“Girls, why doncha go out for a smoke?” Leonard told them.
“Smoke? Do I look like I’d put a cigarette in my mouth?”
Lens rolled his eyes but kept quiet. The girls took off, shooting dirty looks at the men.
“What’s up, Lens?” Ziegler poured himself some coffee that could flush a clogged drain.
“A woman showed up at my condo yesterday asking about a girl from the old days.”
“Amy Larkin, looking for her sister?”
Lens nodded. “I was playing pinochle in the card room. I don’t even know how she found me.”
“The woman’s an insurance investigator, Lens. She’s not stupid.”
“No shit. She asked what I remembered about Krista.”
“What’d you say?”
“Told her, too many years. Too many girls.”
“Thanks, Lens.”
“Hell, it’s damn near true. I hardly remember any of them unless they gave me a dose.”
“What else she want to know?”
“That’s where it got hairy. Wondered if you ever shot snuff films.”
“Jesus.”
“Told her, hell, no, not your style. Asked if I ever went to your house for parties, and I said sure. Asked who else was there, and I said I’m just a photographer. I don’t see anything that’s not in the lens.”
“That end it?”
“She wanted to look at all the old films and videos, track down actors who worked with her sister. I told her there were a couple thousand titles and no one ever used their real names. It’d be like looking for a pubic hair in a haystack.”
All Lassiter’s fault, Ziegler thought. Giving the woman hope, stirring her up.
“I’d watch out for this woman, Charlie.”
“Whadaya mean?”
“You remember Kandy Kane, Charlie?”
Ziegler cracked a smile, thinking about the day Kandy bit into Rex Hung’s scrotum and spit out a testicle. It was Rex’s fault, slipping it in her back door when Kandy’s contract specifically forbade it. “Sure, I remember Kandy. So does One Nut Hung.”
“I was looking through the lens at Kandy, just a second before she chomped old Rex. Same look on Amy Larkin’s face when she mentioned your name.”
Ziegler was processing that when he heard his name called, as if being paged in a hotel lobby. “Charles W. Ziegler!”
A short, trim man with a set of headphones draped around his neck approached.
“What the fuck are you doing on my set?” Rodney Gifford demanded.
The guy had directed most of the Charlie’s Girlz videos and was as miserable a prick as ever told an actress to spread wider and moan louder. A dozen years ago, Gifford had bought Ziegler out, wildly overpaying for the studio. Instead of blaming his own stupid-ass self, he carried a grudge against Ziegler.
“Relax, Gifford. I come in peace.”
The director waltzed over to confront him. “Closed set, Ziegler!” Raising his voice to impress the crew.
“Why, you shooting
Gifford seethed. “You never understood the craft.”
“What’s to understand? Suck, fuck, and pop.” Charlie looked to the growing crowd for agreement. “Your problem is, you complicate everything.”
Gifford was dressed as if Calvin Klein might pop in and ask him to pose for an ad. Even now, at fifty- something, he played the role of preppie with an artistic bent. Pleated khaki pants, loafers without socks, a black silk shirt, tinted glasses, and that exaggerated glide in his stride.
Gifford had gone to film school and thought he was Ingmar Bergman. His interiors always had odd angles, quick cuts, and shadowy lighting, when all the whackers wanted were brightly lit close-ups of winking twats. “Off my set, Ziegler.” Gifford pointed to the door.
“I’m leaving, Gifford. Only came by to say hello to an old friend, and that ain’t you.”
“Bullshit. I know why you’re here. It’s that Larkin woman asking questions.” Gifford smiled maliciously, his teeth bleached as white as a porcelain toilet. “You can’t bury your past, Ziegler.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I got a call yesterday from an Amy Larkin. Ever hear of her?”
“What’s your point?”
“Enterprising woman. She got my unlisted home number. Asked me to lunch.”
“So?”
“I had the salad nicoise. Want to know what we talked about?”
“Fuck you, Gifford.” Ziegler wouldn’t give the prick the satisfaction of asking.
“The woman thinks you’re scum, Charlie. I applaud her good taste.”
“Fuck you twice.”
Most of the crew were paying attention now. A topless Lolita type in a plaid cheerleader’s skirt put down her book-
“Maybe I should have told her what I know,” Gifford said, in a teasing tone.
“You don’t know shit.”
Gifford moved closer and whispered, his breath smelling of coffee and peppermints. “I was at your house that night, Ziegler. I know exactly what happened to Krista Larkin.”
29 Boy Meets Punching Bag
Granny was preparing chicken-fried steaks and yammering about the money I owed her for posting my bail. I was not hungry. Maybe because I’m not partial to beef dipped in milk and eggs and then fried. Maybe because I was worried about Amy.
“Exactly what did she say to you?” I asked.
“Told you three times. I bailed her out of the Women’s Annex before I got you. Figured you’re more used to jail than she is. She said she’d be over for dinner because she favored my cooking.”
“That’s it?”
“She said to thank you for everything.”
“Jeez, Granny. You didn’t tell me that before.”
“So?”
“It sounds like good-bye.”
I tried calling Amy, got her voicemail.
“You gonna mash those taters, or do I have to do everything around here?” Granny said.
I picked up the masher and went to work. I heard the front door open and called out Amy’s name. But it was Kip, shuffling into the kitchen, sniffing around the stove. “Chicken-fried steak again. Jeez.”
“Wash up,” Granny said.
“I’d rather have meat loaf wrapped in bacon.”
“And hush up.” Granny never took backtalk from me and wasn’t going to start with my nephew.
“You make a rhubarb pie, Granny?”
“Didn’t have time, and if you want to know why, ask your jailbird uncle.”
Kip turned to me, and I saw the shiner, a purple welt under his eye.
“Carl Kountz?” I asked him.
“Baseball practice. He clocked me at second base on a force out.”
“Clean play?”
