by Tony O'Neill
Jeffrey sat back and decided to keep his mouth shut. He found being around Stevie Rox a dizzying business. Randal stepped in, looking mildly amused by Stevie’s outburst.
“What we have,” Randal said, “is a twenty-minute film loop starring Sharon Tate, Mama Cass, Yul Brynner, and Steve McQueen. A gangbang. All of them getting high and fucking.”
“How did this come into your possession, exactly?”
“He told you. A private collector.”
“And how did this private collector get it?”
“He stole it. From the Tate house.”
“And how exactly did he manage that, then?”
“He was one of the first people on the scene when they all got wiped out by Manson’s goons. This guy was there to take fingerprints and mop the fucking blood off the walls, and he sees a tape. . . .”
Stevie Rox looked over to Jeffrey again. He leaned in close.
“How much did you pay for it?”
“He left it to me. When he died.”
“Generous fucker, wasn’t he? What, was he your boyfriend or something?”
“Yeah. He was my boyfriend.”
Stevie nodded slowly. He looked back at Randal. “Have you seen it?”
Randal looked at Jeffrey. Jeffrey shrugged at him. Randal looked back to Stevie.
“Not yet. It hasn’t been out of its canister since the early seventies. That shit is fragile. Old. We’d need specialist equipment.”
Stevie finished his champagne. He emptied the bottle into his glass. “So what are you thinking? A collector?”
“Yeah. What about the Marilyn Monroe guy?”
“He’s no use to you. He only gives a shit about Monroe. Your best bet is someone who is into the whole Tate legend. That won’t be hard. I know some people. I know one guy in particular who might be useful to you. He’s a freak. A memorabilia guy. A real fetishist. He’s got money, too. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But . . . what’s my cut?”
“I dunno, Stevie. If we make the sale . . . five?”
“Fuck off! It’s not worth me writing his number down on a napkin for five. You know what this film could be worth? Millions. That sad cunt I knew paid two million for the Marilyn tape. I want twenty-five grand, cash.”
“If he buys it.”
“If it is what you say it is, then he’ll buy it. And I want ten percent of whatever the tape sells for.”
“Ten percent? Come on, Stevie. . . . How about five?”
“Ten, or I’m getting up and walking out right now. I hope you haven’t dragged my arse all the way over here so you can waste my fucking time, Randy. . . .”
· · ·
Randal looked over to Jeffrey. Jeffrey looked over to Stevie’s blubbery frame one last time, shuddered, and gave the nod to Randal.
“Okay. Ten percent.”
Stevie nodded, grimly.
“Randal. I’ve heard stories about you. Understand this: if you try to fuck me on the money, I will have your fucking balls cut off and fed to my shih tzu, do you understand?”
“Stevie, I’m clean. Look at me. I’m just trying to make an honest living, just like you.”
At this there was a commotion as Baby staggered out of the bathroom and knocked into a table full of diners. She straightened herself, slurred an apology, and then continued on to the table.
“Oh, fuck me,” Stevie said.
Her sense of direction was all off. She finally made it back to the booth, her head fell back, her eyes rolled up into her skull, and she was still.
“Jesus,” Jeffrey said, “is she all right?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s fine. She does this all of the time. It’s the medication she’s taking. She’ll snap out of it in half an hour or so. Won’t remember a thing. Fucking dumb bitch has got bats in her belfry. What a piece of ass, though.”
With this, Stevie Rox wrote a name and a phone number on a napkin. He put his pen away with a flourish and placed a hand over the napkin. He looked at Randal one more time.
“I want my cut,” he said, “I don’t want excuses.”
“If this guy buys, you get your money. Come on, Stevie, how long have we known each other?”
“Too fucking long. That’s why I’m making sure you understand that I’m not pissing around.”
Randal nodded. Stevie removed his hand, and Randal took the napkin, glancing at it before slipping it into his pocket. The waiter had arrived bringing cocktails, the minute steak with creamed spinach, and a small bowl with a pile of unappetizing-looking white goop in it for Baby.
Stevie nudged Baby. She seemed to stir for a moment. “Wake up, Baby,” Stevie said, “your food’s here.”
With that, Baby pitched forward and hit the table with her face, sending glasses tumbling and a steak knife clattering to the floor.
“Thank you,” Jeffrey said, taking his drink from the waiter. He held the glass aloft, over the head of Baby, still facedown on the table.
“Here’s to Sharon Tate,” he said.
“Here’s to my twenty-five grand,” Stevie Rox gurgled, and they clinked glasses. Baby slept on.
Chapter Thirty-Six
As Trina and Pat lay in bed smoking cigarettes, they listened to their neighbors’ disembodied voices through the paper-thin motel walls. Their bodies were bathed in a luminous sheen of postcoital sweat. Trina took a long drag and then exhaled a plume of gray smoke. It curled upward, hanging momentarily in the slats of neon light creeping in through the open blinds, before it was dissipated by the twirling ceiling fan.
“That was good, Daddy,” she said. “You fucked me good.”
“I aim to please . . .” Pat murmured.
“You know, baby, uh, I noticed how you never try to eat my pussy”—she felt his torso stiffen when she said this, so she quickly added—“and that’s cool, baby. I ain’t criticizin’. You fuck me better than any man’s ever fucked me. It’s just that . . . well, I’ve been wantin’ to tell you somethin’, an’ it’s never seemed like the right time before. . . .”
“Uh-oh,” Pat growled, “sounds serious. You ain’t missed your period, have you?”
Trina laughed, “Nah, baby. Nothin’ like that. It’s just that, uh, when I was a kid . . . well, my uncle Clay—my mom’s brother—he useta live with us. After Gramma died, Clay couldn’t live by himself anymore. . . . Uncle Clay was born kinda screwy, something in his genes Mom said, some kinda disorder that twisted his brain a little. Well, uh, when I was ten, Uncle Clay used to come into my room at night. At least once a week, sometimes more. An’ he’d just stand there, lookin’ at me. Starin’. I’d always wake up. Somethin’ . . . some sixth sense would bring me ’round . . . an’ there’d be Clay with his fingers to his lips saying ‘shush . . .’ ”
Pat sucked on his Parliament, thoughtfully.
“So, Uncle Clay useta screw ya?” he asked.
“No, baby!” Trina laughed, “Jesus, you’re sick! He was my uncle! Nah, he used to get under the sheets and shimmy up the bed toward me an’ put his mouth between my legs, you know? An’ just lick me . . . like a dog. I guess he’d be, uh, y’know, takin’ care of himself down there . . . ’cos after ten minutes or so he’d sorta . . . stiffen up. His whole body, just tremblin’ all over. Then he’d just lie there pantin’ for a while. I’d lie there real still, pretendin’ to be asleep. After a few minutes he’d get up, wipe himself off on the sheet, an’ kinda . . . slink outta there.”
“Man. Did you ever tell your folks?”
“Oh, God, no! The first time it happened, I kinda thought that I’d dreamed it or something. I was watchin’ Uncle Clay for clues at breakfast, but he was sittin’ there eatin’ his Capt’n Crunch like nuthin’ had happened. The next time, I was too embarrassed to say nuthin’. After that . . . I guess I just kinda got useta it, you know?”
“Yeah, I hear ya . . . so what happened to Uncle Clay?”
“Nothin’. He’s probably still at Mom and Dad’s place, sittin’ around in his
underwear eatin’ up all the cereal and watchin’ Fox News. He useta watch that shit all day long. Motherfucker was obsessed with Bill O’Reilly, hero-worshiped him. He wrote a letter to him once, an’ Bill read it out on the show, an’ Uncle Clay just about creamed in his shorts.”
“So he kept it up? Sneakin’ into your room at night and eatin’ your pussy?”
“For a while. When I was twelve I got my period. One time he snuck into my room an’ got himself a mouthful of blood, that put a stop to it. He fuckin’ ran out of there, an’ I heard him retchin’ and brushing his teeth like crazy in the bathroom.”
“Ha. I guess ol’ Uncle Clay more’n learned his lesson, huh?”
“I guess. So anyway, baby, the reason I wanted to tell you that . . . is ever since, I just can’t stand to have any man put his mouth down there. It just turns me off. Leaves me cold. Bad associations, I guess.”
Pat laughed his wheezy laugh and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked over to Trina. She was staring at the ceiling, a faraway look in her eyes. He kissed her on the throat.
“Well, no offense, baby”—Pat whispered against her hot skin— “but I don’t eat pussy anyway. Any man who says he enjoys eatin’ pussy is either a fool or a fuckin’ liar.”
He bit her neck lightly, and Trina giggled, her body breaking out in goose bumps. She took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out in a coffee cup. She exhaled long and hard.
“Is that so? Well, aren’t we the match made in heaven. . . . So anything else I should know about you, baby? Any stuff you want to tell me?”
“What? Sex stuff?”
“Yeah, sex stuff. Turn-ons? Turn-offs?”
“Only two things turn me off. One is when a woman talks too much about stupid shit. Another is when a chick tries to touch my ass. An ex of mine tried to stick her finger up my ass when we was fucking. Only once. I grabbed her by her fucking wrist and told her that the next time she tried that shit she’d pull back a motherfucking stump. I may be a lot of things, baby girl, but I sure as fuck ain’t nobody’s bitch.”
Trina ran her hand across Pat’s chest and said, “You can say that again, Daddy.”
They lapsed into a contented silence for a while. Outside a siren wailed and then faded away into night. It sounded like the city was crying. Then Trina asked, “What are you gonna do when you find him?”
“The faggot?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
Trina buried her face in Pat’s neck, sniffing at his skin. “What about Spider?” she breathed.
“You leave Spider to me, baby girl. I don’t like loose ends.”
Trina didn’t say anything. She continued to nuzzle Pat, before resting her cheek against his shoulder.
· · ·
“Don’t worry, sweet cheeks,” Pat said. “It gets easier the second time. Just like with your uncle Clay. After a while, it becomes as natural as breathing.”
Outside, the traffic on the boulevard sounded like the roaring of some vast, distant sea. Trina clung to Pat, imagining herself adrift on its endless inky darkness, clinging to Pat to avoid being dragged under the surface. Pat stared at the ceiling fan as it went around, thunk, thunk, thunk, his mind squirming with thoughts of blood and retribution. A silence fell on the city for a moment—no sirens, no alarms, no Spanish curses, no breaking glass. Just the soft, steady sound of the ceiling fan. The night had declared a cease-fire. Trina huddled closer to Pat and soon she was asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
They were in the car outside of Rupert Du Wald’s place. The radio was on, fading from some moronic top-forty rock into a news report. It was mid-afternoon, and the air-conditioning was on full-blast. Randal was smoking a cigarette and looking out the window distractedly while Jeffrey tried to fix with shaking hands. His knees were up on the dash, and he had his elbow tucked into his gut, repositioning the needle under his skin, trying to find a vein somewhere on his bruised forearm.
“Shit!” Jeffrey hissed as he withdrew the needle and a glob of blood trailed from his arm and spotted his T-shirt.
“It’s four fifteen,” Randal said.
“I know it’s fucking four fifteen,” Jeffrey snapped. “Stop rushing me. I’m almost done. It’s a bitch to fix when you keep interrupting me.”
Randal threw the cigarette out the window and exhaled a plume of gray smoke into the balmy air. The bag with the film canister was sitting on his lap.
“Are you nervous?” Randal asked.
“Nervous? Why the fuck would I be nervous?”
“Well, the tape, man. It’s make or break time.”
“I’m not afraid. I know the tape is bona fide. There’s nothing to worry about as far as that goes. Oh—wait. Here we go. Got you, you fucker. . . .”
Jeffrey got the hit, slid the needle out, and put it away with the rest of his shit in the glove compartment. He closed his eyes for a moment. His voice took on that dreamy tone it got when he was high on heroin, like he was talking half asleep through a mouth wadded with cotton.
“Fuck me. That’s good shit. That’s almost all of Bill’s China white gone now. I’m telling you, it’s gonna be tough to go back to using fucking Mexican tar after getting used to this shit.”
“I thought you were gonna quit when we sell the tape? Why would you start using that shit?”
“Yeah,” Jeffrey slurred, “yeah, exactly. I’m definitely going to quit once we sell the tape. I mean, I’ve only been using this time for like, what, two weeks?”
“Jeffrey, you got out of rehab like two months ago.”
“Okay, a couple of months. I don’t think I’ll have copped a habit already. Maybe just a chippy little habit. No worries. . . .”
Jeffrey’s head slumped toward his chest. Randal watched him for a moment, nodding silently. Then something caught his ear on the radio. He cranked the volume, rousing Jeffrey.
“What the FUCK, man?”
“Shhh!”
Dr. Michael Schwartzki, better known to his audience as the so-called recovery guru Dr. Mike, has denied any involvement in the death of Joseph Khu. Khu, who lived his life as a female named Champagne, was found dead earlier in the week in East Hollywood. The twenty-year-old was allegedly a drug addict and a prostitute. Yesterday, the National Enquirer went public with allegations that the drugs that killed Khu had been traced back to the doctor, and that a message left by Khu on his sister’s cell phone shortly before his death suggested that Dr. Mike and the deceased had been involved in a sexual relationship. In a statement issued today via his lawyers, Dr. Mike denied all the allegations made against him by the Khu family and the tabloid press. . . .
“Jesus Christ!” Jeffrey said. “You have to be kidding me!”
“I told you something about that motherfucker was off, man. I could smell it a mile away. You can’t go through life with your shirt buttoned so tight without blowing your top eventually.”
He clicked off the radio.
“Anyway, enough about that motherfucker. Let’s go see this guy Rupert. What kind of a fucking name is Rupert?”
“What kind of a fucking name is Champagne?” Jeffrey laughed.
· · ·
They rang the bell and looked at each other for a moment, waiting for a response. A tiny, ancient Asian woman opened the door and peered at them.
“Yes?”
“Hello. I’m Randal, and this is Jeffrey. We’re here to see Mr. Du Wald. . . .”
“Yes, Mr. Du Wald is expecting you. This way, please. . . .”
The entrance hall was huge, with two winding staircases leading off to other parts of the house. The floor and walls were constructed of what appeared to be onyx marble, giving them a translucent, fragile quality. The air was thick with the scent of orchids. Du Wald obviously had a thing for orchids, because they were everywhere: hanging from suspended pots, in vases; there were even vaguely sexual paintings of them mounted on the walls. The housekeeper led them into a main room, which had a grand piano
set into a sunken floor. A huge window looked out over the city’s smoggy horizon. Sitting at the piano was a strange little man holding a cocktail glass in his hand. He was short and fat, wearing a monogrammed dressing gown. He was at least seventy, and his skin was pulled back tight over his skull, giving his face a waxy, unreal look. He was wearing aviator glasses with brown-tinted lenses, and the strange head was topped off with a hairpiece that seemed—in the half-light—to be a shade of powder blue.
“Mr. Du Wald, Misters Randal and Jeffrey are here to see you. . . .”
Du Wald held his hand up, and the housekeeper was silent. As he continued to pick out notes on the piano with his free hand she turned to them and whispered, “He’ll be with you in just a moment. Would you like a drink?”
Randal shook his head, and the housekeeper scurried off to some other part of the house. They watched as Du Wald put the glass of wine down on the piano and scrawled something on a piece of manuscript paper. Then he picked out a melody on the piano, singing along with gusto.
“We are the Teacup Family! Welcome to our HOOOOMMME!” Du Wald sang in an operatic voice.
He nodded and replaced the pencil. He turned to look at Randal and Jeffrey.
“Hello,” the little man said.
“Mr. Du Wald? I’m Randal P. Earnest, and this is Jeffrey. . . .”
“Hello . . . ,” Jeffrey slurred, his eyes rolling back into his skull slightly.
“Welcome, boys! Come in! Make yourself at home. . . . Is Lilly fetching you a drink?”
“Oh, nothing for us,” Randal said.
“Yeah, we’re cool . . . ,” Jeffrey said, sleepily.
“My work,” Du Wald explained, pointing to the music sheet. “Theme song for a new children’s television show, The Teacup Family. For the English, of course. Only the English would write an entire show about the adventures of a family of teacups. . . .”
“I didn’t know you were in the music game.”
“Oh, yes! My whole life. Commercial work. Movies. Television. . . . Please, sit down.”
Aside from the grand piano, and the leather corner sofa, there were several bookshelves stuffed with antique-looking hardcover books, and mounted props from the various movies and TV shows that Du Wald had worked on.