To the Bone by Neil McMahon Page B

young stud mounted her from behind, pelvis slapping her rump with rabbitlike quickness. Her muscles were tensed, displaying their fine definition, and her breasts shimmied with each impact. Her eyes were closed, not with faked passion, but rapture that seemed real. All three players had tattoos in evidence, including one of a snake-wrapped apple on the woman’s left buttock.
    â€œThat her?” Larrabee said.
    â€œYes.” Monks had not been certain during the clip’s opening moments. Eden Hale—starring as Eve Eden in the video—had obviously been a few years younger when she had made this, and she looked a lot better on-screen than she had last night in the ER. But when her tattoo came into view, that clinched it.
    Monks saw now how striking she was physically. Her body was strong and yet graceful, waist and hips forming a perfect hourglass, legs long and tapering. Her not-yet-augmented breasts were pear-shaped, not large, and like most women’s, a little uneven—lovely by his standards, but not the symmetrical jutting orbs that many men worshiped. But the bar to real beauty was the way her face looked from certain angles—nose somewhat thick at the bridge, and cheekbones protuberant, giving the impression of coarseness. It had probably not helped her acting career.
    â€œSeen enough?”
    Monks nodded. Larrabee clicked the video off and lifted the shades on his third-story windows. They were many-paned, old enough for the glass to have rippled from settling, and etched with grimy salt from the storms that blew in from the Bay they overlooked.
    Neither man spoke for a moment. There was a sort of guilty weight in the room. Monks had no objection to seeing attractive women unclothed, nor to the occasional glimpse of pornography. But watching someone who had just died in his hands had a ghoulishness to it.
    â€œShe was a rising star, huh?” Larrabee said. He was burly, forty-five, with a mustache and rooster-like shock of dark hair.
    â€œThat’s what her fiancé said.”
    â€œWhat was your take on him?”
    â€œSome kind of small-time operator.”
    â€œPimp?”
    â€œOn that edge.”
    Monks leaned his shoulder against a window jamb and stared out toward the Bay. Larrabee’s immediate neighborhood was a holdover from industrial days, when this part of the city had belonged to factories and shipping. But a few blocks south, gentrification had come in big-time, with expensive high-rise apartment buildings and fancy plazas. Sunlight flashed off the glass and metal of the cars crowding the Embarcadero. Flocks of pedestrians were drifting toward the afternoon Giants game at Pac Bell Park, with the masts of the China Basin yacht fleet spiking the skyline behind it.
    â€œLots of creepy people in that porn world,” Larrabee said. “You remember Iris?”
    â€œSure.” Iris had been a girlfriend of Larrabee’s a few years ago, a stripper at the North Beach clubs. She had some things in common with Eden Hale, Monks realized: physical beauty, breast surgery, and a stage name—Secret.
    â€œThere were always guys after her to make porn loops,” Larrabee said. “They create a fan club. Seems that men get a lot more interested in watching a girl dance if they’ve seen her horizontal. She draws bigger crowds and higher pay.”
    Monks knew that Iris had left San Francisco, and Larrabee, for Las Vegas and a better career. He decided not to ask whether porn loops had figured in.
    The Internet references Larrabee had found showed that Eden Hale had had several roles as a mainstream actress, bit parts in soaps and sitcoms. She had also made a few adult films. Someone had seized on the connection as a marketing ploy—the thrill of watching a legitimate actress, even a comparative unknown, having sex. A search of her name brought up several items along the lines of: WATCH EDEN HALE GET A FACIAL …A credit-card number and a few