The Informers

by Bret Easton Ellis

  "Nothing," Danny says lifelessly. "He didn't recognize them."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I don't know." Pause. "To keep me amused maybe."

  "What?" I say, drifting. "What did you say?"

  "To keep me amused?"

  I fall asleep next to him for a minute, then wake up but don't open my eyes. My breathing steady, I feel the touch of two dry fingers trailing up my leg. I lie perfectly still, eyes closed, and he touches me, no heat in the touch, and then he climbs gently on top of me and I lie perfectly still but soon I have to open my eyes because I'm breathing too hard. The instant I do, he softens, rolls off. When I wake up in the middle of the night, he's gone. His lighter, which looks like a small gold handgun, is on the nightstand next to the empty bottle of wine and the large glass and I remember that when he first showed it to me I thought he was actually going to fire it and when he didn't I felt my life become an anticlimax and looking into his eyes, his gaze rendering everything inconsequential, pools incapable of remembering anything, I moved deeper into them until I was comfortable.

  Music from downstairs wakes me at eleven. I hurriedly throw on a robe, walk downstairs, but it's only the maid washing the windows in the den, listening to Culture Club. I say gracias and look outside the window the maid is cleaning and notice that the maid's two young children are swimming in the shallow end of the small pool. I get dressed and wait around the house for Danny to come back. I walk outside, stare at the space where his car was parked, and then I look around for signs of the gardener, who has, for some reason, not shown up in three weeks.

  I meet Liz for lunch in Beverly Hills and after we order water I spot William, wearing a beige linen sport jacket, white pleated pants and expensive brown sunglasses, standing at the bar. He makes his way over to our table. I excuse myself and walk to the rest rooms. William follows me and I stand outside the door and ask him what he's doing here and he says that he always comes to this place for lunch and I tell him it's too much of a coincidence and he says, admits, that maybe he talked to Liz, that maybe she had mentioned something to him about lunch with me today at the Bistro Gardens. I tell William that I don't want to see him, that this separation was, inadvertently or not, his idea, that he met Linda. William answers my accusations by telling me that he simply wants to talk and he takes my hand and squeezes it and I pull away and walk back to the table and sit down. William follows and squats by my chair and after he asks me three times to come by his house to talk and I don't say anything he leaves and Liz mumbles apologies and I suddenly, inexplicably, become so hungry that I order two appetizers, a large salad and a bitter-orange tart and eat them quickly, ravenous.

  After lunch I walk aimlessly along Rodeo Drive and into Gucci, where I almost buy Danny a wallet, and then I'm walking out of Gucci and leaning against one of the gold columns outside the store in white heat and a helicopter swoops down low out of the sky and back up again and a Mercedes blares its horn at another Mercedes and I remember that I have to do the eleven o'clock edition on Thursdays and I'm shielding my eyes from the sun and I walk into the wrong parking lot and after walking another block find the right one.

  I leave the station after the newscast at five ends, telling Jerry that I'll be back for the eleven o'clock edition by ten-thirty and Cliff can do the promos and I get into my car and drive out of the parking lot of the station and find myself driving to the airport, to LAX. I park and walk over to the American Airlines terminal and go to a coffee shop, making sure I get a seat by the window, and I order coffee and watch planes take off, occasionally glancing at a copy of the L.A. Weekly I brought with me from the car, and then I do some of the cocaine Simon gave me this afternoon and get diarrhea and then I roam the airport and hope someone will follow me and I walk from one end of the terminal to the other, looking over my shoulder expectantly, and I leave the American Airlines terminal and walk out to the parking lot and approach my car, the windows tinted black, two stubs leaning against the windshield where the wipers used to be, and I get the feeling that there's someone waiting, crouched in the backseat, and I move toward the car, peer in, and though it's hard to tell, I'm pretty sure there's no one in there and I get in and drive out of the airport and as I move past motels that line Century Boulevard leading to LAX I'm tempted, briefly, to check into one of them, just to get the effect, to give off the illusion of being someplace else, and the Go-Go's are singing "Head Over Heels" on the radio and from LAX I drive to West Hollywood and find myself at a revival theater on Beverly Boulevard that's playing an old Robert Altman movie and I park the Jaguar in a towaway zone, pay for a ticket and walk into a small, empty theater, the entire room bathed in red light, and I sit alone up front, flip through the L.A. Weekly and it's quiet in the theater except for an Eagles album that's playing somewhere and someone lights a joint and the sweet, strong smell of marijuana distracts me from the L.A. Weekly, which drops to the floor anyway after I see an advertisement for Danny's Okie Dog, a hot dog stand on Santa Monica Boulevard, and the lights dim and someone in back yawns and the Eagles fade, a tattered black curtain rises and after the movie ends I walk back outside and get in the car and when the car stalls in front of a gay bar on Santa Monica I decide not to go to the station for the eleven o'clock newscast and I keep turning the key and when the engine starts up again I drive away from the bar and past two young guys yelling at each other in a doorway.

  Canter's. I walk into the large, fluorescent-lit delicatessen to get something to eat and buy a pack of cigarettes so that I ill have something to do with my hands since I left the L.A. Weekly on the floor of the revival theater. I get a booth near the window and study the Benson & Hedges box, then stare out the window and watch streetlights change colors from red to green to yellow to red and nothing passes through the intersection and the lights keep changing and I order a sandwich and a diet Coke and nothing passes, no cars, no people, nothing passes through the intersection for twenty minutes. The sandwich arrives and I stare at it disinterestedly.

  A group of punk rockers sit in a booth across from mine and they keep looking over at me, whispering. One of the girls, wearing an old black dress and with short, spiked red hair, nudges the boy sitting next to her and the boy, probably eighteen, lanky and tall, wearing black with a blond Mohawk, starts up and walks to my table. The punks suddenly become silent and watch the boy expectantly.

  "Um, aren't you on the news or something?" he asks in a high voice that surprises me.

  "Yes.

  "You're Cheryl Laine, right?" he asks.

  "Yes." I look up, trying to smile. "I want to light a cigarette but I don't have matches."

  The boy looks at me, made briefly helpless by this last statement, but he recovers and asks, "No matches either but hey, listen, can I have your autograph?" Staring at me hatefully, he says, "I'm, like, your biggest fan." He holds out a napkin and scratches his Mohawk. "You're, like, my favorite anchorperson."

  The punks are laughing hysterically. The girl with the red spiked hair covers her pale face with tiny hands and stamps her feet.

  "Sure," I say, humiliated. "Do you have a pen?"

  He turns around and calls out, "Hey, David, you gotta pen?"

  David shakes his head, eyes closed, face contorted with laughter.

  "I think I have one," I say, opening my purse. I take a pen out and he hands me a napkin. "What would you like it to say?"

  The boy looks at me blankly and then over at the other table and he starts laughing and shrugs. "I don't know."

  "Well, what's your name?" I ask, squeezing the pen so tight I'm afraid it will snap. "Let's start there."

  "Spaz." He scratches at the Mohawk again.

  "Spaz?"

  "Yeah. With an s."

  I write: "To Spaz, best wishes, Cheryl Laine."

  "Hey, thanks a lot, Cheryl," Spaz says.

  He walks back to the table where the punks are laughing even harder now. One of the girls takes the autograph from Spaz and looks it over and groans, c
overing her head with her hands and stamping her feet again.

  I very carefully place a twenty-dollar bill on the table and take a sip of the diet Coke and then try, inconspicuously, to get up from the table and I head for the rest room, the punks calling out "Bye, Cheryl' and laughing even louder and once in the ladies' room I lock myself in a stall and lean against a door that's covered with Mexican graffiti and catch my breath. I find Danny's lighter at the bottom of my purse and light a cigarette but it tastes sour and I drop it in the toilet and then walk back through Canter's, which is basically empty, walking all the way around its perimeter, keeping to the rim of the room, avoiding the punks' table and then I'm in my car looking at my reflection in the rearview mirror: eyes red, black smudge on chin, which I try to wipe off. Starting the car, I head for a phone booth on Sunset. I park the car, leaving the engine running, the radio loud, and call my number and I stand in the booth waiting for someone to answer and the phone keeps ringing and I hang up and walk back to the car and drive around, looking for a coffee shop or a gas station so I can use a rest room but everything seems closed and I drive down Hollywood Boulevard looking up at movie marquees and finally I end up getting back on Sunset and driving to Brentwood.

  I knock on William's door. It takes him a while to answer it. He asks, "Who's there?" I don't say anything, just knock again.

  "Who's there?" he asks, his voice sounding worried.

  "It's me," I say, then, "Cheryl."

  He unlocks the door and opens it. He's wearing a Polo bathing suit and a T-shirt that has CALIFORNIA written across it in bright-blue letters, a T-shirt I bought him last year, and he has glasses on and doesn't seem surprised to find me standing outside his door.

  "I was just going to go in the jacuzzi," William says.

  "I have to use your bathroom," I say quietly. I walk past him and across the living room and into the bathroom. When I come out, William is standing at the bar.

  "You couldn't . . . find a bathroom?" he asks.

  I sit in a reclining chair in front of a huge television set, ignoring him, then, deciding not to, say, "No."

  “Would you like a drink?"

  "What time is it?"

  "Eleven," he says. "What do you want?"

  "Anything."

  “I've got pineapple juice, cranberry, orange, papaya."

  I had thought he meant alcohol but say, again, "Anything."

  He walks over to the TV set and it turns on like a sudden flash, booming, and the news is just beginning and he turns the volume up in time to hear the announcer say: ". . . the channel nine news team with Christine Lee filling in for Cheryl Laine . . ." and William walks back to the bar and pours the two of us drinks and he, mercifully, doesn't ask why I'm not there. I turn the television off at the first commercial break.

  "Where's Linda?" I ask.

  "Palm Springs," he says. "At a colonic seminar." A long, dull silence and then, "Supposedly they're fun."

  "That's nice," I murmur. "You two still getting along?"

  William smiles and brings me a drink that smells strongly of guava. I sip it cautiously, then put the glass down.

  "She just finished redecorating the condo." He motions with his arms and sits down on a beige couch across from the reclining chair. "Even though the condo is temporary." Pause. "She's still at Universal. She's fine." He sips his juice.

  William doesn't say anything else. He sips his juice again and then crosses his tan, hairy legs and looks out the window at palm trees lit by streetlamps.

  I get up from the chair and walk nervously around the room. I move over to the bookshelf and pretend to look at the titles of the books on the large glass shelf and then at the titles of films on tape in the shelves below.

  "You don't look too good," he says. "You have ink on your chin."

  "I'm fine."

  It takes five minutes for William to say, "Maybe we should have stayed together." He removes his glasses, rubs his eyes.

  "Oh God," I say irritably. "No, we shouldn't have stayed together." I turn around. "I knew I shouldn't have come here."

  "I was wrong. What can I say?" He looks down at his glasses, then at his knees.

  I walk away from the bookshelf and over to the bar and lean against it and there's another long pause and then he asks, "Do you still want me?"

  I don't say anything.

  "You don't have to answer me, I guess," he says, sounding confused, hopeful.

  "This is no use. No, William, I don't." I touch my chin, look at my fingers.

  William looks at his drink and before he sips it says, "But you lie all the time."

  "Don't call me anymore," I say. "That's why I came over. To tell you this."

  "But I think I still"—pause—"want you."

  "But I"—l pause awkwardly-"want someone else."

  "Does he want you?" he asks with a quiet emphasis, and the fact refuses to escape me untouched and I slump down on a high gray barstool.

  "Don't crack up," William says. "Don't go to pieces."

  "Everything's wrecked."

  William gets up from the couch, puts his glass of papaya juice down and carefully walks over to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder, kisses my neck, touches a breast, almost knocking my glass over. I move away to the other side of the room, wiping my face.

  "It's surprising to see you like this," I manage to say.

  "Why?" William asks from across the room.

  "Because you've never felt anything for anybody."

  "That isn't true." he says. "What about you?"

  "You were never there. You were never there." I stop. "You were never . . . alive."

  "I was . . . alive.'' he says feebly. "Alive?"

  "No, you weren't." I say."You know what I mean."

  "What was I, then?" he asks.

  "You were just—-I pause, look out over the expanse of white carpet into a massive white kitchen, white chairs on a gleaming tiled floor—"not dead."

  "And, uh, this person you're with is?" he asks, an edge in his voice.

  "I don't know. He's"—I stammer—"nice. Nice. Good for me."

  "He's `good' for you? What is he? A vitamin? What does that mean? He's good in bed or what?" William raises his arms.

  "He can be," I mutter.

  "Well, if you met me when I was fifteen—"

  "Nineteen," I say, cutting him off.

  "Jesus Christ, nineteen," he spits out.

  I head for the door, leaving a not unfamiliar scene, and turn back, once, to look at William and feel a pang of reluctance, which I don't want to feel. I'm imagining Danny, wait­ing in a bedroom for me, dialing a phone, calling someone, a phantom. Back at my house, the television is on and so is the Betamax. The bed is unmade. A note on top of it reads, "Sorry—I'll see you around. Sheldon called and said he had good news. Set the timer for 11 so the show should be taped. I'm sorry. So long. P.S. Biff thinks you're hot," and below that Biff's phone numbers. The bag of clothes he kept by the bed is gone. Rewinding the tape, I lie down and watch the eleven o'clock edition.

  7

  DISCOVERING JAPAN

  Heading straight into darkness, staring out the window of a plane at a starless black canvas beyond the window, placing a hand to a window that's so cold it numbs my fingertips and staring at my hand, I withdraw my hand slowly from the window and Roger makes his way down the darkened aisle.

  "Set your watch ahead, man," Roger says.

  "What, man?" I ask.

  "Set your watch ahead. There's a time difference. We're landing in Tokyo." Roger stares at me, his smile slipping. "Tokyo in, um, Japan, okay?" No response, and Roger runs his hand through short blond hair until he's fingering a ponytail in back, sighing.

  "But I . . . can't . . . see . . . anything, man," I tell him, slowly pointing to the darkened window.

  "That's because you're wearing sunglasses, man," Roger says.

  "No, that's not . . . it. It's . . . real"—l think of the right word—"um . . . dark," and then, ". . . man."

&nb
sp; Roger looks at me for a minute.

  "Well, that's because the windows are, um, tinted," Roger says carefully. "The windows on this plane are tinted, okay?"

  I don't say anything.

  "Do you want some Valium, a 'lude, some gum, what?" Roger offers.

  I shake my head, answer, "No ... I might OD."

  Roger slowly turns around, makes his way up the aisle toward the front of the jet. Pressing my fingertips, still cold from the window, to my forehead causes my eyes to shut tightly.

  Naked, waking up bathed in sweat, on a large bed in a suite in the penthouse of the Tokyo Hilton, sheets rumpled on the floor, a young girl nude and sleeping by my side, her head cradled by my arm, which is numb, and it surprises me how much effort it takes to lift it, finally, my elbow brushing carelessly over the girl's face. Clumps of Kleenex that I made her eat, stuck to the sides of her cheeks, her chin, dry, fall off. Turning over, away from the girl, is a boy, sixteen, seventeen, maybe younger, Oriental, nude, on the other side of the bed, arms dangling off the edge, the smooth beige lower back covered with fresh red welts. I reach for a phone by the nightstand but there is no nightstand and the phone is on the floor, disconnected, on top of damp white sheets. Panting, I reach across the boy, connect the phone, which takes about fifteen minutes, finally ask someone on the other end for Roger but Roger, I am told, is at a fruit-eating contest and is not available for comment.

  "Get these two kids out of here, okay?" I mumble into the receiver.

  I get out of bed, knocking an empty vodka bottle over onto a bourbon bottle which spills onto potato chip bags and an issue of Hustler Orient that this girl on the bed is in this month and I kneel down, open it up, feeling weird while studying how different her pussy looks in the layout compared to how it looked three hours ago and when I turn around and look at the bed, the Oriental boy's eyes are open, staring at me. I just stand there, unembarrassed, nude, hungover, and stare back into the boy's black eyes.

  "You feel sorry for yourself?" I ask, relieved when two bearded guys open the door and move toward the bed, and I walk into a bathroom and lock the door.