- "Porn-Fed Steele" 1/?
Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2001
- Lauryn Poynor <email@example.com>
Part One - Rated NC-17
By Lauryn Andrea Poynor and Anne "Andrea" Rose
Thanks go out to Linda
Bonnell for beta reading and advice
All feedback is welcomed and encouraged
Permission to archive granted
Laura shivered against the evening chill, mentally berating
herself for not having worn sturdier clothes, or warmer clothes,
or more layers of clothes, or that item now at the top of her
most wanted list - sensible shoes. She had always taken a certain
surreptitious pride in the fact that she could shakedown any
suspect, collar any criminal, flag down any felon - in the spikiest
of sandals or most precarious of pumps. Extra points were smugly
awarded for apprehensions in full evening wear - but tonight,
she'd gotten off on the wrong foot entirely, and crime would
have to take a holiday.
She glanced down at her thin cotton espadrilles with mounting
chagrin. A sensible purchase at the time, she thought, but now
her feet were freezing and blisters were forming on both heels.
- Size six had felt too small and
six and a half slightly big.
Vanity had made her choose the six. Now her feet were taking
their slow and painful revenge. At least she had the luck to
be out of formal wear, and in casual slacks, cotton sweater,
and jacket, flimsy though they were proving to be against the
cold seeping through to her skin.
Teeth chattering, she glanced over at her partner who was
striding more quickly and far less painfully by her side.
Although she noticed his hands were in his pockets and the collar
of his suit jacket turned up against the wind, he seemed not
to really mind that the streetlights were fading and dampness
was hanging in the air. Brow furrowed, lost in thoughts of his
own, he appeared somehow, as he paced the concrete, to be perfectly,
and maddeningly, at home.
Laura lengthened her stride to keep up with him. "Mr. Steele,
as much as I'm enjoying the scenic wonders of this deluxe walking
tour of Hollywood Boulevard don't you think it's time we get
down to business?"
Startled, he slowed a bit and looked at her distractedly. "What
was that, Laura? Sorry, I must have been daydreaming."
"I said, don't you think it's time we get down to business?"
She pulled her jacket tightly against her chest, shivering as
she spoke the words into the chill air.
"Could you be a little more specific? After all, being dead
rather limits our options. What sort of business did you have
Steele's head snapped around, eyebrows raised, blue eyes wide
Laura slapped her forehead, flustered and annoyed at her
unconscious verbal slip. "I mean - sleeping arrangements,
um, finding a place to sleep, Mr. Steele."
"You always say precisely what you mean, Miss Holt. Such
admirable trait." He teased her with a lopsided grin. "I'd
be happy to oblige - although I was going to suggest we shower
"Just where are we going to find a place to sleep let alone
shower on ten bucks?"
"Laura, you're such a pessimist."
"Only around you."
"Relax, Miss Holt. I'm sure there's a park bench somewhere
big enough for both of us."
Laura stopped dead and grabbed him by the arm. "You're joking.
Sensing her growing anxiety, Steele turned to face her, resting
his hands on her shoulders. He smiled down at her in
reassurance. "I was. Yes. Well, not entirely. As options
park benches are several ranks down on the list."
"Oh? And what's first then?" Laura asked, her tone
mixture of dread and curiosity.
"Four blocks up and on the right, I think. He offered her
his arm. "Shall we?"
"A porno movie house?" Laura exclaimed in disbelief,
level rising into the stratosphere. She stared up at the
marquee, its bright red lettering displaying the feature for
the day - "Hot Hips Holly" - Rated Triple X.
"Laura, don't be so provincial. It's perfect. Meets all
requirements. Roof over our heads, open all night."
Laura stared daggers at Steele as he rattled on with growing
enthusiasm. "Cushioned furnishings, snack bar for those
night urges to nibble, widescreen entertainment -"
"You had it right the first time."
"Roof over our heads. Open all night. I think you hit the
good points - all two of them."
"Not quite. There's at least one more."
"Ha! What could it possibly be?"
"It's $9.95. For both of us. And it has central heating."
"Point taken." Laura glowered up at Steele's relieved
countenance. "I'm sold, Mr. Steele." She proceeded
ticket counter, walking gingerly. "As long as I can take
The grey-haired attendant barked at them in an accent somewhere
between Brooklyn and Queens, "Popcorn's on special tonight.
Fifty cents with each admission." He scratched at the collar
of his "I Love LA" T-shirt and pointed at the concession
stand. "Just show 'em your ticket."
Laura stared longingly at the rows of Raisinettes, Reese's
Pieces, and Hershey's Kisses. She breathed in the scent of
popcorn and chocolate until, light-headed, she found herself
grasping the sticky counter in weak-kneed reaction. "Mr.
Steele, can you spare a dime? I mean, fifty cents?"
Steele dug into the recesses of his trouser pockets for some
change. He spread out forty cents on the counter and frowned
down at it. "Laura I think I saw a dime out there on the
sidewalk. I'll go check. Just save me a spot in line, eh?"
"Jeez, I switch to the night shift and I get stuck with
the last of the big spenders." The fifty-ish blonde cashier
rolled her eyes in disbelief. "Tell ya what, just to speed
things up for Donald Trump here, I'll raid the penny jar."
"Bless you, madam. One special popcorn, please."
The blonde filled the container and glanced back at Steele.
"Plain or with butter? Just so you know, we throw in the
butter for free."
Steele eyed Laura, eyebrow raised questioningly.
"Plain, please." Best to be cautious, Laura decided.
Who knew what they put in the food in a place like this? "How
much are those Hershey's Kisses?"
"Dollar fifty. I'll check, but I don't think I have that
much in my penny jar."
"Laura, I think our account is a bit overdrawn. We agreed
wouldn't spend more than ten dollars."
The overpowering smell of chocolate filled Laura's nostrils.
She felt like a bow string pulled taut and ready to snap. "Mr.
Steele, maybe you could knock off that parking meter outside."
"Laura, please." Steele gave the cashier a nervous
"You're not yourself. Let's dig in to that popcorn, eh?
You'll feel better in no time."
"Sorry, Mr. Steele." Laura straightened and with visible
effort averted her eyes from the candy display. "I lost
my head. I'm fine, really." She released her tight grip
on the counter and picked up the popcorn. "Just fine."
She strode purposefully, eyes front, toward the theater entrance.
Steele shrugged apologetically and then turned to follow her.
The cashier called after them. "Hershey's Kisses are on
special Wednesday nights. Seventy-five cents. Maybe you can save
up for a big night on the town. You only live once, ya know."
The theater was nearly empty as they made their way down the
aisle. A contingent of frat boys from UCLA was exiting from the
rear, while a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses sat front
and center in the third row. His studious air was belied by the
filthy raincoat he wore buttoned up to his chin.
Steele spotted what he'd been looking for about midway from the
screen. "Since we're going to need to get some sleep Laura,
perhaps that love seat would be most comfortable." She nodded,
and limping slightly, moved sideways toward it until she was
able to sink gratefully into the cushions. She kicked off her
shoes with a relieved sigh. Steele joined her and they sat, squeezed
somewhat tightly together, thighs and knees touching. Their hands
remained resolutely in their laps.
Steele was first to break the silence. "Strangely enough,
I was here, sitting a few rows up, just last month."
"Mr. Steele, if you'd prefer not to share the experience
"Love to, Miss Holt. It was a marvelous film. An artistic
landmark. Exquisite acting and cinematography. A deep,
penetrating look at life and love in a small town."
Laura stared in complete surprise, pictures of him watching the
on screen action filling her mind. "Deep? Penetrating?"
"Jeff Bridges, Cybill Shepherd-"
"Cybill Shepherd is a porn star?"
"Nonsense, Laura. "The Last Picture Show." Cybill
Timothy Bottoms, Ben Johnson, Columbia,1971. Saw it here at the
midnight show. This theater used to run classic movies and that
was their final screening. Appropriate given the title, don't
you think? Two young men coming of age in a small Texas town
inherit a run-down cinema-"
Suddenly the house lights dimmed and a swift series of images
filled the screen. A rocket blasted from a launching pad as a
melodramatic voice-over intoned the words "countdown - to
ecstasy." Phallic symbols flashed in rapid succession: an
erupting volcano, an atomic mushroom cloud, an oil geyser, a
dam bursting, culminating in a final montage of male genitalia
being massaged to climax. The tag line boomed from the overhead
speakers: "Exxstasy Films. Nothing else - comes close."
Steele stared at the screen, feeling more than slightly
embarrassed. He was beginning to think this visit to the Hot
Hips Holly Holiday Inn was a very bad idea. He looked out of
the corner of his eye at Laura, anxiously awaiting her reaction.
Had he only imagined that sharp intake of breath a brief moment
ago? She seemed perfectly calm now, taking it all in stride.
Still, perhaps he should do the gentlemanly thing and - "Laura,
if you'd like to use my jacket and um, cover up as it were, or
perhaps we could move to the back row."
"Whatever for, Mr. Steele?" Laura munched her popcorn
apparent nonchalance. "My horizons are yours to expand.
Besides, now that I've taken off these shoes I'm not moving."
The floor felt very sticky under her stockinged feet. She didn't
want to imagine from what.
"Look, ah, I think I saw a water fountain outside. I'm going
to see if can get us a cup and some ice."
"Hurry back. I wouldn't want you to miss any cinematic
"Shouldn't take long. Errand of mercy. Thought you might
getting thirsty, Miss Holt."
"Oh, I am. How thoughtful of you to think of something to
cool me off, Mr. Steele."
"Yes, well, um, I'll see what I can find." He moved
aisle in a distracted fog, wondering if he was once more
misreading her signals.
"Well, Mr. Trump. We meet again. Find some spare change
under the seat?"
"Not exactly, um, Roxanne." Steele said with forced
cheerfulness, as he read her name from her plastic ID. "I
was wondering if I could interest you in a trade of sorts."
"Yeah?" She popped her gum. "What would that be?
The number to your secret Swiss bank account for a Milky Way?
Keys to your Mercedes for some Raisinettes?"
Steele dug deeply into his trouser pockets until he unearthed
a pair of solid gold cuff links. He placed them on the counter
and said with grim finality, "These. For a large cup of
He noted with satisfaction the flicker of greed that crossed
her face. "Are those real gold?" She lifted them in
her palm, testing their weight. They seemed real, she thought,
but what was too good to be true was usually exactly that.
"Turn them over."
"Cartier? No kidding? Nah, they gotta be knock offs."
looked around nervously.
"What if they aren't?" He smiled slightly, knowing
She scooped them up and thrust them into the pocket of her
"On second thought," Steele said, "I'll have a
large Sprite and a large Diet Coke. With extra ice. And a bag
of Hershey's Kisses."
Still eyeing him with suspicion, Roxanne filled his order quickly
and turned off her register. "OK, Donald, now you're on
your own. Snack bar's closed."
"It's been a pleasure." Steele flashed her an insincere
smile. He knew the blonde would be on her way to the nearest
pawnshop by morning. He could redeem the cuff links later, once
they had arranged a safe meeting with Mildred. He found them
when he'd been digging in his pockets for change. He'd started
to wear them on the trip back from New York, but changed to another
pair. The trade had been worth it. Laura hadn't eaten for hours.
He'd eaten a light meal on the plane but she hadn't been hungry.
Too tired to eat, she'd said.
Steele gathered his hard won trophies and headed back to the
theater. If only he had carried more cash he and Laura wouldn't
be scraping for pennies. Not carrying cash was an old habit.
Sometimes, in his former life, he'd simply been skint, flatbroke.
But even when he wasn't, he packed light. He knew better than
most that a fat wallet was fair game for any passerby with light
Somehow, Steele felt, someone from his past was tied up in all
of this, in the murders at his apartment. He'd been outwardly
calm and reassuring for Laura's sake but he knew he had placed
her in danger, in the path of a killer. He would do anything
he could, use any skills he possessed, to keep her safe and alive.
He hoped it would be enough.
When he arrived, carrying the drinks and candy she stared at
him in wonder. "Mr. Steele. How on earth -?"
"Our friendly bleached blonde at the concession stand. I've
seen her before at the track. Swapped these for a tip on a horse."
He handed her the Diet Coke and the Hershey's Kisses.
"You're a hard bargainer, Mr. Steele." She tore open
the bag, breathing in its restorative scent. "I hope it
was a good tip."
"A solid gold tip if ever there was one." Steele slid
in close beside her. She felt warm and dry and smelled pleasantly
of popcorn. Light from the screen flickered across her face as
she savored a bite of a chocolate kiss. Her eyes were closed,
one corner of her mouth lifting up in a dreamy smile. He smiled
During his absence, trailers had continued to hawk the coming
attractions. He stared, idly curious, at the scene, as groups
of topless biker chicks roared in tandem down the highway. "It
was a long, strange trip," the narration began, "through
the Summer of Love - 1967. Hippies and Harley honeys only after
one thing: something big, throbbing and powerful to put between
their legs. They were - Sleazy Riders." An ersatz version
of "Born to Be Wild" blared from the speakers as the
screen filled with well endowed bikers sporting leather and tattoos
being rhythmically and enthusiastically straddled by various
Even a second rate version of "Born to be Wild" took
Laura back to her college days. How often had she abused the
speakers in her bright yellow ragtop by cranking that song to
the max? True, her VW Beetle always sounded more like a washing
machine than a Panhead Harley when she revved it up - but in
those simpler times there was room on the open road for everyone.
Score one for democracy.
Her circle of friends in college had been mostly male and she
had never formed many close female friendships. She wondered
what those over-achieving girls from 4 East would say if they
could see her now. There was only one female she'd known who
wouldn't bat an eyelash at her current predicament.
Jolene McSwain, n_e Robicheaux, was from Cajun country in Bayou
Teche. A sharp-eyed stunner with a head (and a body) for business,
she and Laura crossed paths in a few Business Math courses and
struck up an unorthodox friendship. When her scholarship ran
out, Jolene worked the pole in a strip club until she hooked
up with a boyfriend in the blue movie business. Hearing someone
croon "Give me some o' dat, bay-be" in a sexy Cajun
accent, 38DD bra and crotchless panties, was pretty novel and
soon she was on her way to being a headliner.
Laura and a few of her dorm mates were dragged to the local porn
palace in hopes of a glimpse of Jolene in all of her glory, but
even when she wasn't on screen her riotous commentary on the
ins and outs of the action had them in stitches.
After graduation Jolene moved to Hollywood and Laura lost track
of her until one day she got a call that she was glad Bernice
didn't answer. Jolene, who now worked as a producer, discovered
that several months' worth of film footage was missing from the
inventory and she needed to know why and pronto. Laura tried
to beg off but Jolene insisted she come down to the set and investigate
all of the likely suspects. They're just professionals, like
everyone else, Laura reasoned. Also, the agency was struggling
in those early days before Steele made his appearance, and Jolene
had cash to burn.
After a week on the set posing as Jolene's personal assistant,
Laura uncovered the culprits. It was an inside scheme to sell
off the film stock to a rival company in the underground market
overseas. Laura's experience had been an eye-opener to say the
least, but a well paid one, and definitely a change from the
buttoned down office routine.
Some of the male suspects had made some unsubtle passes, but
she'd only been slightly tempted. The thought of a romp with
someone who was long past amateur status seemed a bit too
experimental for comfort.
The trickiest part of the whole business had been hiding the
nature of the case from Murphy and Bernice. Jolene wasn't exactly
a shrinking violet. Laura had been terrified whenever the phone
rang that Jolene's husky Cajun cadence would purr across the
line. Laura sent up a fervent prayer of thanks that Mr. Steele
hadn't been with the agency then. With his uncanny ability to
hone in on any hidden deceptions of hers, he would have ferreted
out the truth, she was sure of it.
She was suddenly terribly curious about something. What would
Mr. Steele think of her if he knew it now? Would he be shocked?
Turned on? She pushed the questions to the back of her mind.
Part of her would take devious pleasure in shaking him up a little
buther rational side was stronger, at least for the moment. Whoknew
how he'd react? Why look for trouble? She had a feeling before
this night was over they both would have more than they could
Thoughts of the past had temporarily rescued her from having
to think about what was going to happen tonight both on and off
screen. Suddenly Laura was becoming acutely aware of his
closeness. In the narrow confines of the loveseat there was no
way for them to sit without their bodies touching. Steele was
watching the screen surreptitiously, she noted, chin turned away
from her and slightly downward, like a schoolboy cribbing from
his classmate's homework. Startled, his head snapped up when
she touched his arm.
"Popcorn, Mr. Steele?"
"Oh, you finish it off, Miss Holt. I've had all I can handle
"I still have plenty of Kisses."
"Hmm. Perhaps we'll save those for later."
The last of the red hot skinflick trailers had bumped and grinded
to a halt and the feature presentation was about to start. Over
the distractions of a pounding disco beat and an overworked smoke
machine, a day in the life of "Hot Hips Holly," an
exotic dancer at "The Executive Sweet," was revealed:
a tale of naked ambition and steamy, sequined sex. The portrait
of a young up and comer, bent on dethroning her glamorous, but
fading rival. It was "All About Eve" with pasties,
Velcro-snap G-strings, and "go, lover, go."
A big-haired blonde in a fur bikini and a leopard skinned garter
was re-touching her nails. "Kid, I got thongs older than
you and I seen lots of girls work the catwalk. You ain't gonna
beat Venus Envy at her own game. She's got moves you can only
The raven haired Venus, wearing jeweled sandals and a glittering,
white G-string under her toga-inspired wrap, smugly agreed. "I've
got a hundred moves, little girl, and you ain't even up to "love
At this jibe, Laura burst into a fit of giggles. She glanced
over at Steele, who wasn't laughing. He'd probably never heard
that song before. One of these days she was going to teach him
there was more to life than Gershwin and Sinatra.
Steele shushed her with annoyance. "Laura, please. You really
don't want to attract any unwanted attention in here."
"Where's your sense of humor, Mr. Steele?"
"I'm sure it will return as soon as it hears something that's
actually funny." He folded his hands in his lap and stared
pointedly at the screen as if he was daring Laura to crack a
Venus continued her short list of insults. "Why, good golly
Miss Holly. What was the name of that low rent club you used
to work in? 'The Bush League?'"
Holly tossed her chestnut mane and hiked up her leather bustier.
"The clubs I headlined don't hire women your age - you've
been around the block so many times you could run a marathon
without breaking a sweat."
Good golly. The Clovers and now Little Richard, Laura mused.
It was an unexpected twist. Unfortunately, the dialogue soon
degenerated into the more monosyllabic, once Venus undraped and
launched into her Roman orgy routine. Friends, Romans, and countrymen
(toga partying strip club customers) were serviced with a smile
and all three of the working girls lost their Vestal virginity.
"Give it to me, Maximus. Your juicy love javelin, and you
too, Brutus," Venus moaned as the threesome tied itself
into a love knot.
"Love javelin? Oh my. I've never heard that term for it
before. You know, that dark-haired Maximus fellow looks a bit
like you - under that laurel wreath."
"You're joking, Laura. I'd say he's several inches shy."
"Is he, really? Are you saying he doesn't quite measure
up, Mr. Steele?"
"Most definitely not."
"You know," Laura teased, deliberately misreading the
sexual reference, "I have to agree. They say most male porn
stars are under 5'8". Makes, ah, other things look bigger
Steele was immediately on the alert. "Where did you pick
up that bit of information, Miss Holt?"
End Part 1
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