Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (9 page)

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that the
house's massive arched doorway stood open now Someone
was standing under the keystone, waving at him.

"I'm flattered that you find me attractive," Vivica Hildreth
said, her eyes narrowed. She uncrossed her legs, then recrossed them in the wire chair. "Everybody likes to be admired, even if they act like they don't."

Westmore nearly fell out of his own chair; the suddenness
of the comment-a total shift in subjectsr--threw him for a
loop. He blushed, because he knew why she'd said this.
"I ... apologize. I guess I've been ... staring at you. I
didn't mean to."

"Not staring-appraising, maybe. Don't worry, Mr. Westmore. It makes me feel better. Most men are put off by me."

By now, Westmore was growing accustomed to the awkwardness of the day. "I don't know why. You're a very interesting woman."

She took off the Paisley shawl, her breasts blooming beneath the t-shirt. He guessed she was teasing him now,
overtly. "You're a very intriguing man. It's regrettable that
we don't have anything in common."

Now all Westmore could do was shake his head and
laugh. "Come on! DeKooning?"

"Not to mention that I would never cheat on my husband.
If you are able to discern that he's dead, though ... who
knows what the future might hold?"

I do not believe this ...

Her voice edged down. "Do you know what the future
holds?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, then. Time ... will tell." Her breasts, standing
out, preceded her words-the bright-eyed pop baroness in
flipflops. "Strange day, huh, Mr. Westmore?"

"Yes

She stood up, and bid the exit with her hand. "You're
about to walk into a very strange week. Good luck."

I gum that means I'm leaving. He rose and shook her hand
again, felt a static charge crackle when their skin made
contact.

"As I've said, there will be others at the house with you,
but remember whom you're working for."

Westmore raised a brow. "I thought I was working for
you. 11

..You are, and anything you discover while you're staying
at my husband's house-anything snuitiue ... you're not
to share that with anyone else. Report, in private to me. I
can be reached on my cell phone at all times. You're not to
give the number to anyone else."

"Understood," Westmore said, but he still didn't really
understand much at all. Iguess she wants me to find out everything I can about what happened that night, and find out whew her
husband is. It was a trick-bag, though, and he knew it. Right
now he knew essentially nothing about Reginald Hildreth ... except that his obituary was faked. And he
couldn't tell a soul unless he wanted Vivica's lawyers to drop
a depth-charge into the middle of his life. She'd said it all a
minute ago: it would be a very strange week.

She walked him to the foyer. "I'd like you to start tomorrow. Is that acceptable to you?"

"Sure."

"I'm glad. Then go now, to prepare. Karen will be driving you home. She'll give you some things when she drives
you back, and any cursory questions you can ask her. She'll
be staying at the house, too."

"What about you?" Westmore asked next and then
wished he hadn't. His reactive flirtation was amateurish,
nothing like hers. "Will you be at the house?"

"I've never set foot in that house, Mr. Westmore," she
said, then walked away.

Walking across the street, Westmore remembered what she'd
said earlier, the theme of his job: My husband was preparing for
something he thought could occur in the future. I want to know
what-exactly-it was he ua s preparing for. And I cant to know
when. Remember that above all else.

"What the hell could this nut have been preparing for?"
he muttered to himself. Then he patted the envelope in his
pocket, the sheaf of money, and lots more to come.

Who cares? He was not terribly discontent with that acknowledgment. At least I'm being honest when I don't deny
that IT do pretty much anything for money.

"I'm really in need, brother," a very rough voice said. "I
could use anything you can spare."

Westmore looked around, didn't see anyone. It was getting dark. Then he looked down and saw a filthy, straggly
man sitting behind the garbage can next to the bus shelter
that Westmore was grateful he wouldn't have to stand in
today.

Rheumy eyes beseeched him. "Got my leg all shot up in
Iraq."

Westmore doubted it; the leg jutting from stained shorts
appeared infected from dirty needles. "Sure," he said, and
reached into his pocket. I've got a shitload of money on me, he
reminded himself. Then he gave the bum a $ 100 bill.

"Is that all ya got?"

Jesus, Westmore thought and walked on.

Let's see, she said she'd meet me in the oyster bar, of all places.
He peered through the dark plate glass and saw Karen sitting up at the fine cherry-wood bar. It occurred to him
then that he hadn't walked in here in three years. He'd al ways loved the place because of its posh interior darknessit was harder for him to see his reflection in the mirror behind the liquor shelves.

A few tables were full but the bar itself stood empty save
for Karen. Oh, that's just great, she's tying one on, he thought.
She tossed back her blonde bangs and took a slug from a
preposterously large martini glass full of glowing-blue ice.

Westmore winced when he saw what rested just next to
her: two glasses, a Dewar's on the rocks and a ginger ale.

Now how the hell did she ...

Karen seemed to be staring at space as she sipped the
massive drink.

"I'm back," Westmore said.

"Did I get it right?" She pointed to the two glasses next
to her.

"Yes, but I don't drink anymore."

"Oh, I know that. But you always order a scotch and
don't drink it. At your neighborhood bar where you live?
Every night? The Sloppy Heron, the place is called. But
several years ago, you'd skip the ginger ale and drink eight
or ten Dewar's. Same thing here, too, right? This oyster bar
we're sitting in right now? You used to come here a lot,
didn't you?"

"Yeah. And I used to get tkroum out of here a lot. I'm very
happy that I quit drinking." Westmore sat down with a sigh.
For some reason or other, the meeting with Vivica-however thrilling-left him exhausted now

"So if you're trying to quit drinking-"

"Not trying," Westmore corrected her. "I did quit." He
knew what was coming next.

"Then why do you still go to bars? Why put a drink in
front of you? I'd think the temptation would be overwhelming sometimes."

"It isn't. And I do it because it helps me think. I'm a
writer. Writers have weird self-rituals." He picked the glass
up, peering into its amber. "I like to look at it. I like to hear
the ice clink. I like to sniff it. It clears my head." He smiled
at the glass. "It's my abstraction. It's my crystal ball."

"It's interesting that you should say that. One of the people at the house is a crystal gazer," she said.

.. p"
Re

"Perhaps she has her self-rituals too." Karen twirled a
finger in her drink, then pointed to Westmore's scotch.
"Have you ever seen the future in it?"

"Not now But I used to. I used to look in these glasses of
eight-dollar hooch, and see my death. Right outside by the
bus stop there's a homeless bum. He looks like he's rotting.
I used to see a guy like that a lot in my future."

"Well, that's cool. I can control it, though. I'm not an alcoholic. I believe that anything in moderation makes you a
better person."

Baby, YOU'RE an alcoholic, he thought when he saw her
finish the martini. "There's no such thing as moderation,
not for me. The clinical addiction rate for alcohol is about
fifteen percent. I'm one of those fifteen."

She looked away wistfully. "A false romanticism, though,
right? Like Hemingway? All creative people have a demon
that's more powerful than them."

"That's an interesting observation."

"And let me guess. You're a drinker with a writing
problem."

Westmore smiled. "Hey, that's a great line!"

She ordered another martini. "Blue cheese in the olive
this time," she said rather testily to the keep. Then, to Westmore: "I'm glad you can refrain from temptation. You're
going to need that power."

Westmore sniffed his drink. Sharp vapors titillated him.
"Where? At the house? Or, excuse me, the Hildreth Mansion?"

She didn't say anything. She just smiled to the mirror behind the liquor shelves.

Westmore ordered a dozen oysters on the half-shell, then
pegged her, "So you guys put a tail on me, hired an investigator? Can't imagine how else you'd know that I used to
come to this bar, that I always order a Dewar's and don't
drink it, and the name of my local hangout."

"Of course we did," she said. "Vivica is a cautious person. She's also a determined one."

Westmore remained quietly bewildered. The herbal scent
of her hair kept drifting over, distracting him. It's a good
thing I like puzzles, he thought. When his plate of oysters arrived, Karen smiled and said, "Is there something you're not
telling me?"

"Oysters. It's true what they say."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." She snorted a laugh. "They make me horny as
fuck."

The abruptness of that particular word jolted him. It
didn't sound right coming out of the mouth of someone he
perceived as a stiff, proper business woman. Even stranger
was that after she'd made the comment, she returned to sipping her drink and looking straight ahead. I guess I better not
offer her some, he thought as a joke. Instead, he sucked a few
down and said, "It's probably all just psychological."

"You don't know the meaning of the word psychological
until you spend a night in that house. The place will ... make
you take a good, long look at yourself"

"I don't know what you're talking about but I guess I'll find out tomorrow. So you'll be picking me up? I'd take a
cab but I don't know where the place is."

"I'll find you." She turned and leaned over, reaching for
something on the floor. Westmore looked at the wide tan
thighs spreading the black skirt, the dip of the obviously
implanted breasts as gravity pitched them forward. This is
one hell of a day for innuendo. First, Vvica practically comes on to
me, and now I've got this sexual fireplug getting hammered and
talking about oysters as aphrodisiacs.

She handed him a small briefcase. "Here's some info on
the victims, if you could call them that. Resumes and stage
photos, police reports-mostly drug-related-and autopsy
reports. They're all pretty much the same."

"And most of the victims were-"

"Porn stars, yes. Two men, the rest women-all very attractive. Mr. Hildreth liked to surround himself with what
he called `positive visual energy.' That's why he bought
T&T Enterprises. He saw the people in it, liked the way
they looked, so he bought the company. Then he re-based it
in the mansion."

"A porn studio in a Gothic mansion?"

"Yes:'

Westmore had to ask. "Where do you fit in here?"

"I was the company's accountant."

"Well, you kind of have that `accountant' look. Kind of."

Karen got it. "Yes, Mr. Westmore, I used to be one of his
movie girls, too. From age twenty to about twenty-five. After twenty-five, in that business, you're considered old news."

More interesting information, but Westmore wondered
what use it would be. "Tell me about Hildreth. Did he and
Vivica have any kids?"

"God, no. I can't imagine a couple less cut out for children."

"How old was he? What did he look like?"

"He was about sixty. And he was tall. He was a strikingly
handsome man. "

Westmore was careful to use the past tense because he
wasn't sure if Karen knew Hildreth's obituary was fraudulent. This was a crux.

She slipped out a glossy eight-by-ten and passed it to
him. "Meet Reginald Hildreth."

Almost a cliche. Longish, swept-back dark hair, "distinguished" gray at the temples, obviously a good dye job.
Searching eyes, thin lips, long thin face. Debonair but tainted,
Westmore perceived. He looks like a ride phony. "And you
think this guy murdered all those people? With an ax?"

"Why? Because he was insane?"

don't believe he was insane,"
I Karen stared straight
ahead and finished her next martini.

"I don't know, and forgive me for being judgmental, but
if a guy chops a bunch of people up with an ax-to me,
that's a pretty good sign of a mental instability."

Her ice-blue eyes slowly turned to him. "You don't
know what instability is." She maintained the deadpan expression for several seconds ... then smiled.

Wow.

Westmore shook his head when she ordered yet another
martini. "Mr. Hildreth didn't kill all of them, of coursehe just had the denouement, his final act. Somebody else
killed the prostitutes."

"Prostitutes?"

"The crack-whores upstairs." She pointed to the briefcase.
"It's all in there. I think it was Three-Balls who killed them:'

"Three-Balls?" Westmore made a face. "That's somebody's name?"

"Yeah, one of the ... actors. He had three testicles, some
genetic thing. Perfect for the porn business."

Westmore's mind raced to assimilate the information but
before he could ask his next question, she pointed to the
briefcase again. "His fingerprints were found on the knives
in the parlor. It's all in there, in the cop reports. Hildreth's
were found on the ax."

"Where," he began, then thought, Careful! "Where was
Hildreth buried after his suicide?"

"The cemetery on the property."

That's rich, Westmore thought.

"The other guy was Jaz»

"The other-oh, the other male victim?"

"You'll see. Jaz was another natural. Had a cock on him
like a knockwurst."

Mother jolt.

She continued: "It was almost funny how you could tell
who was who just by their body parts---2 lot of them were
beheaded, dismembered, like that. The girls weren't as easy,
of course, but you could tell by their tit jobs and pussies.
And the guys? One had his head cut off, and the other was
cut in half. But you could tell which body was which by
their cocks."