13
It had proved surprisingly
difficult for Alan Marcus to persuade Jenni that she could now buy a condo of
her own. As smart as she was, she claimed that numbers were not her forte (a
word that she pronounced “fort” and not “fortay”). But Alan, who in addition to
being an attorney was a CPA and an MBA and who had volunteered to act as
Jenni’s money manager, persisted. She knew that he had ulterior motives in so
doing: her living on her own would greatly increase his opportunities of going to
bed with her, which were now limited to his sporadic visits to the studio and a
couple of occasions in his office, after hours, on the couch. She liked Alan
and she enjoyed the casual sex with him, but she wanted to keep it infrequent;
she was afraid that otherwise there might be a repetition of her college affair
in Fresno.
With Barry Bergman
she had no such worries. He was easy to be with, the sex was great, and she
felt quite comfortable living in his guest cottage. Until quite recently, that
is.
She had been
getting the impression of late that Barry was somehow relying on her as a kind
of chaperone for Lesli. Lesli had, as long as she had known her – about a year
and a half by this time – been unpredictable and erratic in her behavior: men,
substances, work... and all these elements seemed intertwined in Lesli’s world.
But as a roommate and then as a fellow actress Jenni, while not feeling
indifferent, did not feel responsible for her. She could understand that Barry,
as an employer, had concerns. But they were his to deal with. And it was this
thought that made her decide on that morning, another sunny one in late
November that quickly turned from cool to unseasonably warm, that she would
call Alan and ask him to use his real-estate connections to help her buy a
place.
Jenni had heard Lesli drive
her brand-new BMW convertible into the carport, followed by some conversation
between Lesli and Barry and then the sound of Barry driving away in his BMW.
She felt no desire to get out of bed. Shooting on Moving Around
had begun, and the previous day’s exertions with
Steve Kelly had tired her out. Steve, she thought, was too much of a would-be
romantic hero, and Frank Bond’s directness was more fun. Barry couldn’t – or
maybe wouldn’t – get Frank for this one; perhaps it was not enough of a
starring role for him, the central character being hers. But there were three
other guys besides Steve.
She finally had to
get up. Before entering the bathroom she looked out her window and saw Lesli
floating in the pool on her back, with a dreamy expression on her face.
Afterwards, having
put on jeans and a tee-shirt, she looked out again, opened the window and,
seeing Lesli in the same position but in a different part of the pool, called
out:
“Hi, Les!”
“Hi, Jen!” was the
sleepy-sounding answer.
“Listen, I want to
go to Mort’s for breakfast. Wanna join me?”
“No, you go ahead.
I ate at home before I got here.”
It was the answer
Jenni had been hoping for. Lesli seemed to be getting disconnected from reality
over the last month or so, and talking with her had become increasingly
difficult; she would rather eat alone. Besides, some guy at Mort’s would
undoubtedly strike up a conversation with her. She wondered if this time
someone would finally acknowledge having seen her in a porn flick.
“Okay, Les. See you
later!”
“Yeah!” was all
that came back from the pool.
Jennifer Garabedian had
been introduced to recreational, purely physical sex by her gymnastics coach in
high school, and she vastly preferred it to the few romantic entanglements
that, as a very attractive young woman, she could not avoid. But it was one of
these romantic boyfriends who had taken her, for her eighteenth birthday, to
see an X-rated movie, and from that night on she had had recurrent fantasies –
ones she had shared with no one, not even her cousin Rachel – about being a
porn actress. Not that she ever intended to act on them; the farthest reach of
her ambitions was to become a legitimate actress, stage or screen, who would
not flinch from the most explicit part given to her by some daring director.
But the vagaries of life had led her to the verge of replacing the great Gina
George as the leading star of BB Productions.
Once again, there
was no shortage of attention paid to her at Mort’s, but no one admitted to having
seen her in the movies. She found it hard to believe that none of the twenty-
to forty-somethings who frequented the place ever went to adult theaters or
watched adult videos. Was it something they preferred to hide, out of shame? Or
were they respectful of her privacy? If so, that was nice of them, but she did
not want her privacy respected. She had made the great, daring leap of exposing
her sexuality to the world, and that was what she wanted respect for.
While Sofia Marés liked the
idea proposed by Gina George – she was all in favor of honesty in art – she
conceded almost apologetically that, as Albert Bosch had predicted, she could
not bring herself to act on it. The search for a local body double proved quite
difficult. Sofia was quite dark – a throwback to North African invaders a
thousand years ago, Mario had commented – and her exotic allure was part of
what had made her a star locally and, to a limited extent, elsewhere in Europe,
including France, where she had once landed a featured part in an Albert Bosch
film. Her type was not at all common in her region; they might have to go to
the south of Spain to find someone like that, but those parts were still in the
throes of Catholic puritanism. Albert had thought of Marseille as a place where
they might find someone suitable, but he had no connections there. It occurred
to Gina that a Mexican girl from LA might do just fine, and she knew that there
were some working in the industry, though not for Barry Bergman: his aim was
exclusively on the white-bread mass market. But of late the industry had
developed some ethnically oriented sectors, and she knew of a Latino studio
that a former cameraman of Barry’s named Bill Martinez had started, with
Barry’s help. She told them that she would call Barry first thing in the
morning. Mario, for one, found her plan quite intriguing.
When Jenni returned to
Barry’s house she saw that Lesli’s car was still there and Barry’s was still
missing. “Hi, Les!” she called out in the direction of the pool, and when she
heard no reply she repeated the call louder, still to no effect. Without
actually looking at the pool she concluded that Lesli was somewhere in the
house, and she went into her room to change into a bikini. When, as she was
tying the bra, she looked out the window, the sight of the pool made her stop
dead in her movements. Her bra fell to the floor.
Trembling, she
grabbed the phone and called Barry’s private number at the studio. There was no
reply. She looked at the watch she had just taken off and concluded that Barry
was probably on his way to the gym. With no further hesitation she dialed 911
and, once the call was completed, quickly picked up her bra, put it on, grabbed
a robe, and ran out to poolside. Lesli was still floating in the pool, but face
down.
The police and
paramedics arrived almost at the same time, just as Jenni had put on her robe.
The paramedics put Lesli on a stretcher and carried her into an ambulance. A
policewoman approached Jenni to question her but she, without waiting for her
questions, told her that she was Jennifer Garabedian and that she was living in
the house as the guest of Mr. Henry Bergman, who in all likelihood was
working out at the gym whose name and address she gave the officer. She
concluded with “This is how I found her, officer, when I came back ten minutes
ago and called you.” The policewoman judged the young woman to be too
distraught for any further questioning, and so she left her alone. Jenni,
however, had the presence of mind to ask her for a favor.
“I hope that my
name doesn’t get released to the media,” she said.
“There’s no reason
why it should, Miss Garabedian,” the policewoman replied.
Barry Bergman was on the
hip-adduction machine when he heard someone come into the gym and ask if a
certain Henry Bergman was working out there. The attendant began to say, “There
is a Mr. Bergman but...” when Barry noticed that the questioner, though in
plain clothes, was presenting a police badge.
“I am Henry
Bergman,” he called out.
“Would you please
come here,” the detective said to him, and then, turning to the attendant, “Is
there some place we can talk in private?”
“Why, sure, there’s
no one in the office.”
“Thank you.” And,
to Barry, “Would you come in here, please?”
Barry knew better
than to ask if something was wrong. Of course something was wrong. And the
policeman, with unaccustomed brevity and without resorting to police lingo,
told him what had happened.
“Mr. Bergman, do
you know the victim’s real name?” he asked as he concluded his recitation of
the facts as he knew them.
“What do you mean?
Isn’t it Leslie Lyman?”
“We’re not sure.”
“But that’s what
she had on her driver’s license; that’s what she used when we had her contract
notarized.”
“We checked her
so-called driver’s license, and it’s a fake. The DMV has no record of a Leslie
Lyman. But her picture matches that of a teenager reported missing in Arizona
three years ago...”
“Teenager? She’s...
she was twenty-two! Wasn’t she?”
“Well, if the
fingerprints match as well, then she was a runaway named Doris McCutcheon who
turned eighteen just a few months ago – you’re lucky that way. It seems that
Doris’s mother was married at one time to someone named Leimann, so she might
have gotten the idea for the name from him.”
“My God, my God...”
Barry was saying, “this is... too much!”
“At the moment we
have no grounds for charging you with anything, Mr. Bergman, but we suggest
that you suspend any production activity at your studio while we run a check on
the ID’s of all of your performers. And the DA may have other ideas, not to
mention the Feds.”
By afternoon it had been
established that Lesli’s blood contained traces of alcohol, cocaine and
barbiturates in significant amounts. Barry, with a demurely dressed Jenni by
his side, drove to the studio, where he was met by Alan Marcus, another lawyer
who was a part-time associate of Alan’s, and a plain-clothes officer from the
Valley Division, to whom he gave the paperwork on all the actors currently
under contract. The studio staff were told to go home.
When Jenni found
herself alone with Alan for a spell, she said to him, “I was just going to call
you today to tell you that I was ready to buy a place, but now I don’t even
know if I have a job.”
“Don’t worry,
honey,” said Alan with a smile, “this is soon going to blow over. And I know
that you’re more than ready, especially after what happened.”
“Okay,” said Jenni,
“let me know when you find something.”
Late in the evening the
phone rang in Barry Bergman’s study. “Hello,” he said.
“Hi, Barry.” The
voice was that of Gina George; he hadn’t heard it since June, just before she
had left for Europe.
“Gina! How did you
find out?”
“Find out what?”
“About me being in
trouble.”
“Trouble? What kind
of trouble?”
“You mean you
didn’t know?”
“I don’t know what
you’re talking about. I’m calling to ask you for a favor... But what kind of
trouble are you in? You never get in trouble!”
“I’ll tell you, but
first tell me what kind of favor you need.”
“I need a girl for
one day’s work as a body double for an explicit scene.”
“You mean, for
you?”
“Hah hah, very
funny. No, not for me.”
“So Albert Bosch is
going explicit?”
“It was my idea.
You know, it’s the movie that’s been released already...”
“I know.”
“Of course you do.
Albert and I want to reshoot some of the scenes, and the other actress is
married, sort of, and...”
“I get it. So who
do you want? You can have anybody you want. Like I told you, I’m in trouble. We
have to stop production for a while.”
“Money problems?”
“No. A girl who was
working for me OD’d on something or other and drowned in my pool – well, she
didn’t actually drown but she died in my pool. And it turns out she was just
barely eighteen; she’d been using a fake ID that said she was twenty-two. So
now the cops want to check out everybody’s ID.”
“So she was
seventeen when you hired her! But that’s a federal crime! I remember Traci
Lords...”
“I know, but it
seems to be close enough that they’re unlikely to prosecute, especially since
she’s dead.”
“Poor girl! Was it
anyone I knew?”
“No, it was someone
new; she was in my three last movies, Campus
Capers, Vixens at Play and
A Bard in the Bush. I’ve pulled
Vixens, though.”
“You mean Jenni or
Lesli?” Gina asked, elongating the final vowels of both names.
“It was Lesli. Her
real name, I just found out, was Doris McCutcheon. So tell me, what type of
body double do you need?”
“Uh... actually, no
one that’s working for you. More of a Mexican type, like maybe from Bill
Martinez.”
“Then I suggest you
call Bill directly. I’ll give you his home number, and you can tell him what
you need. You two know each other, after all: he’s shot you in action.”
“That’s true,” Gina
conceded.
“For me,” Barry
went on, “it would be better if I stay out of the business for a while. Here’s
Bill’s number.” And he recited it from memory.
There was a knock
on the door. Barry put his hand on the receiver and called out “Yes!” The door
opened and a teary-faced Jenni stood in the doorway.
“Are you in any
kind of legal trouble?” Gina was asking.
Jenni pointed in
the direction of the bedroom, indicating that she would be waiting for him
there, and closed the door.
“Alan doesn’t think
so,” Barry answered Gina, “but you never know. You remember that our DA has
been talking about cracking down on the industry, and this may be his chance to
be another Ed Meese.”
“Another what?”
“Ed Meese, you know
– the US Attorney General, who is on this crusade against pornography.”
“Oh, him. Well,
Barry, all I can say is, good luck! But if I’m going to call Bill Martinez, I’d
better do it now, before it gets too late. Bye!”
“It was good to
hear from you, Gina.”
At breakfast, Gina George
was able to tell Albert, Mario and Sofia that Carla Ortiz, whose just-faxed
photograph she had in her hand, would be arriving on Sunday evening and in all
likelihood ready to work on Monday. Gina would cover the expenses out of her
own pocket. She passed the fax around the table and Mario could be seen smiling
approvingly.
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