Incubus

by L. J. Greene

  “And what about you?” I asked. “Some gigolo who’s married up?”

  He took a suck of his Gauloise, one eye squinted shut against the smoke, and breathed the stream out the side of his mouth. With precision, he ground out the cigarette in the ashtray, pushing it into my diaphragm. “Something like that.” He put the ashtray on the side table, took a drink from my whiskey, and kissed me again.

  A kiss like that can steal a fellow’s soul, so I decided I’d better make a move. “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” I said, and sat up. “I have to lay on a bet before tonight.”

  “You’re a gambling man?”

  “I’m a man who needs to pay the rent, and I got a tip about a horse.”

  “You can take what you need from my wallet,” he said, and yawned. “It’s on the dresser.”

  “Don’t get cute.”

  “I know you’re no lizard. But if I have it and you need it, why not take it?”

  I ignored him and pulled on my clothes.

  “Say, listen,” he said. “That tip you got, is it solid?”

  “Sure,” I told him. “Calambro in the third. Jimmy Wu told me, and he knows his horsemeat.”

  “Then take the money in my wallet and put it on Calambro for me. When she comes home you can keep a bookie’s fee, and leave the rest at the front desk for bungalow four. We both win, see?”

  Look, I have my pride just like anyone else. But what he said made sense. And Calambro was as sure a thing as anything can be in this world. So I took the cash and told him I’d leave his take at the desk in a few days.

  Calambro came in just like old Jimmy said she would, and even just ten per cent off the top of the full win was enough to make me feel like a king. I bought and drank half a crate of champagne before I remembered exactly who I had to thank for my good fortune. Come Thursday I paid my back-rent and even covered another week in advance. I gave the loan shark enough to get him back out to open waters for a while.

  On Friday I made my way back to the Chateau, via Schwab’s Pharmacy. I nodded to the industry folks I saw and dropped a dime to call my agent, who was available to me for the first time in a long time.

  “Well, whaddya know, Freddie? You ain’t dead.”

  “Not yet, and you can keep your smart mouth to yourself,” he snapped.

  “Settle down, settle down,” I said, surprised at the heat in his Australian accent. “Just wondering if there’s anything in the pipeline.”

  There was a long pause, and a rustling of papers. “I’ve got nothing for you this week,” he said, and he sounded far away from the receiver.

  “But?” I prodded. Christ, it was like pulling teeth.

  A scuffing noise, and then he was louder in my ear. “But there might be something coming up. You wrote for the papers back in the day, right?”

  “Sure, sure,” I said. You want to get ahead in this business, make enough to pay the rent, buy a new shirt occasionally, then you’ve done everything anytime someone asks and you’re willing to do it again.

  “Word is the Los Angeles Examiner is looking to branch out, get some more human interest pieces, you know the kind of thing. Their circulation’s gone way down since the Black Dahlia, but they might strike it big again with this new case. The Incubus.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, like I knew what he was talking about.

  “So I’ll keep you in mind if I hear any more,” he said crisply.

  It was better than the short shrift and out-to-lunch messages I’d been getting from his secretary for the last month, so I said that’d suit me fine and to let me know. I felt more cheerful than I had in a while, even on the whisper of a promise, so I set out to the Chateau to celebrate my good fortune and make good on my deal with the Italian.

  It was busier at the Chateau this time, but dark as always in the lobby so you never knew if you were bumping into a chambermaid or a star. It might have been Ava Gardner in the corner under the velvet-shaded lamp, or it might have been a New York socialite with a judicious surgeon.

  I made my way to the desk to leave the packet, but the concierge materialized behind me and asked me to wait a moment. He was a curly-haired, baby-faced kid with his nose in the air and a hammy French accent.

  “I don’t need any trouble,” I told him. “Just doing a favor. I don’t know the name, but it’s for bungalow four.”

  But he insisted. “You will wait in the lounge, s’il vous plaît.”

  “I don’t think so, pal. At the bar, maybe. I need a drink.”

  “Come-come, s’il vous plaît,” he said, and he hustled me by my arm through to the lounge. It was dim and empty; the bar, I had seen, was bright and full of life, and there was a sweet-faced strawberry blonde in my view—just what I was looking for. I managed to pull my elbow out of his grip. “Now, just wait a minute. I just came to leave something, that’s all, and maybe enjoy the atmosphere over a drink. There’s no call—”

  “I believe bourbon is your drink?” He waved a finger, and a glass of comfort appeared before me on a platter, held by one of the Chateau’s servers. Their staff always looked the same to me—so focused on being discreet that they faded in and out like specters. “Compliments of the house,” the concierge added.

  “Well. If you insist.”

  They had the day’s copy of the Examiner there as well, so I looked it over. The new murder case Freddie had mentioned took up most of the front page. They were calling this one the Incubus Killer since his victims died from asphyxiation—or plain old strangulation, reading between the lines. The victims had all been beautiful blondes, and the latest was a jazz singer to boot. The other two were touted as starlets, but I knew what they really were. Anyone in LA longer than a night knows a Hollywood hooker when he sees one. Mystery solved, as far as I was concerned.

  But the rags must have their sensational stories, not to mention lurid nicknames, and ‘Incubus’ was vivid. The implications in the story were clear, even though the details were left vague. It was a sex crime, plain as day, and further convinced me that it was some sick john, or maybe a pimp had decided he needed stock turnover.

  The second half of the story was filled with tenuous allusions to the Dahlia case from ten years back. I lost interest, and turned to the ponies to check how my last flutter had gone. It hadn’t; the nag had been scratched. I groaned. Still, it was better than another loss. Perhaps my luck was turning.

  It wasn’t much of a surprise when my heavy-browed acquaintance turned up ten minutes and another house-gifted bourbon later. He was smartly dressed in a crisp linen shirt and vicuna coat.

  “Hello, friend,” he said, as though he was glad to see me. “So you made your rent?”

  I stood up. “What’s the big idea? I thought we had a straight deal. I left your cut at the desk, like we agreed.”

  Some days back then, when I’d got down to nickels and dimes and had to decide between bourbon and the rent, I’d stare myself down in the bathroom mirror while I tried to make up my mind. The look he gave me then was a dead ringer for mine in those times.

  He swallowed, drew breath, and asked, “Are you in a hurry?”

  Chapter 3

  He was a convincing fellow. That’s how I found myself back in that bungalow, back in his bed, enjoying him all over again. I was beginning to feel downright spoiled. He took his time this go round. No frenzied coupling on the floor; it was through to the bedroom, where he teased me with his mouth until I wanted to move things along. No point making this fling memorable. It would just get me down when I had to go back to bathhouses and dimly lit park benches.

  “Come on,” I said. “Just give it to me.”

  He slithered back up the bed and put a hand around my throat. “Not yet,” he said, squeezing a little. “No, not yet.”

  I thought about removing his hand, but it felt snug where it was. I smiled instead, and he looked intrigued.

  “You like this?”

  “I don’t mind it.”

  He took it away then, and wrapped it ar
ound my prick instead, wet with his spit. “Let’s get you seen to,” he said. “Since you’re in such a hurry.”

  I tried to protest, but he worked me hard and fast, almost painfully. When that was done he sat on top of my chest, so I had to fight a little to breathe. He liked watching me strive for it, I guess, and made me pull at him until he finished on my face. I was gasping for air as much as he was by that time, but he just sat back and looked at me, smiling a little.

  “You get rid of your loan shark?”

  “Now, how did you know about that?” I puffed.

  “With guys like you, there’s always a loan shark.”

  Maybe he was right, but I didn’t see the need to be insulting about it, and not when he was making it so damn hard to breathe. I pushed at him, and he tumbled back on the bed with the grace of a gymnast. “Why the interest in my finances?”

  Instead of replying, he reached over me for his cigarette case and the square silk handkerchief he’d taken from his pocket when we’d undressed. He handed the latter to me and watched me clean my face while he lit one of his Gauloises.

  He offered it to me, so I took a drag and handed it back. I grabbed the ashtray and held it for him. “You ever going to tell me your name?” I asked.

  He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and blew three rings before he replied. “Mancini.”

  Italian, just like I’d thought. “You got a first name?”

  “Leo.”

  “That short for something?”

  “What’s your name?” he asked, instead of answering my question.

  “Coleridge Fox. My old Ma was a sucker for the Romantic poets. But look up my byline sometime; my agent tells me I’ve been drafted for the newspaper game.”

  Mancini coughed and stabbed out his cigarette. “Is that so?” he said after a moment. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  It was my turn to blow smoke rings. “It gets my name out there,” I said at last, “but I’d rather be known for my novels. You know, I met F. Scott Fitzgerald at Schwab’s once? Not far off the time his ticker went out. He asked me for a light. I wish I could say we talked about something big, something worthwhile, but all he did was compliment me on my cufflinks.”

  “Well, now; that’s still something.”

  “My sister bought ’em for me.” I don’t know why, but it struck me as funny, and I laughed. So did he. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh. It was just a small chuckle, like he was unwilling to let it out, but I felt like maybe it showed we had more in common than just the physical.

  The thought disturbed me somehow, so I rolled away and got out of bed. I pulled on the robe lying on the chair in the corner. It smelled like him, like the cologne he always wore: somber, expensive and continental, like a cedar box with amber inlay.

  “You still have them?” he asked, stretching. He rolled onto his side and propped up his head with his hand. His cock, heavy and long even in its resting state, draped across his thigh. “Your Fitzgerald cufflinks, I mean. What happened to them?”

  “Sold ’em,” I said briefly, and tried not to seem down in the mouth about it. I’d come over melancholy for no good reason. Those cufflinks had bought me five weeks’ freedom from the Walker Boys, after all.

  “You’re going into reporting, you say. You know anything about this Incubus Killer all over the papers?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Nor does the Examiner, I’d bet my soul, but they’ll make up whatever they need to if it’ll sell.”

  The room felt close, so I pulled up the blinds to open the window.

  “Don’t do that,” he said, and before I knew it he’d sprung out of the bed behind me and closed the blinds again. “We can turn on the ceiling fan if you like. But don’t open the window; don’t pull up the blinds. You never know who’s looking in or listening.” His tone was terser than I’d heard yet.

  “You on the run?”

  It was just a stupid gag, but he turned away. He walked into the living room, naked still, like he was used to the state. When I followed, he’d already poured me a drink from a brand-new bottle of bourbon.

  Chateau Marmont can cast a kind of spell over you before you know it. It looks like a fairytale castle and it can make you start dreaming fairytale dreams. This guy might’ve been my Prince Charming for all I knew, even though he’d only just told me his name; tall, dark and handsome, with a bottle of bourbon. I have simple tastes.

  “You ever feel trapped, Fox?” he asked abruptly. We were standing at the bar, looking at each other.

  Something about the stare he was giving me made me truthful. “Every day of my life.”

  “What would escape look like to you?”

  I laughed at that. “I guess it would look something like this. Living here in this fine hotel, drinking the best bourbon money can buy, writing my heart out and spending my free time with someone who gives a damn about me.”

  “You think that, do you?” He gave me a calculating look then, a look I hadn’t seen on him before. “You think I give a damn about you?”

  I wandered to the window and peered out between two slats of the blinds. “Sure seems like it. No other reason you’d buy a bottle of bourbon on the off chance you’d catch me again when I came in.”

  “Maybe I like bourbon.”

  “You’re a scotch man; that much is clear.”

  “I loathe scotch,” he said violently.

  “Okay,” I said. “No need to go blooey over it.”

  “Say I do give a damn about you.”

  “Alright, let’s say that.”

  “Say I want you to come live here. Give you a break from things so you can write this great American novel of yours, or live up to your romantic name and write poems. This is the perfect place. Maybe you’ll meet the ghost of Fitzgerald in the bar. He drank here, you know.”

  “Sure, I know. ’S’why I come here.” I may be a lush, but even my soaked brain could tell something was up. “What’s going on here?”

  He smiled, treacle-sweet. “A business proposal, and perhaps a little pleasure on the side. You live here, all expenses paid, and maybe you keep laying on bets that pay out like that last one did. Write your stories without worrying about the tedious little details in life.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I enjoy your body, that’s no secret. You certainly seem to enjoy mine. Why shouldn’t we set things up to make it easier to do that?”

  Outside, by way of my letter-box-slot view through the blinds, I saw a blur of white coming along the path. It was a woman, tall and slim, her face concealed by an enormous white hat. She stopped at the bungalow next door. The way the broad’s hat moved around I could tell she was looking about carefully before she opened the door and pushed inside like the hounds of hell were on her tail.

  Hollywood. It’s a whole different world.

  I turned to look at my companion. “Put some clothes on, will you? You make it hard to think.”

  He raised one of his thick eyebrows, set his whiskey down, and untied my robe. I let him take it off me and put it on himself. The man wanted to make a point, so why not let him?

  “Is this better for you?” he asked.

  “Seems to me what you want is a kept man.”

  He leaned in to kiss me, that kiss of his that could suck out my will and reason and leave me panting. He used it as a weapon, and my defenses were failing. “Not at all, little fox,” he said, leaning his face against mine so I couldn’t look away. “I want to be your artistic patron.”

  “Patron, eh?” The idea appealed to my vanity. Things are always clearer looking back. He could play me like a fiddle.

  “And bedfellow,” he amended. “But one does not necessarily have to follow from the other. Still, it seems foolish to turn down free board and amenities. I can give them, and you need them, so—”

  “So why not take them,” I finished for him.

  It’s my weakness, and I know it now, to take the easy way when it’s offered. I lived like wa
ter my whole life, finding the quickest way to flow from A to B, and if it meant I ran over rocks or crashed down a waterfall here and there, I’d learned to ignore it. I didn’t realize I was headed straight for the ocean, where my happy little river of life would be swallowed up by the churning Atlantic.

  He kissed me again.

  “Alright, why the hell not,” I said afterwards, my good sense overtaken by a suffusion of feeling. “It was good enough for Michelangelo. You patronize me, and I’ll do my best to make you a whole new fortune on the ponies. As long as Jimmy Wu keeps coming through with his tips, anyway.” I didn’t mention that Jimmy wasn’t so free with them these days as he had been, not since I got in so deep.

  The bungalow had a second bedroom he suggested we convert to a study. The Chateau would do it alright—they’d do anything as long as they were paid, and they’d be discreet about it too. I told him I wouldn’t need much anyway: a desk, a chair and a typewriter. I’d have to keep the blinds closed in here too, he told me, but that suited me well enough. I like to write in the dark. Easier to see the monsters you’re describing.

  “Only I can’t keep cooped up in the bungalow all day,” I said. “I’ll have to go out some time, and people will see me.”

  He agreed, in the end. “It’s not so much you, I suppose, who needs to keep hidden. As long as you keep the blinds closed when you’re in here; and I’ll use the private entrance. That way I can be surer no one will see me coming and going.”

  The subterfuge of it all appealed to me. Like we were getting one over on the rest of the world; certainly on his wife. Thinking of her made me feel like a rat, but for all my hard drinking back then and my lack of scruples, I was still a babe in the woods. I didn’t know how deep in filth real vermin buried themselves.

  “I’ll send for your things tomorrow,” he said. “The Chateau can arrange it.”

  “Don’t bother. Everything I own can fit into a suitcase. I’ll lug it myself.”

  So it was all settled, just like that. I walked into it easy as you please.