I'm lucky, my parents always instilled the practically of saving for a rainy day. I live on about a third of what I make, and live comfortably. I got maybe four years left, and I'm going after everything I can get. I got a pretty good investment counselor, and I already own a burger franchise, and looking at buying another. I'm hoping when I leave the business I won't have to work anymore, at anything."

My surprise must have shown on my face, and he grinned. "I'm the exception to the rule. Most of the people I work with live a lavish lifestyle or have bad habits, and stay broke. None of them have ever considered they might actually have to face life after porn. You may have seen the two documentaries on just that, and most all interviewed did not have good lives."

Alice and I talked about it on the way to the next interview. We agreed that while we didn't exactly approve of his career, that at least he kept his head on his shoulders, and that he'd land well when he stopped making porn.

Alice read me the dossier on out next appointment, Janice "Honeypot" Jefferson. She was black, well built without being a caricature of busty black women, and as we found out, dumb as a stump. She met us in a thong and sheer robe, not caring at all that the neighbors were giving her disapproving looks as she stood at her door.

The apartment was a mess, reflecting her personality. She really didn't like Joe, said he made 'creepy' offers to her, but refused to say more. She did admit to fucking him a couple of times, even said he had pretty good equipment but no idea how to use it. Mostly she bemoaned her loss of steady income. She'd tried a few more production companies, but no one had anything for her. Her salary was about 3500 per movie before he was murdered, and she needed work soon, or she'd be out on the streets. Honeypot wanted to know if we knew anyone who needed someone with her talents.

"I do private parties, too. No more than eight guys, over than that and I have to have a partner. I do a killer bachelor party, corporate retreats, anything that brings in the bucks. Three hundred per guy, two a day for more than a one-nighter." She grinned, looking at Alice. "I do an awesome bachelorette party, too, with a partner, something for everybody. I have a rate for interested couples, a grand for eight hours of anything your heart desires. Lots of people want to fuck a porn star. Here's my card." It showed a bear with his hand in a jar of honey, her name, and contact number.

Thanking her, we took the card. I held my laughter until we were in the van, before exploding. "Hey, isn't your anniversary next month? I got a feeling if I got the guys to chip in, we could give you an anniversary to remember. Talk to Bobby, let me know."

She grinned back. "Let me think about it, I'll get back to you right after Saudi Arabia opens a ski resort."

She stopped smiling as we discussed the interview. Honeypot hadn't liked Joe either, a recurring theme among the next two girls and one guy we interviewed before the day was done. Our last interview, with a woman over forty who indeed looked rode hard and put up wet, was the most interesting.

"Joe was a motherfucker, plain and simple. He'd tread carefully around the new girls who could make him money, but used up old bitches like me? Treated us like we were less than dirt. Kept pushing us to do kinkier and kinkier things. Double penetration of both holes and a dick in the mouth was the standard for old girls like us. He kept trying to push us into doing other things, like getting pissed and shit on, tied up and whipped, the real thing, not faked for the camera. Look."

She casually pulled her shirt over her head, turning around. She had bite marks, some of them deep purple, all over her upper body, as well as lash marks. "From my last role. I was desperate for the money/ I'm divorced and have to pay child support. Let me tell you, private school tuition is not cheap. It'll take weeks before I can do another film, but it paid three times my normal rate and I was up against a wall, so I did it. He hinted if I was willing to do kinkier things, there was even more money in it. I'd heard him talk like that before, but I can't remember anything like it ever produced. I know a few girls, stoners mostly, talked about it, but I don't know if they ever did anything. They disappeared pretty quick; he wasn't much on druggies. You might want to talk to Pam; she once told me she was considering doing something for him. I don't know if anything came of it, she went with another company shortly afterwards."

We were both quiet on the way back to the office. Alice, filled with great sadness, wondered how women ended up like these.

"I can understand it, Al. Most of these women came here wanting to be in movies. Most had no money, no support group, some got seduced into it, some went into it because it was the only thing they could find to keep off the streets. Once in, it's a bitch to get out. Some turn to drugs, alcohol, anything to numb the pain. Some just keep going because it's the closest to their dream they'll ever get."

"How about the guys?"

"Same thing, to a lesser degree. Others are like Jimmy, blessed with enormous equipment and stumbling into it."

She looked at me closely. "Did you ever consider it?"

"Not in the least. I had a support group, a little savings, and a skill set that I knew I could use if I needed to. I was recruited though, about six months after I got here. Even went for an audition. When I found out what was going on I declined the role they offered me, as graciously as possible."

Alice started teasing me gently. "Were you recruited for your looks, or your junk?"

She giggled when I answered. "Both. I'm not in Jumbo's class, but I do all right."

"Oh, You're not bad. I've seen it, remember?"

It was hard to forget the infamous wardrobe malfunction of 2017. Alice and Bobby had held a pool party last summer, and everyone at the office was there. I was really popular with the small kids because I was big, strong, and could toss them pretty high in the pool. When it came time to eat, everyone got out. Her four-year-old, Janie, stumbled and started falling so she reached for the closest thing available, me. I had on loose board shorts, too loose I guess, because when she latched down on me, they slid to my knees.

Everyone just froze, and I casually pulled my shorts up, helping Janie stand. She giggled and ran off as the whole group exploded in laughter. They had to keep the comments and innuendoes as vague as possible because of the kids, but I caught it from every adult and a few of the late teens there.

...

We slogged on, interviewing everyone associated with Joe Morgan Productions. Alice and I took the actresses, actors, sound and film technicians, while Jack followed the money, talking to accountants and lawyers. He spoke little about what he'd learned, unusual for us. We usually shared all information, hoping one of us would see something the other missed. The cops were becoming frustrated, and the case was getting less and less attention. After all, who gave a damn about a washed-up porn producer? He had no family, no wife, no kids, so no one was raising hell, pushing them to find his killer.

I talked to Benson about it. He rolled his eyes in disgust. "The man was killed on the set of a porn shoot. We got four hundred DNA samples; apparently sanitation was not high on those sets. A hundred and thirty seven were semen samples, two-hundred-eight were vaginal secretions and saliva. Twelve were from blood residue. Apparently, accidents happen. The rest were from condoms and used tissues. We've identified less than half, and all have been eliminated from suspicion. This is going to end up a cold case pretty quick, unless we get lucky. You get anything on your end?"

"I doubt it. Most of the people we interviewed you guys had already talked to, and no one had anything new to add. Jack find anything on the money trail?"

He just looked at me. "Haven't heard a word, he just gave us what you got. I do know that Joe Morgan was flying high, living a lifestyle he couldn't afford. He was always just on the edge of bankruptcy. The accountants say he had to have at least two films going all the time to maintain payroll and pay his bills. One glitch and he'd be shut down in a matter of days. The only thing that kept him solvent was that about every five to six months, a huge deposit was made to his personal account. The trail went cold at an offshore bank, and no way in hell will those guys give anything about who made the deposits."

We talked generalities, he sounded me out about a couple of cases he was working on and we parted ways. I wondered as I left the bar why Jack hadn't given any information to the cops.

I asked him the next day, and he flushed a deep red. "Stay out of this, Dirk. You do your job and let me handle anything else. Understood? Remember, we don't work for the cops, we work for the client."

Oh, I understood all right, and I knew that withholding information from the police, especially on a murder case, was both unwise and illegal. It was his ass, though, unless he dragged the rest of us down with him. That would not be good, not at all.

*****

The weeks went by and the case went cold. It bothered me, but there was nothing I could do about it. Jack gave us all a nice bonus for our work, and I, for one, felt guilty for taking it. We hadn't done any real investigation, just went through the motions. The fact that we weren't really expected to find anything irritated me.

Life went on, for those still living. I'd worked three cases since the murder. Right then, I was working another case, a philandering husband with a weakness for strippers. He had the bucks, a Beverly Hills banker, so it was always high-end places, thank goodness. I'd been in the worst of the clubs for my work, and always went home and took a shower afterwards. I ended up that night in a place called Executive Privilege, where the waitresses all looked like slutty secretaries. Hair in a bun, heavy glasses, short business skirts showing the tops of their stockings, white blouses unbuttoned halfway down to expose their cleavage. Some even wore bras, usually black and red, that showed well under the sheer blouses.

The strippers were the best of the best. Lean, busty beauties that knew their craft and could stir the crowd to a frenzy. It took them longer than the norm at such places, but eventually they were naked. They worked the crowd, sitting at tables, flirting, making deals for private lap dances in the rooms to the side of the club.

My guy had his head in the cleavage of a well-endowed redhead, trying to latch down on a nipple. She avoided him with practiced ease, whispering to him, and soon they headed for the private rooms. I didn't follow, for one thing I couldn't without a girl, and secondly, while his behavior was sleazy, it wasn't damning. I would go outside, wait and see where he went later. If his habits remained the same, he'd leave, go to the closest motel, and wait. His chosen companion of the night usually showed up thirty minutes to an hour later. I already had him on film twice, showing them going into a room, staying an hour or two, and leaving.

This was my last night; we would brief the client in the morning. Even though the wife expected to hear he was caught, most didn't take it well. Some cried. Some threatened death. Some threatened to make his life a living hell. Most did all three. And then, some forgave. I never understood that.

I was just about to leave when an attractive black woman slid into the booth beside me.

"Hi, sugar. Remember me?"

It took a second, but I grinned. "Hi, Honeypot. I see you landed on your feet."

She grinned back. "Instead of my back, you mean? I like this a lot better than doing porn, and on a good week I make more than I did in films. A bonus is I don't have to fuck nearly as many guys. I have a Sugar Daddy now; he keeps me in an apartment, lets me use one of his cars. He knows I still fuck someone else once in a while, but as long as I stay clean it doesn't bother him too much. He's hinted that if I'd stay exclusive I'd get an upgrade, but I don't think I have the faithful gene in me. I like to fuck too much. He says he'll wait for me to get it out of my system."

She sighed, looking down. "I hope someday I can. He's a great guy, and deserves better. I didn't mean to, but I'm kind of in love with him."

I told her I was happy with her improved situation, and I also told her to give some serious thought to her guy. Maybe she should make a change.

She nodded and got up. "Gotta go, baby. The manager is giving me the evil eye. Got to circulate, you know. I'm up next, stay and watch me. I'll dedicate a move just for you. When I do the backflip and land in a full split, it'll be for you."

Just as she started walking away, she asked me if we ever found out who killed Joe. I told her as far as I knew it was a cold case now, and doubted it would ever be solved.

"Too bad. Joe was an asshole, but nobody deserves to go out the way he did. Hey, that reminds me! See that waitress, the one with black hair and a red bra? She did one film with us, probably Joe's last. It never got released. Did anyone interview her? Her name is Sharon. You should talk to her."

She went backstage, and five minutes later she did her routine. She was the best I'd ever seen, moving like there wasn't a bone in her body. She practically made love to the pole. I bet there wasn't a guy in the place that didn't have a boner when she was done. The backflip off the pole into the split was spectacular, I'd never seen anything like it. She blew a kiss in my direction before rising and working the crowd.

My target was leaving. I jumped up, flagged the waitress Honeypot had showed me, and asked if I could trust her. She seemed confused by the question. "Honeypot is a friend of mine. Give her this for me, and tell her I'm happy she has a better life. This is for your trouble."

I gave her the hundred for Honeypot and a twenty for her. Jack was paying; I'd turn it in on my expense report, so I went large. She had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen, really standing out against her raven dark hair.

My guy drove straight to a no-tell motel, and thirty minutes later the stripper showed up. I was about to leave when another car pulled in and a petite Asian woman got out and knocked on the door. I got my camera up just in time to catch him opening to door, naked, while the redhead lay on the bed, legs spread. That ought to sew the divorce up neat and tidy.

Done early, I went back to the strip club, sitting down in the section of my target. When she brought me my beer I asked if she had a minute. She backed up warily. "Look mister, I'm just a waitress. If you like I can send one of the girls around."

I felt like she was shutting down, so I gambled. "I don't want anyone else. I want to talk to the woman who worked on what was probably the last porn film Joe Morgan ever produced."

If I hadn't seen it coming, she would have hit the floor. I just managed to catch her, and suddenly I had two huge bouncers beside me. "A little help here?"

I'd saved her a hard landing by diving under her. They reached down, and with more gentleness than one would expect, sat her in a chair. One went to get a glass of water while another held her up. It was apparent they held her in high regard.

"What happened?" There was a hint of malice in his voice.

"I gave her a shock, but I had no idea she would faint. I mean her no harm, really. I just wanted to ask her some questions."

The other bouncer, even bigger than the one holding her, returned with the water. "Well, friend, I would guess she doesn't want to answer any questions. If you ain't a cop, maybe it would be best if you leave."

I stood, holding out a card. "You're right. Please, give her this card and ask her to call. I'm sure she would rather talk to me than the police. Just a few minutes, and I'll never bother her again. And before you ask, it has nothing to do with the club. I just need some background on a case I worked a while back. Give her this; she deserves something for missing her tables."

I think the hundred made them a little less disagreeable, even though they did walk me to the door. One guy gave me a little talk once we were outside. "Look, Sharon is one of the good ones. She's just a waitress; she doesn't do what a lot of the other girls do. I don't know what you want, but if she doesn't want to talk, she doesn't have to. If she tells us you're harassing her, well, the least of your worries will be getting back in the club. You understand?"

I assured them once again I meant her no harm, and left. I slept until 10 the next morning, it was four before I got into bed, and at noon I met the client. She appeared nervous but determined. I hated this part of my job, but I did it as professionally as I could, to lighten the impact.

"Mrs. Summers, I'm afraid your suspicion is correct. Your husband is cheating on you, with multiple partners."

She paled and a tear trickled down one cheek, but she remained composed. "How many?"

"In the three weeks we've followed him, four. He seems to have a fetish for strippers, ma'am. All his liaisons were with them."

"What am I going to do now?"

"I'm afraid that's out of my skill set, Mrs. Summers. Even if you stay together, I do suggest you get tested. I don't know if he used protection, and these types of ladies aren't very selective when it comes to partners. We have a few lists we've prepared as part of our service. One is of divorce attorneys that are reliable, another is of different counselors, both private, child and marriage, a list of clergymen you can reach out to, and a couple of support groups, people who have gone what you're going through now. There is also the name of a few discrete clinics, if you want to avoid your regular health care giver. We even have the number for the suicide help line. Please, use as many resources as you need to get you through this time of crisis. If you have family you can share with, do so. Don't try to go through this alone. Get help if you need it."

She thanked me, but she should have been thanking Alice. It was her idea, after one of our clients committed suicide, our report still clutched in his fingers when they found him.

I walked back to my cubicle, thinking maybe it was time to find another career. The sleaziness of the situations, the appalling baseness of most of the people we encountered was starting to jade my outlook on life. I'd walk through the mall, or the park, and see young loving couples and families, middle-aged people smiling with the content of well-lived lives, and a few older couples that still walked hand in hand, and wonder which would be calling us in the near future. It was no way to live.

*****

I had another hot case, the worst, an abusive spouse. It was the woman that was the abuser this time, even though she was half the size of her husband. She was a real shrew, and if her husband didn't do as she wanted she would catch him unaware or asleep, and hurt him. He showed me scars on his arm and body, the slight dent in his head from a bat, the crooked fingers of his left hand. After I got over the shock, I asked him to leave.