Les Folies Blancaneaux
Gareth’s voice was almost inaudible as Loris’ fingers smoothed their way outward from his vertebrae. He was floating, but Kenny insisted on talking, so he talked. “It’s like a family reunion,” he said. “Look who’s around: Nicholas Cage, John Milius…”
“I’m just glad Talia Shire isn’t here,” Kenny said with an overacted shudder. “She gave me the creeps in the Godfather series.”
“The scary one is little Sofia. Won an Oscar for a goofball script and she isn’t even a stripper.”
“This is just a dude ranch for the starfucked,” Kenny pronounced darkly. “Put in a jillion quarters and get a ride on Nick Cage or Buck Henry or whoever. Take pictures home.”
Loris paused from tenderizing Gareth’s shoulders and looked at him reproachfully. “Why would you be so negative towards a business that pays your rent, Kenny?” He tried to avoid her, but she caught his eye. “It’s a beautiful artform when you see it from out here. It adds fun and wonder to our lives, so of course people are going to want a little piece of it for their mantelpiece, keep little autographs that connect them to the magic.”
Kenny stared at her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard anybody defend Hollywood. How gauche could you get?
Loris turned her attention back to
Gareth’s knotted trapezius but added, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll get inside some day.”
Kenny stood up with effete dignity and stalked out of the gazebo where she’d set up her massage temple. But he did a drama queen turn and pointed dramatically to the dock on the creek. “Just don’t go fishing with anybody named Fredo.”
Winston sat on the rail of a rustic Meiji Meets Tarzan bridge, sharing a bowl with Nick Cage. “Here’s what I don’t understand,” he said after a soulful exhale. “Guy like you, quirky, funny, offbeat. Moonstruck, Raising Arizona: just these righteous, unique films. Then they make you into an action hero with butch guns and blowing shit up.”
“It’s part of the process,” Cage shrugged, carefully blowing ash out of the bowl and lighting it again. “Career trajectory. Plus I get to buff up and impress chicks.”
Winston laughed and took back the stone Indian pipe for more inhalation therapy. “So if they have to make humorous hearthrobs like you and Banderas and Willis into Rambo clones, why do they take the genetic muscle guys like Arnie and Diesel and Ice Cube and turn them into wimps getting their asses kicked by kindergarden brats?”
“Career trajectory cut both ways, Grasshopper. If I do one more role with no shirt and killing a million guys I have to do one where I’m a pregnant househusband. The cinema gods have a harsh karma of their own.”
Winston nodded sagely, tamped the ash out into his hand and rubbed it onto the leg of his shorts. “Tell me this, then. Godfather III. You’re Sofia’s cousin in real life, right? And family of like half the rest of the cast. So why’d they get Garcia to play the nephew instead of you?”
“Well, it was working with a Who’s Who of industry greats and playing opposite Sofi, or making something where he’d wear a headband and two hundred pounds of firearms.” Cage stood up and stretched, drinking in the pristine valley below the bridge. “So we flipped and I won.”
Gareth’s daily sessions with oXo continued to frustrate him. He knelt on a cushion in a draped pavilion under a sunburst of bougainvillea and stared through those glassy pupils and saw facets of nothingness. He turned to Copper and Curtsy, who were watching him curiously, hoping for something dramatic in the way of kosmic trooth transmission, and snorted in exasperation.
“I’m just not used to talking to crystal heads.”
“I sure am,” Copper said from her hammock. “You should have tried communicating with this boyfriend I had in Bakersfield. My TweakGeek from hell.”
Gareth broke his gaze into the echoing profundities of oXo and looked at her. “Crystal? Oh, you mean, speed? A meth head? Why would you hang around somebody like that?”
Look who’s talking, Copper thought. You live and work with the pissiest little queer in captivity. She said, “How much do you really know about tweak? Effect on human beings?
“Uh, not much I guess. Kenny did it a few times when he couldn’t score coke. Ended up crawling around with his nose in the carpet.”
“Know how long an eightball lasts when you shoot it up? Like all day and half the night. Did you know it’ll keep your dick hard that whole time? And that it makes women horny, pliable and crazed. Not to mention multi-mega-orgasmic?”
“Okay, I didn’t know that.”
“So now you do. What was your question again?”
Curtsy stared at her, eyes wide. “Yikes, girl.”
Gareth suppressed a shudder and dropped a piece of embroidered Guatemalan cloth over oXo’s stare. “There,” he said, “You can hide your Mayan eyes.”
Whatever qualities had made Xchab apprehensive about Copper (her looks, her insinuating confidence, her foreign–even exotic–appearance, her talents, her attitude, her unabashed fuckability) were far surpassed by her take on Aphra. Here those qualities were amped up to a feral, carnivorous, gleaming sensuality that led the Mayan girl to regard her much as a rabbit would view a neighboring cobra. Even her skin. In Mexico, where white is ascendant over dark in a sort of racial caste system–thus dumping Xchab at almost the untouchable level–Copper’s milky complexion topped her dusky umber like an ace played on a three. But Aphra being darker yet didn’t drop her into the cellar: it elevated her to a status she’d never seen before. Uncharted, alien, a black hole through the Newtonian physics of Xchab’s dermal world. And her she was, looming a head taller, wet-shining naked, standing a half meter away. And smiling with sharp, white teeth.
Xchab was trapped in the bathroom of the still-somewhat-under-construction family units that Coppola himself had shown the girls to and bid them welcome. Which might have had something to do with Bannock proffering some sort of payment, or perhaps the earnest conversation he’d had with Town Hardley, but was probably just a measure of the man’s apparent generosity and boyish invitation to all things novel and beautiful.
None of which was at issue as she stood with her bare brown butt against the warm, wet amber tile and tried not to stare at Aphra from carmine-tipped toes to exploded dandelion hair. Much less the thrusting breasts, musky groin, and enveloping arms.
There had been no conversation at all. She shut off the water, turned for the towel, and was startled by Aphra standing there naked, fixing her with that hungry, commanding stare. When she stepped back against the wall, the negrona had followed her, and turned the warm water back on. Now she was soaping up a washrag.
Highly unaware of complications and roads less traveled in the sexual wilds, Xchab still had a very nervous feeling that something was happening that she would either not like one little bit or worse, might like a lot. She had to do or say something but couldn’t think of much to do against this anthracite amazon. So she said, “Please. I am already clean.”
Aphra gave a wolf grin and said, “And no sooner you do, it’s time to start getting all dirty again.”
She extended the sudsy washcloth to Xchab’s shoulders and did a surprisingly gentle mopping motion, watching the soapy water run down the smaller girl’s breast and drip from her nipple. Xchab opened her mouth to protest but just couldn’t think of what to say. The washcloth ran down the side of her left breast, across her tummy with a little digital dipsy-doo at her navel and ended up in a soft, but pressing, swipe across her almost hairless crotch.
“Yo, dark meat. Put down the candy and move away from the child.”
Xchab’s eyes darted past Aphra’s shoulder and she was humiliated to see Copper lounging in the doorway, still wearing the bikini bottom she’d been swimming in with Black and Milius and a couple of the paid conferees. Aphra squeezed the cloth out on her other shoulder and watched the milky water again trickle town to its nipple cascade. Then turned to Copper and said, “The more the merrier, red meat.”
Copper laughed and shook her head, “Nope, redheads are the Other White Meat. But look, why don’t you pick on somebody your own disposition? And weight class? And orientation?”
“Well, you put it like that…” Aphra turned to face her, spreading her legs, putting her fists on her hips, and squaring her shoulders back to hammock up the mass of fine titty. The effect was spoiled as Xchab bolted past her, almost knocking her off balance, threw a look of total confusion at Copper, and dashed past her out the door. Aphra called out, “Bye, ya, Maya. Looks like I gotta buy ya to try ya.”
Copper turned back, hooked her thumbs in the bikini bottom and said, “I think I was saying I’m kind of bi-curious.”
“Curious, huh?” Aphra snorted. “That what killed the pussy.”
“Yeah,” Copper continued. “I’m always curious why so many men hit on me and so few women. Don’t you like redheads?”
“Redheads?” Aphra guffawed. “Shit. You claimin’ colors here?”
“What, want me to flash my bush so you know I’m not cheating?”
Aphra waggled a noncommittal hand. “I could live with that.”
“Fair’s fair. I just wanted to see yours first, make sure you weren’t just passing.”
Aphra smiled and raised a single red-taloned finger to beckon her in under the water. “Careful,” she said. “Don’t want to get those pants wet.”
“Too late,” Copper said, sliding the bottoms off and back-kicking them against the wall. She nodded at the bar of lime soap on the rack and said, “Who gets to do the honors?”
“You offer your honor, I honor your offer,” Aphra said, reaching for the soap. “And all night long I be on her and off her.”
“Now that’s a script I can work with.”
Aphra spread her hands wide and curled her lip in a defiant snarl. “Come and get me, Copper.”