ARTHUR WRAPS A hand around his coffee mug and pulls apart the brittle beige window blinds to peer out at the street below. The morning is cool, even after the fog lifts. People pass quickly, hands in pockets. They do not look up. Steam radiates from the back of the newsstand across the street, and Arthur takes a sip, watching it curl and dissipate.
The building is mostly empty today. The pipes squeak upstairs, and something scurries in the walls. Business has been slow. Business is always slow.
“Get in here, Arthur.”
“Coming.” He leaves the window and sets the mug on his desk, which he sidesteps to make his way to the door. He turns the corner and steps over the uneven floor plank. He scratches his elbow and raises an eyebrow. “What do you need?”
Maurice leans forward in his desk chair and fixes Arthur with an impassive gaze. His office smells of Big Red and sulfur, and he scribbles onto a steno pad with a stubby yellow pencil. Arthur leans against the doorframe and watches. The desk is cluttered, as usual, with a gas station coffee cup, photographs, and the morning paper. Maurice gestures to a seat, and Arthur shakes his head. “I’ll stand,” he says, provoking an annoyed glare.
“Suit yourself.” Maurice runs his hand across the desktop. It’s easily the sturdiest piece of furniture in the place, bought secondhand from an auction at the old library. They had to haul it in through the window, and Arthur is convinced someday it will fall through the floor. It hasn’t yet. It probably won’t until Maurice retires and he’s sitting behind it instead. “Client coming by in a few minutes. I’m putting you on this one.”
“This early?”
“It’s nearly ten.”
Arthur shrugs. “Philandering husband or wife?”
“Neither. Guard duty.”
“Guard duty? Why would I—”
“Because I’m assigning this one to you.”
“Maurice—”
“It’s going to require coordination with an outside security team.”
“You know I don’t like—”
“I don’t give a damn what you like, son. You’re good at it, and I’m assigning you the case. That’s the end of the story. You got something to say?”
“No.” Arthur grinds his teeth.
Maurice nods and unwraps a fresh piece of chewing gum. “Let her in when she arrives. And clear your datebook.” He snorts at his joke.
“Anything I should know first?”
“I’d hate to spoil the surprise.”
THE SURPRISE ARRIVES promptly at ten, as if she waited outside the frosted glass door until the turn of the hour. She is striking, with coal-black hair and piercing blue eyes, outlined dark despite it being a weekday. She wears a tidy knit suit with a well-tailored skirt and silk shirt buttoned high on her neck. “Therese Spielman,” she says, shaking his hand. Her skin is ice cold, and her grip is tight. “Pleasure.” She doesn’t smile, but most people don’t when they hire a private investigator. Arthur leads her to Maurice.
“Welcome. Please, have a seat.” The vinyl on the chairs splits and flakes, but they’re serviceable. If Therese notices, she’s too polite to complain.
“You’re the gentleman I spoke to on the phone.” She glances from him to Arthur and lifts a meticulous eyebrow.
“Yes,” Maurice says, “I’m the one you talked to. This is Arthur. He’s my number one.”
“I see. Very militaristic.”
Maurice tilts his head in a nod. It’s easy to spot, even if Arthur no longer calls him by rank. “You said you want someone who can coordinate your security team. Arthur’s the man for the job.”
She looks him up and down. “I see.”
Arthur clears his throat. “And what exactly is the job?”
“We make films, Mister—”
“Adams. You make films? Here?”
“We are a long way from Hollywood, it’s true. But, yes, I assure you, we make films too.”
“They’re pornographers, Art.”
“Huh. Okay.”
Therese watches him and purposefully nods. “You’ll do.” She looks him up and down again. “You’ll do nicely, and if that”—she pointedly looks down—“matches the rest of you, I may have even more work for you than securing our warehouse.”
“Warehouse?”
“Am I done here?” she asks.
“Yes.” Maurice smiles. “Thank you, Ms. Spielman.”
“I’ll see myself out.”
Arthur finally takes a seat. “What’s going on? Guarding a porn shoot at a warehouse? You’re serious?”
Maurice shrugs and unwraps another piece of gum. He takes out his chewed piece and sticks it to the lid of the coffee cup. “I tried to get details over the phone, but she’s prickly as fuck, and cagey. Said they’ve received some threats—notes and letters warning them to close up shop or else. Looks like the whole thing probably has something to do with a rival company. She’s worried about a stalker. They’re shooting for two weeks in the warehouse district, down by the docks. Basically, she doesn’t want questions asked; she said she just wants”—he reads from a note—“‘a smooth production schedule.’”
“Huh.” Arthur drums his fingers on his leg. “Two weeks for porn?”
“I’m not sure that’s the relevant question.”
“You’re right. Why do they need extra security? What rival company?”
“Now you see why you’re on the job.”
“Tell me about the threats.”
IT STILL ISN’T the kind of work Arthur likes. He prefers, when he can, to leave his sidearm at home. He’s hyperaware of it in the weight of his shoulder holster. He prefers more thought and less action, even if he excels at the latter. These people are clearly expecting action. Arthur straightens his jacket and rolls his shoulders to loosen them. He’s always stiff when the weather’s damp. He takes another lap around the warehouse.
It’s late, and the place is poorly lit. The warehouse is spacious, with too many doors, and half the working fluorescent lights flicker. The main entrance is an entryway-cum-office behind a set of concrete steps beside a broad loading dock. There’s a utilitarian bathroom reeking of bleach and cheap citrus and a few odd rooms around the perimeter—a break room, a locker room, an empty conference room with a dust-covered Mr. Coffee on the floor in the corner. This part of town did most of its business before the Clinton administration. If it weren’t for the excessive caution, Arthur would think the neighborhood and the bad lighting were the only reasons they hired the firm.
But they are cautious. They’ve received some threats. Sure. They have a sizeable security team already, in addition to the cast and crew. Arthur arrived early and swept the location, finding little to cause concern. The guards are professional, individually hired by the production company but acquainted with one another from past jobs. He stationed them around the building and adjacent parking lot with clear sights of all entrances and exits. They appear competent, and it feels like too much. It’s like they’re guarding an embassy.
At first, he thought the warehouse must have a hidden studio space—something set up for filming, to look like a swanky house interior or a hotel room. He was wrong. He needs to make another sweep, and it takes him back through the main stretch of the building. The floor is swept, gray concrete, dotted with piles of crates, pallets, and the occasional barrel. Coils of rope and chain are strewn about with little regard for organization or use. Lights are rigged up to the catwalks above the open space, and multiple cameras capture the scene from different angles.
Everything and everyone present—the cameras, the people in the periphery—focuses on a tableau Arthur doubts he will ever fully forget: a man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with dark-brown hair, is bent over a crate. Behind him, a stocky man in a balaclava thrusts into him at a breakneck pace.
In retrospect, Arthur isn’t sure what he expected. He knows, however, he didn’t expect this.
He doesn’t want to look at them. The warehouse is riddled with shadows holding all sorts of potential risks. He wasn’t hired to watch the performers, after all. But the spotlights cascade down upon the scene, casting the men in a rosy glow. The composition is designed to draw the eye, despite the ugliness of the setting.
The masked man remains inconsequential. He’s burly and, Arthur can see, well-built. The other man is the one who demands attention, however. He arches his back and meets the masked man’s thrusts, releasing breathy moans of pleasure. His performing name, Arthur learned earlier, is Kit. The burly man has Kit’s hands held behind his waist in an aggressive grip, and his other hand pushes down on his neck, surely almost choking him, holding him in place.
Arthur blinks the image away and turns himself from the display. Not here to watch, he reminds himself. He does a visual check of the doorways. Focus. They hired you because you’re a professional. The guards he assigned are in position at the rear of the warehouse and up on the catwalk. They wear dark tactical clothes, like goons from an action film, with radio headsets and sturdy boots. Arthur wonders if they supplied their own clothes or if the production company rented them from a costume supplier or picked them up from the army surplus shop near the railyard. He cracks his knuckles and considers the strangeness, then turns back toward the door.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” rasps the burly man. Kit moans in response. “That’s right,” he grunts. “Take it.” A slap echoes through the warehouse, and Kit’s consequent moan is even louder. Arthur winces. He can’t help but look back at the scene.
He realizes, too late, he looks directly into Kit’s eyes. They sparkle in the spotlight, and Arthur is frozen. One of Kit’s eyelids flutters, a subtle wink, and he groans, curving his back.
“Fuck,” the burly man groans, hips stuttering.
Arthur jerks his vision away, face burning. He rushes to the exit and fumbles the door handle.
“Cut!” Therese calls behind him. “Kit, Bobby, what the actual fuck?”
ARTHUR STAYS AWAY for most of the night. He lurks in the shadows when he needs to do more checks. He sees the scenario they’ve set up for the film. Kit is lost, and he stumbles into this abandoned warehouse. A man—Bobby, Arthur presumes—is there, inexplicably wearing a mask. (Arthur chooses to ignore the logical gaps.) When he asks for directions or a ride, Bobby tells Kit he can have them if he sucks him off.
Kit, it seems, is happy to comply. The next time Arthur walks through, he sees the compliance in action. Once again, he tells himself not to stare. He isn’t some tenderfoot, wet behind the ears; he’s seen a few of these videos, passed around his share of magazines. It feels like a scab he can’t help but scratch. The more he tells himself to stop, the more his vision is drawn by the noises. It’s uncomfortably provocative, like seeing a stretcher loaded into an ambulance. He doesn’t want to look, but morbid curiosity compels him.
Bobby pulls Kit’s hair, and Arthur winces. He stands in a dark corner, close to the door. The set is quiet aside from an unmistakable slurp and choke. Arthur takes himself through the case again: rival production company, most likely, threatening…something. Stalking. Violence. Theft. The messages have been vague warnings to disappear, from what he can tell. Nothing specific. He hears a grunt, and his jeans feel uncomfortably tight. They’re most likely overreacting. It’s probably the standard death threats any internet celebrity can expect.
Kit’s hands, Arthur notices, are obediently tucked behind his back. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek and wishes he had a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked in years. Stop getting distracted. Make your round. He checks the perimeter like a checklist: guard by the door, guard on the catwalk, bathroom window secure, no suspicious behavior visible. He exits again and sucks in air like he’s been swimming underwater. It stinks like tar and stale beer.
HE’S COMPLETING ANOTHER sweep of the parking lot when he spots movement on a nearby roof.
“We have movement, printshop roof, west side,” he says through the earpieces. “Investigate it.”
A security team member responds, voice crackling over the airwaves. “On it.”
Arthur crosses to the main entrance. “All doors secure?”
A chorus of guards affirms, and he waits for word from the rooftop. It doesn’t arrive.
Five minutes later, he queries the guy. “Rooftop status?”
There’s no response.
“Possible situation. We’re locking down.” He gestures for another guard to take the main door, and he goes to tell the crew.
They’re filming what Arthur presumes is the final shot. Kit is on his knees again, looking thoroughly wrung out and slicked with sweat. Bobby stands over him, cursing through gritted teeth. His body convulses with his orgasm, and Arthur knows without looking the cameras will be focused on Kit’s face.
Stop them, Arthur tells himself. Secure the area. He stares at Therese instead of the scene. She holds up a hand as he approaches, and he stands, frozen, until she turns.
“Yes?” she asks, voice low.
“Um. There’s a, uh, a possible situation. We need to secure the site so it can be investigated. Immediately.”
“Possible?”
“I don’t jump to conclusions.”
She fixes him with an assessing stare. He returns the look. “Well, I can’t fault your timing,” she allows. “Do we have enough of the facial?”
For the briefest moment, Arthur thinks she is asking him. He opens his mouth, but the camerawoman interrupts with a nod. “Yes, perfect.”
“Excellent. Let’s wrap. Everyone has five minutes to clear out. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
THE GUARD IS bulky with muscle and capable looking. Arthur finds him half choking on a ball gag with his hands and feet bound by a spreader bar. “Did you get eyes on them?”
The guard massages his jaw. “He had on a mask and gloves. Male, medium height.”
“God damn it. Which way did he go?”
The guard points away from the warehouse.
Arthur nods. An uneasiness settles into his gut. “Let’s get back.” He keeps his eyes on the adjacent rooftops; nothing disturbs the stillness.
ARTHUR DIRECTS WHAT amounts to a lazy evacuation. Individual guards escort each cast and crew member to their vehicles. The night is late, and a languid energy pervades the warehouse, as if everyone there was a part of the action and is struggling to push past the fuzzy afterglow. He watches carefully; it’s easier with everyone’s clothes on. Car doors shut and lock. Ignitions fire.
“What about you?” a voice asks from behind him.
“Hm?” Arthur turns.
Kit watches him from the warehouse steps. His escort is waiting, irritation clear on his face. “Aren’t you going home? Or are you going to lurk in the shadows and brood all night?”
Arthur parts his lips, but he can’t think what to say.
“It’s okay,” Kit says. He steps close. “I like being watched, you know; that’s why I do this.”
“I…don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I liked being watched. By you.”
Arthur’s stomach knots.
Kit smiles. “I’ll see you again tomorrow…Arthur.”
HE WAITS UNTIL everyone is clear and does a final check, pistol in hand. Masked and gloved. Medium height. The guy is nowhere to be seen. Too close for comfort. He calls Maurice. “I’m going to need a team tomorrow. At least Jamie.”
“They’re still at the office—or were when I left.”
“Still?”
“Cooper didn’t show up till two. You know how he gets.”
“Trouble with the neighbor again?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t really care as long as he figures out what happened with the house fire.”
“I’m sure they’re working hard.”
“Yeah, well, they better not get distracted by this porno business.”
“I know. I’ll check in and get his feet to the fire.”
COOPER’S FEET ARE propped on Jamie’s desk, crossed at the ankles, in worn-out boots. He holds a fistful of playing cards and shakes his head. “Rummy,” says Jamie.
“God damn it,” Cooper replies. He looks up at Arthur. “Good, you’re here. I’m done with him—let’s play Big Two.”
“He’d have to play too,” Arthur points out.
“Coop’s just a sore loser. What are you doing back?” Jamie swirls his highball and takes a drink.
Arthur pulls up a chair and lets them deal him in. “It’s about the film case.”
“Film case,” Cooper says. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Don’t be a dumbass.”
“He can’t help it,” Jamie says, placing the three of diamonds. “How’d everything go tonight? You’re here, so I take it it wasn’t good.”
Cooper snorts and plays the four of clubs. “Aren’t you just playing security guard for some naked people? How hard can it be?”
Arthur and Jamie share a look. Arthur opens his mouth, then presses his lips together in silence.
“Heh. I just realized what I said.”
“I’m going to need an extra pair of eyes tomorrow. Coop, Maurice says you need to get your shit together on the house fire case.”
“Faulty electrical—I told him. These rich assholes buy houses wired in the twenties with knob and tube, know nothing about the circuitry or insulation, figure they spend three quarters of a mil on a fucking three-bedroom bungalow, and think it can handle whatever they give it.” He snaps his fingers. “Lights it up like fucking Topsy.”
“Topsy?” asks Jamie.
“He means the elephant.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, it’s like, ckshhhh zap, snap crackle pop.”
“We got it,” Arthur says. “Easy.”
“Well, maybe if they’d hire a licensed electrician we wouldn’t have this shit. It’s all ‘I know a guy’ who’s never picked up a multimeter in his life. You know how many houses have burned in that neighborhood this year? You know the whole neighborhood was planned by fucking racists with HOA covenants to keep out—”
“We know,” Arthur says. “Everybody knows.”
“Everybody in midtown knows now,” Jamie mutters. “Because you’re yelling.”
“Yeah, well, they can all fucking burn as far as I’m concerned. Fucking racist, anti-Semitic bullshit legacy—and I don’t give a good goddamn about the insurance company having to pay out for the whole goddamn thing. They’re fucking leeches.”
“Okay, but did you actually determine that house in particular burned down by accident? Because the homeowner scammed an old lady in Saginaw, remember?”
“Yeah, he’s a piece of shit. But he didn’t do this. And now he’s getting a full house reno for his wife and three sons because, when you have money like that, being a negligent bastard just helps you along. Their cat died.” He pours himself two fingers of whisky and sips it neat.
“Poor kids,” Arthur says.
“Mm,” Cooper agrees.
“I can go tomorrow,” Jamie offers.
“Thanks. I’m going to need to get a lot more information, and it’s looking to be like getting blood from a stone.”
“Well,” Jamie says, “you’ve cracked cases a lot harder than some pornographers.”
Cooper snorts and takes another drink.
“This is why you can’t come,” Arthur says.
Cooper laughs out loud.
ARTHUR’S APARTMENT IS a second-floor walk-up on a shitty block in midtown. The building is old, with a green-carpeted stairwell reeking of vinegar and God-knows-what, but moving a quarter mile east or west would price him out of rent. The place is a cramped one-bedroom, but it meets his needs. He latches the door behind him and tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter.
He takes a cold shower, thankful his inefficient plumbing provides good pressure, if not economy. He falls onto his bed and lets the cotton sheets dry his skin. They’re nice; it’s one of the few luxuries he requires.
His laptop beckons from the nightstand like a siren. He stares at the ring of lamplight projected up onto the cracked plaster ceiling.
Don’t do it, he tells himself. He picks the computer up anyway. He curses himself and puts on headphones. What did he look like? He chews his lip, logging in. Did it drip down his cheek or from his lip? Did he lick everything off? He scrubs his face with his hands and lets the image fill his mind: Kit running a finger through the white and licking his skin clean. He types “Kit” into the search bar with a few other choice terms. He scans the list of results.
“Fuck,” Arthur whispers. He doesn’t want to click. It doesn’t seem right. Instead, he clicks on the production company and reads through their menu of offerings.
An hour later, he’s paid for access. He scrolls through the videos with a beer in his hand, watching the thumbnail gifs and trying to think rationally. He doesn’t watch any of the videos. He refuses to watch any of the videos. But when he closes his eyes, all he sees is Kit. He hears him, in his mind, say, “I liked being watched.” He imagines him whispering the words in his ear. “By you.”