3
In the alley outside Pylos I jump over the rope and tumble into a crowd of hip-hop enthusiasts waiting in the rain to gain entrance and once I’ve pushed through them I spin around to see if either of the bodyguards has followed me but I think I lost them when I pretended to duck into a DJ booth. Sam’s already in the limo, sticking his head out the window, calling “Hey! Hey!” as I sprint over to the car and yell “Hurry!” to the driver. The limo skids out of the alley and into Charing Cross Road, horns echoing behind us, and Sam has broken into the minibar, popping open a split of champagne, drinking straight from the bottle and finishing it in less than a minute while I just stare tiredly and then he starts shouting at the driver, “Go faster go faster, go faster!” and keeps trying to hold my hand. In his calmer moments Sam shows me his crystals, demands LSD, hands me a pamphlet about brainwave harmonizers, sings along to “Lust for Life” as it bursts from speakers in the back of the limo and he’s drinking deeply from a bottle of Absolut and shouting “I’m a pillhead!” while sticking his head out the sunroof as the limo races through the drizzle back to the house.
“I’m seeing Bobby, I’m seeing Bobby,” he singsongs, blitzed out, bouncing up and down on the seat.
I light a cigarette, trying to perfect my scowling. “Can you please mellow out?”
The limousine stops in front of the darkened house and then, once the gate opens, slowly pulls into the driveway. The roof lights immediately flash on, blinding us even through the limousine’s tinted windows, then slowly fade.
Sam Ho opens the door and jumps out drunkenly, shambling toward the darkness of the house. At an upstairs window a silhouette appears, peering from behind a blind, and then the light goes out. “Hey Sam,” I call, swinging my legs out of the limo. “There’s an alarm system—be careful.” But he’s gone. Above us the sky has cleared and there’s really nothing up there except for half a moon.
The driver waits for me to step from the limo and I’m suddenly surprised by how tired I am. I get out of the car and stretch, and then, just standing there, avoiding the house and what’s going on within it, light a cigarette.
“Were we followed?” I ask the driver.
“No.” He shakes his head curtly.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“The second unit took care of it,” he says.
“Hmm.” I take a drag off the cigarette, flick it away.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asks.
I consider the offer. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Well then, good night.” The driver closes the door I just stepped out of and walks around the car, back to the driver’s side.
“Hey,” I call out.
He glances up.
“Do you know a guy named Fred Palakon?”
The driver stares at me until he loses interest and looks elsewhere.
“Right,” I say tensely. “O-kay.”
I open a gate and then it closes automatically behind me and then I’m walking through the darkened garden while R.E.M.’s “How the West Was Won” plays and above me, in the house, the lights in some of the windows don’t reveal anything. The back door that leads into the kitchen is half-open and after I’ve walked in and closed it there’s that series of electronic beeps. I move uncertainly through the space—nobody’s downstairs, there’s no sign of the crew, everything’s spotless. I pull an Evian out of the fridge. A video—the end of Die Hard 2—silently plays on the giant TV, credits roll, then the tape starts rewinding itself. I brush confetti off the giant pistachio-colored sofa and lie down, waiting for someone to appear, occasionally glancing toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, listening intently, but hear only the whirring of the tape being rewound and the R.E.M. song fading. I vaguely imagine Jamie and Bobby together, maybe even with Sam Ho, in bed, and there’s a pang; but after that, nothing.
A script lies on the coffee table and absently I pick it up, open it to a random page, an odd scene, descriptions of Bobby calming someone down, feeding me a Xanax, I’m weeping, people are getting dressed for another party, a line of dialogue (“what if you became something you were not”) and my eyes are closing. “Fall asleep,” is what I imagine the director would whisper.
2
Wakened suddenly out of a brief dreamless nap by someone calling “Action” softly (though when I open my eyes and look around the living room there’s no one here), I get off the couch, noticing vacantly that the script I fell asleep reading has disappeared. I pick up the Evian bottle, take a long, deep swallow and carry it with me as I move uncertainly through the house, past spaces where someone has turned off various lights while I was sleeping. In the kitchen I’m staring into the refrigerator for what seems like days, unsure of what to do, when there’s a strange noise below me—a rapid thumping sound, followed by maybe a muffled wail, and at the same instant the lights in the kitchen dim once, then twice. I look up, quietly say “Hello” to myself. Then it happens again.
Because of the way the set is lit, a door I never noticed in a hallway adjacent to the kitchen practically glows now. A framed Calvin Klein poster covers the top half: Bobby Hughes on a beach, shirtless, white Speedos, impossibly brown and hard, not seeing a near-naked Cindy Crawford standing next to him because he’s looking directly into the camera, at you. Drawn to it, I run my hand along the glass it’s encased in and the door slowly swings open onto a staircase dotted with confetti and my breath immediately starts steaming because of how freezing it suddenly is and then I’m moving down the stairs, gripping the icy railing, heading toward the bottom. Another thump, the strange faraway wailings, the lights dimming again.
Belowground I’m moving down a plain, undecorated hallway, one arm extended, fingers trailing along the cold brick wall that lines this corridor, humming to myself—hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry—and I’m heading toward a door with another Calvin Klein poster on it, another beach scene, another shot of Bobby proudly baring his abdominals, another beautiful girl ignored behind him, and in a matter of seconds I’m standing in front of it, straining to assemble the vague noises I’m hearing on a sound track where the volume’s too low. There’s a handle, something I’m supposed to turn, and piles of confetti are scattered all over the concrete floor.
Vacantly, in this instant, I’m thinking of my mother and the George Michael concert I attended just days after she died, the azaleas on the block we lived on in Georgetown, a party where no one was crying, the hat Lauren Hynde gave me in New York, the tiny red rose on that hat. A final sip of Evian and I turn the handle, shrugging, the lights dimming once again.
“It’s what you don’t know that matters most,” the director said.
Movement behind me. I turn around as the door opens.
Jamie’s walking toward me quickly, dressed in sweats, her hair pulled back, wearing yellow rubber gloves that run all the way up to her elbows.
I smile at her.
“Victor,” she shouts. “No—don’t—”
The door swings open.
I turn, confused, looking into the room.
Jamie yells something garbled behind me.
Fitness equipment has been pushed aside into the corners of what looks like a soundproofed room and a mannequin made from wax covered in either oil or Vaseline, slathered with it, lies twisted on its back in some kind of horrible position on a steel examination table, naked, both legs spread open and chained to stirrups, its scrotum and anus completely exposed, both arms locked back behind its head, which is held up by a rope connected to a hook in the ceiling.
Somebody wearing a black ski mask is sitting in a swivel chair next to the examination table, screaming at the mannequin in what sounds like Japanese.
Bruce sits nearby, staring intently at a metal box, his hands poised over the two levers that protrude from either side.
Bentley Harrolds camcords the proceedings—the camera aimed solely at the mannequin.
I’m smiling, confused, weirded out at how focu
sed Bentley seems and shocked at how gruesome and inauthentic the waxwork looks.
The figure in the black ski mask keeps shouting in Japanese, then signals to Bruce.
Bruce nods grimly and moves his hand to a lever, pressing it, causing lights to flicker, and in a flash my eyes move from the wires connected to the box over to where they have actually been inserted into gashes and cuts on what I’m just realizing are the mannequin’s nipples, fingers, testicles, ears.
The mannequin springs grotesquely to life in the freezing room, screeching, arching its body up, again and again, lifting itself off the examination table, tendons in its neck straining, and purple foam starts pouring out of its anus, which also has a wire, larger, thicker, inserted into it. Bunched around the wheels on the table legs are white towels spotted heavily with blood, some of it black. What looks like an intestine is slowly emerging, of its own accord, from another, wider slit across the mannequin’s belly.
There is, I’m noticing, no camera crew around.
I drop the Evian bottle, startled, causing Bentley to glance over at where I’m standing.
Behind me, Jamie screams, “Get him out of here!”
Sam Ho is making noises I have never heard another person make before, and in between these arias of pain he’s screaming, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” and the figure in the swivel chair rolls out of view of the camcorder and takes off the ski mask.
Sweaty and exhausted, Bobby Hughes mutters—I’m not sure to whom—the words “Kill him” and then, to Bentley, “Keep rolling.”
Bruce stands and with a small sharp knife swiftly slices off Sam Ho’s penis. He dies screaming for his mother, blood shooting out of him like a fountain until there’s none left.
Somebody cuts the lights.
I’m trying to leave the room but Bobby blocks my exit and my eyes are closed and I’m chanting “please man please man please man,” hyperventilating, breaking out into sobs. Someone who might be Jamie is attempting to hug me.
1
“Victor,” Bobby’s saying. “Victor, come on … come on, man, it’s cool. Stand up—that’s it.”
We’re in one of the ash-gray bedrooms upstairs. I’m on the floor hugging Bobby’s legs, convulsing, unable to stop myself from moaning. Bobby keeps feeding me Xanax and for short stretches of time the shuddering subsides. But then I’m in the bathroom—Bobby waiting patiently outside—vomiting until I’m just gagging up spit, retching. When I’m through I lie there in a fetal position, my face pressed against the tiles, breathing erratically, hoping he’ll leave me alone. But then he’s kneeling beside me, whispering my name, trying to prop me up, and I keep clutching him, weeping. He places another pill in my mouth and leads me back into the bedroom, where he forces me to sit on the bed while he leans over me. Sometime during all this my shirt came off, and I keep clawing at my chest, grabbing myself so hard that patches of skin are reddened, on the verge of bruising.
“Shhh,” he says. “It’s okay, Victor, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I blurt out, sobbing. “It’s not okay, Bobby.”
“No, it is, Victor,” Bobby says. “It’s cool. You’re gonna be cool, okay?”
“Okay,” I’m sniffling. “Okay okay man.”
“Good, that’s good,” Bobby says. “Just keep breathing in like that. Just relax.”
“Okay man, okay man.”
“Now listen to me,” Bobby says. “There are some things that you need to know.” He’s handing me a tissue, which I can’t help tearing apart the second my fingers touch it.
“I just want to go home,” I’m whimpering, shutting my eyes tight. “I just want to go home, man.”
“But you can’t,” Bobby says soothingly. “You can’t go home, Victor.” Pause. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“Why not?” I ask, like a child. “Please, man—”
“Because—”
“I swear to God I won’t tell anyone, Bobby,” I say, finally able to look at him, wiping my eyes with the tattered Kleenex, shuddering again. “I swear to God I won’t say anything.”
“No, you won’t,” Bobby says patiently, his tone changing slightly. “I know that. I already know that, Victor.”
“Okay I’ll go, okay I’ll go,” I say, blowing my nose, sobbing again.
“Victor,” Bobby begins softly. “You were—hey, look at me.”
I immediately look at him.
“Okay, that’s better. Now listen to me.” Bobby breathes in. “You were the last person Sam Ho was seen alive with.”
He pauses.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks.
I’m trying to nod.
“You were the last person seen with Sam Ho—okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And when his body is discovered, traces of your semen will be found in him, okay?” Bobby’s saying, nodding slowly, his eyes radiating patience, as if he were talking to a little kid.
“What? What?” I can feel my face crumpling again and suddenly I’m crying, pushing him away. “That didn’t happen, that didn’t happen, man, that can’t—”
“Think back to what happened the other night, Victor,” Bobby says, holding me tight, resting his head on my shoulder.
“What happened? What happened, man?” I say, suddenly hugging him, smelling his neck.
“You were in bed with Jamie, remember?” he says softly. “That will be the last time that ever happens.” Pause. He hugs tighter. “Do you hear me, Victor?”
“But nothing happened, man,” I sob into his ear, shivering. “I swear nothing happened, man—”
A flash. My loud orgasm, its intensity, how I came all over my hands, my stomach, onto Jamie, how she wiped me off with her own hands, her careful exit, the angle she held her arm up as she left the room, the way I shielded my eyes from the light in the hallway, how I spun into sleep.
“Did you hear me, Victor?” Bobby asks, pulling gently away. “Do you understand now?” Pause. “Okay? Do you understand that nothing will ever happen between you and Jamie again?”
“I’ll leave, man, it’s okay, man, I’ll leave, I won’t tell anyone—”
“No, Victor, shhh, listen to me,” Bobby says. “You can’t go.”
“Why not, man, just let me go, man—”
“Victor, you can’t go anywhere—”
“I want to go, man—”
“Victor, if you attempt to leave we will release photos and a videotape of you having sex with the ambassador’s son—”
“Man, I didn’t—”
“If you go anywhere they will be sent directly to—”
“Please help me, man—”
“Victor, that’s what I’m trying to do.”
“What … ambassador’s son?” I ask, choking. “What in the fuck are you talking about, Bobby?”
“Sam Ho,” Bobby says carefully, “is the Korean ambassador’s son.”
“But—but how … I didn’t … I didn’t do anything with him.”
“There are a lot of things you’re going to have to reconcile, Victor,” Bobby says. “Do you understand?”
I nod dumbly.
“You shouldn’t be shocked by any of this, Victor,” Bobby says. “This is expected. This was in the script. You shouldn’t be surprised by any of this.”
“But …” I open my mouth but my head falls forward and I start crying, silently. “But … I am, man.”
“We need you, Victor,” Bobby’s saying, stroking my shoulder. “There are so many people who are afraid to move forward, Victor, who are afraid to try things.” He pauses, continues stroking. “Everybody’s afraid of changing, Victor.” Pause. “But we don’t think you are.”
“But I’m a—” I gasp involuntarily, trying to ward off tiny waves of black panic from morphing into nausea. “But I’m a … really very together person, Bobby.”
Bobby feeds me another small white pill. I swallow gratefully.
“We like you, Victor,” he says soft
ly. “We like you because you don’t have an agenda.” Pause. “We like you because you don’t have any answers.”
I gag reflexively, wipe my mouth, shudder again.
Outside it’s almost dusk again and night sounds are registering and tonight there are parties we have to attend and in rooms throughout the second floor the rest of the houseguests are taking showers, getting dressed, memorizing lines. Today there were massages and Tammy and Jamie had their hair done at a salon that’s so chic it doesn’t even have a name or a phone number. Today there was a shopping expedition at Wild Oats in Notting Hill, which produced a crate of Evian water and Moroccan takeout that still sits in the salmon-hued kitchen. Today the Velvet Underground played throughout the house and on the computer in the living room various files were erased and mounds of information on disk were being terminated. Today the gym was washed and sterilized and towels and clothing were shredded and burned. Today Bentley Harrolds went to the Four Seasons along with Jamie Fields and they checked me out, retrieved my belongings, tipped various porters, made no arrangements with the front desk concerning how anyone might find me. Today travel plans were finalized and right now luggage is being packed since we are leaving for Paris tomorrow. Somewhere in all this a body was discarded and a videotape of its torture was sent to the appropriate address. Today the film crew left a message with the address of a house in Holland Park and instructions to meet them there no later than 9:00 tonight.
Clothes—a simple black Armani suit, a white Comme des Garçons shirt, a red Prada vest—lie across an ash-gray divan in the corner of the room. Bobby Hughes is wearing slippers and pouring mint tea from a black ceramic pot that he sets back down on a chrome table. Now he’s choosing which Versace tie I should wear tonight from a rack hanging in a walk-in closet.
When we hug again, he whispers insistently into my ear.
“What if one day, Victor”—Bobby breathes in, holding me tighter—“what if one day you became whatever you’re not?”