THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  But she was high, and getting more so. She hawked bits of powder down her throat and slid out of her jeans and panties. She squeezed an unstrapped breast through the tie-dyed cotton of her T-shirt, her other hand dropping to the dark triangle between her legs. She looked longingly at the Jim Morrison poster and threw back her head, savouring the ecstasy of her deft stroke. But with no peak in the offing, she wiped her finger across the powder-specked corner of the sink. She sucked on it and absorbed the rich taste. The familiar tang of the drug interspersed with the meaty salt of her arousal.

  'God help me.' She groaned with throaty abandon. 'I'm so horny.'

  'Hey,' her sister called from the other side of the bathroom door. 'Telephone.'

  Belize wrapped a towel about her, turned off the taps, and opened the door.

  'It's lover boy.' Her older sister tapped a dog-eared Spanish novel against her thigh, and looked put out.

  'Now, now, don't be jealous,' snickered Belize, skipping past her to the hallway phone.

  'Hello?'

  'Hi babe, it's me.'

  'Ah Scott,' she said in a husky tone that betrayed the pleasurable sensations of the narcotic she'd taken.

  Goldman met Belize three months ago when she worked as a checkout girl in his local supermarket. She was attracted to him and knew he was to her as he tended to use her checkout when shopping there. Late one Saturday night they ran into each other at a newly opened Inner Harbor nightclub. They hit it off and partied into the early hours. They eventually ended up in Goldman's bed, and by dawn were sound asleep in each other's arms. Since that night they both enjoyed the fiery lovemaking that lay at the heart of their casual relationship.

  'Belize, you haven't forgot about tomorrow night? You and your sister are still coming, right? My workmate Rod will be there.'

  'Hey,' she chirped. 'I'm not some silly American girl. Of course I haven't forgotten. And Manuela's definitely coming.' She glared at her passing sister. 'Even if I have to drag her by the hair. She needs to get out of this goddamn house.'

  Manuela eyeballed Belize and marched to her room, slamming the door on the conversation.

  'I'm sure her and Rod will get on like ... how do you say it?'

  'A house on fire?'

  'Si, something like that.' Her accented voice lowered and she purred seductively. 'Listen, Scott, I just ran a hot bath and I'm shivering in the hallway with only a teeny towel about me, and I'm sure you don't want me catching a cold and losing my, ah, energia, huh? So, my lovable hombre, I'll see you tomorrow night, hmm? You know I can't wait. Adios, darling.' She made a long kissing sound and hung up.

  Goldman listened absently to the dial tone before replacing the receiver. Hmm, he mused, short and sweet does it. He leaned back in the pillows and closed his eyes. He remembered Belize and the last time they made love. Rose and tan images of her writhing and naked came vividly to him as did the sound of her throaty laughter as they frollicked afterwards.

  He liked her.

  He found her effervescent personality a welcome change from the underlying conservatism of many east coast girls he'd met. Belize was the first woman he'd been involved with since the death of his wife Rachel. Of course Belize would never replace Rachel, nor would she dampen the memories of Rachel which sometimes overcame Goldman during times of solitude. No, he couldn't see another woman replacing Rachel anytime soon.

  He reshuffled the printouts and looked up at his inched-open window as wind blanketed outside eaves. An eerie sound that always put him on edge. Shafts of light crept across his bedroom wall as a car pulled up outside. Its engine stopped. A car door slammed. Then another. Conscious of the illegal papers in his hands, he treaded across the carpeted floor to the window. He peered between the rattling slats of the Venetian blind as it curled inward from the night's gathering wind. A man and a woman huddled together as they ran across the rain-lashed street. He recognized them as neighbours. The woman's hair flapped against her squinting face as the couple unlocked their front door. Hardly a night to be out.

  Goldman slid the window shut and dropped back on to his bed. He re-propped the pillows and continued reading the MK-ULTRA synopsis.

  EIGHT

  Michelle Eastman kicked back in her friend's Rosedale apartment. She was relieved to be off the road with its unending byways and strangers and to be around a familiar face. A face that had figured prominently in her life. Yes, she and Carmen went way back.

  'Honestly Michelle, you would've loved it down there. It was fabulous.'

  Fabulous, Michelle thought. The word was so Carmen.

  Carmen Michaels-Costa tossed back a luxuriant mane of black hair and grabbed a delicate spoon from a carved wood box on the coffee table in front of her. The American-Salvadorian model was tall, tan and slim, and more often than not turned the heads of male and female alike, whether she was parading on the catwalk or strolling along the sidewalk. She'd learned long ago that her disarming beauty could make serious money and fast-track her into the good life, all the while bolstering her young woman cunning and ambition.

  Michelle met her glamorous friend when both were sixteen and starry-eyed entrants in a Miss Boston beauty contest. Though only Carmen placed, an Alexis Models scout at the contest scheduled the two girls for a portfolio shoot. Michelle and Carmen struck up a friendship that grew alongside their burgeoning careers.

  Working out of Alexis' New York and Paris offices, the rising young models became sought after; though Carmen more so. Michelle, less worldly than her Salvadorian friend, had more or less anchored herself to fashion photographer Terence Cruise; whereas Carmen, after a string of colourful liaisons, some of them picked up by celebrity tabloids, was presently engaged to Paulo Palmas, an up-and-coming Brazilian actor based in Rio.

  'So you flew down to Mustique with Paulo Jr to see one of his friends?'

  'Uh-huh, this cute guy named Dominique. They were old reservist buddies or something. Well after a day or two of lying round and generally soaking up the sun, this guy Dominique got the hots for me.'

  'Of course,' Michelle said coolly.

  'Anyhow, to impress me, I'm sure, he took us to – '

  'Ah, Carmen, he probably didn't know what to do with you guys, and felt he had to, you know ... entertain you.'

  Carmen gave her friend a “you really don't know anything, do you?” look. 'Well he certainly tried to entertain me behind Paulo's back.'

  The two young women stared at each other. 'Men,' they said at near the same time, the air between them laced with scorn.

  'So' – and Carmen looked well pleased to have got the upper hand – 'Dominique took us on a tour of the grounds of this mansion next door. Princess Margaret's vacation home.'

  'Who's that?'

  'I don't know, some British royal apparently. Honestly, 'chelle, some of the beach houses there looked like Balinese tourist resorts. Anyhow, Dominique then took us to Brian and Jerri's place on the island. I mean, can you believe it? A few of the Black Roses were there partying and hanging out after recording ... how's that new song go again? ... da, da, da, something about she won't give it up ... anyhow we hung out with them till early morning, and I'm telling you it was really cool.'

  'Wow, amazing.' Surprisingly Michelle didn't feel a pang of jealousy. 'Didn't you once work with Jerri at an Azzedine Alaia parade?'

  'Uh-huh. About a year ago, but she said she didn't remember me.' Carmen tapped the last of her coke into her monogrammed silver spoon and snorted it.

  Michelle looked at Paulo's Jr's initials tattooed on Carmen's lower leg, and wondered how Carmen could profess to love someone who lived in another country.

  Carmen rubbed her pert nose and made a hawking sound from the back of throat. 'That's it, I'm out.' She skipped into the kitchen. A moment later she dropped her leggy frame into a Victorian seat opposite Michelle, pulling the ring-tab off a fresh can of Diet Coke.

  Having watched her friend consume a worrisome amount of cocaine and cola, Michelle said with parental-like concern, '
I'm kinda worried about your coke habits, babe. I honestly think you're moving too fast. You're starting to get night circles under your eyes and – '

  Carmen slapped her drink down on the table, her hard body ratcheting up like a fresh span of fencing wire. 'Oh please don't make me laugh. You're worried about moi? Take a look in the mirror, sweetheart – at that black eye of yours, for starters. I mean, you look so ... down-and-out.' She took a swig of cola, her piercing eyes advertising her anger. 'Anyway, you know I never use when I work. Never.' She looked down at the red and white can in her hand. 'And I certainly work, babe. Oh, yes I do ...' She lifted her head, her photogenic face a portrait of smug competitiveness. 'I mean, I've just rolled over a two-year contract with Klein, sweetheart. I'm twenty-two, I drive a new Beamer, and my annual interest could only make fun of your savings. Plus I own this apartment.'

  'You just inherited it from your grandfather,' Michelle said defensively. She could hardly believe her friend's vitriolic response, but knew just the same Carmen had an obsessional fear of aging and didn't take kindly to any off the cuff comment about her looks. “And you only moved here to get way from that stalker in New York.'

  'Nevertheless, I'll soon sell this place for a pretty tune before moving back to my Greenwich loft. Look at you 'chelle ... you're my best friend and I almost cry when I think about you. You look so drawn, so ... unemployed. How long's it been since you worked? I mean forget Europe. Have you got what it takes to start here again, to work the catwalks? Have you got the energy, the contacts? That parasite boyfriend is taking you down. For God's sake, wise up, babe. Before it's too late!'

  'Okay, okay. So he thumped me and took my Alfa. It's no big deal. And by the way' –Michelle struck a confident pose and smirked – 'Alexis Models contacted me last week and offered me a haute couture shoot in Milan, and possibly parades to go with it.'

  'Oh sure.'

  'It's true, goddamn it! And on the way here I felt I was ready to work again. In fact, I can't wait.'

  'I can't believe you actually hitchhiked here.'

  'Well if you'd paid your goddamn phone bill before you traipsed off to the Caribbean, I could've called you to come and get me, or I could have at least talked to you. Why didn't you pay it?

  'Okay, okay, I forgot.' Carmen's raw-nerve anger dissipated as rapidly as it'd flared.

  'And you've been back for days, so why isn't the phone back on?'

  'There's some union dispute at Bell.' She took a sharp sip of her drink. 'They're guaranteeing it'll be on either tomorrow or Monday. God, I hope it's tomorrow.'

  A silence fell between the women.

  Michelle rubbed her knees and her eyes brightened from the prospect of future work. 'Hmm, I'm really confident about this new offer.' She saw the disbelieving look on her friend's face. 'Some new flavour-of-the-month designer saw me in an Alexis portfolio and, I don't know, got all fired up and said I just had to be part of his new inter-seasonal collection.'

  'I still can't believe you hitchhiked here.' And Carmen in turn displayed parental-like concern.

  However Michelle didn’t doubt such concern was a ploy to keep attention away from Carmen's growing excesses and the demands they were beginning to make on her money-making looks. 'Well I did.' Michelle rubbed her thighs and thought about Goldman and decided to use her time with him to steer the conversation in a more congenial direction. 'Anyhow, this really nice guy gave me a lift.'

  'Oh, I'm sure ...' Carmen studied her long slender hands (which made her considerable money from hand-modelling assignments - most recently from a De Beers Diamonds contract). She looked up and blurted. 'Are you carrying, babe? Come on, please!'

  'Just wait,' Michelle snapped, though she soon reached into the change pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a small bag of coke along with the folded dollar bill Goldman had given her. Toying with the two items, she said, 'Anyhow this cute guy gave me his phone number and offered me a lift back to DC on the weekend.'

  Carmen sat anxiously on the edge of her seat and watched Michelle's play of hand. 'You've got two. More the merrier.' She reached for the folded dollar bill.

  Michelle pulled back. 'No, Scott gave it to me.'

  'Michelle, please!'

  A part of Michelle took pleasure from Carmen acting like an agitated pup hungry for feed. Accordingly she took her own sweet time in handing over the coke. She then appraised the folded bill as if it were emblematic of her agreeable time with Goldman. 'Hmm, this is something else.'

  'Like what?' Carmen hardly cared now she had what she wanted.

  'I'm not sure exactly.' Michelle unfolded the dollar bill and put her finger to the grainy powder. 'Blah, that tastes bitter.'

  Carmen took a feisty swig of her drink. 'Hey, you don't know what that crap is.'

  'Don't worry. Scott said it's used by marriage counsellors in California. I told him about Terence and everything, and he suggested Terence and I take some together.'

  'I can't believe that scuzz bucket actually hit you. Look at your damn eye, 'chelle. The next time I see him – '

  'Screw Terence. Anyway, Scott said that – '

  'So how much did he hit you for it?'

  'Nothing. He gave it to me, Carmen. He was an okay dude. He was, you know, like, educated. He drove a new-model Saab.'

  'Uh-huh, one only has to look at your limited track record to know you can't see past mens' charms.' Carmen didn't even grace her friend with a challenging look. She simply bowed her head and moved her heaped spoon from one nostril to the other.

  Michelle was taken aback by her highly strung friend all but shovelling cocaine up her nose. Carmen must have partied hard in the Caribbean. Michelle's heart sagged. God, please don't let her become an all-out junkie ...

  But Michelle's time with Goldman came to mind and lifted her spirits. She remembered what he'd told her about the crystalline powder in her hands. It was used by marriage counsellors, something like that. So it would probably make her feel good. God knew she needed something to get her through this bust-up with Terence – and Carmen wasn’t proving any help. She took a deep breath and made up her mind there and then. 'Well, I'm going to try this stuff.'

  Carmen looked up from her drug paraphernalia on the coffee table. The long-standing friends stared at each other in a contest of wills. Michelle trusted her impression of Goldman and had faith in what he'd given her on gratis. She was about to put that trust and faith to the test. 'So you want to try some with me?'

  Carmen shook her head with the resolution of a vegan offered bacon rashers for breakfast, her long black hair swishing about her shoulders. She looked horrified by her friend's devil-may-care attitude. 'No way babe, and I advice you to flush that crap down the toilet.'

  'Well, I'm gonna try it.' Michelle jumped up from her seat. Without a backward glance, she marched into the kitchen.

  Haslow swallowed a sleeping tablet and brushed his teeth. He retired to the bedroom, slipping between the rumpled covers of his unmade bed. He checked the bedside clock: 9:58 pm. His mind still animated from his decision to leave work and travel; hence the need for a sleeping tablet.

  He relaxed as more of the medication took hold. Time loosened its grip and his head sank deeper into the pillow. Worldly concerns fell away like unwanted baggage ... Before long his bedside phone beeped like the implacable trill of an alien insect. He grumbled at being disturbed and reached for the receiver.

  'Hello?'

  'Hi, Roderick.'

  His brother Peter.

  Now of all times? Haslow swallowed hard, the effect of the sleeping tablet weighing down on him like the debilitating gravity of a giant planet. He was too drowsy, too not himself by half, to have to deal with his brother. God, why now? If only he could slide down a wondrous tunnel to a world more of his liking, but of course no such fanciful escape presented itself. He sighed, and words tumbled from his mouth like an impetuous throw of dice on a craps table, 'My, my, Mr Miami. What a surprise.'

  'I'm sure it is. Listen, I'm coming up
to DC on the weekend and I thought we should get together on Saturday night and have a brotherly reunion over a few drinks.'

  Haslow fought against the sedating medication, for fear of losing his grip on the situation, which was growing more dream-like by the minute. Of course Peter had proposed meeting before, but of all nights for him to it was this one – the same night Haslow decided to quit his job of fifteen years. Sweeping change was in the air, but could the middle-aged chemist, so set in his ways, take advantage of it? It seemed a big ask as he lay crumpled in his bed.

  'Are you still there, Roderick?'

  Haslow worked air into his lungs. With diminishing faculties, he decided to engage (at least in a cautious, partial manner) the unknown world of his brother – a world he'd kept at arm's length for most of his adult life. 'So where will you be staying?' He couldn't believe what he'd asked.

  'I'm not sure yet. But I'll leave the number on your machine. You still have one?'

  'No, um, Madeleine took it.' He pumped his rapidly deflating brain into action. 'Listen, I'll be out tomorrow night.' And with a bit of romantic luck, he mused, possibly the whole goddamn night. 'And maybe Saturday night too,' he lied, now prepared to discourage.

  'Okay, no problem. I'll leave my hotel number with Clarence McGuire. Remember him from the orphanage? I know you still see him. He owns that joint on Ninth and – '

  'Yeah, I know where it is,' Haslow cut in. Clarence “Chubby” McGuire's insolent mouth had often got him in trouble with the orphanage brothers, not to mention in fights with fellow orphans. Haslow kept contact with McGuire by sometimes dropping in at the D.C. piano bar the balding Irishman had owned and operated for more than a decade.

  'So ring me Saturday evening, around six.'

  Haslow cringed as his mouth formed the following words, 'All right, I'll call you then.'