The Blue Jungle (2)
A noir novella in 10 chapters. “I’m her arm candy.”
Welcome to THE BLUE JUNGLE, a noir novella by Jamie Dibs.
Naomi is a struggling reporter in LA. Gangsters kidnap her because their boss thinks only Naomi knows what happened to his daughter.
He may be right: Naomi covers the porn industry, where all secrets lead to the king of sleaze, Bobby Feathers.
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THE BLUE JUNGLE: CHAPTER TWO
MEREDITH
“This is definitely above my paygrade,” Meredith Pepper said.
Nobody here looked like her. No goth, punk or even ex-military. No jerkoff moviemakers. Civilians, one and all.
That was all right. This was her friend’s show. Meredith was here to tag along and remember that there was more to L.A. than the Valley, with its girls who liked to do it hard and dirty, and the men who made a living off of them. No, L.A. was way scarier than that.
Take these beefcakes playacting in the colonial uniforms like extras in one of those boring Merchant-Ivory movies. Hotel prettyboys who had flunked the last audition, and now had to play-act nice to these rich stuckup guests.
Fanboys and wanna-be girls, nerds, slaves to reality TV, snaking in a line running from the lobby out and down the street. All hoping to get an autograph from Tabitha Worley, ex-Disney wholesome teen turned pinup meat, the latest in a storied line. Celebrity wasn’t new, but it was now so damn democratic.
Worst of all: these zombies weren’t even going to let Meredith smoke inside. L.A. pretending to be cleancut – now that gave her the creeps.
“Come on, this way,” Naomi said, pushing through the crowd and waving a press badge.
“Not her,” said a hotel dweeb in his Rudyard Kipling outfit.
“She’s with me,” Naomi said.
“I don’t see her badge.”
“Where’s your pith helmet?” Meredith asked him.
“My what?”
“She’s my colleague!” Naomi insisted but the guy shook his head.
Meredith said, “Forget it, girlfriend. I don’t think piercings and Mohawks are allowed.”
The dweeb shrugged. “No badge, no entry.”
Meredith leaned in. “Two-minute handjob?”
“Knock it off,” Naomi said, pulling her away. “I’m not X-Tra News here, you know?”
Meredith raised her studded eyebrows. “Oh I’m sorry, am I embarrassing you?”
“No, of course not. I just mean…”
“I get it. Don’t worry, Miss Smith, I’ll behave myself.” Behind them, the press had arrived, a tornado of men snapping photos and capturing video. They were circling their prey, knocking over chairs, murdering plants, a destrutive zypher upending the hotel’s lobby. “Like these fine upstanding citizens.”
The chaos of the storm around the starlet making her way inside was enough of a diversion. Meredith felt Naomi grab her wrist and haul her past the fear-stricken bellhops. The current of people carried them down a hallway and into an unadorned ballroom, chairs in classroom-like rows surrounding a central island of standing cameras, all facing a podium with a long table. People filled in the remaining seats. The hubbub from the fans and lechers outside filled the chamber and only died when the event’s stars filed in and the staff shut the doors.
Some Hollywood bigshot producer launched a rah-rah speech. Meredith wasn’t interested, although Bigshot turned out to be nice to watch. It occurred to her that she should do that thing people called networking, a phenomenon that always came naturally with her adult-video crowd but always felt cringeworthy when she attempted it among civilians. But the idea of Mr. Pin-up Producer laying eyes on Meredith, with her hair and choker competing to out-spike each other, and seeing a star…Meredith didn’t need stardom. That’s what she had the Milky Way tattooed across her body for.
Bigshot was holding up a hardcover edition of a book, and Meredith sensed Naomi tense a little beside her. Naomi was perched on the edge of her chair, recorder recording, other hand scribbling notes onto a pad. Her focus was on the book, and on the author.
Meredith allowed a knowing groan. Here we go again. Naomi was focused like a dog on the hunt. Taking the reporter thing seriously, still thinking she could break out of her cell. Maybe she would change her life – Naomi had done it before, coming to America. But this agonizing over trying to be a ‘real’ reporter was a waste of energy.
Meredith Pepper believed in fate, destiny, all that stuff: pathways that weren’t under your control, horoscopes that urged chocolate over vanilla or strawberry.
The stars had gotten her out. Florida panhandle, great place to grow up if you like mosquitoes: there she made a name for herself as the skinny girl with the dark eyes who made for an unlikely go-between for Mexicans picking watermelons and pot dealers hanging out near her high school. One abortion and two busts later, it was join the army or do time. She found herself in khakis and boots, cranking out push-ups and marching around Fort Benning’s parade ground in the rain. Fate.
Did three years, saw the world, or at least Tallahassee, assigned to a signals company supporting the 83rd Troop Command. She wasn’t doing the cool computer stuff – Meredith hadn’t passed the tests – but she learned to appreciate the way everyone counted on each other to stay alert.
After a while the life became predictable, with a pretty relaxed atmosphere when off duty. Smut magazines and VCR tapes were spilling out of lockers all over the base. Over tequila shots while away on short leave, the guys bragged about doing a porno with a couple of girls from town. She said she’d do one too, if they each paid her a hundred bucks. Fate.
When the platoon lieutenant found out about her growing back catalogue he threatened to have her court-martialled. The horoscopes agreed: now was not the time for conflict, she should settle any brewing fights. So Private First Class Meredith Baxter Pepper accepted a bad-conduct discharge: no V.A. benefits, a glowing scarlet letter on her resumé. It began to sink in that the stain would make her less trustworthy than a felon.
A week later, 19 Saudi towelheads hijacked four planes, flew two of them into the Twin Towers and another into the Pentagon, and the easy living in the Army in Florida was over.
And two weeks ago, she saw something on the news about her old unit. They were headed for Iraq.
The stars had spared Meredith from the coming war and made her a pornalist. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it felt a helluva lot better than being one of these mindless morons – journalists, they called themselves – fawning over Hollywood fodder.
The celebs weren’t an improvement. Tabitha Worley: For a supposed A-lister, she was barely legal, probably barely literate, spouting some shit into the mic about her empathy as an actor for foreign cultures…whatever. Meredith thought she understood the difference between porn and mainstream movies, but regarding a no-class T&A job like Tabby, maybe she wasn’t so sure.
Naomi, on the other hand, was hellbent on changing her luck once more. And maybe not just professionally. Meredith had seen Naomi focus on women the same way she was now honing in on the author at the end of the table.
She sized up Naomi’s fixation. Val Benson: conventionally gorgeous except for that white scar lighting up her face like a tiny string of Christmas fairie lights, broadcasting the fact that she’d been through some major shit in the Asian jungle. In fact, she was better looking than the Hollywood honey sharing the stage. She had the body for one of Bobby Feathers’ productions, but was just a little too pretty to have fitted in.
Still, Meredith had been in the biz long enough to know what was going through Naomi’s mind. How about a lez debut for Ms. Benson, “Gaijin Cowgirl: Sushi Platter”? And wouldn’t Naomi like to rent that one.
That’s probably all the girl would do: simmer over a crush, get cold feet, and, as far as Meredith knew, go home to a vibrator. Meredith – straight, although she’d eaten a little sushi of her own during her brief stint on camera – had tried helping Naomi come out of her shell. Accompanied her to Truck Stop for the lipstick scene, and Rage for ecstacy-laced dances with the fiercer sisters; switched gears and trawled the drag shows at The Abbey, which attracted all kinds. Naomi would nix the one-night stand but get worked up over a phone number, molta agitata, agonize for a week or two, and then come up with lame excuses and dodge the whole adventure.
The weird thing was that, otherwise, Naomi was cool. Friendly, always helping Meredith with her spelling and grammar even though Naomi was the foreigner. The two of them chronicled the smut industry, talking to pornographers, peelers, dirt peddlars – and outside of work, Naomi Sato seemed absolutely terrified of sex.
On stage, author Valerie B. seemed unhappy. A-lister Tabitha Worley fielded one dumb question after another, lapping up the attention, while the writer looked on in mild horror. Meredith couldn’t understand what she was so pouty about. Like Hollywood really gave a crap about her precious prose?
Finally the producer asked Val to tell everybody how excited she was about having her story made into a Hollywood movie. The writer coughed into the mic and made a bland statement. How happy she was, thanks everybody for your enthusiasm, couldn’t have done it without you. And then she said, “This is a true story. An important story. The film version starring Tabby...well, as long as she wears a tight skirt and they don’t give her lines requiring a lot of syllables, I guess it’ll be fine. ”
There was a pause. Naomi peeled her eyes off the writer long enough to exchange eyebrow-raises with Meredith.
“Sa-lam,” Meredith whispered.
Naomi smiled. “She’s awesome.”
The producer ahemed and asked another of the actors a question, trying to head Tabitha Worley off at the pass. The look of shock on the starlet’s face was palpable amid the eruptions of camera flashes.
“Excuse me,” Tabby said, cutting off the other actor. She looked down the table toward the writer. “Did you just, like, dis me?”
Meredith saw a short bald guy in the front row motioning to Val Benson. Something urgent, like, Don’t go there!
Bigshot Producer said, “I didn’t get that interpretation at all. Jeff, you were saying?”
“No, hang on,” Tabby said, “you totally dissed me, but weren’t you the one whoring in Japan?”
The media hounds were going ape. Hands up, shouting, demanding answers, flash flash snap snap.
The author, to her credit, seemed unruffled. She turned off her microphone – the little red LED at its base darkened – and sat back and folded her arms.
“Total career suicide,” Meredith said.
“Maybe,” Naomi replied, “but she’s going to be a cult star. Come on.”
She got up and headed for the exit.
“Where you going?” Meredith asked. The room was erupting.
“To meet her.” Meredith had to hustle to follow Naomi through swinging ballroom doors.
They stood around and waited, and people began to stream out – press people, studio minions, hotel flunkies. A stir when Bigshot pressed out, looking tight-lipped and angry. An explosion around Tabby, who looked in her element, pouty and upset, glorifying in her confrontation and maybe not yet realizing the movie might never get made.
Finally, the short bald guy came out with Val Benson, a hurricane in his face, one of her hardback editions in his hand, brandished like a club. The author seemed dazed from the onslaught.
“Miss Benson?” Naomi asked, getting in her way.
“Not now, sweetie,” said the bald man.
“Sweetie?” Naomi demanded.
“Get lost.”
“Bernie, it’s okay,” Val said. To Naomi: “The press conference is over.”
“I’m Naomi Sato – I mean Smith – freelance, and I think you are the coolest person ever. I have to tell your story.”
“Give it up, honey, interview time is over.”
Val whipped on her companion. “Bernie, you can’t talk to her like that.”
“Seriously,” Naomi continued, “I totally admire you.”
Meredith thought: And that’s not all. But she knew that this latest crush would go nowhere.
“Have you actually read my book?” the author asked Naomi, a little indignant.
“Um…not yet.”
“And you want to tell my story?”
“I so want to tell your story, your way. I do some writing for Variety.”
Meredith’s turn to roll the eyes.
“What’s your name again?” Val asked.
“Naomi Smith.”
The author looked at Meredith. “And you are?”
Meredith shrugged. “I’m her arm candy.” Naomi shot her a look of fury that Meredith could only respond to with a sneaky grin. For your own good, girlfriend.
“She’s just kidding,” Naomi blurted.
“Well, Naomi,” the author said, softening, “if you want to tell my story, you have to read my book.”
“Of course!”
“And I’m leaving L.A. tomorrow night. You can meet me for lunch here, tomorrow. Bernie, give her that.”
The agent shoved the book into Naomi’s hands. “Be sure to get her to sign it,” he snarled. “It’ll be worth a fortune some day.” He stormed off.
The author was overcome by a look of sadness. “See you, uh, ladies. Miz Benson needs a drink.”
“Bottoms up,” Meredith said as the author departed.
Naomi rounded on her. “What are you doing?”
Meredith shrugged. “Preventing one of your psychodramas. Naomi, that woman’s straighter than a stripper’s pole.”
NAOMI
Naomi stayed home and ignored her cell phone. Dinner was yesterday’s pizza. Her roommate, Barbara, was a cocktail waitress on the Strip who worked vampire hours and was never around. A strung-up bedsheet divided their studio apartment. Naomi curled up on the mattress on her half of the floor and read Gaijin Cowgirl.
It was the story of how Val was doing the hostess bargirl thing in Tokyo. The party went haywire when her number-one tipper turned out to have a thing for poisoning stupid young hostesses. Cue a shitload of violence that got heavy with wartime stories of sex slaves and stolen gold.
It was nearly two a.m. by the time Naomi clicked off the room’s single light. She didn’t fall asleep. Instead she listened to the rumbling of trucks and thought about Val, sensuous and tough, and imagined what it would be like to be kissed by a woman like that.
Out of your league, as the Americans liked to say.
Val was on her mind and so was the poolside threesome from yesterday. Naomi slipped a finger down her panties and before she knew it, it was Val Benson in the middle of the sandwich, and it was Naomi facing her. Finger knowing where to travel, imagining worldwise Val knowing what to do, showing Naomi those hostess extracurricular moves…Barbara opened the door and stumbled in drunk, bringing in some guy; it was always just “some guy” with Babs. Naomi retrieved her hand, business unfinished, as the two of them fumbled around on the other side of the curtain, making exaggerated Shh’s and Quiets!
She gazed at the blank ceiling, listening to the bullshit on the other side of the curtain, feeling robbed.
Naomi had barely conked out when the alarm buzzed. She had to get over to the shoot with the Japanese. Paying the rent depended on it, but that’s not what got her out of bed this morning. After seeing the Japanese for X-tra, bowing appropriately as Sato-san, she’d floor it across town to Val’s hotel, Miss Smith on the case.
Barbara and her companion were both snoring, which was good: the bathroom was free. Naomi showered, put a little extra thought into today’s dress – skirt, over-the-shoulder top, shoes instead of sneakers – and combed her black hair ruler-straight down to her shoulders. She went further than usual and applied eyeliner, mascara, lipstick.
Someone banged on the bathroom door. Babs. “What’s taking so long?”
“All yours now.” Grabbing her handbag with its recorder and notebook, Naomi headed downstairs to the waiting California sunshine.
Their apartment was part of a faceless complex in Burbank, an ugly, industrial blight. The other residents, whom Naomi never spoke with, were mostly blue-collar workers, truckers and stevedores, as dilapidated and frayed as the neighborhood. The traffic-clogged drive to the other end of the San Fernando Valley took over an hour. She killed time by listening to Beyoncé and Franz Ferdinand C.D.s, running through the questions she might put to Val Benson, what headline to use, how to spin it so that it ended up in Variety or, who knows, maybe even the L.A. Times?
The Japanese shoot was in a small studio owned by one of the U.S. production houses. It was a windowless warehouse, used for interior scenes. It came equipped with plenty of S&M props and had a range of stock sets for that special prison or hospital scene.
Naomi had called ahead yesterday afternoon and gotten the director, Akane, on the phone. He wanted coverage in the U.S. trade press. She was making a name for herself back home as the only Japanese reporter dedicated to the L.A. adult entertainment industry. Naomi had become a useful conduit – a privilege that brought its own headaches.
Most of her reporting was straight news. Porn was an industry like any other, adapting to new technologies, emerging competitors and tougher regulation. There were real business stories there, ones that she was actually proud of writing.
But covering other industries didn’t involve entering a warehouse and seeing Ayumi and Keiko in bikinis and heels, each squatting between a pair of naked black men, sucking them off. Two more men were in the shadows, slowly masturbating in anticipation of their turn.
Yep, Naomi thought as the director waved her over, just another day at the office.
She exchanged polite bows and waited for the scene to end. The oral phase progressed along a predictable path of events; Akane wasn’t trying to reinvent the wheel with this one. He prowled behind the cameraman and the sound technician, scribbling instructions on a whiteboard that he’d raise for the Japanese women to see. Naomi knew the score. Japanese girls doing black guys in L.A. was a popular trope back in Japan and every aspiring starlet had to do the rounds.
Once in a while, one of the actresses might decide to linger in America – foolishly, because without enough English, they were easy prey. Naomi had seen it happen. Usually the girls ended up doing a lot of work, and doing the producers, for what turned out to be no pay.
Akane in fact launched into such a story during the break, complaining to Naomi that he found these L.A. jaunts more of a burden. Akane was an industry pro. He had been a director for over 15 years, and in his all-black outfit and little soul patch and sunglasses, looked like a big-time director. Which he was, actually, back in Japan.
She listened to him speak in Japanese, recorder running, and asked the occasional question. Naomi managed to get in one about condoms on set. He said there was no need for such measures in Japan, where the homogeneity – “purity” – of the population ensured there was no AIDS epidemic, although he then looked at his two stars giggling with the four American guys and fell quiet, one finger stroking the soul patch beneath his lips.
“There are two men coming to see you,” he said. “From Japan.”
“Excuse me, Akane-san?”
“They said they would wait for you outside.”
She said, “There were no Japanese out there when I arrived.”
“Then they are on their way. They requested that I inform you.”
She was stunned. “How…who would know…”
“Everyone knows you meet all the Japanese A.V. directors passing through L.A. These men want to speak to you in private.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.”
She had gotten all she needed for Stu, so she thanked the director, acknowledged Ayumi and Keiko with perfunctory bows, and exited for the parking lot.
Two men leaned against her Sentra. Japanese, black suits. The big one with the flattop hairdo, American tall and sumo wide, had a paunch that expanded his white, button-down shirt. His companion, serpantine with bug eyes that made him look like a praying mantis, wore a red T-shirt. They were both smoking, flicking ash on the roof of her car.
She remembered guys like this from Japan. Scary guys. Her native country had a reputation for being clean, safe and polite. Which it was, except when it came to the yakuza.
No missing pinkies, no immediately obvious tattoos. Even so, there was no mistaking their cool menace.
“Who are you?” she asked in English.
“Sato-san,” the big man replied. In Japanese, he said, “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“If you cooperate,” Bug Eyes added.
She stuck with English: “Who sent you?”
“We’re here to give you a job,” said Sumo.
Bug Eyes held out his little hand. “Keys.”
“No way.” She looked around the empty parking lot, heard but didn’t see the freeway hoisted on a parapet of concrete. It was a quick dash back to the studio.
“Go ahead, run, make a fuss,” Sumo said.
“And ride in the trunk,” Bug Eyes added.
“Or be a good girl,” the big one suggested, “and you can sit nice and comfortable.”
“Wearing your seatbelt,” Bug Eyes said, “like a responsible citizen.”
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