Next up was the living room, where everything was swathed in velvet, with furniture that looked straight out of The Bird Cage. Go figure. It was total sensory overload. How could anyone relax in this place? I could see why Paul and Lync drove each other crazy.
I eventually found myself back where I started in the Alice in Wonderland maze. I zoomed past the “his-and-hers” bathrooms, which paid homage to Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable. What did they not have in here?
The noise coming from the backyard interrupted my self-guided tour enough for me to stop and see what was going on. I stepped out onto the back patio to find people skinny-dipping in the pool, splashing and dancing ferociously to George Michael’s I Want Your Sex. There was also an impressive conga line led by—surprise, surprise—Aud, snaking its way through the naked and semi-naked partygoers.
My eyes roamed to the tiki bar where I saw one of our hosts downing the last of a bottle of Glenfiddich 12 to the chants of “Lync, drink! Lync, drink!” I knew better than to keep looking once I spotted him, but our eyes locked for an instant, and there was no way out now.
“My man, Marc!” Lync yelled, skirting his way through the crowd to get to me. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” he said, out of breath from his short rush up the stairs. “I know what a long drive it can be from Canoga Park.”
How Did Lync know where I lived? Coming here had been a huge mistake. When will I learn?
Inexplicably excited to see me, Lync snatched a glass of champagne and offered it to me—an offer I firmly denied. “Pretty, pretty good par-tay, am I right?” he exclaimed, spilling champagne on my all-too-worn pair of Converses. He was already three sheets to the wind, and I was desperate to find a way out of this conversation. I just needed the right person to latch onto, but all I saw was Paul coming straight towards us.
“Marc! So, good to see you!” Paul said, raising his voice to make sure I heard him coming. “You look great, but a little tired,” Paul said, shaking his head with a fake look of concern and one hand on his hip. “We must remedy that!”
I guess his definition of remedy came in a bullet-shaped glass vile of white powder, which he pulled from his very snug Nautica shorts. It was a bit unnerving that Paul was being so outwardly gracious to me. If I hadn’t know better, I would’ve sworn he was hitting on me.
Lync looked at me with an intensely jealous death glare, confirming my suspicions. Yikes. Lync made no attempt at trying to hide his disdain from the patrons; he was probably trying to embarrass me in front of the entire crew again. Luckily, they didn’t notice because they were all too high and occupied with their own eating, drinking, snorting, and sniffing of anything that came their way.
Lync stormed off to the bar—you could see the fury in his eyes. Meanwhile, Paul continued his attempt at a flirtatious rendezvous. So much so that he kept asking me where I bought my clothes and noted that I had nailed the “slacker” look perfectly. Really? Gee, I didn’t think Target was popular among Hollywood Hill’s elite.
I tried to convince Paul that I was on thin ice with Lync, and that he was playing a dangerous game, but he kept ignoring me.
“Marc!” he interrupted. “You must see the new entertainment lounge we installed upstairs. It’s been completely renovated. Of course, Moi, naturally oversaw the redo with just a smidge of help from our loyal decorators from Pierpoint. It’s just wonderful if I do say so myself. Come see, it’s totally to die for.”
He whisked me inside the house while I desperately searched for somebody—anybody—to rescue me. Mrs. Fox wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Dammit. Just what I need on my Friday night.
Once inside, he gripped my arm a little tighter. Who would’ve thought Paul had such a strong grip? He must’ve been working out with his steroid-abusing hubby. He dragged me up the Gone with the Wind staircase, with all its pink marble grandeur. He wasn’t even winded as he raced to the top of the stairs, while I needed to slow down and catch my breath. Better start hitting the gym again, I thought.
We were on the second floor, and something seemed odd, as I noticed all the hallway lights were off and there was a sign on the door Paul was leading me towards that read: “Keep Out.”
I noticed Paul looking around surreptitiously, which seemed even odder, seeing it was his house and all. We entered what I assumed was this had-to-see entertainment lounge. And as Paul turned on the light, I had to admit, it was definitely something to see. The room was painted in a deep cinnamon red with an entire wall filled with a collage of Andy Warhol reproductions. There was an enormous black leather couch and two matching chairs artfully arranged beside it, an 80” curved screen TV on the opposing wall, and a state-of-the-art sound system from B & D, a very high-end brand. There was even an ornate mahogany pool table in the corner to match the gleaming horseshoe-shaped bar. It was a bit psychedelic for my taste, but it was definitely a lot classier than the rest of The Nest.
When I turned to compliment Paul on his newly decorated room, he grabbed me by the collar and pinned me to the wall. “Marc! Forget the fucking room!” he pleaded, “I only asked you up here because I needed some time and privacy. Oh God! You have to help me!”
We’d all seen Paul do his hysterical routine before, but he’d never looked this scared or sincere before. He went on to explain how he was tired of Lync—that his steroid use was way out of control and his antics were frightening, not to mention, they could cost them their show. Paul was afraid of Lync! Well, no one could really blame him. Lync was paranoid, and always accusing Paul of flirting, though it was Lync who was the two-timing spouse.
On one hand, I was relieved that the “set up” I’d been so anxious about had nothing to do with me, but on the other hand, I felt kinda sorry for Paul. Even though he’d recently been a pain in the ass to me, when you see that naked fear in someone (and believe me, I know how that feels), it’s hard to ignore.
Paul must’ve seen the bewilderment on my face, because he took it as his cue for tears. “Oh Marc, what can I do?” he continued hysterically, clasping my shirt tighter. “You must help! You’ve seen firsthand how crazy he can get…I can’t take it much longer!” As if he’d been practicing in the mirror, he wrapped his arms around my shoulder and let out more tears. There goes my one semi-decent shirt.
It was in that moment that the door to the lounge banged open, with a wild-eyed Lync ferociously bursting into the room. Paul and I jumped away from one another, shouting in surprise. Lync looked like a homicidal maniac on a mission. “I thought so! You two-timing bitch!” he spat at Paul. “You put on a good show. All this time you said all you wanted was me, but you just want anyone who will pay you some attention—even this little shit of a grip from the show! Damn it, Paul! He’s not even your type!”
Lync’s forehead veins bulged and throbbed as he continued, “Maybe you don’t have a type after all. Maybe you’ll take any piece of ass you can get your grimy hands on!”
I found myself to be more concerned with Paul, who was shaking violently and ducking behind me, using me as his human shield. It didn’t take long for Lync to attract some of the partygoers from downstairs who needed to see what the commotion was all about.
“Lync, you’re crazy! Those steroids are killing you! They’re killing us!” Paul protested.
“You’re scaring me, and I just can’t take it anymore!”
I tried to diffuse the situation, seeing that more people were crowding into the room.
“Lync, please listen to me! There is absolutely nothing—NOTHING!—happening between me and Paul,” I argued. Realizing that I was starting to raise my voice, I dialed it back, trying to reassure Lync in the calmest, most non-threatening tone I could muster, “Shit, I’m straight!”
But in typical Lync fashion, he didn’t buy it. “You little piece of crap!” he began shouting, pushing his finger in my chest. “You shut the fuck up, and stop defending him, you got it? I know how that little bitch works with his ‘woe is me’ show.”
Lync maneuvered,
trying to get a hold of Paul, who was conveniently shrunken behind me. “And to think I fell for that once. You lying piece of shit. I could kill you right now!” he screamed even louder.
As if on cue, the crowd gasped. I looked over and saw Mrs. Fox standing amongst them, visually upset and looking shocked. I tried to send her a reassuring look, but she remained terrified. Lync’s ongoing use of steroids, now mixed with way too much alcohol, were finally pushing him past the point of no return.
Things were getting crazy, and you could sense violence was in the air. It was déjà vu all over again. I’d seen this before, and it was a no-win situation.
“Lync. I don’t want to upset you or anyone else here,” I said, hoping to call attention to all the people watching this ugly scene unfold. Where are the TV cameras when you need them? At least this footage would be good for something. “It’s a great night...thank God it’s Friday, right?” my voice cracked. “Everyone here loves you, loves The Nest. They’re all having a fantastic time. Why don’t I just leave now, and then you and Paul can work things out privately, after everyone has cooled off. Does that sound okay?” I tried my best not to patronize him.
That’s when Lync noticed everyone gathered around in total disbelief. Some looked concerned, but most of them were just excited by the shit show. Lync stepped back and appeared to somewhat deflate, with his shoulders starting to sag. I took it as a good sign and tried to extricate myself from Paul. I could see from the corner of my eye that Mrs. Fox was sending a signal that she wanted to get the hell out of here now.
Finally, the crowd began to disperse, assuming the spectacle was over. But suddenly, I heard someone shout, “He’s got a gun!” I turned to see Lync pulling a gun from thin air, waving it somewhere between me and the exiting crowd.
“No!” he commanded. Despite Paul trying to escape with the rest of the crowd, Lync found his target, pointing it straight at Paul.
Lync looked like a man possessed and at any second, he was going to pull that trigger. For some stupid reason, my mind went back to an old 60 Minutes episode about how some teachers saved their students’ lives during school shootings. I dove straight into Lync, hoping to grab him before he could pull the trigger and hurt anyone. We wrestled for the gun; not surprisingly, Lync was incredibly strong, thanks to those damn steroids. Time slowed and for a couple of very long seconds, nothing happened. Then it did.
The sound was deafening, and everyone froze. Lync and I fell to the ground, still wrestling for the gun. I wasn’t sure if anyone was hit—it all was a blur. Then Paul screamed, “Lync! Please don’t do this!”
The sound of his lover’s voice broke through whatever trance Lync had been in, distracting him enough to pull away from me, but his grip on the gun shifted, causing it to fire again. This time, we both slackened our grip on each other and the gun. I felt like I had run a marathon. Experts say that shock affects you so that you may not be aware when you’re physically harmed, at least in the immediate aftermath of a traumatic physical event. I didn’t think I was shot—I just hoped nobody else took a bullet.
Then there was a general stampede for the door. I scrambled to push myself up and look for Mrs. Fox to assure myself she was okay and unharmed. She was standing across the room, looking unharmed but very sad and there were tears in her eyes. I looked back to see who she was looking at and spotted Lync, laying listless on the floor, with a blood stain on his shirt. I went to him and looked into his eyes and could see the life slowly draining out of him. Lync’s color faded, and then, there was nothing but awful stillness. Mrs. Fox saw me carefully rising to my feet and rushed over to me, fulfilling her promise as my bodyguard. Everything suddenly went blurry. It was like I had tunnel vision, and the tunnel was getting smaller and smaller. I started to collapse with the sound of Paul screaming at the top of his lungs.
10 Flavor of the Month
I looked up to see detectives writing things down in little note pads, and policemen moving about the room, everyone knowing what their job was and doing it. They observed the surroundings with minimal facial expressions. To them, it was just another crime scene.
I assumed one of the waiters must’ve called, but I couldn’t be too sure. I didn’t think one of the party-goers would call the cops, considering everyone had been on drugs for the majority of the night, but stranger things had happened. The crime scene investigators walked around the room and saw me slumped on the couch. Then they switched their focus to Lync; he was sprawled motionless on the mahogany floor with the gun resting in his hand. Oh, god. And Paul. He was exhausted, helplessly sitting on the floor, not responding to the crime scene techs who tried to get him to speak. They were treating him with kid gloves, as if they knew he would crumple at any given moment. I felt dizzy, and my eyes were burning and blurry. “At least Paul wouldn’t have to worry about Lync anymore,” I thought, as black swept over the room.
I started to get my head clear just in time to be whisked away by a local ambulance to the nearest trauma care hospital. I hated hospitals. Who didn’t? Over the next couple of hours, I was subjected to being poked and prodded all over; eyes being checked, reflexes tested. It was all exhausting, even though I was sitting down.
“How do you feel Mr. Henderson?”
“Does this hurt?”
“Can you take a few deep breaths for me?”
They asked me a ton of routine questions that any adult should be able to answer like what today’s date was, or who the current president was. Common sense stuff like that.
My head started to hurt like a son of a bitch. I’d taken a pretty hard hit. I was tired, but they wouldn’t let me sleep. Hospital staff should know by now that injured patients needed rest, I thought. But good luck with that, a hospital was the last place a person could get any sleep.
Finally, as my eyelids started to droop, the ER doctor walked briskly into the room. He pulled up a wheeled stool to the side of my bed and started to read my patient chart. He told me I had a mild concussion and that I shouldn’t worry about it, but not before casually rattling off a litany of life-threatening warning signs that I should be on the lookout for and monitor. Then he looked up at me with reassuring eyes and asked if I had any questions. I said I didn’t.
He took a deep breath and hesitated. Then he asked me in a quiet, confidential tone if I needed to speak with anyone about what had happened. I stared at him, my eyes blank. “What I mean Mr. Henderson,” he began, “is do you have any post-traumatic-stress symptoms?”
“Oh,” I said, nodding solemnly, “I see.” I assured him that I’d contact him or any of the hospital support staff if I did, but at the moment, I was doing ok. Honestly, I had no idea what “okay” was; my head was in the clouds and my brain was on vacation. Everything was blank.
He smiled kindly and went straight into protocol. “The police are going to have you transported to the police station for questioning, which is standard procedure in this type of situation.”
Before leaving, he told me that he was going to make sure I had a prescription for pain relief, as well as contact information for a nurse practitioner on staff in case I needed any follow-up appointments or counseling. I thanked him genuinely, and he walked away.
It was happening. I was actually going to have to go the police station for questioning about someone’s death. That explained why there were two uniforms stationed outside my exam room door. A series of the night’s events flashed violently across my mind. Oh God. Oh God. Lync is dead. Another star was dead because I couldn’t stay away. My body count was rapidly rising. What was going on with me? Was I losing my mind? Granted, those people were far from normal, and weren’t even remotely nice. I mean shit, Lync had been mean as hell, but did that give me any reason to play God?
And Mrs. Fox—Aud! Where was she? All I could think of was the pitiful look on her face before Lync pulled the trigger. I hoped she was okay. How had she gotten home?
First thing’s first. I needed to pee—badly. I got up on my own and felt woo
zy, stumbling for the door. It felt like I was on a merry-go-round. Luckily, the police officers on guard saw me struggling and steadied me before I hit the floor for the 2nd time. I thanked them as they helped me during my bathroom trip. I inquired about Mrs. Fox, and they told me they would do their best to find out. Then I was immediately ordered to sit still until I could keep my balance. I went to search my pockets for my phone, but realized I was in a hospital gown. I considered making another attempt to stand up, but my body voted against that. Besides, anything I’d had on me at the party had most likely been taken for evidence. But I felt anxiety prickle my heart. Was there anything incriminating on my phone? There was Petra, and then Andrea, oh yeah, and Lync, all in succession. I couldn’t figure out what I felt, but it was a combination of fear, nervousness and helplessness.
Would the police try to pin a murder charge on me? There had to be enough witnesses to confirm that I’d only been trying to stop Lync from firing the gun. Lync was the culprit! He could’ve shot into the crowd and Mrs. Fox could’ve been one of the several people hit, or worse, killed.
My head was throbbing, and my nerves were shot. A few more hours passed before I was finally discharged from the ER and escorted by wheelchair out to a waiting, nondescript vehicle—a dark blue, older sedan with tinted windows that gave off the whole “unmarked police car" vibe. I appreciated that they didn’t throw handcuffs on me like I’d been expecting. I asked someone to call my mom, knowing she’d have a heart attack if she saw me on the 11:00pm news. The one female officer told me that if her information was on my HPPA form, then she had probably already been notified, but that I would have to wait and get confirmation once we were at the station.
Killing Reality Page 7
