Scott Sherman: Third You Die

I had to admit, he had a point. But I’d seen some of the movies he’d directed-well, fast-forwarded through most of them-and they were hardly works of genius. Better than most, perhaps, but I didn’t remember seeing anything particularly ambitious in them, either.

He answered my question without my even asking it.

“Of course, the work I do for the mainstream companies, like SwordFight, has to follow certain conventions. There isn’t much room for artistic expression. But my smaller films, my art movies, are my true passions.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen any of the them,” I said.

“Well, then, you’ll have to come by for a private viewing sometime,” he said. The invitation was flirty, but not sleazy.

“Still”-I thought it best to avoid the “private viewing” discussion-“you’ve been successful even within those limitations, right?”

“It’s rude to extol one’s accomplishments. But, yes, I have been able to do as much as I can with my studio work. I’ve been nominated for Best Director every year for the past five by the Gay Video Awards. Won twice, too.”

Was everyone obsessed with winning awards? We’re all so insecure.

I liked Kristen, but this review of his resume wasn’t going to help me with the job at hand. I switched topics abruptly. “How long has Brent been off the grid?”

“Oh.” Kristen thought for a moment. “It’s probably been three or four weeks since that first time Brent didn’t show.”

“No contact at all?” I asked.

He paused again.

“Oh yeah,” I heard a voice from somewhere not far from him. “Like that. But harder. And faster. And just a little to the left.”

Sounded like someone was topping from the bottom.

“Not that I know,” Kristen answered.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked. “I mean, if Brent’s never disappeared like this, maybe something happened to him.”

Another thoughtful silence. “Oh, yes!” I heard a shouted cry in the background. “That’s it!” There was a snapping noise, like the smack of a cracked whip. “Hurts so good!”

I found it hard to ignore. “Is this a good time to talk? You sound

… busy.”

Kristen chuckled, a warm laugh that made me flush. “Oh, I’m on a shoot. But my assistant can handle the models for a few minutes. Sure you don’t want to come down and talk in person? Get a look at what you’re missing. It can be quite… stimulating.”

I bet.

“I’d really like to get in touch with Brent first, actually.”

“Of course. And I’m afraid I forgot what you just asked me.”

I reminded him of my question: Was it typical for Brent not to show up when expected?

“No, I’d never seen that kind of behavior from him. He was actually one of my more dependable models. He took the work seriously.

“Still, I can’t say I’m totally shocked. Boys in this business tend to come and go. They don’t all share my commitment to the art. These models tend to be young, self-centered, and easily distracted by the next shiny thing. When they’re ready to move on, they just stop showing up. I’ve learned,” he said, his tone mixing weariness with wryness, “not to expect formal letters of resignation.

“It’s possible”-Kristen paused, as if he were putting together things he’d seen into a coherent picture-“he was working on putting something together for himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“On that last film we were shooting, he kept wandering off set. Every time I’d find him, he was on his cell phone, whispering. The conversations always looked intense, but not in an unpleasant way. He was usually smiling during them, even laughing. When he’d see me approach, he’d hang up before I got close enough to hear.”

“Maybe he was just talking to a friend.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t think so. There was something… conspiratorial in the way he was acting. Like he had a secret. One that brought him both joy and guilt. He looked like… what’s that expression?… a boy caught with his hand in the cocaine jar.”

I didn’t bother to correct him. Given the world in which Kristen operated, the revision was probably more accurate than the standard cliche.

A secret, huh? Kristen started by saying he’d interpreted Brent’s clandestine phone calls as being an effort to “put something together for himself.” Did he mean a deal with a rival studio? It had come up before as a possibility. I was just about to ask when we were interrupted by a loud shout.

Whoever had minutes ago been screaming in pleasure about being “hurt so good” had something new he wanted to announce to the world. “Hey, wait a minute, is that a-”

“I’m afraid I must go,” Kristen interjected loudly. “They’re waving me over. The stereotype of the temperamental actor is only too true. Looks like they need me to offer some direction.”

“Thanks for your time,” I offered.

“No problemo,” Kristen said. “Do call Mason, though. He may know something I don’t.”

“I will.”

“And if you get in touch with Brent, tell him to come back. He’s more than welcome. He’s simply too beautiful not to give another chance.”

He disconnected just as the actor he’d been filming screamed with pleasure.

I took Kristen’s advice and called Mason Jarre.

“Mr. Jarre’s office,” a deep-voiced man answered. “Pierce Deepley speaking.”

I asked to speak to Mason.

“And what, may I ask, is the nature of the call?” Deepley clipped his words in such a way that he sounded irritated by me already. It usually took longer.

Or, maybe he just didn’t like answering phones. In which case, he had the wrong job.

I explained that Mason knew me and I was trying to get in touch with Brent Havens.

“We don’t give out personal information about individuals who may or may not be employed by SwordFight Productions or any of its subsidiaries,” he answered. “Thank you for calling. Have a…”

The creep was going to hang up on me.

“Wait,” I said, “I’m not asking for personal information. I’m just trying to see if Mason can help put me in touch with Brent. Brent gave me his number, but-”

“I’m sorry,” the officious screener interrupted, “but I’m afraid the details of how you may or may not have met said individual who is possibly known or unknown to us are quite beside the point.”

Deepley’s legalistic double-talk was making my head spin. Had I taken my medication today? All those qualifiers were hard to follow.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

Deepley monologued on. “We understand many of our customers enjoy our products and imagine they have… personal relationships with our models. If, as you say, you met Mr. Haven, and he wishes to… encourage your interest, I’m sure he’ll return your call at his earliest convenience. If not, well, perhaps it simply wasn’t meant to be.” Deepley sounded inordinately satisfied at the prospect of Brent not calling me.

Unfortunately, since I didn’t know how to get to Mason without going through this asshat, I had to be polite. “I apologize. I haven’t been clear. I’m not calling on a personal matter. It’s business.

“Mr. Jarre and I met on the set of Sophie’s Voice. I’m a co-producer. I’m trying to contact Mr. Haven as a follow-up to the successful appearance of another of your models, Brock Peters, on the show. I thought perhaps Mr. Jarre would appreciate the additional exposure for SwordFight. But if he isn’t available-”

“Sophie’s Voice? ” Pierce Deepley squealed. “Oh my god, I love her!” His inner queen blazed through his previously icy imperiousness. “She’s so funny, so real, you know? That episode with Brock was fabulous! Hold on, let me see if Mr. Jarre is available. May I have your name?”