South by Southeast (15 page)

“Do you think Maria went looking for him?”

Mouse Girl sighed impatiently. They had already discussed this on the phone, with Mouse Girl giving clipped answers, but Chela wanted to pull more out of her or see if she would change her story. “Maybe. She said she was gonna look for him, I dunno. She had a couple drinks with us, danced with a few guys, and then she was gone. A bartender brought her purse to us. He said he found it under a seat cushion, and he thought it might be Maria's. She always had the same one.”

“Where'd he find it?”

“The VIP room. We can go in and out of there. The bouncer knows us.”

Damn.
That was new! She'd never seen the VIP room at Club Phoenixx. She would have to go back.

“Do you know who else was in there?”

This time, Mouse Girl spun around to study Chela's eyes. “You sound like a cop.”

“Yeah, right,” Chela said. “You know how far back I went with Maria. If the cops don't give a shit what happened, somebody has to.”

Mouse Girl gazed at her a moment longer, then blinked and turned to the mirror again. “I don't know who was there that night,” she said. “But lately, it's a lot of movie people. Sometimes they show up dressed like zombies or whatever. They think it's funny.”

Zombies!

“You mean that movie
Freaknik
?”

“I don't know what it's called,” Mouse Girl said. “Yeah,
Freak
something. Raffi knows all about it. He hooks those guys up.”

Chela felt her mind whirring to put pieces together, but too many were missing. “How long ago did that other girl drown? Lupe?”

“Two weeks. And another girl the week before that, but she worked Biscayne, not the beach. I didn't know her. Just heard about it.”

Ten had reported to his set two weeks before, the same time Lupe had died. Was there a connection? Chela wasn't sure if Ten had arrived at the start of the shoot or not; some of the cast and crew might have been in Miami longer. The man with the big nose might have been just another tourist having nothing to do with Maria's death.

Maria had been watching the movie shoot the day they had seen each other! Why hadn't she considered that connection before?

Before Chela could ask the next question, a knock came at the door.

“Shit,” Mouse Girl said, alarmed. “Probably Raffi.”

She was right. Raphael didn't look angry, but his presence was significant. He was keeping a close eye on his new investment. He ignored Mouse Girl.

“Chela,” he said, glad to see her. “I thought you had vanished into the air.”

Chela gave him her brightest smile, apologizing. She took his hand and allowed him to introduce her to the party's newcomers. Chela hoped to recognize people she had seen on the movie set with Ten, but the new men were from Latin America, dressed sharply in business attire, probably fresh from the airport. Like the others, they beheld her like a prize.

It was almost midnight, and Chela was ready to go home. She wasn't sure what she had gained for the price she had paid, but she hoped it was worth something. She might have earned one answer about Maria from Raphael, but she wanted to choose her question carefully. Should she ask about the man with the big nose? Or maybe the guy Maria had been hanging out with, the one she'd said was a pilot who would fly her to Jamaica?

But instinct told her not to ask him anything about Maria. She kept thinking about the VIP room and
Freaknik
.

“How will I find you tomorrow?” Chela said, signaling that she was ready to leave.

Raphael glanced at his watch, irritation shadowing his face. “It's early yet.”

“I'll be back. No worries.”

Raphael gave her specific instructions, the way Mother used to. He dialed a number into her phone and let it ring once so it would register in both of their phones' memories, explaining that it was an answering service. She was to call that number the next night at eight precisely and wait for a return call. He warned her not to go back to Club Phoenixx or the hotel on her own, meaning that she shouldn't try to capitalize on her introductions without him.

Was that what Maria had done? Had her independence gotten her killed?

“Do you have any questions for me?” he said, walking her toward the door. She guessed that he would walk her downstairs and all the way to a cab, or his driver, just to make sure she didn't double back without his knowledge. And his percentage. They had yet to negotiate, but he'd hinted she would make two thousand per client—which meant he would charge much more.

“What if there's a guy I want to pick?” she said.

“Name him,” Raphael said. “Anyone you saw tonight?”

She pretended to consider the question, scanning the room. “Well . . . not anyone right now. But I hear there's lots of movie people around. From that zombie movie?”

Chela realized she might have made a mistake to sound so star-struck. She'd told Maria that Ten was working on the movie, and Maria might have mentioned it to Raphael and the other girls. She didn't care if she burned her bridge with Raphael—she had no intention of calling him again—but lies might tip off the killer to her first, especially if Raphael was involved. Wasn't it possible,
even likely, that Mouse Girl would tell Raphael everything they had talked about to win favor with him?

But Raphael's brow, which had been tightly knitted since she said she wanted to go, loosened again. His smile returned, amused. “Everyone loves movie people,” he said. “Is that what you want, my angel? Your big break?”

Chela pursed her lips, glancing at the carpeted floor. “Not exactly . . . I just . . .”

Gently, Raphael pinched her cheek. “I'm teasing. You deserve that and more. Call me tomorrow night. I am the one who will make you a star.”

BY MIDNIGHT, I
was in a bad mood.

Gustavo Escobar had sent most of the cast home and insisted on reshooting my sex scene with Brittany Summers, which I'd thought was already in the can. I'd spent an hour in the makeup chair being reverted back to my normal face, and instead of going home as I'd planned, I'd been asked to spend another two hours half-naked on the set.

My contract had stipulated a single sex scene. Len and I had negotiated carefully to avoid exploiting any rumors about me circulating in Hollywood. By now, I was sure Escobar had already broken half a dozen provisions of our agreement, which had called for “a standard of tastefulness.” Like hell.

Usually, it's actresses who worry more about their sexuality onscreen. Some actresses refuse to shoot sex scenes unless they're wearing a bra, and others, such as Angela Bassett, outright refuse. Whatever Halle had made for
Monster's Ball
wasn't nearly enough, Oscar or not. But my situation was unique. I'd begun to suspect that Escobar had only cast me to fulfill some kind of
Mandingo
imagery he believed would horrify the movie's viewers, a brutish black man violating his lead actress's milky blond treasures. That night, I believed I had my proof.

My ego was at stake, too. I didn't have a body double, and I hadn't expected to shoot any scenes with my shirt off that week. Last time, I'd gone on a juice fast and doubled up on my crunches two days beforehand as usual, which helped define my abs. Movie standards for bare skin are much higher than in life. If Escobar had wanted to reshoot the sex scenes, he should have given me more notice.

I know some actors who get off on building chemistry during sex scenes, rehearsing for real-life playtime later, but to me, there's nothing sexy about it. Between the lights and the crew, it's impossible to forget I'm at work. Sex, real or imaginary, didn't have special allure to me anymore, unless I was with April.

Yes, even with Brittany Summers. She's a beautiful lady with a body she works hard to maintain, but I don't have any particular taste for the Nordic look. And at twenty-three, Brittany was closer to Chela's age than mine, so she was a kid to me. It also seemed likely that Brittany and the director were sleeping together—or they had—so I had nothing to gain from fanning any flames of lust for her. We were doing our jobs.

And I was exhausted. The perspiration Brittany and I were drenched in was real, and I was more annoyed for Brittany's sake than my own.

Despite limited acting talent and implants more suitable for a porn star, she'd been an island of professionalism. She covered her chest with a hand towel between takes and shifts for new camera angles, and we negotiated every touch. I always try to follow a director's wishes, but when it comes to scenes involving intimacy or nudity, the actress has final say. I might look as if I'm rubbing an actress between her legs under the covers, but I'm probably just mimicking the motion or kneading her stomach or thigh. If the scene calls for a breast in my mouth, I keep my tongue far away if I can. I may look naked but am actually wearing a flesh-colored “modesty pouch” and my partner a flesh-colored latex pubic wig.

The scene we were shooting seemed endless, and Escobar was pushing his R rating. The bed's covers were thrown aside, leaving only our nudity, and I was miming thrusts while she wrapped her legs around me, arching her back. Was I aroused? Not even slightly, although our lower torsos couldn't avoid contact. I worried that her pelvic bone might be getting sore. So sue me.

Instead of clearing the set of all but himself and a cameraman, Escobar had a dozen sweaty guys standing around handling lights and sound. Escobar was practically standing over us, almost in the camera's frame. I felt more self-conscious than I had ever been on a set. Black men don't get much experience doing love scenes in Hollywood, so at first, I'd blamed my discomfort on inexperience. But as Escobar called for take after take, my hindbrain started tingling. Something didn't feel right; he seemed more like a voyeur than a director.

“No, no,
no
!” Escobar said, and moved closer to ruin yet another take. I heard the cinematographer sigh. “I said passion, Tennyson—animal passion. What is this choirboy nonsense? You're taking her. You've lost control. Grab her. Hold her in place.”

The word
animal
clenched my teeth. I might lose control, but not on camera. I climbed away from Brittany, coming to my feet, and a male intern immediately flung a robe over my shoulders so I could cover myself while Brittany's assistant draped a blanket over her.

“Gus . . .” Louise Cannon warned. “Look at the clock. They nailed this a week ago.”

Sometimes Cannon could bring Escobar back down to planet Earth, but not that night. He was obsessed with the scene. I've never walked off a set, but I could feel the moment coming. I glanced at glassy-eyed Brittany, who looked resigned to Escobar's whims.

Escobar brought his face far too close to mine. “You're supposed to know women, no? You're the expert? Where are you hiding it? Do I have to show you?”

I was glad he stepped away from me, or I might have broken his nose. No, you can't actually drive a man's nose bone into his brain regardless of what your ex-Marine neighbor told you. But it might have been fun to pretend I could.

He sat on the bed beside Brittany and grabbed a handful of hair from the back of her scalp, yanking her face close to his. One of the female interns gasped audibly from the back of the room, but the rest of the set was stone silent. “You see?” Escobar said to me, as if Brittany were a rag doll. “This is how you master a woman. You take control.”

Still tugging her hair by the roots, Escobar pulled Brittany's face closer and mashed his mouth to hers. Unconsciously, she lightly touched his chest as if to push him away but reconsidered and let her hand fall to the mattress. In the script, Brittany's character was infected and had seduced
me,
not the other way around; but the more footage we shot, the more the director was pushing the scene toward visual rape. I never would have agreed to the oldest stereotype in American history for the sake of a horror movie. No thanks.

I still don't know how I resisted laying my hands on Escobar. I loathe men who mistreat women, no matter what their pretense.

“We're done tonight,” I said, my voice thick with gravel.

Escobar released Brittany and shot to his feet. “What did you say?”

“Ten, it's all right,” Brittany said, sitting upright. “He has his vision for it, what he sees in his head, and it's not a problem. Seriously, I'm fine with anything he wants.”

I felt like the only sane man in a mental ward, but no one crosses the director on a shoot unless he can afford to lose his job. Mine might be lost already, but my dignity matters more than my work. It would cost him a fortune to replace me this late, so I had power, too.

“Sorry, Brit, this scene is over,” I said. “You can put your clothes back on, darlin'.”

Cannon's feet pattered as she ran from her chair to try to stand
between me and Escobar, who was staring at me as if I'd roundhouse-kicked him in the back of the skull. Visions of mayhem danced in my head. “Gus, it's late,” Cannon said. “He's tired. Every one's tired.”