Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(27)

Josh gets the hot and heavy down low from Skylar Lawless, Jasmine Juggs, and superstud Mario Root!



The extras available for the episode were minimal. Behind the Scenes led to a few photos of Josh, Skylar, and the other guests in his tiny studio. Curriculum Vitae listed their video credits, and Raw Talent led to nude PR shots and stills from their videos.

I clicked back to the podcast page, carried the laptop into the kitchen, and listened to the interview while I washed and sliced the vegetables. Portrait of the detective at work.

Despite the episode’s outlandish title, Josh was neither salacious nor vulgar. He introduced each actor, asked funny warm-up questions, and guided the conversation into the serious topics of their working conditions, health concerns, and security. The performers shared stories about being misled, lied to, or cheated, and how they had supplemented their fluctuating incomes. Jasmine earned more as an exotic dancer than she earned making porn, but the celebrity she derived from Triple X videos allowed her to demand higher rates as a dancer. She viewed porn as advertising. Skylar had begun as a dancer, but hated the night-to-night grind. Mario confessed he had worked as an escort during lulls in his career, and Jasmine and Skylar admitted they and many of the girls they knew had also worked as paid escorts. Josh followed up.

    Josh: I wanna make sure the audience understands. Escorting means outcall, right? Somebody pays to have sex with you.

Jasmine: (laughing) Guys’ll pay just to be seen with these titties, and if they want more, I’m down! You want the ass, bring on the cash!

Josh: How’s that work?

Mario: You never had sex? You stick your weenie in’m.

(laughter)

Josh: Seriously. Wait. I’d be scared. You go to a house or hotel alone. You’re meeting a total stranger who could be a psycho killer. I’d be terrified. Isn’t it dangerous?

Jasmine: Tell me about it!

Skylar: Yeah, kinda, so you need a safety.

Josh: What’s— Mario: (interrupting) You tell someone. Here’s where I’m going, here’s how long I’ll be. You call’m. Okay, I’m going in. Okay, I’m out. Everything’s cool.

Skylar: Yeah. It’s like, if you are even one second late . . .

Mario: Come running. So you gotta have someone you trust, someone dependable.

Skylar: My homegirl Kimmie. Shoutout to YOU, Kaykay! I love this girl so much! She takes care of me. We go back, man. Forever!

Josh: She’s your safety?

Skylar: And more! My absolute bestie. I totally love this girl.



I hit the pause button. Meredith Birch had claimed she was Skylar’s safety, but Skylar was saying her safety was someone named Kimmie. I wondered if “forever” meant Visalia. I hit play.

    Josh: Is she hot like you?

Skylar: (laughing) Hotter!

Josh: Give us a couple of titles. How can the listeners check her out?

Skylar: No, no, no—she’s not in the business. She’s a good girl. I was the bad girl. Ohmygosh, we’re the Odd Couple.



The interview lasted another nine minutes. I set the veggies aside, took the laptop back to the couch, and reread the articles about Skylar I’d bookmarked.

Besides having a sister and riding horses, details about Skylar’s family and childhood were scarce. She was bored, dyed her face green to freak people out, and everyone thought she was crazy. She had quit school halfway through the eleventh grade, hitchhiked to L.A., and lied about her age to get a job stripping. None of the articles mentioned someone named Kimmie or the names of her family.

I pulled up the Visalia directory, and found six Bohlens: Anna P., Emma L., Gene R., George A., Kandace, and Richard L. The directory didn’t list cell numbers, so thousands of Bohlens might live in Visalia, but they wouldn’t be listed unless they had a hard line.

I called Anna P. first. Her phone rang so long I was about to hang up when she answered.

“Yes, hello?”

Her voice was strong and breathy, as if she’d run in from outside to answer. She sounded like someone in her fifties, which meant she could be Skylar’s mother.

“My name is Cole. I’m calling from Los Angeles regarding a Rachel Belle Bohlen.”

“Uh-huh. That isn’t me. My name is Anna.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. Would you happen to know of a Rachel Belle?”

“Well, let’s see—”

She made little mumbly sounds, somewhere between humming and talking to herself.

“No. I don’t think so. What is this regarding?”

“She’s applied for a position with the Los Angeles Police Department, so we do a little background check.”

“Oh, uh-huh, well, I don’t know her.”

“If Bohlen is your married name, maybe your husband knows her.”

“He’s dead.”

“Sorry, Ms. Bohlen.”

“I’m not. He was an awful man.”

Emma L. didn’t answer.

Gene R. sent me to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message.

I dialed George A. next. George answered on the third ring, and stopped me when I mentioned her name.

“Not interested. I got nothing to say.”

George A. hung up. I debated whether to call back, and decided against it. At least I’d found someone who knew her.