Necrophiliac's Honeymoon

by Paul Neuhaus

  Dwayne's Twisty Path

  I didn’t bother to shower. I just washed my pits and found some kicky little boots. I left the trailer in my poodle skirt and a Ramones t-shirt. As we walked across the parking lot, Amanda pointed at the Tonga Lei Lounge. “How’s that place?” she said.

  “Don’t ever eat there. Not without notifying your next of kin. Why? You hungry? You wanna get breakfast?”

  “No, I just had breakfast. The Budweisers. It wouldn’t be good for me to lay eggs and bacon on top of ‘em. Actually, scratch that. It wouldn’t be good for you if I laid eggs and bacon on top of ‘em. Not with us spending time in an enclosed space.”

  “Gas?”

  “Like a pregnant rhino. Dank and aromatic.”

  As we got into the Firebird, I said, “Amanda, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Before we set out, I pointed at the only other car in the lot. “That yours?” I said with a smirk. It was a Smart car the color of lime sherbet.

  Venables shrank in her seat. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said.

  I pointed us toward Beverly Hills. Actually, we weren’t going the whole way. The address we wanted was closer to Bel Air. Once we were headed away from the Pacific, I said, “I’ll bite. Why’re you so relaxed with the idea of mythological creatures running around? Or with riding with one in an automobile?”

  “My brother identifies as female. If you wanna identify as mythological, that’s your business.”

  I grinned. “Just out of curiosity: If I’m not who I say I am, why do you think your boy Dwayne went to all that trouble to steal my clay pot?”

  “My operating theory is that Dwayne is broke, and your pot looks like some kind of valuable artifact. ’Til I see otherwise, I’m sticking with real world explanations.”

  “I respect that. But you’ve already met two of us. Three, actually.”

  “The guy in the bar? The suit guy?”

  “Herpes.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  I laughed. “No, that’s his nickname. Real name: Hermes.”

  “The hat dude? The florist?”

  I was stymied. “Florist?”

  “Yeah. FTD. Their logo. Guy in the winged hat. Delivers flowers.”

  “Right. Of course. No, that’s not the Hermes I know. He’d never make enough scratch delivering flowers. He’s got expensive tastes.”

  “Weird week. I started out just climbing the corporate ladder, and now I’m cozied up to a bunch of fictional characters.”

  “Fictional? You really know how to hurt a gal.”

  Venables shrugged. “Just so we’re clear, you—ages ago—got a jug full of evil shit, and you opened it up and let all the evil shit out. I wanna make sure I’m not entering into this relationship with any misconceptions.”

  I sighed and adopted my best put-upon tone. “Yes, I got a jug full of evil shit and, yes, I opened it up and let all the evil shit out. In my defense, I was suckered. Had it taken place in modern times, I’d’ve sued the gods and won. They were all like, ‘Here’s a pretty jar. There’s absolutely nothing of value inside, but don’t open it, yo.’ I was like nineteen at the time. Did you do anything at nineteen you regret to this day?”

  She nodded. “I went to a frat party. I should’ve left when they pulled out the condoms and the butter sticks. But I didn’t. Although, to be honest, that isn’t so much a regret as a thing I wish I could remember better.”

  “You look like Sandra Bullock at a church picnic, but you seem like a wild child.”

  Amanda shrugged. “I’ve always been a contrarian, but I can only carry that so far. Eventually, pragmatism’s gotta kick in. If you’d known me before, you would’ve been surprised to see me trying to leg-up at the firm. But last month I decided I wanted a Porsche, so there you go.”

  No wonder she wanted a Porsche. The poor girl was riding around in a green roller skate. I decided not to tease her about it. “Just so you know, Gloria Mae was an actress in the thirties. If you look her up on your phone, you’ll get pictures of her. If we get in to see her, you’ll also notice she hasn’t changed in almost eighty years.”

  “Hold up,” she said. “I’m gonna take that bet.” I looked over as she did an image search on Mae. She scrolled through some black and white publicity stills. “Pretty lady,” she said, and she put her phone back in her purse.

  “Mae’s a complete shut-in. Has been for decades. It’s unlikely we’ll get in, but I just wanted you primed. And, by the way, Gloria Mae identifies as a silver screen legend, but that’s not what she is really.”

  “What is she really?”

  I took a deep breath and laid my cards on the table. “Medusa. She’s Medusa.”

  Venables snickered. “The chick with the snake hair and the turning people to stone?”

  “That’s her.”

  “I’ll bite: How does a chick with snake hair and... stone-turning powers make it in Hollywood?”

  “Wigs. Big wigs. And contacts.”

  “Contacts?”

  “She can only turn you to stone if she can get you to look her in the eyes. Turns out contacts block the effect. She picked up some contacts, she got some poofy head coverings. She blended in with the Hollywood glitterati just fine. Her movies are kinda terrible, though. Very broad. Very theatrical. Mostly melodramas. She did one with Clark Gable. Her best, his worst, if that gives you any idea. Still, she was popular ‘round town. A bit of a lush. Loose with her favors. Of course, her stock fell in the forties, and she’s been holed up in her house ever since. You hear rumors about what a loon she is these days, but nothing concrete.” We’d reached our destination. 10086 Sunset Boulevard. “Do me a favor,” I said as we got out of the car. “A maroon hybrid is about to pass us on the street. See if you can see the driver.” It was my tail again.

  Instantly, Amanda dropped down so her forearms were resting on top of the Firebird and her chin was resting on her forearms. As soon as the car had gone by, she popped back up again. “Piece of cake,” she said. “He’s a little guy. Jet black beard. Jet black hair. Little curls. ‘Ringlets’ I’d call ‘em.”

  “Great,” I said. “We’re being shadowed by Josh Groban.”

  Medusa’s house is textbook Hollywood glamor. The place had a grand stair case leading to and from the street, a giant facade with a column or two and a red Spanish tile roof. Small hedges separated stone walkways and the cliché palm trees were tall and lush. Even if “Gloria Mae” had allowed herself to go batty in the old house, she was still keeping up appearances. We passed a delivery guy going down the steps as we were going up. “Hey,” I said. “Do you deliver here often?”

  “About two, three times a week,” he replied, taking off his ball cap and rubbing his sweating forehead.

  “You ever see the lady of the house?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know there was a lady of the house. The only one ever answers the door is the bald guy.”

  “The bald guy?”

  “Yeah. Bald guy. Dresses like a butler. Anywhere between fifty and two thousand years old. Accent. German, I think. Why don’t you knock on the door and see for yourself? I gotta run.”

  Amanda and I let the man in brown return to his route as we took another look at the house. “Is it just me or is this place kinda spooky?” Amanda said.

  “It’s not just you,” I replied, patting my purse. “Don’t worry. I’ve got my knickknacks with me.”

  “Knickknacks? What does that mean?”

  I cracked my purse, so she could see the brass knuckles, the handcuffs and the pepper spray.

  “You’re gonna get medieval on an old woman?”

  “Only if she goes full-gorgon. Relax, I got this.”

  She stopped me by grabbing my elbow and pulling. “Remember when you told me you broke Harper Adcock’s nose?”

  “Yeah. That was like an hour ago.”

  “Well, I was never there. You never told me that. Plausible deniability.”

  “I’m wi
th you.”

  “I beg you: do not wail on anyone inside this house. I’m a lawyer. Law firm bosses, the bar association... they take a dim view of assault. No matter how weird it gets, leave the German guy and the snake lady alone.”

  I sighed. The truth was, we were there to talk, but I had to keep the option for self-defense open. “Agreed. As long as no one starts shit first. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  With that, we had nothing more to do than go up and ring the bell. After a short wait, the promised bald German opened the door. “Yes?” he said.

  “We’re here to talk to Medusa,” I replied.

  He blinked at me twice and smiled a nervous smile. “This is a joke, yes?”

  “This is a joke, no. Look, go back inside and tell her it’s Pandora. One of the people from the old neighborhood. She’ll know what you mean.”

  The little smile didn’t leave his face. He turned to Amanda. “And who are you? Aphrodite?” He turned back to me. “Aphrodite is the one in the seashell floating on the sea, am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s right, but—”

  He turned back to Amanda. “I thought you would be taller. And better-looking,”

  “You ain’t exactly Adonis yerself, mister,” Amanda shot back.

  The kraut’s giggle was surprisingly girlish. “I see what you did there.” And with that, he tried to shut the door.

  I put my toe in the doorway and immediately regretted it. My kicky boots were not steel-toed (nor is any kicky boot ever). “Come on, Hansel, cut us a break. You’re not the owner of the house, are you?”

  “Of course not.” He almost seemed offended.

  “Then would you mind telling me who is?”

  “I would. I would mind that very much.”

  “It’s a lady, isn’t it? It’s a lady and her name is Gloria Mae. Her name is Gloria Mae, and you’re afraid that if we see her, we’ll freak out because she looks exactly the way she did when she was a film star in the thirties. Well, let me assure you we won’t freak out. My friend here had never heard of Gloria Mae until I told her. Me, I’m thousands of years old myself, so I’m not surprised by freakish longevity.”

  He sighed and opened the door wider—not to let us come in, but to step out onto the front porch. He looked left up Sunset and pointed. “I want to help you,” he said. “Do you see that large building poking up over the trees about four blocks away?”

  I looked where he was indicating. “The yellow one?”

  “No, no, the older one. The plain brick building...”

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “That, dear lady, is a mental hospital. You must take your friend there immediately and the two of you simply must check yourselves in. It would be the best thing for you. And for me.”

  I looked at Amanda and then back at the German. “Look, Hansel, I’ve tried to be nice, but you—”

  We were interrupted in a way that startled all of us including “Hansel”. A woman’s voice, commanding and strong, said, “Oh, fer crissakes, Max. Let them in already. Your snitty obfuscation is giving me a migraine.”

  We turned to see the voice belonged to Meryl Streep. Well, not Meryl Streep exactly, but Meryl Streep if she was still nineteen-eighties Meryl Streep and her make-up and wardrobe were fifty years out of date. It was Gloria Mae. I didn’t get a good look at her before she turned and walked down the hallway connected to the foyer.

  Max acted like the last five minutes hadn’t even happened. “Madame will receive you in the sitting room,” he said cordially. Both Amanda and I gave him a sour expression as he motioned for us to enter in front of him.

  The lobby was half what I expected and half not. On the expected side, it was badly lit, but with tasteful, dark furniture from another decade. On the unexpected side, on each of the tables, there was at least one taxidermied monkey. All of them looked shocked. One of them was holding onto his own pecker.

  Max came in and walked around us. “Follow me, please.” He drew us down a hall with framed photos of long-dead film people. Valentino. Chaplin. Keaton. Gable. Grant. Groucho Marx. Everyone who was anyone between the late twenties and the mid-forties. Every one of the photos had stickers along the bottom edge of the glass they sat behind. The little gold stars kindergartners get on their paintings. Every photo had between one and five stars.

  Amanda leaned in and whispered. “She looks like the woman from the thirties, but how do I know this isn’t the woman from the thirties’ granddaughter?”

  “I guess you don’t,” I conceded.

  Finally, we reached a three-way intersection. If we’d gone straight, we would’ve ended up out back by the pool. If we’d gone right, we would’ve ascended a spiral staircase. We went left into the sitting room. Mae was already there, looking like Meryl Streep if Meryl Streep was a shut-in with a slight facial tic. We sat down across from her. The space would’ve been full of natural light had not all the blinds been drawn. More dead, surprised monkeys looked at us from the shadows. One of the little fellas wore a monocle and a fez. He held a calabash pipe. The kind Sherlock Holmes smoked. Even though it was dim, I could see the former actress sported a tallish wig and contacts. (Her eyes were blue. They should’ve been brown.) I hoped Venables was paying attention, because the wig was definitely moving.

  “Would you like a brandy?” Max said to us.

  “Do you have whiskey?” my cohort said.

  The butler nodded and looked at me. “Two whiskeys,” I said.

  Once Max was gone, Mae turned to Amanda. “Whiskey before lunch,” she said. “You remind me of Frank Sinatra.”

  “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” Venables replied.

  Our host snorted. “I wouldn’t. He was a skinny little man with a peculiar odor and a disproportionately large fallós.”

  Neither of us knew how to take that. “Chairman of the Board,” I muttered.

  For whatever reason, Mae chose to elaborate. “He was not the cocksman one would hope him to be. He had issues with completion and would often weep when the deed was done.”

  I happen to like Sinatra and his music, and I didn’t want the illusion spoiled any more. “Look, Ms. Mae, if you could—”

  She spoke as if I hadn’t even been speaking. She pointed at my t-shirt. “I had Joey Ramone in here once. He was an ugly man, but a fine lover. Certainly, better than Sinatra.”

  “That’s fine. I was wondering if—”

  “Do you want to know who the best lover I ever had was?” Her well-trained voice echoed through the high-ceilinged sitting room.

  I looked over at Amanda and she was fighting off a laugh. “Yes, Ms. Mae, I guess I would like to know who the best lover you ever had was.”

  “Abe Vigoda!”

  To my right, I heard the tip of a giggle break through Amanda’s lips and then get stifled. I tried to ignore the sound just as Max returned and handed us our whiskeys. “Abe Vigoda? The guy from The Godfather?” I tried to picture Medusa taking a tumble with Tessio, the turncoat caporegime of the Corleone crime family. For some reason, I pictured him yelling out, “Tell Mike it was only business!” at the moment of climax. There was an image I didn’t need rattling around in my head. I tried getting the conversation on track by staying inside the lines she’d already drawn. “You know, it’s funny, Ms. Mae, but we came here to ask you about someone we think might’ve been one of your former lovers...”

  “You’ll have to be more specific, of course. My cervical canal has seen more traffic than the Santa Ana Freeway.”

  I gotta admit: I wasn’t expecting a lady with snakes for hair to be such a skank. Bitch loved fuckin’, I guess. “I can do that. Handsome fella. Dark complected. Bleached blonde hair, last I heard. A singer. Answers to the name of Dwayne Panagopoulos. I think he’s, uh, like us, if you know what I mean.”

  “A person of insatiable appetites and deep passions?”

  “Well, yeah, maybe, but—?”

  “Yes, I knew Dwayne. He was one of my many pet
s.”

  “Pets, Ms. Mae?”

  “Yes, pets. Strays I take in and keep for a time. They provide me with carnal distraction and I provide them with a place to live and a small allowance.”

  “Kept men?” Amanda asked.

  “Well-kept men,” Gloria replied.

  “Was Dwayne, by any chance, the most recent of your kept men?”

  The actress looked past me and spoke. “Was he, Max, or was there anyone after?” I hadn’t realized Max was still in the room until she spoke to him.

  “He was the last, madam. He was in residence until about six weeks ago.”

  I looked over my shoulder at the butler. “Is there any chance we could take a look at his room? That is if you haven’t cleaned it out.”

  Max looked at Mae. “Madam?”

  Gloria shrugged. “What do I care? Let them look.” She returned her faux blue eyes to me. “Do me a favor: if you find any of Dwayne’s underpants, bring them to me. I have a fondness for musky underthings.”

  I looked at Amanda and we did incredulous bug-eyes to one another. I turned back to Mae and said, “No problem at all.”

  Max took us back out into the hall and turned left to go through the big glass doors leading to the pool. The butler indicated the pool house. “Madam had that building converted into an apartment years ago for... the comfort of her guests. You’ll find it unlocked. You’ll also find that I haven’t touched it since Mr. Panagopoulos left.”

  “Thanks, Max. Hey, how about—?” But he was already gone. He had no interest in talking to us unless his employer insisted upon it. Whatever. We didn’t wanna talk to him anyway.

  Once he was gone, Amanda said, “That inside there... That was the single weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”

  I rounded the pool and Venables followed. “You need to get out more. And so, does Mae. Did you notice her wig was moving?”

  “I did. It looked like there was a hamster under there.”

  “I don’t think it was a hamster.”

  As promised, the door to the pool house was unlocked. There was a switch by the door, so I flipped it and filled the space with light. The inside was a lot like my trailer in that it wasn’t partitioned at all except for the bathroom at the back. The building was air-conditioned so we were comfortable while we sorted through Dwayne’s stuff. Unfortunately, Dwayne hadn’t left much behind. Some hair-care product, some toothpaste, a pint of spoiled milk in the mini-fridge. Unfortunately for Mae, there were no discarded whitey tighties. “Hard to believe he was living here while he was a rock star.”