by Lankford, Terrill Lee; Raphael, Lev; Parker, T. Jefferson
My attention was drawn to the bar. Mark Pecchia stood there talking to the most voluptuous woman in the room, possibly any room. Long blond hair, full round breasts, more curves than Mulholland Drive. She wore a simple shirtdress, no jewelry, just a belt cinching it all tight, torturing the male population. She made the other women in the room look like men and made the men in the room feel like little boys.
I got to my feet and walked through the crowd toward the bar. Pecchia saw me coming and grinned like a reptile baking on a rock. He had something great for show and tell.
"Nick, buddy, where you been hiding?" he asked. "I was lookin' for you."
"Here I am."
The girl and I got into an eye lock. There were immediate sparks.
"Nick, have you met Candice?" Pecchia asked.
"No," I muttered.
Candice extended her hand. I took it and held it, not really shaking it, just holding it, feeling her presence from my head to my toes. I felt like I was already inside of her and I could tell by her expression that she was reading my mind.
"Nick Gardner, Candice Bishop, Candy this is Nick." Pecchia was talking, but I was no longer paying attention to him. I was totally focused on the woman.
"Pleased to meet you, Nick. Mark was just telling me about your work. It sounds very exciting. . . . " Her voice was soft and fragile, like crystal on the verge of breaking.
Pecchia took my empty glass from me. "You're dry, babe," he said. "We can't have any of that around here. What was it again?"
"Jack Daniel's straight up," I said robotically, still mesmerized by Candice Bishop.
Pecchia turned to the bartender, receiving immediate service.
"Jack straight."
The bartender nodded, took the glass, and began pouring.
_____
"You got to understand, this guy Nick was a real hero of mine. He did shit with his photography that would have given Nagel a hard-on. I 'borrowed' from him—sometimes without even knowing it. He did some chromes of black chicks for a Nike ad, for chrissakes, and I jacked off to 'em. Can you believe that? Jacking off on a Nike ad?"
—Mark Pecchia
_____
Pecchia turned to me and said, "Candice has done some modeling, Nick. Think you could use her sometime?"
"Definitely."
"I haven't done fashion in years and when I did it was in Europe," Candice said. "I've been told I don't have the right look for print in the States. They say I'm too big."
I knew what she meant. She was no string bean. She was like a healthy Swedish girl, big boned and voluptuous. A Playboy layout maybe, a harder sell to the anorectic set looking to buy jeans.
"You need the right project," I said.
The bartender slid my drink in front of me. It was tall, wide, and deep. Pecchia looked off into the crowd and saw someone with whom he wanted to connect. He seemed to have no proprietary attitude toward Candice.
"You two get acquainted," he said. "I've got to say hello to some people." Pecchia moved off. Candice and I sipped our drinks and looked each other over.
"What are you thinking?" Candice asked.
"I was just wondering how long I could be under your shirt before I was dragged away and beaten by the mob."
"If you're careful, maybe no one would notice."
Our eyes locked again. I felt electrical fire between us. There was going to be trouble. I wanted to take her right then and there. Just bend her over the bar and start slamming.
"Are you here with anyone?" I asked.
"A friend. And you?"
"A friend."
"Would your friend be able to get home if we left without her?"
"She'd probably end up going home with your friend," I said.
"Do you have any coke?"
"No." I didn't like drugs. Didn't do them and never carried them, even knowing that they were quite often the currency with which attractive young women preferred to trade.
"Can you get some?" she asked. "Can you get us some coke?"
I looked at Candice for a moment and calculated the risks involved with this encounter and weighed them against the possible returns. She was dangerous. More trouble than it could possibly be worth. Then again, it looked like it could be worth quite a bit. What the hell. I searched the crowd, looking for Mark Pecchia. If someone around here was going to hook me up, it would be him. I spotted him leaving the room.
"Confidence is high," I said to Candice.
I walked through the living room and down a crowded hallway in pursuit of Mark Pecchia. The hall was a gauntlet of men and women of all varieties and combinations smoking, drinking, talking, making out. I stopped in front of a closed bathroom door and leaned against the opposite wall. I could hear Pecchia talking in the bathroom. Peals of female laughter punctuated his commentary. I lit up a cigarette and waited.
I slowly became aware of moaning coming from the bedroom behind me. I looked at the door. It was open a crack. I eased the door open a little more. The lights were on in the bedroom. A long-haired musician type in a werewolf outfit was giving it to a young girl on top of a coat-covered bed. If the girl was eighteen, it wasn't by much. She had been dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, but most of her costume had been torn away by the big bad werewolf in his attempt to consume her. I guess she was getting what she asked for.
I stared in at the activity. It was nothing I hadn't done or seen before, sans the costumes of course. I was transfixed, nevertheless.
The bathroom door suddenly opened. Mark Pecchia stepped out, dusting his mustache and beard. I could see two young girls in the bathroom, still going at some coke remnants on a mirror beside the sink. They were dressed like Raggedy Ann and Andy.
"Nick, what's up, buddy?" Pecchia asked through his reptilian smile. "Want to do a little?" He pointed his thumb in at the bathroom.
"Actually, I was wondering if I could score some from you?"
"Taking Candice home, huh?"
"Thinking about it."
"That's cool. Give Candy a little blow and you can have a good time."
I felt a bit put off by the statement.
"Is she okay?"
"You mean is she clean?"
I just looked at him.
"As clean as anyone else you're going to meet and twice as fine."
"Yeah." I had to resign myself to the fact that risk increases exponentially with beauty.
Mark Pecchia smiled. "Let's go into my parlor," he said as he reached for the door behind me. I tried to stop him from entering the bedroom and interrupting the couple on the bed, but it was too late, he was by me in a flash. I cautiously followed when I heard no screams. The action on the bed never missed a beat. Pecchia didn't find anything odd about what was happening on the pile of coats and the fuck buddies didn't seem to mind the intrusion either.
"Mind if we play through, dude?" Pecchia asked the werewolf, who was still vigorously pumping away at Little Red Riding Hood.
The guy on the bed leaned up and craned his neck at us.
"No problem," he said. The guy was neither out of breath nor embarrassed. It was like they were just doing their homework together.
Pecchia went around the bed and entered a walk-in closet. I stood in the doorway, trying not to stare at Red and her werewolf. The girl looked up at me. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. She was high as the proverbial kite.
"More?" she asked me innocently.
The werewolf looked up at me.
"How 'bout it, man?" he asked generously. He was absolutely the friendliest werewolf I had ever met.
I just glared at him, trying to figure it all out. There was no answer. This guy must've thought he was back in the sixties. Share and share alike. Mighty nice of him, but I took a pass with a shake of my head.
Pecchia exited the closet with a small bag of coke.
"And they say this town doesn't do drugs anymore," he said. "Hypocrites. An eight ball okay?"
"I don't need that much."
"If you're par
tying with Candice you do. I wish I had some rock, but I'm all out. You'll have to cook it up yourself, if that's what you want."
"Whatever," I said. I wasn't sure what he meant, but I didn't want to go into it. The whole exchange was making me increasingly uncomfortable. I barely knew this guy and I was scoring coke from him. He could be a fed for all I knew. This whole party could be one big sting operation. If it was, Uncle Sam would be receiving an A for accuracy on their report card. Candice's influence had me wired. I was entering territory I usually steered away from, but I felt clearheaded and secure in my decision, as if the calculated risks were well worth the eventual results.
We started to walk out of the bedroom. "You don't have a coat in there, do you, Nick?" Pecchia asked, indicating the fuck pile with a laugh.
I shook my head negatively. We went into the hallway to do business. Pecchia handed me the coke.
"What do I owe you?" I asked.
"On the house, Nick. I owe you, man."
"C'mon. . . ."
"No, really, take it, enjoy."
I took the coke. What was I going to do? Argue? The guy was trying to buy in, obviously, but buy in to what? I could do nothing to help him. He could rip off all my ads he wanted for the rest of our lives and I wouldn't give a damn. Maybe he just felt generous. Or maybe he didn't want to be seen taking money for drugs. It's one thing to pass the shit out like it's Halloween candy, quite another to be making a living as a dealer. Still, if he wanted privacy we could have found someplace. He didn't seem to mind anyone seeing the exchange or hearing our conversation. It was just a simple gift between two friends. Here, bud, have some coke and then take my beautiful guest to your crib and fuck the hell out of her. Mark Pecchia was simply being a good host.
I entered the big room and looked around. Jennifer was making her way through the crowd in the darkened living room, obviously looking for me. A hand suddenly reached up out of nowhere, grabbed Jennifer by the arm, and pulled her down onto a couch before she could see me. Jennifer landed on top of a guy with long golden hair who must have come to the Halloween party as Fabio.
"Sammy!" she squealed.
Jennifer giggled and gave "Sammy" a great big, wet kiss. She stopped and looked at him. There was some history there. They kissed again, this time more seriously. I watched it all from the mouth of the hallway. She never knew I was there. I felt a little pang of jealousy, normal for most people, but not for me. I countered it with a sense of relief and vindication. I could go on with my plans with zero guilt. So much for the white picket fence. This was reality.
Candice sat at the bar talking to a very pretty young woman with red hair and perky tits. I could hear some of their conversation as I approached.
"If Angelo shows up, just tell him you haven't seen me. Okay?" Candice said to the redhead.
The girl waved her hand in the air in mild disgust. "Hey, it's your life," she said. She had a Texas twang that would have to go if she wanted to be anything in show biz other than a countrywestern singer.
I sidled up beside Candice.
"Ready?" I asked. I didn't want to get into a pissing match with the Texan and I sensed it could happen if I didn't move quickly.
Candice licked alcohol from her forefinger. "Sure. Uh, Nick . . . I want you to meet my very best friend in the whole world—Patti Weigel."
I extended my hand to Patti.
"Pleased to meet you," I said. "Nick Gardner."
Patti looked at me coldly, ignoring my hand.
"Yeah. . . . Hi." She had an instant dislike for me. She knew what I was going to be doing to her friend within the hour and she wasn't happy about it. The jealousy factor was immediate and intense. This was probably not the first time this scene had been played out by these two.
Candice looked at her friend and tried to make her feel better. "Call you later, okay?"
"Whatever," Patti said, and then looked down at her drink. I couldn't tell if they were lesbians or just good friends. Not that I really cared. I would take them both on if that's what it took to get inside Candice.
Candice stood up and gave Patti a guilty kiss on the cheek.
"I love you," Candice said to her warmly.
Patti eyed me suspiciously. "Be careful," she said to Candice, not caring how I felt about it.
"Of course. Don't worry."
Candice took my arm and led me through the crowd toward the door.
"What's her problem?" I asked.
"Patti? She's just very protective of me. We're like sisters."
I looked around and saw Jennifer making out with Sammy on the couch in a far corner of the room. Zero guilt.
Candice and I stopped at the doorway.
"I've gotta get my coat," Candice said.
I thought of the two minks fucking on the coats in the back room. "Leave it," I said.
"I'll just be a minute," Candice said, then she disappeared down the hallway.
I stared out into the party. Mark Pecchia was easing his way through the crowd, patting people on the back, kissing the ladies, taking an occasional toke from a joint. The host was having a hell of a time. Pecchia stopped among a group of very severe looking Hispanic men. He seemed especially intimate with these characters, as if they had serious business together. Probably the drug connection, I figured. Among the Hispanics there stood one other Caucasian. The guy had short blond hair. He was clean cut, attractive, in his late thirties. It was subtle, but I could tell he really didn't seem happy with the company he was keeping. There was something very familiar about this guy. I knew him from somewhere, but it had to be the distant past because I couldn't quite put my finger on who he was. And then it hit me. David Rink. More than a decade older, clean shaven, but that's who it was. My old buddy, David Rink. What the fuck was he doing here at this party? What the fuck was he doing in L.A.? I figured he was long gone, but here he was, turning up like Marley's ghost.
Candice returned, carrying her fur coat and a large leather satchel.
"Nick?"
I snapped out of my daze. "Yeah?"
"Something wrong?"
"No," I said. "Let's go."
Candice and I turned and exited the house. As we went she said, "I think someone spilled something on my coat."
PART III
"So much for safe sex."
—Nick Gardner
1
Candice and I sped along PCH in the Lamborghini. A three-quarter moon illuminated the ocean to our left. The top was still off the car, but the night was so warm that it was quite comfortable.
"You live in the Boo?" Candice asked, "the Boo" being bimbo slang for Malibu.
I nodded.
"I love the Boo," she said. "I've always wanted to live there."
"It's nice," I said. "Sometimes."
The smell of thick smoke was in the air. The Santa Ana winds were blowing soot all the way from the fires in Thousand Oaks.
"This is so romantic," Candice said. "We'll fuck while Rome burns."
I looked at her and nodded again. She laughed hysterically.
"Lighten up, honey," she said. "We're here to have a good time." With that she leaned over and unzipped my pants. Before I could protest, she had my cock in her mouth. It was immediately up and angry. She had to use all the tricks of a contortionist to get over the seat divider and gear shift but it didn't seem to impede her skill as a fellationist. She was impeccable. I had to concentrate to keep the car on the road as she licked and sucked away. I didn't want a repeat of what had happened on Sunset Boulevard with Jennifer.
I reached down into Candice's top with my free hand and fondled one of her firm, round breasts. They were real. No silicone or saline here. I didn't want to come at this time, but she wasn't going to allow any such resistance. She hit some rhythms that I'd never quite felt before and suddenly I was spurting into her mouth. Unlike Jennifer who splattered my car and my clothes earlier in the day, Candice swallowed every drop thus protecting the finish of the upholstery and reducing my dry cleaning bill. I
was greatly indebted to her and planned on finding a way to repay her as soon as possible.
Candice sat up and pretended to gargle before swallowing with a laugh. She was getting a big kick out of her sexual abandon.
I hit the remote for my garage door and Candice gave a silent nod of approval as she saw our destination. She obviously had a penchant for beach property.
Candice and I entered my darkened house. I turned on a small lamp in the living room. Then my stereo. An old tune by the Eagles filled the room. Candice went to the couch and sat down. She placed her leather satchel on the deco coffee table in front of her and started sifting through it, bringing out various items of freebasing paraphernalia and lining them up on the table in front of her. She had it all. A pipe, a mini- blowtorch, razor blades, ether, ammonia, vials, "the works" as they say. I felt a little pang of nausea at the sight of it all. This girl was turning out to be a classic coke whore.
"Looks like you've got a whole drugstore in there," I said.
"Everything but," Candice replied, staring at me hungrily. I stared back at her for a moment until I realized what she meant. She didn't want me. She wanted the coke. Now!
"Uh, oh, yeah . . . right, here," I stammered. I pulled the bag of coke out from under my jacket and handed it to her. She immediately dumped the contents out on the table and started separating the white powder into tidy lines of equal proportion.
I nervously pulled out a cigarette and walked over to a sitting table. I grabbed a book of matches and discovered they were all used up.
"Got a light?" I asked.
Candice fired up her mini-blowtorch. It created an intense flame that I did not want to get close to.
"How about matches?" I asked.
Candice frowned, killed the torch, and handed me a bright red butane lighter. There was lettering on the outside of the lighter that read "The Eight Ball." Underneath the lettering there was a fancy design of an eight ball with a nude girl wrapped around it. I almost asked Candice where the lighter had come from, then I decided I didn't want to know. I was quickly realizing that the less I knew about this woman's life, the better I was going to feel. If she had not been so drop-dead gorgeous I would have called for a taxi and sent her on her way. But she was too hot and I was too horny and stupid to follow my better instincts.