The Piranhas (14 page)

He heard her voice before he saw her. No one had a voice like hers. Pure cunt. He looked up. She was standing outside his circle. “Thyme,” he said, “come on over here.”

The bodyguards made room for her to move closer. “What are you doing down here?” she asked.

“Doin’ a gig,” he said. “You too?”

She seemed puzzled. “Not really, I came up with Peachtree on his private plane.”

“You’re a guest?” he asked.

“I guess so,” she answered. “It doesn’t make sense. I saw Michael and Brooke Shields up there.”

“Michael doesn’t work for Peachtree.” He looked at her. “Neither do you, right?”

“Check,” she said.

Rainbeau said, “He laid a hundred grand on us for this gig.”

“It still ain’t right,” she said. “Probably you would do it for nothin’ if he asked like a gentleman.”

Rainbeau nodded. “Some people don’t have no class,” he agreed. He changed the subject. “What would be your pleasure? We have it all.”

“I want to sing with you,” she said, looking into his eyes.

“We got no song together, no rehearsal. Besides, you’re a guest and I’m just a hired hand.”

“Horseshit,” she said. “We can put something together that’ll work for us in five minutes.”

“You’d do that for me?” he asked, slight surprise in his voice.

“We’re the same kind of people, aren’t we? Maybe I’m black and you’re Puerto Rican but we come from the same street.”

He stared at her silently for a moment, then, “How did you find us down here?”

“One of the asshole security men thought I was one of the entertainers, he shoved me down the steps.”

“Balls,” he said. “Where was Peachtree?”

“Probably somewhere getting his boyfriend to give him head,” she answered.

His eyes met hers. “You mean it? What you said earlier?”

“Anytime, anyplace,” she said. ‘We’ll be great together.”

“I have an idea,” he said.

“Tell me.”

“You know my song, the first one I hit, ‘I’m Just a Boy’?”

“Every word,” she said.

“Okay, you sing, but instead of boy you say girl. Then I’ll do your song, ‘The Boy I Love.’ Only I sing it the ‘girl.’ We know the music, the arrangements should be a piece of cake.”

She hugged him close to her. “Oh, baby. I love you. Really I do.”

He kissed her cheek. “Now, let’s try to get it together.”

*   *   *

AT EXACTLY THE
stroke of midnight, a drum roll brought Bradley and Charlene to the center of the stage. The room was silent as Bradley took the microphone.

“Friends and honored guests,” he began, his faint mid-western drawl enhanced by the sound system. “For many years in Oklahoma, Charlene and I had an annual party in honor of our firstborn. On this day in 1955, Charlene and I stood on the ground beneath the derrick, Shepherd Oil Well Number One, our firstborn, as the gusher shot up into the sky, then fell, covering us completely with black gold. We were holding each other, screaming to each other, but the only thing I could remember about what Charlene said to me was, ‘Now, Bradley, you can finally get a store-bought suit.’”

A wave of laughter and applause filled the tent as guests rose from their seats. Bradley held his hands up, and slowly the guests returned to their seats.

Bradley, holding Charlene’s hand in a gesture of acknowledgment, smiled. “To cap the story: I finally got my store-bought suit two years later, after Shepherd Oil Company Well Number One Hundred came through and I needed a suit to go to the bank, because now that I had money I had to borrow money to pay my taxes.”

Again the crowd laughed and applauded. “Thank you all for coming, and now you can relax, have a good time, and enjoy the show and dinner.” Charlene and Brad held up their hands and waved warmly to their guests.

The music started and the stage began to turn as if on a disk, and Bradley and Charlene, together with the orchestra that had been seated on the stage, gradually disappeared from view as the lights dimmed, and finally there was total darkness.

*   *   *

WHEN THE LIGHTS
came on again, there was a completely new stage set and rock and roll music was blasting away. Then the spotlight picked out a young man in midair landing in front of the group, his half-naked body painted in colors and sparkling with sequins, a microphone in his hand. There was a roar of applause as the crowd recognized the exciting showmanship style of Rainbeau. A moment later, another singer appeared, to the delighted surprise of the guests. Thyme stood beside him, in white floating chiffon that silhouetted her beautiful dark nudity beneath the costume.

Reed Jarvis, leaning against a marble column, whispered almost to himself as they began their song and dance. He felt a numbness in his stomach. “That’s almost pornographic. I can’t believe it at a party like this.”

Daniel Peachtree appeared beside him. “Reed,” he said, “this is Hollywood, not Winnipeg, Ontario.”

Reed turned to him. “You don’t look so good. What happened, you fall down a flight of steps?”

Daniel shook his head. “I tripped over a cypress in the garden while I was looking for your girlfriend.” Then he looked at Reed. “Who’s that Jed Stevens? He says he’s got two hundred million in with you.”

“He has the money if he wants in,” Reed answered. “But it’s not his money that’s in my deal. He’s just checking it out for his uncle.”

“Then he’s not a partner with you?”

“Hell, no,” answered Reed, watching Thyme as she went into her solo number. “I don’t have partners, and he won’t be a part of us after tomorrow.”

“That easy?” Daniel said sarcastically. “I hear Bradley has no intention of bowing out tomorrow. At least, he doesn’t sound like it to me.”

Reed shrugged and glanced again at Thyme onstage, then back to Peachtree. “I still want to fuck that girl,” he said. “Have you talked to her yet?”

“I was trying to find her when I ran into the fucking cypress hedge in the garden. The first time I’ve seen her is right now, onstage.”

Reed looked at him. “All I want to know is, can you arrange for me to fuck her or not?”

Daniel didn’t smile. “I don’t know,” he said. “The name of the game is money. If money doesn’t tempt her, she won’t be a player.”

“I don’t care what it costs, you just get her,” Reed said flatly.

*   *   *

JUDGE GITLIN SANK
tiredly into the easy chair in the upstairs library and looked up at Bradley. “It’s only two in the morning for you here in California but it’s five in the morning for me.”

Bradley handed the judge a four-finger shot of corn whiskey. “This will wake you up.”

The judge nodded. He emptied the glass. “Another taste,” he said.

Bradley nodded and refilled the glass. This time the judge sipped it slowly. He looked up at Bradley. “That’s a big do you’re having down there.”

“Hollywood bullshit,” Bradley said. “It’s something you have to do.”

“Costs a penny,” the judge said. “You have the money to pay for it?”

“That’s up to you.” Bradley poured a drink for himself. “I’m not only drowning in oil, but the piranhas are eating on my flesh.”

“What about the money you owe to the bank already. Twelve million? And twenty-five million to me personally?”

“Down for a penny, down for a dollar,” Bradley said wryly.

The judge stared at him. “I know you. You come from a long line of Indian traders. How can I get you the money when the federal and state auditors are climbing up my ass?”

“Fantasy Land. The eight acres I bought at the far end of the marina I had you hold in trust for me. It was never turned over to the studio. As a matter of fact, Jarvis and I never even discussed bringing Fantasy Land into the studio-and-television deal. At the time he wasn’t interested. It was not until Disney said they were opening in France that he even talked to me about it.”

The judge looked at him shrewdly. “You never used any money from the picture company to develop it?”

“No. I never did anything with it. Just left it there lying fallow.”

The judge thought for a moment. “So maybe it’s worth fifty or sixty million. The way I see it you have no choice. Take his four hundred million and run. Take the option he offered you, that costs you nothing. If things look good, pick it up. If it looks bad, let him shove it up his ass.”

“I feel like an asshole,” Bradley said. “I was going to show the movie business how to do it.”

“There are others who went for worse. You’ll still get four hundred million out of it. You could have lost the whole damn pot. Sit tight. Oil will straighten up sooner or later, the real estate you own around the marina for Fantasy Land will do nothing but go up. All you hurt is your pride.”

Bradley looked down at the judge. “Is that it? Just pride?”

“Our family has never been known for being humble.” The judge smiled. “Jes’ tell that Jarvis feller you’ll take his money an’ wish him luck. You stay in the neck of the woods you know best. Oil and land.”

“I guess you’re right,” Bradley admitted. “But, man, this business is real fun.”

“You’ll have another shot,” the judge said wisely. “Who says that Jarvis fellow is any smarter than you were? He can go on his ass just as easy. Then maybe you’ll be able to get back in.”

“Okay.” Bradley nodded. “I guess I’ll catch up with Jarvis and tell him what I decided.”

“Tell him shit,” the judge said, annoyed. “Let him wait until the directors’ meeting tomorrow. Meanwhile, give me another drink.”

4

THE CENTURY CITY
Hospital was almost hidden at the end of the Century City Building complex in a quiet corner of the Avenue of the Stars and Pico Boulevard. There were eleven stories comprising the hospital. The other floors were occupied by various medical doctors, dentists, and medical laboratories.

Dr. Fergus Maubusson, one of the most successful and well-known cosmetic surgeons, had an imposing suite consisting of two complete operating rooms, one recovery room, two private consultation rooms—one for himself and the other for his assistant and associate, Dr. Jon Takashima—another business office for the receptionist and bookkeeper, as well as for his three nurses, one of whom was in his office twenty-four hours around the clock. Beyond that door was the small, quiet, softly lit entrance room. Appointments were very carefully policed so that no patients would ever meet.

But this day was special. All morning appointments had been rearranged because at five o’clock in the morning Mr. Reed Jarvis had requested an emergency appointment with the doctor. When the night nurse had awakened the doctor, while holding Jarvis on the line, the answer came without hesitation. What Mr. Jarvis wanted, Mr. Jarvis would get.

Dr. Fergus Maubusson, born Fred Markovits on the Lower East Side of New York, had long ago decided that if he wanted to be successful in Beverly Hills, the name was the key to success in a town that was built of names and bullshit. And he chose his name carefully—Fergus, because it was Scottish and the Scots were long known for conservatism, and Maubusson, because it was French and would suggest a Gallic taste for cosmetics and beauty. And he topped off his qualifications with many genuine medical degrees, along with two years in the famed hospital specializing in cosmetic surgery in Lyon, France. The only photograph of importance in his reception room was of himself with Dr. Ives Pitanguy, who was usually considered the most important cosmetic surgeon in the world.

At the moment, he was seated on a high stool at the foot of his specially built operating table looking down at his patient, whose knees were held by stirrups much like those used by a gyn-ob to examine his patients. He spoke without reflection. “I’ve never seen a girl who could do a circumcision as surgically precise as this. She had to be Jewish.”

Reed stared across and up at the doctor, squinting at the blue halo from the light behind the surgeon. Reed was angry.

“It’s nothing to laugh about, Doctor. What can we do about it?”

Dr. Maubusson was direct. “First, we have to give you a tetanus shot. That might prevent any infection. Second, I would like you to bring in the girl that gave you this treatment. I want to check her out just in case; we need to be aware if we might expect other complications.”

“Shit, Doctor,” Reed snapped. “Isn’t it bad enough that I ran into a vampire instead of a fucking cocksucker?”

“There could be, well…” the doctor said flatly … “AIDS, for example. There have been many cases traced to prostitutes.”

Reed felt a chill running through him. “Could that be possible?”

The doctor opened his hands expressively. “Who knows? We don’t even know how it happens. But whores could be carriers without even knowing that they have it.”

Reed looked at him. “I don’t know if I can get her to come in. She’s a very well-known lady.”

“You can tell her the visit will be completely confidential,” Maubusson said.

“She won’t come,” Reed said flatly.

“Maybe you should have her see her own doctor?”

“I don’t think she would do that either,” Reed said. “We haven’t parted in a friendly manner.”

“Tell her that you had a checkup this morning and that you tested a possible positive. That she should check herself for her own sake.”

Reed nodded silently, then looked up at him. “Meanwhile, what can we do about this?”

“Two things for the moment,” said the doctor. “We load you with penicillin after we clean up the wound and bandage it. Then shoot you with a series of tetanus shots. It will be a series of about six shots. It will be uncomfortable for you. Fever and aches.”

“The hell with that,” Reed said sharply. “What will it do to my prick?”

“It may look a little different,” Maubusson said. “But it will function normally.”

“What do you mean, look a little different?” Reed asked.

“You’ve seen Japanese penises,” Dr. Maubusson said. “Sort of slanted on the underside of the head and a little shorter.”

“Jesus!” Reed exclaimed. “The damn thing is small enough. Is there anything you can do about that?”

“Sure,” Dr. Maubusson said, smiling. “I can build it up to any size you want. But first we have to get you over this.”