ExtReam’s building was a single-story, brick structure in a funky block that included an adult book shop, a drug store, and a carpet-cleaning service. Mary thought that made sense. Buy some porno mags at the bookstore, grab a tube of Vaseline at the drug store, and when you jizz all over the carpet, take it in for a cleaning.
She got out of her car, thumbed the alarm, and went to the front door. It was unlocked, and she stepped inside.
Most companies affiliated with the film industry had offices in older buildings. The ones Mary had visited had almost all, without question, been gutted and given the “Hollywood routine.” It was Mary’s own term for the ubiquitous concrete floors, sandblasted rafters with open ceilings and skylights, and brightly colored drywall adorned with movie posters.
The receptionist area consisted of an ornately carved bar, complete with a brass rail.
The only thing missing was a receptionist.
Mary waited for a few moments before a woman appeared at the end of the hallway that divided the space in two. Somewhere, there was an alert of some kind when the door opened. This was still LA, after all.
“Good afternoon, can I help you?” the woman said, with a voice echoing long nights smoking cigarettes and downing whiskey. Mary looked at her. She had big, blubbery lips, long brown hair, enormous knockers, and skinny jeans. Her feet were stuffed into leopard-skin stilettos. If Mary had to guess, the woman was probably in her mid-forties.
Time had not been kind to her.
“Yes, I’m looking for Archer DeLoof,” Mary said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I’ve got this.” Mary whipped out her private investigator’s license, which she’d put neatly into a leather flip case.
“You’re a cop?” the woman said. Now that she was closer, Mary saw the age in the woman’s face that apparently dozens of plastic surgeries hadn’t been able to erase. She upped her age estimate to mid-fifties.
“What the badge says,” Mary replied. Technically, not a lie. Her “badge” said private investigator.
“I’ll see if he’s around, but I think he’s on a shoot,” the woman said. “What’s your name?”
“Mary Cooper.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
The woman sauntered halfway down the hallway. Mary thought she looked like a carnival worker heading back to her shift at the cotton-candy stand. The woman turned right and disappeared down another hallway.
Mary walked away from the reception area and went to the first poster at the beginning of the hallway.
It showed a woman with her hands cuffed behind her and the title Hard Time.
Probably a Martin Scorsese film, Mary thought. Maybe written by Penny Marshall. Starring Tom Hanks.
Off to the right, there was a small office with giant, white, dry-erase boards upon which someone had charted out production calendars. There was also a stack of production books. Mary ducked inside the room, grabbed a production book, and slipped it into her purse.
Just as she got back in front of the movie poster, Fat Lips appeared with a man in tow. He had on jeans, a black T-shirt, and black Doc Martens. His hair was long and swept back, black shot with gray streaks.
Mary pegged him at late thirties, early forties. He had a goatee and hoops in each ear.
“Let’s talk in my office,” the man said.
Mary followed him as Plastic Queen took her seat behind the bar.
His office consisted of a glass desk and two modern chairs made of white plastic. The desk was stacked high with DVDs, thumb drives, and cables. The cables led to a giant Mac computer. An oversized couch was on the other side of the office, and Mary had a sick certainty that many young girls had tried to use it as a launching pad for their careers.
It nauseated her to think about it.
“So what can I do for you,” the man said.
“Are you Archer DeLoof?”
The man ignored her.
“Let’s start with your name,” he said. Mary groaned inwardly. He was going to be one of those guys.
“Mary Cooper,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Vince Buslipp,” he said. “I own the place.”
“Oh,” Mary said. “I had asked to see Archer DeLoof.”
“Yes, Gia mentioned it, but Archer is out on a shoot right now for Blast Zone,” he said. He looked at his computer. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of a young woman named Nina Ramirez,” Mary said. If Buslipp had a reaction, he hid it well. Or did he seem just a little too interested in what was on his computer screen?
Mary pressed forward. “I’ve been led to believe that she and Archer DeLoof were close.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Buslipp said. He seemed disinterested and bored. Mary noted his pale skin and the red around his eyes. Buslipp looked like a guy who rarely missed a party.
Buslipp said, “Whatever pussy he’s getting on the side is none of my business.”
“And who says the porn industry has no compassion for young women?” Mary said.
Buslipp ignored her comment, tapping away on his computer.
“So do you have any way I can get in touch with Mr. DeLoof?” Mary said. “Maybe his cell phone? Or an address for where he’s filming? Anything?”
“Nope, and even if I did, why would I help someone to go interrupt one of my employees while they’re working?” he said. “Kinda bad for business, don’t you think?”
“So, do you know Nina Ramirez? Ever met her?” Mary asked, ignoring Buslipp. Instead of ExtReam Productions, he should call it ExtReamly Rude.
“Look, honey,” Buslipp said. “I let you waltz in here and ask your questions. Now, unless you want to get in front of a camera and suck someone off, I think we’re all done here.”
“My chance to be in a masterpiece,” Mary said. “Exciting. What’s its working title: Slitizen Kane? On Golden Shower Pond?”
She got to her feet.
“So just to be clear, do you or don’t you know Nina Ramirez?” she said.
“Never heard of her until now.” He turned and started tapping away on his computer. “Please leave. Now.”
“Okay, porn boy,” Mary said. “I’ll shut the door so you can spank your little monkey in private.”
She slammed the door shut.
And hoped she had a bottle of hand sanitizer in the car.
8
Eight
Mary wanted to drive through a car wash with the windows down to cleanse herself of the scum layer from her visit to ExtReam Productions.
It wasn’t that she had anything against pornography per se in theory, as long as no real harm came to anyone involved. And therein lay the problem. It attracted a lot of damaged women and then exploited them. And she knew there were some porn films where people did get hurt. Mary had a big problem with that.
The way that piece of shit Buslipp had talked to her made her skin crawl. She saw his viewpoint of women perfectly clear: objects to be exploited.
She pulled into the parking lot of a department store and took the production book she’d lifted from ExtReam out of her purse.
Mary had seen this before and knew they listed the crews by name, with contact information, and important addresses for the shoot. Unfortunately, there were several addresses listed, without specific dates attached to them.
She found Archer DeLoof halfway down the crew list. There was no phone number for him specifically, but there was for the production’s line producer.