What Ever Happened to Jerry Picco?

By John Barlow

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO JERRY PICCO?

*** Farewell My Lovely meets Californication ***

Meet Jack Storm PhD, disgraced ex-college professor and unlicensed PI. Since getting turfed out of Berkeley for violent misconduct, he's turned his brains and his 250-pound frame to solving crimes. Working out of Los Angeles (and the trunk of his 20 year-old Mercedes Benz), Jack has finally found his true place in life: the gutter.

When Jerry Picco goes missing, Jack is called in to help. Picco is the world's greatest 'erotic actor', and his disappearance has come at a difficult time for the diminutive porn star. He's left a heap of debt, a career in nosedive, and a screen partner with plenty reasons to want him gone.

Jack has his own reasons for trying to find him. Apart from anything else, he's one of Jerry's biggest fans. The only clues he's got: a Polaroid of seven little men in the woods, and some story about a princess.

For fans of Carl Hiaasen and Janet Evanovich, What Ever Happened to Jerry Picco? is a humorous literary spoof, an unusual, quirky detective novel... a romp of a noir from prize-winning author John Barlow.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Books
• Release date: Dec 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9798224495993

John Barlow

John Barlow was born in West Yorkshire. He worked as a cabaret musician before reading English Literature at the University of Cambridge, followed by a doctorate in Language Acquisition at the University of Hull. He remained in the academic world as a university lecturer in English Language until 2004, at which point he moved to Spain. He currently works as a writer, ghost writer, food journalist and translator, and lives in the Galician city of A Coruna with his partner and two sons.

Book preview

What Ever Happened to Jerry Picco?

by

John Barlow

Copyright © 2011 by John Barlow

Cover design: Stuart Bache

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used merely to add authenticity to the work. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from John Barlow.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

HOPE ROAD: a crime mystery

About The Author

Chapter One

So he just vanished? I ask.

She’s right next to me on the chaise longue, curled up in a red kimono, cradling a vodka. Skin as sallow as old cheddar, tangled blond hair like the wool off of a sheep. She’s not looking great. But she’s still pretty good, despite everything.

Just did, she says, kind of flat, as if something’s gone from her brain. Like they’ve taken a chunk of it away and left her with the vodka and the cheese.

I’ve know Gloria for years one way and another. She’s had the body of a twenty year-old as long as I can remember. Straight six foot in heels. About the hottest two yards of flesh I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some flesh.

He didn’t say goodbye?

I’m not one for the softly-softly. If he’s gone, he’s gone. I’ll find him. If that’s what she wants. If she really wants him found. But I’ve got my doubts.

My name is Jack. Jack Storm. I do people favors. But not people like you. Your place gets turned over? You find a body? You call the Precinct. Two nice men come down asking questions, looking concerned. If the cops can’t help, there’s PIs in the book. You got options. You got people to call.

But cops have to write reports. Even private eyes have rules. People come to me when they’ve got no options. I’m not in the book.

Nothing, she says down into her drink. There’s a lot less in the glass than when she opened the door five minutes ago. No note. No goodbye. No nothing.

Money? Cards? Watch?

Still here.

Keys? Car? Cell?

Took his cell. Nothing else.

What was he wearing?

She shrugs. The usual. White suit. Violet silk shirt.

Violet?

Armani. Blue and violet. Flowers.

White suit and flowery shirt? First thing in the morning?

You know what he was like.

***

I know Jerry Picco. And now his wife’s talking about him in the past tense. But if it’s for the insurance, or the house, she calls the police. She doesn’t wait a week and a half then call Jack Storm. One more thing: this is not a jealous wife situation. She does not put a bullet through his head for screwing around. I know these two.

Gloria sniffles, runs the glass across her forehead. Her eyes are puffy, but sort of small inside. Strands of blond hair stick to the worry lines etched deep into her brow. All this close-up work makes me uneasy. I prefer her on-screen.

She was always my favorite, no question. There’s a couple of Jerry’s old videos I watch sometimes, the early ones. Gloria’s one hell of a performer. Jerry too. The chaise longue is in both those movies. I feel honored just sitting here.

I look around at the room, wait for the sniffling to stop. Faded Palo Alto luxury, the floor so thick with fur rugs it’s like someone slaughtered a pack of huskies right here. Louis XIV mirrors, ruby-red drapes, big frameless mock-Rothcos, gaudy chandeliers hung too low, each branch heavy with crystal fruit. A pimped-up abortion of a place, circa way back.

I’ve been here before. That’s why she’s crying. Not because Jerry’s disappeared. Not just that, anyways. I’ve done plenty of jobs for Jerry and Gloria over the years. But it’s one job in particular she’s remembering now. They hired me to find one of their girls. Story was, she’d been kidnapped. They’d already paid the ransom but the girl never showed. It took me about a day and a quarter to find the little slut, holed up in a motel counting the fifty grand she and her sleazebag boyfriend made off of the deal. I didn’t have the heart to tell Jerry and Gloria, especially after the boyfriend cut me in for ten. I beat the shit out of him anyway and gave her the gypsy warning. I felt bad but I got over it.

That’s why Gloria’s crying. Last time she sent me looking for somebody I drew a blank. So, she kind of knows how this might turn out. Leastways, she thinks she does.

See that, she says, glancing across at an enormous plasma screen in the middle of a carved marble fireplace straight out of the Getty Museum gift shop. The TV’s been on mute since I got here. They’re showing an old Faith Reagan movie. Everybody’s showing Faith Reagan movies right now.

I look at the screen. There she is, Faith Reagan. The frailest teenager you ever saw, painfully innocent, doe-eyed, freckled, beautiful like you couldn’t imagine.

Gloria lights a Dunhill and pulls a TV remote out from down inside the kimono. She somehow manages to keep hold of the glass, the cigarette and the remote, and turns up the volume. It’s one of those sultry Texan movies they used to make where it’s always sunset and nothing much happens.

Jerry knew her, she says, nodding at the screen as she takes a drink.

Who, Faith Reagan?

Yeah.

That’d be before she got married, I guess.

I guess.

Faith Reagan was a starlet, years back. Young and pretty, virginal and clean-living. That’s how I remember her. How everyone remembers her. She’s about my age. And Jerry’s, for that matter. Look where we are now. Shit. They used to call Faith Reagan the new Doris Day. To me she was more of a Sissy Spacek with undercurrents. More of a tug, if you get me. What the hell she was doing bumping into a sleaze ball like Jerry Picco I don’t know. But that’s LA. We all think we know it. But we’re on the outside. We don’t know what goes on.

How’s business? I ask Gloria.

She mutes the TV and takes another mouthful of vodka, wincing as she swallows. Her face is blotchy and raw, streaked with sadness. She’s a little younger than Jerry, I reckon, but she always had that big sister look. The perfect partner for him. Now she just looks tired and drunk. I’ve never seen her look like this before.

How’s business? She doesn’t answer that one. Doesn’t need to. You seen Jerry’s name any place recently? No. Something happened to him. His star just dropped out the sky. And Gloria dropped with him. Time was, Jerry could walk into a restaurant down in LA and people would look. He was known. He was liked. Had a couple of mainstream cameos too. Could have crossed over, if he hadn’t liked his job so much.

Where is he now? God knows. He moved here from San Fernando years back, got himself a fifteen-room Palo-Alto villa before the Valley boomed. Anyone who bought big in Palo Alto back then is a bricks and mortar millionaire. And besides, you can only feel so sorry for the guy who married Gloria.

You sure you don’t want a drink? she says, walking almost steadily over to a monster drinks counter built of rough-hewn stone. She freshens her glass to the brim, but that includes ice so I figure she’s not suicidal.

I decline the offer. She makes it back to the chaise longue without mishap. There are tears in her eyes, but she’s trying to smile, and now she’s closer to me. A little too close.

Jack, she says, cute, you will find him, won’t you?

If he wants to be found.

She takes a couple of gulps.

Jack, she says again, her mouth resting on the rim of the glass. I can’t pay you.

Her mouth stays right where it is. A little vodka and saliva dribbles out the side. She’s started crying again.

I owe you ten grand, I want to tell her. But I figure it’s not the right moment. Any second now she’s gonna wanna hug me, and heavy debtors have problems with intimacy.

Standing, I tell her I’ll be back tomorrow. She’s no use to me like this, and there’s a chance she might be sober if I get to her before lunch. I’ll ask my questions then.

At the door I turn to say goodbye. But she’s staring at the TV, the glass held to her chin. She doesn’t know I’m there.

Off the hallway is Jerry’s office. More fur rugs scattered on the floor, but there’s no bad modern art on the walls. Instead, they’re lined with leather-bound volumes of Hustler magazine and about fifty others. Then there are copies of all his own videos, including Think Big Volumes 1 through 12 (his biggest selling movies). I’m missing several for the set. Not that I’m an obsessive or anything, but it’d be nice to have the full dozen.

His Rolodex sits on a dark wood desk, which is meticulously tidy and absolutely enormous. Then there’s an enormous desk diary, and the fattest Mont Blanc fountain pen I have ever seen. There’s not much in the diary. A squiggle here and there, something that even the handwriting tells you is unimportant. The page for ten days ago has been folded down at the corner: NBC it says. Underneath, circled in the same blue ink, ALL FIVE!!!, the words underlined so hard that the paper bears little blue-edged gashes.

I take the Rolodex and leave. Several volumes of Think Big go through the door with me.

Chapter Two

As I pull away from Jerry’s house a shit heap of a Beetle Bug with a crumpled bumper lurches past me, missing my hood by an inch. The guy never saw me. He’s not even looking at the road. I don’t know what kind of hooker he thinks he’s gonna pick up crawling the curbs of Westmere Avenue, one of Palo Alto’s Millionaire Rows. Plus, his car’s canary yellow, apart from the half that’s rust brown, so it’s not like he’s in the best wheels for discrete cruising. We both stop. Then he grinds his gears and drives right off again, still ignoring the road completely.

There’s only one motel I use in Palo Alto. A ways out of town, but it’s cheap, the beds are as soft as rice pudding, and it has cable. Soon as I get in I scan the adult channels, just to remind myself how bad things have gotten. Not a patch on Jerry’s stuff. Nothing is these days. There was something about a Jerry Picco picture. Something natural and honest, like you just happened to be there watching and he’d forgotten all about you. And the glint in the eyes of those girls! They loved him, his patter, his hunger, his undisguised joy. When he grunted, when he moaned, it was the real thing. He told me. One time I was up here working for him he told me the secret is you gotta love doing it. You gotta get into it until you forget the cameras are on you.

With Jerry it always looked like Nature intended. The girls too. Especially Gloria. Those two never acted. Never had to. And the sound tracks. In the Think Big series it’s all classical. He was the first to do that. There’s one of them, he’s got Elisir d’Amor playing while he does three girls on a bed so big it makes him look like a wind-up doll tossed there by a bored kid. Genius. I can see him now, long golden hair falling right down his back like a silk cape. Kind of swished when he was jiggling to Puccini. You gotta see those movies. They make me nostalgic for another time.

You’ve probably seen Jerry yourself. Never gone weirdo late at night on the Internet? Try it. Google him. His pictures are everywhere, stills from his movies mainly, especially Pigmy Gigolo, his first classic.

If you really haven’t ever seen Jerry before, you’re in for a surprise. He’s one of the world’s best known porn stars, and he’s a midget. You better get that right too. Call him a dwarf, he’ll take your kneecaps off with his teeth. It’s a touchy point with the little people. The terminology kicks in hard. Dwarfs are kind of lumpy and out of proportion. Midgets are just small. Jerry is a midget. Here’s the thing though: he’s not in proportion. Four foot six, blond as a baby, graceful, athletic, toned to perfection. But he’s got the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some cock.

Now he’s dead. Or disappeared. I’ll put my money on dead. Although it’s his money really. I already got paid for this job, years back.

I flip over to the regular channels. On CNN a tall woman in a button-down burgundy coat and matching skirt is stepping out from a long black roach of a car. Little red and white flags are flapping on the hood. It’s a lot of years since her last movie but there’s no mistaking Faith Reagan.

She’s escorted to a church that looks like it’s been aged in a Tibetan forest a couple thousand years. Her hair is pulled tight back and disappears underneath a black hat, sort of a pillbox. Close-on thirty years ago Faith abandoned Hollywood and married Alphonse of La Monza. The Fruit Heir they used to call him, the only son of the Crown Prince and heir to the La Monza dynasty. Now, after a pretty long wait, Alphonse’s old man has croaked and Faith gets the crown jewels. Princess Faith of La Monza. Fucking fairy tale.

Photographers and journalists are being muscled back by a line of uniforms as Faith disappears inside the church, the skin of her face pale and radiant under the incessant flicker of flashlights. Our line of view draws back and I realize it’s not a church. She just went in through her own front door. It’s the biggest castle you’ve ever seen, stretching halfway up the rocky hillside behind it.

And that, more or less, is all there is of La Monza, one square mile of the Cote d’Azure filled with a castle, tax exiles in cramped apartments, and two casinos. Not much of a country. Not much of a downtown I bet. But who’s complaining when they make you Crown Princess? All you gotta do is sleep with a gay prince. I mean, I’d do it.

I click over to the adult stuff, lie back, and ask myself again about what was written in Jerry Picco’s diary. What the hell kind of business did a faded midget porn star have with NBC on the day he disappeared?

Chapter Three

Dan? It’s Jack.

I ring him as early as I dare.

They’re talking about Faith Reagan on all the breakfast shows and I watch with the sound on mute as UC Berkeley’s Professor of Cultural Studies stumbles around his modest Berkeley Hills mansion looking for his first cigarillo of the day.

NBC? he says, still groggy, only half listening. With Jerry? Hold on a minute. I hear him juggling with the receiver as he searches for a lighter in his pockets. Jerry? Jerry Picco?

You see, Dan knows Jerry. When it comes to the erotic arts Dan Berticelli knows everybody. He wrote the book on filth, quite literally. His Eroticism and the Rational Mind sits on the shelves of every academic library in the world, and finds its way onto most sophomore reading lists in psychology, sociology and cultural studies. Truth is, it’s a hard-going kind of book, and there aren’t many pictures. But Dan’s the main man if you want a serious academic take on porn.

He likes to roll his sleeves up too, get involved in his subject. He once persuaded me to do one of those arousal tests, down in the basement of the experimental psychology department. You know the kind of thing. They wire your dick up to a dozen sensors and show you pictures so dirty your eyes pop out, never mind your Johnson. I was useless, scored a perfect ten on every picture, man, woman and beast. They said I was aberrant data. What a cheek.

Yeah, I say. NBC. A documentary or an interview. Something, anyways. With Jerry P.

If anything is going on with Jerry, anything on mainstream TV, Dan’s gonna know. He’s the unofficial historian of American pornography. In the world of adult entertainment you can’t get an erection without Dan Berticelli hearing about it.

NBC? You sure? Doesn’t sound right to me, Jack.

I wait, the phone to my ear, as he lights a cigarillo and takes his first luxuriant draw of the day.

I get five, ten mails a week, he says. Sometimes more. My own fault. Shouldn’t have written that damn book. You wouldn’t believe how many film school students do the sex industry for their final year project. Porno, the great unsung American institution. Hell, there’s enough people trying to do the singing though! Just not the networks. Least ways, not that I heard. And if a network is even thinking about doing a documentary or something in that area, they come to me.

Could you check?

Sure. Give me a few days. I’ll phone around. But I’ll tell you now. NBC is not planning a summer special on the life and work of Jerry Picco.

Jesus, could you imagine!

"Truth is, he deserves it. If only for perseverance. You know it’s the twenty fifth