Sara looked at herself in the mirror and blinked a little, then glanced down at the 8x10 photo clipped to the top of the folder and sighed. She leaned closer and adjusted the dental filler, then turned a profile to her reflection. “Hooo boy, this is going to be . . . interesting.”


“Yo! Are you coming out or not?” came Licorice’s voice from beyond the door. Sara winked at her reflection and took a breath for courage. She pulled open the bathroom door and sauntered out to the conference table underneath the Book Hive.


Stunned silence met her arrival, and she looked around the table at Jaw Breaker and Licorice, grinning at her dramatic effect. “Well boys, are we ready to make a nice manmeat movie?”


“Jeeeeesus!” Jaw Breaker gulped. “Sara? That IS you, right?”


“Yep, it’s me, sugar-ass. Whatcha think?” Sara grinned. She wore a red spaghetti strap tank top with the words “Mama Gonna Spank You” in silver glitter across the front. Her faded jeans rode low enough on her hips to reveal the straps of her thong, and each slender arm held enough Navaho silver and turquoise bracelets to reach nearly to her elbows. The silver hoop earrings dangling from each earlobe touched her shoulders, and her hair had fuchsia streaks in it now.


The frosted silver eye shadow made Sara’s dark eyes brighter and more dramatic, going well with her fuchsia lipstick. On her left shoulder, she sported a tiny tattoo of a cricket, graceful, with long antenna.


“Holy crap . . . “ came Licorice’s assessment. “Girl, you are seriously hot AND scary. This is what Macy MacDonald looks like?”


“No, this is pretty toned down,” Sara laughed, tossing her head. “I thought I’d be subtle on my way to Tia Carumba.”


“Subtle, she says,” Licorice grinned, “Yeah, I guess for a porn star, that’s pretty subtle.”


“EX-Porn Star, thank you,” she corrected him quickly. “All my best work is behind the camera nowadays.”


“Riiiiiiigggghhht,” Jaw Breaker teased. “You know Greg’s going to be kicking himself that he took that Des Moines job if he ever gets a look at you like this.”


“Definitely,” Licorice chimed in, grinning. Sara shook her head.


“No. Photos. I’m dead serious about that, with an emphasis on the DEAD part—“ Her threat was interrupted when Mr. Peppermint appeared at the other end of the room, clearing his throat.


“Oh boys—let’s not argue with the lady, shall we?”


Sara stared, along with Jaw Breaker and Licorice, and for the second time, none of them around the table could speak. Mr. Peppermint shot each of them a blasé glance, then smoothly lowered himself into his chair, lounging in it. “So?”


“Okay, my tiny mind is freaking now,” Jaw Breaker mumbled, staring.


Licorice shook his head and drew in a deep breath. “Wow. I think you may have outdone yourself, Grissom.”


“Thank you.” Mr. Peppermint wore the green Hawaiian shirt he’d picked up from the Wardrobe room; it was unbuttoned to mid-chest. Over that was a khaki bush vest with pockets over jeans and slip-on Top Siders. The ensemble was fairly understated, but he’d added a single stud diamond in his left earlobe, a heavy silver chain bracelet on one wrist, and a small fuzzy soul patch under his lower lip; a bit of grey-tinted fluff that accented his cleft chin.


Sara kept staring, and finally he cocked his head, making the gesture smooth. “Yes?”


She lost it, and burst out in a braying laugh that echoed in the underground meeting room. Over on a side table one of the cats—Porthos—looked alarmed at the sound. He leapt away as Licorice and Jaw Breaker broke into snickers of their own. Mr. Peppermint closed his eyes and waited patiently for the hilarity to die down, and when the other three were almost back under control, he sighed. “Get it out of your systems now, because once we’re at Tia Carumba, we’re on.” He glanced down at himself. “Too much?”


“Nah, you look pretty tasteful. Very California, on the slightly . . metro side,” Sara managed with a smirk. “The sort of guy who’d know his white wines and moisturizers.”


His quick glance her way promised her evil retaliation, but he covered it smoothly and motioned to the dossiers on the table. “All right, let’s get to the facts of the case then.”


The last of the light-heartedness left the room; Jaw Breaker sighed and flipped open the manila folder in front of him. “Okay—we watched the tape eight times through looking for anything helpful. For the record, this has been one of the sickest things I’ve ever seen, and personally I can’t wait to see the perpetrators strung up for it.”


Across the table, Licorice nodded in grim agreement. “Yeah. The first time through was to get the shock out of the way. Basic all-male three-way with two masked men and an underaged Latino boy. Afterwards one gets his hands up around the kid’s neck and strangles him. Lots of close-ups. The other stabs him in the belly, one long upward thrust with a machete.”


Sara felt herself blanch; across the table Mr. Peppermint’s mouth thinned out. He nodded for Licorice to go on; the man did, his voice low. “It was all one continuous take, with directions being muttered in Spanish, and pretty damned well thought out. Concrete floor with a drain, plastic laid down for the viscera, and the two murderers being hosed off by someone off camera after the slaughter.”


“We looked at the perps, the boy, the room, the weapon, the plastic, even the damned hose, and what little we have is right here,” Jaw Breaker sighed. “And it’s not much. Whoever filmed it was focusing on the murder, so even with Bubble Gum’s expertise in digital imagery we’re not much ahead.”


Mr. Peppermint nodded. “What DO we have then?”


“One of the murderers has a tattoo—a spider web capping his right elbow. The other one has a scar along one hip; could be surgical,” Jaw Breaker commented.


“Is the web Old School?” Sara asked, frowning. Licorice nodded thoughtfully.


“Could be—the perp’s old enough to have done time, or be in the Brotherhood. Still not much of a lead, though.”


“It’s better than nothing,” Mr. Peppermint assured him, “and the scar?”


“Looks like a repair for an injury—he’s got a few others that aren’t surgical down the same leg. If I had to guess, I’d say he probably wiped out in a motorcycle accident. Nothing definite though,” Jaw Breaker mused. “I had a cousin who was in one, and he’s got a similar looking set of scars on his thigh.”


Mr. Peppermint nodded. “So we’ve got some starting points. I guess Macy and I need to go see what’s what at Tia Carumba and secure us a few hotel rooms in Alamo. We’ll call you in a few hours.”




“I hate you,” Gum Drop told the little dog at his feet, his tone conversational. “You’re only here because the boss lady likes you, and because Mom says you sulk like a petite canine Lindsay Lohan when you’re at home. You won’t even perform as a stud, which
is . . . “ He shook his head at the thought, his crooked frown trying not to turn into a smile, “ . . . alarming. Honest to God—free sex and you turn it down to hang out here?”


The Pekinese didn’t bother glancing up at Gum Drop. Instead, he perked up his ears at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall towards the lab. After a moment, the solid form of Sugar Daddy stood in the doorway looking in. Grenadine scurried over and absently the man petted him.


“Hey Mop,” Sugar Daddy murmured with light affection. After doling out a hand lick that was the equivalent of a doggy high five, the Pekinese trotted back to his basket under the lab table and settled down. Sugar Daddy looked at Gum Drop expectantly; the lab technician sighed.


“Don’t ask—he thinks he’s some sort of sentry dog.”


“Actually I was here about that water glass with the fingerprints,” Sugar Daddy asked lightly. Gum Drop nodded and fished a printout out from a drawer, handing it over with a slight frown.


“No criminal record, but I did get a reference from a government employment card. You’re looking at the fingerprints of a Delta—that is, someone who’s been retired from his or her Top Secret classification with our Federal government. Bubble Gum was able to get out before we got traced for it, but the Feds are getting faster and unfortunately, we didn’t get a name.”


“Delta huh? Interesting,” Sugar Daddy mused, thinking back over his list of Federal contacts and wondering which of them still owed him a favor. “Thanks.”


“No problem. I’ll make sure a duplicate of the search is sent up to Miss Lollipop’s files.”


“You know, why don’t you let me handle that? I was on my way up anyway, and it will save you a trip,” he lied smoothly. “I’ll make sure to let her know how quick both you and Bubble Gum were on it.”


Gum Drop brightened, and handed over the second printout, his normally sardonic expression now hopeful. “Great. Thanks. I appreciate the good word.”


“Don’t mention it,” Sugar Daddy replied politely. He took the two printouts and walked with deliberate casualness down the hall again, out of sight of the lab. At the end of the hallway, by the bank of elevators, he pushed the button for the top floors and began to think of a reasonable cover story, even as he pondered the implications of what he’d found.


So Miss Lollipop had a relationship of some sort with a top ranked ex-government Fed.


That explained a few things, and confused a few others, right off the bat. Sugar Daddy breathed a sigh, wondering how much of his interest was fueled by interest in Miss Lollipop, and how much was curiosity about the workings of the Shop. He’d been a faithful employee for over a decade, but that was before he’d realized how much of his loyalty had slowly shifted to the Lady herself.


A personal tie—was he her father? An uncle? A former boss? Tantalized by these thoughts, Sugar Daddy stepped into the elevator, tucked the papers into his inside jacket pocket, and rode upwards in contemplative silence.




Grissom followed Miss Chocolate out to the rental car in the parking garage; a sporty red Miata was carelessly mis-angled in a slot near the exit. Miss Chocolate pulled out the keys and jangled them in the air.


“Macy likes to go reallllly fast,” she murmured.


 Grissom gave a faint sardonic smile. “Why is that not a surprise?” moving forward, he snagged the keys, tugging, but she didn’t let go.


“Ah-ah. I’m the director, I get to drive,” came her throaty chide. Grissom leaned forward, giving in to the flare of irresistible heat between them. He growled back.


“Listen--for the next few hours I have to stick my heterosexuality and libido on a back burner—at least give me the satisfaction of one LAST moment of machismo here,” he breathed in her face.


Miss Chocolate laughed aloud, her head back, her long throat beautiful in the dim light; Grissom took advantage of her distraction and tugged the keys free of her grip triumphantly.


“Okay, okay. By the way, I didn’t hear what you thought of the whole Macy MacDonald getup.”


“Get up; that certainly fits the situation,” Grissom muttered, dropping into the driver’s seat. Miss Chocolate slid into the front passenger seat and settled in, tugging her belt over her lap.


“Are you saying it’s a tad risqué?”


“I’m saying it’s already violating standards of decency in several states and could jumpstart the average teenage boy through puberty and beyond,” Grissom balefully replied, and turned the ignition with an annoyed twist. Miss Chocolate laughed as they drove out of the garage and out into the sunshine.


Grissom pointed the car north, and soon they were moving up the 93 at a good clip. Because the wind was blowing and the top of the Miata was down, neither of them attempted conversation. He tried to keep his concentration to the road, but his gaze occasionally strayed, mutinously, to the woman next to him. Miss Chocolate smiled, although her eyes were hidden from view behind her rhinestone-studded sunglasses. She looked cool and relaxed, enjoying the ninety-minute ride along the desert highway.


By the time they reached Alamo, Grissom felt a bit more comfortable; they drove through the tiny town and continued onward, slowing enough for Miss Chocolate to run her fingers through her tousled hair and sigh. “So much for all the fuss in front of the mirror today.”


“I’ll lend you a comb,” Grissom told her archly. “Lord knows you need to make a good impression, being a porn director and all.”


“Oh that is SO catty.”


“Eat it up, honey—we’re almost there.”


The turnoff was a barren little turnout along the highway, marked only by a break in the dreary chain link fence that stretched along the edge of the 93; Grissom pulled in and drove along the rutted road. “You have the password?”


“Password?” Miss Chocolate asked, a little startled. Grissom nodded smugly.


“Changes weekly; it will get us in to the main office. Today it’s Mitchell Brothers.”


Miss Chocolate looked over the top of her sunglasses, her expression intense and enigmatic. Grissom felt a flush of heat over his face, but kept his eyes on the bumpy road. “Yes?”


“Is there anything you don’t know?” she demanded in a sultry voice; his mouth tightened in a quick smile as they pulled up to a little guard house with a paddock gate across the road.


“What I don’t know, I can find out, very quickly—“ he told her before slowing at the window of the concrete cinderblock guard booth. A stringy-haired man chewing on a toothpick looked out at them, his expression wary but not openly hostile.


“Can I help you folks?”


“Mitchell Brothers. We’re here to see Dan and Fran?” Grissom pleasantly told the guard. The man gave a nod, his attention focused mostly on Miss Chocolate. Or rather, the front of Miss Chocolate’s shirt. She gave him a coolly neutral look in return.


“Ain’t I seen you before? Did you star in When Harry Wet Sally?” the guard asked with interest. Miss Chocolate gave a little shake of her head, and Grissom sensed she didn’t dare look at him.


“Uh, no, that was Patsy Fuller. Me, I haven’t done showers in ages,” she replied. “I’m behind the camera now.”


“That’s a waste.” The man managed a quick grin and climbed off his stool to open the gate. He waved them through; Grissom shot the Miata past with a little growl, his head shaking.


“It’s show time . . . “ he sighed.


The road was paved here, and turned down a steep embankment, out of sight of the highway. Here in the gully, it formed a large square with buildings on each side of a central park-like area. Grissom pointed with his chin to building on the east side that had a large sign reading “Office” over a gated doorway. He parked the Miata in the lot next to the building, looking over the other vehicles with interest; most were Econoline vans and nondescript pickup trucks, but there were a few notable exceptions including a VW Beetle in bright pink, and a Rolls Royce Corniche.


They walked in together, and Grissom studied with keen interest the busy atmosphere as Miss Chocolate pulled off her sunglasses. Phones rang, a fax machine chugged out a few sheets of paper and a general discussion between a short impatient woman in a striped bathrobe and another woman behind the counter echoed in the room.


“I can’t get into Studio A North, okay? They went to lunch but my damned cell phone is in there and I need to get in and get it!”


“Okay, Carla, okay, calm down. Just let me give Dan a call to watch the desk and I’ll go let you in.” The woman behind the counter gave a little wave at Grissom and Miss Chocolate. She had long black ponytails streaked with silver, and looked comfortable in a man’s dress shirt and jeans. “Hey folks—my brother will be here to take care of you in just a moment, okay?”


Grissom nodded. Miss Chocolate was busy studying a large whiteboard mounted on the wall next to the counter, which had the legend CURRENT PROJECTS listed across the top. Under that it had various titles listed.


Bop Goes the Weasel—Studio A East
American Fur Pie------Studio B East
Open Season-----------Studio C East


Gushed Away------------------Studio A West
Happy Meat--------------------Studio B West
The Devil Wears Condoms—Studio C West


Bridget Bones—Studio A North
Deja Goo--------Studio B North
Open-------------Studio C North
Open-------------Studio D North


Open-----------------Studio A South
Open-----------------Studio B South
Animated Shorts---Studio C  South
Cool Whipped------Studio D South


It was difficult not to smirk and Grissom was glad to see he wasn’t alone in that general reaction to several of the titles. Miss Chocolate’s cheeks were pink and she turned away from the board, fighting hard to keep her composure.


The two women left together, and for a moment Grissom and Miss Chocolate were alone; Grissom moved over to her companionably.


“Nice to see the lines are drawn. Studio West looks mainstream; Studio North is definitely gay, and I guess Studio South is a Specialty lot--“


“And Studio East?” Miss Chocolate murmured, “I’m sensing a trend for—“

“Hi folks!” came the muffled voice from behind the counter. Grissom and Miss Chocolate looked over to where the tall and imposing bear of a man stood. Literally; he wore a furry costume of thick brown shag complete with headpiece and muzzle. As he laid his paws on the counter, his claws clicked.


Grissom sensed that Miss Chocolate was very close to losing it, so he cleared his throat and stepped forward, waving a hand. “Hi . . . Dan, is it?”


“That’s me. How can I help you?” came the bear’s cheerful but muffled question. Grissom began to speak, but Miss Chocolate broke in, her voice steady.


“Hi Dan. I’m Macy MacDonald and this is my cameraman Laird Donovan. We were hoping you had some space in Studio North for a musical we want to shoot—at least two sets indoors and two outdoors?”


It was hard to read facial expressions on a bear head, but the happy perk of Dan’s shoulders said a lot. “Oh Wow! Macy MacDonald, yeah! I saw you in Hogtie Me to Heaven with Dillard Max and Big Daddy Hunt! Tell me--can you still bend that way?”


“Absolutely,” she purred.


Grissom didn’t look at her; under his breath he playfully murmured, “You slut.”


“And nothing but, “ she replied with a grin in the same low tone. Out loud to Dan she laughed. “It’s been a while, but I keep a hand in. So—about that studio space?”


“Oh yeah sure! We’ve got C and D North just cleaned up today—The  producers there just finished Captain Swallow and the Black Pearl Necklace I think. Anyway, both lots are available. As for location, we’ve got a back lot with a drained pool—makes for some good sets, and a cleared scrub area you can paint any colors you like. I’ll need you to fill out the paperwork and give me the info on your production company. Musical, huh?”


“Yep—the Adventures of the Star Ship Intercourse,” Grissom waved a palm in the air as if reading a marquee. “Boldly going where a few thousand men have gone before, but with style this time.”


Dan the Bear laughed pleasantly. “Well, as long as you throw in some bondage and alien probes, you’ll make money. Going to need a dubbing studio?”


Miss Chocolate nodded. “Towards post-production, most likely. Would it be possible to look around?”


“Oh sure, no problem!” Dan the Bear agreed. At that moment the door opened and the first woman returned, and her brother made the introductions. “Fran, guess what? Macy MacDonald wants to film a musical here!”


“Oh that’s totally BOSS!” the woman cheered, walking back towards the counter. “There just aren’t enough good porn musicals, I’ve always said.”


“Isn’t that the truth,” Grissom agreed with her, feeling a sense of the absurd sink into the conversation. Dan the Bear nodded and made his way around the counter; up close the faint odor of honey drifted from him. He spoke to his sister once more.


“This is Macy, Fran, and her camera man, Laird. I’m going to take them on a quick walk through over at Studio North, C and D. Man the desk?”


“No prob, but I need you back by three. Raoul is going to be doing Jell-O shots and I don’t want to miss THAT!” the woman sighed happily.


“Drinking?” Miss Chocolate asked.


 Fran shook her head, a little kooky gleam in her eye. “Throwing. They’re like paint balls, but messier, and then the girls lick them off each other.”


“Ah.”


“This way folks. We’ll take one of the carts over, all right?” Dan waved a paw towards the door and shuffled out.


 Miss Chocolate leaned in towards Grissom and whispered. “We’ll let him drive—he’s probably smarter than the average bear.”




The room lay in darkness, and except for the flickering images on the wall screen on the other side, no light shone anywhere. Artfully hidden speakers broadcast the grunts and groans syncopated to the action taking place on the plasma screen.


The watcher breathed heavily, seated close to the edge of his chair, his eyes focused tightly on the action. Impatiently, he pointed the remote and moved forward through the rough sex, bypassing the last loud climax with annoyance. He hit the ‘play’ button a few seconds later and onscreen the three drained figures leaned against each other, muttering softly, voices thick and satiated.


Then the hands. Big and callused, they slipped around the smooth throat, starting as a rough caress, but tightening in a sudden squeeze that cut off air quickly; mercilessly.


Quickly the watcher opened his fly, slipping his own hand inside.


Squeezing.


The writhing, then fierce struggles and flailing hands, smaller fingers digging  uselessly into a grip around the Adam’s apple.


Long, sweet glorious minutes of it . . . the hard arching of the spine, the splash of urine down the inner thighs and the slow slump of the torso.


The watcher breathed hard and groaned as splashes of sticky heat spattered across the front of his slacks. On the screen, the hands loosened. Then the blade flashed, a bright gleam seconds before the wet, squelchy plunge, and the cascade of impossibly rich blood splashing out. . . The watcher gave a shuddering sigh and withdrew his fingers, wiping them carelessly across his thigh.


He hit the rewind. He reached for the cell phone on the coffee table and dialed a number. After several clicks, a distance ringing echoed in his ear. Three rings and then—


“¿Bueno?”


“Bueno. Deseo más. Deseo otro,” came the harsh whisper, the accent mangled. On the other end of the line came a low, humorless laugh.


“Costoso. E aventurado,” came the quiet taunt. The watcher sighed impatiently.


“Three times as much. Two boys.”


There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, the gruff voice sighed.  “Si.”


In the darkness, the watcher smiled and gently turned the cell phone off.




Hector Cortez checked the order again. One small veggie special, one medium supreme, an order of breadsticks, along with a two-liter of Coke and a pair of bottled waters. He looked at the motel room numbers at the Desert Hills and frowned. Carefully he knocked at room 12.


The door opened and a man in a Hawaiian shirt nodded at him, smiling faintly.  “Good, glad to see the service is reliable around here. How much do I owe you?”


Hector rattled off the price, looking into the room. Everyone in Alamo knew the Desert Hills was where the dirty movie people stayed, and sometimes a delivery kid got lucky—big tips, or other perks . . . The man pressed three tens into his hand and smiled again, his fingers lingering.


Hector decided he didn’t want to get that kind of lucky and quickly made change before taking off again.


From the connecting doorway, Sara fought not to laugh out loud; Mr. Peppermint shot her a disapproving look. “Fifteen percent—a decent bit extra.”


“He thought you were coming ON to him. Honestly, you’re too good at this.”


Mr. Peppermint set the pizzas down on the little table. He sighed. “I don’t know if you realize what a small niche we’re in. The entire population of this town is only about a thousand people—every time that door opens, we’re ON. We have to be.”


Sara stepped into his room and over to him, sliding her hand along his shoulder, up to caress his neck. Mr. Peppermint turned his face, and she lightly touched the wiry little soul patch under his bottom lip, toying with it. “And behind closed doors?”


Mr. Peppermint didn’t smile, but the glint in his beautiful eyes made heat run down the length of her stomach. He hooked an arm around her waist and tugged her to him.


“Behind closed doors . . . “ he murmured.


He didn’t get to finish. Another knock came, this one to the door of Sara’s room, followed by a loud, familiar voice. “Yo, Miz MacDonald it’s us.”


Sighing with frustration, Sara stalked over and yanked her motel room door open for Licorice and Jaw Breaker. They smiled at her, arms full of KFC buckets and a six-pack of beer.


“Lennie; Carl—good to see you made it,” she told them in resignation.