Blood Rites (The Dresden Files 6)

Chapter Thirteen

After two or three tries, I got Genosa's phone to dial out to Murphy. "It's me, Murph. You get that information off the Internet?"

"Yeah. And then I talked to some people I know out there. I dug up some goodies for you."

"Peachy. Like what?"

"Nothing that will stand up in a court, but it might help you figure out what's going on."

"Wow, Murph. It's as if you're a detective."

"Bite me, Dresden. Here's the deal on Genosa. He's a dual citizen of the States and Greece. He's the last son of a big money family that fell on hard times. Rumor has it he left Greece to avoid his parents' debts."

"Uh- huh," I said. I continued searching through Genosa's desk and found a big old leather-bound photo album. "I'm listening."

"He wound up making and directing sex films. Did well investing the money, and he's worth a little more than four million, personally."

"Sex sells." I frowned, flipping through the photo album. It was neatly packed with excerpts from newspapers, transcripts, and photos of Genosa on the set of a number of national talk shows. There was another of him standing beside Hugh Hefner and surrounded by a number of lovely young women. "That's a lot of money. Is that all?"

"No," Murphy said. "He's paying alimony to three ex-wives out of some kind of fund set up to provide it. He's got almost all of what's left tied up in starting his own studio."

I grunted. "Genosa's under some serious pressure, then."

"How so?"

"He's only got about thirty-six hours to finish his movie," I said. "He's got one project done, but if he doesn't get a pair of profitable films, he'll lose the studio."

"You figure someone is trying to run him out of business?"

"Occam thinks so." I turned another page and blinked at the article there. "Damn."

"What?"

"He's a revolutionary."

"He's what?" Murphy asked.

I repeated myself redundantly again. "Apparently Arturo Genosa is considered a revolutionary in his field."

I could almost hear Murphy lift a skeptical eyebrow. "A revolutionary boink czar?"

"So it would seem."

She snorted. "How exactly do you get to become a porn revolutionary?"

"Practice, practice, practice?" I guessed.

"Wiseass."

I kept flipping pages, skimming the album. "He's been interviewed in about thirty magazines."

"Yeah," Murphy said. "Probably with illustrious names like... like Jugs-A-Poppin and Barely Legal Lolita Schoolgirls."

I thumbed through pages. "And People, Time, Entertainment Weekly, and USA Today. He's also been on Larry King and Oprah."

"You're kidding," she said. "Oprah? Why?"

"Hang on; I'm reading. It looks like he's got this crazy notion that everyone should be able to enjoy themselves in bed without going insane trying to meet an impossible standard. He thinks that sex is natural."

"Sex is natural," Murphy said. "Sex is good. Not everybody does it, but everybody should."

"I'm the wiseass. You're the cop. Respect my boundaries." I kept reading. "Genosa also casts people of a lot of different ages instead of using only twenty-year-old dancers. According to a transcript of Larry King, he avoids gynecological close-ups and picks people based on the genuine sensuality of their performance rather than purely on appearance. And he doesn't believe in using surgically altered... uh..."

My face heated up. Murphy was probably my best friend, but she was still a girl, and a gentleman just doesn't say some words in front of a lady. I held the phone with my shoulder and made a cupping motion in front of my chest with both hands. "You know."

"Boobs?" Murphy said brightly. "Jugs? Hooters? Ya-yas?"

"I guess."

She continued as if I hadn't said anything. "Melons? Torpedoes? Tits? Gazongas? Knockers? Ta-tas?"

"Hell's bells, Murph!"

She laughed at me. "You're cute when you're embarrassed. I thought breast implants were required industry equipment. Like hard hats and steel-toed boots for construction workers."

"Not according to Genosa," I said. "He's quoted here saying that natural beauty and genuine desire make for better sex than all the silicon in California."

"I'm not sure whether I should be impressed or a little nauseous," Murphy said.

"Six of one and half dozen of another," I said. "Bottom line is that he's not your average pornographic artist."

"I'm not sure that's saying much, Harry."

"If you'd said that before I met him, I'd probably have agreed. But I'm not so sure now. I don't get any nasty vibe off him. He seems like a decent guy. Taking some measure of responsibility. Challenging the status quo, even if it hurts his profits."

"I'm pretty sure there's no Nobel prize for pornography."

"My point is that he's applying some measure of integrity to it. And people are responding well to him."

"Except for the ones trying to kill him," Murphy said. "Harry, this is cynical, but people who choose a life like that draw problems down onto themselves sooner or later."

"You're right. That is cynical."

"You can't help everyone. You'll go insane if you try."

"Look, the guy is in trouble and he's a fellow human being. I don't have to love his lifestyle to want to keep bad things from happening to him."

"Yeah." Murphy sighed. "I guess I know this tune."

"Do you think I could convince you to-"

The skin on the back of my neck went cold and clammy, tingling. I turned to the office doorway in time to see the lights in the hall flick out. My heart pounded in sudden apprehension. A shadowy figure appeared in the office door.

I picked up the first thing my hand found, Genosa's heavy glass ashtray, and flung it hard at the figure. The ashtray rebounded off the inner edge of the door and struck whoever it was. I heard a voiceless gasp of air. At the same time something hissed past my ear. A sharp thumping sound came from the wall behind me.

I shouted at the top of my lungs and ran forward, but my foot tangled in the phone cord. It didn't tug me into a pratfall, but I stumbled, and it gave the shadowy figure time to run. By the time I'd recovered my balance and gotten to the hallway, I couldn't see or hear anyone.

The hall itself was dark, and I couldn't remember the locations of either light switches or doors, which made a headlong pursuit less than advisable. It occurred to me that I made a wonderful target, leaning out of the door of the dimly lit office, and I slipped back inside, shutting and locking the door behind me as I went.

I looked at whatever had thumped into the wall behind me, and found, of all the stupid things, a small dart fixed with exotic-looking yellow feathers fringed with a tinge of pink. I tugged the dart out of the wall. It was tipped with what appeared to be bone instead of metal, and the bone was stained with something dark red or dark brown. I had the feeling it wasn't Turtle Wax.

A poisoned blowgun dart. I'd been ambushed before, but that was pretty exotic, even for me. Almost silly, really. Who the hell got killed with poison blowgun darts these days?

A buzz of noise came from the dropped receiver of the phone. I picked up an empty plastic cigar tube from next to Genosa's humidor and slipped the dart into it, then capped it before I picked up the phone.

"Harry?" Murphy was demanding. "Harry, are you all right?"

"Fine," I said. "And it looks like I'm on the right track."

"What happened?"

I held up the cigar tube and peered at the dart. The poisoned tip gleamed with its semi-gelatinous stain. "It was pretty clumsy, but I think someone just tried to kill me."