Canter’s was a cultural relic right out of Old Hollywood. Walking in off Fairfax Boulevard, Jackson could feel the vibrations shift, passing under the blue beveled sign. Tubular neon letters now dim against the Tangerine glow of the midday sun, as he crossed over from pavement to tile. He was met with a knowing grin. He followed the gentle swing of the hostess’ hips, as she led him through the packed dining room. The décor hadn’t changed since the place had opened in ’53. A timeless haunt. The only time they closed was on Jewish holidays. They passed a line of occupied booths: butcher block tables sandwiched between dark orange faux-leather, buffed to a glossy shine. You could feel the history between the cracks in the conversation. Old-timers and industry movers in their prime, resonated complete with the adult contemporary jazz ambiance. At the end of the line of booths, he was greeted by a familiar face.

Opti stood to greet Jackson. “Hey. How are ya, pal?” he said, and they shook hands.

“Hey, I’m good, thanks,” Jackson said, sliding into the booth.

“You’re staying to eat, right?”

“Sure,” Jackson said.

“Best corned beef Reuben in the city.”

“I’ve heard.”

“So, how’s things?” Opti said.

“Good. Good. Final shoot’s tomorrow,” Jackson said.

“No shit?”

“If everything goes well,” Jackson said. “You know.”

“Indeed I do,” Opti said. “Got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Just give it to me straight,” Jackson said. “Don’t pull any punches.”

“You know I never do.”

Dominic “Opti” Russo had gotten his nickname in the ring. A New England Golden Gloves champion, back in ’61, “Opti” was short for “The Optician.” The story goes, Opti knocked out a guy named Jimmy “Skids” Santiago in the first round of the final fight. Santiago ended up with a detached retina, and from then on Dominic Russo was known as “The Optician.” Opti for short.

Opti had a way of looking at a guy, stone-faced with sleepy eyelids. He’d give a guy a subtle nod, and it was as though he was looking right through you. “We’re moving over to VHS.”

“That so?” Jackson said.

“You heard about it?” Opti said. “The Video Home System?”

The beginning of the end. “Yeah. I’ve heard of it,” Jackson said.

“It’s a home version of what they use in broadcast,” Opti said.

Explaining something Jackson already fucking knew.

“Look, it’s where everything’s headed,” Opti said.

“So I’ve heard.”

“And you’ve got some kind of problem with that?” Opti said.

“I didn’t say that,” Jackson said.

“You didn’t have to,” Opti said. “It’s written all over your face. Look, this fuck film auteur stuff you’ve been chasing—it just isn’t practical anymore.”

“Don’t they run about a grand a pop?”

“Sure,” Opti said. “But it’s new technology. It’ll come down. It’s where my friends want to put their money.”

Opti’s inroads into the motion picture business came right out of Boston’s North End—The Front Office, is what they preferred to call it. On top of that, his cousin had a small role in The Godfather, and he was chummy with another Godfather actor: Mo Green, AKA Alex Petricone, also a real wiseguy with Winter Hill.

“So what’s the good news?”

“We can sell the tapes for a hundred bucks a pop. The adult bookstores have all started renting them out.”

Back in ’77, Jackson would have laughed at the prospect of VHS. Porno was entering the mainstream, as a serious art form. Deep Throat and Behind The Green Door had set a precedence. The world was jettisoning the old Judeo-Christian underpinnings when it came to sex. And Jackson had planned to ride the Porno Chic wave from one cresting orgasm to the next. And now this.

“Don’t you see what this means?” Opti said. “We minimize production costs and maximize profits.”

Jackson realized it had always been that way. He’d first met Opti inside The Naked I, back in Boston’s Combat Zone. Jackson was fresh out of NYU film school, and anxious to work on his chops. Opti was already in tight with The Front Office, something someone had to later explain to Jackson. Jackson, who’d grown up in the North End, had always known about 98 Prince Street, the shops that paid tribute, the protection rackets. But he’d never really been a part of that life. Besides that, he was half Irish. His father was Italian, though. So he could have been part of that world. Jackson had become officially involved with his benefactors back in ’74, same year the second “Godfather” came out. But none of the guys Jackson ever met even vaguely resembled Al Pacino or Marlon Brando. Appearance or persona. They were all mostly a bunch of fat slobs, with receding hairlines. Most of them could barely speak without using the words “fuck” or “cunt.” Jackson wondered if they’d ever make a film that would get it right.

“I could care less about the money,” Jackson said. “For the most part, you know?”

“Well, clearly,” Opti said with a backwards down-up wave of the fingers, “You’re spending all your money on clothes.”

Jackson had put on a black, collared dress shirt he’d tucked into his Levi’s, and called it good enough.

Opti sported an open dress shirt, displaying a Hebrew torture device on a chain, under a luminous gray double breasted Armani blazer. The cut was so sharp it made his 240 pounds on a 6-foot frame look svelte. When he snapped at the waitress to hustle over, he did so with all the charm and compassion of an SS officer.

The waitress rushed over with a rigid obedience, but relaxed when Jackson smiled, and said “Hey, how are ya?” He loved that he could do that.

Opti held up an empty tumbler. “Another one of these. We’re ready to order now, sweetie. I’ll get the corned beef Reuben. With onion rings” Opti chinned Jackson an unspoken ga’head.

“Pastrami Reuben.” Jackson said. “And a tonic.”

“He means club soda,” Opti said.

She swished her pen across the pad. Her perfume smelled like lilacs. The waitress, a strawberry blonde whose nametag read “Stephanie,” had what Jackson called a beaming innocence. She probably took one look at Opti with his pinky ring and sharp suit and figured he was a Hollywood producer—which wasn’t all that far from the truth. Still, Jackson thought if she knew what either of them really did—if she knew what this town really did, she’d be on the first Greyhound bus back to Iowa. She’d find out soon enough.

Stephanie took longer than a moment with direct eye contact. “Excellent choice, sir. And what would you like on the side?”

“Side salad,” Jackson said.

“Perfect,” Stephanie said, offering a flirty grin. “Sounds great gentlemen,” Stephanie said. “Coming right up.”

She had what Jackson called an ass built for porn, and both men watched her walk away.

“See that?” Opti said.

“Course I did. We just shared the same rearview.”

“Nah, the way she smiled at you,” Opti said. “She was checking you out.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Course you didn’t—you get it all the time. That’s your gift, pal.”

“Getting a waitress to flirt with me? Some gift. She’s looking for a tip.”

“A fat tip in her love hole. You ought to give that girl one of your business cards,” Opti said. “Come to think of it, it’s always been like that with you.”

“Been like what?”

“The chicks. They always dug you. You never even tried. Like that one chick that time—the one with the short hair. From UMass. What was her name? The one who posed nude for you on camera, ten minutes after you met her.”

“Darlene.”

“For free.”

“She was a free spirit. What can I say?”

“And you’re not even all that good looking,” Opti said. “It’s a mystery to me.”

“How would you know?”

Stephanie brought Opti his scotch, and Jackson his club soda.

“All I’m saying is, you ought to just follow the money,” Opti said. “Instead of getting hung up on this vision of yours.”

“What do you know about having a vision?”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

Jackson took a healthy swig of his club soda, as if on cue.

“You’re tossing that back, like it’s going to make a difference. I’ll tell you what they see. A guy pushing 40, who makes fuck films for perverts to jerk off to.”

“I’m 34.”

“Close enough.”

If he could see his reflection in that moment, Jackson would have added enraged to Opti’s description.

“What really bothers you, is your image,” Opti said. “How people see you.”

“And what does your wife see, when she looks at you?”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Opti’s face was now glazed with a deepening rage. “What do you mean by that? Huh?”

Opti was leaning forward now. There was a heat around his eyes, as they beamed daggers, and that was a good thing. The alternative was a frozen cool. Emotionless dark irises looking like a shark’s eyes, just before they rolled over. A look from Opti Jackson had only seen once, and it wasn’t directed at him. The recipient was an associate—one of Opti’s own, more or less. A guy under indictment, who’d made the fatal mistake of running his mouth to the feds. He never made it to the stand.

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answer may tend to incriminate me,” Jackson said.

Opti’s hateful glare melted. “You son of a bitch,” he said and laughed.

Jackson snickered.

“A loving father, and a model husband—to answer your question. Besides, Marie’s from Medford. Her father’s old school. She always knew the deal.”

“And does she know about last New Year’s?”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “You tell me. Or rather, you told me. Remember?”

“Look,” Opti said. “I was coked out of my fuckin’ gourd.”

“When you told me, or when it happened?”

“Hey,” Opti said. “You didn’t tell anyone about that, did you?”

“Nah,” Jackson said. “’Course not.”

According to Opti, some guy named “Henry” had given him a blowjob on New Year’s Eve, 1978. Before the ball dropped, as he put it. Henry, who was involved in some BC point-shaving scheme, was apparently some Lucchese family associate. A guy whose loose lips—literally, could spell out the same three letter word that could seal both their fates.

“Fag, is a word we all throw around,” Opti said. “But you never want it to mean something. Know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, but receiving,” Jackson said. “Instead of giving. Don’t you get some kind of pass—”

“Like receiving stolen goods?” Opti said, downing the rest of his scotch. “Only if you’re inside.”

“It’s funny,” Jackson said. “You know my mom, she’s sure I’m queer.”

“What?!”

“Oh yeah,” Jackson said. “You talk about old-school. I’m not married. No kids—that I know of. No steady relationship. I’m out in California…”

“Wait a second—didn’t you move her out here?”

“Lake View Terrace.”

“Where the fuck is that?”

“The Valley. They shot Easy Rider there.”

“Never saw it.”

“Smokey and The Bandit.”

“Good picture. Must be a swinging place.”

“Hardly. But it’s why I never shoot porn in the valley.”

“Too close to home?”

“Something like that. She thinks I run a modeling agency.”

Opti snickered. “That’s what it says on your business cards.”

“She’s Catholic. You know.”

“A fanook? Seriously? All the choice trim you run around with?”

“Yeah, but I don’t take anyone home,” Jackson said. “I don’t even shack up with a broad for more than a single night.”

“See, that’s your problem right there,” Opti said. “There’s girls you have a good time with, and there’s girls you take home to meet your mother. But you always pay for it one way or another.”

“Says who?” Jackson said. “Your people?”

“Says everyone,” Opti said.

“Then they’re all liquored up,” Jackson said. “You see a drink in my hand?”

“Woopty-fuckin’ doo. Then something else’ll getcha,” Opti said. “What are you trying to be an organ donor? So when you kick, you’ll still have a pristine liver?”

As if right on cue, Stephanie arrived to replenish both their drinks, she placed Jackson’s club soda in front of him first, with a hidden smile, then slid Opti’s scotch down in front of him, on top of a cocktail napkin. “Be right back,” she said, before returning with two more trays. Then she gave them each their plates in the same order.

Jackson, the one with the keener eye spotted what looked like bruises on her arm, covered up amateurishly with splotchy makeup. “How long have you been in town?”

“Six weeks.”

“Been on any auditions?”

“Yeah,” Stephanie said. “One. They didn’t call me back, though.”

Jackson reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. It was a sharp-looking card—black, with a gold, raised font.

Stephanie took the card. “Jackson Steel Productions. Modeling and exotic photography.”

“You ever do any modeling?” Jackson said. “You’ve got a nice body.”

“Thanks,” Stephanie said. Her face must’ve felt warm when she got a little flushed, but she started to relax. “Yeah. A little. I won a bikini contest back home. When I was in high school.”

“How long ago was that?” Opti asked.

“Are you comfortable getting nude?” Jackson asked, with a serious look, studying her reaction.

“Um,” Stephanie said, like she wasn’t sure herself, what would come next. “I—I don’t know about that. I wasn’t raised to—”

“Don’t worry about it, just come in on Thursday morning, and we’ll ah, give you a screening. I won’t make you do anything you aren’t comfortable with, promise. Address is on the card.”

“Great. Thanks, Mr. Steel,” Stephanie said. “I can come first thing on Thursday,” and slid the card into her pocket.

Jackson chinned a knowing nod at Opti, who flashed a smirk and must’ve taken as a challenge.

“I’m a Hollywood producer too, sweetheart. Why don’t you take my card, too,” Opti said, and pulled out what was likely the fattest wad of money she’d ever seen. Twenties wrapped in a two-thousand-dollar roll. Stephanie just stared.

“Go ahead, wrap your little hand around it.”

Stephanie froze.

“Ga’head,” Opti said. “it’s not going to bite.”

Stephanie reached over and gripped the wad, but all she could do was make a C with her tiny digits. It was too thick for her fingertips to meet. She tugged on it, and Opti held it firm, not allowing her to jerk it free from his grip. She let out a giggle.

“What time you get off?” Opti said.

She pulled her hand away from Opti’s wad. “Oh. Um. I don’t think—”

“I said, what time do you get off?”

“Eleven,” Stephanie said.

“That’s a little past my bedtime,” Opti said. “Why don’t you go on break. It could be your big break.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what this is…”

“Sure you do,” Opti said. Now he was flashing the wad, wagging it back and forth, showing off its girth.

Stephanie stared at it. It might’ve been her third waitressing job in three weeks. Maybe she had a degenerate abusive, boyfriend she’d come out to Hollywood from Sticksville waiting at home for her in some roach-infested studio in Boyle Heights. The bus ride back to a shithole like that alone would be enough motivation.

“Tell you what, Steph. I’ll come back at eleven. I’ll be out front. Pearl white Eldorado,” he said, sliding the fat wad back into his breast pocket. “I’ll give you the business, if you still want my card,” Opti said. Grinning smugly, as he locked eyes with Stephanie, while raising the sandwich to his widening jaws.

“I’m afraid I’ve got other plans.” She swallowed hard. “Your check will be waiting for you up front,” Stephanie said, her eyes darting to Jackson offering a nod with pursed lips that said. I’m sorry, before she turned to walk away.

“See you at eleven,” Opti said to her back. It was unclear if she’d heard him or not. “When I count the freckles on that plump little pink ass.”

“Very subtle,” Jackson said, digging into his Reuben.

“She’ll come around,” Opti said. “You think I could fit in her asshole?”

“Jesus Christ, Opti. I’m eating here.”

Opti cut into his veal. “Got some muscle relaxants from my chiropractor.”

“She’s you know, a nice girl,” Jackson said.

“Says the pornographer.”

“Look,” Jackson said. “You got to ease a girl like that into it…”

Opti burst into laughter, almost choking on his corned beef.

“Nah, nah. Hey, I don’t mean it like that. She’s not used to, you know, guys like you…”

“A nice girl? She’s a nice fuckin’ girl because that’s where the smart money is for her. You see how she was admiring my wad? Once you tuck a wad like that in that little tart’s g-string, and that nice fuckin’ girl will be down on all fours begging Uncle Dominic for more,” Opti said. “And what’s with this ‘guys like you,’ and this, ’your people’ shit? You’re half a fuckin’ dago. You’re one foot in.”

“I’m not even one baby-toe in, paisan,” Jackson said. “And you know it. I answer to you. You answer to them.”

“Yeah, speaking of that,” Opti said, wiping the corners of his mouth. “Wednesday’s the day. The balance plus the vig.”

“About that,” Jackson said. “I’m going to need an extension.”

“No extensions,” Opti said.

“C’mon,” Jackson said. “I’m good for it.”

“Look, I don’t get extensions,” Opti said. “So you don’t extensions. Capisci?”

“So, what if I don’t?”

Opti gave him that dead-eye look. The one he’d forgotten about, that jogged his memory real quick. The one that said friends is friends. Business is business.

“So. What? Twice the vig?” Jackson said. “Two points plus two points?”

“Ten percent.”

Jackson dropped his utensils. “What?”

“Ten percent if it’s a week late,” Opti said, shoveling a tender chunk of veal into his mouth.  “After that, consider it totaled. Capisci?”

Totaled. That was where your medical bills outweighed the vig, and possibly the principle. Jackson felt his stomach drop.

“Relax, you’ve got forty-eight hours,” Opti said. “Oh, and one more thing. I don’t ever want to hear that New Year’s thing cross your lips again. We straight?”

Jackson nodded.

“Better dig into that pastrami. It’s getting cold.”

–