“See that jail-face?” said Grady to his friends. He pointed surreptitiously to a short, muscle-bound skinhead standing in a corner with his wife and kid. “He got two million for doing less time than I did. Fucker already spent half his life in the penitentiary. I asked him what his thing was, and you know what he said? ‘Raping niggers.’ ”
Deities
LISANNE FINALLY CALLED to say she was pregnant. Robbie didn’t have much of a response. At the end of the brief conversation he told her to take care of herself, as if she’d said she was down with a cold or the flu.
• • •
TIFF’S OFFICE LET Sotheby’s know that Lisanne would be picking up the item. When she got there, they were friendly enough but made her show ID.
She’d thought about bringing Kit something personal — a flower, maybe, to grace the gift — but discarded the notion as amateurish. No coy upstaging allowed. Something like that might get back to Tiff. No, she would just have to be as charming and low-key as she could, in spite of her schoolgirl jitters. Besides, Tiff was the one who deserved the flowers. It really was awfully grand of him to have engineered the meet.
When she arrived at the beach location, a cop directed her to a parking space beside the famous Indian motorcycle. That’s when her heart began to pound. A baby-faced A.D. appeared and led her to Kit’s trailer. She cracked herself up with wild, nervous thoughts along the way. She imagined the star, a legendary on-set practical joker, coming to the door nude with a big veiny hard-on. They knocked at the trailer’s door, and there was no answer. Just as they turned away, Lisanne said, “Wait! Something’s wrong. I can feel it.” Before the A.D. could restrain her, she burst in to discover Kit on the floor, facedown. She began resuscitation efforts as her escort ran for help. The star, in diabetic semicoma, dumbly began to explore her mouth with twitchy, treacly tongue as she breathed warm life into his grateful bronchi—
A slender brunette in a headset answered the door. She smiled in a way that made the already paranoid Lisanne certain that Mr. Loewenstein had tipped them off about the “messenger” and her minor crush. The gorgeous, multitasking assistant motioned her in.
“What’s happening with Aronofsky?” The unmistakable voice came from deeper inside. “Are we supposed to meet?”
“Darren’s on his way back from Boston. We’re trying to set a place and a time.”
“He can come to the house — wherever. And, Xan? I want to call Spike. At home.”
Without warning, Kit emerged, barefoot in blue jeans. At first, he didn’t see Lisanne. He wore a tight cotton T, and actually stretched in front of her. A tattooed spiritual symbol floated above a hipbone.
“I want to find out if my homeboy Alfalfa is full of shit,” he said, winking at Lisanne. “But that’s not really accurate. I know he’s full of shit. I just want to find out how much.” He turned his full attention to the visitor and said, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
She waited to see if he recognized her from that time at yoga (she hoped he didn’t) but there wasn’t a flicker. Lisanne introduced herself, announcing that she was an emissary from the “offices” of Tiff Loewenstein. She said it drolly, as if speaking of a cardinal. She wanted to come off just a little bit sophisticated, and it seemed like he appreciated that and got where she was coming from. She reiterated that Mr. Loewenstein was adamant in his desire the package be delivered personally, and that she was performing her duties as his “special envoy.”
He took the box and opened it as he parodied the studio chieftain railing about his “tribute addiction.” Aside from the occasional impulse to prostate herself at his feet, the besotted go-between was relatively at ease.
“Wow,” he said, pulling the figure from a beautiful velvet sack. Xanthe came over to gawk.
It was a golden Buddha, mounted on dark wood, without question the most beautiful thing Lisanne had ever seen. Kit read from a creamy insert card that fixed its provenance to the thirteenth-century. His finger delicately transcribed the air above its head.
“The crown symbolizes reaching enlightenment,” he said, with casual authority. “Usually they’re five-pointed.”
The transcendent sculpture sat in lotus position. With deft elegance, one of its hands reached over a leg to touch the ground.
“Touching the earth,” said Kit. “To touch the earth spirit means that he’s conquered Mara, the world of illusion.”
“It’s so beautiful,” said Lisanne.
That was all she came up with, but she was glad to have said anything.
“What’s it made of?” asked Xanthe.
He traced a hand over its belly. “Copper.” Kit leaned over, crinkling his eyes in scrutiny. “See the gems in the crown? Whoa. What is that, lapis? And the tiny symbols on the sash? See the little symbols?”
He bade them draw closer. Lisanne could smell him. She felt her leg touch his.
Xanthe called his attention to an envelope tucked within the box. He opened it, reading the note from Tiff aloud. “But I should have got you this.” Kit removed the paper clip and looked at the photograph beneath that had been ripped from the auction house catalog. The mogul had underscored the accompanying text.
AJNA-VINIVARTA GANAPATI
COPPER ALLOY
TIBET CIRCA 15TH CENTURY
The exotic form of Ganapati is supported by a monkey goddess engaged in fellatio, sitting on an amrita vase flowing with jewels and menses. He is depicted with three heads: the elephant-headed Ganesha (primary) with a rat head to its right and a monkey head to its left. The role of the deity is to appease the suffering of insatiable beings.
$10,000 — $15,000
Kit laughed, then became almost somber.
“Get Loewenstein on the phone, OK, Xan?” He shook his head. “That’s a serious gift. That’s a very serious gift.”
Xanthe immediately got through. She handed him the cell.
“Mr. Loewenstein! Mr. Loewenstein! Head, from a monkey! Yes! Yes! The gift that keeps on giving!”
Then he expressed awed appreciation and began his sober thanks, disappearing into the bedroom as he spoke.
There was nothing for Lisanne to do but go.
Hustlers
HUSTLER’S WAS ONLY forty minutes away. It was a shock to Becca that casinos existed in places other than Vegas, Reno, and Atlantic City. Rusty said that gaming was all over the place — even Palm Springs. Cassandra said the American Indians owned more casinos than Donald Trump. You could even gamble on-line.
It was their third consecutive night. (And their last, according to Cassandra. “Cause our money’s gettin royally flushed.”) Rusty’s guesstimate to Becca was that the couple had dropped at least two hundred thou. They were given the royal treatment. They had their own private blackjack table if they wanted, and everywhere they went security guards politely followed, even standing outside when the girls used the powder room. Cassandra sometimes needed help walking, and the guards were there for that too. Now in her eighth month, she claimed to have stopped drinking but still took painkillers. She said that was OK because she knew a doctor who prescribed certain pills that wouldn’t hurt the fetus. Grady was sloshed and kept wanting to hire the affable men away (he kept slipping them hundies) to be personal bodyguards. Cassandra put the kibosh on it, in a friendly way. “I don’t want no cop knowing where I live,” she said to Becca under her breath.