“No. Melvin. I’m just apprising you of the situation. I live a comfortable life. As you do. I don’t want anything interrupted.”
There. The sound of truth. Enlightened self-interest. The Nazi probably had a closet full of thousand-dollar suits. With shoes to match. “What do you suggest, Doctor?”
“Settle the matter quickly.” Wolf picked up a scalpel, fresh from the autoclave. He moved a step closer to the pimp. “The second thing I suggest is that you never . . . ever . . . ever summon me anywhere again. I’m a medical doctor, not a serving boy. Or a delivery boy.”
The doctor was threatening him. Melvin tamped down a strand of red anger. Things were complicated enough. Too fucking complicated. Otherwise he’d take his index finger and plunge it right through the doctor’s eye. Then we’d see who Mengele might threaten.
“Put that thing away, Doctor. You might cut yourself.” He looked neutrally into the Nazi’s eyes. “But the word summon. What are you talking about? Did someone summon you? Who summoned you? You called me.”
“You didn’t have that Devi bitch call me last night?”
Aha. The doctor’s carefully tailored pride had been pricked. Good to know. He’d make use of that button when the time was right. “Devi called you again, Doctor?” Touching. The way Mr. Fatherland loved being called Doctor.
“Yes, she did. She said you’d asked her to bring me back.”
“Never did.”
“So I went back over there and babysat until the people came to get her.”
Melvin was filled with terror. “What people?”
“My people. To take her to Fairfax Convalescent.”
“She’s at Fairfax now . . .”
“Yes.” Oh, yes. The little pimp was afraid. Afraid of getting mixed up in the mess. Because he was already mixed up. And thought that no one knew. No doubt, he’d provided Rhonda for Nazarian. He looked at the pimp’s bruised face. “Would you like codeine with the Tylenol?”
“Fuck, yes.”
• • •
Fatigue had moved into Melvin’s bones like mercury, heavily rolling, finding the lowest point in his body. He felt like he weighed four hundred pounds. And his day would last until nightfall, relentless, and only then could he wash off the thick makeup and toss away the cheap sunglasses and sleep. Sleep. But not now. What he needed was a fat rail of coke. Waiting for him in his office. Like a friendly serpent. Two fat rails.
The taxi would have him there in twenty minutes. He had to think. Devi, Nazarian, the Nazi doctor, the man in the closet, Howard Hogue. He’d have to play them like a fine round of nine-ball.
He’d just seen a nine-ball tournament on cable. A frigidly beautiful Asian woman had cleaned up, leaning over the table, showing her rack, standing on one leg to make those impossible shots. In Melvinworld, where his imagination was law, he would come up behind her, rip that black skirt down, bury his cock in her ass, press her face flat against the felt.
He reached for his phone, punched up Devi. Bitch wasn’t answering. It went to message.
“Thank you, Devi, for giving the Nazi my phone. And, since you’re not answering your phone, you fucking bitch, lemme just clue you in on a few things. I don’t know who hit me, but he’s fucking dead. Dead man walking.
“So I’m going to need his name. So I can have his coffin made up. Or you’re fucking dead, too.
“And I don’t know what you pulled with our Nazi doctor last night, getting him to come back and shit. But I smell something dirty. I pray to God, for your sake, that you didn’t mention Nazarian’s name to him.
“And how I ended up, all tied up in a fucking box at Dunkin’ Donuts, then meeting the cops—you better have some answers. Or I’ll peel your skin. When you get this message call me. Bitch.”
TWENTY
The Sins of Howard Hogue
Sometimes two people making love just don’t fit together. Uncomfortable with each other, uncomfortable with their own bodies, uncomfortable with the situation. It could be a million things. But Devi and I flowed together like the ten rivers that flowed into the mighty Mississippi.
No embarrassment, no shame, no hesitation. Her body was supple and trim, mine less so but filled with hunger and flame. She laughed, coaxed, pleaded, denied, and finally succumbed fiercely to pleasure. I felt like God Himself. She took all I could give her and I gave her everything I had. Then, as the rain fell, we slept.
We woke hours later, having drifted softly to consciousness together. “Shortcut Man,” she smiled, stretching, “that’s so wrong.”
She rolled over so I could again appreciate her austral architecture.
Forms in nature are repeated, because they are successful. The spiral of a nautilus shell; the outgassing of binary stars. The lilt of a descending willow branch; the mathematical graph of diminishing return.
Here’s what I’m getting at. Take the perfect apple. Not round. Tall, fluted. From the stem end, the top, flowing widely, laterally over the side, into a descent that pushes outward to maximum, roundly, before tapering in, to a lesser circumference than the top had been, then the last, swift downward arc until terminus.
Take that apple, turn it upside-down. Voilà! The shape of the perfect rear end revealed. Nature repeating its success.
I’ve studied. Like dear old Puss said, I’m an ass man.
• • •
Early afternoon found us famished. Where to go. Superstitiously, I wanted to avoid Hollywood, so we went the other way, over Laurel Canyon into Studio City.
Twain’s at Ventura and Coldwater seemed a good fit. She had the appetite of a crocodile but the waist of a debutante. I watched her eat in bemused wonder. Then we ordered coffees to talk over and I asked her about her housemother position.
She shrugged with a studied nonchalance. This was a conversation she’d had more than once. With herself.
“The long and short of it,” she began, “is Howard Hogue. He likes young blondes, tall and vacant, with huge tits. When he finds one that tickles his fancy, he has Ivanhoe set them up. A nice apartment, an allowance, singing and dancing lessons. And, once in a while, maybe, he gets them little parts in little things.”
“The Ivanhoe Special Talent Program.”
“Exactly.” Devi reached into her purse, took out a big ring of keys, dropped it onto the table. It landed heavily. “At the moment, he has twenty-eight of these girls.”
“Twenty-eight?”
“It’s been as high as thirty-three.”
Thirty-three girlfriends. My marriage had foundered for many reasons, one of them the fact that love is seldom divisible by three. Thirty-three. I couldn’t remember thirty-three names. I guess that was where darling was useful.
I did some quick devil’s math. Rent, lessons, allowance, uh, $7,500 per month. Times thirty. $225,000 a month, round that up, for drill, to a quarter million, for a year, that makes $3,000,000. “I guess Hogue can do anything he wants. What does he want?”
“You mean what exactly does he want?”
“I’m curious.”
“Well, once or twice a week, any night, he might choose any of them. Then he drops by for a dance.”
“A dance?”
“Let me start at the beginning.”
“Please.”
“Well, first he chooses one of the twenty-eight. Then he calls up Melvin. Melvin ensures she’s ready for business on the evening in question. Melvin also ensures Howard’s chauffeur knows where he’s going.”
Devi sipped her coffee. “The chauffeur drops him off and waits. Howard goes to the girl’s place. She’ll be ready. The lights will be low. Music will be playing softly. No country music, no heavy rock. She’ll greet him like she missed him. She’ll thank him for his patronage, his generosity. She’ll fix him an Old-Fashioned.”
“She’s taught how to do that?”
“I teach them. Dissolve a lump of sugar in two dashes of bitters and a little water. Add ice, some lemon peel, a jigger of bourbon. Mix with a spoon, leave the spoo
n in the glass. Give to him with a napkin underneath.”
“He’s a spontaneous fellow.”
“Isn’t he. Then they’ll sit and he’ll ask how things are going for her. Nothing personal, of course, just what’s happening career-wise. After a few minutes of this preamble he asks them to dance.”
“And they’re thrilled.”
“Thrilled. They dance to ‘Love Letters in the Sand’ by Andy Williams. Three or four times.”
“No other song?”
“No. Just that one. Every girl has her Andy Williams CD.”
“You see to that.”
“I see to that.”
“Then what happens?”
“At that point he steps away from her, goes to the bar, takes out his little leather case, opens it up.”
“This is pretty amazing.”
“He knows what he wants.”
“Then?”
“Then he takes out this little vial, shakes out a little mound on the mirror in the case. With a platinum razor blade he chops it up. Makes it into two lines.”
“Two equal lines.”
Devi smiled. “You’re getting the drift.”
“Cocaine?”
“The finest shit in the world, mixed with a tiny bump of triple-A Persian heroin. To take the edge off.”
“This guy knows exactly what he wants.”
“Then he huffs one line, appreciates, then the other. Then another dance.”
“ ‘Love Letters in the Sand’? ”
“Yes. But about halfway through this spin, he whispers in her ear. Then she moves to one of the bar stools, which just happens to be the perfect height—”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Every girl has a set.”
“Go on.”
“She goes to the bar stool, lays down over it. He comes up behind her, lifts up her little black dress. She’ll be wearing green silk panties.”
“No!”
“Little green panties.”
“Green is a requirement?”
“Always green.
I found myself amazed and repelled. This was not human interaction. It was playing with dolls. “And then?”
Devi sipped her coffee again, her eyes seeking the tabletop. “Then, usually . . . usually he bangs ’em in the can.” She looked up at me.
I shrugged. “That’s very special.”
“Then he goes to the bathroom, where he cleans up with refreshing iced cotton towels, ready and waiting, then takes a piss.”
“The antiseptic piss. That he’s been saving.”
“I guess so.” She looked at me. “You do that?”
“That’s what they taught us in the Navy. Blow out the pipes before anything bad swims upstream.”
“Gross.”
“Smart.”
“Then he leaves her a nice tip, a thousand bucks, splits. His chauffeur takes him home.”
I shook my head. “So what does he do for fun?” We both laughed. “I don’t see the humanity in all this.”
“I didn’t think sailors were into humanity.”
“We’re deeply into humanity.” But I’d met young sailors, when I was a young sailor, who didn’t seem to have a clue. Getting married, they said, to assure themselves a steady supply of pussy. Which made it seem curiously independent of the person attached. Where had they learned to think like that? What was the point?
“So. You’re the housemother.”
“You better not be judging me.”
“I’m older than that.”
There was a silence. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m the housemother.”
TWENTY-ONE
Yawning of the Pit
As his liver gradually cleared his mind, Melvin fully realized the trouble he was in. What had appeared to him earlier as a web of relationships now had resolved into a singularity. Howard Hogue.
Hogue paid him $6,250 a week. That fat miracle had taken place when fifteen hundred had been a godsend. The extra money seemed barely believable. Too much to possibly spend.
But, like a fucking fool, he’d grown used to it. The Beemer. The condo. Sluts. Drugs. Clothes he’d never wear twice. Shit he’d bought to stave off those horrible cocaine depressions. Expensive restaurants where they’d Mr. Shea’d him right, left, and center. Where prices were large, portions were small, artfully arranged over vast peasant plates.
Now he needed every penny. Had run up balances on all seven graciously offered credit cards. Stupid Mr. Shea had succumbed to every temptation.
But if Hogue actually discovered that Melvin Shea had pimped out one of his thirty girlfriends—actually, eight or nine—well, the ramifications of that would be overwhelming, a monstrous thunderclap of retribution. Hogue’s blood-red rage would mean the end of everything. Certainly everything in Hollywood.
Could he survive that? Physically, he could. But he would never move again in the circles to which he had become accustomed. Welcome to The Palm, Mr. Shea. He would eke out a smaller life, telling stories to smalltime, small-town losers about shit they’d never believe he’d had or had done. Welcome to The Grill, Mr. Shea. Your usual table?
What he needed this minute was heavy money. To make Rhonda a good offer. Not that good. Good enough for her to accept. Above the threshold of first refusal. Where she’d get the whiff of fortune and avarice would set in, like dry rot, shutting her fucking mouth.
And Nazarian. Well, Nazarian wouldn’t want trouble either. That’s where he’d get Rhonda’s bread. The asshole from Armenia. Nazarian had better come across. Pointing that golden gun at him in Hogue’s office. Who the fuck did he think he was? Didn’t matter. Asshole had a lot to lose. Probably had already made sure that the Hollywood Boulevard star committee could spell his name correctly.
His face hurt. Bad. He’d kill that closet mystery man. Devi would give him right up. She couldn’t stand a break in the income river either. Driving a Lexus, living up Beachwood.
He took a deep breath. His mind was working. Priorities were in order. Rhonda, Nazarian.
He opened the big drawer in his desk. In the back corner, in a wooden box, was a quarter ounce of cocaine. Almost Merck quality.
He would break a rule of his own making. Don’t mess with the shit at work. The separation of business and pleasure. But this wasn’t pleasure. He coughed. A jagged, tributaried skein of lightning passed downward through his face, between his teeth, through his teeth, into the marrow of his jawbone. Then faded. Like a retina flash. Something was fucking broken. Had to be.
One line.
Okay. Two lines.
No. One line.
The phone rang. In-house call. “Yes?”
It was Mary, his secretary. Who knew nothing and imagined less. Brave new world. The rise of the morons. “Helena called from Mr. Hogue’s office.”
“And?”
“Your meeting is in half an hour.”
Two lines.
TWENTY-TWO
A Million Dollars
The waitress at Twain’s had just disappeared with my credit card when Devi’s phone rang. She picked it up, checked. “Melvin.”
“Let it go to message.”
Devi set the phone down. “This is going to get ugly.”
“Don’t go home.”
“Till when?”
“Till I tell you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You just want me in your bed.”
I grinned. “There’re worse places.”
“So what happened between you and Puss?”
“Lots of stuff. Thankfully under the bridge.”
“You can tell me.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe you’d lose respect for me.”
She laughed, drained her coffee. “I should visit Rhonda.”
“You know where she is?”
“We usually send them to the same place. I mean, Dr. Wolf does.”
“This happens frequently?”
She interpreted my question m
ore harshly than I’d asked it. “No. I’m not a criminal, Dick. Jeez.”
I didn’t think she was. On the other hand, there was no such thing as moral neutrality. Every human action, at its core, was either good or bad. “Wolf is the house doc?”
“Yes. He’s the guy I call.” She paused. “You think it’s safe to visit?”
“If we do it quickly. Those guys are going to be pissed when they get their act together.”
“Where did Rojas take them?”
“Up to the Mulholland Overlook. And over it.”
“Why?”
“Thought I’d buy a little time. Let ’em wake up slow, cold, and sore this morning. In the bushes. Then a difficult, tandem climb back to Mulholland. Give ’em time to think.” Maybe scare them. “So where’s Rhonda?”
“Fairfax Convalescent. Block and a half above Canter’s. Want to go with me?”
Devi wasn’t all that much worse than I was. I feasted on a lot of Hollywood crumbs, just not as close to the table. As they say, if you’re going to dine with the devil, find a long spoon.
Like everybody else, it seemed, she’d gotten used to the gravy train. Where was my end out of all this? Somewhere in the vicinity of Nazarian’s gun, crusted with various liquids. And a bloodstained check for $5,000,000.
Did I care about Rhonda Carling? Sure. Abstractly. Like I cared about hurricane victims in Haiti. Rhonda had walked the delicate edge. Meaning part of her accepted the fall. Welcomed it. The fall she told herself would never come.
Did anyone care about Rhonda Carling? Her mother. Maybe. But probably no one in Hollywood, California. But she’d make her current circle care. Battered, violated, unconscious, and anonymous, she held the cards.
“Let’s go see Rhonda,” I said. It was the only pragmatic thing to do.
• • •
My Caddy crossed Fountain at Fairfax, Methodists on one side, Catholics on the other, Jews down the street. What a mess. Of course, that was why, every now and then, someone needed me, the Shortcut Man. To get to what was real.
“Dick?” Devi looked over at me. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You’ve already thanked me.”
“I don’t mean that.”
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