Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(38)
“I would rather jump naked and bleeding into a tank of piranhas. What happened to your old GM pickup?”
“Won’t start. I think it had a heart attack.”
“A perfect opportunity to return your generosity. My chariot is ready . . . Voila.” He pointed down to the washed and shiny Fargo. “Delivered as promised, to my astonishment. I wonder if the Transformers got to Stoney.”
“He’s too good at shit-detecting to buy their goop. A scammer knows a scammer.” She was still turned to the window. “Oh my God, there he is.”
Gliding toward the parking area came the Mercedes Cabriolet, the top down, two of the Pasadena hipsters in the back, the third beside the driver, Robert Stonewell. As it nestled beside the Fargo, he passed a roach on a clip to his seatmate, a slender black woman with a burst of untamed hair and a very mini mini.
“Scammed himself right into their hearts with his homegrown Garibaldi gold,” Taba said.
Her laughter was contagious and helped Arthur overcome his shock that Stoney had maneuvered himself into the driver’s seat of this sleek, expensive machine. The car had been a powerful magnet, the pretty girls a bonus, and his prime bud had likely earned him the job of tour guide.
The two women in the back — a sultry East Asian in tight shorts and a leggy Caucasian stunner with orange hair and patched cutoffs — demonstrated their fitness by vaulting over the sides of the convertible. They paused awhile, their cameras on video, panning the bay, the dock, and the old store. Daughters of wealth for sure, unless they’d stolen that Mercedes.
“God, they make me feel so old and plain,” said Taba.
“Nonsense. You are quite lovely.” He gulped his tea, flustered, the compliment too bold.
“You need glasses.”
He considered assuring her she also had a wisdom and maturity those kittens were decades from attaining. But again he couldn’t get the words out.
“Emily told me they were here last night doing tequila shooters. Becky, Gelaine, and Xantha, with an X. Starlets, though you could mistake them for hookers. Anyway, Emily got out of them that they drove the convertible up here for Silverson. I guess he got tired of pretending he was just a laid-back average Joe with an Econoline van.”
Arthur liked Taba’s wit and cynicism. He enjoyed sharing their contempt for Silverson and speculating about his game. He’d needed a friend to banter with, a distraction from the green-eyed monster and his worries about Margaret’s gossipy indescretion.
The two camera-toting starlets came into the bar from the store, placed an order with Emily, then headed toward the patio, pausing close enough for Arthur to hear the orange-haired woman say, “Those crackers look like leftovers from a horror-flick audition.”
They were staring at Cud Brown’s table. The men seemed struck dumb, gaping as the two women strolled past them and leaned over the sturdy railing, looking directly down to the frothing little inlet below, its orange and purple starfish clinging to the rocks. More aiming of cameras.
A glance outside revealed Stoney and his wild-haired friend strolling toward the dock, Stoney chattering nonstop on a cannabis high, she laughing, taking his arm.
Starlets. Presumably, Silverson still had connections in the film industry. These young women showed no signs of having yet succumbed to the thousand-mile stare. Indeed, they hardly seemed Transformer material. They would probably be a little less lively after their first taste of gupa.
“The good stuff,” Emily whispered as she went past their table with a bottle of champagne in a bucket.
Cud was already pulling from his jacket pocket one of his poetry books, a well-used tool of seduction. He rose and moved toward the starlets’ table. One of them, the orange-top, began to film his advance.
That put him off stride, and he paused to pull in his gut. Forced to depart from his game plan, he improvised, grinning in a loopy way at the camera and announcing in a booming voice: “Cudworth Brown, your friendly neighbourhood prize-winning poet, at your service, ladies.” He bowed deeply, staggered, and almost went over the empty chair in front of him.
The starlets moved the champagne flutes to safety, on top of the railing. Xantha was the Chinese-American. He’d overheard the other called Becky.
“Sorry, gals, but you caught me celebrating. Just got a handsome advance from my publisher.” Cud displayed his copy of his latest vulgarity, a collection called Cunnilinguistics, then produced a pen. “Got to warn you, these are for the mature mind. For the full erotic effect, I’d need to read them aloud — don’t be shy about asking. Now how do you want me to sign this?”
“With your dick,” said Xantha.
§
Taba’s two gin-and-tonics had made her a bit unsteady, and she took Arthur’s arm as they descended to his truck. On reaching level ground, she tugged that arm around her waist, and pulled him into a hug, her elegant breasts pressed to his ribs.
Arthur found his pulse quickening, and felt embarrassed and guilty. The embrace was far too pleasurable, fraught with risk. He hoped she wasn’t coming on to him — he wouldn’t know how to handle that.
He looked up to the patio to see Becky filming them, and Taba noticed too and quickly pulled away. On the other side of the patio, staring gloomily into space, was Cud Brown, back with his cronies — who had been ribbing him when Arthur was paying his bill and, despite her protest, Taba’s.