TheRapist

by J. Levy

  Devon

  ‘Get the fuck away from me you sick bastard.’ Devon venomously spat thick, dank sperm onto the drenched and withered sheet. It landed in a foul discarded patch, resembling a huge decaying ball of snot.

  The man’s heavy belly trembled as he heaved his weight up onto one dry, scaly elbow. Eyes glazed over with a rheumy, iridescent film and too much Modelo beer in his gut, he shoved his hairy fist down towards his weeping crotch and rubbed his globule of a fading penis.

  ‘What? What happened?’ Frantically, questioningly, he was scratching at himself with one hand, the other tied to the bedpost with a long black leather shoelace.

  Devon was up, eager to get away, hurriedly climbing into her black combats, black vintage McQueen tee, very black Dolce boots. She crouched down, swiftly tying her long leather laces, her short black bob shining paradoxically in the grim surroundings.

  ‘Shut up you fat fucking sloth,’ her voice bitter, calm.

  He pulled the sheet over his groin, squinting at her with the look of a confused dog. She stopped for a moment, looking down at him.

  ‘You’re pathetic, cheap and an easy lay.’ She spat the words at him, spitting on him. He lay there, wishing he weren’t. She added the final insult, amber eyes ablaze. ‘You taste like a fucking cow shed and I despise anything in my mouth that once drew breath.’ She flicked at her shoulders, as if swatting away something imaginary but vile. Then she was gone.

  *

  Devon

  The sun was setting over Montana Avenue. Wooden houses with aching, broken porches basked in the last rays of the day. Clamoring for every moment of peace. Tree shadows, like long willowy models, stretched their anorexic limbs across the streets. On the main drag from 17th to 10th, stores were closing for the remainder of the day. Pseudo country-style stores. Stores selling dried, haggard roses. Silk, knitted throws. Painted wooden window boxes, with bits of ivy and broken mirror stuck to them. Scrubbed, scratched pine tables, with a single, sought after, drawer at one end. Stores, trying desperately to appear French or Italian, happy enough to be on a long, clean avenue near a Californian beach. Just not content. For this was no Europe.

  A black Lexus 4 x 4 turned right onto 15th from Montana and eased into a vacant spot beneath the splayed branches of a sun-weary tree. Further west, the worn out sun traveled deeper into the horizon. A splatter of dappled sunlight surrounded the truck. As the door opened, long black-clad legs stepped into the road, followed by the rest of a lean, easy body. A short black wig and a wad of cash lay strewn on the back seat, half-hidden through the darkened windows. Leaning on the hood of the car, Devon lifted her small delicate face to the last rays of sun. Freckles on her nose, hints of gold dust. Up close she looked like a kid. Forty-two years old. Tiny tits. Body like that of a pre-pubescent boy. Great gene pool. Her long, damp hair, as black as Benedict Canyon in the dead of night, lay carelessly across her shoulders. Opening her eyes slightly, looking up into the sky, pupils almost indistinguishable in the bright light, her eyes gleamed like swollen topaz. She moved away from the truck, stepping quickly up the path and slipped into the porch, its pale, worn wooden door, at one with its earthy surroundings.

  Devon Cage’s house. Small, one story, east side of the street. Her home. Alone. Her choice. Inside, Devon slipped a cold CD into the Bang & Olufsen, allowing Vivaldi to spill from the over-sized speakers. Suddenly surrounded by melodic strains of Four Seasons, she bent down in the middle of the living room, pulled off her boots, kicked them to one side and moved across the floor to the bathroom. Locking the door behind her with a silver key, she let the shower loose, a deep green mosaic haven, flecks of gold glinting amongst the forest of tiny emerald tiles with a huge rain shower head and shiny steam jets, half hidden in the curve of the wall. Steam encased the bathroom. Tearing off her clothes, she climbed into the shower and sat down on a desperately dark green marble ledge. Water tearing across her skin, steam enveloping her pores, she scrubbed at her skin with a fresh bar of Molten Brown exfoliating soap, lingering there until her skin began to crinkle and only then did she feel as if she were properly, if temporarily, clean, the burning water having eradicated the stench of her previous encounter, thoughts of which were pounding inside her head. She tried desperately to eradicate them from her mind, but still they came, venomously dragging her back to the past…..

  Later, as the sun was wrapped snugly inside the night sky, Devon, wearing a white Hanro Tee and white cotton boxers, lay on her Persian rug, writing on a white legal pad,. The telephone rang and she snatched it from its cradle.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Devon, I’ve been trying you for hours, where were you?’

  ‘Who is this?’ She asked, even though she knew.

  ‘It’s me, Manny, who else?’

  ‘You could be any one of a number of people Manny.’

  ‘You know my voice by now!’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Come on honey, quit screwing around!’

  ‘Never,’ Devon let out a deep throaty laugh, ‘and don’t call me honey.’

  Manny grew more exasperated, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘Writing.’

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘I’m writing.’

  ‘Not now, not this second, I know you’re in the middle of your book tour. How’s the weekend, maybe Saturday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t commit to a weekend night yet honey?’

  ‘Manny?’

  ‘Yeah hon?’

  ‘Don’t refer to me as food, I don’t like it,’ her voice had dropped to a whisper.

  He hesitated. Hesitated again. ‘OK. Saturday?’

  ‘Not this Saturday.’ She dropped the telephone back on its cradle, switched off her iphone and Blackberry, threw down her notebook and went into the bedroom.

  A faint glow warmed the room from three small cobalt blue slabs of glass with tiny lights embedded in the wall. She had never liked sleeping in complete darkness. Her bed. All white. Solid wooden headboard. A mattress, handmade in London, courtesy of Harrods, embedded with cashmere. Thick white creased cotton sheets. Marshmallow white duvet. A fan trembled, blowing white satin ribbons along its tiny gust. She slipped beneath the heavy counterpane. Closed her eyes. Slept. Sweet, innocent sleep. The only place where she could safely hide from herself.

  *

  Manny

  Manny pulled up outside Devon’s house. His strong, rangy physique climbed out of his SL. Six litre. Black black. He ran his hand slowly along its gleaming body, stopping briefly to tend to a nondescript graze above the front right fender. Manny loved his cars, the SL being only one of a luxury range he awarded himself annually. They meant so much to him, gave him the pride and confidence to go anywhere. He walked towards the door, pressed the bell and listened to the soft chimes from within. He smiled. Confident. After all, he was a self-assured man of the world. He waited. No answer. Again, he pressed the bell, a slight shiver strolled through his body and he pulled his pale blue cotton Ralph Lauren collar up towards his ears. His nose and upper cheekbones were covered with a soft sprinkling of pale brown freckles, like a twelve year old who had been kissed by the sun, softening his features, almost at odds with large ears, one of which was almost at right angles to his head, but somehow almost completely concealed beneath his hair. Well, not really his hair, but cleverly woven-on locks, carefully French-knotted one hair at a time into a very thin membrane-like polyurethane base. It weighed next to nothing, cost him a fortune and was so worth it. He had thought of getting his ears pinned back, or rather, ear. Maybe one day. He hated pain. Meanwhile, every eight weeks he had the hair re-bonded. It looked so natural, he knew he had nothing to worry about. But he never let a woman put he
r arms around his neck or attempt to run her fingers through his hair, even though he probably could, his borderline obsession getting the better of him. He was careful about that. Manny was a careful man.

  He pressed the doorbell again and again, there was no answer. He stepped back onto the earth, between the florid California poppies and peered through the window. Darkness. Walking back to his car, he tore a poppy from the ground with his handmade John Lobb shoe. ‘Shit!’ he hissed in the dark. It was unlike him to be careless. He spat on his finger and wiped the earth off of his beloved shoe, spat on his finger again and glanced back at the small, still house. Disappointed, he got into his car, reversed back into the road and slowly drove away.

  Inside the car, Manny punched memory three into his cell. After two rings, an answer machine picked up. ‘Leave a message.’ Beep. ‘Devon, I just went to your place. Why wouldn’t you answer? I want to see you, I can’t wait until the weekend, call me, 555-6297. Bye. 310 area code. Um, it’s Manny.’ He ended the call with an embarrassed sigh. The confidence was crumbling. Luckily, he had a couple of back up plans.

  Inside her house, tightly wrapped like a papoose inside the sanctity of her bed, Devon, oblivious to the world, slept on.

  Morning seeped through the white wooden shutters, slanting into the bedroom. Opening her eyes, squinting into the rays of the sun, Devon felt between her legs. ‘Shit, another wet dream,’ she sighed. Swiftly swinging her long legs out of the bed she headed for the shower, not attempting for a moment to embrace that side of herself.

  *

  Book Signing

  Century City Mall. Inside another Westfield resurrection, one of the movie theatre screens was packed to capacity to hold a book signing, filled to the brim with loyal readers and fans. A display adorned the entrance, with Devon’s bestseller staged as if it were a stairway disappearing into a cloud. A small table had been set up in front of the screen, with two books and two cans of Coca-Cola. Regular Coke. No Diet, Non-Caff, Zero or otherwise. People filled the seats. Others took to the floor. A short, shriveled man wearing a large red bow-tie stood beside the table, smiling nervously, every so often scratching and picking at a small crust behind his right ear. He couldn’t wait to get to a mirror to see what it was and as soon as he was able, he would race to the men’s room and use the tiny dentist’s mirror he carried everywhere to see the exact position of the unidentified crust, the thought of which was making him almost tremble with anticipation. Meanwhile he had to content himself with an occasional, surreptitious pick. He spoke in a voice that matched his tight, strained physicality perfectly.

  ‘It is our great pleasure to present to you, a fabulous new author, one whose work is soaring to the top of the bestseller lists, please welcome Ms. Devon Cage, who will read passages to us from her bestselling novel entitled, ‘Overthrown and Underdone’. He smiled broadly, his thin lips grasping the edges of little white teeth and held the chair out for Devon. The crowd clapped. Devon, looking as lazy and carefree as a melting ice-cream in a buttery silk sheath, sat down, smiling at the crowd.

  ‘I’m thrilled to be here today,’ her voice was husky, sounding as if she had just awoken from an erotic dream. ‘As you may know, I’ve been traveling across the States, promoting my book, and, it really feels good to be back in Los Angeles, my chosen home town.’ She smiled. Dazzled. Three young men in suits, just out of college, in the gestation period of fledging careers, had stopped by to check on movie times and pick up cycling magazines from the news stand. They stopped dead in their tracks when they heard Devon’s voice and were already in love.

  Her voice mesmerizing. Slow. Deliberate.

  ‘I cried in the rainforest. The rain fell, and I was wet, from my tears and from the sky. And the sky was crying with me, shedding tears for the loss of the gardens of her world...’

  Ten minutes later, an assorted, entranced crowd lined up for Devon to sign their own copies of her book. Anything that even vaguely resembled literacy or culture was a sure thing in the town of fallen angels.

  ‘I loved your reading Ms. Cage.’

  ‘Keep on writing Devon!’ chimed a small thin man dressed in a beige linen suit with a red rose in his buttonhole.

  ‘We can’t wait to read it!’ cried fuzzy-haired identical twins in unison. Obviously.

  ‘Could you please sign this to Melissa?’

  ‘I’m coming back to this very theatre to catch the very first screening!’ chortled an overly enthusiastic fan in an orange flowered muumuu.

  ‘My son will be sorry he missed this, sign it to Dwayne!’

  ‘I loved your reading, I’ll love your book.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms. Cage, you are awesome!’

  ‘Keep up the words!’

  ‘To Adrian.’

  Devon looked up. Amber eyes locked with brown.

  ‘Adrian,’ she whispered.

  *

  Manny

  Careful Manny Kofsberg sat at his desk by the window of his office on the fifteenth story of a glass and granite structure in Century City. His secretary buzzed through, her voice resembling a throttled cat, howling through the speaker phone.

  ‘Mr. Arthur on two!’

  ‘I’ll call him back.’

  ‘Right you are!’

  Manny hated his secretary. He thought she was an annoying stupid bitch. He began to tug on the front of his woven masterpiece, then stopped himself and instead gazed through the window, watching a coating of yellow smog that had insidiously settled over the Pacific. It was great to be this high and have a view of the ocean. Then again, viewing the ocean from a high-rise in Los Angeles was a rarity, due to the smog distorting all in its gloomy, sallow path.

  The three monitors on his desk flickered and hummed, almost groveling for attention, the markets changing every second, prices dropping, buyers bidding, New York in full throttle, London closing, Tokyo sleeping. Viewing the world in hazy saturation, Manny gazed on. The phone buzzed.

  ‘Mrs Moon on one, are you in or out?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Right you are!’

  Manny grabbed the phone and punched three on the memory bank. After two rings followed by a beep, he heard Devon’s voice: ‘Leave a message.’ Manny softly replaced the receiver as he looked out of the window at the bridge that lifted people over Avenue of the Stars. He counted five people on the bridge, two walking to the Westfield mall, three returning to their offices. Where did they have lunch? Food court? Salad bar at the market? Chicken, salad, blue cheese or ranch? Did they buy anything, maybe something special, something for a date? Did they look forward to going back to the office, or did they dread it? And most importantly, he thought, who cared? Who the fuck gave a fucking shit? He smashed a button on the phone.

  ‘Yes sir?’ howled the secretary.

  ‘Get Arthur on the phone!’ he barked, a pit bull to her pussy.

  ‘Right you are!’

  Manny sighed as he waited for the call to connect. He really hated his secretary. He wondered what it would be like to fuck her. She would probably squeal out, ‘right you are!’ as she came.

  ‘Mr. Arthur on two, sir!’

  Manny furiously jabbed the flashing green button on his phone.

  ‘Mr. Arthur, Manny Kofsberg here, sorry to have kept you, now about the Davenport stock, it’s still a tad weak but looking promising...’

  Minutes later, having wrestled the doubts from Mr Arthur’s mind, Manny turned towards his desk, forcing himself to get on with business. If he had carried on watching the bridge below, he would have seen two more figures. A man and a woman. Of course, from this height he would not have been able to identify them. Devon. Adrian.

  *

  Meringue

  Meringue Pavlova was not her real name. The carefully chosen moniker was the name on her SEG, SAG and AFTRA union cards. It was the name she had PKA-ed onto her passport and in her kitten covered check book; the name on her driving license; social security card; library card; Blockbuster card; spa card; gym card. She
thought her name sounded scrumptious and she wanted to sound like something everybody wanted to devour. Meringue cared about that, for she liked people to like her. She suffered from the If-You-Like-Me-I’ll-Like-You-Back syndrome. If anybody gave her the slightest compliment, she would be an instant loyal friend. She was tall, pretty and very white. She was also a meat-eater, a lifelong carnivore, a habit which she tried desperately to hide. She did not think that it went along with the image she was trying to cultivate, that of a fresh, healthy, all- American girl. Meringue had come to Los Angeles from a small town tucked away in a north-eastern corner of Florida. She had swapped palm trees for palm trees, sand for sand, an ocean for an ocean and had now been in Los Angeles for seventeen years. Through a variety of different but equally incompetent agents, she had worked on three guest spots on episodic TV (one as a dead bimbo and two under-fives), three commercials (none of which went national), a couple of good, but forgettable scenes in a would-be feature, that ended up on the cutting room floor but went straight to DVD anyway, and a three week stint in a play, in a so far off off Santa Monica theatre that it was practically in another state, she was still there. Still struggling. Still trying to get a ‘really good, really powerful’ agent. Still trying to perfect the perfect 8’ x 10’ head shot, the one that would catch the eye of a casting director instead of ending up lining the trash. It was hard, being rejected constantly and despite lashings of daily moisturising, you had to have the skin of a rhino to survive in Los Angeles. Even her infrequent forays into therapy had failed to prepare her for this constant mind beating, for

  handling constant rejection was something in which Meringue had had way too much practice, something in which she had almost strangely begun to relish, trying to use it to her advantage. If ever she landed a part that called for ‘a pretty, white, tall girl who had spent years suffering from rejection’ she probably wouldn’t even have to research her character. She would be able to just slip right into the role, just like that, just like an oyster slipping easily down your throat. If you liked oysters. Which Meringue did not. She thought they looked as if someone with a really bad cold had sneezed into a shell. Boogers on the half-shell. Yum. But she kept that thought to herself, not wanting to make anybody feel uncomfortable. She could not afford to offend anyone in this town, for who knew if someone knew someone with clout. Everybody knew somebody who might know somebody powerful. So she kept her oyster musings and carnivorous dark side to herself.