Free Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) by Scott Sherman Page B

and dry on two shoots. Unacceptable. Sorry, but you’re not the only one he’s stiffing. Or, not stiffing, as the case may be.” He chuckled at his play on words.
    “Are you worried?” I asked.
    “Worried? Why would I be worried? Yes, we lose money if we have to cancel a shoot, but in both cases, the director was able to use the sets and crew to shoot solos. Although, that doesn’t excuse Brent’s unprofessionalism.”
    Wow. A young man goes missing and the only thing this guy cares about is how it affects his bank account.
    “No,” I said. “I meant, are you worried about Brent? ”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Well.” I was almost at a loss for words. Did I really have to explain this to him? “My understanding is that Brent was always very responsible. All of a sudden, he drops out of sight and stops answering his phone. Maybe something happened to him.”
    Mason laughed. “Oh, that’s sweet. I’m sure something did happen to him, sweetcheeks. He hooked up with a sugar daddy. Or he found religion. Or he met a nice boy—or a nice girl—and he plans to settle down. White picket fence and all. Of course, there’s always the more likely possibility he’s on a meth binge holed up in a crack house somewhere.
    “My point is: Something is always happening with these boys. They’re not exactly the most stable employees. They come and go. They’re young, self-centered, and distracted by whatever shiny thing comes along next. One learns not to worry, Kevin. Well, not about them .” That also got a little laugh from him. “My business, though, that I worry about. I don’t think Samuel Goldwyn had to put up with this kind of nonsense when he built MGM.”
    Parts of what Mason said sounded almost exactly like Kristen LaRue’s responses. Did they rehearse these lines? Or was it more likely the case that the “whatever happened to . . .” question had come up in regard to so many men before Brent that the answer became rote?
    I knew from my time as an escort that boys dropped in and out of the biz frequently, sometimes for the reasons Mason described. I could see where it would get tiresome for him and Kristen to constantly face questions from fans and press wondering why their favorite performers weren’t making new videos.
    At least from Kristen, though, I got the sense he thought of Brent as a human being worthy of consideration. Mason’s cold assessment made it clear he regarded Brent solely as a product—one that concerned him only to the degree it was no longer profitable.
    “Well,” I said, “I’d feel better if I knew Brent was okay. All I have is his mobile number. Do you have any others? Or an address? Did he give you contact information in case of an emergency?”
    “Come in and we’ll talk about it.”
    “I’d love to,” I lied, “but it’ll probably take me a few days to get over there. Could I get the info now and call you later in the week for an appointment?”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “Listen, kid, I’m running a business here, not a dating service. Whatever Brent is up to, he isn’t making me any money. I need a fresh face to replace him. A studio like SwordFight runs on archetypes. We have the muscle daddy on deck with Brock Peters. We have a popular group of Chelsea gym types like Tag and Atlas. We’ve got bears, circuit boys, a couple of trannies on call. We’ve got S&M stars like Pierce Deepley and The Dominator. We . . .”
    Pierce Deepley? Where had I heard that name before? “The guy who answered your phone? I thought he was the receptionist.”
    “ ‘Pierce Deepley’ doesn’t sound like a porn name to you?” Mason asked somewhat incredulously. “Five years ago, he was one of the biggest names in the business. But the market for staged S&M has kind of bottomed out, excuse the expression. He makes an occasional film, but he mainly works as my assistant now.”
    Nothing like an S&M master to run an efficient office, I imagined.
    “What we’re missing,”