Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

The hall opened into an impressive entrance lobby complete with curving staircase and ornately carved oak banisters. As we crossed the tiled floor, Mickey looked over his shoulder to see if I was following; his sour expression said I wasn’t moving fast enough.

At the top of the stairs, we went to the right, down an avenue of doors. The house had more bedrooms than Mickey appeared to have IQ points.

He stopped, turned, and gestured towards one of them.

I muttered a strained “thanks” and started to go inside, but he suddenly he grabbed me, slamming my back against the wall, one of his blue plate special-sized hands around my throat, the other squeezing my crotch.

“ You don’t belong here ,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He hadn’t been taking care of his oral hygiene.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, or why Lana wants you here, but don’t forget — you don’t belong here — and I’ll be watching every move you make.”

Both hands squeezed.

“Got that?”

He let me go slowly. My balls and windpipe were grateful.

“The girls are waiting for you,” he said with a lipstick trace of contempt. Whether it was for me or the girls or all of us, I couldn’t tell.

And didn’t care.

I entered the room.

I wasn’t expecting a fully-equipped spa and sauna.

The girls — I guessed Sunshine was the blonde, Paris the redhead — sat naked on a waterproof massage table equipped with a large hand controlled shower attachment. Behind them was a sunken oriental-style bath. To my right was a pine sauna room and plunge pool.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” chirped Sunny. “It’ll be nice to have a new playmate.”

Paris gave me a polite yet unenthusiastic smile, moved her hand from between Sunny’s tanned thighs and slid off the massage table.

“Welcome to the house of dick-less men,” Paris said.

They switched on the shower and started to wash me down, their experienced fingers teasing sensation from every muscle.

Sometime later — much later — after they had cleaned every inch, every nook and cranny of my sweat-stained body, dried me, massaged my stiff joints, I was as clean as a nun’s habit, but my mind was stained like semen-coated sheets.

Then, when I thought it was over, Sunny dragged me to bed.

She sucked me, fucked me, and rode me hard. By the time she decided she’d had enough of my body, I was hurting, drained.

Shell-shocked, I slept.

The sleep of the Damned.

Someone traced the shape of my cheeks with manicured fingers, drawing me up from the depths of a dreamless sleep. I smiled and sighed, my eyes closed, remembering Sunny’s touch as I remained lying face down on the bed. Then something started to probe. It wasn’t a finger; it didn’t belong to Sunny. It was cold and hard. I gasped, tensing.

My eyes snapped open. John Silk Suit was standing over me, a sardonic smirk on his lips.

“Okay, stud, it’s time we talked.”

He removed the gun, placed it on the nightstand, and sat beside me. I wasn’t homophobic, but his proximity was unsettling considering I’d just received an anal probe from a 9mm weapon.

“I made some calls,” he said softly, “and you are who you say you are. But I want to know what you’re doing here. How did you find Lana?”

I hesitated. Then I told him the truth. All of it. And prayed he’d believe me, as incredible as it sounded.

After I finished, he was silent for a minute. Then he gave a hollow chuckle.

“Well, for a loser, you just got lucky. At least for the next few weeks. I’ve discussed the situation with Mr. Monteleone and he’s decided you should stay. Thinks you might be able to do her some good.”

“How?”

“Work with her on that book she’s been obsessing about. Then, when it’s done, turn it into a screenplay. Give her something to think about. Maybe try to discourage her from drinking so much. After that, we’ll see.”

“Is it for real?” I asked.

“The book? She’s been trying for months.”

“No. The comeback.”

“We’ll see,” he said.

“She’s…” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “Not quite with it, is she?”

“No,” he said softly. “She’s a lot better now than she was for a long time, though.”

His face softened, his tone weighted with sadness.

“Lana’s fragile. Even if we could get her to stop drinking… there’s been a lot of damage done….”

He trailed off, then stood, his expression suddenly hardening like cement, uncomfortably aware he’d let his guard down.

“Now, house rules. One, don’t even think of touching her. The girls will take care of that.

“Two, you’ll call whoever you need to, tell them you’re going out of town for a couple of months. Give them this number if they need to call you.”

He produced a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the bedside table

“It’s a voicemail service. But any calls you make from the house will be under my supervision—”

“But—”

“No buts,” he said, picking up the gun.

“Now get dressed and come downstairs. It’s time for you to start earning your keep.”

“Do I have a choice?” I said, sitting up, pulling the tangled black silk sheet over my groin.

“No. Sounds to me like you didn’t have any to start with.”

I retired to bed as midnight approached, worn out by Lana’s nonstop chatter.

Sunny was waiting for me, dressed in a slinky Twenties-style sequined dress and nothing else. She was disappointed when I declined her offer for a repeat performance — and I was sorely tempted (with the accent on sorely ) — but she had other options for entertainment and wasn’t offended by my refusal.

“If you change your mind later, I’m just down the hall,” she said, kissing my cheek as her right hand gave my tender John Thomas a light squeeze beneath the black silk pants I was wearing — one of several gifts already bestowed upon me by my overly generous hostess.

Lana Hall was a woman obsessed with many things, silk being one of them. Aside from the cotton T-shirts and surfing shorts Mickey favoured, standard attire in the Hall household consisted of either leather, lace, or silk, with the latter predominating.

I undressed and donned a black kimono — silk, of course. And propped myself up on the circular bed with the black — naturally — silk sheets, her manuscript beside me. A black marble ashtray and a white ivory cigarette box had been placed on the nightstand during my absence. Fishing inside, I found forty Black Russians. I lit one and looked up at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. All I needed was a pipe and a Pepsi to complete my transformation into Hugh Heffner, Jr.

I laughed at the absurdity of it all. But I had a hundred serious questions rolling around my champagne-fuzzed head.

What had happened? The vanishing act after the scandal, the crushing publicity, and a shattered career were understandable. Had she been in Atlanta all these years? Who was the mysterious Mr. Monteleone? What strange twist of fate had brought me here?

I didn’t believe in destiny, but the probability of me stumbling into her fantasy world was more than my math-deficient mind could calculate.

There was also the fact that in agreeing to collaborate with her on the novel/screenplay package I had apparently made a deal. In return for luxury and a place to live, I had given up my freedom. Johnny Suit hadn’t told me that fine print when he’d initially laid down the letter of the law. Not only was it forbidden for me to use the phone without either him or Mickey Muscles present, but also I learned after dinner, I wasn’t allowed out of the house without an escort. Even then, my reasons for leaving had been reduced to zero. Mickey would check my post office box twice a week. Mickey did the shopping, be it for groceries, videos, or any other necessities. He was going to remove my belongings from storage tomorrow.