sex.lies.murder.fame.

by Lolita Files

  “Really? I’m so glad. I had decided this would be the last time I gave you one. Well, I mean, maybe, I don’t know. I wasn’t sure you liked them. But now that I know you do…” She clapped her skinny hands together. “This is great. Hasn’t today been a great day?”

  “Splendid,” he said. “Did you forget something?”

  “No. You did.”

  Ripkin walked to his desk, imagining the horror of African violets that would soon be his office. He leaned back in his chair, emotionally beaten.

  “I’m sorry, Beryl. I’m drawing a blank.”

  “You forgot to congratulate me,” she said.

  “Ah yes,” he said. “I thought I did.” He tugged his right ear. “Congratulations on your promotion, Beryl. You deserve it.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, silly. I meant my new apartment. I move in tomorrow.”

  “Right. The new apartment. Of course. Congratulations, Beryl. Well done, indeed.”

  “I feel like such a grown-up. I own an apartment in Manhattan now. Can you believe it? I really have come a long way, Dr. Ripkin. Thanks to you.”

  “Yes, well, you’ve worked hard for it, Beryl.” He was, admittedly, proud of her. It was a bit like watching one’s own child grow up. “Triumph of the good will always prevail.”

  Beryl laughed.

  “Okay. I’d better get out of here before you start getting deep. Later, Ripkin.”

  “Good night, Beryl.”

  He watched her leave, backing out again as she did before. Silly girl. This time he made sure he saw her get on the elevator, which she also backed into. He waited another pregnant second, then spun his chair toward the window and began to contemplate the ledge.

  Realism:

  A literary and philosophical movement emphasizing life as it truly is, without reliance upon idealized or romantic notions, often stressing social factors as key in the development of character.

  You have to make every moment count.

  It’s not easy to do, you know. I don’t think that a day goes by when I don’t turn my back on some small thing or some issue somewhere.

  —Blake Edwards and Milton Wexler, That’s Life

  Four in

  …the morning and Miles Tate was almost out the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  The voice was soft, unmistakable, filtering down at him from the shadows at the top of the stairs.

  “No,” he muttered.

  And now she was coming, down, down, down the steps in bare feet, bringing her displeasure close, where it could be most effective.

  Miles was a tall man, a dapper slab of meat that cast shadows even in the darkness. Splotches of moonlight covered him now as he put down his briefcase, the broad muscles across his back twitching beneath the Burberry coat. He made a quick signal outside, then closed the door on the heavy fog shrouding the Town Car waiting in the circular driveway.

  “So you were just going to leave without telling me.”

  She was on the landing now, about to step onto the cold marble that led into the foyer. Such a treasure, he thought, as he watched her swing her sensuousness toward him. The tiny La Perla nightie was splendid advertisement for his wife’s long lean body and perfect legs, her bosom heaving with every step.

  She stepped into the dappled light of the entrance hall, her illuminated face staring up at him.

  “You were, weren’t you?” she said. “Right?” A crinkle in the swatch of skin between her eyes.

  Miles cleared his throat, his standard battle prep.

  “Now look here, Shar—”

  “Don’t even, Miles. You were just gonna go without saying a word.”

  Miles Tate was successful because of his foresight and business acumen. He was a masterful negotiator. “Everyone can have everything” was his mantra. That mantra didn’t seem to be flying at home of late. Hence the need for a predawn exit. Rather, the attempt at one.

  “Why’d you have me come out to the country if you knew you were planning on leaving again?”

  “I didn’t know I was leaving,” he said. “Some unexpected business came up.”

  “Unexpected business is always coming up, Miles. Where to this time?”

  Ah, there it was. The loaded gun. There’d be gale forces in the wake of his response. Miles put his hands on his wife, admiring all of her at arm’s length. Then he pulled her close, nuzzling his face into her neck.

  “God, you’re so beautiful. Do you know how hard it is for me to leave you like this?”

  “Don’t try to play me, Miles. Just tell me where you’re going.”

  He heaved a deep breath. Might as well be done with it.

  “I’m off to Helsinki—”

  “Helsinki!” She shoved him away. He staggered back a step, but didn’t break his vocal stride.

  “Looks like the board of Golarssen and the Finnish government have approved our bid and the merger’s going to happen.”

  “You are such a liar.” Her eyes were black lines with a flicker of rage, feline in the splotchy light of the foyer. “This couldn’t have been an impromptu business trip. How in the hell can you just break out in the middle of the night, headed to the other side of the world, unless you expected this was coming?”

  “I didn’t expect it. Things have been so off and on…”

  Sharlyn’s body flushed hot as Miles kept talking.

  “…this wasn’t planned, which is why I want to get there, get this thing hammered out, and get back—”

  “Just stop it.”

  “Really. This trip comes as a complete surprise. There was the possibility that it might happen, but not so quickly. I had planned on taking you to Finland with me when the time came. I’ve been learning quite a bit about the place, you know. It’s really fascinating. You’d love it. Do you know that fifteen-year-old Finns have the best literary skills in the world?”

  “This is a fucking Fellini film,” she muttered.

  “What was that?”

  Did she just say the f-word? He bristled. No, she wouldn’t do that. It was a part of their rules. A random “shit” or “damn” was tolerable, pushing it even, but he had a thing about women and swearing. Having a wife who did it was unacceptable. The sole exception to that rule was in the bedroom, and then only during sex. And although Sharlyn’s books were filled with obscenities, he allowed her that folly. The words were on the page, not in the air.

  Sharlyn’s temples were throbbing. She pressed her fingertips hard against them.

  “So what were you planning to do, drop me off at a Finnish high school?”

  Miles chuckled.

  “No, baby. Don’t be silly.”

  “Fuck you, Miles.”

  It was the f-word! All right, he figured, okay, he’d let it slide this time since he was trying to make an uncomplicated exit. Sharlyn moved in closer. He could feel her breath upon his face.

  “I’ve been to Finland,” she said, “which you seem to have forgotten. I have a Finnish publisher. I’ve had one for years.”

  “You do?” The f-word was still ringing his ears. “God, Shar, you’ve done so much. I can barely keep up. And you talk about my job—”

  “Fuck you and your job.”

  And she dared to say it again!

  “Maybe that’s it,” Shar smirked. “You’re fucking your job, because you sure as hell aren’t fucking me these days. You’re never on the ground long enough.”

  The f-word clanged around in his head. She was trying to provoke him, forcing a confrontation. Miles refused to let himself get drawn into it. He gritted his teeth, determined to give her a pass, just this once, for urgency’s sake.

  “What are you saying?” He pulled her close, pressing her hand into his crotch. “Here. Feel this, Shar. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “What’s the point in showing it to me,” she said, yanking her hand away from the hard knot in his pants. “It’s not like you have any plans to use it.”

  At those
words, something in Miles snapped. The refined corporate mogul returned to his Atlanta roots, putting his Southern foot down in an outburst heavy with a usually undetectable hard-lined Georgia drawl.

  “Now you look here, Sharlyn Tate, this trip can’t be helped. I got word that Jussi Seppinen is ready to talk, and I’m the only one who can do this deal. I can’t hand it off to someone else. That’s just the way it is. This isn’t just some job. I built this company from nothing, and now it’s the third largest of its kind. In the world. Don’t you understand what that means?”

  Sharlyn trod the marble, her feet suddenly cold. He was about to resort to the speech.

  “How do you think we can afford this lifestyle?” Miles’s voice was a blade as he waved his arms around the vast foyer of the equally vast house. “You wanted the Hamptons, I gave it to you. The apartment in the city. The houses in L.A., Tuscany, Capetown. Vacations around the world, everything you ever asked for. An island, Shar. I bought you an island. Don’t act like none of it hasn’t meant anything.”

  “All I wanted was you.”

  “Well, that’s not what you said last Christmas when you insisted on having that Maybach.”

  “You said you wanted me to have it.”

  “I wanted you to have it because you said it’s what you wanted. You saw Beyoncé in one, so you wanted one, too. Beyoncé, for God’s sake! But did I complain? Did I ask why the hell you were trying to keep up with the MTV crowd? Those people are kids. You’re a grown woman. Three hundred thousand dollars and I didn’t say a word. We already have a Rolls, but I got you that damn car. Even your driver thought it a ridiculous purchase.”

  “He did? He didn’t say anything to me.”

  Miles took a breath, sheathed the blade. “Look, Shar…this stuff doesn’t pay for itself. We got here because I made this happen. What I do pays for our lifestyle, and I know that’s something you don’t want to give up.”

  “Miles, you know you don’t have to work like this. I’m one of the most popular authors in the country, in the world. I make more than enough money—”

  Her words caught on themselves at her husband’s granite expression. His scowl was apparent, even in the predawn shadows. Sharlyn swallowed, casting her gaze at the floor. She knew the type of man she was married to, had been married to for eighteen years. It didn’t matter that her career as a writer had brought them millions or that she was an A-list celebrity. Miles was from a long line of traditional Southerners. Caretakers. Men’s men. Men with clearly defined lines about the roles of women. Percival Milestone Tate would never be anybody’s kept man, and he wouldn’t let anyone, especially his wife, intimate such. She had already pressed his patience hurling the f-word around. Now, it seemed, she was exceeding all limits.

  “Good-bye, Shar.”

  He turned and picked up the briefcase, triumphant in the way he found his exit. He’d flipped it on her and could now leave in a blaze of pseudoindignation.

  Sharlyn rushed forward, reaching for him.

  “Miles, honey, look…that’s not what I meant.”

  She pressed her breasts against his rigid back, encircling him with her arms. He lingered a moment, hand on the door.

  “Don’t be angry, baby. Please. I’m sorry. I just hate that we never get any quality time together anymore. I miss you. I miss us. It’s affecting everything I do.”

  Miles didn’t move.

  “I haven’t been able to write. My concentration is all messed up. My manuscript is eight months overdue. Beryl’s been on me every day. Readers keep posting on my website, harassing me about this book. ‘What’s it about?’ ‘When is it gonna drop?’ I’ve stopped reading the message boards. It’s too much pressure. More, more, everybody wants more. Eight months. Do you realize that’s how long you’ve been on the road? I asked for that car because I was bored. I’m reading magazines and going to stupid house parties and club openings with Diamond and Kimora and a whole lot of people I’ve grown tired of looking at and who must be growing tired of looking at me. You want to know how I spend most of my days? Watching TV. I can’t stand TV. But what else can I do? I can’t write, Miles. Don’t you get it? What I do is directly affected by you.”

  She could feel his body soften under her touch.

  “What do you expect me to do?” he said in a low voice. “I’m the first black man in history to run a company as global as ComMedia Wells. We’re billionaires, Shar. Billionaires. I need you to understand what that means for me, for us…for our people. This is not about acquiring things and chasing the almighty dollar. This is about being examples for an entire generation.”

  He was doing the our people bit. She never knew how to fight against that.

  “I know, honey. It’s just that, sometimes, I feel like you’re married to ComMedia Wells and I’m just your…I don’t know…mistress.”

  His back was rigid again.

  “Mistress? Why would you choose that word? Are you accusing me of having a mistress? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “No, baby, of course not, baby. I know you’re not like that. But I feel like ComMedia is your real home and I’m the odd girl out. What am I supposed to do?”

  Miles turned the knob and opened the door.

  “You’re supposed to let me do my job,” he said. He turned to face her. “My home is with you. I always come back, don’t I? I’ve been at your side for almost twenty years. Even though all you greet me with these days is a face full of shit.”

  Sharlyn’s mouth was ajar, a jumble of unuttered words wrestling in the damp air as Miles stepped out into the morning. It was rare for him to swear at her like that, but she had pushed him to it, hadn’t she? He wanted to let her know how it felt.

  Miles didn’t glance back as the driver held open the back door of the car, then quietly closed it once his charge was inside. The man tipped the brim of his cap at her, got behind the wheel, pulled off, and they disappeared into the thickening mist.

  Naturalism:

  A literary and philosophical movement emphasizing realistic, scientifically objective, often sordid and graphic accuracy in the portrayal of the human existence.

  Everyone who has ever built anywhere a

  new heaven first found the power thereto in his own hell.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  Killer Klowns

  …from Outer Space.

  He pressed the info button on the remote. A beige bar appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  “Alien bozos snare earthlings in cotton candy cocoons.”

  Cotton candy cocoons. He was watching alien klowns and cotton candy cocoons. God. His life was shit and being parked on the couch like this was the proof of it. Fucking killer klowns. Klowns. With a capital K.

  This is what happens to those who sit still, Penn reminded himself. People who did nothing ended up with nothing lives lived on nothing furniture inside a nothing space doing nothing watching nothing being nothing. They became supernovas of nothingness that turned into black holes of pathetic shit as they sank in on themselves and disappeared from existence. People like that were not even missed.

  “I am not a nothing,” he said. “I am a star.”

  These words were directed at the killer klowns, those dastardly demons of sugar-tomb spinning. The klowns didn’t seem the least bit moved. They had earthlings to ensnare.

  “Fucking idiot box.”

  He clicked off the TV. The transition of sound was seamless, as the yammer of the tube was washed over by the beckoning din of city life whirling around outside his window, filtering in as only a seductive, mild-temperatured Manhattan afternoon could. Honking horns, laughing people, crying babies, barking dogs.

  All that noise, all those happy people. He placed his hands flat on the ledge as he peered outside. What the hell did they have to be so happy about?

  He was feeling way too dark. Perhaps, he thought, he should get out for a while. It was Sunday afternoon. Half the day was gone. He needed to get his papers—the Times, the
Wall Street Journal, the Post, the Daily News. Maybe he’d grab some takeout and stop by Merc’s.

  Another horn honked. Penn slipped on his shoes, shoved his keys in his pocket, smeared on some Kiehl’s lip balm.

  The city was calling.

  Merc wasn’t home and his cell phone was going straight to voice mail.

  He must be with some girl, Penn thought. Or maybe he was working. He sometimes did on Sundays if a job was starting to fall behind schedule. Mercury King had been Penn’s best friend since freshman year at NYU. He had an M.S. in architecture from Columbia, but instead of going straight to a firm as a draftsman, he chose to work as a contractor for his uncle’s building construction company. The money was good, more than he would make as a newly licensed architect, and it was hands-on experience in building and construction.

  He admired Mercury’s willingness to take the long route to get to where he wanted. It was more than he would do.

  Penn had a grand plan. And while it wasn’t happening as quickly as he expected, he wasn’t giving up. He already had the hard part handled. The masterpiece was ready. The rest was all execution. Soon enough. Soon enough.

  He headed back home with his papers and sushi.

  Adam stood

  …next to Norman Mailer, Toni Morrison, Jason Epstein, and Salman Rushdie, all smiles at the Fifty-sixth Annual National Book Awards. Penn’s hands shook as he held the paper. He still couldn’t believe it. His eyes shifted right and there Adam was again, this time hugging a hot, leggy blonde, a Jessica Rabbit by the name of Seda Burstow, one of the sexiest, most talked-about authors of the moment, known for the As You Wish series, a line of books about the art of female submission. (What was she doing at the National Book Awards?) Adam’s pocked face was perilously close to the swell just above the plunge of the front of her gown. Penn felt his stomach tumble.

  Adam Carville hobnobbing with Salman Rushdie. Seda Burstow’s double-Ds near Adam’s face. What nonsense was this? It had to be some kind of joke.