Harlan Ellison - Spider Kiss

Stag bought his own music publishing company, and spent whatever profits the enterprise might make in the next eighty years on a free-for-all party that caromed between The Plaza,

The Stork Club, a rented mansion on Long Island and a villa in Coldwater Canyon, on the San-Fernando-Valley-side-of-the-hill, California.

The party went on for five days, and Stag was forced to turn over half the bills to Freeport’s Hollywood accountants for payment. Freeport had them paid, but noted the total expenditure in a little green-leather notebook he had begun carrying in his jacket pocket.

Stag began going on the town with a group of smaller-name contract players and starlets, a few bogus-titled European expatriates, a wealthy playboy with a penchant for sports cars and heavy drinking, and various easy-lays attracted to the neon glitter set. They soon became known as “The Ginchy Set.” Shelly tried to keep a close rein on Stag, but when he was surrounded by his devotees in “The Ginchy Set” it was virtually impossible.

One night they left Googie’s after a wild round of hot fudge sundaes, went off into the Hollywood Hills in their identical Dual-Ghias (or Porsche Speedsters, for those who wanted “in” but hadn’t yet built the marquee-name to afford the more exotic vehicle), and only four escaped when Stag and the others were arrested for holding a “chickie-run” against an electrified fence.

Shelly was able to get Stag out of jail after only three hours of incarceration, but it seemed no warning to the singer. Three nights later Shelly was again called to bail Stag out. The boy and three starlets had been arrested driving through the center of Los Angeles; this had not upset Shelly until he had learned the charge was Indecent Exposure, abetted by minor charges of Inciting to Riot, Insulting an Officer of the Law, Assaulting an Officer of the Law, Running a Stop Light, Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road, Reckless Driving and $1906 damage to the plate glass windows and showcases of the gift shop into which Stag had piled the Dual-Ghia.

Trial was set for the 18th of the following month.

Before it came to a jury, Freeport had had charges dismissed. That cost money. The figures went down in the small green-leather notebook.

Finally, it came to a head. It had to end, and Shelly knew Freeport would see it end this way and no other; he had worked for him for too long to expect anything else. It happened, however, a bit more messily than Shelly would have imagined.

Porter Hackett was glib. However few charms he possessed—aside from the sheaf of bills omnipresent in his wallet at all times—glibness was his most endearing.

Two memorable things were said of Porter Hackett. The first was that he could sell sandboxes to Bedouins, and the second was that he had rubber pockets so he could steal soup. The first was improbable, and the second he had discarded early in life as being improper for a cultured con-man.

Porter Hackett was thirty-two years old, looked twenty-six, had been run out of every major city on the Eastern seaboard and was steadily working his way inland when he was added to the entourage of a wealthy but aging ex-actress who was having nymphomaniacal difficulties with her menopause.

This daughter of Eve, in an attempt to scuttle the demands of the flesh, imported Porter Hackett and several other young studs to her Beverly Hills home and settled down to alternate rounds of gimlet-drinking and erotic acrobatics.

She, inevitably, collapsed and died of plumbing difficulties, leaving equally-divided shares of her estate to the quintet of young rakes—Porter Hackett included—who had serviced her. Financially afloat at last, Porter Hackett began to live as he had always wanted to live. As a man-about-town.

Shelly, using the untranslatable vernacular of his people, would have termed it living like a mensch , like a somebody, like with class, with moxie.

Since Porter Hackett was not a mensch , he substituted glibness and money.

In a short time he became a familiar in the haunts along L.A.’s Strip, at cocktail parties in Beverly Hills, in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel. He was one of those familiar names linked with the barely-famous in Skolsky’s column. Or the fan magazines.

And eventually, he became a member of “The Ginchy Set” of Stag Preston.

“It’s going to be a quiet little party, Stag.” Porter Hackett grinned across the car seat at his passenger. “It’s just a few guys and a few broads. We’ll have us a ball.”

Stag allowed a slow leer to foam up on his face. He was not easily duped; he knew Porter Hackett was a leech; he knew Porter was running through the money he had been left by a wealthy old aunt (rumor had it she might have been whacked by Porter) and needed famous or influential friends to keep him going. But Porter knew all the wettest people, and he had a memorably weird way of making fun out of boredom. Stag allowed Porter Hackett to fawn over him, seeming to allow Porter to use him, as long as the returns were worthwhile.

Tonight, for instance, Porter had picked him up at the Bel-Air and had even stalled off Shelly, who had wondered where they were going and whether it might be worthwhile to tag along, to insure his investment. Porter had applied the grease; and though Shelly had been aware he was being conned, after ten minutes of Porter Hackett’s verbal gymnastics it seemed the lesser of two evils: pretending they weren’t potential seismic temblors, just happily letting them trot off like The Rover Boys, with big bucks and hellfire festering in their pockets.

And now they were on their way out to one of Porter’s obscure hangouts, where a weird group would do weird things. That was the value of Hollywood to Stag. The strange scenes to be made. For a boy from Louisville who had been everywhere, done everything, it was only the strange scene that brought on the kicks now.

Stag glanced across and was disturbed by something in Porter Hackett’s face (something other than Porter’s nose, which he genuinely loathed); whatever it was, it was gone in an instant. But during that instant he saw something more than the puffy features, watery blue eyes, grotesque schnozz, and overfed good looks of little Porter Hackett. Perhaps it had been a satanic gleam of crimson along the fleshy cheeks—like two rosy poisoned apples—reflected off the dash lights.

Perhaps it had been an involuntary tightening of the muscles serving Porter’s full, sensuous mouth. Perhaps it had been a gleam of stealth in the otherwise inoffensive blue eyes. Whatever “tell” it had been, whatever tic of body language or facial insight … it unsettled, disturbed him. With success and almost regal treatment by the highest and lowliest alike, Stag had acquired a deeper, more sophisticated sense of distrust— of everyone—than that which had festered in him when he had been more provincial and socially maladroit. He knew more people now, knew more kinds of people now … and was more suspicious. Of everyone. And though he put up with Porter Hackett (for whatever value in return there might be) he knew the guy was a fuckin’ parasite, no way to be trusted. Still …

They had stopped at several bars along the Sunset Strip— including Dino’s, remarking as always that 77 was not only not the office of private detectives, it wasn’t there at all—and Stag was feeling a bit smashed.

He knew he was bugged, but not why. The night, perhaps. The tension he had felt ever since Ruth Kemp had written that letter … sometimes he thought about old Asa. He hadn’t been a bad guy, but he was always whining, always pushing, always trying to suck up to Stag by trying to do for him. It made the boy shiver to think back. They were dark, fleeting thoughts. He ignored them, turned his mind back to Porter Hackett, who is also a pretty good guy, even though he’s a sneaky bastard, and I can’t trust the sonofabitch as far as I could drop-kick him, but old Porter-Worter isn’t smart enough to give me any real aggravation unless I let him do it to me, and since I don’t want him to do it to me, he can’t. That’s what. And I don’t care if Porter the Sporter borrows a few C’s from me from time to time, I mean what the hell, he’s all the time fixing me up with action, so who am I to complain. I mean, it’s more than that bastard Morgenslop’ll do for me. I’m gonna have to lay it down to him . When I want him to fetch me a broad, toot-toot, then he’s gotta do it. Otherwise I’ll have ’im blackballed in the trade, that’s what I’ll toot-toot do. And that Carlene of his, that’s another scene. Toot-toot.