Medusa was smiling.
RUSTY Harper bolted up in his bed, gasping for breath. Next to him, Hope Brady slept peacefully, a half smile on her lips.
I absolutely light up for her, he thought as he relaxed and his breathing grew easier. His next thought was an immediate negation of the first. He didn’t love Hope; love was pure crap, and he had no time for it. He did like her a lot, though.
Regretting that he wasn’t up to the kind of go-round she would expect, he didn’t wake her. Tonight would be better. Food and a few drinks and he’d be in just the mood to take care of her.
She stirred.
He left the bed, feeling guilty about deserting her.
His mind pushed on to other things. Like how good coffee and a cigarette would taste. And what the new job held in store. The realization that Hope was important to him lay in the background. It didn’t advance, but it didn’t retreat. It simply stayed there, waiting for him to get back to it.
Rusty blew his nose. His sinuses were killing him. He filled the bathroom sink with cold water and lowered his face into the basin.
When he raised his head, drops of blood bounced on the water, dying it a pale pink. Rusty peered in the mirror. His nose was bleeding. Christ, that hadn’t happened since he was canned at the brokerage house and quit doing coke. “Damn.” He grabbed several tissues.
At last the bleeding stopped. He washed his face again and brushed his teeth. When he spat, the toothpaste foam was also pink. Now his gums were bleeding. “Rusty my boy, you are falling apart.”
He shaved while under the shower and pondered the brief time they’d been together. Less than two weeks. She was now such an integral part of his life that he felt he’d known her for a long time.
Yeah. Things were looking up. “Admit it, Rusty, you never had it so good.” Donna had done him a big favor locking him out. Now he had a new girl, a new place to stay, and a new job. Who could ask for more?
After he got the coffee started, he poured two orange juices, drank one in a gulp, and carried the other in to Hope. The clock radio went on as he entered the room. Hope turned it off and opened her eyes. She was smiling. “Let’s make love.”
Rusty handed her the juice. “Great idea, but won’t we be late?”
“Not if we make it a quickie.” She pulled him down on top of her. “Come on.”
This woman excited him more than anyone he’d ever known. She engulfed him. Within seconds he was ready.
No.
She wouldn’t be satisfied. And he couldn’t disappoint her. It had to be good for her. But he couldn’t hold off any longer.
Medusa’s fearful head appeared in his mind. Horrible as the vision was, he welcomed the distraction and concentrated on it.
Hope bit him on the shoulder. The charm she wore dug into his chest. She clawed at him, grunting again and again, each grunt going higher in tone. When she reached the top of her lust song, she whined the final note and pulled him closer. He was done, dispelling Medusa, fear, everything.
THIS strange escapade they were all on had started on that particular Friday only two weeks before, when Hope found a new apartment.
“PANDORA’S Jar. This is Pandora,” the husky Greek-accented voice said. Pandora was really Asterodeia Alexander, the proprietor of the herb and spice shop on Eleventh Street, where Greenwich Avenue and Seventh Avenue converged. She was also Hope’s new landlady.
The Greek woman owned a building across the street from the shop. She lived in the building and rented out apartments. Hope was in the process of moving into one of those apartments, a find if there ever was one.
Rent for her new place was so low Hope couldn’t believe her luck. She wouldn’t even have to scour the earth for a roommate. The apartment would be all hers, her very own. Well, it was about time. Her luck hadn’t been good since the day she was born.
Asterodeia spoke again. “Pandora here.”
“This is Hope Brady.”
“Yes.”
“Your new tenant. Third floor, front.”
“I know who you are, Hope.”
“Thanks, Pandora.” As she always did when she was flustered, Hope touched the scarlet birthmark that encircled her left eye.
No matter how much makeup she used, she couldn’t hide the port-wine stain.
She was also a pimply faced, fat girl with stringy brown hair, who worked in the mail room of U.B.S., a small cable company.
“My name is Asterodeia,” the woman said, pronouncing all the syllables. Slow and distinct. “Pandora is just for the shop. All my friends call me Aster; anyone who lives in my house is my friend.”
“Thanks, Aster.”
“You are welcome, Hope.”
There was a silence.
“Yes, Hope?”
“Oh,” the girl blurted. “I forgot. No, I didn’t. Did the telephone man come today?”
“Yes, he did. And the locksmith, to change the locks. If you stop by the store or my apartment, I will give you the keys.”
“I didn’t call a locksmith.”
“I did. I do that for every new tenant. Something extra. No charge. It is a shame to say, but nowadays, in the city of New York, one cannot be too careful.”
“Thank you, Aster.” Hope closed her eyes in embarrassment. Why was she constantly thanking the woman? She sounded like a half-wit. Grow up, she told herself. “I really appreciate it.”
“That’s quite all right. When are you moving in?”
“Tonight. I brought my suitcases to work this morning, so I only have a few more things at my old place, and I can put them in a couple of shopping bags.”
“Very well, then. Until tonight, good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” Hope cradled the phone.
“Who was that?”
Startled, Hope looked up. Her heart was pounding. She raised her hand to her birthmark. Mr. Kesselring was leaning over her, his face close to hers. So close she could see his contact lenses floating in his eyes. Plastic boats in dirty water.
“Who was that, Brady?” he asked in a quiet voice filled with menace. “Were you stealing phone calls again?”
“No,” was all she could manage as she looked about the room, wishing desperately for an interruption.
“Who was it, then?” he demanded, triumphant.
“Mr. Porge in Personnel,” she answered just as triumphantly. “He was wondering if a certain letter arrived.”
“Well, did it?” Kesselring squinted.
“Yes, it did.” She reached into the Personnel Department’s basket. After a few anxious moments, she found the envelope and thrust it at her boss. “Here.”
Kesselring was disappointed. He’d thought he had her. “Don’t just sit there, take it to him. If it was important enough for him to call, it shouldn’t wait until the next delivery.”
She was halfway out the door when Kesselring said, “Wait a minute, he didn’t call. I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“That’s right, he didn’t. Yesterday. He asked me yesterday to be on the lookout for it. I called him.” Running to the front of the mail room she yelled, “I’ll be right back,” and dove through the closing doors of the elevator, exhilarated.
George Porge, Kesselring, Hope Brady, and quite a few other people worked for the Universal Broadcasting System. It was a vainglorious title.
Despite the money and the location, just uptown of Rockefeller Center, and an entire midtown office building, albeit only a fifteen-story one, U.B.S. was just another cable company.
But it owned the finest modern communications equipment and was home to the wheelingest and dealingest management ever to come down the pike.
GEORGE Porge and Personnel were on the tenth floor. Hope rode up to twelve to visit her friend Jessica Selby, who worked the reception desk in the combined Talent and Billing Department. Jessica had shiny ultra-black hair that just covered her ears. It was dead straight and cut Dutch-boy style with a precise part. Hope shook her head in despair. If only she had hair like that.
“Hi, Jess,” she said, inspecting the faces of the people waiting to go in on appointments. “Any stars today?”
Jess’s practiced smile never left her face. “Christ, Hope, do you have to be such a dweeb all the time? In this place there are no stars. Only a lot of people who wish they were.”
A tall man wearing a charcoal jacket and a camel turtleneck that matched his hair strode by the reception desk and toward the inner offices. Jess sat straighter in her chair. “Good morning, Mr. Lancaster.”
“Morning, sweets. Are they in there?”
“Yes, sir. They’re waiting for you.”
“Good. Give ’em character. See you, sweets.”
Hope gazed after him. “That was Vic Lancaster. He’s a star. He called you sweets.”
“He calls everybody that. It’s an act. And he’s not a star; he’s a used-to-be. Worse, an almost-was.”
“He’s thirty-six, an Aquarius, and an avid sailor. I read that in People.”
“Give me a break. You better leave before you get me in trouble. Hey, you want to go to a Halloween party tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got all those boxes to unpack. What time?”
“Seven thirty.”
Hope scrunched up her face and chewed on her lower lip. “Okay. Why don’t you come see my new apartment?”
“Doesn’t make any sense. The party’s on the Upper West Side, not five blocks from me. Why should I go downtown and uptown again on that lousy subway when I can just walk to the party? I’ll see your digs another time. Come home with me, and we’ll go together.”
“I’ve still got some stuff in the old place I have to get.”
“All right, how about this? Do you have a lot to move?”
“No, it shouldn’t take me long.”
“Good.” The phone on the reception desk rang. Jess answered it and told two women waiting that they could go in. “Mr. Wilson’s office is the third door on the right.” Her practiced smile shone brightly. When the women were gone, she said to Hope, “You do what you have to do, then come to my place.”
“What should I wear?”
Jess raised her right eyebrow, another practiced accomplishment. “The gold lame you wore to Madonna’s birthday. Whatever you want to wear. It’s not a costume party. Be comfortable. Don’t wear jeans; your butt is too big.”
“Oh, Jess.” Hope tugged at her jeans and her bulky yellow sweater and wished she could be more like her friend, who looked great even in her plain white shirt, black pants, and vest.
“Don’t oh-Jess me. Out of here before we both get fired. I’ll see you later.”
Hope delivered George Porge’s letter to the tenth floor.
“Hey, Kathy, guess who I saw on twelve? Vic Lancaster.”
“So?” George Porge’s pretty Chinese assistant sneered. “He was here twenty minutes ago. Screaming and yelling for all he was worth. I thought Georgie Porgie was going to go ballistic. Vic Lancaster just fired most of his staff, and here it is Friday, and he wants Georgie Porgie to set up a bunch of appointments by Monday. I don’t see why they put up with his crap around here. It’s just a lousy local cable show, and it sucks. Poor Georgie is tearing his hair out. And I don’t blame him. Where’s he going to find people to work for that maniac? I wouldn’t for anything.”
Hope envisioned the blond god she’d seen upstairs. The thought made her sweat. “I would,” she said, more to herself than to Kathy.
WHEN Hope reached her new apartment, she dropped her stuff and collapsed in a purple armchair that had been left by the previous tenant.
She fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of a black wolf and a three-headed silver dog.
In the midst of sleep Hope said, “What a strange dream,” as if it were a TV show and not a dream. She awoke with a big smile and a great feeling of contentment.
“Party time,” she yelled. But when she saw the daylight outside and stared at her watch, she realized that she had slept the night through.
Thoroughly panicked, she rushed out without changing her outfit or washing her face or using the john.
First she had to stop at Pandora’s Jar and thank Aster again. No. She didn’t have time. She would see Aster later when she came home.
Except Aster was out on the street in front of her store and calling to her. “Good morning, Hope. I’m so glad you dropped by. I have a present for you.”
“I can’t now ...” The Greek woman was strange but sweet. In spite of her leathery skin, thick lips, and jowls, it was obvious that Aster had once been a beauty. She also had the oddest eyes—one green, the other black—they seemed to reflect dark light.
“Come inside. It’s a charm against any evil spirits that may be following you.”
What were a few more minutes? Hope walked into Pandora’s Jar. Her forehead wrinkled when Aster said something she didn’t quite get.
“I’m so sorry,” the old woman apologized in her guttural voice. “Sometimes I forget and speak Greek.” She pursed her thick lips, nodding wisely. “I’ll just have to teach you, that’s all.”
Aster walked Hope to a cheval glass mirror on an oak stand. “Sit.” The old woman stood behind Hope and slipped the chain over the girl’s head. “This is the Goddess Hecate. Keep her with you day and night, and you will always be protected.”
Hope gazed into the mirror at the charm, which was a small carving of a face. The face was deep green and flecked with red spots like drops of blood. It was enchanting.
Aster smiled and tilted the mirror so Hope’s face was the main focus. “Have a good look.”
More mesmerizing than the carving was Hope’s reflection. Not only had most of her pimples cleared up, but her port-wine stain seemed to have faded.
She touched her face in awe, grinned at her mirror image, and told herself that her imagination was working overtime.
Her hair was so lustrous. She was prettier. And thinner.
Utterly confused, she turned to Aster, who said, “You look very nice, my dear.”
“I know.” Laughing, Hope ran outside, caught a passing cab to the U.B.S. building, danced like a madwoman as the express elevator took her up, up, up, and barged into Vic’s office.
She was changed. More than her appearance. Her transformation had been as abrupt as an incantation and a puff of smoke. There had been no puff of smoke. Just a black wolf and a three-headed silver dog.
Marching up to Vic’s desk, Hope suggested that he put on a show based on people’s sexual revelations.
“Pretty sure of yourself, are you?”
“You’re damn right.”
“Okay. You’re the producer. Produce it.”
Sexploits was born.
II
As she arrived home after work, she spotted him walking toward her. It was the day following the party she’d missed.
He was absolutely beautiful. She wanted him. Surprising herself so much she nearly swooned, Hope said, “Hi.”
He stopped. “Hi, yourself. My name’s Rusty. What’s yours?”
“Hope.”
“And what can I hope for, Hope?”
In an even more spectacular surprise that made her head spin, she said. “Why don’t you come upstairs and find out?”
Rusty was wonderful. And though she was not up to his usual standards, he felt the same way about her.
HOPE shanghaied Jess to be her assistant and hired Rusty as the office gofer. After the first day, during which he cracked her up with silly jokes, she decided he had served a long enough apprenticeship and promoted him to chief writer.
A year of madness followed. The Sexploits ratings went through the stratosphere.
Each day Hope’s port-wine stain faded to almost a memory. She lost weight, and her complexion turned peaches and cream.
Until one day she realized that she was prettier than Jess.
HOPE turned out to be a born producer, learning every aspect of the job quickly and efficiently. She never seemed to falter or grow weary, and she continued to find n
ew and interesting people with alluring stories about their sex lives that the audience never tired of hearing.
Next, Hope came up with the idea of Celebrity Sexploits. The celebrities were eager to appear and tell all, admitting to outrageous events. Some actionable. One was even questioned by the DA’s office after the show.
Of course, Hope happened to have a camera crew there to capture the arrest. Pop musicians were a glut on the market, and there was no shortage of exhibitionist actors or athletes.
Politicians clamored to be guests on the show after reports came in from pollsters that a Sexploits appearance would enhance their numbers and help them get elected.
Impatient with her talent coordinator, Hope took over the final interview of each guest before Vic met them. And, Rusty supposed, had sex with as many as she could. Male and female.
It wasn’t long before they were making the big move. Full network and live. The only talk show of its sort. The gimmick had worked: Sexploits—or as some people were sarcastically calling it—“Safe Sex”—was a great big monster of a hit.
Vic always claimed credit for the original idea. The man was a walking contradiction; he kept giving Hope more responsibility but at the same time continued to bad-mouth her, saying she was only there to implement his concepts, just another pushy bitch with no new ideas of her own.
The people at the top paid no attention to Vic’s dissing Hope. They were high on the show and high on her.
This strange phenom called Hope Brady grew more and more beautiful, and more and more powerful.
Things hadn’t been too bad for Rusty, either. He slept in Hope’s bed. And much of the time she was there with him. He was also getting his own action on the side. Sauce for the gander was sauce for the goose. It was a brave new world, and he was all for it.
The dreams were horrible. But his new life was wonderful.
Hell, when he first met Hope, his prospects were lower than a snake’s belly. Now he had a future with Sexploits, the greatest thing on TV since the tube itself. And he was getting sex that was better than his wildest fantasies.
Crimes by Moonlight Page 19