Lady Midnight

by Timothy C. Phillips

  In the world of the drinker, the bartender is king, or queen, and I found the empress of this particular block behind the bar of a place with no sign on the outside. The chalkboard that served as menu behind the bar proclaimed that the name of the place was Joe Midnight’s, and that draft beer was a dollar a mug until 9:30 p.m.

  “Ever hear of a guy named Anthony Herron?” I asked her. She was a tattooed young woman with several piercings in her face and red contact lens in her eyes. She chewed gum and looked me up and down until I added, “He’s a guitar player. I’m looking to hire a band.”

  “Ah. They come and go around here, mister. You might want to just ask someone in a band. Most of them know each other.” She popped her gum and nodded past me. “Listen, if he played in a band, you might want to ask Jerrod over there. He’s played in half the bands in town.”

  She pointed to the low stage, where a young man sat on an amplifier, fussing over an electric guitar. He wore an Iggy Pop t-shirt, tattered blue jeans, and sandals. I thanked her and walked over and stepped up onto the stage.

  “Jerrod?”

  The young man glanced up at me with an open, intelligent look. He blinked a couple of times at the apparition of a big black man, in his thirties, wearing a suit. The image probably didn’t add up with the other sensoria of Joe Midnight’s, but the kid remained relaxed, and his disposition friendly.

  “Yeah, man, what’s up?”

  “I’m looking for Anthony Herron. You ever heard of him?”

  “What, you a cop or something?”

  “I’m in the ‘or something’ category. I’m a private detective.”

  “Oh, cool. I never met a real private eye before. He in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not that I know of. I’m just trying to find him and his girlfriend. They dropped out of sight, and I’m just trying to make sure they’re okay.”

  “Hmm.” Jerrod looked me over and shrugged slightly. “Well, I’ll tell you, I played in a band with a guy named Tony about six months back, I think his last name might have been something like Herron. Not sure, though.”

  I brought out the picture that I had gotten from Patrick and Baucom, and handed it to Jerrod. The young man looked at the face in the picture intently.

  “Ah. Yeah, hey, I think that is him. His hair was longer, but that’s the dude.” Jerrod gave a little ironic laugh, and swept his own long hair out of his eyes.

  “Would you happen to know where Tony is now?”

  “Not sure.”

  “That’s too bad.” I turned to go.

  Jerrod laughed again. “Hey wait. I said I’m not sure, man. I think I might be able to help you out, though.”

  “I sure would appreciate it, Jerrod.”

  “Well, it’s like this. Tony and I played for a band called No Luck, we did a few gigs together on some places along the strip here. But I had some side projects going, so there were some time conflicts, you know? I had to bow out when this band, the one that’s playing here tonight, called me. No Luck got another bassist, but they’re still doing gigs around town. I don’t know if Tony’s still playing with them, but I did hear that they were playing a party tonight.”

  “Great. Any idea where?”

  “Sure. There’s this dude—he’s a real character, he’s a little older, but he’s fun, you know? He’s like, some kind of crazy writer or journalist or something. Anyway, he throws these big ass parties a few times a year. He’s got a huge house over in a rich neighborhood, West Buckhead, man. He must drive those richies over there nuts. Anyway. No Luck is playing over there.”

  “You mind if I ask how No Luck got that job? Sounds like a pretty sweet gig, doesn’t it?”

  “You bet it is. The old writer guy is out there, man. He hangs out in dive bars and dates college girls. He’s been in here a few times. He likes to get wasted and he tells these wild stories about crazy things he’s done. A couple of times he hung out with the guys in the band. He’s actually pretty cool, in his own crazy way.”

  “Well, okay. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem. Stay cool.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. You too.”

  Chapter 8

  It was well after dark before I arrived at the house where the invitation-only party was just getting going. It was an impressive old place, but I could see that no one was keeping the grounds these days.

  While I didn’t really keep up with underground authors, it seemed to me that it had been a few years since Carter Britton, the writer and owner of this house, had come out with a new book. But after as many bestsellers as he had released, it seemed that a guy like that would have enough money to last him forever. A couple of his books had gotten the Hollywood treatment, and done pretty well as movies, attracting more readers to the original works. A guy would be pretty well set up after all that, I figured.

  Seems like he could afford a gardener, I mused, as I pushed the doorbell. Unless, that is, someone decided to help Carter Britton spend all that money, which happens quite a bit to someone in his position. Maybe that was his story. His fame, wealth, and partying ways no doubt attracted many parasites and hanger-on.

  To my surprise, Carter Britton himself answered the door, a large silver drink mixer in his right hand. The mixer was beaded with moisture and the faint clink of ice came from it as he held it aloft. He was a little on the short side, around five eight, with a comfortable middle and thinning hair. He exuded confidence, even though he was dressed in a bathrobe, tank top and Bermuda shorts, and could not possible have any idea who I was.

  “Olah,” he smiled exuberantly at me, as though I was a long-lost friend, and turned and beckoned me inside over his shoulder. “Welcome. Care for a highball?”

  I followed him as he sauntered to the back of the house, to a large kitchen area. The central island was covered with a plethora of bottles. Gin, bourbon, tequila, all the old pillars of drunkenness and their little cousins, the liqueurs. A wine rack dominated the windowless far wall. Carter Britton was clearly a guy who liked to drink. All of that alcohol made me shudder. There was a time when it would have been a very welcome sight, indeed.

  Britton selected a glass from the rack above the kitchen’s central bar and poured himself a knock of some single malt Glenlivet, and tossed it back. He looked me in the eye with mock gravity and raised the shot glass in a toast. “To gangsters, alcoholic writers, and deceptive women.” He grinned, shook his head a bit, and considered the empty shot glass as though some deep truth lay revealed there. “Ah, Scotch. Excellent stuff. Shall we?”

  The author then picked up a strainer and methodically began composing a cocktail from ingredients that were already carefully arrayed in a row upon the counter. I realized that he must have been about to mix himself a drink when I knocked. According to the vast array of ingredients, it was a drink that only a drinker of some experience would attempt to either mix or consume. I realized that I was rather out of touch with the whole drinking scene, and the thought gave me some pleasure. I was surrounded by alcohol and didn’t feel the least longing. I’d gained a lot of ground in my five dry years as a recovering alcoholic.

  It was clear that the great Carter Britton was just warming up, though, as he poured part of the considerable contents of the strainer over ice in a tall glass and continued his banter while sauntering towards the back door. “Everyone’s out back here.” He pushed the door open and padded out onto a large deck, the middle of which was dominated by a large, irregularly shaped pool. And in that pool, there were six naked girls frolicking unattended, some college age, some a little older, maybe, but all young and fit. None of them reacted to me, other than to smile and wave.

  “I’ll say one thing for you, you sure know how to throw one hell of a party,” I heard myself say.

  Britton emitted a low laugh and slid into a chair at a table that was dominated by a huge beach umbrella. I sat down across from him, and the bathing beauties immediately climbed out and came over to where he had seated himself. Some donned
towels, others did not.

  The young women’s faces became distinct as they came closer, out of the darkness. One girl came and stood next to me, and her skin showed a flawless white. I listened as the girls fawned over the aging author. A couple went inside to collect drinks for everyone, but my pale attendant did not move. Her nakedness was palpable to me, her body so close my resting hands lifted as though they sensed her skin, separated only by a few inches of sultry air.

  She suddenly gave out the tiniest breath of a giggle and slid into my lap, skin still dripping from the pool, and I felt the wetness and the warmth of her young body, even as Carter Britton, the greatest washed-up author still living and pulling in college co-eds like nobody’s business, leaned in to light a citronella candle to protect his naked and mostly-naked charges from the blood-homing instincts of mosquitoes, if not the equally primal instincts of his house guest.

  “So are you in the business?” The mysterious naked girl in my lap asked me.

  “Uh. Sure.” I answered robotically, feeling at once out of place, out of my depth, and totally out of character.

  “You must be new, because you’re so cute, I’d remember seeing you.”

  “Well, I really just heard from some friends that this was going to be a great party, and I came to listen to them play.”

  “Oh, you’re friends with the guys in No Luck?”

  “Yes. Sort of.”

  The girl giggled at that. Certain things shook pleasantly when she giggled. “Say, what’s your name?”

  “Roland Longville.”

  “Wow.” Her eyes grew wide. “That’s a really cool name. How did you think of that one?” She leaned in close. “Mine’s Nookie Uberalles.”

  I arched an eyebrow. It was definitely getting hot out there, beside the pool, despite my now wet pants.

  The girl stood suddenly, and grabbed my hand. “Come with me.”

  She led me back into the kitchen where Carter Britton and I had stood just a minute or two before. Her body was not quite so pale in the bright light. She had a light tan, with no tan lines, and smooth, perfect skin. I found himself trying to direct my eyes elsewhere, but the girl seemed completely comfortable with her nudity.

  “What are you really doing here?” She asked me suddenly.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ve hung out with No Luck. You’re not a friend of theirs.” She challenged me, still smiling. Still close. Still dripping wet and quite naked. I decided to be honest.

  “You’re onto me. I’m actually looking for someone. A young woman.”

  “You sure don’t act like it, handsome.”

  I smiled down at her. “No, not someone to hook up with. I mean I’m looking for someone in particular.”

  “This somebody you’re looking for got a name?”

  “Her name’s Connie. Constance Patrick.”

  “You mean Bonny Golightly.”

  “Come again?”

  “I bet you could make me, handsome.”

  I ignored the quick retort, which was the kind of off-hand juvenile sex talk that seemed more designed to shock than allure. Nookie was suddenly a lot less sexy.

  “Who is Bonny, uh—”

  “Golightly.”

  “Right. I said that I was looking for Connie Patrick—”

  “Shhh!” The girl who called herself Nookie Uberalles grabbed my arm pulled me after her, and led me back toward the kitchen. “Come with me,” she said, as her wet little feet padded along the tiles. She looked around with a seriousness that was almost comical. “Don’t use her real name out here, honey.”

  I suddenly felt like I was a character in some crazy playwright’s all-nude version of “The Spy Who Came in From the Cold.”

  “You want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

  Nookie closed the kitchen door and stood so that she could keep a watch on the antics beside the pool outside. This was a spy novel, after all. “We don’t use our real names in this business, big guy. I can tell you haven’t been around the biz much.”

  “What ‘biz’ are we talking about?”

  “The porn biz, of course.”

  “You’re saying that you know Connie Patrick? And that she’s doing porn?”

  Nookie rolled her eyes. “Not Connie, Bonny. Her stage name is Bonny Golightly. Like I said, you don’t use your real name. And maybe she was doing porn . . . but I can’t tell you everything right now.”

  “So you know each other, you and . . . Bonny?”

  She nodded. “We roomed together when she first got to town. Her boyfriend ditched her and she was pretty strapped for cash, and no way was she going to her old man. I mean, she really hates her father, you know? Maybe you don’t know. So, I was like, totally just starting to make some short movies on the side, you know? Mostly content for websites, or shorts for videos. So I told her about it, and we thought up a stage name for her, which I thought was great, and she just really took off with the whole thing.”

  “So you’re telling me that Connie—who is now calling herself Bonny Golightly is making adult movies?”

  “Oh, totally. At least, she was. I mean, we sort of drifted apart after she got her own place, and . . . other things.”

  “Other things?”

  Nookie Uberalles was definitely enjoying the mystique of her knowledge, of which I was not a part. She apparently found this very sexy. I found it very confusing, and a little tiresome.

  “Would you happen to know how to get in touch with her?” I asked, with failing hope.

  “I’m not giving you her number or anything. Not without asking her first. You seem cool, but she’s a real friend. You got a card or something? I’d have to check it all out with her first.”

  “Fair enough.” I fished around in my pockets and came up with a card. I found myself wondering where she was going to put it. “Have her call me. It’s very important.”

  “Sure. She’ll be in touch.” Nookie Uberalles smiled. “Maybe I’ll be in touch, too.”

  I turned to go and she grabbed my elbow, pulled me close. “So, Roland Longville isn’t your porn name?”

  I smiled. “No. that’s my real name.”

  “Wow. With an awesome name like that maybe you should get into porn.”

  I looked at her, searching for some sign that she was joking, saw none, and then nodded with the utmost seriousness.

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  Nookie giggled her little giggle, and mixed herself a volatile cocktail from the ingredients on the counter—something with vodka, rum, and tequila in it, maybe her own idea of a Long Island Tea. I followed her back out to the pool, where Carter Britton was holding court, apparently telling a story while simultaneously acting as judge over a drinking game. I took a good look around. There were naked girls and a few surly-eyed college-age guys hugging up to them, and plenty of alcohol on hand. But I still saw no sign of a band setting up anywhere nearby.

  I wondered how late I’d have to hang out here to meet the errant Anthony Herron, and what mistakes I might make during that long wait. Not that I had other things to do—but I was and am a recovering alcoholic. All the alcohol I’d seen tonight had yet to exert any pull on me, which I was thankful for. I’d been dry for five years—a long time. The longer an addict was free of their drug of choice, the freer he or she was. But all the female nudity around me presented other pitfalls, mistakes that might be just as costly for me, ultimately, as taking a drink.

  I resumed my former seat for the moment and listened as Carter Britton started telling a story. Everyone around that pool was rapt with attention, or wrapped with a tension; it was hard to tell.

  Carter Britton took a big gulp from his complex and powerful drink and intoned:

  “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure-dome decree:

  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

  Through caverns measureless to man

  Down to a sunless sea.”

  The little grou
p clustered tightly around Britton, and his charisma held sway. The man held court well. He was obviously a great talker, and he kept the young people laughing, and their eyes seldom strayed from his jovial, round face.

  I was just putting together my exit speech when a young man whom I hadn’t seen before appeared from around the corner of the house and announced, “It’s a raid! The cops are coming up the road!”

  There was a collective gasp from the little group, and Britton stood without preamble and beckoned them all to follow him. I stood hesitantly, but Britton came around and grabbed my elbow and fixed me with a mad eye.

  “Come, friend, you’re mincemeat if they catch you here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve got an escape plan for you. This has happened before. It’s my asshole neighbors, the Harcourts. They’re an old couple with Mesozoic values and even older money, who don’t approve of my little casual dress get-togethers. When old money talks, the police do whatever their masters bid them. Now, if you wish to escape imprisonment, kindly come with me. The Metropolitan Police have been spotted coming up the hill by one of my young associates. No doubt they plan an assault on my compound.”

  I followed him into the old house. He looked slyly over his shoulder at me, as he went to a closet in the rear of the house and pushed aside a row of overcoats that hung inside.

  “Camouflage,” Britton said triumphantly, and winked at me. I shook my head. Behind the hanging clothes was a concealed, steep, homemade staircase.

  “You have to be kidding me,” I said.

  “Up here,” Britton said, his speech a little slurred. “There’s little time.”

  I followed the writer up the stairs and we came to a narrow door which he opened. It led out onto a balcony at the rear of the big house. There was a knotted rope tied to the thick cast iron railing. Britton set his huge drink down, picked up the ladder and cast it over the side.