Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

And she didn’t even know how often he had indulged his fantasy, how many times he had bared himself to the Mistress and been stripped of his false dignities, admitted his depraved longings. He loved it. Giving up all the pretenses — the relief of openly being a slave, licking to please, whimpering honestly at the whip, begging to have his silly sex stroked, granted pleasure only when thoroughly exposed as abject and humiliated. He had paid for every session — the arrangement was merely business for the Mistress — but it was leaving her, not Patty, not the magazine, that he regretted.

He arrived at the loft. The leather collar, the magazines, and the Polaroid were there on the coffee table, just as she had told him. He’d have to dispose of them, and the telephone number in his book, before finishing. He didn’t want anything for Patty to cite as evidence. Throwing them in the garbage wouldn’t suffice: he burned the photo and the magazines and went downstairs to the cold garbage room, putting the leather collar at the bottom of one of the bags.

Back upstairs, his phone was ringing. He glanced at the clock. He had been gone for forty minutes, not really long enough for Chico to become anxious. It was probably Patty, desperate to restore her self-respect, not wanting to face a lifetime of knowing that when he most needed her, she simply wasn’t there. A long agonizing phone call would give that back to her. He didn’t mind the idea of granting the favor — but the pain of life was something he no longer wanted to feel. He pulled the plug from the wall jack so the ringing wouldn’t disturb him.

David hunted in the back of the loft for the tall aluminum ladders his brother had used to plasterboard the ceilings and paint the sprinkler pipes their pretty pastel colors. There were other odds and ends, including heavy ropes. David hurried his preparations. Probably no one from the magazine would react to his tardiness quickly enough to arrive soon, almost surely Patty wouldn’t come down to the loft, but he wanted no mistakes, no “happy” accidents.

Climbing the ladder was scary: he felt dizzy at the height, but it was no trouble slinging the rope over the sprinkler pipe. He had a harder time making the right sort of knot. He moved one of the Breuer chairs from the dining table to stand on, and pulled down hard, swinging a bit on the rope to make sure the pipes would hold.

Then he sat and lit a cigarette, trying to imagine how it would look for the unlucky discoverer. In the vast space, his swinging body might not seem particularly ominous. He was dressed in a business suit, and death by a pastel-colored sprinkler pipe fully dressed might even look comic. Should he write a note? A final act as a master wordsmith? Tell his brother and parents why he had really done it? Dear Mom and Dad. I just couldn’t face Ted Koppel. Everyone would assume the death of Gott was the cause.

Well, he thought to himself, pressing out his cigarette, maybe it was. He just couldn’t decide anymore what the neat final summary should be. He got on the chair, put the rope around his neck, tightened it, and kicked the chair away — away from all the stupidity and waste.

Tony drove into the circular driveway of International Pictures’ main administration building, curtly informing the nervous security guard that he was Richard Winters’ son. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, past the painting of the company’s founder, and on into the chief executive officer’s suite. “Go right in.” his father’s secretary told him.

Tony was used to his father’s offices being big and luxurious, but this was worthy of remark. It was larger than most studio apartments, and even had a more complete bathroom and kitchen. He wandered about noting the accouterments while Richard finished a call, opening the refrigerator stocked with everything from champagne to Pepsi, from caviar to Kraft’s onion-and-garlic dip.

“I got a frantic call from Maureen this morning,” Richard said as he hung up, looking Tony over. Tony hadn’t bothered to shave, though he had taken a bracing shower in Garth’s multihead unit, water spraying from every conceivable direction. “You don’t look so bad.”

“I slept it off,” Tony answered.

“Apparently words were exchanged,” Richard commented.

“Can’t call them words. More like verbal switchblades.”

Richard smiled. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your wit.” He raised an eyebrow. “Watch this.” He pressed a button on his desk, and the heavy wooden door to his office let out a whoosh, and then slowly, haunted, closed itself.

Tony clapped. “That’s fabulous!”

Richard snapped his fingers. “Don’t tell me being head of a company ain’t worth the effort.”

“Oh, I won’t. You’ve got power and I’ve learned that’s what counts in this business.”

“Oh, dear.” Richard got up from his country French table that he used as a desk and moved toward one of the eight-foot-long couches. “Two months in Malibu and you’re a cynic.”

“I want to leave,” Tony said.

“What’s keeping you?”

“I put that badly.” He looked his father in the eyes. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t be elliptical, Tony. I hate that. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The script’s not finished. There’s another scene to write before you bozos get your hands on it and demand countless rewrites.”

“One scene?” Tony nodded. “Don’t you think writing one last scene isn’t too much of an imposition?” Richard asked, a patient parent, confident of his child’s ultimate good sense. “Have you had a fight with Garth? Or is this because of your mother?” he went on, sure of his omniscience.

Tony looked away. His glance fell on his father’s multiline phone. Four of the six buttons were lit. “How many secretaries do you have?” he asked.

Richard followed his glance. “An assistant and a secretary.” He nodded at the phone. “It never stops. I could spend all my time returning phone calls.”

“Must be nice,” Tony said.

Richard grunted. “It’s not. It’s debilitating.”

“Oh, come on. To be so pursued. Must be wonderful.”

“You’re wrong. I’m always saying no to people’s fondest dreams. It’s like being a doctor in a terminal ward. The best news I can give anyone is that their death will be painless.”

“You also make their dreams come true.”

“Not to hear them talk. They make their dreams come true — I only get credit for their nightmares.” Richard shifted his position. He seemed impatient. “If you envy it, try for a studio job. You’re overqualified. In fifteen years you’ll have my job.”

Tony nodded. “That’s an idea. I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Why are you walking out on the project?” Richard snapped, his irritation unleashed.

“Because I don’t give a fuck about it,” Tony answered. “I don’t give a fuck about any of this, I realize. Something sick pulled me out here. I don’t know what it was. I think maybe it was to impress you and Mom.”

“Well, I’m not impressed. I’m impressed by people finishing what they start. I had heard the script was going well. Very well. If Garth is satisfied, and he told me he was last week, it’s a movie this company wants to make. You’d be a fool, worse than a fool, to walk out now.”

Tony bit his lip. Richard was making him nervous. He had come here convinced he wasn’t giving anything up, that the project was merely a toy for Garth, just as his penis had been last night, something to keep the great actor occupied until the studio came up with a real movie for him. That wasn’t Tony’s reason for wanting out, but it had made the contemplation easier.

“Don’t run away like your mother,” Richard said wearily, rubbing his temple. He sighed. “And don’t bother punishing me. Neither of us is worth messing up your life.”