Caesar Romeo perched on an ornate wood seat, so huge it looked like a throne. He was no taller than my five feet. His skin was wizened, and so darkened by the sun I couldn’t guess his age or ethnic background. Beady black eyes glared out from deep-set sockets. A flame-red Afro, gold lamé shirt and tight white leather pants completed the look. If I believed in goblins, that’s what I’d peg him as-one of the pisacha from my mother’s tales.

His gaze crawled up me, then down, as cold and critical as a matron eying a slab of beef she wouldn’t serve to her dog.

“Turn around,” he said.

“I’m not trying out for a part,” I said. “I’m Faith Edmonds. Ned Baker sent me.”

Romeo waved a hand and I thought he was motioning at me, until I noticed a man smoking a joint off to the side, who was giving me a much more flattering appraisal.

“Felippe,” Romeo said. “Go. Shoot those bimbos giggling at the door.”

“Should I give them T-shirts?” Felippe asked.

“Don’t waste the merchandise. They’ll be lucky if they make the cut.”

Felippe stubbed out his joint on a brass urn and left. Romeo’s gaze followed him, and he listened as his assistant offered the girls a “role.”

“Hear that?” Romeo said. “They’ll flash their tits on film for nothing but the honor of being ogled by men they’d cross the road to avoid. Teasing little bitches. Like all you girls. Can’t resist flaunting it at some guy who doesn’t have a hope of touching.”

Knowing I had to play nice, I settled for a noncommittal shrug.

“You disagree?” he said.

“I’m sure that applies to some women.”