Dark Handsome

I'm sure you'll be shocked to know that I've used an editor on this story (I can hear you gasp and grab your heart). Not only did I use an editor, I used two, the top two female writers on this site, Randi and GirlintheMoon. Thank you, ladies! Any mistakes you find are mine, probably added after the edit. Enjoy.

Yes, they browbeat me into it. Yes, I'm glad they did. Plus, I was getting a little tired of Randi sticking pins in my familiar, my shoulder wouldn't stop hurting. The relief feels great!

*****

Dark Handsome And The Princess Of Porn

You know, you'd think I would get used to it. Maybe soldiers do. I know most cops do. I don't. The sight of a dead person who has come to a violent end is never an easy thing to view. Never. Just looking at the pictures turned my stomach.

This must have been a very long very painful death, judging by the condition of the body. Very little of the face resembled the picture, and well, below the face there was little that looked human. My boss looked at me, thought about grinning, decided not to when he looked into my eyes. He'd been at this way too long, and had developed a ghoulish outlook on life. He'd often bragged to me after a drink or two that he'd seen it all, and it wasn't pretty. That might be why he'd been married five times. Then again, we were in Hollywood, after all.

Jack had actually made a living as an actor for about twenty-five years, small parts in movies, the odd series, even commercials. He had a likable lived in face, an everyman type of guy who you liked but forgot almost instantly. The fact that he was British, and even after all these years still had the accent, helped his career.

He landed a major part on a series that ran for eight years, the final episode airing sixteen years ago, and he still got residual checks. Terribly wasteful with his money, a fact that led to at least three of his divorces, for the first part of his career, his fourth wife changed him. He saved half his money and invested it, and when the series ended he quite the nest egg. He took a year off, taking a world cruise and traveling with his wife until she was stricken with cancer just after their tenth anniversary.

It was quite aggressive, and by the time they found it she had less than a year left. Unable to get the drugs she needed for the severe pain she lived with constantly, he moved to South America, to a small country with relaxed laws, especially if money was waved around. She managed her pain with distilled THC, the drug found in marijuana. It was enough without being too much, and she was quite rational up until the last month. Then Joe bribed a doctor to give her a morphine drip. She was more or less incoherent for three weeks, when in a fit of clarity she pulled the IV out. She suffered through the pain to be able to talk to Jack, apologizing for leaving him, making him swear to find someone else to spend his golden years with, someone, as she put it, to keep him warm until she saw him again. "If you love her, bring her with you. We'll just get a bigger bed."

She smiled, the last expression on her face, and stopped breathing.

Jack lost it, self-medicating for a year before something happened to pull him out of his slump. Carole's best friend showed up, took one look, dragged the hose into the house and sprayed him down. She did a systematic search of the house, throwing everything away, booze, drugs, even the Tylenol. If she didn't recognize it, out it went.

He immediately began returning to reality, and nine months later they moved back to LA, lived together for a year, and married, because as Jack put it, he wouldn't be able to look Carole in the face if he didn't do the right thing by her best friend. He was just shy of sixty now, still in good shape, and his brain was as quick as ever. He got into the private investigation business by helping out an old friend, a pretty big star. When he solved his friend's problem, a friend of a friend asked if he could do the same for him. He did his Travis McGee imitation for a year before deciding to go legit. Now he had five investigators, a forensic accountant, two secretaries/Girl Fridays who ran the office, and me.

How did I fit? I was the son, brother, nephew, grandson, and great grandson of policemen, and in the case of my mother and two sisters, policewomen. I thought for a long time we really did bleed blue when we were cut. I got my degree in Criminal Justice, all set to follow in my family's footsteps, when the acting bug hit me. I took an acting class in my junior year, figuring it was an easy elective.

I was in minor roles at first, but was the star in two productions at the end of my senior year. I stayed in school another two years studying all facets of entertainment. I acted during the summers, off-Broadway and touring productions, learning, always learning. I even did a couple of regional commercials, and did a four week stint on a cable soap opera. THAT was a learning experience; being on cable meant we could stretch boundaries, and I ended up doing two nude scenes, both from the back, although in one you got a brief sight of my junk. I wasn't porn level, but the producers, all women, as well as the gay director seemed impressed. My costar in the scene, a middle aged woman who played the local matron in the show, suggested we do some off camera run-throughs, to get the scene to look as realistic as possible. I gently refused, and offended, she had me written out of the show. You live and learn, but I wouldn't have done it even if I knew.

I moved to Hollywood after school, went to auditions, worked dead end jobs, and waited for an opportunity. Let's face it, Hollywood is a visual place, and chances were, if you weren't attractive, you ended up with the quirky sidekick roles. I was six four, black hair, blue eyes, good teeth, square jaw. My body was chiseled; I sported the proper muscles and six-pack, necessary to get the 'hunk' roles. I also practiced martial arts, because I got a lot of fight-scene roles. I hated the exercise, but liked the martial arts training, having been doing it since I was eight.

I got a decent agent and a good publicist, and started landing roles. First, I did commercials, and made a pretty decent living. I got a bit part in a major motion picture, getting more for four weeks work than I did for the last five commercials. That led to a bigger part in an indie film, which led to a supporting role in a blockbuster. I did a good job, got a really good payday, but it ended up stopping my career.

My agent and I got a call from a well-known production company, it seems they were impressed with my work, and wanted me to read for a bigger role, second co-star, in an even bigger picture. My agent was drooling. This was my big break, and the role had a payday in the mid six figures.

It went to hell when we were called to his private office. His receptionist asked us to wait, as he was finishing an interview for the second female lead, my love interest in the film. Like me, she was relatively new, and very happy to be considered for the role. I'd always had good hearing, and even though his office was almost soundproof, I heard the scream.

"Did you hear that?"

Buddy, my agent, was on his phone and heard nothing. The receptionist, a young man, smirked and told me it was nothing. There was no denying the second scream, and the cry for help. I stood, and the receptionist got between me and the door. "Be cool, here. Let it alone."

I walked right through him, tossing him to the side like he was a doll. Buddy finally looked up, wondering what was going on. Alarm flashed across his face. "Dirk, don't..."

It was too late. I had already kicked the locked door open. The woman, a girl, really, in her late teens, was bent over the desk, her clothes practically ripped from her body. The producer was already in her, plowing away, holding her in place by a firm grip on her hair. She was screaming and begging him to stop. He looked up just in time to see my fist as it landed in his left eye. He flew off her, out cold.

"Call 911," I told the receptionist, as the girl scrambled to gather her ruined dress around her. He stood still, in shock, I think. I turned to Buddy. "Do it, right now. Tell them we stopped a rape in progress. Dial, now!"

He looked torn. "I can't, Dirk. It would end my career, just like you ended yours. Think he'll forgive you? Fuck no, the man holds a grudge better than a nun. You're toast in this town, and I officially give you notice that I can no longer represent you. Good luck."

He scurried out of the office, almost running by the time he got to the elevator. "Fuck it," I thought, as I dialed.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Im at 1136, Stone Building, corner of Grant and Star Blvd, top floor. I've just stopped a rape in progress. Please send a unit, and EMT's. Make sure they have a rape kit. Yes, I'll be here when you arrive."

The receptionist looked like he was going to faint, then grabbed his phone and called them back, saying it was a false alarm and there was no crime being committed. It was useless by then, once the units were dispatched, they had to check the situation.

By then, the producer had come around, groaning and holding his eye. The girl looked like she was going into shock. The cops arrived, took my statement, while the EMT's loaded her on a gurney. The producer was ranting, saying they were going through a scene and no penetration occurred, while the receptionist backed him up. The cops had seen a lot, and didn't believe a word. The man was put in custody, the office declared a crime scene, and he was hustled off to jail. The crime scene techs found, among other things, vaginal secretions from at least twenty women in the room.

It was a big stink, in the papers for days, until it suddenly went away, and the cops made the announcement that all charges had been dropped. The girl, it was rumored, was guaranteed roles in three big films and a huge amount of money showed up in her account a few days later. So, I was a nonperson in Hollywood, while he got away scot free.

I couldn't find work; I couldn't even find an agent. No one in town would touch me. Without representation, it was impossible to find roles. When I saw the ad Joe had placed in the trade rags, I wrangled an interview.

He liked me right away, especially with my background and degrees, so he hired me. I now spent most of my days hunting down errant spouses and gathering the evidence necessary to break a pre-nup one day or solidify it the next. Some of the clients were high profile, so discretion was always the order of the day. My theater background helped a lot, and I was able to morph into whatever I needed to be, a businessman in a suit one day, a surfer in board shorts and tank top the next, a bellhop or parking valet when the situation called for it. I was even a bum for one assignment; seems the man liked to dress down and have sex with street people, guys I had a hard time even breathing around. He was playing sexual roulette with his life, and the lives of his wife and family. I usually felt bad about helping destroy relationships, but not that time. I handed in the paperwork and the photos, and took a two-hour shower.

It was a pretty big scandal, especially when it came to light he had three social diseases, besides HIV. Luckily, his wife hadn't been intimate with him for four months, so she escaped with just a mild case of syphilis. He was completely destroyed, his life's work gone. She got almost everything in the divorce, and I heard later he died alone at a long term hospice facility. None of his family claimed his remains or attended the funeral.

...

"Where's his junk?"

Jack almost grinned, again. "Whoever did this cut it off. The med techs think it's shoved up his ass. There's something there, anyway."

The first rule of private investigation is to find out who profits. It may not always be money, but when someone is killed, especially as horribly as this guy was, somebody was pretty upset, and wanted something pretty bad, from just revenge to much, much more. Find the motive, and you usually found the killer.

"Why are we here?"

"This is Joe Morgan."

"The self-proclaimed King of Porn? What the fuck makes you want to be involved in anything like this?"

Jack actually looked uncomfortable. "An obscene amount of money. I don't even know who we're working for; I was hired by another PI firm, who was hired by a lawyer, who is paying all of us from an offshore account administered by an investment firm. No one is talking and I got some pretty harsh words from the lawyer, telling me they're not paying me to investigate them, they're paying me to make it go away."

There it was: the magic phrase. In the entertainment business, it wasn't so much about justice as covering your ass, and big wigs spent tremendous sums for that very thing, to make it all disappear like it never happened. It didn't matter if innocent people got hurt or had lives ruined, as long of none of it stuck to them. Most victims got a little (or a lot) of money to keep quiet. Some got the short end of the stick. Some disappeared or died in random acts of violence. Don't ask, don't tell, was much more than a slogan for the military.

Jack saw me frowning. "You need to get over it, Dirk. I'm paying double rates on this, and they really do want to find out who did this. We're the good guys this time."

I snorted. "There is no such thing, especially here. You're lucky I got rent coming up soon. What are the cops saying?"

He frowned. "Not much. Here," he said, "this is a list of business associates, the people who worked for him, from techs to the 'actresses and actors'. You take the ladies, they always respond to you better."

"Or, you could get Alice to do it. Maybe woman to woman will make them open up a little better." Alice was his top female agent, a medically retired police officer in her late thirties.

"I'm sending both of you. Take turns, let her be the bad guy on one and you on the next. Go shake some trees, Dirk. Let's see what falls out."

...

I was on good terms with several officers and two detectives. I met them through my last big film, talking the production company into hiring them as extras and technical consultants. They were working security for the film, and I heard them making fun of the actors who were playing the cops, so I challenged them to help us out. It worked really well. They were especially sensitive of the raw deal I'd gotten with the producer, feeling like money talked and a guilty man walked free and punished those who'd tried to bring him to justice. I talked to one detective about what I was working on, and he had some strange comments.

"This one stinks, Dirk. Forty-seven possible suspects and all but two have iron clad alibis, and those two claim they were home alone and the detectives on the case think they're telling the truth. Why is your firm interested?"

"It's Hollywood."

He grinned, nodding. "I understand. That being said, this one could be nasty. You watch that cute ass of yours. Be a shame to lose that; good eye candy is harder to come by than you would think considering where we are. And if you find out anything, I don't have to tell you to turn it over to us."

Benson was as gay as they come, but he was my height and even more muscled than I was. He also happened to be one of my martial arts trainers. His boyfriend was a tiny guy, maybe five four, the definite bottom of the couple. He was cute as a button, and I knew he cross-dressed occasionally. I'd seen them at a Halloween party and was surprised to see Benson with a girl. 'She" flounced up, grabbed me and pulled me down into a long kiss while Ben laughed his ass off, expecting me to be pissed. I realized who it was pretty early, but I'd had a few, and decided to turn it on them. I kissed back, surprised at how good it felt, picking her up off her feet until her legs were wrapped around me. Her short skirt left nothing to the imagination, and everybody got a good view of her thigh highs and pink thong. I smacked that ass, laughing as she squealed, and put her down.

"Careful, Ben. Don't let her out too often dressed like this or someone will snatch her up."

He frowned, then grinned. "That would be a mistake, for both of them. Who owns you, baby?"

She fluttered her long fake eye lashes at him, making little kissing motions with her mouth. "You do, Daddy. But if I'm a really good girl, will you loan me to Dark Handsome for just a little while?"

Ben laughed at her using my nickname, a word-play on my real one. My agent's assistant had named me one day, calling her boss to let him know I was there. "Dark Handsome, oops, I mean Dirk Hansen is here, boss."

"That might be a bad decision, little girl. I may decide to keep you."

Ben laughed, enjoying the banter. "I don't think so, baby. I MIGHT be open to a threesome, if he agrees to play with both of us."

She swooned at the idea while I laughed back. "As tempting as that is, I think I'll pass. Thanks for the offer, though."

We talked a bit more, and I promised that if we found anything I would turn it in to my boss. What he did with it was out of my control. He nodded, knowing that if it was something substantial I'd try to find a way to let them know.

...

I met Alice at the office right after lunch. Seems porn people are late sleepers as a rule, so we were trying to catch them when they were awake but early in their day. Alice was a good looking blonde, a soccer mom who also looked elegant, and was known for establishing empathy with people she interviewed.

"What does Jerry think about all this?"

She just grinned. "Hubby doesn't know the details. I just told him we were doing background on a murder victim in the entertainment industry and left it there. He doesn't care, mostly, as long as he thinks I'm safe."

She talked about her husband and kids almost nonstop. I knew them all, and the kids called me Uncle Dirk, except for her oldest daughter, a twelve year old going on thirty. She called me Hunk, which made Mom and Dad grin. We got to our first stop, and she reviewed his file as we drew near.

"Jimmy, 'Jumbo' Winters. His junk is supposed to be the biggest in the business: thirteen and a half inches. Not much to look at, though."

I agreed, thinking privately that while the women in this industry were hired for their looks, the guys were mostly chosen for the size of their dick. Nobody ever accused Ron Jeremy or Johnny Holmes of being handsome men. He opened the door on the first knock, obviously nervous. It took him a few minutes to relax.

"How well did you know Mr. Morgan?"

"I worked for him for most of four years, but I don't think anyone really knew him. He didn't say much on set, just made sure everything was running smooth before he'd leave for his office or another set. He usually had three or four going at the same time. He wasn't unfriendly, just... professional... I guess. You need to talk to Amberly, his PA. She knew more about him and his schedule than anyone."

"Did you ever see him in an argument with anyone?"

"Hell yes. He was a cheap bastard, and someone was always after him for trying to screw them, pun intended. I don't know how you feel about what I do, but look at me. I have average looks, at best. I never finished high school, had no skills at anything. I would have probably spent my whole life in minimum wage jobs if it wasn't for him. Somehow he found out I was hung, came to see me, and the rest is history. I thought I had a dream job, a professional fucker. And the women were hot, mostly. The ones that weren't were usually worn out by the industry, and they were willing to do just about anything. They got used for the really kinky shit. Anyway, I thought I was on top of the world when he was paying me two grand per film.