to trust every proffered checkbook. “I’ll tell you what, Nora,” I said, trying to sound like William Powell, and failing, “I’ll take a cashier’s check for half, five-thousand, as a retainer, and the rest on completion of the case.”
“Still don’t trust me,” she said. “No matter, I can do that. I can’t go to the bank now, though. I have to get back to wrap the shoot. If I’m not there, they’ll screw it all up.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you shooting a foxhunt scene in an office building in Sherman Oaks? Shouldn’t you be out somewhere like Huntington gardens?”
“You can’t bring a wild animal into a public place without a filming permit, and I didn’t want the hassle of that,” she replied. “So we’re using the studio downstairs.”
“Studio? What studio?”
“It was called Triex.”
I knew that an outfit called Triex Distribution had offices downstairs, but I never knew exactly what they distributed. I saw the guy in charge every now and then, an older man with a perpetual smile and tinted glasses, but he moved out a couple of months ago. “So it’s like a photography studio?”
She gave me a strange, probing look. “It was a film studio,” she said. “You didn’t know about it?”
“No, and I’m a film buff. How ironic is that?”
“Aren’t you too young to be a film buff?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be a video game buff?”
Now cut that out! Jack Benny shouted defensively in my mind. “I come by it honestly,” I explained. “My father is a walking movie encyclopedia. He saw everything on first release and re-release in theatres, and then when home video came out, he started renting and collecting. He even wrote some articles for fan magazines. I caught the bug from him.” The truth was, as a kid I was so pathetically bad at any kind of sports that staying inside and watching movies on TV, or reading about them, became my replacement activity for playing outside. I didn’t mind, and Dad didn’t mind, though between the two of us, we drove my mom a little nuts. “Still,” I said, changing the subject, even if in my own mind, “I can’t imagine what kind of films anyone would make in an office building in Sherman Oaks?”
Nora Frost started laughing. “My god, you really don’t know?” she said. “You can’t even guess?” I shrugged, and she prompted further: “This is the San Fernando Valley, after all.”
Okay, I was missing something, clearly. Then it hit me. “Sheez, a porn studio?” I cried. “Downstairs?”
She laughed even louder. “A helluva fine detective you are! You don’t even know they’re cranking out fuck films right below your feet!”
What could I say? The hard truth I had to face just about every day was that I was not born to be a private investigator. I’m not tough, and I try to avoid mean streets whenever possible. I even try to avoid mildly disagreeable streets. I’ve been in only one fight in my life, in ninth grade, and then I beat my attacker’s fist with my nose so brutally that he had to put a band aid on one knuckle. I, meanwhile, went to the emergency room. But having been laid off three years ago by the Law Offices of Zacharias & Flynn, and finding that no other law firm in town was particularly interested in me, there was precious little else I could think to do. PI licenses aren’t all that hard to come by—in fact, I hear in L.A. they’re easier to get than a building permit—so here I am. A guy’s gotta live.
Or die trying, a voice intoned. Robert Mitchum, ladies and gentlemen. Very mordant, Mitch, very witty; now please go get stoned and leave me be.
I could not so easily wave away Nora’s point. I should have been able to figure out they were shooting shag films down there. If the smile etched on the guy’s face wasn’t enough of a clue, there had been a fairly constant stream of young women hanging around the hallway. Had I really thought about it, maybe I might even have realized that “Triex” is a spelled-out form of “XXX,” the traditional advertising rating for skin flicks. But I just didn’t put X, X, and X together. She’s right; a helluva fine detective I am.
“I really have to get back to the shoot, Mr. Beauchamp,” Nora Frost said, rising and heading for the door.
“Please call me Dave,” I said. For five grand in advance she could call me Hitler McAsshat. “Might I come along? To the shoot, I mean? You could introduce me to the twi…I mean, to the boys.”
“Fine, but haul it.” Nora was back to being all-business.
I closed the door behind me but did not lock it. There was precious little to steal in there anyway. Even if someone cared enough to lift the laptop, the insurance would pay for a newer, better one.
Sheez, I did pay my premium, didn’t I?
While we were waiting for the elevator (I would have preferred the stairs, but it was her choice), I said: “I don’t want to intrude, but the more information I have, the better. You mentioned that the boys’ father died.”
There was a slight pause, before she said, “That’s right.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He was killed in Afghanistan. He died fighting for his country.”
“Oh, I see. Again, I’m sorry.”
“I try to honor his memory rather than grieve his death.”
“Do Burton and Taylor go to public school?”
“Are you kidding me?” The elevator dinged, and then the door opened and we stepped in. Nora jabbed the button for the first floor. “LAUSD stands for the Los Angeles Unionized Sewer Department,” she said as the door slid shut. “I wouldn’t let my babies anywhere near a public school in L.A. They’re tutored at home. But since it’s summer now and school’s out, they’re on break. I like to give them the same advantages of common kids.”
The elevator door opened and we stepped into the hallway. The former Triex studio was at the end of the hall; the door was open, and through it I could hear a hubbub of voices. Nora marched straight in and I followed. Inside the suite were about a half-dozen people, all of whom stopped talking and practically snapped to attention at the sight of Nora. Only the fox, frankly, did not seem give a damn.
Instead of the drop ceiling that existed in my office, there was no ceiling in this mini-studio, only a lighting grid. The lights that hung there were focused on a long, semi-circular piece of muslin, on which was painted an English pastoral landscape, filled with hills and hedges, with a stately manor house etched into the background. Two young boys stood in front of it, and between them was the fox, resting comfortably on the floor. They were not identical twins, but rather fraternal. The truth was they did not even look all that much like brothers. One was on the tall side for an adolescent and slender, with sharp features and a focused expression, while the other was slightly shorter, a little rounder, and had a faraway look. What linked them was dirty-blonde color of their hair and their light blue eyes, which gave them a certain coldness that wasn’t conducive to becoming teen idols. Even though they were dressed in classic fox hunting outfits—round, helmet-like hats, red coats, jodhpurs and tall boots—they looked convincingly like a pre-teen version of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.
The fox, which was standing in between them actually seemed glad to see me, and strolled over to accept a scritch
