Friday, August 5, 2016

Angels (Part 2)

     I was cooling it in my office, waiting for Bekka to come down so we could go to lunch, when Roach drifted in.  He was wearing his leather and his colors, and pulling off a pair of riding gloves.  He still had a vague odor of engine grease, accumulated at his morning gig, stripping hot cars in National City.  He slid one the task chairs away from the wall and up next to my desk, kicking the door closed.  Throwing his leather and colors over the arm of the sofa, he asked, "Hey Lenny, wanna smoke a bowl?  I need a pipe.  I got shit that came out of the lab this morning, and it's rocket fuel.  Not quite as clean as yours, but it's got the same kick.  A good batch."

     Pulling the spare glass pipe out of my desk drawer, I considered the young man across from me.  Just nineteen, and probably the best stud Inana had ever had.  He was a Hell's Angel now, but still hung onto the mohawk from his punk rock roots.  Despite his manly-man club affiliation, he loved being around women, preferred their company over being with guys.  He had a bit of a bi-curious crush on me.  And he had a huge but unspoken crush on my wife, better known to the world as Becky Page.
   Roach scooped up dope out of the bag with the stem of the pipe, filling the bowl.  He tapped it to get everything down, then held the flame from a Bic under the bowl to melt in the dope.  Once this was done, he passed the pipe to me and said, "Try this."
     I tried a hit, forcing myself to ignore the cranky flavor it had.  It certainly hit smooth and clean,  no jolt or sudden forehead sweats like you'd get from bathtub crank.  Blowing a white cloud at the ceiling,  Bekka said, "This is the pause that refreshes.  This your dope, Roach?"
     He said, "Well, not mine mine, but from the lab at the wrecking yard.  Now that I'm not dealing any more, I'm actually building up a surplus, keeping Dawn from having to spend her money.  The guys at the wrecking yard are getting better or something, while this still has a bit of cranky flavor, it's a better and cleaner of a high than anything else he has ever made."
     The pipe went around a few times, and Roach said, "Hey, you guys doing anything tonight?"
     "Nothing planned," I said.  "What's up?
     "I thought maybe you'd like to ride down to National City with me and visit the bar the club hangs out at."
     I laughed at this.  "Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression H.A. was a bit hostile to outsiders showing up."
     Roach said, "Naw, it'll be cool, you'll be with me, you're my guest."
     "Wanna just take one vehicle?" asked Bekka.  "I'm sure the Falcon will give us some cachet."
     "I thought we'd ride.  The three of you have those sweet Sportsters, we can hang around and talk bikes with people.  Common ground."
     I laughed again and said, "Slight problem there.  We're not bikers.  One Sportster is dead stock, and the other two were gifts from Boss, we got 'em like that.  We don't know how to fix them, hell, we pay Gary to tune and maintain them.  And we don't ride hard.  No way in hell would either of us pound through traffic like we've seen outlaws do.  Bud, your club will write us off as hopeless dilettantes, and they'd be right.  And while we may be anarchists, we aren't outlaws.  Except for being friends with you, there would be no commonality.  We'd even hate their music."
     "Aw c'mon, they're not bad guys.  You and Bekka are my friends, you and Bekka should meet my other friends."
     "How about if I just drove down alone in the Plymouth and met you there?"
     Roach looked alarmed at this suggestion.  "No, you both should come."
     I stared at Roach, considering.  I said, "Tell me true.  You seem awful damn eager to get my wife down to your club's bar.  Tell me if I'm missing my mark.  Is there a reason you'd like Becky Page to visit National City?"
     Roach tried to give me a defiant look, but it broke down and he stared at the desk.  "Okay.  Nobody believes I'm friends with the famous Becky Page.  Not even Whistle and Dickhead and Scarecrow will back me up, and they met her, out in the desert.  They just keep saying that yeah, we work for the same people, but beyond that, Becky Page could care less about me.  She just happened to be standing there.  So everybody's saying that I'm....  Not lying, really, but exaggerating things, claiming I'm Bekka's friend when to her I'm just another face in the crowd."
     "Shit, that's easy to solve," Bekka said.  "Grab promo tapes of loops you and I have done together.  You can prove not only that you know me, but you've fucked me."
     "Problem," said Roach.  "In all of those, I was in full-on stunt-cock mode.  None of them show my face, or even above my ribs.  I thought about the scene we shot at that waterfall up north, but I tend to doubt Steve would let me make a copy of it just so I can show it to friends."
     Bekka and I looked at each other.  Bekka sighed and said, "So should we bring Jane along?"
     "Yeah, just so long as she has the sense to not talk horny all the time.  There's a few guys who will take it as an invitation.  She wouldn't get raped or attacked, but she wouldn't get any rest, she'd be getting followed around and grabbed at and having dudes talking really dirty to her.  So you'll join me?"
     "What the hell, why not," I said.  "Although we're just gonna drive.  If we rode the bikes, they'll think we're trying to be something we're not.  We'll take the Falcon, they'll like that one."
     Bekka said, "Yes, I'd prefer driving.  That way Becky Page won't be arriving with helmet hair."
     I said, "Wait, how do we know Jane won't end up having to hang around outside?"
     "I think I figured out their policy at the bar," said Roach.  "Remember, I'm only nineteen, but they serve me.  I think as long as you're post-pubescent and the Angels tolerate your presence, they'll serve you.  I've seen a few chicks who were obviously still in high school drinking there, just because they were with one of the guys."
     "What's this place called?"
     "It's the Hi-Lo, it's on National Avenue a block east of the I-5 underpass.  You can't miss it, it's a stand-alone building and it's got Googie architecture, a Fifties throwback."
     "What time are we headed there?" asked Bekka.
     Roach said, "Tell you what, I'll be at your place at seven.  You can follow me there.  Thanks, guys."

Spot on seven, the doorbell rang.  Jane ran down and let Roach and Dawn in.  They didn't even unzip their jackets, we just ushered them straight back out again and went down to the Falcon.  Roach looked at it and said, "You at least know the basic specs of this thing, right?"
     I said, "As long as they don't ask for the gearing, yeah.  Some answers I don't have, like the quarter mile time.  It's a fucking road racer, quarter mile times are irrelevant to me."
     We had already explained to Jane precisely who we were going to visit, and discussed what would be bad behavior.  Horny talking was out.  Double entendres were out.  Flirting was way, way out.  And stick with beer, it's a school night.  She was aware of the Hell's Angels and their reputation.  She said Miami and Atlanta both had chapters.  The Atlanta chapter was in the news a couple years ago, when a house shared by three members was raided and 120 stolen government property M-16s were found in the garage.  The cops were conducting the raid looking for drugs, which they didn't find, so they took what they could get.  Like any redneck town, Gainesville had some random outlaw bikers around, but Jane didn't know about club affiliation, or if they even had any.
     We pulled up in the lot of the Hi-Lo, which was mostly empty.  However, there were at least ten Harleys lined up at the curb right outside the front door.  Roach moored his in line with the others, and he and Dawn waited for us before going in.  We all stepped in as a single mass, sort of grouping around Roach so the connection would be made.  A half dozen voices yelled, "Hey, Fucker!" as we crossed to the bar.
     The bartender was a harried-looking Korean gent, around fifty years old, and he got us all our beers without a question or hesitation.  We all put our backs against the bar top and surveyed the scene.  Two pool tables, both in use.  One ancient Sixties-era pinball machine.  Booths all along the walls, a few tables in the center of the room.  A shuffleboard table, occupied by two harsh looking scooter tramps.  Booths were occupied by Angels; only one dude was actually at the bar.  He was skinny, with a ponytail, a bushy mustache, and round Lennon glasses.  He took us in, spotted Roach, and said, "Oh, hey Fucker."
     "Hey, Fatso," Roach replied.  "Quiet?"
     "Yeah.  These your friends?"
     "Yep.  Fatso, meet Jane Osborne, Lenny Schneider, and Becky Page."
     Fatso said, "Wait, Becky Page?"  He took off his thick glasses and wiped them with his thumbs.  Putting them back on, he smiled and said, "By god damn, you are Becky Page!  Hello, ma'am!  Why are you hanging around this no-'count?"
     I looked at Bekka, but Bekka was gone, replaced entirely by Becky.  She said, "My husband and Jane met him at the UTC mall a while back, him and Jane had hit it off.  Due to details I will spare you of for reasons of delicacy, Lenny offered Ro--  Fucker a job at the studio.  He was hired, and we've become fairly close friends."
     "You must be good friends, if he managed to talk you into hanging around us losers.  God damn.  Hey King!  C'mere!  You're gonna love this!"
     A guy with a hook nose, shaggy hair, and weather-beaten skin stomped over from one of the pool tables.  "What's up, Fatso?  Why are you interrupting my game?"
     "Look who's here," said Fatso, gesturing.
     King re-aimed his frowning glare from Fatso to Bekka/Becky.  His eyebrows slowly lifted from a scowl to a look of complete surprise.
     "Jesus Henry Christ, are you really Becky Page?" he asked.
     "Live and in the flesh," said Bekka/Becky.
     "What the hell are you doing here, of all places?"
     "I'm a friend and coworker of Roach.  He's been rather proud of having gotten his patch with you guys, and wanted to introduce me and my husband to his new associates.  He also said that you're all Becky Page fans, so I thought I'd provide a little fan service and sign some autographs, shake some hands, give out some hugs.  I enjoy motorcycles in a casual way, myself.  I have a purple custom Sportster, it was a gift."
     King punched Roach in the arm.  "Holy shit, and we thought you were fibbin', telling tales.  Wow.  And you two work together.  Have the two of you ever, uh, gotten together?  You know, to film?"
     Bekka/Becky replied, "We have, on several occasions.  Roach --- excuse me, Fucker --- is a total professional at work.  He is talented, well-mannered, and friendly, a dream to work with.  Fucker may only be nineteen, but he is intelligent and quick-witted, he should be a boon to the club."
     "Yeah, he's a good kid.  I'm his boss at the dismantlers.  Little bastard is damn sharp, can handle stressful situations, and has never called in a single sick day.  His brains and his guts were obvious, that's why we decided to draft him after he bought a putt.  So you ride too, huh?"
     "Yes, a beautiful purple Sportster.  Lenny has a black custom Sportster, the front wheel slightly chopped, and Jane here rides a brand new Sportster, dead stock.  We aren't serious riders like you all, we use them as transportation and go on day cruises on Sundays, up through the mountains and desert."
     I threw in, "Hi, I'm Lenny, Becky's husband.  We love our bikes, they're a blast, but we're too busy with other things to get involved with them.  It's simpler to just pay someone to maintain them, and do any needed repairs.  I know that makes us sound like dilettantes, but that's just how life is."
     "Who does your work?" asked Fatso.
     "Two guys out in Santee, Boss and Gary.  Hell, Boss is the one who presented us with the two custom Sportsers.  He'd heard we were going to start riding, and wanted us to have something ride.  Boss and Gary know their Harleys."
     King said, "Hey, is Boss a huge motherfucker?  Six foot nine or something?"
     Bekka/Becky said, "Six foot seven, yes.  Do you know him?"
     Guffaws came out of King.  "Shit, everybody knows Boss.  Ain't an easy guy to forget.  How is that dope-cooking fooll doing?  He still trying to figure out a way to mke better Ecstasy?"
     "He found a way.  His little discovery is now making him very, very rich.  Boss is currently knocking out 100,000 hits of MDMA a week, and is paid eight bucks per hit by his sole customer.  He plans to retire to the island of Palau in a few years.  Boss made it big."
     "Holy shit.  That much dope?  That's crazy.  And what do you mean, his sole customer?"
     Bekka/Becky answered, "A certain large and powerful criminal organization is who is paying for all that 'E'.  They wish to corner the market on Ecstasy, be the only suppliers.  He is generous with his extras, though.  Lenny, Jane and I have quite the stockpile of the damn little yellow pills.  Boss's product is the absolute best ever made, probably."
     Jane added, "I love his Ecstasy, it frees me in a way nothing else does.  I almost wish I could take it every day."
     Two more guys wandered up, looking to gently razz the new kid.  The shorter one said, "Hey Fucker, any interesting pussy today?  You fuck another star?  Or find a broad whose pussy was installed sideways?"
     Roach replied, "Fuck off, Doobie.  I'd like you to meet someone.  Look to your right."
     The two swung their gaze in that direction, screeching to a halt when they reached Bekka/Becky, her explaining some detail about porn production to King.  They both danced in front of her, looking eager.
     The tall one said, "Ms. Page, may I buy you a drink?"
     Bekka/Becky replied, "I have one, thank you.  Are you friends of Fucker's?"
     "We keep an eye on the kid.  He's doing okay."
     "Because he was under the impression that some people felt he was stretching the truth when he described  me as a personal friend.  He is, I greatly enjoy his company.  We work together, party together, have adventures together.  He has great pride in his membership in the club, and wished me and my husband to meet his new compatriots, sort of a mixing of the tribes.  I've been pleased to meet you all so far."
     The tall one said, "I'm Hinge.  Becky, are you going to be here for a while?  To be honest, I want a picture of you, but my camera is at home.  I just need to ride into South Park, I'll haul ass.  Could I take a picture of you posing with my motorcycle?  Is that okay?  It ain't greasy, it won't fuck up your clothes."
     "That would be fine," Bekka/Becky said.  "We'll be here a while, we plan on having a few drinks and conversing with people.  Your club intrigues me.  People speak of the Hell's Angels as the damned, the worst of the worst.  Yet everyone I've met has been genteel and charming.  Perhaps someone can explain where the reputation comes from."
     The short one was going over to a full booth, saying loudly, "Mick!  Red!  Do you know who the hell is here tonight?"
     And the gentle rush began.  Within about seven minutes the billiards games were abandoned, along with the booths.  Every Angel was loosely crowded around Bekka/Becky.  She had plunked her butt up on the bar, for a better view of everyone.  Everyone was asking her random questions, covering all topics: work, her home life, her husband, the trials of fame, her sex life.  Becky was the one in control, and answered all of the questions honestly and candidly.  After a while Hinge returned with a Nikon around his neck.  He went to escort Bekka/Becky out front for his picture, but was refuted.  Someone called, "Hey, I want a picture too, lend me your fuckin' camera when you're done."  An argument over the cost of film and developing started, the upshot being someone tore off to a nearby drug store to buy fresh film.  Everyone followed Bekka/Becky and Hinge outside to witness the impromptu modeling gig.  Hinge got his putt up on the sidewalk and in front of the side of the building.  He asked Bekka/Becky, "Do you want to stand next to the bike, or lean against it?  What do you think would look good?"
     Bekka/Becky said, "I think....  I should straddle the bike, twisting some to face the camera.  What you can do is give the camera to my husband and join me.  You stand behind the bike and put an arm around my waist or shoulder.  How does that sound?"
     Hinge brightened.  "That sounds great!.  After my picture, can I buy you a drink?"
     A voice said, "Fuck you, I'm buyin' her a drink next!"
     "No way man, her next drink is on me!"
     Everyone wanted to make a small contribution towards Becky Pge getting a buzz.  Bekka/Becky managed to shush everyone and explain she would be in terrible condition if she accepted a drink from everyone.  However, there was no reason Becky couldn't return to the bar some other time, and continue accepting free drinks then.
     Because of the hour, I took two pictures: one with flash, one without.  As soon as Hinge had begun rolling his Harley back to a space, another Angel dashed up and asked if he could also get a picture just like that.  She checked and everyone wanted a picture of Becky Page straddling their personal putt, her on their arm.  We did it assembly line style, and the Angels were fast.  Everyone got their photos.
     The last photos, with an airbrushed green cruiser and a chubby guy with a Jew-fro, was taken.and everyone went inside.  Hinge came up and thanked me again, suggesting that if Becky wanted a serious answer to her question, she should talk to Fatso, the quietest and most bookish of the San Diego Angels.
     Bekka/Becky landed on the stool next to Fatso and posed the question to him: why did the Hell's Angels have such a terrible reputation?  Was it possible to narrow it down to a single incident?
     Fatso sipped his beer, considered briefly, and said, "Hollister, 1947.  That would be the start....  Not for the Angels, precisely, but for the general bad rep motorcyclists have.  The Angels didn't exist yet.  However, there were still a shitload of brawlers on motorcycles around, especially in California, where you can ride all year long.  Hollister was having an annual shindig, which included some motorcycle racing.  It was expected that the entrants would be local boys, farm hands.  Nope, people came from everywhere, some to race, many just to watch and drink beer.  Lots of beer.  By dark the town was in chaos, with drunk riders holding drag races on the main drag, broken glass everywhere, and a six man police force that was massively outnumbered.  It was drunken anarchy.
     "The story of Hollister hit the wire services, making it national: the highways are crowded with drunken hooligans on motorcycles, speedy, highly mobile thugs who think nothing of destroying a town while thumbing their noses at all authority, but especially the cops.  When clubs like the Booze Fighters and the Hell's Angels came into being, it caused panic: the hooligans were now organized.  Meanwhile, Marlon Brando starred in a movie named 'The Wild One,' which was based on Hollister.
     "I believe the Hell's Angels got their scummy reputation nationally in the early Sixties.  On a Labor Day run to Monterey, several Angels were charged with gang raping two teenage girls.  That story went national, with the club singled out as unrepentant scum.  Never mind that all charges were dropped a few days later, the press never covered that side of the story.  What the press did was start to review the police blotters in every city with a Hell's Angels chapter, looking for criminal activity on the part of the Angels.  A series of scare stories were published, warning the motoring public that they were helpless against these human jackals.  The Angels were modern Vikings, raping, stealing, and destroying, then vanishing into thin air on their powerful motorcycles.  I believe that's how the Angels got their rep as bloodthirsty marauders.
     "So far as us Angels go, I'll freely admit to being a fuck-up.  Growing up, my home life was a joke.  I hated school, and hated my fellow students.  Working means having to answer to someone, which is bullshit in a lot of situations.  I always liked motorcycles, though.  Hanging around the Angels felt like a revelation: finally, other people who recognize modern life for the shit deal it is.  That's our commonality, a general sense that we've been screwed since birth, nothing will ever balance the scales, and other Angels are the only people who are worthy of trust and respect.  No, we're not the raping monsters portrayed in the papers, although we do get pretty damn rowdy.  We're just pissed off."
An Angel who's name I missed, wired to the gills, sat down next to me and asked me how to get a job just like Roach's.  I chuckled, which annoyed the Angel.
     "What the fuck, you assholes hired that damn kid.  Your studio needs a man around."
     I asked him, "Do you have an eight inch dick, and is it trained to obey commands like a doberman?  Can you come on command?  Excluding ex-girlfriends, do you ever address a woman as 'bitch'?  Since any repeated activity becomes monotonous, will you be able to handle the dull grind of performing in porn?  Are you completely healthy?  Are you sure?  Can you act?  These are some of the questions you'll need to answer both for yourself and to the studio.  You go through three interviews to perform for Inana.  Number one is a script test, the applicant reading a part from a script so we can check for literacy, accent, and inflection and feeling.  Basically, can you act?  This is where we lose most of our applicants.  The second one is, in the case of a male applicant, him getting ready by stripping to his shorts and getting a hard-on.  Stay hard with only minimum assistance while we take pictures of you doing a solo scene.  Test three is full sex, with all the trimmings, in front of live cameras.  You'll be at it for a minimum of two hours, can you last that long?  Can you fake sexual enjoyment?  And can you deal with the sudden realization that, while heterosexual, male performers in porn are the biggest bitches in the world?
     "So how did Fucker get his job?" asked the Angel.
     I answered, "He had the physical attributes, and he demonstrated skills and abilities far beyond his years.  He is also a friendly and well-mannered bastard, and the female performers love working with him.  Roach --- Fucker --- passed all three of his interviews with flying colors.  Him working for Inana wasn't awarded to him like a prize, it was something he earned.  He had to work to pass the interviews, and also just to adopt to a new social scene and caste system.  At Inana, work is part of our lives, so our lives are shared are shared at work.  We share meals, we share rides, we share information, and we share our hearts.  There's a bit of feeling of 'us against the world.'  We all have strange jobs at a strange company, nobody understands us, and it's miserable trying to have an active romantic life when you fuck other people for a living.  Explaining your job to someone you're on a date with is just such a joy.  Since performers in porn in this country ase assumed to be sleazy drug addicted nymphomaniacal self-hating mentally ill disease farms, being honest about your employment has less and less appeal.  You tell your date you work for a video production service and leave it at that.  You can tell the truth later."
     "So even making fuck films sucks as a job," groused the Angel.
     "It has its down sides.  One of the plus sides is that it really is easy money.  Guys get $300 every time they come on camera, girls start off at $750 and go up, depending on the act.  Performers are always treated deferentially, no reason to annoy the stars, every reason to keep them happy.  No paperwork to worry about.  A ritzy location to work, complete with pool and spa."
     "What about up in LA?  Are things different up there?"
     "Okay, the good news is there is no series of interviews you have to take to get hired at LA studios.  The downside (for guys) is that the pay sucks for straight work, like half of what Inana pays.  No bitchin' mansion to kick back in, nobody sharing their drugs.  At Inana, girls get $750 for suck and fuck, $1000 for anal, and $1300 for double penetration.  A girl who does anal could be looking at $3500 a week, before taxes.  Oh, girls also get $200 for taking a facial during a money shot.  Tawny points out to new girls that it amounts to getting grocery money for two weeks just by briefly getting one's face sticky.  I never made taking a facial a requirement for my girls, and I won't start.  There are plenty of girls who want that extra scratch.
     An Angel aptly named Short Nick was trying to chat up Jane.  He was barking down an empty rabbit hole.  While not the ugliest Angel in San Diego, he definitely ranked.  Jane had taken us seriously about no nasty talk or behavior.  And even at five foot five, Jane still had two inches on him.  Jane started off by pointing out the legal barriers in place against casually dating Jane.  Short Nick started off with, "No one in San Diego is a native.  Where are you from originally?"
     Jane answered, "Gainesville, Florida.  Home to gators, crackers, and college football.  My parents and I had a fight, and they threw me out.  I had some money, so I got on Greyhound heading for California.  I knew Lenny and Bekka already, we'd met on their honeymoon.  Unfortunately for them, they're gonna be interrupted by a sixteen year old brat.  I prefer Southern California to Gainesville."
     "Birdie leaving the nest, eh?   Were you about due?"
     "Actually, I was early.  I was sixteen, I turn seventeen in two weeks.  Becky and Lenny told me of all the legal headaches I could create just by being a minor and homeless.  They convinced my parents to have me legally emancipated, sort of like getting a divorce from your parents.  Now, I can sign legal contracts, rent and buy real estate, hold a checking account, borrow money, and purchase a car.  I can't drink, smoke, or join the military.  Statutory rape laws still apply to me, too.  I'm still jailbait."
     Short Nick wheedled, "You like motorcycles, little baby?  I'll give you a ride on mine."
     Jane provided a calm grin and said, "Oh, I love motorcycles.  I have one, this year's model of the Sportster.  Totally stock, which I need to change.  I want to chop the front, chrome out the wheels, find an airbrush artist to do the tank, the usual bits."
     "You ride?  Sweet, we should go cruising together sometime.  I can show you some great routes.  I can show you a lot of things.  Yeah, I'm a few years older than you, but you're the hottest thing I've seen all year.  Don't blow me off, baby.  We could have fun together."
     "Nick, I'm sure you're a sweetie and have no ulterior motives in getting alone with me.  However, I have a boyfriend.  His name is Lance, and he's a sweetheart.  He's the same age as me, sixteen.  I took his virginity and am slowly training him into being my ideal lover.  I also have Lenny.  Lenny is twenty-three, a punk rocker like me, and works constantly.  I've always had a crush on Lenny, and figured I knew ways I could help him relax.  I offered, no strings attached, and he refused.  Eventually I won a bet with his wife: if she won a game of pinball,  I'd make dinner for two weeks.  If I won, I would sleep with Lenny for three days.  I won.  Becky approved our little rendezvous, so I could keep getting together with Lenny.  He fills out my need for older men, and he fills me out quite well too.  I'm all stocked up in the Lust and Romance departments."
     Nick said, "You're being difficult, little doll.  Let's have a few more drinks, smoke a joint, and go to watch the Pink Floyd laserium show at the space theater.  Afterwards, we can drop this awesome Ecstasy I got a hold of, and really get to know each other while we're high.  You'll never experience anything like this, seeing the possibilities in all things, good or bad.  What are you drinking?"
     Jane sighed and said, "Get me a Miller.  And we'll talk here.  We can discuss why a man in his thirties would be trying to hustle a sixteen year old girl."
     Roach leaned down onto Nick's shoulder, putting on pressure.  He says in Nick's ear, "Jane is a friend of mine, just like Becky is.  We have a history.   I help take care of her.  If she were to tell me that someone here was making her uncomfortable, I would be forced to do something about it.  And as a gentleman, it might involve confrontation."
     Nick stood and thought about things.  He considered the ten inch difference in height between Fucker and himself.  He pondered how or why the girl, a hottie who reeked of aggressive sex, would be hanging around a place like the Hi-Lo if she wasn't interested in the Angels.  He wondered about Fucker's statement that him and Jane had "a history."  If Fucker had just been a weekend fling or if had been serious dating, Fucker was keeping an eye on the hottie now and didn't care who knew.
     We stuck around for another couple hours.  I switched to Cokes so I'd be okay to drive.  Jane was befriended by the two tough-looking chicks and learned how to play shuffleboard.  The chicks had observed Short Nick's attempted hustling of Jane with bitter humor.  One told Jane, "Shit, Nick ain't starving for pussy.   Angels always get some pussy.  He willfully ignored that you were here with Becky Page and Fucker, preferring to think you're just some fresh snatch looking to party.  Stupid asshole."
     The two chicks, Jean and Martha, were a couple of the San Diego chapter's mamas.  They were available to any Angel who was in the mood for a bit of action.  At first they were disturbed by the presence  of Becky Page, but figured out this was not some strange overture on Becky's part, just a friendly visit in the company of her friend Fucker, some old fashioned fan service.  Bekka/Becky signed plenty of autographs over the course of the evening, including going out front and scrawling her signature on a couple gas tanks.  The mamas didn't really grasp that Bekka's life was very different from theirs.  Becky Page did not offer sex on demand, all her non-marital liaisons were scheduled, and were with fellow employees of the studio, not with random horny guys.
     The Angels were all solicitous of Bekka/Becky, using their best manners.  They were fans, but fans with a name and a rep.  With a club member working with her, it seemed perfectly natural to the Angels that Becky Page would extend a hand in greeting, stopping by for a friendly visit.  The Angels seemed to grasp that Becky Page was a performer and actress, not a sex maniac.  No one propositioned her, not once.  She had, through conversation and action, made it clear that she was with me, and I would be protective of her.  The Angels enjoyed her company, and left it at that.
     I explained to a procession of Angels that yes, I was happily married to Becky Page.  No, I wasn't bothered that Becky fucked other men: hell, I'd hired them.  I gave my standard explanation about the difference between sex and performance, which seemed to be understood and accepted by the Angels.  They all seemed amazed that I routinely worked around gorgeous naked women and was neither unfaithful to Bekka or incredibly frustrated.  I told them, "My work environment is very strange, but I have adapted to it fully.  Those women are just employees, and they're there to do a job, a technical job.  It's just an unusual job to complete, something that most people can't understand.  To most people, watching porn being made would be a jarring, unsettling experience.  To me, it's just sort of boring at this point."
     Roach's (Fucker's) status seemed to have improved.  Not only did he prove that he wasn't full of shit, he was friends with Becky Page, but he'd brought her down to meet the guys.  Roach got his back slapped so much I was surprised he didn't get a tooth knocked loose.  Mutt, the president of the San Diego chapter, thanked Roach for livening up the evening in a positive way.  Mutt told Becky that if the San Diego Hell's Angels could be of any use to her or the studio, all she had to do was ask.  Becky thanked him cordially, saying that maybe a couple of underemployed Angels would like to earn some extra cash by helping with crowd control at the video signings,  $200 a day, plus gas and free meals.  Here's a business card for Inana, call Lenny if you think of a couple guys that would work.
     Before we left, Bekka/Becky hugged every Hell's Angel, plus the mamas and the bartender and a couple girlfriends, holding the Becky Page tradition.  This was greeted with great joy by the Angels, they had the World's Hottest Porn Star pressed against them.  Many of them trailed us out to the parking lot.  Interest was expressed in the Falcon.  I gave them the basic information, explaining that I drove the beast, I didn't work on it.
     We got on the 5 north.   Bekka seemed to settle nerves.  Roach said, "See?  There was never anything to worry about, the Angels are good people."
     I said, "I admit, those dudes were fine.  I was concerned there'd be a hassle over the arrival of unknown guests.  Nope, no  And they were all very mannerly with my wife, you know?"
     Bekka said to Roach, "I told Mutt that I was looking for a couple of guys who are unemployed or underemployed.  Inana will be hiring them to assist with crowd control at the round of signings we have coming up.  I figure that the presence of a couple Angels will convince people to not do anything disruptive."
     Roach said, "Remember, the Angels demand respect, in any situation.  Crowd control at one of those signings would not be a problem for us."
     Jane added, "Between Boss and having two Hell's Angels, plus Lenny, plus Terry keeping a special eye on Bekka, nobody is gonna fuck with the Inana girls."
     "Not without their day going to hell," I said.

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