Black Neon

by Tony O'Neill

  “PCP? What is this? Nineteen fucking seventy-two? What the hell are you doin’ with a bindle of angel dust, man?”

  “I told you, Gibby. It was a freebie! The guy just gave it to me, what was I supposed to do… say NO? My name ain’t Nancy Reagan. Look, I told him there was no powder coke in any of that stuff. Maybe he shoulda checked with me about what it was before he went and stuck it all up his nose during an important business meeting.”

  “Oh well thanks for the advice, Randal,” Gibby deadpanned, “But it doesn’t really help at this point, does it? All I know is that Jacques thought he was doing coke and the next thing he knows he’s out of his mind, naked and smeared in his own shit. When I barged into the stall he totally freaked out. After he pinned me to the floor, I couldn’t get him to budge. I finally managed to talk him down, but it wasn’t easy.”

  As Gibby droned on, Randal’s mind was preoccupied.

  Of course, he realized, it would be just as easy to call up Carlos and pick up some speed from him now that they were back in contact. Then Dr Titov wouldn’t have to know that Randal was burning through his Adderall prescriptions at a rate of 240mg-plus a day. It would be a hell of a lot cheaper, too.

  “So, uh, what did you do about Kenny and those guys?”

  “I did the only thing I could think of. After I got Jacques offa me, I locked him up in a stall, cleaned myself off in the sink and I had to go up there with my filthy, wet suit and explain that Jacques was feeling a little unwell, and could they excuse us? I blamed it on jetlag.”

  “That’s the best you could come up with?” Randal snorted, “Fuckin’ jetlag?”

  “Yeah well, pardon me Randal but I’d just crawled out from underneath a naked, shitty Frenchman. I was kinda thrown off my game, you know? But that’s the thing – the looks those bastards gave me! I wouldn’t be surprised if they canned the whole frigging project! They knew something was up. That goddamned assistant of Kenny’s was giving me the total stink-eye. Thing is I’m starting to come to the conclusion that Jacques might be burnt out. Maybe he couldn’t handle the success of Dead Flowers and all of the bullshit that came along with it. But if that’s the case, I sure as hell can’t let Kenny figure that out. Not until we’ve signed the contract at least. He must suspect that something’s up, though. Azura can’t be that fuckin dumb, can he? He’s one of the richest and most powerful men in Hollywood, for Chrissakes!”

  “Of course he can be that fucking dumb! If money and power was a sign of intelligence, then Britney Spears would be one of the smartest bitches on the planet, ya know? It’ll be fine, I’m sure. Don’t freak out.”

  “I guess.”

  No, Randal decided, there’s no fucking way I’m gonna call Carlos. He was infuriated with himself for even considering it. He was just months away from being out of his brother’s clutches and getting his hands on his rightful inheritance. Months away from being a free man again, beholden to nobody but himself.

  How could he risk throwing that all away, so close to the finish line?

  “By the way Randal, what kind of a fucking place have you got Jacques booked into here?”

  “Huh?”

  Gibby looked around the squalid room he was standing in, and frowned. “It’s a fucking dump.”

  “It’s exactly the kind of place that Jacques wanted. It has flavour. So how’s Jacques doing now?”

  “He’s passed out. I had to dress the bastard myself and sneak him out the back door and into a cab. He stank. I had to slip the cabbie an extra fifty up front just to let us in the car. I forced three Ambien down his throat and made him wash it down with a beer, so he’s gonna be out for a while. But get this: right before he conked out completely I told him I was gonna call you up and chew you out for poisoning him with that bogus coke, and you know what that crazy frog bastard said to me?”

  “Go on.”

  Gibby adoped a ridiculous fake-French accent. “Ask ’im if ’e ’as any more of zat shit. Jesus Christ!” Gibby shook his head dejectedly, “I hope you can see the kinda bullshit I’m up against here.”

  Randal knew well what dealing with Jacques entailed. Even here and now, as he fretted about running out of Adderall , Randal knew that his problem was not the pills, nor even his mounting desire to call up Carlos and score some meth.

  These things were merely symptoms.

  His problem was Jacques. Until Jacques turned up on the scene, things had been okay. Not great by any stretch of the imagination, but at least okay. After only a day and a bit in the drug-addled director’s company, Randal felt sure that he was on the verge of a relapse. Being around Jacques while he played the role of the unrepentant hedonist was forcing Randal into a position that he felt utterly unsuited for – the nagging voice of reason. He knew there was no way in hell that he could keep up that charade for long. The only other option left open to him would be to say fuck it, and join in with the madness. But even if Randal was about to relapse, he had no desire to do it with a moron like Jacques. The more he hung around Jacques, the more all those laughably trite AA slogans started to seem prescient. People, Places and Things. Jacques brought along the baggage of all three: the People being his old drug connections, the Places being all of the old motels and alleys where he once scored or crashed, and the Thing was Jacques Seltzer himself, a narcotic-crazed mountain of a man, seemingly on a kamikaze mission of total self-obliteration.

  Randal realized he had been struck by what the old-timers in the program called “a moment of clarity”. He knew with absolute certainty that he could no longer be around Jacques Seltzer. In fact, his very life depended upon it.

  “Look man, it’ll be fine,” Randal said soothingly, “Azura is as dumb as shit. If anything, he probably thinks this kinda bullshit gives Jacques cachet, or something. If it’ll make you feel any better I’m heading into Chainsaw tomorrow and I can sound him out about how it all went. You know, on the down low.”

  “Okay, Randal… That would be great…”

  Randal cut him off. “Hold that thought, Gibby. I need to talk to you about something really fucking important.” Randal took a deep breath. “The thing is, this whole Jacques deal… it’s just not working out. I’m sorry, but I’m done. I can’t baby-sit Jacques no more. It’s fucking me up.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious. I’m about one step away from a relapse here and the more I hang out with Jacques the quicker that relapse is coming. I feel like I’m standing on the tracks and that crazy bastard is driving the train that’s bearing down on me. I gotta move out of the way, or I’m toast.”

  Careful not to wake his sleeping client, Gibby hissed: “Randal! Jesus Christ, you’ve only had to put up with his stupid ass for 48 hours! I’ve had to deal with this bastard for over a fucking decade! And you’re gonna BAIL on me ALREADY?”

  “I don’t have a choice, Gibby. I gotta think about my health here. I’m too old for this shit. If I fuck up this time I’m done. My last name won’t mean shit, because for all intents and purposes I’ll no longer be a member of the Earnest family. I’ll just be another schmo. And I’m telling you man, I’ve been in schmo-ville for, like, six months now and it just ain’t me. Sorry.”

  There was a long silence on the other end. Then in a small, pleading voice Gibby begged, “Can’t you do this one thing for me? If Jacques doesn’t get the material he needs in LA, we’re all fucked. I know him, I know what he’s like! As soon as this starts to seem too difficult he’ll bail on the movie and fuck off back to Paris. He’ll go straight back into that drug and supermodel cocoon he’s been wrapped up in the past decade. This is my last fucking shot at this, Randal. If Black Neon doesn’t get made now, it’ll never get made. Where will that leave me? I’ve invested years of my life into Jacques’ career… Think about the money. You said it yourself, your brother has you on a tight leash. You’re really gonna turn twenty grand down?”

  Randal
sniffed. “It’s twenty thousand now, versus twenty million in six months. I may not be Albert fucking Einstein, Gibby, but I’m not that dumb.”

  “You gotta help me!” Gibby whined, “I have a daughter at Columbia!”

  “Look…” Randal said, regretting the words almost as soon as they had escaped his lips, “What about if I get someone to take my place? I’m too out of the loop, Gibby. Even if I don’t quit right now I’ve got the feeling that Jacques is gonna tell me to fuck off before too long anyway. The fact that I don’t get high anymore obviously annoys the crap outta him. He wants someone to join in with all of his bullshit. He doesn’t want a tour guide, Gibby, he wants a partner in crime. I can’t BE that, and he and I both know it.”

  There was a long pause on the line as Gibby paced Jacques’ motel room.

  “Yeah, but even if you’re right about that… who? Where the fuck can we find a junkie scumbag I’d be willing to trust my client with? Jacques may be a prick, Randal, but he’s no use to me if some fucking dope-fiend slits his throat and takes his wallet. I mean, lets face it… he’s not exactly street smart.”

  “To tell the truth,” Randal said, “I only ever met one trustworthy dope-fiend in my whole fucking life.”

  “Who?”

  “He was a good friend of mine. I’ve had to keep away from him ever since I got sober. He’s still out there using, and being around that kind of stuff is just too much of a trigger for me. But… I know how to find him. Last I heard he was staying at a hotel in Hollywood. I have a number for him, somewhere.”

  “You can really vouch for him?”

  Randal gnawed anxiously on a hangnail. “Look Gibby, straight up, I can vouch for him. That isn’t the issue here. The thing is he’s a real good friend of mine, and I need to know whether you can vouch for Jacques. I don’t want to see this guy being taken advantage of. There’d be conditions. He needs to be paid some up front money. Plus, I know that Jacques is very free and fucking easy with that camera of his, so if you use any images or video of this guy I want it guaranteed in writing that he’ll be fairly compensated. I don’t just mean those bullshit, hundred dollar model fees that Jacques palmed off of on those Party and Play freaks. I need a guarantee that my friend will have a stake in the ownership of his own image and he’ll get paid every fucking time it’s used. I don’t wanna see this guy’s face plastered all over the walls of some pretentious gallery in Soho while he’s scuffling around trying to raise enough money to buy a bag of crappy dope. If you can’t agree to that, no deal.”

  Taking Gibby’s silence as a sign he might actually be considering this proposition, Randal pressed home his advantage. “Plus I want a finder’s fee for putting you guys in touch.”

  There was an even longer silence on the other end of the line.

  “What you’re asking me for is insane,” Gibby said finally. “I mean, it’s frankly ludicrous.”

  “This whole THING is ludicrous, Gibby. Why the fuck should you and Jacques be the only ones who profit from it? He’s a good guy, Gibby, one of the only straight shooters I ever met in the dope game. He just… he just can’t stay clean and it’s killing him. But he’s no fool, and he doesn’t deserve to be treated like one. Anyway, this guy can get Jacques inside that world way better than I can. Maybe some kind of… financial security might make the difference in his life, who the hell knows.”

  “Or maybe it’ll kill him quicker,” Gibby sneered.

  “That’s a possibility. But it’s not as if he’s making it now. I don’t think compensating him fairly for his time and experience will make his situation any worse.”

  Gibby looked at Jacques’ still form, snoring softly on the motel bed. Well Jesus, he reasoned, why the fuck start acting rational at this late stage in the game?

  “Okay Randal, I’ll talk to Jacques. See if we can set it up. But I promise you, if this junkie friend of yours hurts or endangers my client in any way I will hold you personally responsible. This isn’t just about Jacques, Randal. My family’s financial future depends upon Black Neon getting made. I don’t have any more chances either, you understand?”

  “I got you. I’ll still be involved, Gibby. I can keep an eye on Kenny for you; maybe even try to use some of my influence over him. He hates my guts but he’s not too dumb to realize that I’m Harvey’s brother and he’s gotta take me seriously.”

  “Okay. Okay. Jesus Christ, this is some fucked up shit Randal. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Lemmie get off the phone. Look, tell me what Kenny says about our meeting, and we can rap about this some more mañana.”

  “Sounds good, Gibby. Just take it easy. Make sure that fat fuck doesn’t choke on his own puke in the meantime, okay?”

  Randal hung up the phone. He hoped to hell that he was making the right decision. The only thing he was one hundred percent sure of anymore was that he couldn’t spend another minute babysitting Jacques-fucking-Seltzer. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a generous whisky and coke, and then began a long, futile evening hunting around his apartment, desperately trying to find some leftover pills.

  NINETEEN

  The next morning Genesis made it about half a block away from the motel before she doubled over and vomited into a trashcan. Lupita held her hair tenderly until she got it all up. It wasn’t even noon but the desert air was hot and muggy already. When she was done Genesis straightened up and croaked, “I gotta go back. I’m too hung over for this.”

  They had planned on getting some food at the Nugget Diner on Virginia Street, but the oceans of booze she had consumed last night had taken too heavy a toll. Two casinos, at least three bars, and more shots than either of them could recall… She couldn’t remember how much she drank, nor even making it back to the room, but the ominous taste in the pit of her gut informed her that cheap tequila had definitely been involved. There was a hazy recollection of Lupita cracking a bottle over the head of some hick who tried to grab Genesis’ ass. Genesis was pale and unsteady. She looked like she was about to faint. Lupita smiled indulgently and ruffled her hair.

  “Okay hun. Go back to the room. I’ll go grab some food to go and come right back. You need me to get you anythin’?”

  “Alka Seltzer.”

  “Alright. Can you make it back okay?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sorry baby. I feel like such a lightweight.”

  “You ain’t a lightweight, far from it. Now go lie down, I’ll be back in ten.”

  Lupita made it back to their room a half hour later. She slid the key in the lock and opened the door. Genesis had been sitting on the edge of the bed. She jumped anxiously to her feet when she heard the door open. “Oh, it’s you…” she said.

  “Who the fuck else would it be? I got your Alka Seltzer…”

  She tossed the pack over and Genesis caught it. “How you feelin’?”

  “Lousy. I’m kinda freaked out… you didn’t see some crazy looking bitch hanging around outside, did you?”

  Lupita stopped. She cocked her head to the side, like a dog picking up on some inaudible high-pitched frequency. “Whaddya mean, crazy looking bitch?”

  Genesis took a deep breath.

  “When I got back here… there was someone in the room. Some girl. She was snooping around.”

  Lupita frowned. “Like a cleaning lady?”

  “In this place? Don’t think so. I figure she musta been the old bag’s grandkid or something. She was too young to be working here otherwise. She musta been like thirteen or fourteen, tops. She wasn’t cleaning shit, that bitch was here to snoop. She was real freaky looking, too. She had all of this… powder all over her damn face.”

  Lupita started pacing the room.

  “Whaddya mean, powder? Like make-up?”

  “No. It was… it looked like the bitch just sneezed into a bag of coke or somehin’.”

  “And she was sneakin’ around in here?”

&n
bsp; “Uh-huh.”

  Lupita started furiously checking their bags.

  “Wait, wait! It’s okay. I already checked. She didn’t take anything. Everything’s still here. I think I musta disturbed her before she had time to really take a good look, ya know?”

  Unconvinced Lupita started checking around the room, as if looking for bugs or hidden cameras. “What did she do when you came in?” Lupita demanded.

  “She just froze. Like a deer in the fucking headlights. She was kinda… leaning over the bed, like she was looking at the pillow or somethin’. When I walked in she straightens up and just… stares at me. That’s when I saw she had all of that weird powder shit all over her face. She had this crazy expression…. Like she’d been smoking sherm or something. I dunno, something about this chick really freaked me out, Lupe. There was something real weird about her. We just stood there lookin’ at each other for a minute.”

  “And then?”

  Genesis came over to Lupita. She draped her arm over her neck. Lupita’s body was coiled, like a cobra about to strike.

  “Chill baby,” Genesis said, “I just told that snooping little cunt to get the fuck outta our room, before I kicked her skinny ass. She practically ran out of here. Never said a word to me.”

  “Fuck,” Lupita said. She shrugged Genesis’s arm away and started pacing again. “We gotta get outta here. Last fucking thing we need is people snooping around in our shit!”

  Genesis sat on the bed and ran her trembling hand through her hair. It was the first time she had ever seen Lupita lose her cool like this. It was strange because the incident seemed so trivial. After all, this place wasn’t exactly high end. The kid was probably just looking for cash or jewellery.

  “Tell me about that powder again. Was it like… ashes? Like the stuff that was on the old lady’s forehead when we checked in?”