Posts
Max Greenburg’s mansion rested on a protruding formation of bedrock halfway up Laurel Canyon. The mansion itself was tucked behind a band of more modest homes and was camouflaged by large clusters of palm. The home had a private entrance protected by a two ton gate and the front door was ensconced by two massive white Roman columns. And, as Billy Buttle and Jerry Saint made their meandering way up the drive, it appeared as though every light in the house was on.
Billy and Jerry had been in Los Angeles less than three days, but had already seen the revelry of six parties. They had been invited to this particular party under the presumption there was to be a celebration of Max Greenburg’s unwavering genius after the premiere of his most recent film. Early reports were that it would be the highest grossing film in cinematic history. The party was to be a lavish affair, complete with fountains of tequila, high (and some low) class hookers, cocaine, ecstasy, PCP, or whatever those Hollywood miscreants desired. But when Billy and Jerry reached the top of the cobblestone driveway they found only two cars parked in the mansions cul-de-sac. There was no valet, no catering van, no fancy Lamborghinis. This seemed like the furthest thing from a Hollywood party.
They arrived just after dusk. The Santa Monica sky had turned a deep shade of orange when they left the comfy confines of The Standard Hotel, but, as they parked, they noticed the sky was already black. If they hadn’t have been in L.A., surrounded by a cloud of smog, they might have been able to pick out the evening’s first stars.
“You sure this is it?” Jerry asked Billy.
“That’s what he said.”
“And you’re sure it’s tonight?”
“Also what he said.”
Jerry hesitated. “Well…why isn’t anyone here?”
“Will you relax? You’re making me nervous.”
“There’s not exactly a party vibe going on here.”
Billy parked next to one of the two cars: a rusting, dented Mercedes, Atlantic blue in color. The car was from the early nineties, and it had felt the pain of every single one of it’s harsh years. The other car was “nicer.” Certainly newer. As best they could tell the car was a Cadillac, but it had been painted an awful shade of violet. The rims were plated in gold and the windows were tinted well past regulation. There was a spoiler on the back that had no earthly business being there and a bumper and fender that were plated in chrome. The car seemed like something out of a Saturday morning cartoon.
“Look at that thing,” said Jerry.
“It’s burning my eyes.”
They got out of the car and Billy started for the front door. When he heard the trunk of his own car open, he stopped and turned back. “What are you doing?” he asked Jerry.
“I brought something.”
“Why?”
“I read an article that says it’s rude to show up to a party empty handed.”
“That’s nuts.”
“It’s true, I can show you the article.”
“No, it’s nuts what you’re doing, not that the article exists.”
Jerry pulled a wrinkled brown paper bag from the trunk and slammed it shut.
“What is it?” Billy asked.
“Chocolate wine.”
“What the hell is chocolate wine?”
“It’s wine that tastes like chocolate.”
“That sounds disgusting.”
“It is.”
“Why’d you bring it?”
“…It’s a gift,” he said plainly.
“Can we just go inside?”
“Yes.”
“And will you stop stressing me out?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jerry was the first to push through the door, a door that held so many possibilities, so many fates, so many truths and lies. But when he pushed through that door they were cast into a world with two hookers, a pale white pimp with cornrows, and an otherwise empty room, devoid of any faith or purity. One of the hookers had one arm, the nub hanging at the side of her shoulder like a dried piece of salami. She was the first to speak, and her words were not filled with any sort of elegance or grace. “Fuck you doing here?”
Billy looked back as if she was speaking to somebody else. “Is this Mr. Greenburg’s place?” he asked.
“Who’s asking?” she snorted.
“We’re here for the party,” Jerry declared, holding up the bottle of chocolate wine.
“What’s that?”
“Chocolate wine,” they said together.
“The fuck is chocolate wine?”
“Wine that tastes like chocolate,” they, again, said together.
“Sounds disgusting.”
“It is.”
“Where the fuck is it?” the pimp asked the other hooker.
The other hooker was actually quite pretty, a high-class type, a real go-getter. She was wearing this tacky blue dress, but was managing to pull it off.
If you think about it, Billy thought, hookers can pull off anything nowadays.
She was crouched near the coffee table, smashing little blue pills with the back of a credit card. “Where’s what?” she asked.
“The money, what’cho think? This eighteen bedroom house and not one fuckin’ room has money? That ain’t right.”
“Just relax,” the second hooker said. She grabbed a nearby straw and snorted up a freshly cut blue line. Her head fell back and her eyes glazed. “God damn, god damn!”
“Help me find the money!” barked the pimp.
“Maybe we should go,” Billy said to Jerry.
The pimp finally turned, noticing the two and their chocolate wine for the first time. “Who the fuck is you?”
“Billy.”
“Jerry.”
“I don’t suppose you know where the money is.”
“What money?”
“What money?” the pimp laughed. “Always with the fuckin’ ‘what money.’”
“It was the first time we said it,” Jerry told him.
“You coppin’ an attitude, boy?”
“Sir, maybe if you could tell us what money you’re looking for, we could help,” Billy told him.
“The money Mr. Greenburg owes me!” he shouted. The pimp closed his fist and pounded the top of his chest. “The money he owes these two girls, the money he owes me for the drugs, and the money he’s owed me for the past seven weeks!”
“How much?”
“$300,000!”
“Jesus,” muttered Jerry. “What kind of hookers are these?”
“Special hookers.”
The second hooker took another line and her body shivered.
“But…” said Jerry.
“Yeah?”
“I mean, no offense, but she’s got one arm.”
“What the fuck, asshole?” snorted the one armed hooker. “You think just cause I got one arm I ain’t special?”
“What? No! I’m just saying that $300,000 is a lot of money…for any hooker…not just a one armed one.”
“Every man’s got’a fetish,” said the pimp. “One arm, small feet, red hair, thin lips, the possibilities are endless. But I ain’t concerned about the fetishes of grown men, I’m concerned about my three hundred large!”
“Speaking of which, where is Mr. Greenburg?” Billy asked.
“Upstairs.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Fuck if I know. He caught one whiff of Tiffany’s stub and pitched a tent right here in the living room.”
The second hooker did a third line and her body convulsed. She licked the inside of her thumb, swiped it across the cut blue powder, and rubbed it along her gums.
“Guests caught one sight of the three of us and got outta here,” said the pimp.
“No, that wasn’t it,” said the second hooker. She looked at Billy and Jerry with uncomprehending eyes, almost as if she was talking to herself.
“What’s that?” asked the pimp.
“A few of the guests went upstairs, then we heard that screaming, remember? And then more people went upstairs, and there was more screaming. Before we knew it, everybody was out of here. They left all kinds of things when they went. Purses, cell phones, keys. Some even left their Viagra.” She did another blue line.
“Maybe we’ll go check on him,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, you do that, motherfuckers!” shouted the pimp. “And when you find that scumbag, make sure he’s got my three hundred grand. Because, I shit you not, I’ll come up there and snap that jew bastard’s neck.”
“That’s harsh,” Billy said.
“You got a problem with how I talk, motherfucker?”
“We’ll be right back.” Billy and Jerry, chocolate wine in hand, headed for the marble staircase. The staircase itself cost more than most homes. Apart from the marble tread, the railing was plated in gold, and each step’s nosing was lined in ivory. They bounded up the steps not noticing any of the thousand dollar traits below their feet.
“Mr. Greenburg?” Jerry asked the silent upstairs. “Mr. Greenburg, it’s Jerry Saint and Billy Buttle.”
But there came no answer.
“I’ll check over here,” Billy said, pointing toward the master bedroom. He wandered off while Jerry took the other side of the house.
The master bedroom was just as extravagant as the rest of the house. A four poster bed occupied the far wall, the posters, like the railing, were plated in gold. Near the base of the posters were studded diamonds. The high ceilings were wood carved with hand crafted moldings where the wall and ceiling met. An antique armoire rested in front of the bed, a plasma TV situated callously inside. The bedsheets had been mussed, the only imperfection in the entire room, but Billy saw no persons.
“Mr. Greenburg? It’s me, Billy Buttle.”
Still, no answer.
Billy noticed the light in the master bathroom was illuminated, but the door was shut. He knocked on the thick oak, a hollow echo sounding off his knuckles. “Mr. Greenburg?” Billy pushed on the door and light streamed into the room. The door was heavy, and Billy was surprised it took him a couple heaves to finally push it open.
The bathroom was bright and polished. The tile was recently cleaned and the tub and shower scrubbed to a shimmering glow. Two sinks occupied the wall farthest from the door. A bidet and toilet were adjacent from the sinks; the bidet, strangely enough, was also plated in gold.
Billy went to the sink, ran the water until it was as cold, and splashed a handful on his face. He ran a hand along the nape of his neck and looked in the mirror. But his face was not what the eye caught first. Behind him, hanging from that heavy oak door, was Max Greenburg. Billy spun around and grabbed hold of the sink for balance. Greenburg’s eyes were closed, but his tongue had lolled out of his mouth and turned blue.
“Oh…fuck…” Billy whispered to himself. “Um…Jerry! I think you’d better get in here!”
Billy heard Jerry’s pounding footsteps amplify as he raced down the hall and into the bathroom. He pushed through the door with surprising ease and Billy watched, mortified, as Greenburg swung on the door like a butcher sausage.
“What is it?” Jerry asked.
All Billy could do was point.
Jerry turned toward the door and let out a high-pitched scream. He stumbled backward and the chocolate wine slipped out of his hand, toppling across the tile. Billy was sure it would break, but it came to rest against the toilet’s basin, completely intact.
“What did you do?” Jerry cried.
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Is he dead?”
“He sure looks dead.” Billy stepped closer to Greenburg and noticed he was hanging from several neckties that had been woven together. The neckties were silk and multicolored; one end of them tied to the door’s hook, the other ends wrapped around Greenburg’s neck. He had his pants and underwear wrapped around his ankles, his belt dangling a few inches off the floor. His hand was cupped in flat circle, limp in the wrist.
“Jesus, was he whacking it?” Jerry was wailing now.
“The fuck is goin’ on in there?” a voice came from the master bedroom.
“Don’t come in here!” Jerry yelled.
But the door pushed open and in walked the pimp and two hookers. The second hooker was still rubbing the inside of her gums and her head bobbed back and forth as if on a spring.
“What you doin’?”
But neither Billy nor Jerry had time to answer before the three new bathroom guests turned and saw the hanging Greenburg.
“Oh shit!” the pimp cried.
The two hookers screamed and frantically waved their arms. They danced about like chickens in their coop, occasionally stealing glances at the dead Greenburg plastered against the oak.
“What did you do?” The pimp advanced on Jerry, his arms outstretched in strangulation mode.
“We didn’t do anything,” Jerry insisted.
“You cost me three hundred grand!”
Billy picked up the bottle of chocolate wine and heaved it across the room. It struck the pimp in the face, just above the eyes. There was a shattering of glass and the pimp was covered in a disgusting sea of brown. The alcohol wafted into the air and everybody seemed to recoil. The pimp fell back, whether because of the force or the smell, it was impossible to tell. He hit the tile with a thud and what was left of the bottle crashed next to him.
The two hookers screamed and ran at Billy and Jerry. Three arms swatted at them with nothing but fear and panic as their persuasion.
“What are you doing?” Jerry cried against the swats. The one armed hooker was on him, swatting away with her one hand, possessed and demented.
The second hooker hit Billy in the neck and chest with light, unimpressive strokes. “Jesus, lady, stop it, will ya?”
The chocolate wine puddled around the unconscious pimp and, all at once, the two hookers slipped in the puddle and their feet flew into the air. At one point, the two were equally horizontal to the ground before they came crashing to the tile, knocked out cold.
“What is going on?” Jerry cried.
“Let’s get out of here!” Billy screamed.
Billy and Jerry rushed for the door, crunching over bits of glass, past the hanging Greenburg, through the master bedroom, down the marble staircase, and out the door before they noticed their shoes were soaked in heavy, aromatic puddles of chocolate wine; their footsteps—like some Scooby-Doo cartoon—clearly identifiable throughout the Greenburg estate.
They hopped in their car and raced away, never showing their faces in Laurel Canyon again.
I went to a party once
ReplyDelete