Black Neon

by Tony O'Neill

  “Yeah, well, all I’m sayin’ is that instead of the arrogant prick I’ve had to deal with on the phone the past few weeks, tonight I got to meet Kenny Azura the fan boy. Talk about cognitive dissonance! He was fawning over Jacques. Randal, I gotta tell you it was kinda pathetic.”

  Sliding the DVD back, Randal plucked another from the shelf. It was still in the shrink-wrap. A hardcore zombie spoof called Dawn of the Spread. “And how about Jacques? Did he behave?”

  “He was okay… once he got there. He showed up a half hour late, looking like he’d slept in his suit. But once we actually made it to the table he was fine. They got the full-on Jacques experience – he wouldn’t take his sunglasses off, and he sat there glaring at all of these Chainsaw bigwigs looking all Gallic and intellectual. Kenny was with this real hard-faced bitch. Sharon something-or-other?”

  “Lindenbaum. She’s a tough lady. Smart as hell.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you know Jacques. He keeps making these obscure statements, a bunch of arty farty old shit really. He drops this one like about his art being an enormous cock that he wants to fuck infinity with or something, and old Sharon looked like she was gonna shit a brick. The best part was that Kenny was swallowing it all, hook line and sinker. He asks Jacques what the movie is about, and Jacques gives him some bullshit about how he wants to break down the third wall and make the audience complicit in his crimes… I mean, old Sharon looked like she wanted to call bullshit on all of this, but I got the distinct impression that everyone there was kinda scared to contradict Kenny.”

  Randal was perusing the box of an all black porno flick called Screw The Right Thing. “Kenny’s the man right now. Nothing happens at Chainsaw without his say so, and everybody knows it. Until he fucks up… nobody can say shit to him.”

  “Well, I got the distinct impression that quite a few people at the table were getting a little freaked out by Jacques. But Kenny was just eating it up. I mean he’d push here and there, but we basically got the deal we wanted – complete artistic control, full support of the studio, a free hand when it came to casting. He didn’t even ask to see the script, which is fucking great because there isn’t one. All we gotta do is sign on the dotted line, and we’re golden. I was just about to hustle Jacques outta there when everything went to shit.”

  “Howdja mean?”

  “It was fuckin’ Jacques. When was the last time you saw him, anyway?”

  Randal laughed dryly. “It was at the motel… around eight, I guess? He was all cracked out. Fuckin’ asshole was blasting that Stones track, Fool To Cry, so fucking loud. Every time it finished, he’d start it up again. Ranting on and on about how it’s the most beautiful song ever recorded. He was hitting that crackpipe like a maniac. Kept offering it to me too, the fucking asshole. I told him I had to leave, right? I mean, I’m in recovery Gibby; I can’t be around that kind of shit any more. He was being a real dick about it too, goading me, you know? Calling me a pussy, a fucking hypocrite. He’s going through the back of the LA Weekly calling up whores, trying to get them to come over. But he sounded so crazy on the phone, even the whores were avoiding him. I mean it was getting real messed up there, and if I had to hear that fucking song one more time I was gonna lose it. So I split, left him to it.”

  “Yeah, well looks like he stayed up all night. Maybe it was a good thing he kept the shades on, ‘cos who the fuck knows what his eyes looked like. But anyway, right as the meeting is wrapping up he goes to take a leak. I’m sat there making small talk with Kenny and his cronies. Five minutes later he’s still not back. Kenny’s going on and on about some fucking yacht he’s got in the fuckin’ Virgin Islands or some shit. Ten minutes pass. I mean, the check has come and gone, Kenny’s signed for it and all of that, and everybody’s waiting for Jacques to come back so we can get the fuck out of there. Now they’re all giving me funny looks. So what can I do? I gotta go and check it out. You’ve never been to this place before, huh?”

  “Nah. I hate those fucking pretentious Beverly Hills places.”

  “Well, the bathrooms in there are fucking massive. Like, cavernous. Their gimmick is that they tiled the floor with thousands of silver dollars. They’re like set into the floor or something, so it just looks like a sea of silver when you go in, and when you look closely you realize that they made the floor out of fucking money. Place looks empty, right? No sign of Jacques. I call for him. Nuthin. I’m just about to leave when I hear this noise coming out of one of the stalls. Like a whimpering. Sounded like a dog that just got kicked or something. So I walk over to check it out. I’m like, Jacques? Jacques is that you? And I hear it again. I give the door a little push and it swings open. Okay, get this. In the stall, like, cowering up on the fucking toilet, there’s Jacques. He’s completely fucking naked, and he’s crying. I mean literally sobbing. His clothes are in a pile by the toilet. And as soon as I opened the door the smell just hits me. I see something, you know, I don’t wanna look too close, but it looks like Jacques smeared shit all over himself. He’s got this brown stuff caked all over his legs, right? So I’m like, Jacques? The fuck is going on, man? Then he looks at me. His fucking eyes, Randal. When I saw his eyes that’s when I knew something serious had gone down. He wasn’t there no more. Jacques had gone insane, Randal. He’d flipped his lid.”

  By now, Randal had lost interest in the DVD’s. “Jesus. What was going on?”

  “That’s what I asked! I’m, like, Jacques? What’s going on, buddy? I ain’t kidding you, the motherfucker leapt at me. Fucking sprang out of there like a jack-in-the-box and landed right on top of me. Tackled me! The smell was overpowering. I mean, just think about that! I got all of Chainsaw Pictures’ top brass upstairs waiting for us to get back, and I’m lying on the floor of the john with my naked, shit-stained client lying on top of me. Not a good look.”

  Randal started laughing. He was just about to ask Gibby what the hell had provoked this, when Gibby cut him off. “You’d better hold that thought, Randal. We’re pulling up at the hotel. I’ll call you back in a minute, okay?”

  Randal hung up the phone, and smiled to himself. He walked into the kitchen and poured the last of the whisky into his tumbler. He decided to call Pink Dot to have some more delivered before Gibby called back and tied up the line again.

  SEVENTEEN

  After cutting the deal with D-Low, Genesis and Lupita checked into a room at the Casa Soledad Motel, a forty-buck-a-night dive off of the shady end of Laughlin’s downtown strip. They pulled into the lot and killed the engine. The sign outside read VACANCIES – $40 ROOM – WEEKLY RATES – HBO – ADULT MOVIES. The Casa Soledad’s lonesome forecourt was bathed in the sickly orange glow of cathode lights. An RC Cola machine outside of the office had long since rusted into obsolescence.

  “This place is a dump,” Genesis said, as they got out of the car.

  “Yup. But it’s got one thing going in its favour.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s forty bucks a night. And I’d rather waste my cash on the casinos than some fancy-ass hotel I’m barely gonna spend any time in. And no-one’s gonna be pryin’ into our business here.”

  Above the door to the front office was a colourful Virgin Mary wind-chime that tinkled softly as they entered. The office was dim and smelled of an uneasy mix of mildew and Bengay. The walls were wood-panelled and the old sagging couch in the reception area had worn thin in several places. The only decoration in the office was a vase of dusty plastic flowers on the front desk. It seemed as though the room had long since begun a steady slide into decay.

  Off in the back a Spanish language soap opera was blaring. Lupita walked up to the desk and rang the bell. After a few moments a dark skinned old woman shuffled out eyeing them both suspiciously. To Lupita’s eyes she looked to be Dominican, Puerto Rican or possibly Brazilian. She had Indian blood for sure. Noting the hostile look on the woman’s face, Lupita did her best to pacify her by addressing her in
Spanish.

  “Buenos noches, deseamos una habitación?” Lupita said. She smiled broadly at the old woman. The woman’s face remained stoic. She was ancient and frail, with shocking green eyes set deep into the parchment thin folds of her face. A thick white afro framed her shrivelled head.

  “A room?” she replied in stiff English, refusing to play along with Lupita by speaking in her native tongue. “One room only?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two twin beds?”

  “No. One double bed will be sufficient.”

  The woman glanced at Genesis then back at Lupita. Puckered her lips.

  “For the both of you?”

  “That’s correct.” Lupita’s voice hardened a little. The old woman stared at them for what felt like a very long time. She looked like she had just caught a whiff of something rotten. Looking closer Lupita noticed that the old woman had a smudge of grey ash on her forehead. In the dim space back where the TV was blaring Lupita saw a flickering Sacred Heart candle that was the centrepiece of a dim shrine of knick-knacks and religious statues.

  Genesis pushed past Lupita and leaned across the desk so her face was only inches from the tiny woman on the other side.

  “Excuse me? M’am? We’d like a room with one bed only. I hear it gets real cold around here at night. I’m countin’ on this lady here to keep me warm… ya know what I’m saying?”

  The old woman muttered something in Spanish, and made her way slowly back into the other room. Genesis looked at Lupita and frowned.

  “What she say, Lupe?”

  “You don’t wanna know, hun.”

  “She can’t treat us like that. They have laws about that sort of stuff, don’t they?”

  Lupita shrugged.

  “Anyway, I don’t like this place. The old woman gives me the creeps. Maybe we should just find another place…”

  “It’s cheap and it’s low profile,” Lupita said, “It’ll be fine. Just let me do the talkin’ okay?”

  The old lady returned. Without making eye contact with either of them she went through a rehearsed spiel, in an inflectionless monotone.

  “Room is forty per night, two-fifty per week, pets are extra, no visitors, no drugs, no loud noise after ten pm, one parking space per room. Ice machine’s round the back of the office, TV’s got regular channels and pay-per-view. How many nights you…” her voice wobbled slightly, “you… women planning on staying?”

  “Just a couple.” Lupita said.

  “There’s a ten-dollar deposit per key. You pay up front. Check out is at noon. Cash or credit card?”

  “Cash,” Genesis said pulling a C-note out of the stuffed envelope. She slapped it on the counter with a flourish. “Hope big bills aren’t a problem.”

  The old woman examined the hundred-dollar bill for a good two minutes, holding it up to the light and peering at it doubtfully, before reluctantly giving them their change and key. The cash register was the old fashioned kind, and it pinged loudly and rattled when the drawer popped open.

  “Thank you,” Genesis cooed as they went to get their bags.

  On the way to their room on the second floor balcony Lupita grumbled, “Girl, why the fuck you waving that money around, drawin’ attention to us an’ shit? I told you to let me do the talking…”

  “I just wanted to put that old bitch in her place, Lupe. I don’t like her attitude.”

  “Shit sweetie, I don’t like it either, but who gives a fuck about her? She’s just some uptight veija. Seen a million like that cunt. Probably thinks we’re heading straight to hell. You give her any more agita she’s liable to toss your dyke ass outta here. You know how those old-school country-ass bitches are…”

  Genesis stuck the key in the lock and pushed the door open. She clicked on the light.

  “Who you callin’ a dyke, anyway?” she asked. “Just ’cos I dig you. Don’t be casting no aspersions.”

  “Aspersions? Damn girl, you go an’ swallow a dictionary after you got done eatin’ my pussy or something?”

  Giggling, they stepped inside and took in the room. It was dismal and small. A queen size bed with a puke splatter duvet on it, red velvet flocked wallpaper, and 1970s brown deep-pile carpet that now resembled the fur of a mangy dog. The décor consisted of an ancient television set bolted to the wall, a chest of drawers with most of the handles missing, and a black velvet portrait of the Sacred Heart above the bed.

  “Looks like the set of the world’s creepiest stag movie,” Genesis said.

  Lupita skipped past her and sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing up and down, causing it to emit a series of disconcerting squeaks and clangs. “Well,” she said, “the good news is that we won’t be here so much. We’ll go hang out in the casinos, play a little blackjack, get into some trouble… We just need a place to crash. It might be a dump, but it’s close and it’s cheap.”

  “I’m just fucking with you Lupe. I like it fine. ‘Cept for the creepy fucking picture on the wall.”

  Lupita looked up at the image of Jesus that stared down at them with eyes full of pain and compassion. She pulled her wife-beater up over her head, exposing her breasts. She tossed it aside and beckoned for Genesis to join her on the bed.

  “Come over here beautiful,” she said as Genesis locked the door behind them. “Whaddya say we give old Jesus here somethin’ to look at?”

  EIGHTEEN

  Pink Dot still hadn’t shown with the booze, and Gibby had resumed chewing Randal’s ear off about Jacques’ little episode at the Chainsaw meeting. Randal had resigned himself to putting the porn on the back burner for the time being.

  “Jesus, Gibby,” he said, cradling the phone in his neck as he used a spoon to crush the contents of two 60mg Adderall capsules up into fine snortable lines, “He was lying on you covered in SHIT? What didja do?”

  “Do? Randal, Jacques weighs, like, three, three-twenty at least. Whaddya THINK I did? I fuckin’ lay there trying to breathe! I couldn’t move a muscle!”

  “I guess I should be shocked, Gibby. But I gotta tell you… even in the brief time I’ve been around him, I definitely got the feeling that Jacques was… unstable. What the hell set him off, anyway?”

  “You did, Randal!” Gibby snapped. Then, fighting to get his voice back under control he added, “Don’t play innocent with me. Jacques told me about how you poisoned him!”

  “Gibby, I have no fuckin’ idea what you’re talkin’ about. Hold on a second, okay?”

  Randal pressed the ‘hold’ button, and put the phone down on the table. He snorted the Adderall and snuffled, rubbing his nose with a trembling hand. It was a cheap, shitty high but it was better that nothing. Disturbed by the hollow sound of the pill bottle, Randal poured out the rest of his two-week supply and was astonished to find that he had only eight pills left. A desolate feeling came over him. Surely I must have more pills left than this?

  His mind started doing instantaneous calculations. Dr Titov had regularly upped his dose over the past few weeks. Every time his dosage was upped he received another full month’s supply of pills. That – by Randal’s calculations – should have left him with a significant reserve of Adderall capsules of various strengths. But – some awful, needling part of his mind interjected – he had been taking a minimum of two pills a day. And that didn’t include the ‘special occasions’ when he would take two in the morning and two in the afternoon. Special occasions like the days he had to work, or the days when he felt particularly tired, the days when his regular AA meetings had irritated him, or the days when his brother, or his boss, or any of the other people he interacted with regularly had pissed him off.

  The other special occasions were the days when none of these things happened. Then, Randal would snort a few extra pills to celebrate making it through the day without someone making him feel murderous. With mounting dread, he realized the short supply of pills made
perfect sense. He guessed he was lucky to even have eight left. Randal shuddered. He would have to make an appointment to see Dr. Titov as soon as possible. It was a pain in the ass, but he was sure that Russian quack wouldn’t bat even an eyelid… not considering the exorbitant amount of money he was creaming from Randal’s health insurance and co-pay.

  Fingering the near empty pill capsule caused a sudden cold shock to his veins. Although he did not think about the pills as being drugs – not really – the idea that he might have to do without them filled him with a nauseous terror. He recognized it as the same black fear that used to well up inside of him at the end of a meth binge, when the dirty sun was creeping into the sky and he realized that the comedown was already beginning. Although the stakes were smaller this time around, the routine was the same – he was back on the dizzying on-and-off carousel of need. Still feeling the vertigo of this realization, Randal suddenly felt very old and very tired. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and clicked Gibby back on line. “Hey man, I’m back. Sorry about that. I just… lost something. Okay, so… what the hell where you sayin’ about it being me that set him off?”

  Gibby cleared his throat. “Yeah. So what I was telling you, is that Jacques said he went to the bathroom to take a bump of the coke that you’d helped him procure last night.”

  “Coke? Like powder coke? I didn’t help him score any coke… oh, man. The bindle, that’s right!” Randal shook his head as he started glancing around the room, wondering if he’d absent-mindedly stuffed stashed some pill-stuffed medicine bottles around the place. “I know what happened…. There was no powder coke in the shit we scored last night. After we cut the deal for the rocks and the rest of it, my guy stuck a bindle in my pocket, you know? A freebie. When we got back to Jacques’ place I must have left it on the dresser. I was gonna tell him what it was but then with all of the craziness, and him trying to get me to smoke with him, and the hookers, and that fucking song playing over and over again, I just kinda ran out of there before I had chance. That shit wasn’t coke, Gibby, it was fuckin’ PCP.”