AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 45

Byron Reed didn’t look like a man carrying $350,000 dollars in twenties & fifties.  The bag was a battered gym bag over his shoulder, the faded NIKE lettering reflected in the occasional gleam of on-coming cars, hassling in and out of parking spaces.  Reed was a jogger in sweats.  While waiting, he watched the housewives & mistresses, retired honchos & disjointed lowlifes, banana-brained bimbos & Atari Democrats park their phaeton status-symbols, go into the market for groceries, and exit with their edibles.  Clothes and jeweled accessories did not quite confer a comfortable identity upon them; most seemed soulless, anxious until they again approached their autobolides.  Reed stood by the outside telephones of the supermarket on the corner where Sunset tries to take a swim.

Breedman was late, and inclined to melodramatics, Reed thought.  It was a straight-forward business transaction.  Reed had conducted these little things a dozen times, usually in the past from his oak-paneled office at dB Records.  This kid-stuff cops-’n’-robbers crap, it just wasn’t necessary.

Well, if Breedman was going to shove things through this nighttime nonsense, Reed could damn well do some dirt, too.  Specifically, old friend Jimmy Beam, the big, badass roadie & Harley motorcycle-man.  He had brought big Jimmy along, who was back in the ’Vette.  Jimmy was packing, and Reed was also carrying a handgun.

Reed looked at his watch.  It told him he had just wasted 45 minutes.  In three-quarters of an hour, he could have scored one minute of film, he could have cleaned up a sloppy track, or programmed a new synth sound, or made six or seven production decisions, or torn into Emmy’s TO DO file and chopped an inch or two off the top of it, or written a looping double-bar of hot new music . . . or made love with a woman.

He plopped the bag down on the cement, and called Estelle, doing something he had been putting off.

Reed didn’t recognize the woman’s voice who answered the line; a new maid apparently, with a dry, bored voice.

“This is Byron Reed, may I please speak with Estelle?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Reed!”  Suddenly, her voice was sparkling; bright and fresh with feminine energy.  “Just a moment, please.”

And, in fact, it was just a moment.

“Hi there!” an excited Estelle chirped into his ear.

“Hello, Estelle.  Uh . . .”  Reed’s voice just would not budge.

“When may I sleep with you?” Estelle asked.

“Well . . .”  The slightly rumpled syllable came out ailing, and it strangled to a stop.

Estelle laughed easily.  “What’s the matter, Reed?”

“Estelle . . . a sex fantasy is one thing.  Reality is something else again.”

Since he had stopped speaking, she said: “Go on.”

“It’s just . . . damn it!”  He lowered his voice, as a pair of yup-pups passed by close on the sidewalk, with their health-food in the cart, and their half-pint clone in a contraption on daddy’s back.  “Estelle, will you please get rid of the girls.  I appreciate the gesture, and . . .”

He could hear her soft chuckling.

“. . . listen, Estelle, it was a once-in--a-lifetime thrill.  A Lot Of Fun.  But don’t get carried away.”

“Reed, darling, whatever is the trouble?”

He was suddenly angry.  “I can’t deal with a fucking harem of women!!” he roared into the phone.  The fast, close click of high-heels behind him made Reed cringe, but as he looked he saw that the Sunset alley cat was asleep at the switch: SleepWalkMan earphones over both her ears.

“Reed, what has happened?  Tell me.”  Her voice was motherly: ‘Let me kiss it and make it better.’

Why was he talking to her?  Why didn’t he just hang up and ignore her?——put as much distance between her and himself as possible: physical distance, psychological distance, emotional distance, all the distance known to males, in the war between the sexes.  The problem was that he still liked her.  It was an affinity between them, some weird sympathetic bond between them, that even after divorce and pain, made them more than just friends.  But he was afraid of that!  She wanted to edge back into his life——into his love-life——and she was so unscrupulously immoral, so knowledgeable of all his little foibles & quirks, that . . . damn, he just didn’t know how to resist her!  He had never gone back to the Sky Blue Inn, but he didn’t like the idea of women there, waiting for him.

“Estelle, come back down to earth.  Three prostitutes, I mean, it was fun for an evening, I might even be able to handle it for a weekend, but Jesus, for a year?  It’s too crazy.”

“Reed, darling, the girls are hardly prostitutes.  They are professional, highly-trained houri.  They are kept women, your mistresses.  And——”

“Get rid of them!  I’m not going back to see them.”

“As you wish.”  She managed to put a subtle, choked hurt into her voice.  “But Reed, you will certainly change your mind.  I shall continue to maintain your little harem, darling.  It’s a gift, without any strings of any kind . . .”

Damn, now that he didn’t want Breedman to show up, there he was.  The motor-home——larger than a van, smaller than a Winnebago——stopped for him.  Reed recognized Alan Christy in the driver’s seat, impatiently waving him over.

Estelle was still talking.

“Estelle, I’ve gotta go,” he interrupted.  “I’ll call you later.”  He hung up before she could voice further objections.

Reed was a little startled to find that he almost walked over to Breedman’s giant van without the money——that it had been on the concrete sidewalk beside him during the phone call, and he had been oblivious to it.  He had been concentrating so hard on the call that someone could have ripped him off.  He never would have noticed!

Charles Breedman hadn’t changed much.  Still the same outrageously obvious homosexual, the same big, round hairy bear body, the same tenor giggle that splotched out spontaneously all through his speech.  The personalized plate on his van just about said it all.  OD ONXTC.  He was wearing a mauve velvet suit, shocking pink tuxedo-shirt, peacock blue silk scarf around the open neck: The Scales Of Swish tilted, twanked, and twinked by more money than a sweetie can spend.

“Byron!  It’s great to see you, man!  Years AND years!  Come ON in!  Come on IN!”

Reed chuckled at the effeminate accent.  “Hello, Charlie.  Long time, no et cetera.”

The interior of the van was sumptuous.  Squashed living room, lux-pad in motion.  Garish splendor.  The million dollar drapes; the bar that held a hundred varieties of flavored ethanol, each in little mini-glass decanters well lit so that the rainbow colors of fluid whetted the palate; the bookshelf, the track lighting, the swivel leather upholstered chairs (overstuffed boudoir chairs with seat belts).  In the back, a man was set-up with a bank of scanners and other electronic equipment.  His face was arctic-cold; his eyes, two frosty slits; one ear listening to the airwaves.

Charles Breedman said, “Welcome to my Moving Palace!”

Reed knew that Charlie wanted to throw his arms around him for a big hug.  But there wasn’t really headroom for that.  Charlie had to satisfy himself with a double-hand grasp on the side of Reed’s shoulders.

They had once been the best of friends, and business associates.  Strictly suigenderism.  When Reed worked for dB, there was only one man to go to for checkbook airplay.  Charles Breedman.  The man had the connections.  Reed thought Charlie’s homosexual affectations were ridiculous, but as long as he kept his cock to himself and his sex life private——Reed could care less.

“What’s all this crap, Charlie?” Reed said.  “I know there’s a crack-down, but give me a break.”

“Times change, people change.  You’re doing good these days, Byron!  Everything I hear about you is good.  And I hear everything.”

“Who’s your friend with the headphones?”

“Don’t mind him,” Charlie said.  “Here.  Have some wine.”  He poured from a Waterford decanter into two champagne glasses.  “Three guesses!”

The van was moving, the man was stalling.  Usually, he was right down to it, from the word GO.  Now he was dragging.  Reed ignored the wine guessing games.  “When I put out a new album, it sells a quiet five or six million.  When Krane puts out an album, it sells a loud million and a half.  This time I want to sell a LOUD six million.”

The two lounge chairs faced each other in the tiny interior.  A small counter with a television built into it was mounted behind the driver.  Reed shoved the glass aside and crudely slammed the bag of money on the counter.  He pulled a typed single piece of paper from his shirt pocket, and put it down on the flat surface next to the bag.

Alan Christy said, over his shoulder, “We’re being followed, Charlie.  ’Lo, Reed.”

“It’s my car, Alan,” Reed said.  “An associate of mine.”

Reed didn’t understand Breedman’s reaction to that.  He chilled with a strange fear, and nervously glanced over at the guy in the rear with the radios.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Byron.” Charlie said, very quietly.

Reed said, “Charlie, you pull this horseshit on me——a secret rendezvous at night, for Christsake!  Hell, three hundred and fifty Gs is three hundred and fifty Gs!  If you’re going to play weird, I have to protect myself.”

The guy in back said, “What’s the metal object you’re carrying?  Protection?”

“Smith & Wesson.  What’s the scene?  Do you want me to check it?  Shit.”

“Byron,” Charles Breedman complained, “I have my reputation to consider!  There will be no trouble.”

Reed didn’t say anything, or react in any way.

Charlie and the guy in back looked at each other long and silently.  The guy, still with the headphone in his one ear, made the most minor of nods, and a shrug that was little more than a facial twitch.  “The airwaves are clear,” he said.  “And there’s no electromagnetic interference coming from him.”

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, and Reed could clearly see the relationship of power in the little van.  Charlie was now owned, like a dog——property, a slave——by the unassuming, nearly silent man in back.  It was bitterly distressing to see.

But at least Charlie was down to business.  He looked at Reed’s specs.  “Three hundred and fifty thousand,” he said, absently, as if he regularly dealt with such sums on a daily basis.  He did.  Behind and beside him, he had a tiny lap-top computer.  His pudgy fingers tapped over the keys, the sound like popcorn, as he consulted his database.  “Hummm . . . Courty Baby is no problem.  There is already substantial airplay in Europe and on the two coasts.  Hummm . . .”  He sadly shook his head.  “I’m afraid that with regard to your daughter’s single, Have Fun, that there is insufficient——”

Reed said, “I’ll provide the college airplay.  I just want you to take it from there.  I’ve got a campaign all mapped out to get all kinds of college radio stations to play it.  But after that, I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Very well,” Charlie said.

“I want to speak to you privately,” Reed told him.

Breedman hesitated.

“It’s personal, not business,” Reed said.

“I have no secrets from these gentlemen,” Charles said, deftly communicating that he desperately kept many, many secrets from them.

“Charles, are you trying to tell me that you can’t even talk to an old friend, without a fucking chaperon?  Stop the van.  Let’s go for a walk.”

Breedman still hesitated.

“I’m lonely,” Reed whined.  He reached across the table and put his hand on Charlie’s arm.  “You won’t talk to me anymore, you won’t let me see you anymore, I have to pass messages through other people, Charlie . . . I still love you.  And you treat me like shit!  Shit!”

With the barest tremor of a smile, Breedman said, “Alan, be a dear and pull off at the beach, will you?”

|

Byron Reed and Charlie Breedman walked twenty paces in front of the giant van.  The ocean breeze was a light waft.  Breedman looked nervously back at the following beast holding them in its headlights.  Further back, the Corvette.

“We’d better hold hands,” Breedman suggested.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie!” Reed said, grabbing the guy’s hand.  “These guys won’t even let you talk to people?!  What the fuck is going on?  Charlie, what is this shit?  I mean, when I gotta be Faggot For A Day, just to talk to you!  Oh, shit, man.  I don’t mean it that way.  I just . . . You think I fooled them?”

Breedman’s tenor giggle.  “Not Alan!  But yes, I think Richter bought it.”

“Who the fuck is that guy?”

Charlie sighed heavily.  “What do you want to talk about, Byron?”

“Slam the door in my face, man.”

“Byron, you have your problems, I have my problems. Let’s discuss your problems.”

Reed was silent for ten or fifteen seconds.  “OK, Charles, if I’m off-base, you let me know.”  Reed pause.  “If I wanted to kill someone, could you set it up for me?  You know, arrange a contract, or however the fuck it’s called, these days.”

Breedman laughed wildly, almost hysterically.  “I’m sorry, Byron, I just . . . that’s just so unexpected!  Why on Earth does Byron Reed want to kill someone?”  Tenor giggle.

Reed started to talk but Charles interrupted: “You were always the main-man, the flag-bearer for the forces of anti-naughtiness!  Honestly, Byron, you never seemed quite real to me, even when you were buying airtime from me back at dB.  I always thought of you as a human Ken Doll.”

“Well!” Reed said in a phony-huff.  “If you’re going to talk That Way about me, I just Refuse to hold your Hand!!”

And they both laughed.  Two part harmony.

“My girlfriend is Courty.  Have your heard of her?”

“Have I HEARD of HER??  Byron, there are two, exactly two humans who haven’t heard of Courty.  And they are both Zen Buddhist monks in the Himalayan mountains who are sworn to silence . . . of course, both of them have Courty pin-ups on their walls, they just don’t know her name, since they can’t read English . . .”

“Yeah, well . . . if you’re hip to current events, one of the muckraking mags claims that she did a smut film for fun and profit.”

“I HEARD THAT!”

Reed paused.  “It wasn’t for fun.  And it wasn’t for profit.  And it was, like forced on her, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean, there IS A FILM??”

“There is a film.  I’m kinda stretching the boundaries of what I’m supposed to be telling you but . . . I think it’s all gonna come out pretty soon anyway.  Let’s just say that there’s this guy.  He’s a dangerous, insane . . . asshole.  And he hurt my woman.  I think.  He hurt her real bad.  And I want this guy to be dead.  I’m not sure of my facts yet.  I’ve got a couple of investigators at work.  But if I find out for sure that this guy is the guy that hurt Courty, he’s dead meat.  Can you help me set it up?  You know lot of people that I don’t.  That’s why I’m asking.”

Charles Breedman was silent for 30 yards.  “Don’t.”

“Shit happens.  There’s not a don’t in me.”

“I can introduce you to people, but . . . where is this guy?”

“New York.”

“Byron, the people I know are West Coast.  By the time the West Coast people set you up with the East Coast people, you’ll have . . . Byron, these people will own your ass.  Oh, they’ll do it for you, but they’ll use you for it, they’ll use you up for it.  When you pay for it, that’s just the beginning!”

Now it was Reed’s turn to be silent for the thirty yards.  “We just had a lover’s quarrel.  I’m tired of holding your hand.”

Disconnect.

They did another thirty yards of silence.

“What about professional back-up?” Reed asked.

“Same problem.  Exact identical problem.  You use them, you’re vulnerable to them.”  His thumb pointed to his chest.  “Case in point.”

“So what do I do?  Do you have any advice for me at all?”

“Byron, you used to run with a rough crowd, surely——”

“Shit, that was ten, fifteen years ago.  They wouldn’t even talk to me anymore.”

“What about Larry Boyd?”

“I don’t know, what’s he doing these days?”

“He’s a mercenary!  Didn’t you know?  A soldier of fortune, can you believe it?  Although I hear he barely scrapes by a living.”

“Larry?  He was gonna skip to Canada when he pulled his lousy draft number.  Christ, people change.  How do I reach him?”

Charles spread his hands dramatically.  “Can’t help ya.”

“Yeah, well, good luck, Charles.  Thanks.”  Reed started to turn away, to walk back to the ’Vette.

“I’m lonely,” Charles whined, imitating Reed’s earlier outburst, swishing his hands violently.  “Oh, Byron, you won’t talk to me anymore, you won’t let me see you anymore . . . I still love you!  And you treat me like shit!  Shit!”

“Give me a fucking break,” Reed said, and they both laughed, and waved goodbye.

Reed went back to the driver’s side, and Jimmy got out to let him drive.

The look big Jimmy the ex-roadie gave Reed was enough to do it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Jim.  I held hands with the guy to keep him out of trouble with his boss.  What do I have to do?  Fuck female elephants to prove I’m macho?”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything, Reed.”  But Jimmy knew, he just KNEW that Reed was homo.  All those female groupies he had refused, back on the road when he and Krane were the hottest thing around.  Fuckin’ homo.

COURTNEY, Chapter 46
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47