Part 8 (2/2)

I didn't have any money, so I would keep Suzy company. I never had to be anywhere.

Suzy is still talking when I come back from the bathroom. She never stopped talking. It was not quite white noise. Suzy's clients were a talk show host, a couple of soap stars, a slew of jingle musicians, one name actor who required oz's mailed to him on the set, and my favorite, a TV evangelist famous for his high-rise hair and his multi-hour rants from a cowhide chair in Pasadena.

”I know what you're thinking.”

Suzy's voice is jagged with pleasure. Her nose so permanently blown out she sounds like she's just unplugged her iron lung. ”You're thinking, 'Suzy musta stole the a.s.s-blow move from Stevie Nicks.' Well, you're wrong, baby. It's apocryphal. Stevie Nicks kept a guy on the payroll whose only job was to blow c.o.ke up her a.s.s. Well, not his only job. His other job was to make sure she didn't stop for KFC on the way back from a concert. She'd put a broken nail file to her throat if the driver didn't stop for a half-dozen nine-piece boxes. She was a chicken hoover, if you know what I mean.”

”I know what you mean.”

”I know you know,” Suzy says, lowering her nightie, squirming with pleasure as she eases her behind back on the couch.

”Did I ever tell you about the time Larry got Shemp drunk and they put a hooker's eye out in Canter's?”

Only 5,000 times.

”I never heard that one.”

”Here, have some more.”

Years go by.

Celeste Wesson

ROBERT WARD ROBERT WARD has written six novels, including has written six novels, including Red Baker, Red Baker, winner of the 1985 Pen West Award for Best Novel. His novel winner of the 1985 Pen West Award for Best Novel. His novel Cattle Annie and Little Britches Cattle Annie and Little Britches was made into a movie starring Burt Lancaster and Diane Lane. Ward has been a writer/ producer on the hit TV shows was made into a movie starring Burt Lancaster and Diane Lane. Ward has been a writer/ producer on the hit TV shows Hill Street Blues, Miami Vice, New York Undercover, Hill Street Blues, Miami Vice, New York Undercover, and and The Division. The Division. His journalism and short fiction have appeared in His journalism and short fiction have appeared in GQ, Rolling Stone, Antaeus, GQ, Rolling Stone, Antaeus, and many other magazines. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and son. and many other magazines. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and son.

chemistry

by robert ward

This is the story of how I, hardheaded and some might say hard-hearted, Roger Deakens, actually learned something about the highly touted, but seldom seen, spiritual side of life and found my own true love.

My little tale begins in a bar, The Lion's Head, my favorite old haunt, the great hang for journalists, novelists, village politicos, and the occasional famous actor from the Theatre In The Round, which was just down the street, on the other side of Sheridan Square.

The dark, friendly dive where I met Nicole.

She was trim-hipped, with s.h.i.+ning black shoulder-length hair, and she stood between the service station and the last seat at the bar, my usual spot.

I slid onto my stool and was immediately attracted by her perfume. Subtle, cla.s.sy, a fog of desire. She had a long, sensitive, fine-boned face, and small pearl earrings. She wore a dark tweed business suit that accentuated her tight, athletic body. I ordered my usual, Scotch and soda, from Tommyboy, the 300-pound Yeats-quoting bartender, and tried to remember if I'd ever seen her in the Head before. I thought not, but there had been more than a few nights over the past six months when I couldn't remember much of anything at all. No, I figured, she must be a new girl, probably worked in one of the office buildings nearby, perhaps one of the restaurants that had been springing back up after a few rough seasons.

She sipped a gla.s.s of white wine, not looking at me at all, which was fine. I had plenty of time. That was my edge with women. I could wait them out. A lot of guys come on to every girl with the same kind of game-show-host jokes and fast riffs, but that's not me.

I've learned through hard-won experience that when you're trolling for love, you've got to be ”riff specific.” Tailor each and every riff to the particular girl in question. That's how you get them to fall in love with you, which after all is the ultimate goal. Or at least it was my goal. I never felt that it was satisfying to merely get them to undress, to open their beautiful legs. No, I wanted them to want me, to need me, to love me. I'm talking about the hurting kind of love, where they'd beg to see me the next day and the next and the next. They wanted to be my girl.

But I didn't want a girl. Not that way. Love wasn't my thing, not back then. Not that I didn't care about them. I did, like another man might care about a vintage car. I was a young man, the field was ripe, and I had become a connoisseur of hearts. Okay, technically speaking, I broke their hearts. But, come on, they loved it. Well, at least some of them did. Or else why would they keep coming back?

In those happy days, I liked to think of myself as an artist, an artist of seduction. An overblown, self-regarding epithet, to be sure, but I did have a more than modest talent for love. What were my talents? Well, first off, I could size up any woman within the first two minutes. Oh, what do we have here? Short, spiky hair, gla.s.ses, Levi's ... must be the intellectual type. Oh, what do we have here? Short, spiky hair, gla.s.ses, Levi's ... must be the intellectual type. The way to proceed here is to drop some little thing about a lady poet. I'm not talking about Sylvia Plath, for G.o.d's sake. Even a frigging football lineman can quote something from Plath. She's just another pop suicide now. No, with this kind of ”sensitive rebel type” you have to mention a woman poet only women revere. Like, drop a nice line from, say, Mary Oliver. That's the kind of poet close to a bright woman's heart, the kind she's sure that no man would even know about. Oh yeah, you lay a little Mary Oliver on her and she starts thinking, The way to proceed here is to drop some little thing about a lady poet. I'm not talking about Sylvia Plath, for G.o.d's sake. Even a frigging football lineman can quote something from Plath. She's just another pop suicide now. No, with this kind of ”sensitive rebel type” you have to mention a woman poet only women revere. Like, drop a nice line from, say, Mary Oliver. That's the kind of poet close to a bright woman's heart, the kind she's sure that no man would even know about. Oh yeah, you lay a little Mary Oliver on her and she starts thinking, Wow, this guy isn't bad looking and he's so sensitive, as well. Maybe, just maybe, he's the man of my dreams. Wow, this guy isn't bad looking and he's so sensitive, as well. Maybe, just maybe, he's the man of my dreams. Yeah, that's the thing. You want to be her dream lover, you have to pay consummate attention to the details. Yeah, that's the thing. You want to be her dream lover, you have to pay consummate attention to the details.

But details aren't the only thing. Oh no ... You have to appear to be a fun guy, as well. Sensitive plus fun. If you're too sensitive, after all, you might just as well be some kind of pushover. No, you have to show you're a little dangerous, but fun-dangerous, not deadly dangerous. And what better way to show this than to have your ready vial of pure white cocaine with you.

Ah, with the c.o.ke plus the riff-specific sensitivity, you were just too good to be true. (Which pretty much sums up what I was ... way too good to be true, ever.) Anyway, after a few laserlike riffs, which honed in on something the woman couldn't see coming, and a few spoonfuls of the requisite powders, well, she was pretty much all yours.

Man, I know it sounds cold but it wasn't . . . not really. It was fun, sharp, predator-and-victim fun. And what's more fun than that?

Not to mention the fact that I got something else out of it. I mean, besides the obvious things. Can you guess?

Nah, you're not smart enough.

Reverie. That's right, reverie. Of the two or three hundred girls I bedded with my artistic approach, I could remember about half of them in stunning detail. I mean, every lick of their tongues, the curve of their thighs, the way they looked in naked profile. I could see them down on all fours; I could see them on their backs, their legs open. I could see them up against the wall, their a.s.ses out, their long legs spread, begging for it again.

Yes, I could replay my conquests any time, night or day. At my little pad, there was no need for television. I had my own movie theater, Roger's Memory Lane, and in every frame I was the star. And some beautiful, fantastic creature I'd picked up was my costar.

And, I might add, I was very picky. I didn't exert all this energy or attention on just anyone. No, the girl had to have a certain quality, and she needed to present a specific technical problem for me. A challenge, if you will. Now take this girl ... the one in question, Nicole. There was something special about her, not just her great dark looks. At first I wasn't sure what it was ... so I waited, watched.

Then I began to see. There was a sigh after she sipped her wine. The way she wearily s.h.i.+fted her weight from one great-looking leg to the other. She was beautiful, but above all, she was tired. Right away, I guessed she'd been through something tough. That told me how to tailor my opening gambit. What she needed was a little c.o.ke and sympathy. Well, reverse that. Sympathy first, then c.o.ke.

Fortunately I had a ready supply of both. Sympathy, in New York City, perhaps more than in any other place, is essential to seduction. For making women fall in love with you, sympathy is a basic ingredient ... like, say, bread or water to a starving man. The city is so full of truly creepy guys that most women spend half their time frightened, wary, b.u.mmed out. If you don't have a fine reservoir of feigned sympathy, you really have no shot. And as for the chemical side of the equation, I'd just purchased a gram or so of c.o.ke from my local dealer, a guy named Wease, who stood at his post at the south end of the bar. The Wease, as his customers called him, sold decent, cheap blow. Granted, sometimes it might have a little crank in it-the kind that made you grit your teeth for about fourteen hours-but basically it was good, reliable stuff. And the nice thing is, if you got greedy and snorted all the s.h.i.+t up, all you had to do was hustle down to the other end of the bar, and there he was, ready with another handy little packet to enrich your emotional life.

Yeah, I thought, looking at the surreal sheen of her black hair, this promises to be a very exciting night. this promises to be a very exciting night.

”Roger Deakens,” I said, smiling in my most understanding way.

”Nicole,” she said, smiling in a sad way. ”Nicole Draper.”

A great name, a great-looking girl. Cla.s.sy, with that touch of sadness. I felt my heart begin to beat.

”You okay?” I said, using my soft, caring voice and doing ”concern” with my eyebrows.

”Is it that obvious?” she said.

”You just look a little down,” I said. ”Hard day?”

”Hard week,” she said. ”Our stock is down and my boss is going nuts. Not to mention that he's. .h.i.tting on me every chance he gets.”

”Oh man, I hate that,” I said, trying out my PC chops. ”And let me guess, you go over his head, complain, and you're gone.”

She smiled and nodded her head. I saw her nostrils flare a little. G.o.d, she was a good-looking woman. And those lovely, small b.r.e.a.s.t.s, obviously all her own.

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