Harlan Ellison: Spider Kiss

Colonel Jack Freeport marched through the lobby, signed in with a maximum of notice while Shelly limply autographed a check-in card, and made the sanctity of his suite without undue delay. Once in the air-conditioned sanity of his room— separated from Freeport’s by a sitting room of unparalleled dinginess—Shelly stripped off his jacket, shirt and tie, threw them across the bed, and bare-chested, crucified himself before the cool air ducts of the big Fedders.

“Shelly,” the call came from Freeport’s room, “let me have the attaché case.”

The flak-man ran a hand through his dark hair and retrieved the leather case from where he had dumped it on a big Morris chair. He carried it through the sitting room and into Freeport’s bedroom.

The Colonel was stripped to fancy nylon shorts, dark socks and shoes, the garters tightly clinging to thick, hairy legs. Shelly was once more—as always—startled by the hard-muscled, trim condition of Freeport’s big body.

“Fetch me those papers on the key clubs, will you, Shelly?” He said it over his shoulder as he lifted the big three-suiter onto the bed and unsnapped it.

“I think you’d better call Morrie in New York, Colonel, and find out how he did with MCA,” Shelly said.

Freeport nodded without turning around. “Good idea. Get him for me.” Shelly shook his head feebly, in resignation, and picked up the receiver.

After an interminable wait: “I want to call long distance, operator, New York City, MUrray Hill 2-4368, person-to-person to Mr. Morrie Needleman.”

When the call went through, a bored, “Yeah, this is Needleman, go ahead,” at the other end greeted him.

“Morrie? Shelly in Louisville. The Colonel wants to speak to you.” He handed the receiver to Freeport, who continued brushing his hair with one hand while he fastened the instrument to his head with the other.

“Hello, Needleman? Did MCA come through for us?”

The eternally-weary voice of Morrie Needleman, entrepreneur second-grade, raced down the wire … slowly. “Yessir, but they asked for more for Satch so I met ’em halfway.”

Freeport scowled. “You went beyond your authority, Needleman. How much more?”

“Another three yards, Colonel. That was as low as they’d show.” He paused a moment, seeing his job fly South for the duration. “I tried to do better’n that, Colonel, but they had us over a barrel. We’d already announced Armstrong; papers, radio, billboards.”

Colonel Jack Freeport scowled more intensely. “Well, hmm-hmm. All right, Needleman. No real harm done, I suppose. We’ll make it up at the box office.” He handed the phone back to Shelly.

Morgenstern took over as though he were merely a surrogate for the older man. “Morrie? Shelly again. Listen, baby, sit on the damned concert till the sonofabitch’s SRO. So meanwhile, how’s everything else? What d’ya hear from L.A.?”

The faint rustle of paper came from the New York end of the line, and Needleman’s absorbed, “Ummm,” filtered down with it. Finally, as though he had been consulting briefs, Needleman said, “I’m going to call Buddy Halpern out there and get him to pull off a stunt. Maybe soup up one of them Go-Karts and drag the L.A. cops down the main stem. Get the papers on it, and we might have the in we need.”

“Wild, baby,” Shelly said blithely, “keep us posted. We’ll be back by Sunday night the latest.”

Needleman’s lazy voice lost its business edge. “Anything shakin’ down there?”

With a disgruntled grunt Shelly replied, “Sure, sure. The whole damned town’s a bacchanalian orgy. At least I’ll be catching up on my sleep. So long.” A reply, and he hung up.

As he turned, Freeport said softly, “Mark it down to let Needleman go, Shelly.”

That easy. Five years with Freeport, and mark it down to let him go. It was always that easy with the Colonel. I’ll mark it, Boss Man. I know the Bible says you’re a jealous people . “Yes, sir,” he said.

While Freeport pored over the proposed plans for a nation-wide chain of key clubs to be leased by major sports figures under their names (but run through Freeport’s holding company, with gigantic kickbacks to Freeport’s syndicate), Shelly returned to his room, visions of showers dancing in his head. He tried not to think of Needleman and his wife’s breast cancer.

The shower was cold and sharp and good, and when he had toweled himself pink ( like a baby shrimp , he amused himself), he returned to his room, the towel around his waist. He surveyed himself in the full-length mirror, ignoring the slight protuberant bulge of his stomach, and struck a wholly ineffectual Muscle Beach attitude.

“I can do the Mr. America bit with either arm,” he told his reflection, pressing first one fist to his temple, then the other, while maintaining a ferocious expression.

“Shelly, come in here, please,” Freeport called.

Sighing, he hastened to do as he was bid, thinking:

But Mistah Lincoln done tole us we was free.

For the better part of four and one half hours, a superlatively-trained corps of yawn-makers had dispensed boredom by means of platitude, homey homily, grandiose visions of Kentucky futures, and soggy reminiscence.

The testimonial dinner had been a walloping success.

Shelly Morgenstern contemplated killing himself.

There had to be easier ways to go. Boredom was such a slow, despicable demise. “Oh, God, oh for a barrel of absinthe and free passage to dissolution,” he burbled into the too- sweet martini. “Bartender, give me another fruit punch.” He indicated the martini glass.

When the bartender brought the refill, Shelly stared at his bald head for a long instant and refrained from saying: Your

head, sir, is shining in my eyes.

That’s pretty damned cornball, Morgenstern , he chided himself.

I know , he snapped the reply, but I’m not nearly drunk

enough to be quick and clever. Oh, God, this town!

“Where’s the action tonight, fella?” he asked the passing bartender. The man paused on his way to the orange squeezer and assayed the questioner.

“What are you looking for?”

Shelly shrugged. He was too tired for wenching. Maybe a good cool game of cards. He relayed his desire.

The bartender said, “Wait a minute.” He moved up to the other end of the bar, took out a pad and pencil, and jotted down a quick address. He came back, handed it to Shelly and said, “Ask for Luther. He’ll know what’s on tonight.”

Shelly thanked him, paid for the drinks, and slid off the barstool. The note said: Dixie Hotel, 5th and Broadway .

Louisville at night was a combination of Coney Island at ten PM and deepest Brooklyn at five in the morning. A short stretch of naked neon insensibly wiggling—and then silence. The centerstripe rolled up like a long tongue. The fleshpots, and the closed shops. He walked quite steadily, waiting for the right recognition symbol to be tripped in his head.

Ding!

The sign was a bilious green. DIXIE HOTEL—ROOMS.

He pushed through the revolving door, finding himself in one of those B-movie sleazy lobbies cut from the same cheap pattern. Brass lamps with hanging beaded pull-chains, sofas that gave off small puffs of dust when sat upon, a long oak table from some esoteric period covered with copies of The Farmer’s Weekly, Look from seven months before and three battered copies of Radio-TV Mirror . The three Radio-TV Mirrors had subscription stickers on their covers. One of them had been left out in the rain; it was wrinkled.

“Room, buddy?” The voice drifted to Shelly from behind the high plywood counter. He turned and saw the top of a balding head.