Rune returned to her meditation. What would Nicole be thinking about? They'd been at it for half an hour. She seemed aroused. But was it fake? Was she concentrating on —

Then, a disturbance.

The actor had stopped his pumping and was standing up. Dazed, bleary, breathing heavily. Nicole glanced down at his crotch and saw the problem. She leaned forward and went to work with her mouth. She looked pretty skillful but the man didn't respond. He suddenly retreated out of the lights. Nicole sat back and took the bathrobe that a young woman, an assistant, offered her. The actor looked for a towel, found one and pulled it around his waist.

“That's it,” the actor called. Gesturing, palms out, with a shrug.

Danny Traub sighed, then barked orders. The lights went out. The camera shut off. The grips and gaffers walked off the set.

“Third time this week, Johnny,” Traub whispered. The actor was deeply inhaling on a Camel. “It's too fucking hot in here. What's with the air conditioner?”

“The air conditioner?” Traub's head swiveled to his imaginary mezzanine. “He needs — what? — thirty-two degrees before he can get it up?”

Johnny was looking at the floor but focusing six inches beneath it. “I'm tired.”

“I'm paying you a thousand dollars for a hard dick. This film shoulda been in the can a week ago.”

"So shoot around me. Put in some stock inserts.

“Johnny” — like Traub was talking to a six-year-old — "people save up their pennies to rent tapes of you and your foot-long. They want to see the wand do its magic thing, you understand?

“I'm tired.”

“You're strung out is what you are. You know what coke does to your yin-yang. You can be a lawyer, a doctor, a musician, probably even a fucking airline pilot and do all the blow you want and it isn't going to fuck up your job. But a man who makes porn can't do as much as you're doing.”

“Just give me a couple of hours.”

“No, I'm giving you the fucking boot. Get out.”

Nicole had been watching from the side of the bed. She stepped toward them. “Danny...” Traub ignored her.

Johnny muttered something. He walked to the corner of the set. From a leather shoulder bag he took a blue glass vial. Traub stepped up and slapped it from his hand. It hit the wall and fell, spinning. “Fuck, Danny, why —”

He shoved Johnny up against the wall hard. Gave a vicious smile, looking around. “He thinks I'm joking? Yeah, he does! The man thinks I'm joking... I can't afford to carry you anymore.”

“Cut it out.”

“Shut up!” The words were jarring, pitched high, frantic. Everyone on the set must've heard. But they all looked away — at scheduling sheets or invoices or scripts. Or they stared at the coffee and tea they stirred compulsively.

Johnny pulled away. He sat on the bed, looking absently for his clothes.