The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares
Page 17
“It’s one in the fucking morning, Cline.”
“It’s happening again,” Cline said.
“Oh, Jesus,” Marlene said.
“It’s happening in a big way. The whore called me.”
“Okay. Okay. I get it!”
She hung up. Nothing more needed to be said. Marlene found Cline to be utterly vulgar, but goddamn, she respected his talents. Cline had skills.
—
Jackson began packing his bag. Cline’s words gave him comfort, even confidence. Some childish prank, some jealous asshole. He opened his wall safe and removed the Other Phone and charged it up. He packed his bag, pocketed the Other Phone, and left the house (no need to leave V notes anymore; she knows). It was time to change it up.
After the car rolled up, after nary a word had been exchanged between the driver and Jackson, after Jackson arrived at the Regal Hotel in San Francisco, checked into his suite under a different name (Novel Nine: he had jokingly, seemingly joking, suggested to the desk clerk that they call the room the Jackson Grey Suite. The desk clerk, the same desk clerk who’d been clerking for more than forty years, laughed. Part of Jackson’s mind was serious about this, a more rational part of his mind knew it impossible. Pseudonyms and all that).
Jackson overtipped the bellman, ordered up a large pot of coffee, a bottle of his bourbon, picked up the Other Phone, and dialed a number.
The Other Phone served as an extension of a very private part of Jackson’s mind. And like his mind, the Other Phone also contained ingredients. Phone numbers of Jackson’s sins, his predilections, his habits. All the things he publicly and privately denied. His secrets.
“Buddy!” said Andrew. “So glad you’re back in town. Head on over! I’ll set it all up for you!”
“Thanks. I’m at the Regal…” Jackson was already dizzy.
“I know where you’re at!” Andrew paused. “You okay?”
Jackson was a good poker player. No tells. Andrew’s question was odd. “I’m fine,” Jackson answered. “I’m always okay.”
“Great. I’ll send my guy to grab you.”
“Why did you ask if I was okay?” Jackson asked.
“Because I care about you, buddy! Anyway, all good,” Andrew yelled. There was a cacophony of noise. Andrew had clearly walked back into the Club.
Jackson hung up.
Andrew, thirty-something trust fund kid, club owner—exclusive club, members only, ten women for every man. Every wealthy man. Once when Andrew let his guard down, he referred to these rich men, well-known men, men like Jackson, as “whales.” Whales were the men of money, of renown, who came to the Club, so exclusive it had no name, no address, no cameras, and lots of privacy. Ridiculous sums of money were passed around for the pleasure of being at the Club. For the pleasure of being anonymous, the pretense of anonymity, for at the Club, men did not go not to be seen, they went not to be seen by the wrong people. They went to be seen by the right people, those others of money and renown. Moreover, they went to the Club for the beautiful women, the women half their age. The women they could not procure were they not at the Club, were they not the type of man invited to the Club. They also went to the Club to do the drugs they convinced themselves were the drugs that powerful, dynamic, successful men do. Others simply didn’t understand. The Club was a place of power, fame, sex, drugs, and self-delusion. After Novel Three, Jackson learned the ropes. After Novel Seven, Jackson fit right in.
Initially it was confusing when he began coming to places like this in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, London. No lists, no ropes, no human beings allowed within twenty feet of this canopied entrance on a public street (cash properly distributed works miracles). Jackson entered a private world. He got the hang of it and was ultimately treated like a king at the Club, and, as such, ran up kingly tabs, paid monthly by Cline, from one of Jackson’s accounts. Cline asked no questions at month’s end, and even if he had, Jackson would be hard-pressed to provide the memories that explained the expenses. The Club experience was about diversion, not memory, meaning, or inspiration. Diversion. Were tabs not paid and cash not passed from one hand to another, the Club, and the other Clubs, would simply disappear. No phone numbers, no owners, no access. Jackson had (former) friends who were persona non grata at places like these. Men who begged Jackson to call people like Andrew, these men pleading with Jackson to get them into places, spaces he did not own. Jackson indulged these pleadings a few times. And, of course, Jackson’s requests were immediately granted; however, the look in Andrew’s eyes, the other Andrews, those who owned the other Clubs, their eyes, their forced smiles, hugs, and handshakes a bit too ebullient suggested that such requests were frowned upon. Jackson could read people and read them well, and further, Jackson, a businessman in his own right, well understood that should anyone attempt to change the map of another businessman’s terrain, that person was on the fast track to becoming a liability. Jackson stopped indulging the requests and subsequently stopped engaging with the people who made such requests. Big fish in a small pond eat the small fish, and all that. Jackson understood that territory all too well.
Added to the transaction and the hefty tab, there was another tab: before Jackson or any other recognizable faces were allowed to reach their booth—booths stocked with magnums of champagne, a bottle girl, and many gorgeous women—he belonged to Andrew. For ten minutes Jackson was not in possession of himself.
“Hey, before you sit down, and by the way, there is major talent at your table…” And, on cue, Andrew would grab Jackson’s arm and pull him into the main section of the Club, surreptitiously, oh-so-obviously, faux-surreptitiously, force Jackson’s eyes on the very beautiful women at Jackson’s table. This, of course, was the bribe. “They’re big fans of your work.” Yeah. Sure they are. “Could you do me a favor and make the rounds? Say hi to a couple of people?” This was always the moment: the ten minutes Jackson sold himself.
Prominent Author you all recognize? Meet CEO of Tech Company you all know. Fourteen Bestsellers? Meet Five Feature Films. Famous Writer? Meet Insanely Wealthy Hip-Hop Artist. Athlete with Another Woman? Meet Actress with Another Woman. Ten minutes of this nonsense. These were gentlemen’s agreements. One never spoke the names of the others one met at the Club. And this nonsense kept Andrew…the Club…relevant. And, more important, kept Jackson welcome at the Club.
To the table. The girls, Katherine’s age, stunning, an international demographic of stunning. The girls, properly prepped to kiss his ass. They loved his books, the film adaptations, they could hardly wait for the next book, film, whatever. False humility aside, Jackson loved this, he craved it, he needed it. This type of attention. And the alcohol served so quickly that he didn’t even have a moment to question the sincerity of the compliments, the worship. The alcohol, leading to the hookup, the vials, the baggies, the powder, the visits to the restroom, and then lazily using in the open, using the girls to shield his face, the powder, all grinding toward a finale. Choosing a woman from this table to return to the Regal, a woman paid for directly by Andrew, but a woman put on Jackson’s tab.
Katherine says I hate women. That’s bullshit. I love women!
To the hotel. The girl, the liquor, the sheets scented with the ardor of self-loathing, of drunken, coked-out, perfume-drenched sex. Understanding, not caring that he would never know the real names of these girls; nothing was asked of him, nothing given. Everything asked of these women, everything given. Awakening to silk sheets, a sweet taste on the tongue, a sweet note on the bureau, a sweet name attached, the same sweet bullshit.
The morning after every single one of these encounters, Jackson would play with the same idea: Must’ve gone dark last night. As if it had never happened before, as if it would never happen again. Then snapping out of that odd notion, he’d order down for a large pot of coffee and begin neatly packing his bag. After which a quick call down to the concierge, making certain Andrew was sent a bottle of something very expensive with an appropriate note. A note Jacks
on entrusted the well-worn, well-informed concierge to conjure up.
And who had taught him how to navigate this tricky terrain?
Cline.
After Novel Three, at Jackson’s insistence, Cline had caved in and taught Jackson how to curry favor, how to find the correct Club, the proper hotel, the legitimate hookups. Cline taught Jackson what to say to the right woman at the right time, where and when to do the drugs offered, never purchased. First at Cline’s Clubs, meeting Cline’s friends. The other kings. The other whales. Jackson, the apprentice. The darkness Jackson so earnestly avoided discussing with Cline that first year: high-end sugar babies, the cocaine Jackson swore he’d never get near, the actress with the junk problem with whom he flew to Mexico, gorgeous as she tied off and shot up on the beach. The private jet, private security, police bribes, thug threats, thug “friends,” all the adventures he’d heard other men of note engaged in. Seductions, earlier in his life only dreamed of, turning into realized fantasy, creating the winner’s edge Jackson believed all this hell conjured up. Cline’s doing. Cline taught him the ropes, turning Jackson’s curiosity into an addiction. Cline was an intensely smart man and knew that men like Jackson, men in Jackson’s position, in his situation, would eventually make their own way to the Club, and do so sloppily. How many messes did Cline have to clean up? Too many. Better to teach the kid (Cline had only eight years on him, still thought of him as the kid) the difference between a club and the Club, where he could get sloppy and feel confident in the knowledge that someone else would clean up his mess.
And each time Jackson would engage in this behavior he would ask himself the same question: Why navigate such terrain? And even at the lowest, most self-loathing, beaten-down sense of himself, he would answer that question, and the answer remained the same. Why? Because we are built to do this, men like us. This is our dominion, our imperative. It is a small pond, there are big fish and smaller ones, there is a food chain, we all know this, why pretend we don’t? When Katherine secures (while Katherine is securing?)…While Katherine fucks her next homestead with Feature Film Number Five, or CEO/Tech Company, or Hippie Venture Capitalist, I am doing this. Lie to others? Fine. Lie to myself? Absolutely not.
After Katherine moved in, that first year, Jackson abstained from engaging in this behavior…for a few weeks. Maybe less. Then when he returned to these outings he made the proper excuses to Katherine. Writers conference in the Bay Area. Speech (private) in Chicago. Meeting with Marlene, the editors in New York. Then, when it became a touch more obvious, the writer’s excuse, the cliché: I need to get away, need to get out of my head. In the last five, six months, no excuse, proper or otherwise: Going out of town. Katherine stopped asking questions quite a while ago. Or if she did, Jackson forgot them. In any case, he stopped answering them.
—
Sunday afternoon, the Empty Ritual: forty hours after Jackson arrived at the Regal, entered the Club, made the rounds, engaged in the “introductions” nonsense, drank and snorted his way into a stupor, chose a woman, brought her back to his suite, had loveless transactional sex with her, awoke, with taste on tongue, tearing up sweet idiotic notes, ordering expensive bottles to be sent to spoiled-brat club owners, mentally assuring himself everyone’s silence was paid for handsomely…forty hours after this had all begun, he’d pack to leave. However, this particular Sunday something felt different. Before he could reach for the phone and order up a pot of coffee, he impulsively reached for the pad of paper next to the bed, a pen, and began writing. Writing ideas for Novel Fifteen. Page after page of handwritten notes.
Unbelievable! Maybe that chick was my muse! I don’t even know her name! Too hilarious! Fuck! Finally!
—
That Sunday night, back in Carmel, bolstered with confidence in the form of twenty-five handwritten hotel pages of (unreviewed) notes that he locked in the wall safe with the Other Phone, Jackson engaged in a well-prepared (by V) studious dinner, along with a studious, well-prepared apology designed for Katherine.
“I am so, so sorry, Katherine.”
“It’s okay—”
“No, it’s not okay. My head’s been so fucked up. My behavior’s been inexcusable.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Okay, well, look, this is going to sound idiotic,” he began. Oh, Jesus, just get this night over with, get to the notes, the book, Novel Fifteen. “I guess I had writer’s block,” he said, and before Katherine could diagnose, comment, reply, Jackson immediately stopped her. “But it’s done with now.”
“Done with?” she asked. She appeared not to be buying “done with,” but who cares what she buys?
“I’m serious. Done with. Also, my computer was…played with.”
“What do you mean, ‘played with’?” she asked.
He stared into Katherine’s eyes. No. Katherine wouldn’t touch his computer. Why? Because Katherine couldn’t care less what was on Jackson’s computer. Katherine couldn’t care less what Jackson wrote. Because she had read only one of Jackson’s books. Novel Two. Or so she said. A woman who proclaimed, “Horror isn’t my thing.” Imagine that! The woman who lives in my house with these expensive views, who uses my money when she’s “in between gigs.” Fuck it! Cline was right. This was the package I desired, the package I deserved. For the privilege of having a Katherine hanging on my shoulder, in my bed, in my life, pretending to adore me in public, I ceded the opportunity to have a woman in my bed, in my life who respected what I do for a living, let alone gave a fuck about it? Who cares what she respects?
“Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. Anyway, something clicked. I’ve got a lot of stuff on paper.”
“Jackson, maybe you need to open up more,” she said.
“You’re right. I do need to open up more.”
Open up? Oh, that’s the last thing you want, honey. Trust me. Just let it go. We’ll keep playing house.
This confession of vulnerability? She was obviously not buying it. Weakness did not spill out of his mouth so easily. She knew this; he knew this. But that too did not matter. The meal, the conversation, the apologia, whether or not Katherine cared? None of it mattered. All of it stumbling blocks to an eventuality. The notes Jackson took at the Regal.
Even later that night, as they lay next to each other, Jackson quickly consummated the sex he pretended to initiate, as if he had the ability to make the night pass quickly and get to his notes. The notes that would lead to the production of Novel Fifteen.
At least that was the plan. Katherine had different plans. Plans that began with a smile, then a not-so-private laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Jackson asked.
Katherine, the sheets draping her body, turned around and began speaking. To the window, to herself? To Jackson.
“It’s just funny how life works out, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re so fucking lucky to have me, Jackson. I mean somebody like me.” She quickly turned, gave Jackson a quick peck on the cheek, then resumed her former position.
“I know. Kat, I know I’m lucky to have you—”
“No,” she interrupted. “I don’t mean some greeting-card bullshit, honey.”
“I don’t get what you’re—”
“Do you want to have that chick back here? I still have her number,” Katherine asked, wide grin.
“What chick? What’re you talking about?”
Katherine sat up. “ ‘What chick’?” She laughed. “Are you serious? The one we both fucked.”
Jackson cocked his head. What the hell was she…Oh, Jesus. That was two months ago. Katherine was supposed to be out of town. A chick from the Club. Cline said, “Never bring back a chick from the Club.” I fucked up. Didn’t keep track of Katherine’s schedule. Got sloppy.
“Brittany! That’s what her name was.” Katherine laughed again. A mocking laugh.
So sloppy. I should have called V first to make certain Katherine was gone. Brought Brittany…Brittany?�
��back from the Club. Back to my bed. But Katherine had never left. She’d been there the whole weekend. I thought she was leaving; she said she was leaving. Was she lying then?
“I didn’t dig it at first, but then I got into it,” she said.
Introduced her to Katherine as a student, a student of the Jackson Grey Novel. I, her mentor. The explanation felt insipid as it was coming out of my mouth, those words. That excuse.
Katherine propped herself up. “I mean, when we…you…tied her up,” Katherine giggled. “I got into it.”
The woman wanted to be tied up. Way past the excuse stage. I brought a woman back, introduced her as a student I was mentoring, somehow convinced Katherine that a threesome involving bondage might be fun. God, I was a fucking idiot. I was so wasted.
“And, my god, Jackson, she sure as hell flipped your switch. No, really, it was cool to see you happy and, I don’t know, loose—”
“Okay, Kat! Can we not talk about that? I apologized and—”
“You didn’t have to apologize, sweetie. Like I said, I kind of really dug it. Of course”—she began to laugh again—“partying for three straight days probably helped with—”
“Enough!” Jackson yelled. “For Christ’s sake! Enough!” Then, much softer, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled. I told you, my head wasn’t in a good place then. And I—”
“Oh, baby, your head’s never in a good place.” She smiled. “That’s why I’m saying you’re lucky to have me.”
“I’m sorry. Why…why’s that again?”
“Because, my dear, you’ve isolated yourself,” she said. “Because you’ve isolated yourself and your friends, your so-called friends ask about you…”
“And? They ask about me. What’s your point?” he asked. He knew the answer. He felt a tinge of fear.
Katherine sat up and stared him down. “What don’t you get? You’re lucky to have me, Jackson, because I keep my mouth shut!”
Jackson tried to spit out a sentence. He couldn’t.