I knew who he was as soon as he sat at the bar and smiled expectantly at me. It was obvious that he was picking me out to serve him. There weren't that many successful and recognizable Japanese actors in Hollywood. Mike Mori was one of the stars of the long-running series,
Hollywood Vice
, the series having run long enough to put him into his early forties. Still he'd taken good care of himself and was still handsome and in good shape after all these years on the unforgiving television screen. He was tall for my concept of a Japanese man and broad of chest but slim of waist and hips. I could appreciate how much effort he had to put in to keep that figure past forty.
I knew him for more than being in a long-run television series. Even in high school I'd been star struck and knew I wanted to come out to Los Angeles from Indiana to make my way into movies. I had devoured everything Hollywood. He'd been in the press for more than his television work a couple of years back. A young actor he'd been dating had been found in a shallow grave in the desert out toward Las Vegas. He'd been strangled. Another body was found in a nearby grave, another victim of strangulation. He'd turned out to be a young male hooker from Los Angeles.
Photos of a grieving Mori, who had been outed as gay from that point, were the money shots for that case and took the case into the national news. As far as I knew, they'd never solved those murders. I remember that, when I saw photos of the victims in the newspaper, both glamour shots of hopefuls in Hollywood, I was struck with how much they both looked like me. We could have been brothers—the same coloring, curly blond hair, and facial features. And eyes looking toward the future, with hope, determination, and confidence.
It wasn't that surprising to see Mori here at the Blue Onion, on North Hollywood Avenue. This was a trendy gay bar for the actor set. I was here, delivering drinks, on a temporary shift, deferring the mixing of a real drink to a real bartender, mainly serving as delivery boy. I'd been out here in southern California for a year and, at twenty, I took what I could get in trying to keep up with my modeling and acting school tuitions and my share of the rent for a studio apartment. I shared the apartment with one of the instructors at the IMS Modeling Academy, Doug Daniels, who I also slept with from time to time when he wasn't courting some society cougar. He wanted to marry rich in the worst way. I wanted to get into movies in the worst way. Well, not the worst way. I'd been offered gay male porn movies, but I didn't want to go that route, and I wasn't that easy. Well, I have to laugh at that, I guess, considering that the porn movie offers came after a session in a porn movie producer's bed. I was an occasional-casual sex submissive, but more monthly than daily—and more because I got hungry for it than that I was trying to use it to get ahead.
Doug wasn't the best cocksman I'd ever had. He wasn't prepared to commit to one side over the other and he was in love with his own looks more than anything else in the world. But I supposed the same thing could be—and was—said about me. He usually just laid there on his back and I rode his cock in various positions. But he was better—safer—than taking a casual stud from off the street, and I sometimes wanted more than my own hand in getting my rocks off. I'll admit that sometimes I was in the mood for a berry-brown body covering me.
"Good Evening, Mr. Mori," I said to him as he bellied up to the bar. "May I get a drink for you?"
He smiled, flattered, as I intended him to be, that I recognized him and addressed him by name. And speaking of berry-brown bodies . . .
"Yes, thanks, ah—" He paused, looking at me expectantly.
"Billy. Billy Worth," I said. "What'll you have?"
"Billy Worth. William Worth. Yes, they should be able to keep your name for the movies," he said. He flashed me an all-white-teeth smile. They had to be Hollywood caps.
It was my turn to beam, even though he was using what was just a variation on a pickup line out here in Hollywood.
"You are going to be in movies, aren't you, Billy?" he said.
"Sure thing. I'm busting my balls with modeling and acting classes now. That's what I'm doing working a temporary shift here."
"Ah, so that's why I haven't seen you in here before?" he asked, continuing to give me vocal strokes. "I would have remembered someone as good looking as you are. I'll have a scotch, water, and rocks, please. I have to go light. An early filming call tomorrow. Have one yourself too, on me." He put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar top. He was traveling a well-used route on Hollywood pickup lines. That doesn't mean that it wasn't effective with me, however.
I turned, made his drink, which was within my zone of capability, and surreptitiously poured myself an iced tea, watering it down so that it was close to the color of the weak scotch rocks. He gave a little laugh when I returned to him with the drinks and handed him his.
"You don't have a real drink, do you?" he said.
"Sorry," I said, blushing, "we're not really supposed to drink on duty. And—"
"And you really need the money the drink costs more than you do the drink, right?" I hung my head, and he laughed again.
"And you're not really old enough to be drinking here in California, or serving it for that matter," he added.
I blushed. "Got me again. Please don't complain to the management. I'll lose my job. He knows, but he said I'd have to go if anyone calls him on it."
"I wouldn't dream of complaining, especially that you aren't old enough to drink, as long as you're old enough for other things—like serving in the military." He'd added that, with a wink, but we both knew what he really meant. I knew then that he was flirting with me—maybe even hitting on me. That flattered and aroused me. He was a TV star.
"Nineteen?" he asked.
"No. I'm twenty," I said.
"No matter. I've been there in this town myself. It doesn't matter. And keep the change. Where are you from, Billy?"
I told him. I was really down and Doug didn't listen to me. Mike Mori did. I told him about being a big fish, with my looks and acting ability and football prowess, in Kokomo, Indiana, and of coming out here to make my break—and being just another good-looking blond close to being broken. He listened to it all, and as he finished his drink, he said, "I wish I could stay around to talk longer, Billy. Hang in there, though. You've got the looks to make it in this town. You have a good speaking voice too. Don't underestimate how important that can be in this business." His voice was great, and I took that on as good advice. He then added the icing to the cake. "I'd like to see you again sometime—in more private circumstances, if you know what I mean."
A major television star wanted to see me again—privately.
He put his card, with his telephone number and address, out on the bar top. "Here, if you need anything or you want to . . . well, you know . . . call me. Is there a number I can call you at?"
A major television star was coming on to me—and one who still had the looks—the exotic looks of the Orient even. The thought of doing it with a Japanese guy floated through my mind, and I gave a little shudder of arousal. I heard Japanese guys had sensual moves.
I wrote my cell phone number on a bar napkin and gave it to him. He put it to his lips, smiled at me, folded it, and put it in his wallet. Then he slipped off the bar stool, turned, and left the bar. I forgot about him then. Usually when they want to get into your pants in this town, they make the move the first time they see you. I'd been in L.A. long enough to know it was a fast town.
Four days later, he called me on my cell phone. "How are you doing, Billy?" he asked.
"I'm getting by," I answered, guardedly. I was just barely getting by, though, and my tuition bill for the Scott Sedita Acting Studio classes was coming due in the next week.
