RANSVESTIA
They kept losing girls that way. It was Jean who brought Angie into the group. They'd worked together in revues about Chicago ap- parently."
Cort frowned. "So what are you going to tell me? I know that this Jean Rodriguez woman is sharing the house Bessill leased for Angie. She's got her kids there with her, hasn't she?"
Mayer appeared hardly to hear. "It worked out fine, really. All the girls had glycerin implants of one size or another."
Cort's smile was filled with relief. "So you're trying to tell me that Angie's been pumped up a little. There's nothing wrong with that to- day. Even the public accepts that kind of operation.'
"Pity she didn't have a more radical operation," said Mayer dark- ly. "You see, Mr. Cort, Angie Saunders' real name was, and still is, Angelo Rodriguez."
Cort sprang to his feet. "What the hell are you trying to say?"
Mayer removed his glasses and rapidly began to wipe them with a grey, silk handkerchief. "Cathy Lord plans to sell a story on how Pacific was hoodwinked into making a film in which its leading female star is, in reality, a man, living, in fact, with his wife and kids, right here in this city, next door to the studio where he flaunts his fake breasts, pretty legs, and beautiful miniskirts in Pacific's top produc- tion of the year." His curled lip of distaste matched the disgust in his voice.
Cort choked on words that wouldn't come. He slumped back into his upholstered chair. Stinging ants seemed to be tearing at his gut. He could hear his heart starting to pound. He brushed his head with. his hand. It was damp. Oh, what a mess, he thought, just as everything had been going so well. He could have brought Pacific to the black and all the while, that goddamned thing had been laughing at him behind her, no behind his, back. Red waves of rage passed through him and he began to smash upon the glass top of his desk with his fists. Across from him, Mayer sat open-mouthed, petrified by the sight of the President of the third largest U.S. film studio throwing a tantrum.
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