Lovers and Gamblers (16 page)

Later they went to Le Club and they danced, his bullet head nuzzling discreetly against her bosom. She drank three Irish coffees, but obliteration seemed nowhere near. He suggested she visit his triplex penthouse for a nightcap. She agreed. Going up in the elevator he unzipped his fly and crammed her hand in. For an old man he was surprisingly erect. She snatched her hand away.

In the apartment they went out on the roof garden, and a butler appeared with champagne.

The city was spread out before them, a sea of lights.

‘Get on your knees,’ Aarron instructed.

One diamond brooch and she was supposed to get on her knees. Dallas laughed aloud.

‘Please,’ he added, and he was shaking himself free as if preparing to pee.

‘No,’ said Dallas slowly, ‘you get on
your
knees.’ And she opened the slit in her skirt provocatively.

‘Later,’ husked Aarron.

‘Now,’ insisted Dallas.

‘I can give you wonderful presents,’ Aarron promised. ‘Be a good girl and do as I ask.’

Dallas flicked her skirt briskly together. Her mind jumped back to a certain motel, an old man lying dead on the bed, Bobbie deftly pocketing his bankroll.

She turned to leave. ‘I’m going home, Aarron. Find someone else to buy wonderful presents for.’

‘You can’t go,’ he objected.

‘Oh yes, I can. I can do what the hell I like.’

She walked through the sumptuous apartment to the elevator. It could all have been hers if she had cared to get on her knees. But why should she? It didn’t make her happy, nothing made her happy. For the thousandth time she wondered why her parents had never come looking for her. Life at the zoo with Phil sticking it in every night must have been better than this.

It occurred to her that if she went home and took an overdose of sleeping pills nobody would care. Not one single person. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

She took a cab home. It was three o’clock in the morning. Idly she wondered if she had enough sleeping pills to do the job properly. How many did you need? The booze was finally hitting her, and by the time she arrived home she was weaving on her feet.

She nodded at the desk porter. He was asleep.

The apartment was on the fifth floor. The apartment that Ed Kurlnik had rented for her. The apartment where she had entertained him in so many different guises. He would be hard put to find a woman as versatile and imaginative as she was. Perhaps she should leave him a note. That would really put him away with Dee Dee. She couldn’t understand why tears were rolling slowly down her cheeks, and yet she was smiling, giggling even.

She fumbled for her keys. Funny, the door seemed to be open, and there was a smell that she couldn’t quite place.

She put her bag down on the hall table and groped for the light switch. Before she could reach it an arm enclosed her from behind. ‘Don’t scream,’ a voice warned. ‘I’ve got a knife and I’ll split you from end to end. You hear me – bitch? You hear me?’

Toronto was a sell-out. Fifteen thousand Al King fans waiting expectantly for the master.

Al was at tension pitch. Paul stayed solidly by his side. Whatever Al wanted, Al got.

It was hot. Before going on Al was sweating in the black satin jumpsuit that clung to him like a second skin. He swigged down a bottle of Perrier water and watched from the side of the stage as The Promises finished their set.

They rocked in unison – ‘Easy baby – stay with me baby – give it to me baby – Easy baby.’

He could see the sweat rolling off their gleaming bodies and sticking to the suede skins swathed round their supple forms.

‘Easy baby – make it baby – shake it baby – make me come… to you… OOOh baby… OOOh babee…’

The crowd roared its approval. The Promises were just starting to hit it. Their latest record was zooming ahead in the charts.

Al had worked with them once before in Las Vegas, and they offset him perfectly.

They came running offstage, breathless, happy. ‘The vibes are wailin’ tonight, man,’ said Rosa. ‘Jeese – it is but
beeeutiful
!’

Al’s musicians were starting up. The conga, the drums, the guitar, the tambourines.

He strode on stage.

Who’s gonna give it to you tonight

Who’s got love that’s outa sight

I’m your lover

I’m your man

Hey momma – shake your can

The crowd screamed. Al was one of the few white singers who sang soul the way it should be sung – the black way.

And yet that wasn’t all. His amazing voice could turn from pure funk to sing the clearest ballad around and then double back to a horny, throbbing rasp.

Out front Linda took photographs and marvelled at the magic Al created on stage. It was almost as if he lifted the audience up and took them with him on his own private trip. She watched a girl shaken by her own tears. Another who simply could not look at him. Row upon row they were under his spell, wriggling, squirming, trying to keep the excitement under control but not succeeding. Then suddenly screaming, storming the stage, clawing at the security guards.

And Al, under the spotlight, singing, moving, thrusting, tempting them in his black satin, stretched tight over what appeared to be a giant cock.

You wanna make it tonight

You wanna shake it tonight

We’re gonna do it together

The way that we should

We’re gonna love together.

Like I knew we would

A thin, pale girl fainted, and was passed casually over people’s heads and taken outside. By now everyone was standing, caught in his spell, rocking, swaying.

Al was caught up in his own spell. This was it. This was the ultimate. This was
the
orgasm. He could use his voice to far more effect than ever he did his cock. And his voice was ready, his whole body was ready.

He was making love to fifteen thousand people simultaneously and it was the absolute high. He never had got involved in the whole drug scene, and the reason was patently clear. Could a sniff of coke, a shot of H, a handful of mescalin even begin to compare with this? No way. No fuckin’ way.

He was singing with his everything. His heart. His soul. His guts. And they knew it, and they loved him for it. And he was a part of them and vice versa.

When it was over he was drained, in a state of shock. Paul and Luke bundled him under towels and raced him to a waiting car, and he was spirited away before the audience realized he was gone.

If the people had got hold of him they would have torn him to loving pieces.

He came out of it slowly. Back to reality, back to ground level. A shower. A massage. Gargle with the warm harshness of brandy.

‘Incredible,’ Paul told him, ‘goddamn incredible.’

And he knew it was true. He never kidded himself on the quality of a performance. Relief flooded through him, and the tensions and insecurities of the previous few months were gradually exorcised. He had done it. He was better than ever. They had loved him. And
this
was only the first stop.

‘Let’s party,’ he told Paul. ‘Let’s have us a time.’

* * *

Linda made her own way back to the hotel. She had no choice; by the time she got backstage Paul had vanished. Not that she expected him to be waiting for her, but he could have
told
her. She called his room, but there was no reply. She contemplated phoning him at Al’s but decided against it.

She went downstairs to the lobby and bumped into Bernie. She had yet to prove her worth as a photographer and Bernie regarded her with a certain amount of suspicion. However, who wouldn’t feel expansive after Al’s performance? ‘What the fuck,’ said Bernie, ‘you comin’ to the party?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it. Where?’

‘The Dragon suite. Go on down.’

She made her way to the lower level of the hotel and located the party.

Al and Paul were not there. It was full of newspaper reporters and Toronto personalities. The Promises were flitting about being charming.

She took a glass of wine and looked around for someone she knew. There were enough people connected with the tour, but no one she had really talked to. She sighed. Wow – this was really going to be fun.

‘Hello.’

She turned to confront the speaker.

He was a middle-aged man in a plaid suit with baggy eyes and a crew cut. ‘Lonely?’ he questioned.

‘Not particularly,’ she replied.

‘I didn’t think you
were
, I just thought you
might
be.’

‘Thanks anyway, but I’m not.’

‘The name’s Hank Mason. Newscasts are my game – Mason’s the name.’

Linda looked desperately around for Paul.

‘How’s about us splitting from here, and I could take you to a nice cosy little place I know?’

‘Thank you, but I’ll pass.’

‘Don’t be like that. You looked lonely.’ He belched discreetly. ‘You’re a pretty girl, don’t get uppity with me for trying.’

‘Look Mr. er…’

‘Mason.’

‘Mason. I am not lonely. I appreciate your offer, now please leave me alone.’

He leered. ‘I like ’em difficult.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake – go away.’

‘I bet you like ’em rough. A smack round the bottom – you like that, don’t you?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Or maybe you like girlies. Is that your kick?’

‘Am I being too polite for your pin-sized brain? Go fuck yourself, buster.’

Before he could reply she saw Paul and hurried over.

‘Hi, sweetheart.’ He kissed her absently. ‘What are you doing down here?’

‘Waiting for you.’

‘You’re in the wrong place.’

‘How am I supposed to know that?’

‘If you had waited in your room I would have told you. Wasn’t Al sensational?’

She nodded. Maybe coming on the tour hadn’t been such a good idea. Or maybe it had been a terrific idea. She was seeing a whole new Paul.

‘Run upstairs and fetch your cameras. The party’s in Al’s suite.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve got to sort out some people here. I’ll see you up there.’

So he hadn’t even come looking for her. She frowned, but Paul was already drifting off. They were all shits, Dallas was right. They had become quite friendly in New York. Dallas was a toughie, but honest with it, and Linda had found that to be a surprisingly refreshing quality in a woman.

OK, Paul. I can be tough too. You want to play the casual bit, I can play too.

* * *

Al basked in it. He sat back and accepted the compliments. Christ, but he felt he deserved them. He had starved his ass off to be in prime physical shape, and rehearsed non-stop for what seemed like months.

And it had all been worth it. God, the feeling he had now could not be beat. He was exhausted but elated. He felt like an athlete who has beaten every possible record.

The room was crowded with people anxious to join in his triumph. His musicians, a few select groupies, and a mixture of freaks who had talked their way in.

Three girls hovered nervously near him, ready for a wink, a nod, anything. They would slit each other’s throats to get near him first should he give a signal.

He didn’t bother. He felt perfectly satisfied. Anyway, he had sent Paul off to look for some real local talent. Groupies gave him no charge. Beneath their bland young faces lay sharp little brains armed with tape measures and plaster casts.

He knew that he should call Edna. She would be waiting by the phone anxious to hear what had happened. But goddamn it, she had wanted him to fail, she had wanted him to stay home. She wouldn’t be ecstatic about his success.

The Promises came flitting in. He had screwed Rosa that time they had been in Vegas. Once or twice between shows, it had been nice. But she had been involved with some gangster – and Al had decided the risk was not worth the prize. He wondered if he should renew old acquaintances. But getting involved with someone on the tour could turn out to be a drag. Whoever said never mix pleasure with business was a genius.

Rosa was coming over anyway. She kissed him. ‘Babee, you were
the
best – you hear me – the best!’

He hugged her.

‘We gonna have good times this trip, huh?’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Al. ‘Oh yeah.’

Dallas stood perfectly still. The arm that enclosed her from behind was steel-strong across her back. Fear shoved the alcohol out of her system, and she could feel the heavy, panic-stricken beating of her heart.

‘Don’t scream,’ the voice warned again, ‘and don’t turn around.’

She recognized the smell. It was the strong aroma of pot hanging heavily in the air. Whoever it was in her apartment must have been there for some time. In the gloom she made out two suitcases stacked near the door, and her television set standing alongside them. She breathed a little easier. A robbery.

‘Take the things and go,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t do anything, I won’t call the police.’

‘Shut up.’ The arm tightened round her neck, and the front door was kicked shut.

She could not see her assailant, but from the sound of his voice he was youngish. She could feel his body up against her. He was tall and skinny.

They stood silently in the darkness, then suddenly, inexplicably, he started to rub himself against her.

Oh God! She felt the vomit rise in her throat. He was going to rape her.

She was wearing a long silk jersey dress with nothing underneath, and his free hand roughly plunged into the top of it and released her breasts.

He giggled, a high-pitched maniacal laugh. ‘Better than the grandma I had last week,’ he boasted. ‘She had tits on her like hangin’ onions!’

She started to shake, shivers racking her body.

‘I like ’em young,’ the voice continued, rubbing the palm of his hand roughly across her breasts, ‘young an’ juicy with big tits. You like big cocks? I got a big one, ma’am. You are gonna see a whopper.’ He released his arm from around her neck, and both hands grabbed her breasts. ‘Shall I give it to you up the ass?’ he asked conversationally. ‘I did that to a girl the other day, she screamed and hollered. You wouldn’t do that, would you? I had to cut her a little to make her stop, real little cut across her throat.’ He laughed again. ‘Man, she sure was
screamin
’. I…’