Martin Allen? Where had I heard that name before? Ahh: *here*.
The front door creakily opens in the next room, as they’d set it up to do. “Your turn to film,” he said to likewise au naturale John in the chair next to him.
“Um, no. Think it’s your turn, Peter.”
“Would you like to see the film?” It was here John realized Peter had turned the nearest recording camera around for better use that it was intended: porn shoots. Selective of course. Because this tended to be an old folks stop along Highway 66, perhaps revisiting a past trip from the 50s, 60s or 70s when the interstate didn’t exist or else wasn’t as overwhelmingly used as it is now. “Geezer sex doesn’t sell,” the boss told them emphatically. “Not really, not that matters for us. We’re in it for the big bucks. Don’t bother wasting film with those. Waste it on the important ones I listed out before.”
“Hey!” Raps at the two way mirror. “In there! Turn camera three around! I can *see* in there!” The Big Boss. Not a geezer, not atall. Young and full of passionate energy, probably too much so. But she’d given up on the bare bones of the business to follow a career in music. And what a career she’s having! No one knows she’s here, doing this stuff still. Peter Oesso and John Lockfry the 2nd are paid well to hide that fact. Plus she said: “Blabber to the press — *anyone* — and you’re dead.” They knew she meant it. They’d seen the snuff films, one or perhaps several of which involved former employees with loose running mouths. Cheechee and then death. Not a combo you want to be facing.
She stepped all over Benjamin Franklin’s green toned face in leaving the room too. Gig over at the stadium tonight; she had to get prepared. Just reminding the boys here that she could stop by at any time. Anny-time. They had to remain without clothes. They couldn’t take any chances. TBC
Sunklands 