by Tony O'Neill
“Please tell me you’ve heard from Jacques.”
Randal turned his palms up. Gibby took a gulp of his coffee and mopped up the ring of condensation with his napkin. “Shit,” he muttered to no one in particular.
“Gibby, this is Jeffrey. He’s the guy I told you about…”
“Siddown, siddown. You guys hungry? They got great French-dipped sandwiches here.”
“Not me, man. I’m on a diet.” Jeffrey said, patting his tight belly. “The H plan.”
Still sick and disorientated from lack of amphetamines Randal shook his head. As they took their seats Gibby looked at them, his eyes darting rapidly between the two men. Randal looked ill and shaky but somehow Jeffrey looked even worse. Gibby had never in his life seen skin so pale on a living creature before.
“So,” Randal said, “no sign of Jacques, huh?”
Gibby shook his head. “He called me screaming blue murder the other night, telling me that Stein had disappeared. Apparently he made off with most of Jacques’ cocaine. Jacques woke up on the floor of Stein’s room at the Biltmore and James, the coke and the script were gone. The bastard grabbed his cases, clothes, all of his shit and just… cleared out. Jacques was throwing a goddamned shit-fit last time I spoke to him. I told him we were meeting here at noon, but I ain’t been able to get hold of him all morning. I called by the motel. No sign of him.”
Gibby sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose dejectedly. These past few weeks, it seemed to Randal that the poor man had aged at least ten years.
“So Stein took the script? Man, Jacques must be fucking freaking out.”
Gibby stared at Randal like he had lost his mind. “He doesn’t give a shit about the script, Randal. He’s pissed off about the cocaine. Apparently it was some top-notch shit he’d had Fed-Ex’d over from Paris. Anyway James hasn’t vanished exactly. I managed to get a lead on him.”
“Where?”
“On TMZ. This morning there was a picture of him leaving some fucking party in Malibu with Kate Moss. Taken last night. Who knows when the fuck we’ll hear from him again.”
“So what’s happening with Kenny and the script? Doesn’t this, like, sink the whole project?”
Drawn out of his sleepy silence by this comment, Jeffrey leaned in and drawled, “Wait… Am I still gonna get paid?”
“Oh, now he’s awake!” Gibby sneered, “Don’t worry your little head, princess. It’s fine.”
He shot Randal a what-the-fuck-is-up-with-this-guy look, before leaning in and continuing, “That’s actually the one bit of good news I’ve gotten this week. Kenny’s all signed off on the script. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that he’s pretty gung-fuckin’-ho about Black Neon again.”
Now it was Randal’s turn to look confused.
“What – so there is a script? I thought you said…”
“Sure there’s a script. I found it on the Internet. You ever hear of a movie called Panic in Needle Park? Old Al Pacino flick from the 70s, about junkies in New York?”
Randal shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well… it’s a pretty good movie. I was thinking about it the other day. Joan Didion wrote the script. You know her stuff?” Randal looked blank, but Gibby carried on regardless. “Thing is I always felt that when Stein was at his best – and let’s face it, we’re talking strictly about the first book here – that he stole a lot of his best moves from Didion. That got me thinking about the movie she wrote. I downloaded a copy of the script, changed the title, switched a few things around. I changed the locale from New York to LA, stuck James and Jacques’ names at the top and sent twenty pages of it over to Kenny.”
“And?”
“And… I get a call from Kenny that very evening coked out of his fucking mind, yapping on about how it’s the greatest work of genius he’s ever read and how I should count myself lucky that I’m in a position to… what was it that he said? Oh yeah. To be able to suck at the teat of Jacques Seltzer’s greatness. I gotta admit, even by Kenny Azura’s usual standards, that was a pretty good one. The upshot is that despite the fact that Kenny is an idiotic know-nothing asshole, the deal is now inked and checks are being cut. Now all I got to worry about… is Jacques.”
Randal laughed. It felt like the first honest-to-god laugh he’d had in a long time. “That’s beautiful, man… You just signed a movie deal on the basis of a plagiarized, thirty-year-old script and the insane promises of a drug-addled Frenchman? I gotta tell you Gibby, even by Hollywood’s usually ridiculous standards, that’s pretty wild.”
Gibby shrugged. “It was an act of a desperate man, Randal. Honestly, I doubt Kenny will even notice that the finished film bears no resemblance to the spec script I showed him. But even if he does… I just tell him that the concept changed as they started shooting. Hell, he’ll put up with any old shit so long as he thinks it fell outta the asshole of Jacques-the-genius.”
Randal smiled, quietly impressed by Gibby’s cunning. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about the movie, actually.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“The title. Black Neon. What does it even mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Gibby shrugged. “All I know is that ever since he finished Dead Flowers, he always referred to this mythical fucking follow up he’s been planning as Black Neon. Might have some deep significance, for sure. Or it just could just be a bit of Jacques’ usual faux-profound bullshit. If you’re interested there are legions of fanatical Jacques fans who’ve been debating this very same question online for years. You ever go on movie blogs and listen to what people are saying about stuff like this?”
“No,” Randal said dryly, “Mainly because I have a fucking life, Gibby.”
“S’cuse me ladies,” Jeffrey slurred, getting unsteadily to his feet. “Nature calls…”
They both watched as Jeffrey wandered unsteadily toward the bathroom, nearly knocking over a khaki-clad guy with a tray full of sandwiches and sodas. As the guy cursed at him Jeffrey obliviously staggered off, veering dangerously, his lanky frame somehow defying gravity and remaining upright.
“Well, you outdid yourself,” Gibby said, turning his attention back to Randal when Jeffrey staggered into the bathroom, “Looks like you actually managed to find the one person on this planet who looks like he’s an even bigger fuck-up than Jacques.”
Randal shrugged. “Isn’t that what you wanted? No point in me sending you a boy scout.”
“I guess. Just sticks in my throat that I got this junkie loser insured up the wazoo. I mean, if Jacques even farts in his presence that fucking smackhead stands to make a bundle.”
Randal leaned in and in a very serious voice said, “That fucking smackhead is a good friend of mine. I suggest you cool it with the insults, Gibby. I understand you’re stressed and all, but don’t talk shit about this guy. He’s one of the few decent people I’ve met in this town. I’m actually more concerned about the effect it will have on Jeffrey when we hook him up with Jacques, not the other way around, you know?”
Gibby rolled his eyes. “Touching. Looks like you two got a regular fucking bromance going on. Look Randal, I don’t wanna insult you or any of that horseshit. It just riles me to think that I’ve spent fifteen years wiping Jacques’ ass, and I still gotta fight tooth and nail to secure my payday on this mess. I’m the asshole who’s placating Kenny, blowing smoke up Jacques’ ass in the hope that somehow he’ll fluke his way into making another half-decent movie… I’m the one having to cut the deals, fabricate the fucking scripts… and yet it seems that every half-dead, fucked-up junkie screw-up in Hollywood is just dying to waltz into this deal and get points on the fucking gross. I don’t even wanna tell you how much we paid Stein to show up for a couple of days, type up some drug-addled nonsense and then vanish with a suitcase full of Jacques’ coke. When it comes to Blac
k Neon everybody seems to be making money and having a grand old time except for Gibby-the-fucking-moron, who instead is running around like a prick making sure that all of the plates keep spinning. It’s enough to make you feel kind of bitter, you know?”
Randal shrugged. Gibby checked his phone again and said, “Lemmie try Jacques again.”
He hit redial and waited. It seemed as if Jacques phone was just going to keep ringing, as it had been doing since Gibby arrived at Phillipes a half hour ago. Then, miraculously, on the forth ring someone picked up.
“Jacques?”
A confused sounding voice on the other end answered, “Um… no. This is… um, Jeff.”
“Jeff?”
“Yeah. Did you say you’re looking for… Jacques?”
Suddenly Gibby recognized the Anglo-Irish accent on the other end of the line. It was Jeffrey! Confused, he looked toward the bathroom that Jeffrey had walked into a few moments ago.
“Jeffrey, it’s Gibby! What the fuck is going on?”
“Gibby! Oh hey buddy… So wait – this Jacques guy we’re waiting for... Is he a kind of fat dude, eye-patch, pony-tail, smells of puke?”
“Um… yeah that sounds about right.”
“”Cos I just found this guy in a stall… I mean, the door was wide open and his pants were around his ankles, and he’s like… out cold.”
“And why the fuck do you have his phone?”
“Oh, well… uh, I was just, you know… checkin’ for a wallet. In case he like, needed… help? Like an ID or something?”
“Uh-huh. Stay right there, okay?”
Gibby clicked the phone off.
“What the fuck is going on?” Randal asked.
“It seems that Jeffrey and Jacques have just met. In fact, it looks like your pal was just rifling through my client’s pockets just now. Apparently Jacques is passed out in the bathroom.”
“Oh shit. I guess that’s what you’d call an auspicious beginning, huh?”
“I guess. Come on. I’m gonna go get Jacques. Here–” Gibby tossed down a couple of bucks, “Go get some black coffee, will you? And make sure it’s strong…”
THIRTY-ONE
Even before Rachel had gotten the spike out of her arm, the seizure hit.
Her eyes rolled back into her skull like a velvet curtain rising to reveal an empty stage. Her right hand violently twitched, causing her to jerk the needle out messily. It ripped a hole in her arm, and a fine mist of blood sprayed out. It was Rachel’s blood that shook Jeffrey out of his nod, spraying against his slack face. His eyes opened to half-slits. He saw Rachel flopping around on the bed, her skinny arms flailing about, skull rat-a-tat-tatting against the wall.
At first he thought he was dreaming. The image seemed entirely disconnected from reality. But then his eyes widened as his heroin-fogged brain started to really process what he was looking at. It came through in a series of disturbing flashes.
Rachel’s thick pink tongue, hanging out of her mouth.
Her crooked, yellow teeth biting down on it, hard.
The eyes: no pupil, all white.
“Ung – uhhh – uhnnnggghhh–”
“Rachel? Baby?”
Her hands were buried in her crotch, tearing at it. Her tiny cock shriveled up, the balls reduced to the size of cherries by a steady diet of cocaine and black-market female hormones. It was as if they were so disgusted by the horrors of the world that they were attempting to retreat inside of her guts. Her hands looked like claws digging between her legs, seemingly locked into some kind of bizarre auto-sexual frenzy.
“Rach? Whaddya doing?”
“Uhhhnnggggh – ug! Uggghhh!”
Her skin was rubbery, taut. It looked like the skeleton underneath was trying to squirm out. Her eyes bulged out of their sockets. Instinctively he went over to her. Up close, he saw that her teeth were sunk deeply into the soft flesh of her tongue. Blood and drool hung from her chin, and the tip of her tongue was purple and swollen. Without thinking, he stuck his fingers in her mouth, wrenching the jaws apart, screaming at her the whole time to wake up. He pushed the injured tongue back into the safety of her mouth. He wedged his fingers in between the clamping teeth in an attempt to stop her doing any more damage to herself.
“Uhhhnnnggghhh!
UUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHNNNNNN!”
Too late, he realized that her jaw was too powerful for him, and the teeth started to rip into his flesh. “Shit!” The more he pulled away the harder she clamped down, like some adrenaline-crazed pit bull. He started screaming for Jacques, who was nodded out on the toilet, his fat face slack and pallid. Jacques’ heavy eyes blinked once, twice, and tried to focus on the chaos happening in the next room.
As Jeffrey tried to pull his bloody hand free of Rachel’s jaw, her head clattered violently against the wall. Finally, with a yelp of pain he managed to rip his shredded fingers out of her mouth. Rachel rolled off the bed hitting the ground with a thump. She continued flopping around on the floor, like a bloody 110lb St. Vitus.
“Jacques, get the fuck in here man! I need your help!”
Jacques had been holed up in the Gilbert Hotel with Jeffrey and Rachel for the past few days. Back at Phillipe’s – after Randal and Gibby had slapped Jacques around for a while and poured some black coffee down his throat – the director had been coherent enough to make his pitch directly to Jeffrey: he would move into the Gilbert Hotel with him and document his life with Rachel as part of his research for Black Neon. Smelling money, Jeffrey had easily convinced Jacques that he was the right man for the job. The charm came thick and easy, especially after he had fixed a shot of dope in the bathroom and emerged feeling good enough to spin a few tales of his adventures on the street. Randal joined in and soon the pair of them were swapping war stories of drug deals and rehab adventures, much to the delight of Seltzer, who seemed to be totally enamored by Jeffrey by the end of the meeting. Jeffrey signed the papers, and the deal was set.
Rachel had been initially less than pleased, snapping, “Where the hell did you pick up this jerk-off?” when Jeffrey showed up at the hotel with Jacques in tow. When Jacques opened up his suitcase to reveal large amounts of high quality narcotics, she quickly came round to the idea. Once Jacques moved in the exact chronology of events became pretty fuzzy. Jacques had brought with him a massive influx of drugs. Time had ceased to become relevant to Jeffrey and Rachel’s existence, while they gorged themselves on Jacques’ dollar. It was, Rachel commented during a heroin and cocaine binge, like the honeymoon they’d never had.
Jeffrey’s eyes were darting between his bloody hand and Rachel’s trembling body when he sensed movement behind him. He turned and was confronted by the sight of Jacques Seltzer, his shirt unbuttoned and massive pale belly poking out of it, filming Rachel as she continued to have a violent seizure on the floor.
“What are you doing, motherfucker?”
“I am documenting, Jeffrey! What does it look like?”
“I need you to help her, man! HELP HER!”
Jacques looked away from the viewfinder for a moment.. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Do I look like a fucking nurse to you, Jeffrey? I am an artiste! My only loyalty is to the muse…”
He carried on filming.
Cursing, Jeffrey looked at the phone, and considered the kind of heat that calling in the paramedics could bring down on all of them. The room was strewn with needles, pipes, and narcotics. James Stein’s only real lasting contribution to Black Neon was that he had hooked Jacques up with his LA drug connections. Instead of buying small amounts from shady street dealers Jacques had started having weight delivered straight to the Gilbert. He rented his own room there but spent most of his time holed up in Jeffrey’s place, getting high and filming. Jacques encouraged Jeffrey to invite all of his dope-fiend buddies to come over and share the wealth, and he proceeded to shoot all the action as it went down. N
ow their room looked like some Mexican drug factory, with ripped-open bags of cocaine and powder heroin casually strewn about. In response to Jacques’ generosity Rachel and Jeffrey had dramatically upped the amount of drugs they had been consuming, gorging like pigs on everything they could lay their hands on.
Before the seizure hit, Rachel had been injecting cocaine for almost twenty-four hours straight. Her skinny body was bloody and swollen with needle marks; a grim compulsion kept her reaching for the needle.
Fearing that Rachel would suffer irreparable brain damage or worse if he didn’t act, Jeffrey cursed himself and picked up the phone. Jacques dropped the camera immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling the fuckin paramedics, asshole!”
“No!” Jacques screeched, “Have you lost your mind? The fucking cops will have a field day!”
“She could die, Jacques!”
Jacques reached out and grabbed Jeffrey’s arm. “No ambulance,” he hissed, “She will be fine. I promise!”
Jeffrey shook his arm away. “You promise? How the fuck can you promise me that? You said it yourself, Jacques – you ain’t a fucking nurse!”
“I swear to you Jeffrey, if you go to jail for the sake of this – this – this chick with a dick – then you will regret it! Let it run its course, Jeffrey, it will be cool, yes?”
Without another word, Jeffrey kicked Jacques in the balls as hard as he could. The big man collapsed to ground with a thunderous clatter. He cupped his injured balls and howled in agony.
“Why don’t you put that in your fucking movie?” Jeffrey hissed, “You fat cocksucker!”
As Jeffrey started dialing 911 again, Jacques staggered to his feet and bleated, “We are OVER, Jeffrey. Have fun babysitting this junkie tranny in jail, you piece of shit! I will finish Black Neon without your fucking help!”
“Yeah hello? I need an ambulance…”
With a grunt of disgust, Jacques collected as much of the drugs as he could carry, and stormed out of the room.