Natural Causes (23 page)

She raised the glass and smiled.

"Not quite right," she said. "It turns
out the prince has some funny ideas. It turns out the prince isn't a
prince, after all. But the dumb cunt doesn't care. In fact, she wants
to do anything she can for him, 'cause he's had such a hard time.
He's had to do some bad things. He's had to suck and fuck and ream
just about every wet asshole in Hollywood. And if the poor
son-of-a-bitch can't fuck anymore, then there are other ways to get
diddled." She laughed. "I guess I know. I've tried them
all. But pretty soon that isn't enough. It isn't enough to sit and
watch the cunt stick things up inside her, while the prince pulls his
pud. Pretty soon, the prince wants some real hard-core action. And
when the cunt doesn't want to go along with it, the prince tells her
the facts. He tells her what a cunt she really is--what a fool she is
to love him, because anything that would love him ain't worth two
shits, because he ain't worth two shits, because nothing in the whole
goddamn world is worth two shits. He really opens her eyes, you know?
Only she still wants to make it with him. She thinks, maybe, if she
does what he wants, he'll want to make it with her, too. So she
starts fucking around. She goes out to a bar, while the prince waits
in the car, and picks up some jerk--the cruder, the better. Then she
and the prince take the jerk home. And they all get real loose. Then
the prince says, 'Goodnight.' Only he doesn't go to bed. He goes to a
hole in the wall or a closet and he watches. And sometimes the cunt
forgets that he's watching. Sometimes she gets a little messed up,
and she thinks there's nobody there. She thinks, 'There never was
anybody there.' And after awhile, it's like there isn't. It's like
it's just her and whatever she brings home. The kinkier, the better.
The more it hurts, the better. Like she's trying to see just what it
would take to make princey reappear. Only he never does. And now he
never will."

She swallowed the rest of her drink and stared at me.
"Is that what you wanted to hear?"

I didn't say anything.

The girl smiled. "Stop feeling sorry for me,
Buster. Why the hell should you feel sorry? You're just snooping
around for Connie. Trying to find out what I'm up to. Just like she
used to do with Quentin. God, how he hated that bitch! Well, you can
go on back and tell her that the cunt's doing fine. The cunt is
mourning in her own way-the way Quentin would have liked it."

She started to cry. I got up and walked over to her.

"Stay away from me," she said through her
tears. "I don't want you touching me. I'm no charity case, man."

I put my arm on her shoulder, and she threw the
tumbler at me. It hit me in the chest and fell to the floor.

"Who do you think you are, man?" she said
with a laugh. "Another prince? I don't fuck princes anymore."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room.
 

26

I opened the sliding glass door and went out onto the
terrace. The kid on the chaise looked up at me. He wanted to be pals,
now. I could see it in his face. Now that I'd joined the Marsha Dover
Club. He didn't realize it, but he'd picked the wrong moment to buddy
up to me.

"She's really something, isn't she?" he
said. "Really wild."

I kicked the chaise over, and the kid tumbled onto
the tiles.

"Jesus," he said frantically. "Take it
easy. What are you? Her old man or something? I thought he was dead.
Honest to God, mister. She told me he was dead."

I felt the anger drain out of me. It had been a
stupid thing to do. "I'm no relative," I said.

He nodded uncertainly--on all fours, on the terrace.
"Just take it easy, O.K.?"

"Who are you?"

"Me?" He pointed to himself "Me-I'm
nothing, man. Just the phone repairman."

I started to laugh.

He smiled weakly and got to his feet. "You ain't
gonna report me, are you?"

I shook my head. "C'mon. You can relax. I'm not
going to do anything to you."

"Sure?" he said.

"Yeah. I shouldn't have leaned on you in the
first place."

"'S'all right," he said, waving his hands.
"No problem."

He tipped the chaise back onto its feet, started to
sit down, then looked at me. "Is it O.K.?"

"Christ, yes," I said. "I told
you--forget it. What are you out here for, anyway?"

"One of the phones is fucked," he said. He
sat down gingerly on the chaise. "Marsha put call-forwarding on
it and forgot how to take it off. Marsha ... she don't seem real
bright about phones and shit. All she had to do was press a couple of
buttons and hang up. I fixed it."

"I'll bet you did."

"Hey," the kid said. "What are you
going to do when it's thrown in your face? I got a wife. I got kids.
But, Christ, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You know?
I mean I couldn't believe it."

"I guess not."

"She wanted to do some funky things. Backdoor,
you know? It was O.K. with me. Plenty O.K. But I think I might have
hurt her."

I stared at him.

He stood up suddenly, as if he figured he'd spent
enough time humoring me. "I better get going," he said.
"O.K.?"

"Yeah. You can go."

"Thanks." He
walked slowly across the terrace, scooping up a workshirt where he'd
dropped it on the tiles. When he got to the stairs, he picked up his
pace. He was running by the time he got to the garden-past Cupid and
the rosebushes and out to the lawn.

***

I sat down on the chaise and waited. The sun started
to set over the garden, lighting up the oaks. After a time, she came
back out onto the terrace. She had on a terry robe. There was another
glass of booze in her hand. "You still here?" she said.

"Still here."

She walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked
down at the garden. The setting sun caught in her hair, making it
glow.

"Why?" she said without looking at me. "I
wanted to say I was sorry."

She turned around, bracing her hands behind her on
the balcony rail. The wind tossed her golden hair and the lapel of
her robe.

"That's not why," she said.

"No," I said. "It isn't." I got
up and walked over to where she was standing. She smiled--a little
triumphantly. Enough to make me feel vaguely ashamed.

"You're not one of those reformer types, are
you?" she said. "If so, you're years too late."

I pulled her to me. She didn't resist. She came into
my arms almost involuntarily, as if it were a reflex with her, and
laid her head on my chest.

"He wasn't bad," she said. "I didn't
mean to make him sound bad. He was just scared, you know? All the
time scared."

"I don't want to talk about Quentin," I
said.

"That's funny," she said with a laugh. "I
do."

I put my arms around her.

Marsha reached down and undid the belt of her robe,
letting it fall open on either side. She was naked underneath it. She
pulled my head close to her face and held it steady for a moment,
like a mother looking searchingly at her child.

I wasn't sure what she was looking for, but her eyes
glazed over suddenly, as if it didn't matter after all. She pulled my
head to her and we kissed. She began to groan, grinding her naked
pelvis into my groin.

"Do it babe,"
she whispered hoarsely. "Right out here. Do it."

***

When it was done, she got up, naked, and walked
across the dark terrace to the study. She flipped a switch by the
sliding glass door and the pool lights went on--a soft aqua glow. She
came back out with two glasses of booze and sat down on the apron of
the pool, paddling her feet in the water. I worked my way,
bare-assed, across the cold tiles and sat down beside her.

She handed me a drink. "Well, that was
different," she said. "I'd almost forgotten what straight
sex was like."

I stared at her for a moment. The pool lights rippled
across her body, making her look like she was underwater.

"You're very beautiful," I said.

She laughed, glanced at me, and laughed again. "You
go to too many movies, you know? You had me pegged right the first
time. I'm a real cunt."

"It sounded like you had some help," I
said, sipping the Scotch.

"Oh, don't go getting pissed off at Quentin,"
she said.

"You don't have much right now, do you?"

I wondered for a second if that was why I'd taken
her--to get back at him. I hoped she was wrong.

"Anyway, like you said, it takes two to tango. I
didn't have to do it. I guess I wanted to. I guess, maybe, I wanted
to all along." She pulled one leg out of the water, cocked it on
the tiles, and planted her chin on her knee. "Toward the end, he
wanted me to stop. The last two weeks, especially. But once you get
locked into a game like that ... you just can't go back again. No
matter what. Like on Thursday, the day before he left, he just wanted
it to be him and me again, you know? He was scared. He'd been having
bad dreams. About his dad." The girl turned her head on her knee
and stared at me. "He would have been all right if she'd have
left him alone."

"Connie?"

Marsha nodded. "But she just wouldn't ever let
him forget what a fuck-up his old man had been and how he had to
watch out or he'd end up that way, too. Like everything he did had to
be different or he'd croak like his dad."

"Of heart disease?" I said.

Marsha laughed. "Is that what she told you?"

"She didn't tell me anything. A man named
Murdock told me that."

"Oh, yeah. Old man Murdock. He's a nice old
coot. Quentin liked him because he acted like his dad--always making
him toe the line and shit. Quentin liked that. I guess that's why he
put up with Connie, too. All he ever wanted was for somebody to tell
him what to do."

"What did Quentin's father die of?" I
asked.

Marsha put a finger to her temple and pulled an
imaginary trigger. "He blew his head off. Quentin was there, you
know?" The girl shuddered. "The poor fucker. He used to
have dreams about it all the time. Real screaming nightmares."

"His father didn't have heart disease?"

"Yeah, he had that, too. That's why he killed
himself. He just couldn't take it--waiting to die. Then I guess
living with Connie didn't help any. You know, sometimes I think
that's what she wants me to do. Sometimes I think I want to do it
myself."

"Don't talk like that."

"Why?" she said. "Not talking about it
ain't gonna change anything. My life's fucked. Quentin was all I had
left."

"Then I feel sorry for you," I said.

"Well, don't," she snapped. "We
understood each other. In spite of all the shit. It might not have
been love anymore, but it was better than nothing. Better than this."

She looked at me, and I blushed.

"The only thing I wish is that I'd spent that
last night with him, like he wanted. It wouldn't have been any skin
off my nose. And it would have meant a lot to him."

"That was the last time you saw him--Thursday
night?"

"Yeah. Right before I went out."

"He didn't say anything to you, did he? About
where he would be or what he'd be doing?"

"No. He didn't even say goodbye." Her eyes
got hazy. "The poor son-of-a-bitch. He was so alone."

I put my arm around her shoulder. "Do you want
to go out?" I said after a time. "Get something to eat?"

She laughed. "I don't eat. I drink. No thanks,
Harry. That is your name, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I said. "Harry."

"You can go if you want."

"I don't feel right about leaving you here,"
I said.

She pressed my hand against her shoulder. "Don't
be a jerk. It isn't gonna make a difference."

She dropped her hand from mine and I stood up. "Maybe
I'll stop by again tomorrow," I said.

"Any time," she said. "We're always
open." I bent over and kissed her. "Goodbye, Marsha."
"Goodbye, Harry."

I slipped into my clothes and left her sitting by the
pool.
 

27

I grabbed a bite to eat at a hamburger joint in
Kenwood, then drove back home. It was almost ten when I stepped into
the apartment. I took a hot shower, towelled off, and went into the
bedroom to lie down. I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn't relax. I
kept thinking about the girl. I shouldn't have screwed her, I knew
that. But I'd gone ahead and done it anyway, because she was so
beautiful and so hurt. And so easy. What are you going to do when
it's thrown at you? That's what the phone guy had said. Lying there
in the darkness, I couldn't see much difference between him and me.
Or between me and all the others.

The thought bothered me so much that I got up. I
decided to call Wattle in L.A. It was only about eight-thirty on the
coast. He answered on the second ring.