“He’s been in adult films,” she said. “But the real money is in the directing and producing. He came home to do that.”

“He’s from Minnesota?” asked Garcia.

“Straight off the soybean field.” She paused. “But don’t get me wrong. Skip isn’t a Jethro. He’s smart. He has a degree in philosophy.”

So that’s what philosophy majors did after college: direct porn. “How is the money?” asked Bernadette.

“It’s coming,” said the young woman. “Some of his old high school buds are backing him on these fetish films.”

Bernadette was intrigued. A clique of country boys was interested enough in water porn to pour money into it. She turned to the fuchsia sweater. “We’re good if you need to get back to the desk.”

“You sure? I can take you over there,” she said, casting an interested glance at Garcia.

“We’re not shy.” Bernadette looked across the room. “We’ll find Skip and introduce ourselves.”

“Okay.” She jiggled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“How do you know who Fabio is?” Bernadette whispered to Garcia.

He grinned. “Just shut up about it.”

“Let’s go into the light,” Bernadette said, and they made a straight line for the knot of activity.

Chapter 19

THE JERK’S GIRLFRIEND wasn’t exaggerating. Skip masterman could pass for Fabio—until he opened his mouth. He had long yellow teeth with a gap between the top set, scary choppers that gave him a wolflike appearance. Like everyone else, he was dressed in jeans and a T. The front of his shirt had a movie camera on it, and the words “I’m Famous in Europe.” A diamond studded his left lobe; the rock was the size of a thumbtack.

Standing at the elbow of a stocky woman armed with a tiara and a hand mirror, Masterman directed the positioning of a huge water tank that was being wheeled in front of the cameras and lights. Unlike the tanks Bernadette had viewed over the Internet, this one was horizontal. It resembled a giant aquarium.

“Right here,” he said, pointing with a pencil to an X chalked on the concrete floor. “Center it right here.”

The three men wheeling the tank missed the mark, positioning the tank to the right of the X.

Masterman marched over to the X and repeatedly stomped his foot on top of it. “Here! Here! Here!”

“This thing keeps … getting away from us,” said one of the crewmen, panting as he pushed the tank left toward the mark. The front of his jeans was wet from water splashing over the sides.

“The floor is sloped or something,” panted another of the trio.

Where was the diving diva? Scanning the crowd, Bernadette’s eyes landed on a large-breasted blonde wrapped in a bathrobe. The young woman didn’t seem the least bit nervous about the prospect of getting dunked naked into a tank of water. She was busy puffing on a cigarette, flicking the ash onto the floor as she watched the three struggling crewmen. “That must be the star,” Bernadette whispered to Garcia.

“Must be,” he said, his eyes locked and loaded.

“So you recognize her?”

“Yeah. No. I mean—” He saw her smirking. “Funny.”

Masterman stepped off the X and watched the trio again miss the mark, this time wheeling the tank too far to the left. “Jesus H. Christmas,” he spat. “Why is this so difficult?”

“Is the water still warm?” the robed woman asked no one in particular.

“It’s perfect, Tiff,” Masterman answered without tearing his eyes off the X.

“It was cold yesterday,” she said, and flicked another ash onto the floor. “I froze my ass off.”

“You’ll feel like you’re back in the womb,” said a guy with a clipboard.

Masterman looked over at the clipboard guy with a grin. That’s when the director spotted Bernadette and Garcia. He tucked the pencil behind his ear and walked over with an outstretched hand. “Hello.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Masterman.” Bernadette accepted his big mitt while trying to imagine all the places it had been during the course of his career. She was glad she’d kept her leather gloves on her hands. “My partners e-mailed you earlier today.”

“Capital City Venture,” he said, shaking Garcia’s hand vigorously. “I’ve heard of your group. Impressive projects.”

Garcia fired back with a similar line of bullshit. “Your films are what’s impressive.”

Masterman turned around and addressed his crew. “Take ten, kids.”

The trio struggling with the tank started to walk away, digging their smokes out of their pockets.

“Not you, bozos,” Masterman yelled. “Keep working on positioning that water. X marks the spot.”

“I hate that X,” one of them groused, and the three of them returned to muscling the tank into place.

Masterman turned back to his visitors. “Which one is your favorite?”

Bernadette frowned. “What?”

“Which of my films is your favorite?”

Recognizing a lose-lose situation, Garcia kept his mouth shut. Bernadette thought back to the clip Creed had shown her. “The one with the fire hoses. The critics gave it four out of five, right?”

Masterman thumbed over his shoulder to the scene behind him. “This one is going to take the top prize. I’m sure of it.”

She wondered what the top prize was called. The Platinum Penis? “Good to hear,” she said.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“Chris Udahl.” She dug Creed’s business card out of her coat and passed it to him. “This is another partner … Mr. Richard Ricardo.”

Garcia smiled pleasantly.

Masterman stuffed the card in the front pocket of his jeans without looking at it. “Questions? Comments?”

“I understand you have another Minnesota group financing your films at the moment,” said Garcia.

“You’ve done your research,” he said, crossing his arms and tucking his hands under his armpits. “They want to keep a low profile, however, so I’m unable to discuss the particulars.”

Bernadette said, “I was hoping to talk to them about their experience, what they know about the industry, whether this would be a wise—”

“Their experience is limited to writing out the checks,” the director interrupted. “They’ve never expressed an interest in visiting a set or meeting any of the talent. All they care about is whether I turn a profit, which I do.”

Garcia asked, “They don’t care about the subject matter?”

Masterman said, “I could be doing a Civil War documentary.”

“You seem to be carving out a niche for yourself in the fetish area, water fetishes in particular. What’s the market like for those sorts of specialty films? What sort of person watches them?” asked Bernadette, thinking about the professor.

“Everyone watches them,” Masterman said. “Fetish films, Web sites, and magazines—they’re all growing like gangbusters.”

“What’s fueling the interest?” asked Garcia. “Are people practicing this stuff more and more in their own bedrooms?”

“I think they watch when they aren’t getting action at home,” the director said. “This is the only thing left, the only turn-on besides hookers.” He paused, then declared with a straight face: “We’re performing a public service.”

Garcia said, “Keeping them off the streets, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Bernadette eyed the crew wrestling with the water tank. “But why do some men get turned on by certain fetishes? Why drowning, for example?”

Masterman launched into a speech Bernadette suspected he’d given before: “Why do some men get turned on by tits while others like legs? Why do some like to spank and others want to get spanked? There are dudes who like to watch and those who want to be watched. Why? Were they breast-fed as babies? Were they spanked? Did they take baths with Mom? Did Dad leave copies of Penthouse sitting around? Did they peek when Big Sister was getting dressed? Did they try on Big Sister’s dress?”