by William Poe
“I won’t, Twiggy. Thanks.”
On my way out, Don motioned for me to come over. He grabbed my arms and looked straight into my eyes. “I see your future, Simon, and it’s not good. Listen to a pro. I’ve been kicking around for sixty years now. No hustler is worth your life. You know what I’m saying.”
For Don to rise from his stupor to prophesy on my behalf, I must have looked pretty bad. I knew what he was saying, but I didn’t want to listen.
I called Valentino from a pay phone on Hollywood Boulevard. He was suspicious at first, but when I identified Twiggy as “the fat bartender at the Spotlight,” he changed his tone.
“I’d like a box set of cassettes.”
“Good first order,” Valentino said. “Where are you?”
“Corner of Sunset and Cahuenga.”
“In thirty minutes,” Valentino instructed, “be at the Jack-in-the-Box. Look for a black Mercedes. It has tinted windows. When the door opens, hop in.”
Thirty minutes later, to the second, the sedan appeared, and the door opened. The driver was terribly handsome—dark-haired and swarthy. I was sure I’d seen him in a gay video. The moment I shut the door, he pulled out of the parking lot.
Unlike the handsome driver, Valentino was short and plump. His long hair, pulled into a coiled ponytail, crawled across his bright yellow shirt and ended at his alligator skin belt. Pancake makeup covered his face, which was heavily cratered with pockmarks.
The transaction was no nonsense. Valentino’s schedule allowed for a few minutes per stop, coordinated by the dictates of the portable phone he answered every few minutes.
Valentino showed me the goods. I tasted a pinch and knew right away it was high quality. I handed Valentino the money. When he had counted it, he said something in Spanish to the driver. The car stopped.
“We’ll let you out here,” Valentino said. He flicked a switch that unlocked my door. We were five blocks from the Spotlight.
I stuffed the cocaine into my underwear and stood on the sidewalk as the car sped off so quickly that my door shut on its own. A police car circled the block as I made my way back to the bar.
Valentino—Val, as he told me to call him—warmed up when he realized how much, and how frequently, I would be placing orders. Axl and I easily consumed an ounce a week. Before long, Val started delivering to the house. We set up a schedule so he wouldn’t show up at the same time or on the same day of the week. He would come alone, without the chauffeur, and would demand that Axl remain upstairs while we did business.
Rudy invited himself to the house one afternoon. He didn’t have enough money to buy drugs, and Lane was going crazy. Val had just dropped by, and I had plenty to share. Rudy and Lane started coming by every day. Axl would smoke, and Lane and I snorted. Rudy kept a close eye on the proceedings in case Lane should try to slip away with the pipe. Rudy stayed with alcohol only.
Sometimes, Charlotte came along. While we were all partying one evening, Rudy took me aside.
“I hate to bring this up, Simon. But I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Ask away,” I said.
“I feel really bad bringing it up. And I’m sure it would only be temporary.”
“Just blurt it out, Rudy.”
“I’m getting evicted. I haven’t paid the rent in two months. No matter what I’ve tried, chef jobs haven’t lasted. I have somewhere to go with Lane. That’s not the problem. It’s…well, it’s that Charlotte doesn’t have any place to go.”
“Where are you moving?”
“I got a live-in manager job at the Oban Hotel. You know, that crack haven on Yucca.”
“That place is about as crummy as it gets, Rudy.”
“Yeah, I know, but you can’t beat free rent. And I’ll get a small salary. So, do you think Charlotte can stay with you for a while?”
“How long?”
“Probably just a few weeks.”
“I’m going to Italy soon. Can she do office work?”
“She managed a dance club in Miami. That’s how we met. I was promoting a drag show, and she booked the act.”
“You,” I scoffed, “in drag?”
Rudy covered his face demurely. “You should’ve seen me dressed like a ballerina.”
I imagined the hippopotamus in Fantasia. “How many yards of cloth made up your tutu?”
Rudy did a pirouette with his finger poised on top of his head.
“Cute,” I said. “All right, all right. Charlotte can stay, at least until I get back from Italy.”
“Oh, Simon, I love you,” Rudy said, smothering me with a hug.
Not to be left out, Cicero came charging down the stairs to join Rudy and me in the basement.
“You know,” I said, looking around the claustrophobic space, “I can make this into a bedroom. Charlotte can stay in the small bedroom upstairs. I’ve been meaning to make the loft bedroom into an office. Guess now’s the time.”
Rudy and I went upstairs. Charlotte, Axl, and Lane were standing in the kitchen laughing hysterically.
“Let me join the fun,” Rudy said.
“It’s a private joke,” Charlotte grinned. Lane and Axl turned away, unable to hold back their giggles.
Rudy gave Charlotte a bear hug. “Simon agreed to be your new landlord.”
Charlotte broke free and threw her arms around my neck. “You’re so sweet, Simon! I won’t stay long. I promise.”
“Rudy said you managed a club. I was hoping you could help me with my business.”
Charlotte shimmied while holding her thick red hair off her shoulders. “I’ll be the best little secretary you ever had.”
“On second thought, Rudy,” I joked.
Charlotte took a seat on a barstool and crossed her legs demurely. “Or, I can be Ms. Proper, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s okay. I like you just the way you are.”
“A perfect match,” Rudy said. “Two sex fiends sharing a house.”
Cicero leaped into Charlotte’s lap. “Hi, little fellow,” she said, scratching behind his ears. “I’m your new mommy.”
Cicero gave her a tentative lick on the chin.
I followed Rudy and Charlotte onto the balcony. On clear nights such as that, the Capitol Records building rose like a stack of silver pie plates on the horizon. The Hollywood sign glowed in a wash of floodlights.
“You’ve really done well for yourself,” Charlotte said. “Rudy’s told me about your background. I suppose that church group taught you a thing or two about business. I read that the guy who started it is a billionaire.”
“It was perfect training for Hollywood, learning how to fool people into giving away their money. There’s a lot of similarities between licensing a bad movie and marketing a religion. You’ve got to convince people that they’re getting more than they see in front of them.”
Charlotte laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“Lap dancing is like that. You let people think they’re getting something, but they never see it. You’re a trip, Simon. We’re going to have fun.”
Axl and Lane had disappeared into the basement while Rudy, Charlotte, and I were talking. A whiff of crack smoke drifted through the air, something akin to burning rubber and wood shavings. Rudy didn’t seem to notice, but I was concerned about getting blamed. I went to the basement door and called down, “They’re leaving in a minute, Axl. You guys better come upstairs.”
“They’ll be up in a minute,” I said, as I returned to the balcony.
Rudy gave me a suspicious look, which grew into alarm when the basement door opened, and Lane rushed out the front door.
“I guess he’s ready to go,” I said.
“Please keep that pipe away from Lane,” Rudy said. “I’ll lose him for sure if he starts that again.”
Rudy motioned for Charlotte to follow him, and they went to the car. Axl came stealing up from the basement. The wild look in his eyes told the story.
CHAPTER 24
Char
lotte was especially adept at making excuses when producers called looking for their money. I kept meaning to explain more about what my business was about so she could help me with the contracts and deliverables, but I would lock myself in the basement with Axl for days on end.
“You’re becoming a mole person,” Charlotte said, banging on the basement door one evening. “You’ve got to get out of that dungeon.”
I pulled myself together and went with her to the Spotlight. And each day after that, Charlotte and I went out. Axl would remain at home indulging his paranoid delusions, often propping pieces of furniture against the door at the top of the basement stairs. Cicero’s sniffing at the threshold probably made him think a monster was out to get him. It could take as much as an hour to convince Axl to remove the barricades so I could get into the basement.
The only time Axl ate was when I dragged him upstairs and sat him down in front of a plate of food. I’d have to watch him, or else he’d scurry off downstairs at the first chance. Nourishment meant nothing. All he wanted was his pipe.
We never had sex anymore. Often, I slept on the couch in the living room to keep away from Axl’s constant peering out the windows, sure that the police were outside.
Charlotte was a wonderful bar companion. The hustlers loved her. Supertight jeans, spiked heels, loose blouse opened halfway down. She had the same style as Sandra. I also started taking tricks to the Oban for a quickie. The hotel was a couple of blocks from the Spotlight, and Rudy always had an empty room to give me.
I lost all sense of the passage of time. Days were measured by the frequency of Charlotte’s knock on the door to rouse me for the nightly excursion to the Spotlight. Weeks were marked by the empty Baggie and the visits from Val. Wasn’t I supposed to go to Italy? I put the question to myself upon awakening from a twenty-four hour sleep. I had no idea what day it was, much less the month. Axl lay beside me in a death sleep. I felt his face to check his breathing.
I ventured upstairs. Cicero came crashing down the steps to greet me.
“Good boy, Cicero,” I said, sitting on the bottom step and cuddling him in my lap.
“Simon!” Charlotte came to the landing where she could see me. “My god, you’re upstairs—and it’s daylight!”
“Don’t fuck with me, Charlotte. I feel like shit.”
Charlotte went into the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. “Drink this,” she said, pressing beside me on the stair.
“I’m sick of the drugs,” I confessed. “But I can’t stop.”
Charlotte took my hand. “Are you still going to Italy? You’re supposed to leave tomorrow, you know.”
“My clients are going to kill me.”
“There have been a lot of calls from overseas. I’m asked why you aren’t responding to telexes.”
I’d long ago bought my plane ticket and paid for the office at MIFED. Charlotte had faithfully followed my instructions and sent out promotional materials. Clients would be coming by the office there, expecting to make deals.
I might have pulled myself together and gone, even at that late date. But I knew I couldn’t make it for two weeks without cocaine, and there was no way I would try to smuggle some with me. The Italian police had dogs sniffing every suitcase.
Charlotte put her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get by, honey.”
I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I went back to the basement and snuggled against Axl’s unresponsive body.
The next day, when I should have been on a plane to Milan, I awoke to find the house empty. Axl wasn’t there and the car was gone.
“It’s no big deal,” I said to Cicero, who’d come from upstairs the moment I opened the basement door. “They’re probably shopping.”
Yet a vague memory lingered, of Axl stirring about while I was passed out, and the faint image of him stuffing clothes into a bag. I rushed upstairs to the bedroom closet. Axl’s guitar was gone.
Where was Charlotte? Had she gone with him?
A car drove into the garage. I opened the front door to find Charlotte carrying bags of groceries.
“Where’s Axl?” I asked.
Cicero burst out the door behind me. I grabbed him before he made it to the street and put him in the house. I helped Charlotte with a bag that was starting to slip from her arms.
“I haven’t seen Axl.”
“Would Rudy know anything?”
“Rudy would call me if he’d gone to the Oban.”
“I can’t lose Axl,” I said. “I just can’t.”
Charlotte began putting away the groceries. I went to the basement to look for clues. There was no note. He hadn’t taken the remaining cocaine. I found his pipe in the garbage.
I went back upstairs.
“Charlotte, have you used the phone today?”
“No. It’s been ringing, but I let the machine pick up. This is one day I can’t face your clients.”
I went to the office phone and dialed the Oban. Rudy picked up.
“Rudy, have you heard from Axl?”
“Hello to you too, Simon. Good to hear from you.”
“I’m sorry, Rudy. You know how it is.”
“All too well,” Rudy said.
“I can’t find Axl. I thought you might have heard something.”
“Nothing, dearest. Not a word.”
“Then, I’m afraid Axl has taken off.”
Rudy called out to Lane and asked if he knew anything.
“Lane says that Axl mentioned something about going to see his dad if things didn’t work out.”
“I’ve spoken to his mother before,” I said, “but he never mentioned his father. Anyway, thanks for the lead.”
If Axl made a call before leaving, he would have used the kitchen phone. I hit redial. An eleven-digit long distance tone sounded. After several rings, a man answered.
“Hello?” I said. “I’m calling from Los Angeles. I’m trying to find information on Axl. Is this a number where he can be reached?”
“Who is this?” the man demanded.
“I’m a friend. Axl’s been staying at my house, but he seems to have left without a note.”
“So! You’re the one.”
“I’m concerned about Axl,” I said, ignoring the accusatory tone of voice. “He didn’t say he was leaving.”
“I told him not to,” the man said. “I wanted him to get away from Hollywood as fast as he could. My boy has been trying to recover from drugs since he was eleven years old. He’s coming here, and I’m putting him back in rehab. You ought to be thrown in jail for encouraging him! Don’t bother my son again!”
A loud clack shot into my ear as the man slammed down the receiver.
I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. A haggard, weary reflection stared back at me from the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. The eyes were glazed and unfocused, like Lenny’s were on the day he lay quivering in the throes of death.
“He’s gone Charlotte,” I said, helping her put away the remaining groceries. “My Axl’s gone. They all betray me. They die, they turn to Jesus, or they just steal away in the night.”
Charlotte tried to hug me, but I turned away and went to the balcony. I leaned over the edge and looked down. The century plants were green soldiers waiting to impale me on their swords.
CHAPTER 25
“Where is he?” a voice demanded.
I could hear the anger in Wally’s voice as I pressed my ear against the basement door. He had sent people to my office in MIFED. When they found it empty and told Wally about it, he’d come by the house. Charlotte said that I had become ill and hadn’t been able to attend.
“He’s out of town,” Charlotte insisted. “He went away to rest. What do you want me to do? He’ll call you when he gets back.”
“I don’t believe it anymore,” Wally said. “This is the end. Simon is no longer authorized to sell my films. Understand? I’m going to notify the labs and have his access revoked. You tell him that.”
Wh
en Wally drove away, Charlotte and Cicero sat on the stairs near the basement door. Cicero whimpered as Charlotte tried to console him. “It’s okay, boy. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll talk to Wally after he’s calmed down.”
I heard water running in the kitchen sink, then scratching at the basement door. Cicero had caught my scent. He placed his pug nose on the threshold and sniffed. He began to whine, and Charlotte called him to come to her.
Craving demanded that I return to the tray of cocaine. The internal voices, which grew stronger with each line, told me never to open the basement door, lest my soul be damned to eternal fire. Even so, bouts of hunger drove me out during the night to scavenge for food. I cut eyeholes in a towel to create a mask and wrapped myself in a sheet hoping the spirits would be fooled by the disguise.
Most of my clients accepted the excuse that illness had kept me away from MIFED, though Charlotte wasn’t able to change Wally’s mind about his library of films. He no longer wanted me to license them, but I had a long-term contract with him to sell the videos he produced. I still had deliveries to make on Bel Air Babes. Those proceeds would pay my rent and keep me supplied with drugs. Wally was a prolific videographer, concocting a new angle every couple of months—whipped-cream boxing, even tossed-salad wrestling. My Japanese client would take whatever he produced as long as the women were buxom.
Charlotte roused me from a half-coma sleep and demanded that I come out of the basement. She needed me to sign checks. We were going through invoices when the phone rang. Charlotte handed me the receiver.
I mouthed, “I can’t talk to anyone.”
“Take it,” Charlotte said. “It’s not a client.”
“Hello?” I said, tentatively.
“Simon?”
It was Thad.
“I called to tell you that it’s over.”
“That’s hardly news, Thad.”
“No. I mean, it’s really over. I’m going to die.”
