Intimate Relations

by Rebecca Forster

  Bev sat down on a small wooden bench that was in no better shape than the lattice. Finn got down on one knee and rested his forearms on the upraised one.

  "I'm not leaving Cori up there to do all the work herself, so you'll be telling me now what I want to know. No fits, Beverly. No hysterics."

  "I don't have to —"

  "You do because I am a cop, and I will take you to jail," Finn said. "Now what was going on in there?"

  "It was an Asylum party." Bev rolled her eyes when the look on Finn's face said that explanation wasn't enough. "Asylum is a club for adventurous adults. It's very exclusive. The men pay more than you make a year just to join."

  "And the women?"

  "Women have to apply to be part of the scene, but we don't pay. Asylum looks for beautiful women. Intelligent women. And they chose me, Finn. I'm not twenty-five, and they still chose me."

  "I can see how much they value your intelligence," Finn said, and Bev had the decency to be embarrassed. "Go on."

  "The rules are the same for each party, but the venue changes," Bev said. "You never know where or when one will be until the last minute. If you miss two parties, you're out. That's only for the women. Because the men pay for a membership they can't get kicked out unless they mur—." Bev stopped talking. Finn cocked his head and raised a brow. Her pique returned. "You know what I mean. Believe me, none of those guys in there killed anyone."

  Both of them knew that little slip of hers would stay in Finn's head until he was satisfied that was all it had been.

  "So what are these rules?"

  "Men have to wear tuxedos. Everyone has to wear a mask. The women can come as they please, but they have to look sexy. That's what Asylum is all about. Sexual fantasies, power fantasies."

  "Sure, it sounds like a whorehouse," Finn said.

  "It isn't. There is no touching or sex without consent. The men may have the money, but the women are in control. One word from any of us, and even the gold members can be disciplined for harassment." Bev's lips tipped. "It's nice to be in control for once."

  "And the doll that man ripped to shreds? That was fantasy? A real woman dead upstairs was someone's fantasy?"

  "I didn't know anything about that doll thing," Bev said. "We've never had a party here before. I've never been to one this exclusive. Usually there are fifty people in some house in Hollywood or Beverly Hills. All I know is that the man who owns the place —the guy who went bonkers — he makes companions."

  "Sex dolls?" Finn said.

  "Yes, if you want to be crude," she said. "But that's no different than any other sex toy."

  "They look like women. They feel like women. You don't find that odd, Beverly?"

  "That guy is an incredible artist. I've never seen anything like it. He's a master." Her defense was so genuine it almost amused Finn. But it wasn't a destroyed doll or Beverly's opinion of it that he cared about.

  "He might have killed a young woman," Finn said.

  "Oh listen to you, Mr. Rule of Law," Bev drawled. "You always told me not to trust the first information. What happened to innocent 'till proven guilty? Well, nobody in this place is innocent, but that doesn't mean anyone is guilty of murder. That includes the guy who makes the companions, and I don't even know him."

  She paused. For an instant Finn thought he saw the woman he married. Then he realized he was seeing the woman she had become in their marriage, one who felt sad and trapped by circumstance. It would seem the big world had not made her less so. But the expression was gone as fast as it crossed her face. Beverly was a proud woman, and would never admit she made a mistake even if she had.

  "Did you keep track of everyone through the night?" Finn asked.

  "No," she said. "Look, I just want to go home, so here's what I know. This party was a special invitation thing. I mean it was still fantasy night, but we were waiting for something."

  Finn pushed himself off the ground. The cracked asphalt was none too comfortable. He put his hands together to wipe away the small rocks embedded in his finger tips.

  "What was it you were waiting for?" he asked.

  "Nobody knew. The men who were invited are very important, and I heard one of them say tonight would change the world. That's what he said. Change the world."

  "And the dead woman? Who was she?"

  "She was a bitch," Bev said.

  "I'll be needing something more specific, like her name."

  "Cami."

  Finn raised a brow; Bev raised her bare shoulders.

  "That's all I know. We use aliases at Asylum parties. I don't know anyone's real name. No matter what you threaten me with, I can't tell you anymore than that."

  "And why were you so angry with this woman if you don't know her?"

  "I told you, she was a bitch." Bev's arms crossed again.

  "Last I heard that's no reason to kill someone."

  "Oh, please, Finn."

  Bev leaned forward. She put her elbows on her knees and cradled her chin in her upturned hands as she collected her thoughts. When she looked at him again she seemed exhausted. This came as no surprise to Finn. She had been up all night, and even fantasies show their wear with the passage of time.

  "You think I could kill that little horror, leave, come back, and pretend I didn't? Sorry, I'm not that cool."

  "I'm not thinking you killed her. There would be blood on you, and I can see that's not the case. I'm still wanting to know why the fury? There was no mistaking that."

  Bev sat back, feigning boredom when in fact the truth was she didn't want to look into her ex's eye when she answered.

  "She was going to out one of the Asylum men. It's someone I care about, and he couldn't afford for people to know about his involvement in this club."

  "His name?" Finn asked.

  "I just told you—"

  "Aliases. So you said," Finn answered. "What's his then?"

  Bev opened her mouth. The man's name hovered on her lips, and Finn could see the pink of her tongue as she put it against her small, white teeth. Then her body shook as she tried to subdue a laugh. Her lashes lowered. Her voice twinkled when she said:

  "Pinocchio."

  Bev laughed in earnest and Finn joined her. Their moment didn't last long.

  "Stop it," Bev said. "It's not what you think? It has nothing to do with his physical appearance."

  "Is it only his nose that grows with a lie then?" Finn teased.

  "It's about what he does. The man is an icon in a sensitive industry."

  "And is he here?" Finn asked.

  "He wasn't invited," Bev said. "And I didn't know Cami would be here either, or I wouldn't have come. Rumor had it that Asylum was going to kick her out. She was messing around threatening people's outside lives. It was like a game with her. I thought she was all talk, but this man —Pinocchio—he took her seriously."

  "'Tis difficult to take down a regular person much less someone with money," Finn said. "What was she peddling?"

  "I don't know." Her eyes widened when Finn seemed skeptical. "I honestly don't know, Finn. She was a bitch to me. She called me grandma, and she was going to ruin someone who didn't deserve it. Thank God somebody else got to her and saved me the trouble."

  "I'd be advising you to keep that thought to yourself." Finn took a deep breath. He muttered her name once. "And all this for a man whose name you don't even know."

  "At least I know who's worth fighting for. Not like you, putting everything on the line for some homeless guy."

  "If I could arrest you for that, I would," Finn said. Bev laughed and the sound was cruel.

  "I'm amazed your bleeding heart hasn't killed you." She slapped her knees. "Are we done?"

  Finn looked down at her for a moment, and then stepped back to give her room.

  "We are finished, Beverly," Finn said, and meant it. Never again would he long for this woman or what they once had. She got up. She raised her chin.

  "FYI, Finn. I didn't say I didn't know his name, but he isn't here. Plus I
would be breaking the rules if I told you."

  Before Finn could pressure his ex for the information he wanted, Cori found them. She took a look at them both, and raised an eyebrow at Finn.

  "Beverly and I are done." Finn lifted a shoulder as if to say all was as well as could be expected. He turned to his ex-wife. "Get your things. You'll be taken to the station so you can make a formal statement. "

  Beverly smoothed her corset and tossed the long sweep of hair out of her eyes. She smiled at Cori.

  "Nice to see you two are still partners."

  "He's worth sticking with," Cori said.

  "You always were a bitch," Bev said, and walked away.

  Cori called out before the woman went into the building. She was smiling when she walked up to Finn's ex and lowered her voice.

  "You know. Just between us girls, you may need to tighten up that corset."

  Bev's pretty brow furrowed. She put her hands over her stomach as she turned and tilted her head to check out her behind.

  "It's fine," Bev snapped.

  "I don't think so, honey," Cori said. "You can still talk."

  7

  His name was Enver and hers was Emi. Their surname was Cuca. Five years earlier they won a lottery in their home country of Albania. The prize was America. Enver and Emi believed with a fervor that was close to religious that anything was possible in the United States. They were not religious people, just hopeful, hardworking, and determined to succeed. Enver was an artist and Emi was an engineer. They shared a passion for their respective work, and an admiration for each other's.

  Soon after they arrived in Los Angeles — Enver speaking little English —they found The Brewery and leased a small space in the corner building near the park. Enver painted pictures, but sold few; Emi looked for work as an engineer but found none. To pass the time, to entertain herself, Emi built things. One day she found metal pieces in a pile of discarded things outside their neighbor's door and fashioned a woman's head and shoulders. Enver thought the bust was beautiful and believed her sculptures would sell well. She made another and this time — after one too many raki — Emi and Enver went scrounging to see what else they could find to make her work more interesting. They came home with a piece of silicone that had been discarded by the person who created prosthetics for the movies. This material was as soft as a baby's bottom, and when Emi made a second bust, they covered it with 'skin'.

  This time they didn't just think Emi's sculpture was exceptional, they knew it. During one of the open loft events, a man came to Enver and Emi Cuca's place. He could not stop touching the 'skin' on the second bust. Eventually he wandered around looking at the paintings in the studio. He asked if Enver could paint the bust to look like a real woman and offered more money than the Cucas had ever seen. America was a wonderful place, indeed.

  Enver painted the bust and the man asked them to make him a statue of a woman - crafted just so. Emi built the statue's structure, working with soft materials because the man wanted his statue to bend. Enver painted her, and she was beautiful. The man paid for the silicone woman. When he came back again, the man asked for something very different. He wanted a statue with soft skin. He wanted Enver to paint her so that she seemed real, and he wanted to be able to make love to her. A doll. This man was not embarrassed to tell Enver and Emi of his desire.

  The artist and his wife were shocked.

  They were angry.

  At first Enver refused.

  The man offered a sum for this doll.

  Enver wavered.

  The man offered more money.

  Eventually Emi convinced her husband that there was no harm. She was sure she could build the woman, but it would take some doing. The 'skin' and the 'skeleton' would have to give and retract, be soft, warm, and receptive, but she could do it.

  Emi urged her husband to do what the man asked. So Enver did and the doll they made was more beautiful than either of them could ever have imagined. Though he didn't tell Emi, Enver touched the doll once. He was curious about what his wife had devised to make the doll feel like a real woman. For many nights after that he lay awake berating himself for doing such a thing; for many nights he dreamed of doing it again. This both shamed and excited the artist, but soon all was well. The man took the doll away.

  He was so pleased that he sent many more people to see Enver and Emi. Soon they only created dolls. They moved from the small, windowless space to another and another until they came to live in the grandest house at The Brewery. When one of their neighbors came to see the new studio, she was amazed at the dolls lined up in the workroom. She called them companions, and there came a moment when Enver and Emi also thought of them in that way. The husband and wife, though, had very different feelings about the companions. Emi thought of them as her children, Enver did not. They didn't share their thoughts with anyone, not even each other. Instead, they made each companion better than the last, creating them with great care.

  Now here they were. Wealthy. Living in a concrete castle. They created their companions one at a time to each client's needs and desires. Always they kept a few completed companions for those who weren't sure what they wanted or didn't care what they got. But always Enver painted them with such love that they far exceeded expectations. When each was complete, Emi dressed the companion in a simple shift of fine linen. Enver put the companion in a large box with a pillow under her head. Together they shipped each one to a new home.

  Enver's companions had gone to every corner of the world, and still the orders came. It didn't surprise Emi that men wanted these beautiful dolls for sex. Men were strange creatures, never satisfied with what they had, always searching for perfection. Since real women weren't perfect —nor would real women desire these men who were imperfect each in their own way—the companions made sense. Emi was practical about that. Enver secretly tried not to think of what happened to his beautiful dolls after they left his studio.

  It wasn't the desire that surprised Enver and Emi, it was the money that was spent on such things that made them shake their heads. They could have asked for the moon, and the men would find a way to pluck it from the sky. And why not? In the dark of night, when a man reached for his companion and his hands met warm skin and he kissed full lips that were soft and giving, the companion would be real to him and that would be all that mattered.

  But now America was not a wonderful place, and there was no escaping reality. They were under suspicion of a terrible crime. The police believed Enver had killed that woman upstairs. Enver could get angry, yes, but he would not kill a woman. Especially not that one.

  Still, Emi knew from her country that once the police decided a person was guilty they made it their business to find evidence to prove it. Sometimes that was easier than finding out the truth. In this instance they would find neither proof nor truth, but they would be back and Emi resolved to be ready.

  Enver, though, had no resolve for anything. Exhausted by the interrogation, he had not spoken since they had returned home. He looked like a common criminal in the orange pants and shirt they gave him. The police had taken Enver's clothes and his shoes. It seemed that they had taken his voice, too. Now they stood staring at the front door. They had been doing it for a long while, but no one knocked. Finally, Emi said:

  "I'll make coffee."

  She turned and walked the length of the big room, ignoring the mess. She opened the cabinets and took out the cups, but Enver barely heard a clatter. Left alone, he shuffled into the part of the room where the beautiful sofas and chairs were now all mixed up, moved as the party guests cowered while he raged, moved again when the police separated them to ask their questions. The beautiful glass table was cracked. Glasses from which their guests drank were littered about, some were broken on the floor. One had spilled wine on the silk upholstery and it looked like a blood stain. A feather from a woman's headdress was stuck on the painting hung on the great wall. Sequins from the dresses the other women wore had fallen willy-nilly on the floor. The
y sparkled like silver and gold bird seed. But all the pretty birds were gone.

  Enver picked one up. Holding it on the tip of his finger, he looked at it closely. He thought of the people who had come into his home, played with his dolls, done ridiculous things to one another, dressed in their costumes, and hid their faces. He was disgusted from the moment he laid eyes on them. One man put a collar and leash on a woman and made her get on her hands and knees like a dog. That was wrong. Another man hit a woman's bottom with a leather strap. That's when Enver knew the truth. If real women were nothing more than things to these people, how would they treat the companions in their care?

  And then, out of nowhere, the man who started it all appeared. That man who was like a thing.

  And then...

  "Sit down."

  Emi raised her voice because the room was so big. Enver didn't move. It was getting very hard for Emi to speak as if nothing was wrong. It was difficult to be the one who was calm, when all was chaos. Emi came toward him. She slammed the mugs down on the cracked table and fairly ran across the room to her husband. Emi slapped his hand, and the little glittery thing flew away. He started and blinked, but said nothing.

  She took his arm and pressed her fingers into his skin. That skin was crepe-like and his muscles were long, not bulky as they had once been. He was an old man and she didn't know when that had happened. It struck her that she might be an old woman, and that was why he so loved the companions.

  Then Emi thought again. He wasn't old. Inside there was still fire and desire, and that was the problem. He was soft because he was an artist, that was all. He thought only of beauty. She was the one who was forged like steel because she worked with metal. It was opposite of what it should have been for a man and a woman, but she loved him and always would.

  "Husband," Emi whispered.

  Enver looked through her. He walked away, out of the room, disappearing up the stairs like a ghost. Emi started after him, but changed her mind. Her anger was too hot, so she returned to the kitchen and started to wash the kettle. But even that— the mundane thing, the rote thing — could not calm her. She grasped the granite and hung her head.