Money Shot

“Lia said she’d been forced into prostitution, not just porno,” Malloy said. He examined the DVD cover featuring “Kimberly” and Jesse Black. “My guess is these DVDs are just video catalogs thrown together to show off the available merchandise. The prostitution is probably where they make the real money.”

“Jesus,” I said softly.

“So,” Malloy said. “Let’s get that 2257 information.”

Back at the Palmview, we settled into the dumpy room. It sucked, but at least no one was trying to shoot us.

The first thing I did was lock myself in the bathroom and unwind my binders. I was moist and sour from adrenaline and fear sweat and I felt like I would die if I didn’t rinse off. There was no soap and the rusty, lukewarm water dribbled out of the showerhead like blood from the wrist of a reluctant suicide. Still, it was better than nothing.

When I got out of the shower, I dried myself gingerly with the bathroom’s single rough, sort-of-white towel and then paused. There was a long skinny mirror on the back of the bathroom door, offering up a slightly warped view of my naked body from the knees up. Naked, it was impossible to pretend to be someone else.

I touched my scalp. My chin. My belly. The bruises had faded to the point where you could almost pretend they were shadows. I took out the red lipstick I had stolen from Tabby and put some on. It sounds so weird now, but looking in the mirror at myself with those shiny red lips made me feel alive. Sexy. Real. They made me feel like me again. I decided in that moment that I would wear lipstick when I killed the bastard who set me up.

Malloy knocked softly on the door and I jumped, quickly wiping my lips on the back of my hand.

“Just a second,” I said, putting the lipstick back in the pocket of my duffel bag that used to hold the gun.

I put on the clean t-shirt that wasn’t the Lakers shirt. It was red and plain. Long, like a dress, like Lia’s had been. I couldn’t face the ace bandages again just yet so I gave my tits a break and let them be.

Malloy went silently into the bathroom after I came out. While he washed up, I called Roxette’s cell again. It still went straight to voicemail. No one picked up at her house either. After that, I spent way too long battling the plastic wrap and all the security stickers holding the Naughty Teens 17 DVD case shut. I was inches from flinging the damn thing out the window when Malloy came out of the bathroom, water beaded on his silver buzzcut and the crusted blood gone from beneath his ear. I handed the case over. He calmly slit the wrapping with a small pocketknife and extracted the disk.

He put in the DVD and I sat back on the bed. A red FBI warning came up, then the 2257 information.

This motion picture “NAUGHTY TEENS 17” was produced on July 12th 2006. The records required by U.S.C. Sec 2257 and 28 C.R.F. Part 25 for this motion picture and on any related materials to which this notice is affixed are kept at the offices of the manufacturer, PDM Productions, located at 13505 Cielo Street, Chatsworth CA 91311 by the custodian of records, B. Handerlan. All persons who appear in this video are over 18 years of age. For adult viewing only. Exercise your rights as an adult American citizen and enjoy all of the fine XXX videos available from PDM Productions.

There was no way to pause it, since there was no remote, but Malloy didn’t seem to need to. He just wrote the address down. While he was writing, the menu came up. A large still of a brunette who wasn’t Lia, looking more bewildered than sexy, filled the right side of the screen. The title was beneath her and a large square to the left framed a repeating trailer cobbled together from clips from the various scenes. One of the scenes was Lia with Jesse. Just seeing him made me feel physically sick. Malloy stood and hit stop. The screen went gray, but it didn’t make me feel better.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’ll be better when he’s dead,” I replied.

22.

The PDM offices were just what I had been expecting. I’d never been there but I might as well have. The Valley was riddled with hundreds of places exactly like this. A warren of mildewy, over-airconditioned rooms up front and a huge hollow warehouse space in the back. A couple of indentured editors lurking lemur-eyed and unshaven in rooms lit only by images of grinding flesh. Mexican and Salvadoran ladies slipping slick printed covers into thousands of plastic DVD clamshells. Fulfillment girls and a forklift driver and some poor sod on QC, watching hour after mindless hour of smut in a never-ending hunt for digital glitches. A busy little beehive all working tirelessly, day in and day out, so that you can look at naughty movies in the comfort of your own home.

The ‘B’ in B. Handerlan turned out to stand for Barbara. She was blonde, plain and mushroom pale with the same expression of weary, put-upon exasperation worn by employees at the DMV. She acted as though the enormous effort involved in getting up out of her spavined chair and walking over to the file cabinet to find the records Malloy had requested was almost more than she could bear.

“We appreciate your assistance, Ms. Handerlan,” Malloy told her.

“No problem,” she said, making it clear that it was, in fact, a major problem. “What was the title again?”

“Naughty Teens,” Malloy replied. “Seventeen.”

“Right,” the woman said.

While she searched noisily through the files, I let my eyes wander over her desk. She had a photo of two chubby boys in a frame that said “Mommy’s Angels.” A few more years and they’d be sneaking peeks at Naughty Teens themselves.

“Okay,” she said. “Naughty Teens 17.”

Malloy met her halfway and snatched the slim file from her hand.

“Thanks,” he said, laying the file open on the desk and thumbing efficiently through the contents.

In seconds he had sorted through the model releases and found one for “Kimberly.” The model release and attached drivers license scan said her name was not Kimberly or Lia, but Amanda Rose Temmens, age 19.

Malloy jotted down the number on the license and was about to snap the file shut when he paused. He frowned slightly and jotted something else down.

The woman had just made it back to the desk and was about to lower herself back down into her chair.

“Thank you, Ms. Handerlan,” he said again. “One other thing.”

Ms. Handerlan halted her descent toward the chair, scowling at the prospect of one more thing.

“What?” she asked.

“Do you have contact information for the person who actually shot this video?” Malloy asked.

“What?” she said again. “You mean the director?”

“Yes,” Malloy said.

“Well...” she replied. “It should be on the release.”

“I saw that,” Malloy said. “But the address is a just a PO box. Don’t you have another address or maybe a phone number?”

“If we did,” Ms. Handerlan said, “it would be on the release.”

“Well,” Malloy said. “What if something goes wrong with the film and you need to contact someone?”

She shrugged. “If it’s not on the release, I can’t help you. You’ll have to talk to the owner.”

“Okay,” Malloy said. “Can I talk to the owner now?”

“He’s not here,” she said. “He’s out of town.”

Malloy seemed to realize that he had gotten all he was going to get out of her.

“Right,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

The woman did not reply. Malloy shot me a look and gestured toward the door with his chin.

In the parking lot PDM shared with a chrome plating facility, a weight loss supplement company and a mysterious business whose sign read “J-Toc Fabrication,” Malloy lit a cigarette and spoke low.

“Got a license on Jesse Black,” he said.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? Of course Jesse’s release would have to be there too. Now that we had his real name and address, it would be a cinch to find him. The thought of it made me feel giddy—and a little nauseous.

“So now what?” I asked.

“I want to see what I can dig up on Amanda Rose Temmens,” Malloy said. “I’ve got an old friend on the job