They Thirst Part 6

Merida Santos had run a long way from the noisy tumult of Whittier Boulevard, and her legs were beginning to ache. She stopped and leaned against a halfdemolished brick wall to rub her calves. Her lungs were burning, too, her eyes felt gummy with tears, and her nose was running. d.a.m.n Rico! she thought. I hate him, HATE HIM, HATE HIM! She thought of what she should do to him: Tell Luis he'd beaten her up and raped her, so the Homicides would go after him and cut him to pieces; tell her mother he'd gotten her drunk and had his way with her, so she'd call the cops on him; call the police herself and tell them she knew somebody who was selling cocaine to kids on the Strip and ask them if they would like to know his name.

But in the next instant her plans of vengeance broke apart in a single sob. She couldn't do any of those things. She couldn't bear to see him hurt; she would rather die than think of him being beaten up by the Homicides or put in jail.

From a bitter spark of her anger and hurt, the hot flame of love-and of need, both physical and emotional-leapt up, its crazy brightness making new tears stream down her cheeks. She started trembling and couldn't stop. A hole had opened up somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and she felt she was in danger of being swallowed into it, turned inside out, and then all the world would see the tiny fetus just beginning to take form within her. She hoped that the baby would be a boy with the same coffee-and-cream eyes that Rico had. But now what was to be done? Tell Mama? She s.h.i.+vered at the thought. Her mother hadn't acted right since Papa died last year; she was suspicious of every move Merida made-doubly suspicious of what Luis did, and that just made Luis stay away from home more-and lately had begun awakening Merida in the middle of the night to question her about the kids she was running around with, about what they did. Smoke that filthy weed? Get drunk on wine? Luis had told Mama that Merida had been seeing Rico and that Rico was a big man in the c.o.ke trade up on Sunset Boulevard. Luis, only twelve, was running with the Homicides almost every night now, and the barrio toughs hated Rico because he'd once been where they were and had made it out. Merida's mother had gone into a screaming fit, threatening to lock Merida in a closet or turn her over to the social worker lady if she kept seeing "that Esteban mugre." Now what would happen if she told her mother she was carrying his baby in her belly?

Or she could go to see Father Silvera first, and perhaps he could help her talk to her mother. Yes. That was the thing to do.

Merida wiped her swollen eyes and looked around to get her bearings. She really hadn't noticed where she was running. The narrow street stretched out before her, lined with brown brick buildings that were gutted and desolate, bombed and burned out by the hands of the arsonist or feuding street gangs. Mounds of rubble glittered with bits of broken gla.s.s; layers of yellow mist hung over empty lots where a rat as big as a gopher occasionally scurried from shadow to shadow. Some of the buildings looked as if they'd been split right down the middle by a huge axe, the tiny rooms and hallways exposed as were the metal twistings of pipes, the toilets, and the tubs. And everywhere was the wild spray-painted scrawl: Zorro 78; L.A. Homicides (and beneath that in a different color, Suck); Raphael High Conquistadors Best; Gomez was here; Anita does 69.

There were also drawings of crude s.e.xuality interspersed. On the side of a wrecked apartment building, staring impa.s.sively down at Merida, was a huge face, drawn in red with blood dripping from both corners of the mouth. Merida s.h.i.+vered; it was getting colder, wind twisting savagely through the maze of wreckage as it sought a way out. And now she realized that she'd run too far.

She had no idea where she was. She could turn around and see lights in the sky from Whittier Boulevard, but in this silent place the boulevard seemed a hundred miles away. She began to walk hurriedly, new tears wetting her eyes; she crossed the street and moved along another that became narrower still and was rank with the odor of old charred brick. Of course her street, her apartment building, couldn't be too far away; it would have to be only a few streets over. Mama would be waiting, wanting to know where she'd been. She was wondering what she was going to say about her swollen eyes when she heard the footsteps behind her. She caught her breath and whirled around; something dark scurried for the shadows like a rat, but whatever it was was big enough to be a man. Merida narrowed her eyes, squinting to get a better look, and she stood very still for what seemed like hours. Then she started walking again, faster, her heart hammering in her chest. A young, pretty girl like you can get raped out there, she remembered her mother saying. Raped or much, much worse. She walked faster, and at the next desolate corner she turned again toward the distant lights of Whittier. She looked back and saw two figures this time, both leaping for the cover of open doorways. Merida almost screamed, but forced down the sound. She thought she'd seen a face as white as gossamer and within it a pair of eyes that shone in the dark like a lowrider's headlights.

Footsteps clattered somewhere close to her, echoing between the brick walls like m.u.f.fled explosions.

Merida began to run, the breath bursting from her lungs in a high whine. When she dared to look overlier shoulder, she saw five or maybe seven figures, running silently like a pack of wolves; they were gaining on her, and the one in the lead had a face like a grinning death's head. She tripped over debris in the street, cried out, and almost went down. Then she was running as fast as she could, her mother's warning echoing in her head-Raped or much, much worse. She looked back again and screamed in cold panic. They were almost upon her; one of them reached out to grip her hair.

And from the darkness of the street, three more of the things emerged before her, waiting for her. She recognized one of them-Paco Milan, one of Luis's friends from the Homicides, except now Paco's face was as pale as the belly of a dead fish, and his fiery gaze crackled through Merida's skull. She thought she heard him speak, though his mouth didn't seem to open, "No more running, sister," he whispered, the sound like a wind through dead trees. "No more place to go." He held his arms out for her and grinned. A clawlike hand gripped Merida around the neck and jerked her head backward. Another clamped her mouth shut, freezing fingers digging into her flesh. The figures danced around her as she was dragged toward a doorway. And in a crumbling hulk of brick, she learned that there was something worse than rape. Much, much worse.

EIGHT.

It was almost midnight, and the party was just getting started. The hospitality bowls that had been br.i.m.m.i.n.g with Quaaludes and amphetamines, Black Beauties, Bennies, and uppers of a hundred different sizes and colors were now almost empty; the silver trays that had been crisscrossed with white lines of fine, pure cocaine were now only dusted with the traces of it, and the ceramic vases that had I' held dozens of red-striped McDonald's drinking straws now contained only a few. But the house was still filled with people of all ages and in all manner of dress from Bill Bla.s.s suits to Yves Saint Laurent disco dresses to denim cutoffs and T-s.h.i.+rts advertising Adidas or Nike running shoes. The huge sunken living room to which most of the party had gravitated was heavy with several layers of sweet, thick pot smoke; the beige, deep-pile carpeting had started catching cigarettes when the ashtrays had overflowed, and now the dime-sized burns looked like a natural pattern. Someone was hammering at the grand piano over by a plate gla.s.s window that looked out over the blue-lit swimming pool; someone else was playing a guitar and singing, all this plus the cacophonous noises of a hundred people battling the thunder of Bob Dylan's voice from a pair of thousand-dollar Bose speakers. The house throbbed with base guitar and snare drum backbeat; the picture windows s.h.i.+vered every few seconds.

Somebody in a cowboy hat was trying to climb on top of the grand piano urged on by a stunning blonde wearing a tight black dress. A few women had stripped off their blouses, proud of what they had, and moved through the crowd pursued by young men with bulging crotches. Older men in suits", confident of the power in their bulging wallets, were content to wait. Dylan's voice became a shriek when the stereo's needle dug a trench across it; he was replaced by the Cars.

d.a.m.n it, Wes Richer thought. I like Dylan. Why'd somebody want to go and do that to my record? He smiled and took a drag off the fat joint that was slowly burning down between his fingers. Doesn't matter, he rea.s.sured himself. I can buy another one tomorrow. He looked around the room through glazed blue eyes. Stellar. One f.u.c.king whale of a stellar party. Tonight he felt he had the answer to a question that had plagued him for most of his twenty-five years. The simple question was addressed to G.o.d: Whose side are You on, anyway? As he regarded the glowing eye of his joint, he knew he had the answer right in his back pocket, just arrived in a Cosmic Fortune Cookie: Your side, Wes. G.o.d is on your side.

But He hadn't always been, Wes thought. d.a.m.n straight. He fas.h.i.+oned an image of G.o.d in his mind-an elderly, slightly doddering being in a white London Fog overcoat with a gold m.u.f.fler to chase away the chill of the high alt.i.tude. G.o.d would look suspiciously like Wes Richer in his "old man in the park" bit, and-yeah, give the bit a kick-G.o.d might talk a little like a tired Jewish vacuum-cleaner salesman: "Wesley, I got a lot to do, I can't get around to everybody! Who do you think I am, Santa Claus? There's this guy over in New Jersey wants to get away with a little cheating on the taxes; a lady in Chicago keeps after Me to send her lost dog home, but the mutt got run over by a bus; a pimply kid in Des Moines wants to pa.s.s a history test or he's completely vermisched; this fella in Palm Springs wants Me to keep his wife from finding out he's got three women on the side . . . everybody wants something, Wes! And that's just right down there in the US of A! What am I, Dear Abby? And you, Wes!

You keep wanting to know whose side I'm on, and why your last pilot went down the tubes, and why you can't win anymore at the blackjack tables! Gevult, what a mess down there! I slap My own hands! Okay, okay, so maybe if I help you out, you'll quit bugging Me so I can get on to bigger things? Okay, boom, there you go! Happy now? So enjoy it already!"

G.o.d had come through for him today; this afternoon he'd won over two thousand bucks betting on Alabama over USE, and the premiere of his new show, "Sheer Luck" looked good in its seven-thirty spot on ABC. At least everybody here had laughed in the right places and applauded when it was over. And then the party had really started.

The Cars were thundering away now, and from his chair Wes could see some people swimming bare-a.s.sed down at the pool. He laughed out loud, his bright Midwestern face crinkling with mirth; he was a medium-sized man with a curly thatch of reddish-brown hair and thick eyebrows that also seemed curly, set high over light blue eyes that, when not totally bloodshot from drugs, seemed more like a kid's eyes. He had a healthy, friendly, innocent look-a "safe look" one of the ABC executives had dubbed it. It was a look that drew teenie-boppers and at the same time a.s.sured Mom and Dad that he was really an okay guy, probably a cla.s.s cutup but nothing to worry about, kike the a.s.sessment from another ABC brain-anail-American comedian." Someone jostled his elbow, spilling ashes onto the dirty carpet. Wes looked up and smiled but couldn't tell who was standing there. He thought for an instant that it was his father because the man had a mane of silver hair, but of course it couldn't be his father-he was back home in Nebraska, fast asleep at this hour. "There you are, Wes!" the man said. "I've been hunting all over this place for you! I missed the show, but I heard you were really great in it." A hand found Wes's and squeezed it. "The show's got stellar written all over it, boy.

Good to see you again."

"Who are you?" Wes asked, still smiling and thinking about those fools in the pool who were freezing their nuts off because no one had turned on the heat. The man's head was split in half by teeth. "Good to see you again, Wes. Great,.

party!" And then he was gone, swallowed up into the crowd that swirled around the chair where Wes sat smoking.

I don't know that guy, do I? he wondered. Jesus! Where did all these people come from? He looked around but didn't seem to recognize any of them. Who were they?

What the h.e.l.l. They were all friends, or friends of friends. Or somebody's f.u.c.king friends! In another moment a couple of young women were standing over him, one in a violet dress, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s spilling over the top. Still smiling easily, he stared at those b.r.e.a.s.t.s, while the two girls chattered on about how good "Sheer Luck" had been and how they'd never ever been to a party anywhere near this fine, not even at Hef s place. Who the h.e.l.l were these girls? One of them-he wasn't sure which-put a hand on his knee and slipped a little white card into the pocket of his blue Ralph Lauren cowboy s.h.i.+rt. He knew it would have her name and phone number on it in elegant black script; everybody carried those around these days, it was essential to the wardrobe. He caught a glimpse of her Ultra-Brite smile before the party closed in around him again. A group called 1994 hammered away on the stereo now, Karen Lawrence's lead vocals making the windows shake. Christ, what a set of pipes!

Wes thought languidly. He stared down at the joint and said to himself, "You've hit, Wes.

You've come back. G.o.d ... is ... on ... your . . . side."

"Wes?" someone said, gripping his shoulder. He looked up and saw his manager, Jimmy Kline, standing over him; Jimmy's broad face looked beatific, his dark eyes s.h.i.+ning like little black b.u.t.tons behind his wire-frame gla.s.ses. There were two older men with Jimmy-Wes recognized one of them as Harv Chappell, an exec at Arista Records. Wes tried to stand up, but Jimmy pushed him back down.

"Stay right there, my man," Jimmy said in his thick Brooklyn accent. "You know Harv Chappell, don't you? And Max Beckworth? They liked the show, Wes. Every-f.u.c.kin'-body liked the show!"

"It was great, Wes," Harv said, smiling.

"Fantastic. Three seasons at least," Max said, smiling. Wes nodded. "Hope so. You men need a drink, something to get mellow on?"

"We're going to be talking record contract with Arista on Monday," Jimmy said, his eyes getting brighter and brighter. The Hawaiian print s.h.i.+rt he was wearing, a wild mixture of purples and oranges, seemed to glow in the dim living room light.

"How's that grab you?"

"Great, just great."

"Of course"-Jimmy turned to smile at the Arista execs, "we'll be negotiating with Warner's and A&M, too. You know Mike Steele over at A&M, don't you, Max?

He's talking six figures on a single record deal with options." Max shrugged. "Comedy records are risky," he said, glancing around the room to take stock of who was there. "Only Steve Martin and Robin Williams turn a profit these days, sometimes Richard Pryor if his material appeals to the kids. It's just too easy to take a bath with comedy these days."

"Baths? Who's talking about taking f.u.c.king baths? I'm talking about ma.s.s appeal, man, everybody from Farmer Jones to the punk crowd. Wes covers all the bases."

"We'll see, Jimmy. Let's wait for the ratings on 'Sheer Luck,' shall we?"

"Yeah, yeah. Uh . . . Wes, where's Solange?"

"I don't know," Wes said. "She was here a few minutes ago."

"The hospitality bowls are going dry. I'm going to get Joey to fill 'em up, okay?"

Wes smiled and nodded. "Sure. Anything you want to do. 'Sheer Luck' was pretty good, wasn't it?"

"Good? It was terrific! It'll be leading the schedule in three weeks!" Wes reached up and caught Jimmy's arm as he and the Arista men started to move away. "Don't bulls.h.i.+t me," Wes said quietly. "It was good, wasn't it?"

"Stellar," Jimmy said; he flashed a quick smile and was gone. G.o.d is on my side, Wes thought, relaxing again. And then: Solange? Where the h.e.l.l is she? He rose unsteadily from the chair, and immediately a path cleared before him. Hands clapped him on the back, faces mouthed words he couldn't hear.

He wandered around looking for Solange, the last of his joint crumbling in ashes to the floor.

A moment later he found her, sitting with a group of people on the long dark brown sofa near the center of the room. She was drinking white wine from a crystal goblet, her long brown fingers curved delicately around the stem. On a low table in front of her, three candles burned in bra.s.s holders, the golden light setting amber fire to her skin, glittering in the black pools of her slightly almond-shaped eyes. A backgammon board and a huge vase of dried flowers had been cleared away to make room for a Ouija board; Solange was staring at the white planchette as she drank her wine, her gaze at once vacant and intense. A few people sat around her, smoking pot and drinking wine, looking from Solange's beautiful, sculpted, Oriental-African face to the board. "Come on, Solange," Wes heard one of the men say. "Do it for us. Call up ... oh ... call up Marilyn Monroe or somebody."

Solange smiled faintly. "You want party games. You don't want to be serious," she said in a voice as cool as the October wind.

"We'll be serious," the guy said, but he was smiling too widely. "Promise. Come on, call up ... Sharon Tate . . ."

"Oh, Christ, no!" a girl with Ipng s.h.i.+mmering waves of blond hair said, her eyes terror-stricken; Wes recognized her from the current NEC hit "Skate Fever."

"How about Oswald?" somebody else said, blowing on a stick of jasmine incense just to make the sparks fly. "That f.u.c.ker'll talk to anybody."

"Clifton Webb." The NEC starlet slid over closer to the Ouija board but seemed afraid to touch it. "I hear he's prowling around again."

"No." Solange looked into a candle, her cat eyes narrowing. The candle flame flickered very gently. "I don't think I want to do this tonight. Not here, not with everyone standing around." The light glittered off the hundred or so tiny bra.s.s beads strung in the tight braids of her ebony hair. "The spirits won't answer if the mood isn't right."

"What's wrong with the mood?" the guy who wanted to talk to Oswald asked; he waved the incense stick around, his glazed eyes hypnotized. "Seems fine to me. Do it, Solange. Call somebody up for us."

"The spirits don't like to be laughed at." She sipped at the wine but did not move her gaze from the candle's flame. From where he stood, Wes could see the flame undulating very slowly, and a sudden chill skittered down his spine. It was the same kind of chill he'd felt when he'd first looked into Solange's eyes in the Presidential Suite of the Las Vegas Hilton almost a year ago. i "I've got it, luv," the thin young man sitting on Solange's left said. He was Martin Blue, the British whiz kid who'd produced Wes's first comedy alb.u.m for Warner's over three years ago. Blue smiled like a fox. "Conjure up ... oh, what was his name? . . . Kronsteen. Orion Kronsteen." The NBC starlet-Missy something, Wes thought her name was-laughed nervously. There was a moment of silence while the party swirled around the group at the table; Wes thought they looked afraid, all except Solange, who wasn't smiling anymore.

Time to save her a.s.s, he thought, and stepped forward into the candlelight.

"What is this?" he said, his voice somewhat slurred. "Ghost stories? It's not Halloween yet, kiddies."

"Hi there, Wes," Martin Blue said. "We're trying to get your woman here to conjure us up . . ."

"I don't conjure," Solange said softly.

"Yeah, I heard all this bulls.h.i.+t." Wes plopped himself down on the sofa and stretched. "You want to talk to Kronsteen so bad, Martin, why don't you hike on up to that little fortress he built and give out a yell? He'll probably come floating out with his head in his hand."

"Oh, don't!" Missy said, and squirmed in her seat. "Wasn't he that old actor who . . .?"

"Horror flick actor," Wes corrected her. "Made about a hundred of 'em. Enough to get rich on, at least. They still play some of them on 'Creature Features.'"

"What happened to him?" she asked, looking at Martin and Solange, then back to Wes.

"Kronsteen married a European heiress he met on location. It turned out she had cancer, leukemia, something like that; after she died, he went a little nuts and used the rest of their money to bring that castle over from Europe. About ten or eleven years ago, somebody stripped old Kronsteen naked up there, tortured him with cigarettes and a hot poker, and hung his corpse up from a chandelier when they were through. Oh, yeah, whoever did it cut Kronsteen's head off with a rusty hacksaw and took it with 'em when they left. One of the legends of Hollywood, my dear, guaranteed to send you out shopping for an electrified fence or a couple of guard dogs."

Missy s.h.i.+vered, and the guy next to her, the incense waver, took her hand.

"So you see?" Wes continued, his eyes scanning the group, "there are a lot of Roaches in this town, a lot of homicidal nuts, and some of them would just love to go running around up here in Bel Air with a machete or an icepick. Sooner or later all us celebs have to wall ourselves in."

"You're kidding me. That's not true about Kronsteen . . . about his head."

"G.o.d's truth, luv," Martin said with a pleasant smile. He turned back to Solange, who was pa.s.sing a finger back and forth through the flame. "Let's hear from Orion, luv. If you can do it. If you're really a medium."

"Knock it off," Wes said. "This is a party, not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned seance."

"Oh, but seances can be so much fun. And so informative. Maybe Orion can tell us who the Roach is. A ghost can see everything, can't he?" He glanced at his gold Rolex. "Two minutes until midnight. The witching hour, eh?"

"Martin," Wes said sourly, "you've got your head up your a.s.s." But when he looked at Solange, she was staring intensely, right through him.

"There is no need to call those who are already here," Solange whispered.

"Huh? What'd she say?" Martin leaned forward, but for a minute or so Solange didn't speak. Finally she whispered softly, "You're a fool, Martin. You want to play games with something beyond your understanding. The spirits see and know everything, and they are always here-in the shadow of a candle, at the center of its flame, stirring like smoke through the air. They are always trying to break through, to speak to those of us on this plane. Though most often we would not like what they have to say." She turned the full force of her gaze on Martin Blue.

"Well," he said, but his voice had climbed a pitch. "What are we waiting for?

Let's find out who the Roach is, shall we? Or at least what happened to Mr. Kronsteen's head."

Solange glanced at Wes through heavy-lidded eyes. "Very well," she said softly.

"Wes, will you sit beside me and help me guide the planchette?"

"How about letting me?" Martin asked quickly. "I've heard tales of your being able to do this sort of thing, but ... I'd like to be sure it isn't faked. No offense of course, luv."

"Of course. None taken. Then slide over here so you'll be touching me, thigh to thigh. Now place your fingertips on the planchette opposite mine. That's too heavily, you have to let your fingers just graze the top of it. Ah. Better." She closed her eyes and smiled slightly. "I den feel the electricity already."

"I don't feel a f.u.c.king thing," Martin announced to the others.

"Solange," Wes said, "you don't have to prove . . ."

"I think I do. You're pressing again, Martin. Let your fingers relax." Wes looked around; for the first time he realized that a lot of people had gathered around them and were watching with interest. The thunderous sound of the stereo had quieted to a dull rumble; the grand piano was silent.

"It's too loud in here. I can't concentrate," Solange said. A mumble rippled through the audience, and the stereo went off. Wes could hear drunken laughter from the pool. He leaned back on the sofa, watching Solange's brown face turn dreamy; Martin was smiling, mugging at people who stood around him.

"I don't think I like . . ." Missy began nervously. But Solange whispered,pi "Quiet!" From somewhere in the distance Wes thought he could hear the shrill pipings of wind through the Bel Air streets, over the manicured lawns and brick walls and wrought-iron gates, around the sharp angles of the million-dollar mansions. Solange's eyes had narrowed into slits; they rolled back until Wes could see the whites, and her mouth slowly opened. Missy gasped suddenly, and the gasp was repeated through the room. Wes felt his heartbeat quickening and wished he had another joint. "My mind is open," Solange said in an odd, faraway tone just above a whisper. "The pathway is open. Use us as your voice. My mind is open. The pathway is open. Use us as your voice . . ."

"Shall I intone anything?" Martin said. He laughed, but no one paid any attention.

". . . pathway is open. Use us as your voice. My mind is . . ." Martin's eyes were getting larger, and if Wes hadn't been so tense, he might have laughed at the sight. "Jesus!" Martin said. "How long does this go ... s.h.i.+T!" He jumped and pulled his fingers back from the planchette.

". . . us as your-Martin, don't break the contact!-voice. My mind is open . .

He touched the planchette again but gingerly, his hands trembling. "I thought I felt it ... CHRIST! IT MOVED!" But this time he kept his fingers on it, and the planchette moved a tentative inch or so, another murmur went through the onlookers. Wes leaned forward, his heart pounding. The planchette stalled, then began to move again smoothly now across the board. "We've made a contact,"

Solange whispered, her eyes still closed. "Let it flow, Martin, you're trying to slow it down."

The planchette began to make long, slow circles. "Who are you?" Solange asked. The planchette slid quickly over to YES. She repeated the question, and it lay still for a moment, then dropped toward the lines of black letters imprinted on the board. "Read the letters off to me," Solange said. Wes slid across the sofa so he could see the board better. "B," he read. "O .

. . B . .." The planchette dipped and swirled as if riding on a waxed surface.

"Another B ... Y ..." The planchette stopped. "Bobby."

"Bobby will act as our guide, then," Solange whispered. "The contact is strengthening now. It's becoming very strong . . ."

"My f.u.c.king fingers are burning . . ." Martin croaked.

"What did you do in life?" Solange asked.

The planchette started to spell again, faster than before. Wes read, "M ... E ... S ... S ... A ... G ... E ..." That word was repeated twice more, faster each time.

And then another word took shape. "E," Wes said "V ... I... evil. It's spelling evil"

"Is that your message?" Solange's voice was a quiet murmur in the silent room.