L.A. Success (29 page)

11

When I woke up the next morning, the pain was worse. I couldn't move a single muscle without setting off a wave of aching throughout my body. The only thing I really wanted to do was stay put in bed, but I was worried about my dad and wanted to find out why he had taken off like that. I slowly got ready and then spent most of the day at Venice hoping he'd go back to his old habits so I could find him.

While I was sitting on a low brick wall not too far away from where my dad used to do the sand sculptures, I decided to give Grant a call. I dialed and waited for him to pick up.

“I was wondering when you were going to call,” he said. “Steven has been asking me every hour if I've heard from you yet.”

“Well look, you can put his mind at ease. He can have anything he wants. I don't care anymore. All I want is to get the envelope back that I gave him on accident.”

“I'll let him know and call you back,” he said and hung up.

I was returning to my car to give up for the day when the shit phone rang. It was Grant.

“Okay, here's the deal,” he said. “Steven doesn't know why you've changed heart all of a sudden, but he's ready to play ball if you're willing to do one extra thing.”

“What's that?”

“He said he wants the photo album. He said you'd know what he's talking about. You give him act three and the photo album, and he'll give you the envelope.”

“I'm going to need a little time to get the photo album. I'll call you when I have it.”

“Okay,” he said.

I drove back to my place, went to bed early and slept longer than I had in years.

12

I woke up Saturday afternoon to the whimpering of the big poodle. I still felt like I had a hangover from the beating I had taken, but my muscles now felt slightly itchy, as if they were letting me know that they were ready to be stretched. I threw on yesterday's Arnold and some shorts, and walked Ballsack around the neighborhood to get loosened up.

During the walk, I debated whether I should come right out and tell Gertie that I needed the album. I tried several times to imagine her smiling warmly and telling me that she would, of course, do anything to help a good friend out. That naively optimistic hope would be crushed by the image of a scrutinizing, ball-breaking Gertie, who would simultaneously finagle a large cut of Ignacio's money for herself while making weekly oral sex a part of the deal. No, I would have to try to coax the album away from her when she was in a compromised state.

I came up with a plan. I went to the store and bought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, three bottles of Korbel, and a bouquet of red roses. Then I dialed up Gertie.

“Well well,” she said. “You've been calling me a lot lately, mister. Starting to realize how lucky your roommate is?”

“Yes, Gertie. Listen. I can't get the image of you out of my mind,” I said, thinking it sounded romantic enough to fly.

“You mean the image you took with your camera of me riding your roommate—the one you whack off to every night?”

“Yeah, that one.” So much for romance.

“Tommy is going to be working on his computer tonight. Why don't you swing on by and we can talk. And by talk, I mean you can bang me blind and get it all out of your system.”

“Okay. That sounds great. I'll be by later.”

That evening I put on my newest Arnold and headed over to Venice. When Gertie answered the door, I gave her the roses and showed her the Veuve Clicquot. She was wearing an outfit that didn't hold to her usual tastes at all: a long, black skirt that left no clues as to what kind of underthings she had on, and a long-sleeved, frilly blouse buttoned up to her neck. Her hair was pulled back. She was also wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. She could have come straight from an accounting meeting.

“Wow Gertie. I've never seen you like this before.”

“We are colleagues from work, you and I, who have come together for a weekend meeting. You, being a polite guest, have brought some booze. We will drink it, all the while breaking each other's personal space but fighting the urge to jump on each other as best we can, because my husband and your wife would be crushed if we succumbed to our animal desires—not to mention the children, the poor children...But Phyllis just doesn't understand you. She doesn't see how hard you work. All she wants to do is talk about her dysfunctional family and invite her horrible friends over for dinner. I, for you, represent an escape from all that. And you—you are the man I can get revenge upon my cold and indifferent husband with. You got all that?”

“Yeah, I think so. What's my name?”

“Clovis. I'm Esmeralda. Come in.” I followed her to the kitchen. She took out a couple of champagne flutes, and I opened the Veuve Clicquot. I put the three bottles of Korbel, still wrapped up in the paper sack, in the fridge.

“Wow, Clovis, you really know your champagne,” she said. I poured the two glasses full. We took them into the living room. Gertie snatched the bottle off the counter as we went over.

“Well, I wanted to toast to that business thing we did,” I said. Gertie raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly what business thing, my dear Clovis?”

“Um...the thing where we made the money.” Gertie rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Look buddy, for this to work right, you have to be a little more creative.” She then smiled admiringly and seemed to glow from enthusiasm. “I want to have a toast before we get down to work to celebrate how smoothly you negotiated the takeover of Eddings Heavy Machinery. They fought so hard to block us, but you tore all those walls down and convinced the shareholders that there was no future without major restructuring. When I saw you standing in that board room, I felt so proud to be a part of this organization. In any other context, I wouldn't even notice you, but since we work together eight hours a day, I've been feeling like you're the answer to all my domestic problems. I won't tell you right away, but after we make love, I'll cry and confess that Harold's been slapping me around lately, and I'll tell you that I expect you to kick his ass. Here's to you!” she said, raised her glass and waited for me to reply.

“Thanks. During the takeover, I was only thinking about doing you in the janitor's closet.”  She leaned her head a little to the left and looked up thoughtfully.

“Okay, that's not a bad start.” She clinked her glass against mine. “Here's to being with someone who really understands me.”

“You really think that?” I asked, slightly touched.

“Yes, Clovis.” She gulped down the champagne and poured another glass immediately. “I love the taste of champagne. It's one of the few alcohols that I can always tell the good from the bad.”

I was a little nervous at that last comment. My plan was to let her drink all the wicked expensive Veuve Clicquot, and then when her taste buds were numbed by the alcohol, start her on the cheap Korbel. After five glasses of good champagne, I figured she'd just chug that other crap down out of sheer momentum. But if she didn't, I'd be in trouble. The idea was to get her so liquored up that she wouldn't be able to remember if we did it. I'd tell her we had, of course. I'd tell her it had been the best sex of my life but that I didn't think I could do it again without me risking a heart attack. Then when we were lying back in bed, her on the point of passing out, me reminding myself that sexually transmitted diseases couldn't be obtained from dry humping, I would pretend to break down crying and explain how desperately I needed that album. As soon as she said anything that resembled an agreement, I'd jump out of bed, grab the album and erase from my mind the feeling of her whiskers rubbing against me.

“You're kind of quiet tonight, Clovis. What are you thinking about?”

“You know me. Always thinking about doing,” I said, hoping this would turn her on.

“Doing what?”

“
The
doing,” I said. Her eyes lit up.

“When you say it like that, it sounds new and fresh...You're going to take me into unknown territory tonight,” she said and gulped down another glass. A long and violent belch rolled up her throat. “Ah, the bubbles.” She grabbed the bottle again and poured another, this time causing the white foam to overflow down the side of the glass and onto her hand. She held it up to me.

“It tastes best on the skin,” she said and moved the glass even closer to my face. I stuck out my tongue and licked the champagne off her salty skin. She closed her eyes and purred softly. Then she emptied another glass.

When the bottle was empty, I gave her my glass, which she downed happily. She stood up and held out her hand.

“Come with me, Clifford. I can't fight it anymore. I can't hold out against your longing stares. Let's throw caution to the wind and go behave like the animals that we are. Let them talk at the office, let them say what they will.” I gave her my hand, and she began leading me to her room.

“One second Esmerda. I want to open another bottle. Go wait for me in your love nest.”

“Not bad...You're getting better,” she said and weaved down the hall.

I grabbed the flutes, went to the kitchen and opened up a bottle of the Korbel. As I poured, I noticed it was dark orange and smelled a little fruity. When I had a sip of it, I had the impression that someone had made a carbonated drink out of vinegar and mango.

With the two flutes in my hand, I hesitated for a moment. I thought about grabbing the album right then and there and dealing with the consequences later. What could Gertie do to me anyway? Convince Tommy to move out? Yeah, she could do that, and then I wouldn't have anyone to do my laundry or clean up after me. I advanced down the dark hall toward the glowing light at the end of the tunnel.

Her bed was taller than a normal bed. There was something obscene about it, as if it had been adjusted to the perfect height for standing beside it and doing someone who was lying across it. Gertie was propped up on an enormous pile of cushions of various shapes. Her legs were crossed, her hands were behind her head, and she was trying out different sexy puckers and eyelid flutters. Four halogen lamps, set to maximum, stood in the corners of the room. There were two video cameras mounted on tripods, one at the head of the bed, the other at the foot.

“Are those things on?” I asked.

“Yep. They help me remember exactly what goes on in here. Plus, there's just something special about posting videos of yourself on the web.”

“Why do you need two cameras?” I asked.

“My fans said I had too many shots of man ass and ball flapping. This way I get different shots I can edit together.”

I handed her the flute of champagne and smiled stupidly at the cameras.

“You have to pretend they aren't there,” she said. “Don't ever look right into them. It weirds out all the voyeurs. They don't like to think you're watching them spank it.”

She lifted up the glass to her nose and took a long sniff. The practiced expression of lustiness began to contort slightly. I tried to make her think of something else before she got too focused on the Korbel.

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked a little more loudly than would have been natural. She lowered the glass and looked up at me.

“You're going to ask me for that book I mentioned, and I'm going to roll over on my stomach and fish it out of my nightstand for a long time. I'll be giving you quite a show. You stick out your hand and try to feel my rump without me noticing. I'll catch you in the act, slap you, and then pull you on top of me. After some caressing, we'll have deeply meaningful sex, full of mutual respect. Just be sure to spank me a lot.”

Gertie was speaking much slower than before, and she was having trouble keeping eye contact. When she spoke to me, it looked like she was focusing on my nose. Unfortunately, she was still too sober for me to get what I wanted. The champagne she had already drunk was clearly catching up with her, but I needed to stall until the full effect arrived.

I put my glass on the nightstand and moved to the end of the bed, where I sat down and took one of Gertie's feet in my hands. I peeled off the flesh-colored knee-high and began massaging her toes, rolling them between my fingers with the same gesture I normally use to signal that something is going to cost a lot. She moaned contentedly and occasionally laughed when I hit a ticklish spot. Then I saw her bring the flute up to her lips. I took her foot firmly in my hands and pressed hard into the sole with my two thumbs.

“Hey! What's the big idea, mister?” she said, lowering the glass.

“That's a pressure point. If that hurt, it means you are carrying too much stress. I barely even pressed on it.”

“Huh. I guess I have been a little stressed lately,” she said and went back to focusing on a random spot on the wall, her eyes half closed like those of a fat cat lying on a sunny windowsill.

The more I softly massaged her, the closer she slowly moved the champagne toward her lips. When it would get within a few inches, I'd dig in hard with my thumbs, sending a bolt of pain into her slowly deadening receptors. She was able to muffle the yelps, but her upper lip would contract on the left side like Elvis'. By giving her the occasional jolt, I was able to keep her from drinking, but I realized it had the unfortunate side effect of keeping her awake and feisty. After I finished with the other foot, I knew I was going to have to find a new way to stall.

I slid up beside her and started working on her shoulders, figuring this would be a good escalation of events that, at the same time, wouldn't cost me anything. I was wrong. She leaned over toward me, closed her eyes and moved in for a kiss. I weaved a little to avoid her. She opened her eyes, readjusted her aim, closed her eyes and went for it again. I resolved to do this. All I needed was the mental image of a hot babe to get me through, but when I tried to think of a Hollywood starlet, Helen's face came to me so clearly that I felt like my insides had been pulled down. I leaned away from Gertie to avoid her lips. She kept coming forward until she was stretched out farther than she had expected, and as she put her free hand down on the bed to prevent herself from toppling over, I saw her throat convulse.