Devil's Dance

by Daniel Depp

  ‘Oh, you naughty boy.’

  Every guy had them on his computer somewhere. This was really the best part of the job. Captain Midnight looked through them, pleased.

  He copied these too.

  When he was sure he’d gotten everything of interest, he shut down the computer, closed the case again, and put it back in the briefcase. He double-checked around the room to see if he’d forgotten anything.

  Nope.

  He sighed. Now was the best part of the job. It was the only reason he did it. Everything else was just fucking dull. One of the perils of being a genius.

  He went around the room and touched things. Opened drawers, closets, suitcases. Touched pants shirts jackets hanging. Touched folded underwear, opened a cotton hotel laundry bag and moved his hand around in the contents of that. Went into the bathroom, touched the toothbrush, the electric razor, the still damp towels, the toilet seat. Opened the little Dopp kit and handled the bottle of pills, the condoms, sniffed the bottle of cologne.

  Oh yeah, oh yeah.

  Went back into the bedroom, took a brand-new folded white shirt from a drawer. Pulled out the pins, the cardboard, unfolded the shirt, and laid it on the bed. He unzipped his fly, pulled out his dick, and whacked off onto it. Just a few hard quick strokes and bam, he was done.

  Ahh god, ahh god …

  Stood there for a few moments in bliss, weak, the room spinning a little.

  Finally tucked away his pizzle. Carefully refolded, repinned the shirt exactly the way he’d found it. Put it back in the drawer.

  Then said to the room,

  ‘Congratulations, you have just been fucked by Captain Midnight. Heigh-ho, Silver, and away.’

  And was gone.

  TWO

  Jerry Margashack stood in the dining room of the Bonaventure Hotel with a hundred or so people he hated. He hardly knew any of them, but the ones he did know he despised, and he figured the odds were in his favor concerning the rest. He was more than a little drunk, but this wasn’t unusual. The room was full of film distributors, sucking-up critics, and the other industry types who always come to these things. There’d been a private screening downtown and they’d all adjourned here to swill the producer’s booze, score dope, and try to get laid.

  The film, Jerry’s film, the one he’d (in theory anyway) written and directed, had done great in the advance screenings with very little tweaking. The people who did the numbers were happy. They’d nailed domestic and European distribution already – that’s where the bread came from to make the film in the first place, they’d pre-sold the shit out of it – and now it was a matter of trying to conquer the rest of the world. This explained why geeky looking people from around the world were allowed this evening to come up and tell him how brilliant he was. Which was the last thing he wanted to hear.

  There was a blonde halfway across the room trying to make eye contact with him.

  ‘That bimbo almost wearing the red dress is going to get a hernia if you don’t respond,’ Annie Michaels said to him.

  Annie was his agent. He hated her too but, like most everybody else in this hellhole, she had him by the balls in one way or another.

  ‘I hate her,’ Jerry said.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You hate everybody.’

  ‘My experience is that it’s better to start out that way,’ he said, slugging back some of the champagne in his glass. ‘That way there’s nowhere to go but up.’

  ‘So what do you think,’ she said to him. ‘You should be happy.’

  ‘Fucking overjoyed.’

  ‘Everybody loved it. You’re a hit.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a hit,’ he said, taking another drink. ‘I want to be the guy who made a good film, which this fucking well isn’t, by the way.’

  She grabbed him by the arm, led him off to the edge of the crowd out of earshot.

  ‘Do not do this,’ she said. ‘Not now, not here. You want to whine and act like a fucking child, fine, go back to the hotel and get shitfaced again and tell your woes to the toilet.’

  ‘It’s a piece of shit, Annie. It’s not my film. Not after Frank had the fucking second-unit director – an imbecile, by the way, whose idea of dramatic resolution is to cut somebody’s head in half with a chainsaw – reshoot those desert scenes without telling me about it. Then the bastard recuts it with a fucking Cuisinart. I’d take my fucking name off the thing if I thought I’d still get my money. Where is the rest of my fucking money, by the way?’

  A guy who looked oily enough to be a second-string studio exec came up, took Jerry’s hand.

  ‘Congratulations, man!’ said the exec. ‘Great flick. It must feel good. Long time getting recognized by the Establishment, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jerry. ‘You bet.’

  ‘This has got Oscar written all over it,’ the exec said. ‘Best Director, Golden Globes for sure.’

  ‘Who won last year?’ Jerry asked him.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Who got the Globes for Best Director last year?’

  He thought. ‘Jesus, I can’t remember.’

  ‘My point exactly,’ said Jerry. To Annie he said, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know goddamn well who. Frank. Where is the fucking weasel hiding?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Is he here? Where is the motherfucker? He’s got to be here somewhere, the shitass.’

  Jerry drained the champagne, grabbed another one, took a healthy hit, went off in search of his prey.

  Frank Jurado, the producer, was talking with a group of money people. Saw Jerry approach.

  ‘Here he is, the Golden Boy,’ said Jurado. ‘Big congrats.’

  ‘Fuck you, Frank. Where’s my money?’

  ‘We’ll talk,’ said Jurado, throwing a warning look past him at Annie. ‘Go enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Fucking right we will. We could also talk about why you hacked my film to pieces, and why you’ve got me stuck like a hamster in the Chateau.’

  ‘Nice cage for a hamster,’ said the money guy with a Latin accent.

  ‘Fuck you too,’ Jerry said to him politely.

  Annie came up, took Jerry’s arm, and tried to steer him away.

  ‘Not the time or the place,’ she said to him.

  ‘No? When is the time and the place? It’s never the fucking time or the place.’

  ‘You just told the largest distributor of US films in Latin America to go fuck himself.’

  ‘I want my money. Unless that fucking greaseball pachuco motherfucker has my money, I don’t want to talk to him. I want to talk to Frank, who’s the slimy motherfucker who actually does have it.’

  ‘You’ll get your money. You know the deal. You’ll get the rest of it when the foreign distribution deals are all clear.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘You go around telling the people who can get your money to go fuck themselves, it’s liable to be never.’

  ‘I don’t trust that bastard.’

  ‘Fucking hell, I don’t trust him either. Nobody trusts Frank. You’re not supposed to, honey, he’s a producer. But he’s put you finally on the map. This time last year you were fucking happy to see him. Where were you? Oh yes, now I remember. You were in Wisconsin trying to get somebody to loan you enough money to rent a camera so you could make a film about cheese.’

  ‘It was a film about a dying craft. It was a film about the nature of art and dedication.’

  ‘It was a fucking film about cheese, Jerry.’

  ‘It was a fucking film about cheese,’ he repeated softly.

  ‘That’s right. So now just get slightly shitfaced on free champagne and try to score with one of these bimbettes who are circulating around like mayflies. I’m going to go back to Frank and see if I can curb the stroke he’s having about now.’

  She left. The blonde came up. Extended her hand. Jerry took it.

  ‘Hi, I’m Terri.�
�

  ‘I’m Jerry.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Terri and Jerry. It sounds like a cartoon.’

  ‘Do I get to be the cat or the mouse?’

  ‘You can be either one, as long as you’re interested in cheese. I know a great deal about cheese, and I look forward to sharing it with you.’

  THREE

  Jerry arrived in a taxi at the Chateau Marmont, got out with Terri the blonde.

  In a dark Mercedes sedan, the Chipmunks watched him. They were three young Armenian men in their mid-twenties to early thirties. Araz, Tavit, and Savan.

  ‘What does she look like?’ asked Tavit, struggling to see her from the back seat.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Araz.

  ‘Fuck not bad,’ said Savan. ‘She’s fucking hot is what she is.’

  ‘Fucking actress, you think?’ asked Savan.

  ‘Or a model,’ suggested Tavit.

  ‘We wait a couple of minutes we catch her naked, what do you think?’ said Savan.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Tavit.

  FOUR

  Inside the cottage the girl was indeed very much naked and Jerry was just about to climb on top of her. When there was an ungodly erection-killing pounding on the door. Jerry cursed, climbed off of her, pulled on one of the Chateau robes, and went to the door. He was ready to kill whatever asshole was on the other side of it.

  ‘Whoever this is,’ Jerry shouted to the door, ‘I’m fixing to break your nose, just so it comes as no surprise.’

  He flung open the door. The Chipmunks.

  ‘You’re not breaking nobody’s nose tonight,’ Savan said to him as the Chipmunks pushed themselves into the room.

  ‘And just who the fuck might you be?’ Jerry asked him.

  ‘We are,’ volunteered Tavit, ‘the accounts payable department of the Baldessarian Investment Corporation.’

  ‘The Bald—’ started Jerry. Then it hit him. ‘Oh, you mean Uncle Atom. You guys would be the Chipmunks.’

  ‘We’d prefer,’ said Araz, ‘that you gave us our due respect and not use that name.’

  ‘The Chipmunks?’ said naked Terri from the bed.

  ‘Cover your titties, honey, we have company,’ Jerry said to her. ‘Atom Baldessarian, a loan shark out in Eagle Rock. Armenian mafia. These are his nephews. They’re famous.’

  ‘Armenian mafia?’ said Terri, covering her tits.

  ‘There is no Armenian mafia,’ said Savan.

  ‘There’s no Eagle Rock, either,’ said Jerry.

  ‘I still don’t get the Chipmunks,’ said Terri.

  ‘Alvin, Theodore and Simon. You know.’

  ‘The cartoon,’ said Terri. ‘How cute.’

  ‘Hell of a Christmas song too,’ said Jerry.

  ‘You need to be taking this seriously,’ Araz told him.

  ‘I am taking this seriously,’ said Jerry. ‘Or about as serious as a man can be having this sort of conversation with his dick poking out of his robe. Can I help you gentlemen?’

  ‘I still don’t get why they’re called the Chipmunks.’ She smiled at Tavit who smiled back. Savan hit him on the arm.

  ‘Ross Bagdassarian, an Armenian, wrote that song,’ said Jerry. ‘He created the Chipmunks. He was a cousin of William Saroyan, another famous Armenian.’

  ‘How do you know so much about Armenians?’ she asked. ‘Are there famous Armenians?’

  ‘There are many famous Armenians,’ Tavit declared to her proudly, whereupon Savan said to him,

  ‘Shut the fuck up, will you?’

  ‘Uncle Atom says they always forget our contributions unless we remind them,’ said Tavit.

  ‘Yeah and I’m reminding you you’re a fucking idiot,’ said Araz. ‘Where are the things?’

  Tavit held up a small children’s knapsack with little bunnies on it. Tavit’s idea. Tavit had a sense of humor.

  ‘Here.’

  Handed it to Araz. Araz nodded toward Jerry. Savan and Tavit grabbed Jerry and dragged him to a chair, sat him down, pinned his arms.

  ‘You owe Uncle Atom thirty-seven thousand dollars. With ten percent interest a week, and you’re three weeks behind, that’s—’

  Savan stopped to figure it. It took a while.

  ‘Forty-nine thousand, two hundred and forty-seven,’ said Terri. ‘I used to work in a bank.’

  ‘I told Uncle Atom he would get his money.’

  ‘You told him that two weeks ago,’ said Araz.

  ‘Look, why don’t we go rough up the guy who owes me money? I’ll take you right to his house. I’ll help you slap him around and then we can give Uncle Atom his forty grand.’

  Araz reached into the kiddie bag, pulled out a small blowtorch. Jerry’s eyes widened. Araz lit it. Jerry’s eyes widened considerably more.

  Araz pulled Jerry’s robe aside, exposing his nether parts.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Tavit.

  ‘That explains a lot,’ said Savan, looking at Terri, who was also staring at Jerry’s prick.

  ‘If you gentlemen have finished staring at my private parts – in what can only be described as a rather homoerotic fashion, I might add,’ said Jerry, ‘I would like to talk about the matter at hand. So to speak.’

  ‘The matter at hand,’ said Araz, ‘is that you owe Uncle Atom forty thousand big ones and you don’t have it.’

  ‘This is not being very fucking proactive,’ said Jerry. ‘We all want you to get your money.’

  Araz turned up the blowtorch, moved it slowly toward Jerry’s crotch. Jerry struggled.

  ‘Ohlordjesus,’ said Jerry, trying to back his way up the chair. ‘One more week. Just one more week.’

  The smell of faintly singed pubic hair.

  ‘Oh goddamn,’ said Jerry.

  Terri let out a yelp. Savan said to her:

  ‘It’ll be fried tuna for you, you let out one more screech.’

  Terri shut up.

  Araz moved the blowtorch in and out until Jerry couldn’t stand the pain and yelped.

  Araz took the blowtorch away. Set it down, still burning. Looked around. Spied a bowl of fruit. Took a banana, dumped out the rest of the fruit. Smiled to himself.

  Reached into the knapsack again, came out with something wrapped in butcher’s paper. Opened it up. Two oval-shaped fleshy objects.

  ‘What the fuck,’ asked Terri, ‘are those?’

  Jerry stared at them. ‘They would be, if memory serves me, a pair of ram’s balls.’

  ‘Sheep nuts?’ asked Terri.

  Araz put the fruit bowl on the floor between Jerry’s feet. He placed the ram’s nuts in it, then artfully wedged the banana between them.

  He picked up the blowtorch, looked at Jerry, then started to barbecue his artwork. The smell of lamb and fried banana filled the room as it sizzled. This combined with the slightly less intense smell of the singed hair on the inside of Jerry’s thighs.

  Terri got up, ran to the bathroom, puked.

  When the ram’s balls and the banana were nothing but cinders, Araz turned off the torch. Looked down at Jerry, who had a huge sign of relief on his face. He said:

  ‘Give Uncle Atom his money, otherwise we come back in one week and finish the barbecue, right?’

  Araz put the torch away. As the Chipmunks left, the very naked Terri came back into the room. Savan and Tavit stopped for an admiring moment until Savan clouted Tavit in the head and they all left.

  Terri sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘This sort of thing a typical evening for you?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s starting to look that way.’

  She looked down at Jerry’s exposed crotch.

  ‘I don’t suppose you still could …?’

  ‘No, honey, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Shame.’

  She got up, grabbed her clothes, went back into the bathroom. Jerry gently prodded his burnt regions. It hurt.

  Terri came back in, dressed.

  ‘You should give me a call when the swelling goes down,’ she said.


  ‘Will do, honey,’ said Jerry.

  She kissed him quickly and then left.

  Jerry sat for a bit. Then stood up painfully, waddled gap-legged over to the phone. Punched a number.

  ‘Hello, room service? You all got anything for burns?’ Listened to someone. Checked his balls. ‘I reckon it’s still just first degree. Thank God for small favors, right?’

  Hung up. Eased over to his laptop, opened it up, began to write in his journal.

  FIVE

  Annie Michaels’ assistant, Sylvia, first thing in the morning, was opening up the office. She made coffee, sorted through a pile of mail, turned on the computer. Did what she did every morning – looked through the RSS messages of internet articles about Annie’s clients.

  In a Hollywood gossip blog, the big reference about Jerry, Jerry’s past, Jerry and that guy whose screenplay he supposedly stole.

  Oh shit.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Annie.

  SIX

  Annie was at home, doing her tai-chi class with Roberto.

  ‘Ju have to imagine like you holding a gray fru. Then you move it from one side to the other.’

  ‘I am holding the gray fru, Roberto.’

  ‘No you not. Is like you hold a basset ball. You must hold a gray fru, not a basset ball. Ju got to concentray.’

  ‘I am concentray, Roberto. I just don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to hold a fucking basset ball if it’s more comfortable. Look, I want some inner peace, Roberto, I don’t want lessons in fucking fruit handling.’

  ‘Ju got to work hard for inner peace.’

  ‘Is there some way to inner peace without me feeling like fucking Marcel Marceau every fucking time we do this? And I’m going to have some inner peace, Roberto, I shit you not, if it kills the both of us. You got that?’

  ‘We going to Push the Monkey now.’

  Her cell phone rang. She grabbed it. Roberto threw up his hands and rolled his eyes.

  Sylvia.

  ‘What is it?’ said Annie. ‘I’m about to push the fucking monkey or something.’

  Sylvia wondered if this involved sex or drugs, then remembered it was Annie’s tai-chi day.

  ‘I did the internet scan as usual this morning and there was this thing.’