Harlan Ellison - Spider Kiss

“ Jeezus , willya look at that !” Luther cried as they swept over the Pulaski Skyway. The rented Cadillac convertible had seemed an unnecessary bit of vulgar ostentation to Shelly when they had found it waiting at Newark Airport. But now, as they sped across the hanging panorama of the city,

Morgenstern realized it had been a calculated bit of Freeportian showmanship. Impress the kid, sway the kid, let him know there were larger gods; dealings were always simpler with someone off-balance.

The chauffeur threw the car ahead, and eventually they came down the spinning ramp into the Lincoln Tunnel. Luther’s excitement was a contagious thing, and Shelly remembered the first time he had seen the city, from the window of a Greyhound bus. It was very nearly like that now, vicariously.

The bathroom-tiled tunnel echoed around them and Luther giggled with barely-restrained excitement. Hey!

Out of the tunnel at 41st Street, and rising around them was the jungle. Shelly despised clichés, but to him, since that day the Greyhound had pulled into the Port Authority Building, it had been just that. A jungle. Filled with eaters and eaten. Filled with walkers and the walked-upon. Filled with those who took, and the saggy-faced ones who constantly got tooken. It was, very much, a jungle. Where the claw and the fang were Max Factored and Brooks Brothered to look like the glib line and the quick smile. He had made it in this jungle, primarily because he was one of the hungrier of the hungry ones, and he had the underlying feeling, as he caught the fever of joy and wonder from Luther, that this kid was equipped with the biggest appetite Jungle York had ever seen.

“Shelly, get Phil Moore over to the office about four; and check with Needleman—no, not Needleman—better get hold of Joe Costanza, see who he feels can do a promotion job on our boy here.” The Colonel threw a hand onto Luther’s shoulder.

Luther ignored the hand, ignored the Colonel, continued to drink deeply of the cup of New York.

Shelly jotted the instructions on a scrap of paper from one pocket, nodded, and smiled to himself. The full treatment. Phil Moore was known in the trade as “The Doctor.” An adept at forming and styling a performer’s act, he was one of the most expensive behind-the-scenes talents going. Shelly’s estimation of Freeport’s estimation of their property changed, just by mention of Moore’s name. Freeport was certain they had something.

Still Shelly wondered. The rock’n’roll craze seemed to have reached its peak, seemed to be going downhill. Since the payola scandals, the FCC clamping tighter restrictions on the industry, Presley’s return from Germany toned-down slightly, but noticeably … was it a dying horse?

Or could Moore, as well as Costanza and his crack team of flak-merchants, merchandise Luther in a different manner? Did the boy have what Shelly (and apparently Freeport) had come to think he had? Shelly’s memory of Luther at the talent contest returned. The faces of the women in the audience—he had … what? … reached them, held them. Yes, Luther could make it.

But first, conquer the flaws in the initial design.

A memory of Asa Kemp intruded. Flaws?

Yeah, those, too.

They pulled up in front of the Sheraton-Astor and the bellhops magically erupted from inside. Tourists with bags that overpowered them stood waiting while Freeport’s entourage made its way up the steps, across the lobby and into an elevator waiting for them alone. The floor Jack Freeport had rented six years before now no longer had a number. It might have been between the 12th and 14th floors of the Sheraton-Astor … and it might not. It was unnumbered because it was very much foreign soil in the hotel’s bosom. It was Freeportland.

“Shelly, tend to those items while I shower,” Freeport ordered, heading through the amethyst and cream-colored living room. Shelly turned to the bank of phones on the Italian marble-topped desk.

“Make yourself at home, Luther,” Freeport said as he disappeared into the master bedroom. In a moment the sound of a shower filled the room. Then the bedroom door was closed. Luther took in the suite, let fly a low, meaningful (and to Shelly possessively contemplative) whistle, and threw himself onto the amethyst-tinted sofa. His feet left sliding black smudges.

“Whoooeee- sheet !” he exclaimed.

Shelly sniggered under his breath. That’s right, baby, be impressed. Contract time is here at last .

“This whole joint belong to the Colonel?” Luther asked. Shelly nodded, crushing the latest cigarette into a fresh ashtray. “Every interiorly decorated inch of it, Luther.” He dialed a number, waited, lit a fresh cigarette.

A querulous hello came from the other end; Shelly’s face broke into a smile transmitted through the voice. Jolly. “Joe, baby! Shelly here, we is back , man…”

And that was the way it went for the next hour.

Eventually, he called Carlene.

He looked dehydrated by that time, but not from the heat. He looked like the wrinkled, sweating rubber shell of a balloon about to expire. Shirt open, hair faintly mussed, the cigarettes now pacing one after another from the corner of his mouth, he excused himself and went into one of the side sitting-rooms, where he dialed the number he knew best.

The phone rang three times and he knew she had to be out. Carlene was a woman who lived on the phone, whose sole line of communication with the outside world was the Princess phone, in coral, next to the bed. Where was she? He felt the same helpless rage, the same ineffectual trapped feeling he knew every time he rang her up and found her out. At times like that he wanted to lock all her clothes away, like the whacks in the bad jokes and the mystery stories—the big-time gangster shacking with the nympho, the guy who had to keep his broad naked with only high heels or she’ll ball anyone in sight— but the image was too weird and he put it away. He substituted a simple smash in the mouth.

It was at times like this that he felt he knew how junkies got hooked. He knew their feelings. He was hooked on her. On a girl whose body was a commodity, and he happened at the moment to be the biggest demand for her supply.

He hung up and ground out his cigarette, half-smoked, in the clean ashtray. He lit another and returned to the living room to continue the business calls.

Shelly set the wheels in motion.

The Colonel showered and lingered at his toilet.

Luther examined every corner and room of the suite.

And then, it was too soon time to talk contract. The evening was close, and the Colonel demanded his dinner. It always seemed that way to Shelly. Freeport would personally call room service, and order the dinner, but it never seemed to be ordering; it was always demanding.

And after the squab on Austrian toast, the potatoes au gratin, the bottle of Liebfraumilch 1957 (from Freeport’s personal stock in the hotel’s wine cellar), the baked Alaska, it was talktime.

“We’ll need a stenographer,” Freeport said, wiping his mouth, wiping his hands, dipping the end of the linen napkin in his water glass and touching the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll get Jeanie Friedel,” Shelly answered. He shoved away from the table, made another phone call, and returned to the table.

They stared at each other in expectant uneasiness. The animals were beginning to sniff each other; the hunting season had opened right on schedule. From where Shelly sat, the Colonel seemed to have the larger-bore weapon.

“More coffee?” Shelly asked.

Luther shook his head.

Freeport took a pill. He took a capsule. He took a pepsin tablet.

Shelly lit a cigarette. It tasted foul. He snubbed it, and almost immediately lit another.