Masterman thumbed over his shoulder to the scene behind him. “This one is going to take the top prize. I’m sure of it.”
She wondered what the top prize was called. The Platinum Penis? “Good to hear,” she said.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Chris Udahl.” She dug Creed’s business card out of her coat and passed it to him. “This is another partner … Mr. Richard Ricardo.”
Garcia smiled pleasantly.
Masterman stuffed the card in the front pocket of his jeans without looking at it. “Questions? Comments?”
“I understand you have another Minnesota group financing your films at the moment,” said Garcia.
“You’ve done your research,” he said, crossing his arms and tucking his hands under his armpits. “They want to keep a low profile, however, so I’m unable to discuss the particulars.”
Bernadette said, “I was hoping to talk to them about their experience, what they know about the industry, whether this would be a wise—”
“Their experience is limited to writing out the checks,” the director interrupted. “They’ve never expressed an interest in visiting a set or meeting any of the talent. All they care about is whether I turn a profit, which I do.”
Garcia asked, “They don’t care about the subject matter?”
Masterman said, “I could be doing a Civil War documentary.”
“You seem to be carving out a niche for yourself in the fetish area, water fetishes in particular. What’s the market like for those sorts of specialty films? What sort of person watches them?” asked Bernadette, thinking about the professor.
“Everyone watches them,” Masterman said. “Fetish films, Web sites, and magazines—they’re all growing like gangbusters.”
“What’s fueling the interest?” asked Garcia. “Are people practicing this stuff more and more in their own bedrooms?”
“I think they watch when they aren’t getting action at home,” the director said. “This is the only thing left, the only turn-on besides hookers.” He paused, then declared with a straight face: “We’re performing a public service.”
Garcia said, “Keeping them off the streets, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Bernadette eyed the crew wrestling with the water tank. “But why do some men get turned on by certain fetishes? Why drowning, for example?”
Masterman launched into a speech Bernadette suspected he’d given before: “Why do some men get turned on by tits while others like legs? Why do some like to spank and others want to get spanked? There are dudes who like to watch and those who want to be watched. Why? Were they breast-fed as babies? Were they spanked? Did they take baths with Mom? Did Dad leave copies of Penthouse sitting around? Did they peek when Big Sister was getting dressed? Did they try on Big Sister’s dress?”
“It’s all about how males are raised,” said Bernadette.
“We can only be domesticated to a point, right, Richard?” said Masterman, throwing an arm around the taller man. Garcia gave him the eye, and the director took his arm away. “At our core we’re all feral. As Plato put it so eloquently: ‘Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.’” He nodded toward the tank. “This is an attempt to placate the savage.”
“By this, you mean the water films,” said Garcia.
“This can be anything,” Masterman said. “I don’t care what this is. I don’t give a damn what turns their crank or why, as long as I can get them to open their wallets and plunk down their dollar bills.”
Garcia said, “So if next month the latest fetish involves slathering big toes with chocolate syrup—”
“I’m slathering big toes with chocolate syrup. Pass the nuts and whipped cream.” Masterman shrugged. “It’s not my fault popular tastes have declined. ‘The people that had once bestowed commands, consulships, legions and all else, now longs eagerly for just two things: bread and circus games.’ I’m the circus.”
The philosopher-pornographer and his people weren’t dedicated practitioners. For them, the drowning films were less about satisfying their personal libidos and more about meeting current market demands. Bernadette realized she’d get no leads for the case through Visceral Motion Pictures, but she’d gained some insight. “I think we’ve seen enough of your operation.”
The talent dipped her fingers into the tank and whined. “Skippy, the water’s getting cold.”
“It’s fine, Tiff!” he yelled.
“I’m gonna freeze my ass again.” Tiff flicked her cigarette butt onto the floor and stepped on it.
For the first time Bernadette took note of the sagging sweat socks and worn house slippers on the star’s feet. The tank sat in front of a fake wall slapped with beige paint. Bordering each side of the tank were plastic palm trees identical to the ones Bernadette had seen out in the lobby. Otherwise the set was bereft of furnishings. Suddenly the whole production seemed depressingly low-rent and tired, and she wanted to get out of there fast. “We’ll let you get back to work. I’m sure every minute you spend talking to us is costing you money.”
“Since you’re already here, stay and observe,” Masterman said cheerily.
She checked her watch. “I don’t know.”
“This is a key scene,” he said. “It summarizes the entire movie.”
“We can stay,” Garcia said quickly.
Bernadette gave Garcia the eye and asked, “Where do you want us to stand?”
The director put a paw on her back and guided her to the director’s chair, positioned a few yards from the tank. He seemed to have forgotten about Mr. Ricardo. “Front-row seat for you.”
She was close enough to get wet if the water play got out of hand. Lowering herself into the chair, she clutched her coat in front of her. “Great.”
Garcia came up and pointedly inserted himself between Bernadette and Masterman.
“Can we get started?” asked Tiff, kicking off her slippers and bending over to pull off her socks.
“Where’s Doug?” asked Masterman, stepping up to the tank.
A tall, ripped man pushed through the jungle of plastic palms and stood next to the leading lady. Sporting a black ponytail, tight jeans, and a yellow rain slicker pulled over a bare chest, the guy looked like the Chippendale version of a lobsterman. “Ready to rumble,” he announced, slapping his flat gut.
“Then let’s get rolling,” said Masterman. He turned around and addressed the crew. “We have to do this in one take, so get it right.”
The director went over to Bernadette, saw Garcia planted on one side of her chair, and took the opposite side. Tiff dropped her robe and handed it to Clipboard Guy. Mirror Lady passed Tiff the tiara and held the mirror up so the nude actress could position the crown on her head.
Masterman leaned against the arm of Bernadette’s chair and brought his mouth close to her ear. “Tiff’s an outcast mermaid princess stripped of her fins and banished to a life on dry land. Doug is trying to restore her to her throne.”
“Why was she banished?” Bernadette asked, leaning away from him.
“She banged Doug,” said Masterman, grinning lasciviously.
Garcia, while scrutinizing the director’s closeness to Bernadette asked, “So what?”
Masterman, still smiling at Bernadette, said, “Doug’s a fisherman with a big … rod.”
While the young woman held her arms out for Clipboard Guy, he wrapped her wrists together with clothesline rope. “Why is that necessary?” asked Bernadette.
“It’s part of the plot,” said Masterman. “Plus we want to also be able to market to the bondage crowd.”
She watched while Clipboard Guy moved down to the woman’s ankles and started binding them together. “This seems dangerous,” said Bernadette.
“Tiff can handle it,” Masterman said.
“Have you ever had any close calls?” asked Garcia, frowning at the scene. “Any near drownings?”