“So how can we find out who made Naughty Teens?” Malloy asked. “And who this Kimberly chick really is?”
Didi and I both looked at each other and spoke simultaneously.
“Two-two-five-seven.”
Malloy frowned.
“US Code Title 18 section 2257,” Didi said, wrinkling her nose. “The so-called ‘child protection’ act.”
“That’s something to do with record keeping, right?” Malloy asked.
“It’s basically just another way to make life hard for godless smut peddlers,” I said. “Now not only do you have to have all your drivers licenses for all your talent—scanned, not just photocopied—but you also have to put your physical address on the beginning of every DVD and on every Web site. Not a PO box, but the actual physical location where the records are kept. You also need to put a real legal name as the custodian of records and guarantee that person will be at the listed address to make the records available for a minimum of four hours every business day. There’s more, but that’s the part that’s gonna help us.”
“God,” Didi said. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be grateful for 2257.”
“Right,” Malloy said. “So if we go out and rent Naughty Teens 17, we’ll get the address of the guy who made the video?”
“No,” I said. “We’ll probably just get the address of the PDM office. But what we can do is show up during the allotted four hours and get a drivers license for Kimberly or Lia or whatever her name is.”
“Outstanding,” Malloy said.
“What else?” Didi asked.
Malloy reached into the desk drawer and took out another pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Didi and she took it, letting him light it for her and then fanning the smoke away from me with one ring-heavy hand.
“Well,” Malloy said. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to know what happened to that briefcase.”
“Who cares,” I asked. “For all we know, they’ve found it already.”
“If they had,” Malloy said. “They wouldn’t have gone after Zandora. You want to know what I think?” He lit a cigarette for himself. “I think the blonde hid the briefcase somewhere in your office, probably in the bathroom, and then someone else found it, after the first round of goons had split but before they went back to toss your place while you were at the phony shoot.” He sucked smoke and squinted at Didi. “You don’t have it, do you, Didi?”
“Fuck off, Lalo,” Didi said. “If I had it, don’t you think I would have mentioned it by now?”
Malloy shrugged.
“Just asking,” he said.
“So who all was in the office that day?” I asked. “It was pretty busy wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Didi said. “I’m so frazzled right now, though, I can barely remember.”
“Got a surveillance system in your office?” Malloy asked.
I shook my head.
“I’m pretty sure there’s a security camera in the lobby,” Didi said. “I have no idea who keeps the tapes.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Malloy said.
No one said anything for several minutes. Malloy and Didi smoked. I looked at the image of Jesse Black on the screen. My head hurt.
“Okay, look,” Malloy said, crushing out his cigarette. “I think we oughta call it a night. Didi, remember what I said. Spread the word that you’re paying me to look for Angel.”
“Sure,” Didi said, taking my hand. “I just hate to leave you alone, honey, what with everything that’s happened.”
“I’m not alone,” I said. “I got Malloy.”
“Okay,” Didi said, “But the next time I come by, I’ll bring some ginger snaps or something.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come by again,” Malloy said, shaking his head. “It’s too risky.”
“Are you sure?” Didi asked. “I mean...”
“I’ll stay in contact by phone,” Malloy replied, gently taking Didi’s arm and maneuvering her toward the door.
“I’ll be fine, Didi,” I said, wondering if that were really true.
“Okay then, honey,” Didi said. She reached out and grabbed Malloy’s wrist. “You watch over her good, you big lug, or you’ll have me to answer to.”
“You got it,” Malloy said.
I stayed in Malloy’s bedroom while he let Didi out. After a few minutes of doing things I couldn’t see, Malloy came back into the bedroom with a Thai takeout menu. It felt weird to be alone with him again and I felt strangely self-conscious about sitting on his bed. The cover image for Naughty Teens 17 was still on the screen of his laptop.
“You want me to order some food for you?” he asked.
I looked up at him standing there holding the menu and I was hit with a sudden powerful urge to pull him down on the bed with me. It was a bad idea and I knew it, but I always react to stress that way. I looked down at my hands.
“What about you?” I asked. “You’re not hungry?”
“I don’t want to order enough food for two people now that Didi’s gone,” Malloy said “It would look suspicious.” I’ve got stuff to eat in the fridge. You know, guy food. Lunch meat. Frozen stuff. Nothing I’d offer to a guest.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”
“You oughta have something,” Malloy said.
I wanted him to put down the menu and put those big, calloused hands up my skirt. I wanted him to get rough, to make me forget.
But I was still pretty sore from my date with Jesse. It was good to have that as an excuse not to make a pass because I really didn’t want to think about the fact that I wasn’t all that sexy anymore. The fact that Malloy would probably be totally turned off if I came on to him. At best he’d feel sorry for me.
“No thanks,” I said instead. “I’m fine.”
Malloy nodded.
“Well,” he said. “If you change your mind later you can go ahead and help yourself.”
I wondered if he was still talking about food.
13.
Although I was exhausted, I was way too jittery to really sleep. I dozed on and off on Malloy’s couch all night, flickering television inanity unable to compete with the jumbled emotions in my head. It didn’t help that I seemed to be on virtually every channel, more so on the flashy, shallow “entertainment” news shows than the supposedly legit outlets, but even the almighty CNN seemed to be unable to resist running a few carefully cropped clips from Double Dare and footage of me at the AVN awards with a very young Jenna Jameson. They also showed a ton of footage of the two cops who seemed to be in charge of bringing me to justice. One was black and a little nerdy-looking and tended to keep his mouth shut. The other was white, blond and athletic and looked like an actor playing a cop. The camera loved him.
But the footage that really got under my skin was a quick shot of Sam’s wife Georgie looking pale and numb as she was hustled from a car to some dull, official-looking building. Sweet, busty, hippy-dippy Georgie who wouldn’t hurt a fly and really honestly believed that love could change the world. I guess she had learned the hard way that the opposite number was much more efficient. Not hate of course, which is sort of like love’s twisted sibling, but cold, heartless disregard for human life.
Sam had told me that the man who set up the phony shoot “had Georgie” but he clearly didn’t have her anymore. Had he just let her go after he had her husband killed? I suddenly wanted desperately to find Georgie and talk to her, find out what she knew, what had really happened, but the fact that she probably believed I had killed Sam left a hollow ache under my ribs.
I searched around the channels for an old movie with no commercials. Something sweet and silly with no guns. I found a musical with Cyd Charisse and turned the sound down low, trying not to think. It didn’t work.