The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd

by Chris D. Dodson

  But I now had material, real characters inside a moving, breathing plot. Knowing the precise motivations of these characters, though, will be the hardest twist to figure. Or do I need to know? You’ve got twenty-four days, Jack, run with it.

  I drove through the front gate and into the estate. I pulled up to the valet and got out, then walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. Mr. Green knows too who I am, or what I am. He grills me every time about my quasi profession—my Janes. Even though he’s rich beyond measure and has his own stable of concubines, he’s still like most middle-aged men who are frightened by their waning mojo, bulging mid sections, and withering lower members. Even all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t save the bastard from age. So as they say, misery loves company, or partners in crime, or something like that. Jack Kidd, local gigolo extraordinaire, suffice it to say, was the real reason Barry wanted me here.

  A house servant escorted me to the large patio at the rear of the estate that offered a nice view of a lavish pool and sprawling grounds. The sweeping vista of the Pacific Ocean made for a pleasant backdrop, melding pristinely into a powder-blue sky.

  I stood alone on the patio. My clothes were garden-party rich, not preppy, prepared for the nightlife, yet tactfully outfitted to that of a blended extra. My pants were slim-fit Khakis and my shoes were tan-and-white Saddle Bucks. An Orange Armani blazer (just enough to be a little pretentious) draped over my blue-striped, seersucker shirt with matching pocket square. This was a garden party exclusively for Hollywood celebs, execs, and some of Orange County’s utmost landed gentry and nouveau riche; in other words, I was here to impress a hell of a lot of high-paid white trash.

  Speaking of which, I watched how all the renowned misfits mingled by the bar, pool, and on the grounds with drinks in hand and sunglasses propped atop their smug noses. Several assessed me for a moment and then resumed their mannequin poses of contrived repartee.

  I then spotted him, Barry Green, medium height, shiny baldhead, all fat and thick like his ego. His clothes: a pair of Dockers, khaki pants, and a black-and-white Hawaiian print shirt fit his squat-heavy bulk fashionably well. Barry’s bulldog face and boorish grin honed in on me. A large hand reached for mine.

  “Jack, oh, boy! Glad you made it, champ,” Barry said, belting out the usual belly laugh.

  “Barry, nice party.”

  “How’s things been going for you, Jack?” The man had a quality about him that would seize most people.

  “The same, Barry, nothing new.”

  “Yeah, I bet. What’ll you have to drink?”

  “A daiquiri, please.”

  Barry lifted his hand and gestured toward the bar. “How’s business?” he asked.

  “A few listings, a few escrows—”

  “The business, Jack—the business.” A wily sneer eased across Barry’s face. His eyes became dark marbles, gleaming eerily in the sun.

  “I’ve been busy with it, Barry, a few notables.”

  “Like?”

  “She’s across the lawn behind you as we speak.”

  Barry didn’t turn; he just kept his sneer fixed on me. I knew it was all right to tell him and probably a smart thing to do since he’d know anyway about me commissioning tricks with one of his former mistresses. A waiter came with the daiquiri and handed it to me.

  “Goddamn it, Jack, I need to make money off you.” Barry placed his arm around me and walked me to a discreet part of the grounds. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, “kind of a reality TV sort of thing. I’ve never produced TV, just motion pictures, you know, but what if I place hidden cameras in certain locations, like in nightclubs, bars, and even in some properties for sale and catch on tape your gigolo rendezvous’—all real-time, no staging or script. The sex scenes, of course, would be censored for TV.”

  I took a long drink of the daiquiri, trying to disregard what I had just heard.

  Barry grinned like a schoolboy and eased in his pumpkin head. “How about we air an episode where a jealous husband comes in on the action, you know, when you’re doing the dirty deed and he catches the both of you.”

  I took another long drink of my daiquiri.

  “Of course, I’d have to work some kind of risk clause into your contract. But hell, wouldn’t that push the envelope, Jack?”

  “I have policies, Barry, you know, certain scruples I work by.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anonymity, for one. I can’t expose my clientele or myself like that.”

  “I’ll censor your faces and even your bare ass if you want.”

  “There are rules, Barry.”

  “Fuck the rules—rules are to be broken. This reality TV shit is hot bananas right now, and I want a piece of it.”

  “I’ve been kicking an idea around for a while, actually, Barry.”

  “Kicking what?”

  “A screenplay, a novel, but with fictitious characters.”

  “You need to leave the writing to the pros, Jack.” Barry eased in a little heavier toward me, transposing his face from party host to movie mogul. I knew it was time for me to at least pretend to comply. “Think about it, Jack, you or your clients will never have to worry about being exposed, and you’ll get paid a percentage. This could put a nice-size bone in your pocket.”

  “I already have a nice-size bone in my pocket, Barry, but thanks, anyway.”

  The man grumped out a bemused laugh. The cell phone on his belt clip rang, causing him to take the call. The bulldog paced away, barking commands into the phone. I slid my sunglasses over my eyes and paced across the lawn, thinking I should leave. Truth be told, I felt about as welcome here as a red-headed stepchild, but I knew Barry wasn’t finished with me yet or I with his celeb fest.

  Someone’s hand pressed against my back. “Hello, Jack.” A voice, cunning and precise, spoke from behind. I stopped and turned to see the tall figure of a man wearing a navy-blue blazer over a white polo shirt that was buttoned up to his Adam’s apple.

  “Conrad,” I said. Conrad Turner, one of our run-of-the-mill county supervisors, reached out to shake my hand. I shook warily. His beady eyes were lost naturally in black shadows, and his made-for-politics smile gleamed stark white in the sun. I noticed him wearing a pair of plaid slacks, a throwback to the 1970s, literally, as if he’d exhumed the damned things from his dad’s Chester drawer.

  “Enjoying the party, Jack?”

  “As always, Conrad. How about you?”

  “I’m having a hell of time, you know, with the celebrities and all. Too bad it’s only twice a year, huh?”

  “Yeah. What can I do you for, Supervisor?”

  The man pulled a drink from a silly looking cocktail glass that had a miniature wicker umbrella sticking out of it. He asked, “How are your trees, Jack?”

  “Producing sweet nectar—oh, and oxygen, as well.”

  “That’s nice, Jack.”

  “It is, isn’t it, Conrad?” Being the self-serving asshole that he was, Conrad Turner made for the ideal elected official. He was one of only a handful of people who actually made my skin crawl. I turned away from the poorly dressed demagogue, directing my attention toward the silhouetted vision of a woman by the pool. I recognized her, a blonde, posing astonishingly beautiful at the water’s edge until she dove in. The word on the street rang true.

  The supervisor’s tongue began to slither again, “I’ve been rubbing shoulders with a good friend of yours, a gentleman by the name of Roger Singh. Nice guy and very sharp. There’s been a lot of development the last year with the boom in housing and commercial. Roger has his eye on the future of this county.”

  “So he’s told me.”

  “Roger’s been trying to promote the commercial side of his agency the last few months and has come to me for help.”

  “He’ll be in the billionaire’s club one day, I’m sure, the same club you want to be in, right, Conrad?”

  “Haven’t you ever thought about being in that club, Jack?”

&n
bsp; “Everything I own is paid for, Conrad. A billion more tender notes won’t make any difference—oh, and by the way, I’ll never sell my land.” I pulled a drink from my daiquiri, watching Turner’s back stiffen and his grin morph into a red-faced grimace. I anticipated any moment for the snake to start hissing.

  “You know as well as I do, Jack, that land of yours is subject to eminent domain.”

  “Oh? And why don’t you show me that in writing, Conrad?”

  “The 91 freeway needs to be widened through that corridor, Jack. This county is bursting at the seams, and there will be growth—”

  “You mean encroachment, don’t you? Or how bout we call it what it really is, graft, embezzlement—pirating? First the freeway, then development will follow with enough infrastructure projects to keep a large shareholder like you plush and happy.”

  Turner tried to hide his face behind that stupid wicker umbrella, then murmured, “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about that large trench-shoring outfit here in the county, Conrad. You know, Terra Firma Enterprises. The one that seems to have a corner on all local construction equipment—steel plates, backhoes, shoring braces, etcetera. The kind of stuff a development of three miles of freeway widening and eight miles of streets, boulevards, and overpasses, not to mention miles of utility lines, would need. Last I heard hefty sums of cash have somehow slipped under the right tables, leaving you in office with a large share.”

  The man laughed, squirming beneath his honorable facade. “That’s bullshit. The newspapers are always raking up slanderous things because it sells copies. I’ve never been indicted for any of those accusations. I’m greatly respected here in the county—even the district attorney is a friend of mine.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “You can’t keep that ranch forever, Jack, and you know it.”

  “The only thing I know, Conrad, is that my daiquiri is warm now—”and your pants look stupid, you fucking snake—“and I see a friend by the pool.” As I began to move away, I heard Conrad hiss, “You can’t win, Jack! If you don’t do it the smart way, then somebody else will...”

  I pressed on, away from the badly dressed talking snakehead that had no other purpose in its miserable life than to be an empty suit. But I knew those damn words and their frightful half-truths—“You can’t keep that garden forever, Jack”—will never stop hounding me as long as this real estate market continued its insane trajectory skyward.

  I crossed the lawn to where I saw earlier the silhouetted vision by the pool. I stopped at the pool’s edge and watched the vision glide beneath the water. She reached the edge and began to ascend the ladder. I eased in closer, enjoying how silvery tresses of water cascaded from her as she stepped onto the deck. I handed her a towel. She looked at me without surprise and dabbed the large beads of moisture from her face and upper body.

  “Hello, Jack,” Catherine Fleming said. Her long, sodden hair streamed golden-dark along her sun-bronzed shoulders and back. “Thank you for the towel.” She sat in a lounge chair and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.

  I gestured my hand toward an empty chair. “May I?”

  “Please.”

  I sat across from her and said, “I’m surprised to see a dance instructor invited to one of these events.”

  “If they invite real estate agents, why not dance instructors?”

  A waiter walked up and placed more towels next to Catherine and offered her a cigarette. She took one. He lit it for her then offered me a cigarette. I frowned and shook my head.

  “Would you folks like to order anything from the bar?” he asked.

  Catherine looked at me; I lifted my half-full daiquiri, gesturing contentment. “No thank you,” she said.

  The waiter walked away.

  “You’re a wise man not to smoke,” she said. “I don’t smoke often, but when I’m placed on a stage, I do feel the need to fit in. Are you fitting, Jack?”

  “Like a two-dollar token in a high-stakes casino.” I pulled a drink from my warm daiquiri.

  She smiled, then blew a plume of smoke into the air. “I performed on Broadway, remember? That’s why I’m here.”

  “I thought west-coast high society didn’t care much for the east-coast version. Or is it the other way around?”

  “High society is all the same.”

  “No right hand, left hand?”

  “They’re all left handed.”

  “I take it you know Barry.”

  She pulled another drag on her cigarette. “I do. He’s a despicable narcissist like everyone else here. These are angry, vile people, full of themselves and therefore malice.”

  “Then why are you here, other than trying to fit in?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes, hungry. Don’t you ever get hungry, Jack?

  I glanced over at the buffet table. “They do have one hell of spread of vittles.”

  She nearly laughed; her smile was truly a work of art.

  “Be careful, Jack.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re too...easy.”

  My eyes traveled helplessly the length of her half-nude figure. I said, “Maybe that’s the whole idea.”

  Just then Lena McGuire walked up to us and perched her not-required company on Catherine’s lounge chair. I took in Lena’s ink-black hair, her pale skin that was somehow attractive, and her glass-blue eyes that startled me every time they locked on me. Lena leaned in and planted a long, sensuous kiss on Catherine’s lips. Both women turned and looked at me.

  “Have you met Lena, Jack?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes...we had an encounter the other evening at a pub.” I felt pissed suddenly, then jealous, and then turned on, I think, by the spontaneous girl-on-girl act that just took place in front of me.

  “Hello, Jack,” Lena’s said. “And how is Roger?”

  “Steadfast and charming as usual,” I said. “I see you’re both wearing the same style bikinis and with matching colors. In fact, except for your eyes, hair, and skin color, there’s a sister-like resemblance about you both. But then again, sisters don’t usually French kiss, and one of you, Ms McGuire, has an Irish accent.”

  Each flashed me a leering smile of amusement.

  “That’s a clever call, Jack,” Lena said. “You must’ve peeped inside one of Brenda’s office drawers to find out my proper name. Was it after one of your lessons on her futon; was that when you peeked?” Lena took Catherine’s cigarette and dragged on it.

  “Jack is good at reading voices,” Catherine said. “He’s also good a meddling. In fact, just the other day on the Disneyland ferry, he was inquiring about your ordeal with the police. Can you guess the places Lena’s lived, Jack?” Catherine took back her cigarette and drew in a long draft.

  “Born in Ireland,” I said, “grew up in England, lived in New York, prowling through Soho and Greenwich Village, most likely. Lena is a Slavic name, so she’s genetically a half breed of some kind or just basically screwed up.”

  “It’s London,” Lena said. “I was born in Ireland and raised in London, England. And yes, my mother was Russian.” She stood. “Excuse me, I need a swim.” She paced her ghostly-white figure, an easy target for a hellacious sunburn, across the deck until she plunged into the pool.

  Catherine asked, “Are you surprised, Jack, by me and Lena?”

  “I try to be as Bohemian as I can.”

  “When you said ‘screwed up’ a moment ago, it sounded as though you wanted to dropkick Lena into the pool. Are you jealous?”

  “I’m jealous of other boys, but never other girls.”

  She took the last drag on her cigarette, pinching a grin. She drilled the butt into a nearby ashtray. “You’ve been with two girls before, haven’t you?”

  “All the time, just not in the same bed.”

  “Don’t worry, I still like boys.”

  I noticed Barry gesturing for me to come inside the house. I stood and said,
“It’s been an illuminating poolside chat, but I need to see the tyrant himself. Will you be here later?”

  “Of course. The band will strike up and there’ll be dancing. Come look for me then.” Her emerald eyes and reticent grin stirred the tomcat inside me. I nodded and walked away.

  12

  After the grilling and the patronizing that comes from such an obese ego, I finally relented to at least the screening process of who Orange County’s number one male whore might be. Barry needed his piece of the hot bananas the same way a toddler needs a piece of candy. And so I did, in fact, know a few local Jack Kidd wannabes who’d jump at the chance of getting laid, paid, and seen on TV all at once. So at least my own face and bare ass would steer clear of the latest version of reality, bullshit TV. One thing I’ve learned about filthy-rich toddlers is that they get to eat as many hot bananas as they want, and the more they eat the filthier their diapers.

  I left his in-home-board room still hungry from rushed bites of gourmet food that I had to work in between discourse and submission. But at least I was free now of Barry’s short leash.

  Nightfall, and a delightful indigo sky was pushing an orange fusion of sunset past the horizon. I ordered my fourth daiquiri and heard music out by the pool. Flames flickered on tall Tiki Torches, casting a fiery aura against the grounds. They were gearing up now, these well-dressed savages, preparing for the chant, the rebel rousing; throwing off the shackles of highbrow snobbery and the weighty platitudes of vanity.

  I noticed an added array of landed gentry, Hollywood types, movie stars, politicians, even a few old-timer rock stars, mingling among themselves and my unfamiliarity. I’ve seen this sort of well-mannered fakery before among the gods and idols of the universe celebrity. Perhaps it was the calm of the nocturne, or just plenty of booze and cocaine, but whatever it was it made these holier-than-thou self admirers willing to party hardy with any one below their rung on the food chain.

  I spotted Catherine Fleming, stunningly gorgeous in a white summer dress, comporting herself on the outdoor furniture as if a take on a movie set had just begun. Her shoulder-length blonde hair cast a vaporous glow in the shimmering torch light. Next to her sat a man with long brown hair and who appeared to be one of the music legends making the rounds here tonight. He also appeared to be quite shit-faced.