Chapter 2: Justice for Charlie Hell

The wake for Charlie was in the next morning. I was astounded seeing just how many people showed. Most were fellow performers, directors and producers, people whom Charlie had worked with. I could tell that Brenda-Lee was quite flustered when all those unspeakable people approached her to offer their condolences. Right at the end, there was some disturbance at the funeral home’s entrance, and I went to investigate.

Fortunately, McFadden was there, blocking the entrance for the Reverend Hellstrøm and his wife.

“I am sorry, but the deceased stipulated in her will that you are not allowed at her funeral,” I heard McFadden say when I approached.

“What nonsense! She is my daughter, and even if she lived her life in depravity and sin, we came to bring her home, back to the bosom of her church.”

“That will not be possible. Miss Hellstrøm specified a cremation and charged one of her friends with the care for her ashes.”

“Only heathens burn their dead!” Hellstrøm thundered.

I couldn’t help myself, I stepped forward.

“She wanted to be cremated to make sure that you could never get your hands on her again, even dead,” I said with a loud voice. “That’s how much she despised you. Now scram!”

A fellow performer and friend came up, Jean Bresson aka Jean La Bête, one of my buddies. Jean had played the mad rapist or the village idiot, back when porn flicks had a plot. Now he’s directing. He’s French by birth, ugly as sin, and six foot six tall. I’ve worked with him. His dick looks kinda small although it’s a full eight inches, simply because the brute is so huge himself. Now he built himself up in front of the Reverend.

“That’s Charlie’s kid-fucking father?” he asked with extra venom in his scary, gravelly bass. “Do I give him the work-over?”

Hellstrøm stepped back in panic. “Stay away from me, spawn from hell!” he exclaimed, turning to flee, but he stopped in his tracks. There in front of him stood Charlie’s friend and frequent partner, Xasha Green, dressed in full Goth regalia.

“Get lost, you ugly child molester!” she hissed angrily.

Xasha is small, but scary. There is a constant unholy fire in her green eyes, and it was blazing brightly in this moment.

“The opening of Miss Hellstrøm’s will is three days from now, at my office!” McFadden called after the fleeing Hellstrøms.

I looked around only to see Brenda-Lee standing there, staring after her retreating parents with clenched fists at her side and trembling with rage.

“That ... that monster! How dare he come?”

Xasha wrapped the shaking girl in her arms.

“Hey, don’t worry, Sweetie. That creep comes near you, and I’ll rip off his balls and feed them to Jean.”

Jean laughed grimly. “Only if he gets past me. Listen, Brenda-Lee? Charlie was our friend, and many of us know what that creep did to her. If you want, one of the girls can stay with you while you’re here in LA, to watch over you.”

Brenda-Lee made a face. “He can be very brutal,” she whispered.

Jean cracked his knuckles. “Can he, huh? Ricky, what do you say? Should I arrange for the good reverend to star in an upcoming underground bondage flick?”

I shook my head slowly. “I have a better idea. Let me bounce it off a couple of people who should have veto rights. Then, if they agree, I’ll contact you. You too, Xasha.” I turned to the attorney. “Listen, Mister McFadden, would it be possible to invite Miss Green and Mister Bresson to the opening of Charlie’s will. That should really annoy the Reverend.”

McFadden nodded stiffly. “If Miss Green and Mister Bresson are close friends of the deceased, I can see no problems. Miss Hellstrøm, do you object?”

Brenda-Lee looked at the two freaks, but then shrugged.

“If my father’s there, I can use the backup. Will you be there, too, Mister Borgward?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

We received Charlie’s ashes from the undertaker two days later. I called Jean and Xasha and a few more people who had befriended her. We formed a four-car procession and drove north, with Brenda piloting the Camaro for the first time. There is a small cove with a beach west of Point Dume, Malibu, where Charlie had loved to relax, and she wanted her ashes scattered there. We parked the cars on Grasswood Ave. and walked a mile or so to reach the little beach. We formed a half circle holding hands while Brenda-Lee released the ashes into the warm Pacific breeze. That done, we spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach, each of us giving Charlie a brief, impromptu eulogy. We also drank. A lot.

Then I broke out Charlie’s legacy, her diary and her affidavit. Brenda-Lee allowed me to read from the diary which Charlie had started at age eleven, before her father began to chastise her using a cane on her bare bottom, and a year before he raped her for the first time. I had read it before, but I still could not keep my voice in check when I recited her desperate entries from the diary. I put an arm around Brenda-Lee, and Xasha held her from the other side as the girl rocked her body and tears ran down her cheeks. More bottles made the round.

When I was done reading, Brenda-Lee spoke up.

“When Charlie rescued me, I had gone through two years of that, too. He first took me the day after Charlie left. Then twice a week and more for two years. Then less. He had another girl then; the daughter of a parishioner. Charlie kept contact with me, and when I graduated, she was waiting outside the school building in that pink Audi convertible. I jumped in, and we got the hell out of Dodge. She never took me to LA; she drove me straight to Eureka and placed me in the dorm. She had even arranged for summer courses to bring me up to scratch. She was the only person in my life whom I trusted, and now she’s gone.”

Xasha rubbed her back. “Hell, Brenda-Lee, you have a beach full of friends right now. Charlie was our friend and if there’s anything a bunch of freaks can do for you, let us know and consider it done.”

“Hear, hear!” I seconded. “Listen, you freaks, I’m sitting on this diary, plus a notarized affidavit in which Charlie detailed the abuse from her father. It’s got a few anatomical details with which we may nail the bastard, but the problem is that for most of the stuff the statutes ran out already. Brenda-Lee could file charges, but then again from what Charlie wrote, the old bastard is best friends with the local yokels back in that God-forsaken shithole.”

“What are you getting at, Ricky?” Xasha hissed. “You want him to get away?”

“The abuse was done at home; and that’s where the jurisdiction is. Hardly a chance, I’d say. But then again, we’re a bunch of half-assed actors, directors and producers. What if we turn Charlie’s diary into a sort of documentary? The asshole will sue us for libel, but he’ll have to file charges here where it’s produced and where he has no clout. The diary will be entered as evidence. If Brenda agrees, she can testify, too. We’ll crucify him publicly in civil court.”

Floyd jumped up. “I’m in. Who else?”

Xasha just nodded, an evil grin on her beautiful face. Jean La Bête stood and cracked his knuckles.

“If you let me, I’ll direct my first ever non-porn film. Who do you want to cast as Charlie? She was unique.”

As one, we looked at Brenda-Lee who turned pale.

“I’m not an actress!”

I had to snort. “Welcome to the club! If any of us here had more than fifteen lines of dialogue in any of his or her productions, I’d be very surprised. You’re a performing arts minor, right?”

“Yeah, but I ... she...” She saw all of us looking at her and seemed to grow a little. “Damn! If you think I can help, I’ll do it. Only, I won’t do, you know, adult scenes.”

“First we need to work out a concept,” Floyd said. “Then a script. We need to get an idea of the budget we’ll need. If we do include play scenes we’ll need make-up and special effects and all that.”

“You’ll need a camera operator,” Ricardo Montez put in. “I do commercials and music videos on the side and once I filled in at a sitcom shooting.”

And just like that, a bunch of half drunk porn folks decided to make a documentary. We even came up with a working title: “Charlie Hell — Sweet Girl, Bitter Past.”

From the beach, we walked back to our cars. We decided we were not sober enough, so we only drove a couple of blocks to a Mexican restaurant. Over tamales and enchiladas, we developed the idea further. It was close to midnight when we — almost sober again — called it a day. Brenda-Lee, Xasha, Jean and I agreed to drive to McFadden’s office together, and Xasha stayed the night with Brenda in Charlie’s apartment.

The Reverend Hellstrøm did not like it one bit when we entered the office for the reading of the will, but McFadden paid him no attention whatsoever. Evidently, the lawyer had at least skimmed over Charlie’s diary since he treated her father without the slightest hint of respect. While Jean and I framed Brenda-Lee on either side, Xasha plopped her black leather-clad behind on the seat right next to the Reverend.

“Found any kids to fuck today?” she asked conversationally.

Hellstrøm stood angrily. “Stand back, you brazen Jezebel! I am a man of the cloth and...”

“I did a scene once where a guy dressed as a reverend fucked my ass,” she informed him sweetly. “Of course, he wasn’t as ugly as you.”

“You ... you ... you defiled a frock?” Hellstrøm stammered.

Xasha popped a gum bubble before she answered.

“Yeah, that was when I worked for Naughty Nookie Productions. I also did a scene as a nun in a gang bang. That outfit was ruined afterwards I’m telling ya, with all the sperm stains on the black fabric.”

“Ha-hrm!” McFadden started. “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen? This is the reading of Carlotta Hellstrøm’s Last Will. Would you kindly raise your hand when I read your names? Martin Hellstrøm? Maria Hellstrøm? Brenda-Lee Hellstrøm? Richard Borgward? Jean Bresson? Alexandra Greenbaum?”

We all lifted a hand as our names were read.

“Thank you. Now, Miss Hellstrøm has named her sister Brenda-Lee Hellstrøm as main beneficiary of her will. She will inherit Miss Hellstrøm’s savings account, minus the costs for the burial service, and her checking account. The combined balance comes to $825.73 after the deductions. She will also inherit Miss Hellstrøm’s car, a 1975 — 1975? — Chevrolet Camaro, valued at $450. To her father and mother she bequeathed her most prized possession, the 2008 Adult Movie Award for Best Blowjob by a Female Performer. It is valued at $950.”

I admired McFadden for getting this out without losing it. Hellstrøm turned purple while his docile cow of a wife hid her face in her hands. McFadden kept going.

“Her clothes which she deemed unfit for her sister to wear will be sold at internet auction and the proceeds will go to the St. Theresa Shelter For Battered Women in San Clemente.”

“We’ll need to buy some of her stuff for props!” Jean whispered to me.

“Where is the rest of her money?” Hellstrøm almost shouted. “She whored out her body for profit! There must be more!”

“Going over her financial records I found that she paid $3,450 monthly rent for her apartment in Malibu. The apartment came fully furnished, and I’m afraid it contains nothing but her clothes and a few feminine hygiene articles.”

“Almost $3,500 rent? What did she rent? A sixteen bedroom villa?”

McFadden polished his glasses. “Mister Hellstrøm, apartments in Malibu are very expensive.”

“So there’s nothing left but a few dollars and a junk car?”

“Don’t forget the Best Blowjob AMA,” I put in helpfully.

He fixated me with a stare that would have killed any of his benighted parishioners. Fortunately, I am made of sterner stuff and I just grinned back at him. He kept staring at me, but then he must have thought of something new, for he faced his remaining daughter.

“Hah! She left you with nothing! What will you do now? Don’t think for a moment that I will support you with my hard-earned money!”

“I’ll get a student loan. I can manage,” Brenda-Lee answered. “I wouldn’t take your money to get life-saving surgery.”

“Don’t worry, Sweetie,” Xasha purred. “We can do lesbian nun scenes together and rake in the cash. We’ll call ourselves the Sisters of Babylon. You just fly down here for a weekend each month, and I’ll see that you’ll earn your living and enjoy it!”

“Jezebel!” Hellstrøm exclaimed for lack of a more original phrase. “Satan will have your soul, just like he owns your sister’s!”

“It’ll be a regular family meeting down there,” Brenda-Lee answered with a nasty grin. “If you arrive first, don’t wait up for me.”

“Come, Maria!” he ordered his wife. “Let us not breathe the same air as these lost sinners.”

With her in tow, he stormed out of McFadden’s office. The worthy man shrugged.

“It would seem that the good Reverend forgot his bequest. Miss Hellstrøm, perhaps you can provide a sending address?”

Brenda-Lee shook her head. “He refused it, and I think we can use it for the documentary. Listen, you guys: I’m on board with you, but I want a say in the script and in the finished product. Creative control remains with this core group. I don’t want Charlie exploited.”

We all nodded solemnly. Besides, for what I had in mind we would not need outside producers or even a regular distribution channel. If all else failed, we’d put it up on YouTube.

Two months after Charlie’s service I was driving a rented panel truck through the endless wheat fields of Kansas. We were on our way to do the local shooting in Hornville, KS, a small township to the west of Wichita. Hornville merited twelve lines on Wikipedia, but we figured that might change a bit after we were done. We had picked that weekend because Hellstrøm was out of town at some church convention, with his wife and most of his prominent parishioners.

We’d blow into town and get footage of the church, the Hellstrøms’ house, the high school and a few other places of interest, such as the diner where Charlie had worked one summer. Brenda-Lee was with us. She was terribly flustered over her first shots. It was a Saturday afternoon and she walked around the deserted high school dressed and made up as Charlie. That was not too difficult since Brenda-Lee still had the dresses Charlie had to wear, handed down to her after Charlie left her parents.

We got some shots of her as she walked along the building pointing out her classrooms. Then we drove to the Hellstrøms’ house. The place gave me the creeps, and Brenda-Lee was shaky when she delivered her lines in front of the entrance. In the backyard, she sat on the old swing that was still there and spoke the first critical lines of monologue, detailing an early incident of abuse at the Reverend’s hands.