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Authors: Scott Sherman

Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) (6 page)

BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)
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“Those are great ideas,” Andrew agreed with the patience of a man who’d spent the last two years working with a woman even more deluded than my mother. “We’ll get right on it. I see no reason why we can’t combine the fun lifestyle advice and entertaining human interest topics we normally cover with some harder-hitting reportage.”
I knew my mother would be impressed, if by nothing else, Andrew’s use of the word
reportage
in the same sentence as the nonsense we usually aired. Sure enough, she sprang up and pulled the seated producer’s head to her in an embrace that threatened to suffocate the poor boy in her ample bosom. “I knew I could count on you,” she beamed.
“You too,” she told me. “Except, not for anything constructive.”
“Nk ooo,”
Andrew said.
“Sorry,” my mother said, releasing him from the deep valley of her breasts. “What was that, sweetheart?”
He gulped in a breath. “Thank you.”
“Thank
you,
” my mother gushed. “I can’t wait to get something I can really sink my teeth into.”
Instinctively, I put my hand over my jugular.
7
Fallen Angel
“Trust me,” I’d told Andrew, the minute my mom left his office, “in a few days she’ll have lost all interest in becoming the next Diane Sawyer. We just have to provide a distraction. I say we go for an episode where she takes some of her girlfriends to Chippendales. They start all embarrassed and silly, tentatively slipping dollar bills, with the delicacy of vestal virgins, into the dancer’s G-strings, and by the end they’ll be kneading those boys’ buttocks like dough. That’ll take her mind off things.”
It’d improve Andrew’s mood, too, I reckoned. Although maybe the last thing he needed was more testosterone-fueled narcissism.
Andrew drummed his fingers on his desk. “I don’t know,” he said, a little dreamily. “Have you considered your mother might have a point?”
“Crazy say what now?” I asked.
“Listen.” Andrew leaned forward, his eyes a little brighter. “I’ve spent two years producing hundreds of hours of daytime television that, combined, have had about as much impact on the world as a butterfly’s fart. That’s a lot of my life to waste on nonsense, Kevin.”
“It hasn’t all been nonsense,” I countered. “You’ve entertained a lot of people. Touched some, too.”
“Not enough,” Andrew said. “I think she’s right—we should set our sights a little higher. We reach millions of viewers a week, Kevin. We could be educating them. Enlightening them. Instead of being satisfied feeding them . . . drivel.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” I argued. “Too hard on the show, too. This isn’t the
CBS Evening News
. It’s a fun, gossipy talkfest with a wacky hostess who the audience, god help us, seems to love. It’s exactly what the people who watch it want it to be.”
“Is it? And, even if that’s true, is it
enough?
” Andrew ran his hands through his hair. “Maybe I’m stuck on this thing with Brock. He was so focused on giving me what he thought I
wanted,
there was no chance I’d get what I
needed
. By pandering to my expectations, he wound up putting a lot of effort into leaving no real impression whatsoever.
“It was all artifice and no substance—stunts and clown cars. Cotton candy—eat as much as you like and you’re still hungry. It’s sweet going down, but it dissolves into nothing before it even reaches your stomach. In the end, you feel as empty as you did before. Is that what we’re serving?
“Maybe—every once in a while—we can provide something a little more filling.”
Great. Andrew was having a midlife crisis in his twenties. He’d bought into my mother’s insane idea to disrupt the formula of her inexplicably popular show. Whatever happened to “Don’t mess with success”?
Not to mention the absurdity of imagining my mother as some bastion of journalistic truth seeking. Unless you count the TV listings or coupons, I don’t think she’s ever read a newspaper. As far as general information, if it wasn’t covered on
Entertainment Tonight
or in
US Magazine,
she didn’t know it happened.
And yet . . . my cynicism wasn’t particularly attractive, either. What, exactly, was so threatening about my mother’s and Andrew’s enthusiasm? Instead of being appalled by their desire to elevate what they did, what if I let it inspire me? Hadn’t I just done it with my own life—left the safety of easy money and the freedom to do as I pleased for the chance for a “real” job and a life with Tony?
It was easy to be bitter and sarcastic and predict disaster. Yeah, my mother doing any kind of real investigatory work had the potential of being a total fustercluck. But even a possible train wreck is better than staying parked in the station your whole life. At least it’s forward motion. Maybe, just maybe, we could even stay on the tracks and get somewhere. Somewhere better.
Who was I to say otherwise?
“Okay,” I began, “if we were going to do this, where would we start? It’s not like we have a crack team of reporters to get on the case.”
“How hard can it be to find news in New York City, Kevin?
Everything
happens here,” Andrew said. “Keep your eyes open. Watch what’s going on around you and look for angles no one’s seen yet. There isn’t a place in the world with more stories, Kevin. We just need to find one.”
 
I went back to my office and thought about what Andrew had said. What stories did my life offer?
“My Boyfriend’s a Closeted Cop?” Naw, I didn’t think Tony would like that.
“My Best Friend’s a Big Old Slut?” Naw, I didn’t think Freddy would like that.
“My Mother’s Driving Me Crazy and She’s the Star of This Very Show?” Naw, someone’s mother driving them nuts hardly qualified as news.
What else? In my time as a call boy, I’d serviced more than a few celebrities and politicians whose public personas were vastly different from their private lives. I’d also heard a lot of secrets. The sexual act can establish a sense of intimacy that’s way out of proportion to the reality of the relationship. Men who should have known better poured their hearts out to me.
Hadn’t someone told me he had a tale to tell? Something potentially explosive? That could blow the lid off an entire industry and even put people in jail?
Who was that? Oh, yeah. Brent Havens. The World’s Cutest Porn Star. (And this, mind you, from a guy who normally doesn’t go for “cute.”)
Brent had been so interested in me that I thought his tease of a “big story” might have been nothing but a way to get some attention. If it wasn’t, though, it could be just what I was looking for.
My mind raced through juicy, lurid possibilities of what Brent might know. “Secrets of the Adult Video Industry.” What could they be? Boys forced into making films against their will? Payoffs to politicians to ensure legal protections?
Penis sizes enlarged through the use of special effects?
Now
that
would be news.
My mind reeled.
He’d given me his number . . . on the inside of my wrist. I remembered scrubbing it off in a defensive move to avoid any awkward questions from Tony. Damn.
Wait. I’d made a preemptive move, too, and snapped a picture with my iPhone. I opened Evernote and there it was. I dialed Brent’s number, practicing in my head a greeting that sounded interested but professional.
No point in leading the boy on. Especially since I didn’t completely trust myself to resist his advances.
This, I explained to myself, was all business. Brent hadn’t been sure he wanted to tell his story. If he wasn’t ready, I wouldn’t push.
If he was, though, it could solve a lot of problems. Hopefully, for him, too. There was a part of him that wanted to get out of the business—if he really did have beans to spill, I was pretty sure he’d be persona non grata in the skin biz.
Which might be just what he needed.
I knew from firsthand experience how hard it was to give up the easy money and ego boosting a pretty boy could make in the sex industry. My transition was made easier by the launching of my mother’s talk show and the subsequent job offer. It just kind of fell into my lap at exactly the time Tony revealed to me he had a son, a milestone that indicated he was ready to get—somewhat—more serious about our relationship.
I had no idea what Brent planned to do when he stopped making flesh films. I didn’t know if he knew, either. Maybe we could find something here. I was pretty sure Andrew would like him.
Maybe too much, I forced myself to admit. I wasn’t sure being chased around the desk would be rewarding work for Brent.
As I pointlessly planned Brent’s life for him, I realized, for the second time that morning, I was unconsciously taking on the traits of the woman who’d raised me. Why else would I be Jewish mothering a boy I hardly knew about a situation that might never happen? I thought of them as my Mother’s Rules of Parenting: Meddle, Nag, Respect No Boundaries, and Keep ’em Feeling Guilty.
I was only on Rule One, but give me time.
Not today, though. After ten rings, Brent’s voice mail picked up. “The voice mailbox of the customer you are trying to reach is full. Please try back later.”
Couldn’t even leave a message. I switched from my desk phone to my mobile and sent him a text. “This is Kevin from
Sophie’s Voice
. We met after Brock’s appearance. Please call.” I typed in my number.
Waiting isn’t my strong suit. I hoped he’d call soon.
Brent seemed like a guy in hot demand. I figured he got a lot of messages and checked them frequently. I’d probably hear from him soon.
 
Two days later, I sat in my office and concluded Brent either wasn’t as diligent at returning calls as I’d hoped, he’d changed numbers, was indisposed, lost his phone, or just didn’t want to talk to me.
As long as the last reason wasn’t the problem, tracking him down shouldn’t be too hard.
I checked my Rolodex (otherwise known as frantically shuffling through the completely disorganized piles of papers that littered my desk) and found the business cards for Kristen LaNue and Mason Jarre of SwordFight Productions.
Kristen was the not-bad-looking, friendly, and seemingly polite director of some of the films in which Brent appeared. Mason was the grossly pushy owner of the company. It wasn’t hard to choose which of them to call first to help put me in touch with Brent.
8
Kiss Off
“Of course I remember you,” Kristen purred. His sexy Latin accent reminded me that he was more than just “not bad-looking.” He was a generous slice of hottie pie. “The beautiful boy who’s wasting his life behind the camera. To what do I owe the considerable pleasure of this call? To schedule an audition, I hope?”
Okay, maybe he wasn’t
that
much less pushy than Mason. But he was certainly less obnoxious about it. Coming from him, it was actually charming. Complimentary rather than creepy.
Or was it just his swarthy good looks and come-fuck-me honeyed voice that let him get away with it?
I explained the problem I was having getting in touch with Brent.
“Now why would you . . . ?” Kristen began, then paused. “Ah, yes. I suppose a better question would be ‘Why
wouldn’t
you want to call Brent?’ And, since he gave you his number, I assume he was interested in you, too, no? Why wouldn’t he be? You two were the loveliest things in the room that day. Your coming together—and I mean that in every sense of the word—is as it should be.”
Clearly, Kristen assumed I was calling for a hook-up, which was just as well.
“Of course, if I do help you two lovebirds connect, I must insist you let me film it. If only for my own enjoyment, no?”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Only teasing,” Kristen reassured me. “Although . . . if you wanted a souvenir of your time together, I’d make myself available.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling.
“And I will pass your message along to Brent when I see him next.
If
I see him, I should say.”
Another pause. In this one, I heard background noise. What sounded like grunts and slaps. Someone said something. “Could you make it a little tiger?”
What?
No, not “tiger.”
Tighter.
I tried not to be distracted.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He’s dropped off the map for a bit,” Kristen explained. “Didn’t show for the most recent two shoots he’d signed up for. Didn’t call, either, at least not as far as I know.”
“You wouldn’t know?”
“I’m the
creative
on the team. Mason and his people handle the business end of things. Scheduling, booking the boys, finding locations. Brent may have called him to say he couldn’t make it, but normally that would have led to Mason arranging for a replacement. Didn’t happen either time. We had to do
solo
scenes, as I recall.” I heard a shudder in his voice. “They bore the shit out me, to be honest. There’s only so many ways you can shoot a guy whacking off. From an artistic perspective, masturbation is not a terribly satisfying subject.”
“You take your work seriously.”
“Dead seriously,” Kristen assured me. “I know people view any movie with explicit sex as pornography, and thus of no artistic merit, but why? Why is it we believe ‘serious’ cinema can explore any genre, whether it’s romance, or comedy, or drama, but only as long as everyone keeps his pants on? What’s more real than sex or death? Films are
supposed
to move you. If you laugh, or cry, or find yourself rooting for the hero, the movie is considered successful. But if it turns you on? Somehow, that’s wrong. Why the double standard?”
I had to admit, he had a point. But I’d seen some of the movies he’d directed—well, fast-forwarded through most of them—and they were hardly works of genius. Better than most, perhaps, but I didn’t remember seeing anything particularly ambitious in them, either.
He answered my question without my even asking it.
“Of course, the work I do for the mainstream companies, like SwordFight, has to follow certain conventions. There isn’t much room for artistic expression. But my smaller films, my art movies, are my true passions.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen any of the them,” I said.
“Well, then, you’ll have to come by for a private viewing sometime,” he said. The invitation was flirty, but not sleazy.
“Still”—I thought it best to avoid the “private viewing” discussion—“you’ve been successful even within those limitations, right?”
“It’s rude to extol one’s accomplishments. But, yes, I have been able to do as much as I can with my studio work. I’ve been nominated for Best Director every year for the past five by the Gay Video Awards. Won twice, too.”
Was everyone obsessed with winning awards? We’re all so insecure.
I liked Kristen, but this review of his résumé wasn’t going to help me with the job at hand. I switched topics abruptly. “How long has Brent been off the grid?”
“Oh.” Kristen thought for a moment. “It’s probably been three or four weeks since that first time Brent didn’t show.”
“No contact at all?” I asked.
He paused again.
“Oh yeah,” I heard a voice from somewhere not far from him. “Like that. But harder. And faster. And just a little to the left.”
Sounded like someone was topping from the bottom.
“Not that I know,” Kristen answered.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked. “I mean, if Brent’s never disappeared like this, maybe something happened to him.”
Another thoughtful silence. “Oh, yes!” I heard a shouted cry in the background. “That’s it!” There was a snapping noise, like the smack of a cracked whip. “Hurts so good!”
I found it hard to ignore. “Is this a good time to talk? You sound . . . busy.”
Kristen chuckled, a warm laugh that made me flush. “Oh, I’m on a shoot. But my assistant can handle the models for a few minutes. Sure you don’t want to come down and talk in person? Get a look at what you’re missing. It can be quite . . . stimulating.”
I bet.
“I’d really like to get in touch with Brent first, actually.”
“Of course. And I’m afraid I forgot what you just asked me.”
I reminded him of my question: Was it typical for Brent not to show up when expected?
“No, I’d never seen that kind of behavior from him. He was actually one of my more dependable models. He took the work seriously.
“Still, I can’t say I’m totally shocked. Boys in this business tend to come and go. They don’t all share my commitment to the art. These models tend to be young, self-centered, and easily distracted by the next shiny thing. When they’re ready to move on, they just stop showing up. I’ve learned,” he said, his tone mixing weariness with wryness, “not to expect formal letters of resignation.
“It’s possible”—Kristen paused, as if he were putting together things he’d seen into a coherent picture—“he was working on putting something together for himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“On that last film we were shooting, he kept wandering off set. Every time I’d find him, he was on his cell phone, whispering. The conversations always looked intense, but not in an unpleasant way. He was usually smiling during them, even laughing. When he’d see me approach, he’d hang up before I got close enough to hear.”
“Maybe he was just talking to a friend.”
“Perhaps. But I don’t think so. There was something . . . conspiratorial in the way he was acting. Like he had a secret. One that brought him both joy and guilt. He looked like . . . what’s that expression? . . . a boy caught with his hand in the cocaine jar.”
I didn’t bother to correct him. Given the world in which Kristen operated, the revision was probably more accurate than the standard cliché.
A secret, huh? Kristen started by saying he’d interpreted Brent’s clandestine phone calls as being an effort to “put something together for himself.” Did he mean a deal with a rival studio? It had come up before as a possibility. I was just about to ask when we were interrupted by a loud shout.
Whoever had minutes ago been screaming in pleasure about being “hurt so good” had something new he wanted to announce to the world. “Hey, wait a minute, is that a—”
“I’m afraid I must go,” Kristen interjected loudly. “They’re waving me over. The stereotype of the temperamental actor is only too true. Looks like they need me to offer some direction.”
“Thanks for your time,” I offered.
“No problemo,” Kristen said. “Do call Mason, though. He may know something I don’t.”
“I will.”
“And if you get in touch with Brent, tell him to come back. He’s more than welcome. He’s simply too beautiful not to give another chance.”
He disconnected just as the actor he’d been filming screamed with pleasure.
 
I took Kristen’s advice and called Mason Jarre.
“Mr. Jarre’s office,” a deep-voiced man answered. “Pierce Deepley speaking.”
I asked to speak to Mason.
“And what, may I ask, is the nature of the call?” Deepley clipped his words in such a way that he sounded irritated by me already. It usually took longer.
Or, maybe he just didn’t like answering phones. In which case, he had the wrong job.
I explained that Mason knew me and I was trying to get in touch with Brent Havens.
“We don’t give out personal information about individuals who may or may not be employed by SwordFight Productions or any of its subsidiaries,” he answered. “Thank you for calling. Have a . . .”
The creep was going to hang up on me.
“Wait,” I said, “I’m not asking for personal information. I’m just trying to see if Mason can help put me in touch with Brent. Brent gave me his number, but—”
“I’m sorry,” the officious screener interrupted, “but I’m afraid the details of how you may or may not have met said individual who is possibly known or unknown to us are quite beside the point.”
Deepley’s legalistic double-talk was making my head spin. Had I taken my medication today? All those qualifiers were hard to follow.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
Deepley monologued on. “We understand many of our customers enjoy our products and imagine they have . . . personal relationships with our models. If, as you say, you met Mr. Haven, and he wishes to . . . encourage your interest, I’m sure he’ll return your call at his earliest convenience. If not, well, perhaps it simply wasn’t meant to be.” Deepley sounded inordinately satisfied at the prospect of Brent not calling me.
Unfortunately, since I didn’t know how to get to Mason without going through this asshat, I had to be polite. “I apologize. I haven’t been clear. I’m not calling on a personal matter. It’s business.
“Mr. Jarre and I met on the set of
Sophie’s Voice
. I’m a co-producer. I’m trying to contact Mr. Haven as a follow-up to the successful appearance of another of your models, Brock Peters, on the show. I thought perhaps Mr. Jarre would appreciate the additional exposure for SwordFight. But if he isn’t available—”
“Sophie’s Voice
?
”
Pierce Deepley squealed. “Oh my god, I love her!” His inner queen blazed through his previously icy imperiousness. “She’s so funny, so
real,
you know? That episode with Brock was
fabulous!
Hold on, let me see if Mr. Jarre is available. May I have your name?”
He may, and I thanked him as well. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the power of celebrity open a closed door.
A minute later Mason picked up. “Kevin,” he said. “Pierce tells me you’re thinking of having us on the show again. That’s marvelous news. I have a few models I think would make wonderful spokesmen for our company. Are you familiar with Seymour Cox? Or Tag Emnow?”
“Actually,” I said, “we were hoping to feature Brent Havens. He and I were talking after Brock’s appearance and—”
“Oh,” Mason cut me off, “Brent’s absolutely adorable, but he’s not the brightest bulb on the tree. No, I believe you’d be better served by one of our more . . . articulate performers.”
He took a moment before announcing, “Now that I think about it, Hugh Jestman would be an excellent guest. He’s actually a classically trained actor who’s performed on Broadway. Would you like me to arrange a meeting?”
“No,” I answered. I regretted fibbing to Pierce about wanting to schedule another show, but it was the only way I could think of to get through to Mason. Unfortunately, I’m not the greatest liar. I tend to lose track of the details and get easily confused by my own deceits. “That isn’t necessary. I’m sure the other guys are great, but we’re really interested in Brent.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mason said, his tone no longer quite as accommodating. “There is no show, is there, Kevin?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Cut the shit, sunshine. I saw the way you and Brent looked at each other. The heat between you was enough to set off the fire extinguishers. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for you to call. What happened, did you lose his number?”
Okay. I was still going to lie, but this one was easier to manage. “You got me,” I said. “But I didn’t lose his number. He’s just not answering. I hear he hasn’t been showing up for his work with you guys, either.”
BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)
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