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I shook my head and lolled against the wall, my ankles crossed and one of my hands thrust into the pocket of my jeans. I smiled again, amused. “Not like a hairdresser,” I said. “A fluffer was a girl who was employed to keep the male acting talent erect between shots when filming a porn movie.”
“Erect… as in – ”
“Exactly,” I cut her off. “Sometimes on a porn set – especially when they were filming with one camera – it could be several minutes or maybe even half an hour between when they film one shot and when they moved the lighting and the camera to film the next shot. In that time the female actress might just lay on the bed waiting, but the male actor had a problem. All the delays would mean he often lost his erection, so that when the director was ready to film again, he was faced with the prospect of talent unable to perform.” I pushed myself away from the wall and crossed to the kitchen. All this talking was thirsty work. I needed another drink. I splashed bourbon into a glass, and didn’t bother with ice. “To solve this problem a lot of production films included a fluffer,” I said. “This girl got paid to use her mouth and body to keep the male talent aroused and erect so that when he walked back on set he was ready for action.”
Connie stared aghast. “There were women who wanted to do that job?”
I nodded. “The money was good, and the girl’s weren’t ever filmed,” I shrugged. “So I guess it had its benefits.”
“Does it still happen? Have you ever used a fluffer on one of your films?”
“No. Never,” I said. “Partially because of the way I film my scenes means there is no long delays between shots, and partially because I shoot with multiple cameras. And because of Viagra.”
Connie said nothing. She was making notes as I spoke and she looked up at me as if to encourage me to continue.
“Viagra changed everything,” I said. “Before it came along, male porn actors had a set of skills. Being able to perform in front of a film crew is not something every guy can do, and staying hard for an hour or two of filming is impossible for most guys. But since Viagra came along every guy thinks they can act in porn films. It’s no longer a question of skill, or talent, it’s simply a question of chemicals.”
Connie scribbled furiously for several minutes and then glanced up at me cautiously. “Have you ever used Viagra?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ve never needed to, and when I do need a tablet to get a hard on, I’ll walk away from this game for good.”
I finished my drink, and splashed more bourbon into the glass. Connie set her notebook back down on the sofa and walked over to the big windows. I watched her, my eyes narrowed and appraising, admiring her lithe body and the way the clothes she wore accentuated her curves. She moved with feline grace and femininity. She stood at the window, staring out into the distance, as though her thoughts were miles away.
Her legs were long and slender, and the glaring afternoon light cast her figure in a silhouette.
“So tell me,” I asked bluntly, “is there a man in your life, Connie? Someone who keeps your bed warm at night? I know you’re not married – no wedding ring.”
Connie turned from the window and gazed at me for a long silent moment and I saw wary caution creep into her eyes. She bit her lip like she was trying to decide how much she should tell me.
“There is,” she said softly.
“Really?
She nodded.
“What’s he like?”
Connie sighed, but the sound wasn’t quite right. “His name is Robert,” she said uneasily. “He works at the magazine.”
“Oh,” I was curious. “An office romance?”
She nodded but said nothing more, so I probed.
“Is he a journalist too?”
“No,” Connie shook her head. “He works in the advertising department as a high-profile corporate consultant.”
I smiled, interpreting the official-speak. “So he’s a salesman.”
Connie said nothing. She folded her arms. The gesture lifted and pushed at the shape of her breasts, drawing them to my attention. Connie saw the direction of my eyes and her expression turned to ice. “He is a lovely, caring, considerate man,” she said.
I nodded, still smiling. “I’m sure he is… but is he jealous?”
Connie laughed with a flash of contempt. “No,” she said. “Robert has no need to feel jealous. He knows I adore him – and only him.”
“Good!” I said. I slammed my empty glass down on the counter and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Then he won’t mind if I take you to dinner.”
Connie froze. Her face filled with shock. “I beg your pardon.”
I glanced at the wall clock, and tucked the tails of my shirt into my jeans. “I have a dinner meeting tonight with an old producer friend of mine – we’re meeting at a little restaurant in L.A.. I thought you might like to come along.”
“Have dinner with you?”
“Yes,” I said, amused by the way her face was changing and contorting, dealing with the information and her perceived implications.
She balked. “I… I don’t know…” she stole a peek at her wrist watch. “What time?”
I shrugged. “I’m meeting my friend at six… so any time after that. You can come with me right now, if you want.”
“No!” she said, and then took a breath. “No – thank you.”
I frowned. “‘No’ – you won’t come to dinner… or ‘no’, you won’t ride with me to the restaurant?”
Connie settled herself. I was toying with her, and she was beginning to become annoyed. “I’ll come to dinner,” she said stiffly, like she was accepting a formal invitation, “but I will meet you at the restaurant.”
I nodded. I spotted a sports coat draped over the backrest of a kitchen chair. I shrugged it on, and made for the door. There was a chunky set of house keys on a side table. I tossed them to Connie as I left and she caught them in her hand.
“The restaurant is called ‘Mickey’s’. It’s off Sanders Street,” I grinned. “Lock up when you leave. I’ll get the keys back when I see you tonight.”
Chapter 6.
‘Mickey’s’ was one of those wonderful little restaurants that are dotted around L.A. – if you know how to find them. Well off the track beaten by the city’s tourists, it was a qua
int little eatery with a clientele of regulars who came for the food, but then came back because of the discreet surroundings.
There were no signs, and no menu in any window – just an on-street door that lead up a narrow set of stairs to a gloomy room with a low ceiling, dingy brown walls and thread-bare carpet. There were a dozen tables, and a counter across the far wall.
All the tables were full.
A young man with a brooding, sallow face greeted me at the top of the stairs. He looked Mediterranean. He had dark skin, dark hair. He was wearing an expensive suit. He looked me up and down carefully and gave the barest hint of a smile.
“Mr. Cassidy. Nice to see you again, sir.”
We shook hands. “Good to see you, Nico. It’s been a while.”
The young man nodded, then glanced past me and indicated a corner table with a thrust of his chin. “Mr. Bellamy is waiting for you.”
I smiled. “I have a lady-friend joining me a little later.”
Nico nodded. “I’ll send her to your table when she arrives.”
I wove my way through the tightly clustered tables towards a dark corner of the room where a man was sitting alone. He saluted me with a raised glass and a good-natured smile. “Ah, the prodigal son returns.”
He was a big man, broad and heavy across the shoulders, his voice like a low bass rumble of thunder. He was middle-aged. He had grey wavy hair and a fleshy face, the skin blemished with sun-spots and spidery veins. There were dark pouches of color below his eyes and the folds of loose flesh that hung from his jowls were stubbled with beard.
“Hi, John,” I said. “I hope you’re paying for this meal.”
The man waved me to a chair with a hand the size of a baseball mitt. He was expensively dressed, but even the city’s best tailors couldn’t make a suit look good on his massive frame. He oozed that elusive unmistakable gloss of wealth – but he looked worn and rumpled, like something a dog had been chewing on.
