“I am a fan,” she murmured. “Your biggest fan. You will never know one as ardent as I.” He flinched. “Does it scare you?”
Harris recalled police cases — fans latching onto the objects of their devotion and never letting go until they hacked their obsession to bits.
“It scares me a little.”
“You should be scared,” she said, as she had in the alley. “I get what I want. Do you know what I want?”
“Egg Foo Young?” He chuckled nervously, and dived for the menu. “We ought to look this thing over before Miss Bo Peep tackles us.”
“Such talk endears you to me. I have always enjoyed it when you talk like that.”
Odd comment? Harris blushed, and then tried to escape her eyes, but the ring caught him. He gawped, the jade mesmerizing him.
“That ring dances,” he muttered.
“So it does. My prized possession — a captivator, like you.”
“I’m at a disadvantage,” he stammered.
“No ring of your own?”
“No. You know who I am and evidently did your homework; the fan sites on the Internet, I guess. There’s a trove of info about me. I hear they have my jock size listed.”
“But you do not wear a jock.”
He tensed, trying to decide which was stronger — the hormonal dance or the urge to run. The hotel was only two blocks away. Its proximity could serve either purpose.
“You know everything about me, but I don’t even know your name.”
The lady lowered her eyes — an overall diminution of her luster.
“I assumed you knew,” she said.
“How would I know your name?”
“I should be insulted.”
Harris grasped her hands across the table, gazing into her eyes.
“Why should you be insulted? How could I know it? If you sent me fan mail, understand that I get so much I read only one in a thousand. And I answer one in five thousand. It might sound cruel, but that’s reality.”
“No,” she said. “No fan mail.”
He released her hands.
Perhaps a Post-it or a shower stall scribble?
He winced.
“I’m at a complete loss.”
“Perhaps my expectations are high,” she said, looking away. “We should order. Miss East Asia comes again.”
Bo Peep returned. Pencil tap. Suggestions? Surprise us (as if we’re not already surprised). Ah! Two orders of Happy Pings’ Mu Shu Pork Wraps with a side of Potato Latkes. Wunderbar!
2
“Charminus,” she exclaimed, offhandedly.
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Charminus Montjoy.”
She announced this with aristocratic punch, contradicting her Goth-girl appearance. Harris decided she was a fellow actor — perhaps a distressed one, out of work and seeking a part in a future film. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been tapped.
“Charminus Montjoy?” he mimicked, condescendingly matching her tone. “Sounds stagy. Are you in the business?”
“What business?”
“Acting. I mean, you know me through my films. You’re a fan. But with a sweet name like Charminus Montjoy, I could see it on the boards. Is that why you expected me to know you?”
She watched him spread his fingers, spotlighting an imaginary marquee.
“Enough, Mr. Cartwright,” she snapped, the aristocrat retreating. “Is Harris your real name?”
“You know better, knowing as you do. It’s Humphrey, as in Humphrey Bogart . . .”
“Or Master Humphrey’s Clock — tick tock.” She grinned. “I like Harris better, for now. We shall see.”
“I suspect you’ll call me something else later.”
“I do not know. Is there a later, Mr. Kopfstutter?”
“Now that’s a name that had to go,” he said, rolling his eyes. “My mother saw to that at once. Cartwright’s her maiden name.”
“And Harris?”
“That she snatched from thin air, I suppose.”
“You could have been Harrison or Harry or Horse’s Ass.”
“Some people think I’m a horse’s ass.”
“But not enough horse to need a jockstrap.”
He laughed so loud, neighboring diner’s attentions were drawn to the window table. Even Bo Peep peeped.
“You have a sense of humor,” she said, flashing the ring. “You are as precious as my captivator. Where I come from you would be the village clown.”
“And from where do you hail?”
Charminus Montjoy fell silent. The ring flickered as if attempting to shake the subject.
“Really, Miss Montjoy,” Harris said, pressing. “Where do they name their children so regally?”
“Brooklyn,” she announced.
“Brooklyn?” he howled.
She was not amused. She pushed the ring into his face. Harris gawped at the jade. He suddenly thought he saw a different face — the face of an older woman — an aged version of the lady in black denim — a fleeting image, but it sobered him. He glanced out the window where he saw Bo Peep’s linebacker reflection approaching with the meal.
The Mu Shu and the Latkes came with a pu-pu platter — assorted fried crunchies — tasty and on the house for the rook-a-rike and his date. Accompanying the trays, pink cocktails fizzed, a concoction decorated with diminutive paper umbrellas, spiking maraschino cherries. Harris raised his glass.
“To Charminus Montjoy,” he said as happily as Ping.
The lady winked, raised her glass and sucked the cherry from its spike. Her tongue beckoned. Harris knew. He didn’t care whether she stalked him, was a nutty actress trying to break into the business or the lost Czarina of Russia. He had to have her, and soon. He couldn’t devour the pu-pu platter fast enough. His chest heaved and he reached for her hand. She might be a one-night stand or she might lock him in his room like the lady who kidnapped the novelist in the popular tale. He didn’t care. The mind ruled not, and neither did the heart. When he touched the ring, a hot wave flooded his soul. He felt faint.
“Charminus,” he whispered.
“CMJ,” said she.
He didn’t heed.
“Charminus. My hotel’s a hop, skip and a jump from here.”
“I know.”
“I would very much like it if . . .”
“I do not hop nor do I skip, and jumping is far beneath me. However, a brisk walk to your bed sheets might prove better than dessert.”
He grinned.
“Dessert?” croaked Bo Peep.
“Not now and not here,” Harris snapped at the server. “Just give me the check.”
He left a good tip.
Chapter Four
An Invitation
1
Harris snuggled on the bed’s edge, his face mashed into the pillow, his ass tangled in green satin. His eyes flashed opened, but his head didn’t move. Sunshine reflected the wall’s gold like a firebrand, causing him to wince. Painfully, he turned over, his legs stiff and his back in a vise.
“Holy crap,” he muttered, and then looked to the opposite pillow remembering someone had been in bed with him — at least when he dropped off to sleep. She wasn’t now — not surprising, but disappointing.
“Holy, holy crap,” he chanted, rubbing his eyes, and then grinning with recall.
Between the pain and the rude sunlight, thoughts of her enmeshed him — a vision of the lady without her black denim. Charminus rocked him like the sea rolling onto jetties. She took him to the rodeo. He tried to sit up. Difficult. He looked for her. Perhaps she lingered.
“Holy crap,” he said again, this time like a choirboy avoiding the bishop.
The room was trashed. The mirror kiltered off the wall. The pictures were at fun house angles. The desk chair was upended, and his clothes were scattered from the couch to the windowsill to the minibar. His green shirt hung on the otherwise shadeless lamp.
“Holy crap,” he said, jumping to his feet — aching feet, bucking
him to the wardrobe.
Harris groped for his pants. Finding them under the nightstand, he fished through his back pocket expecting his wallet to be missing. Not much in it, but it might highlight his bed partner’s reason to flee. However, his wallet was there and intact — seventeen dollars, credit cards and a California license and registration. He drew a deep breath through his nose, and then sat in the debris, grinning again.
Satisfied resignation.
“Charminus Montjoy,” he murmured, recalling the experience, but not entirely.
Odd. He remembered the thrust, burying his face in her chest. He recalled her bosom swelling, and her clamped legs around him. Then he rode her and she rode him and his heart stopped. Literally, it had stopped, or at least he turned numb with paralysis.
“I was dead,” he said, suddenly demure.
The world ceased in those dark hours. No breath — a sudden gasping for life. Like, rebirth. Yet there it was a cold act — a ferrous pain, striving to extinguish him, body and soul. He closed his eyes now and tried to recall coming back from the brink. He couldn’t. Nor could he recall his climax. This saddened him.
Much effort for a forgotten moment.
“But where’d she go?” he stammered. “How can I find her again?”
Suddenly, Tony loomed over him.
“What the ‘ell ‘appened in ‘ere, mate, like I don’t ‘ave eyes to see for meself?”
“How did you get in?” Harris snorted, trying his best to get up.
“Door’s ajar. Bleedin’ open to the world. Do you need to go to ‘ospital?”
“Give me a hand, will ya. I’m just sore.”
Tony bent and helped him. Harris staggered to the bed, breathless and a tad depressed.
“So, was she worth it?” Tony asked. “I assume you shagged ‘er before you turned the room on its ‘ead.”
“It was like nothing else I’ve ever felt.”
“Does that mean you liked it, or are you ‘aving second thoughts?”
“I scarcely remember it. I bet I’m in deep shit with McCann and company.”
“Not really, mate.” Tony sat on the bed, bouncing. “I told ‘im you took queer — some oysters at luncheon. Everyone knows that feelin’. Told ‘im you’ve been bloody glued in the loo for the last six ‘ours and’s best to give you a wide berth.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Well, with you out of sight, the rest of us ‘ad a better shot at the limelight. Ol’ King McCann seemed pleased to step into the numero uno spot at the Q&A. But if I’d known you’d be doin’ the dirty with craven zeal, I’d ‘ave told a different tale, I would ‘ave. Would ‘ave said you were ‘omesick for Mum and went back to the ‘otel to pine.”
Harris grinned, but then winced. Tender neck.
“Are you sure you don’t need el medico?”
“I’ll be okay.” He raised his arms, showing a bruise on his elbow. “I wish I knew where this came from.”
“Black and blue all over? That’s a slam-dunk contusion ripe and proper. Are you sure you weren’t dwarf wrestlin’ last night?”
Harris reached for his briefs, but couldn’t quite make it. Tony scooped them up, twirling them.
“I don’t make a point of explorin’ wide fronts after the fact, but I think you need a dresser.”
Harris grabbed the briefs.
“I can manage.”
“Can you manage breakfast?”
“I thought I’d have something sent up, but I’m not hungry.”
“Spoken like a true sex ‘ound. I think you need to find your kit in this shite and forget the baps and join me in some bangers.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Well, I’m not a child-minder.”
“If you put it that way . . .”
Tony grinned, and then hopped to the minibar.
“Did you leave any squirt in the reefer?”
“You’re welcome to whatever’s there.”
Tony opened the minibar’s door and laughed.
“The mice ‘ave been and gone again.”
He popped out a Post-it, waving it. Harris leaped for it, despite the pain. He read it before Tony had a chance to grab it back.
“It’s from ‘er, I bet. A nice shag, but I’m all buggered out note.”
“Nothing like that,” Harris mumbled.
It was an address:
13-13 McDonald Avenue – Mortis House — Brooklyn
Take the F Train to Bay Parkway.
Harris’ heart burst. She had left a trail — an invitation — take the F Train. He didn’t know Brooklyn well, but he knew where to hop a subway. He meant to do it.
“So, what’s she say?”
Harris folded the note, and then winked.
“Private.”
“Ah, she loved your wankie so much, she’s promised to wreck another ‘otel room.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, need I remind you we ‘ave an engagement uptown at MTV at two on the ‘our. Your chum with oysters won’t cut rum into King McCann’s fairy cake this time.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ll be there.”
But he knew he wouldn’t be going.
“Well, put your Jimmy-’at away and come down and nosh.”
Harris limped to the floor piles and harvested his wardrobe.
“Don’t wait on me,” he said. “I’ll be down in a few. Just order me something light.”
“‘ow’s about Wavos Rancheros with a side of biscuits and tea?”
“Coffee, and the rest sounds perfect.”
Tony hesitated as if seeing through the ruse, but what could he do? He had lied for Master Cartwright and would do so again.
“Right ‘o,” he said. “Don’t rodger me.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
Tony shuffled out, closing the door gingerly. Harris ceased dressing. He went cautiously to the door, assuring Tony was gone. One quick open did the trick. Then, he put his pain aside, reread the note and quickly assembled his jeans and shitekickers. He would get the jump on Tony, slip past the restaurant’s door, the concierge and the doorman. He needed to move fast and had no time for his disguise. Swift and focused, overcoming bruises stiffness. He was heading to Brooklyn.
Taking the F Train, he thought, chuckling. The fucking F train . . . again.
2
Harris had been in Brooklyn once on a location shoot for Bad Boys in the City — a scene on the Red Hook docks. He little recalled the place. Now, as the subway emerged from a tunnel, scaling a high bridge over those same Red Hook docks, he saw them for the first time. He couldn’t imagine living in such squalor. He pressed his face to the window, his breath fogging the pane. He kept his profile low, fearing recognition. In these Internet days several stalker networks would happily post a celebrity sighting and map it for the universe to follow.
Twice he thought he might have been recognized. A Chinese woman leaned forward and stared at him as if registering his face to the top twenty Most Wanted photos. She squinted in constipated recall, but then, at Canal Street, she picked up her truck and detrained. Harris held his breath until the train pulled away, leaving her bemused on the platform. He imagined when she reached home, she’d smack her head and shout: that was Hallis Cartlight.
Now recognition loomed again as he disengaged from the window. A teenage girl sat opposite him, smacking on a wad of Juicy Fruit. Suddenly, her jaw slacked and she stared at him like Svengali striking Trilby. Harris squirmed, averting his eyes. He knew that stare — a prelude to hysteria. He whistled.
“Do I know you?” she asked, her mouth recommencing to chew.
He shrugged. Did anyone ever know anybody? He expected a pounce — a seized opportunity and an enlightened announcement to the other passengers, who otherwise read or slept. Harris thought to avert her by confessing and begging her silence under the circumstances. What circumstances? However, the teen cocked her head, wavering. To encourage her doubts, Harris took a cue from the o
ther passengers, closed his eyes, and feigned sleep.
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 4