Skin Trade, a Noah Milano short story

Officially I make my money as a security specialist. Maybe through the reputation of my dad, one of the main players of the L.A. mob, I do however tend to attract jobs that make me more of a freelance thug. Or, to put it in a more positive context a last hope for people the law won’t help. A good example of this was at my small office a few hours ago.
 
Cheyenne Weaver agreed to do the nasty in front of a camera a week ago. According to the gentleman who approached her in one of the more popular clubs on the Strip he would make her a star. Haven’t we all heard that one before? Apparently having left her brain in her sock drawer that day Cheyenne agreed and was put on film. When time came for her to at least get some monetary compensation for her work she was kicked out the door. The enthusiastic cameraman slash director also threatened to send the tape to her work, her parents and her boyfriend if she went to the police.

Through a bouncer in the club scene I’d worked with in the past she was referred to me. She couldn’t pay much but was eager to see the recordings destroyed and her chances of getting a regular acting job intact. Apparently she’d just auditioned for a leading role in a new sitcom as the healthy young daughter and footage of her doing X-Rated gymnastics wouldn’t be what the producers of that show could use. So, feeling sorry for her boneheaded mistake and falling for her blue eyes I decided to take the job. How hard could it be to get some low-class amateur pornographer to hand over his tapes? When I was still breaking bones for my dad I’d gone up against a lot tougher guys.

The sleazebag’s studio was in small bungalow in the Valley. All in all not a bad neighborhood, so I was going to have play things a bit quiet. I got out of my Dodge Charger and walked over to the door. I rang the bell like I was selling aluminum sidings.

The guy who opened up had a tan that would make George Hamilton envious. He was dressed in cobalt blue shirt and black slacks. His hair was shiny with grease. He fit the description Cheyenne had given me of the cameraman who’d announced himself to her as Tommy Luck.

“Yeah?” He said. Eloquent guy.

I brushed my leather jacket aside to show him the Glock between my waistband. “Get inside,” I told him. He did.

I immediately entered the low-budget set of his movie. A bed, a couch, some stage lights, a camera on a tripod and two undressed buxom babes. Universal Studios it wasn’t.

“What the hell do you want?” Tommy asked.

“I just want to have a little word with you about a young lady called Cheyenne.”

“Tommy, who is this guy? Can we take a break?” One of the babes asked in a nasal voice. Good thing she wasn’t cast for her velvet vocal chords.

“I suggest you ladies get dressed and take five,” I said. “In fact, you can take five hundred. Tommy’s done taping for today.”

“No I’m not,” he protested.

I knocked the camera down from its tripod. Then I grabbed the tripod and it to smash the lights. “Oh yes you are.”

This little display of random vandalism was enough to frighten the girls into their clothing and out the door. I gave them a little wave. “See you in the movies, ladies!”
“You shithead! You don’t know who you’re dealing with! You’ll pay for that!"

Tommy’s spit got in my face.

“I think I’m dealing with some lowball sleazebag who gets his jollies in scamming stupid girls to get their clothes off. I think I’m pretty close, right?”

“You’re so fucking wrong! Do you know who’s backing this operation?”

“I think he will get the answer right now,” a heavily accented voice behind me said. I turned around and faced two balding men dressed in dark suits. One of them was wearing glassed. The accent sounded Russian. That could be bad.

“My name is Andrey Volkoff,’’ the man with the glasses said. “And what is your name, pretty boy?”

“Fuck you, that’s my name!” I countered. In reality I didn’t feel the bravado I expressed however. If I was right these goons could be Mafiya and I knew enough of those guys that they were a lot crazier and thus more dangerous than their Italian cousins like my dear old dad. I decided I was going to try and bluff my way out.

“Did you hear that, Andrey?” Tommy shouted. “Did you hear him disrespect you. Come on man, waste that asshole!”

Volkoff smiled. He reminded me of a Cheshire cat watching a canary. “Pretty boy has guts. I like that. Tell me, pretty boy… What are you doing here?”

I explained to him why Cheyenne had asked me to come over here and resolve things for her. Volkoff listened silently. When I was finished he nodded.

“I can understand this lady has a problem with that happened but we run a business here. You as a capitalistic American should understand.”

“Come on, man. Give the kid a break. You’ll ruin her career,” I pleaded.

“As I said I am a businessman. So maybe we can make a deal. What do you have to trade for the recordings?”

I could barely afford to pay the rent this month, so what I had to offer wasn’t monetary. I could think of something else those goons could be interested in though. “I can get you in touch with some very important figures in your line of work. I’m sure they’d be interested in some sort of partnership with you guys. They might make you the top dogs in the skin scene. How does that sound?”

Volkoff removed his glassed and started to polish them with his tie. He was lost in thought for a moment. Considering they were still making money with smalltime porn scams like these I was betting they could use some help getting their organization of the ground on the West Coast. They weren’t made men by a long shot. My dad was.

Volkoff put on his glasses again. “You are not shitting me?”

“Swear to god. In fact, my dad runs most of L.A. Maybe you’ve heard of him, his name’s Robert Milano.”

The faces of the Russians showed me that was a name that rang a bell. “Good, please get me in touch.”

I shook my head. “First the recordings.”

“Of course,’’ he said. “Tommy, get this man what he wants.”

“Are you crazy? That stuff’s worth a lot of cash when we put it out man! The market loves this first-timer stuff. I’m not just giving it up because this loser wants me to.”

“Yuri,” Volkoff said to his partner. Yuri walked over to Tommy and gave him a slap in the face that even made my ears ring. He grabbed one of his earlobes and twisted it. He told him to get the recordings again. This time Tommy had no problems with that.

He got a tape out of the camera and handed it over to me.

“Let me check it out first,” I said.

“You can watch it on the camera,” Tommy offered. I put the tape in and watched it for a few seconds. I was professional enough to switch it off after a few seconds, satisfied it was indeed Cheyenne on there.

I retrieved the tape and put in my jacket. I got out my cell phone. The Russians were paranoid enough to go for their guns when I took it out. I held up my hand. “Relax, guys. I’m just going to set up the meet for you guys.” Their guns went away again when I used speed dial to get to Kane, my dad’s main soldier. After a few words the meeting was set up.

I shook hands with the Russians and patted Tommy’s cheek. “Nice doing business with you guys,” I said and left.

***

Cheyenne was incredibly grateful for the tape. She said she was going to burn it and that she’d been invited for a second audition for that sitcom. The paper informed me that two unidentified men had been found in the trunk of a Mercedes with holes in the back of their heads. The police was asking for people who recognized the men in the pictures that accompanied the article to step up. I thought Andrey and Yuri didn’t look much better dead than alive. I also thought they were just about as dumb as Cheyenne, really believing my dad would be more interested in sharing the local skin trade with them than getting the competition out of the way.

***

Half a year later all the tabloids were writing about the secret sex-tape that had appeared on the internet featuring one of the actors of the bombed sitcom Family Business. Some reporters speculated the tape was leaked on purpose to get the career of Cheyenne Weaver started again. And to think I had gotten two people killed to save her virtue. I was the one feeling stupid now.