Page 3 of Lost Souls

In order to illustrate his point more graphically, the petulant star pulls down his hospital pants. He tries to ignore the fact that the make-up guy is staring across the set at him without blinking.

“So wear a rubber,” suggests Arnie, who knows that every problem has a solution and not quite all of them violent or threatening.

“And what about my other instrument?” protests Brent. Before anyone can pose the obvious question – and we are not talking lyre or harpsichord here – the handsomest guy in the room sticks out his tongue. It is indeed unusually long and flexible. The make-up man is just starting to perspire audibly.

“Okay,” says Arnie, rolling up the imaginary sleeves on today’s offending Hawaiian shirt. “Here’s how we handle this. Like grown-ups.” He turns to Brent. “Get down to business thisminuto, garlic guy, or it’s back to dinner theatre for you.”

“But Arnie,” protests the man, rapidly losing his glow and his tan. “I got a wife, a family to support.”

Arnie nods, as if in understanding. He holds out a podgy, impeccably manicured hand and grabs the younger man’s newly exposed qualifications.

“I am an award-winning producer,” he informs his victim, “of high quality, quadruple-X erotica.”

If somebody on the small set coughs the word ‘porn’ under his breath, this producer chooses to ignore it.

“My latest opus,Everything’s Coming up Rosa’s,is nominated in seven categories for this year’s National Erotic Cinema Awards, eight if you include foreign language.” He squeezes seven times, then once more for luck, as if to nail his point. “And I expect to be coming outta that big Vegas room next week with a lotta dicks in my hand. So, I am a big shot. You, you are a little shot blessed with a big shlong. You wanna play here, you do it by my rules.”

As she notices that the faces of the two men are drawing closer, mainly because the younger man’s knees are starting to buckle and his head to nod forward, Cleo steps between them and deftly wrenches Arnie’s crunching hand away. The leading man crumples to the floor.

“Stop it!Just stop it, Arnie,” she reprimands, as only she can. “I’ll run to the store and get some Summer’s Eve.”

“Does it come in flavors?” enquires the floored lead. “Get Strawberry… I’m a sucker for straw—”

“No!” interrupts Arnie, the frustration mounting. “We don’t have time for this. Summer’s nearly over. All of you, back to work. I don’t pay you people to jerk off!”

“Well, actually…”

Arnie turns back with a moan towards his buggy. Which is when he notices a couple of sweet young kids, a boy and a girl, no more than eleven years old, standing in the doorway.

“Who are you?”

“They’re mine,” explains Brent. “It’s ‘bring your kidsto work day’.”

“Jesus!Get ’em outta here. Go – go in the house, kids. Daddy’ll come as soon as he… Justgo!”

As they scoot off, eyes bugging out, and the male lead, still in some pain, collapses onto the bed, Cleo catches up with her departing producer and erstwhile boyfriend.

“Arnie,” she protests, “that thing with Brent, that was – well, it was way outta line! You can’t just come down here and throw your weight around.We – we are the talent!”

A ripple runs round the room:

“Yeah.”

“She’s right.”

“You said it.”

Arnie swivels back to face them. Like Charles Laughton giving his best Captain Bligh, the man senses mutiny. But Cleo is no Fletcher Christian, and Arnie has fought off tougher insurrections.

“Oh, so you’re the ‘talent’?”

Cleo nods, still defiant but perhaps not quite so much.

“Actually, Cleo, Cleo Cleaves, aka Ada Dubrowski, you’re not. You are so not. If anything, you are the talent-less.”

The young starlet’s fulsome lower lip begins to quiver. She can’t believe what she is hearing.

“W-what?”