J. Gonzalez - Survivor

Rick Shectman was pissed.

He was sitting in the living room of his sprawling ranch home, perched in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was a warm day, in the mid-eighties, typi cal weather for Southern California, especially the San Gabriel valley. The windows were open, allowing a cool breeze to blow through. Rick had been reclining in his La-Z-Boy flipping through the cable channels blindly, waiting for the confirmation that the job he had given to Tim Murray was completed.

He had gotten the call, all right. But it wasn't the call he wanted.

Rick was seething. He wanted to break something, wanted to throttle somebody, preferably that fat fuck Tim Murray. He hoped Tim was suffering right this minute, slowly dying from his head injuries.

Provided, of course, the information he got was correct.

Rick Shectman took a deep breath and closed his eyes, replaying the phone call in his mind. Admittedly, he couldn't make out much of what had been said-the connection had been really bad-but he did make out Mabel's voice and a female in the background-Yelling? Screaming? It was hard to tell. At first it had sounded like a wrong number, a woman had started screaming, "Hello? Who is this?" Rick had answered, asking if this was Timthe readout on his caller ID had identified the caller as Tim Murray, and he had been thrown off by the woman's voice. There had been static, then the woman came on the line saying that Tim Murray was dying and that Rick was fucked. "You're fucked!" she'd screamed. Then there had been the sound of wind blowing and something else in the background, as if whoever was carrying the phone was trudging through rough terrain, and then the voice came again, bellowing in the background. And what Rick thought she'd said was "Let him hear you, granny" And then he had heard the high, reedy voice-an old woman? Mabel Schneider? — wailing. "The eyes! Rick said I could have the eyes!"

Then the woman's voice came through loud and clear. "Who are you?"

And Rick had shouted. "Who the fuck are you, bitch? Where's Tim? Where's-"

Then a click. She'd hung up.

Rick sat trembling in rage. He'd recognized Mabel's voice well enough. And Tim… if Tim was dead or dying, that meant-

No, he thought. She couldn't have escaped. She fucking couldn't have! They'd fucking drugged her! It was supposed to have been quick and easy, slice and dice and a quick romp with Animal, and then the film was supposed to be in the can. He was supposed to have the product no later than six tonight. Which meant-

Rick took a deep breath and composed himself. He'd tried calling Tim on his cellular three times and he kept getting Tim's voice mail. Rick didn't have a cellular number for Animal for security reasons, and Mabel wasn't answering her cell phone, which meant Rick had no idea what the tuck was going on. It was well past two Pm.; the film should have been done by now. Tim should have at least called to tell him it was completed.

I have a feeling he lucked this one up, Rick thought, a sense of dread settling in his system. Now what?

First things first. Contact the buyer. Tell him there's a problem. Warn him. Then retrace your steps, make sure you have no paper trail that will lead to Tim Murray. The phone number Tim Murray had was listed under somebody else's name, some poor victim of identity theft. If the cops did come poking around, they'd find that Rick was calling somebody named Sergio Melendez from Canoga Park. Since he'd only called Tim at that number three times, he could easily plead that he kept forgetting he was getting the wrong number. Easy. That was a lie that would hold up easy, since all three calls were made within the past day.

The buyer was the hard part, though. Sam Bash had arranged it. Sam was an old mainstay in the scene. He knew Rick's dad from way back, and he arranged the parties, private functions, slave auctions. The buyer knew Sam through the scene. It had been Sam who had come to Rick with the job, explained what the buyer wanted. Rick had agreed. The money offered up front had been twice the normal amount due to the risk. Rick had given instructions to Sam, who'd made separate. arrangements with Al and Tim. After the fuckup, Tim had called Sam, who had called Rick immediately and told him, "You're on your own. You don't know me, but the contact does. He'll be in touch.'

A week later, the buyer had paged Rick. The number Rick dialed rang to a pay phone. The client had been pissed-he didn't give a fuck about what had been delivered. He wanted what he'd paid for. And if he didn't deliver… well, he told Rick certain information Rick didn't think anybody was privy to. That had gotten Rick royally pissed.

He'd been tempted to send somebody after the buyer, but Sam had assured him if he did that it would ricochet back. "Finish the job," Sam had advised. The buyer will contact you with more information." This had started Rick's plan in getting the Miller bitch, which had led to this.

Rick would have to leave the house and contact the buyer at a pay phone. First he had to make sure he wasn't being watched. A couple of detectives had come poking around yesterday and this morning, trying to dig up that old second-degree-rape charge. That had stemmed from an incident five years ago when Rick was brought up on charges that he had filmed the sexual assault of a drunken college student at a Prat party. Cops never found the tape-it had been quickly sold to a purveyor-but the girl, despite her inebriation, had remembered Rick and provided a description. And because Rick's father, Boris, had been involved in the extreme hardcore scene, it only stood to reason that he should get scrutinized by law enforcement. Yeah, so what if he made a few legitimate pornos for the amateur market? Big deal! Well, it was a big deal now. He'd always had to step carefully before in this business; he'd always assumed that law enforcement had heard of his involvement in the illegal porn industry, which was why he always took pride in being as careful as possible. He had been careful in this latest job as well, employing the usual methods of setting up multiple barriers between himself and his contacts. But the customer obviously knew the ropes and was a member of the scene himself, otherwise Sam wouldn't have been involved. And he'd had the money too, in cold, hard cash. What had surprised Rick had been the customer's request of the victim. He'd actually given Rick a name!

Rick leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. That had never happened before in all his years in the extreme hardcore industry. Usually when a purveyor of hardcore commissioned a film, the only criteria they had in the victims were age and race. Tim Murray had a steady supply of potential victims from the circle he ran in, kids who ran away from home and got into the hardcore scene for the money and shock value. Kids like that wouldn't be too surprised to walk onto a hardcore S&M set and see Animal in his leather bondage hood. Hell, they always thought they were just in for a little rough stuff for a few hundred bucks! What the fuck did they know about the real world, where rich perverted pricks got their rocks off watching cheap little whores get snuffed out? Tim always made sure to check into their histories before making his selection. Sometimes he even found his subjects on the streets. He'd pick them up, show them some feigned kindness, buy them drugs, food, give them some shelter. Tim had his fun with them too, no problem with that; he liked his dick sucked as much as the next guy. Once they passed the screen test, and if Rick had a client who requested a particularly bloody film, Tim was perfectly happy to pass them off. And true to form, the cops never came looking for the missing person in question. Why would they? Both Tim and Rick were two and three steps removed from the victims. They protected their tracks expertly.