by William Poe
I drove back to Little Rock, trying not to think about it.
Dean heard the car pull up and came outside. The second I opened the car door, Cicero dashed toward a shrub.
“Where’s Sean?” Dean asked.
“Come here, Cicero,” I called. I caught Dean staring at me. “What?”
“Just looking you over. Is your hepatitis flaring up again?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said, considering that Dean had given me something to say when Vivian eventually asked about my sickly appearance.
“You don’t look well,” Dean said.
“I’m just tired. You know how I burn the candle at both ends.”
“I’d say the candle is running out of wax.”
“Really, Dean. I’m okay.”
We went inside and sat on a sofa that was turned toward the front window.
“Sean got nervous about staying with someone he didn’t know,” I said. “I left him at a truck stop. He’s going to ride his thumb while I’m gone.”
“Sounds like it won’t be the only thing he’ll be riding,” Dean chuckled. “So have you been to Sibley? I’m sure your mother’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“You’re the only one who knows I’m in town.”
Dean lit a cigarette as an excuse to consider why I was acting so coy. He would never go to his hometown and not let his mother know.
“Relax here for a few days,” Dean offered. “I don’t have a thing in the fridge. Let me take you out to eat, and we can pick up a few things.”
“Would it be okay if I took a nap first? I’m really exhausted.”
Dean went to prepare the bedroom. By the time he returned, I was falling asleep on the couch with Cicero at my side. Dean covered us with a blanket.
When I awoke, Dean was teasing Cicero, trying to get him to jump in the air for a piece of bacon. My mouth felt as though I’d swallowed desert sand and my eyes were nearly matted shut. Every muscle ached. I was an old man at thirty-six.
“Where am I?” I said.
“You poor thing,” Dean said.
I extended my arm like a starving man seeing a vision of banquet food. “That bacon smells like heaven. And coffee! God, do I need caffeine.” I poured a cup and took a seat at the table.
“Cream?” Dean offered.
“No. I take it black.”
“Cicero and I made friends,” Dean said, patting his thighs. Cicero jumped into his lap. “He slept with me last night.”
“How long have I been out?”
“More than a day. I figured you needed it.
“Damn. I’m supposed to be in Spain.”
“I was wondering about that,” Dean said. “I didn’t know if I should try to wake you.”
“Do you mind keeping Cicero while I’m away? And could you drive me to the airport? I’ll need to leave my car.”
Dean reached across the table to touch my hand. “I’m happy to help out, Simon.”
“Cicero won’t be any trouble,” I said. “But he does like to go exploring. He’ll run away if he’s not on a leash.”
Dean scratched Cicero behind the ears. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, boy?”
“I need to call Los Angeles,” I said. “I’ve got a girl living at my house.”
“A girl!” Dean exclaimed.
“Don’t get excited. She’s helping me with the business. There’s so much to tell you, but I have to get to the airport.”
“Why don’t you take a hot shower and then make your calls. Okay?”
Clean, and refreshed by a generous breakfast, I called Charlotte. She had found a lab in Barcelona and gotten all the paperwork done. I jotted down the pertinent information.
“Please don’t mess this up,” Charlotte said.
“I’ll be on a plane today,” I promised.
Charlotte read off a list of the checks she needed and made me swear to put them in the mail before I left.
“When you get back,” Dean said, sitting next to me in the lounge at the departure gate, “I hope you’ll stay at my house for a while. You need to regain your health.”
“I’m fine. That long sleep did wonders.”
“I know this isn’t the best time to ask,” Dean said, “but I’m going ask anyway. Do you have AIDS?”
“How can you ask such a thing?”
“Don’t be upset. I’ve just never seen you so thin. What’s the word I’m looking for? Sallow. You have a sallow complexion. I thought maybe—”
“Well, stop thinking so much. I’m fine. You try running a business in Hollywood. You’d look worn out, too.”
“I’m sorry, Simon. Anyway, I better get going.”
“Yeah, you’d better,” I shot back. Then, regretting it, I said, “Thanks for keeping Cicero.”
“He’ll be fine,” Dean said.
Dean kept looking at me until I said, “Don’t worry. So will I.”
CHAPTER 36
The Spanish clients were at the gate to greet me the moment I passed through customs in Barcelona. David Rodriguez, the company president, was a middle-aged man, undistinguished except for his impeccable attire. His interpreter, Emilio Ruiz, offered stark contrast as an older gentleman whose suit hung on his large frame like a sack. Emilio, with his round head and jutting jaw, was somewhat simian in appearance. I was captivated by his slushy Catalonian accent.
If it had been up to David, we would have gone directly from the airport to the lab, but Emilio intervened.
“Your secretary informed us that you had been on vacation,” Emilio said, taking my suitcase before I could pick it up myself.
“Well, yes, I was, but our business is important. That is why I’m wearing casual clothes. I didn’t have a suit with me.”
Emilio said something to David, who gave me a sympathetic look.
As we passed from the terminal into the late autumn air, an elegantly dressed woman greeted us. She was waiting beside a black limousine.
“This is David’s wife, Irene,” Emilio said.
“Enchanted,” I said, taking Irene’s hand. She began speaking to David in an animated tone.
“Irene insists we get you to the hotel so you can rest after your long flight,” Emilio told me.
“Thanks, Emilio. That sounds like a good idea. I am tired.”
We drove to a charming hotel in downtown Barcelona. Emilio said they had planned on dining with me in the hotel’s restaurant, which was highly regarded, but I convinced them that I had eaten on the plane.
Emilio made sure I understood that they had paid for the room, and that I should order anything I needed from room service. He promised that the next day, before conducting any business, they would treat me to a tour of the city.
Even though I knew I should sleep, my fingers involuntarily fidgeted with the bedspread. I found myself wondering if I could find cocaine in Barcelona.
“Fuck!” I shouted. “What am I thinking?”
I took a shower and went downstairs, hoping that a few drinks would calm me down. The hotel’s bar was a dimly lit room with a chamber ensemble playing popular music in a bandstand. I found a seat in an empty, semicircular booth upholstered in red leather. Couples occupied all the other booths. The women were well dressed in satin and lace. The men were more casual in gray or black sport coats. Everyone had a cigarette dangling from their fingers.
In my jeans and plaid shirt, with my stringy hair raked to one side, I was woefully uncoifed and underdressed. Maybe, I hoped, they would consider me an eccentric Brit come to Barcelona on his way to the Costa Brava.
The waiter, a young man with sexy eyes and a melodic voice, spoke a little English. He took my order for gin and tonic, and I managed in Spanish to ask him for bread and cheese. Just then, I heard a familiar voice. Emilio was speaking to the bartender and pointing in my direction. The ill-fitting suit was gone. Emilio now wore a blousy shirt and a plaid jacket. A wool overcoat was draped across his arm.
“Mr. Powell, may I join you?” he asked, approaching my booth<
br />
Emilio was the last person I wanted to see, but what was I to do? “Of course,” I said. “What a surprise to see you. But please, call me Simon.”
“Señor Simon, I was concerned because we abandoned you so soon upon your arrival in Cataluña.”
Emilio slid into the booth. I’d noticed when I first met him at MIFED that he tended to trespass on one’s personal space.
“I couldn’t relax,” I said, hoping that would explain why I was not resting as advised.
The waiter had returned and was patiently standing a few feet from the booth. Emilio asked him several questions and then addressed me, “Would you like wine? A good Spanish wine?”
“Sounds nice,” I said.
A few commands from Emilio, and the waiter dashed off without setting down my gin and tonic or the cheese.
“Barcelona is a wonderful city,” Emilio effused. “You must get to know it.”
“I can’t stay long,” I said. “After you view the master tapes, I must return home.”
The waiter came back with the wine in half the time it had taken to get my gin. He handed Emilio the cork.
“Some of our finest,” Emilio said. He sloshed a sip around his mouth and then spit into an empty glass.
I couldn’t translate much of what was printed on the label, but the date was clear. The wine was bottled in 1934. It was delicious. Prodded by the gregarious Emilio, I drank the entire bottle. Emilio ordered another.
“God’s blood,” Emilio slurred as he raised his glass in a drunken toast.
When the band started up a saucy tango, the older couples began dancing. Even the overweight clientele undulated on the floor with remarkable grace. The music seemed to offer them the ability to contradict gravity. To my drunken eyes, I was in the midst of a Fernando Botero painting.
Emilio tugged my sleeve. “Let’s go,” he said. “I take you where the people are younger.” He called for the waiter to settle the bill.
I held Emilio’s arm to steady myself as he whisked me to his Mercedes. The car sped through Barcelona’s wide boulevards. We passed Antonio Gaudi’s famous apartment building, its facade appearing as if it had been melted by a flamethrower. Emilio drove on, ever faster and with more recklessness, eventually veering down a side road and screeching to a halt in front of a discotheque. A long line of people waited to enter the establishment, which was clearly a Barcelona hot spot. A majority of the men wore leather jackets and American designer jeans. Most of the women sported puffy down coats and colorful Spandex pants. First appearances proved deceptive. Not all the women were what they seemed, and the tight jeans on many of the men didn’t have the requisite bulges to prove the manhood of the wearers.
Despite the long queue, Emilio took me straight to the front of the line. The bouncer lifted a velvet rope and allowed us to pass. The club was illuminated by multicolored squares on the dance floor, alternately flashing and then going dark. Elaborate contraptions hung from the ceiling, shooting laser beams in syncopation with the music. A coterie of people greeted Emilio the moment we settled into a booth. They all referred to him as Tío Emi. Emilio basked in the attention, laying sloppy kisses on everyone who approached. He made quite a show of fawning over the youngest guys.
The waiter brought Emilio a special drink called a sunset something, and indeed, the alcohol changed colors from blue to russet as I watched, emulating the effect of a sunset. The waiter asked me in Spanish what I wanted to drink. Emilio told him to bring a gin and tonic.
One by one, sexy young men flowed from the dance floor to squeeze in close to Emilio. On one occasion, I saw a cute brunette give Emilio money. Emilio reached inside his overcoat and gave the boy a foil packet.
My heart stopped. Emilio had drugs!
An overwhelmingly handsome man came and sat beside me. He spoke clear, if broken, English and minced no words in regard to his intention.
“Smoke hash with me?” he asked.
Emilio whispered in my ear, “It is okay. I sold it to him.”
I followed the attractive Spaniard through a set of doors that opened onto a hallway of administrative offices. The fellow wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I felt the flexing of his bulging biceps as the muscles pressed through his silk shirt. He opened an office door and pulled me inside.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The young man closed the door behind us and locked it. “Felipe,” he said, producing a hash pipe from his shirt pocket. “You are Americano?”
“From Los Angeles.”
Felipe unwrapped a piece of foil. Inside was a yellowish-black substance that looked like a wad of tar mixed with honey.
“Tío Emi wants me to turn you on,” Felipe said.
“I’m already turned on,” I said, grinning foolishly.
Felipe pressed his leg against mine, lit the hash with a cigarette lighter, and offered me a drag.
The pungently fragrant hash made for a potent aphrodisiac. I unbuttoned Felipe’s shirt. He undid my belt, let my pants drop, and pushed me against the wall. After exhausting my desires, Felipe kissed me on the cheek and disappeared. I found my way back in time to see Emilio hand Felipe money just before he slipped into the crush of dancers on the disco floor.
I guzzled several gin and tonics in rapid succession, but I was so high on hashish that they didn’t seem to affect me. The hallucinogenic nature of the narcotic sparked a bout of paranoia. I was sure I saw Masako under one of the flashing lights. And that cute ass on the dance floor, didn’t it belong to Thad? Wasn’t that Axl’s face on the boy walking by?
Pat Benatar’s latest song blared over the ceiling-mounted speakers. The aroma of salt-tinged sweat and poppers wafted through the room. The laser beams altered perception such that the dancers became a series of tableaux.
“You look sleepy, amigo,” Emilio said.
“Jet lag,” I managed as an excuse.
Emilio reached under the table and placed something in my hand. His scraggly mustache tickled my ear as he whispered, “This will wake you up.”
A glass vial rested in my palm. I looked down and realized it was a gram bottle of coke.
When Emilio began flirting with a lithe Scandinavian boy, I found a bathroom near the office where Felipe had taken me and went into a stall. In my excitement, I nearly dropped the bottle onto the tile floor.
My nose hungrily absorbed the friendly narcotic. Emilio had given me some potent drugs, laced with something more than cocaine, perhaps. My lungs constricted with asthma, and my throat was as tight as if a snake had coiled itself around my neck. Paralysis gripped my legs, and I collapsed against the wall. It took all my concentration keep from passing out.
A knock on the door brought me around. “Americano, are you there?” It was Felipe.
I forced my arm to reach for the lock.
“We go to Emilio,” Felipe said.
Emilio had landed the Scandinavian boy, who now was sitting in Emilio’s lap.
“Perhaps we should go to your hotel,” Emilio said, seeing that I was with Felipe.
We snorted from the glass vial as we drove across town in Emilio’s Mercedes. As soon as we got to the room, Emilio laid the Scandinavian boy on my bed and undressed himself. Then he sat upright on the mattress. His hairy stomach rested on his haunches, hiding his genitalia under a barrel of flesh.
Sören, the Scandinavian boy, crouched behind Emilio and rested his cock on his shoulder. Felipe tried to excite me, but the strong drugs had made me impotent. The drugs were what interested me, far more than the proposed orgy.
Emilio and Sören rolled onto the bed like a porno version of Yogi Bear and Boo Boo.
Felipe laid out lines, snorted two, and left three for me. After inhaling them, I propped myself against the shaking bed. Felipe positioned himself for the taking if I wanted it. I stared at him, stupidly. I was so high, my brain felt like a block of ice.
Somehow, all of us ended up on the bed. Emilio and I snorted lines off the boys’ chests. I kept wishing I h
ad the means to cook the powder into rock.
During a lull in the sex play, Emilio asked if everything was satisfactory—as if this had been the arrangement of a gracious host.
“Well, I’d rather be smoking this than snorting it.”
Emilio smiled, rolled off the bed, and found his overcoat. He reached inside the lining and took out a vial of rocks.
“Emilio! You are a satyr!” I said, patting his naked stomach.
Sören and Felipe stared at the rock with something akin to horror.
“You can use my hash pipe,” Felipe said, reluctantly.
I placed a chunk of rock on the bowl. The mixture of rock cocaine and hash resin produced a narcotic effect more potent than anything I’d ever experienced. I was sure I heard someone knock on the door and sought refuge under the bed. The carpet fibers caught my attention and I began sifting through them, sure we’d dropped some of the rock.
Emilio laughed at my mania. “You should limit yourself to snorting, my American friend.”
As the intoxication crested, I pulled myself onto a chair and stared into the distance. It took some time, but eventually the crack released its grip. Emilio was again having sex with Sören.
Felipe looked glum when I picked up the pipe. “Must you smoke more, señor?”
I smiled. “Sure you don’t want to join me?”
“Very sure,” Felipe said.
With the next hit, not only did I see searchlights at the window, I heard footsteps marching down the hallway. It sounded like an army battalion. I hurriedly dressed and waited for the inevitable arrest.
Around four in the morning, Emilio decided to leave. He motioned for Sören and Felipe to follow.
“We have much to do tomorrow,” Emilio said, addressing me.
Felipe asked to stay, which I appreciated. I felt anxious about being left alone. Emilio spoke in stern Spanish to Felipe, admonishing him not to steal anything—and to be kind.