The Trouble With Hairy, page 13
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
“It could be a ghoul,” Becky began hesitantly.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” said Burman in disgust. “Why don’t we just blame the phantom of the fucking opera and be done with it?”
Clive looked at Becky. “A what? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He paused. “Do I?”
“Probably not. Anyway, it’s unlikely for reasons I won’t go into. The one I met was actually a very nice person.” Burman groaned in the background and Becky continued, ignoring her. “If what we’re thinking is true, we’ll need help.”
Clive attempted nonchalance. “So? You’re thinking of giving your old buddy, Chris, a call. Right?”
“Can you think of anyone better?”
Clive shook his head. “Guess not,” he said, sadly.
“Look,” said Burman, “he’s a nice kid and all that. But haven’t you noticed that since he came here…”
Becky cut her off. “That’s not fair, Pam. We had four or five murders before he even arrived. If it weren’t for him and Troy…” She left her sentence unfinished, leaving the others to complete it.
Clive sighed heavily and then handed her the telephone. “Go ahead.”
Becky smiled as she shook her head. “At two thirty in the afternoon?”
Burman blanched and then recovered slightly. “You know, sometimes I manage to forget about all that. But only sometimes,” she concluded sternly. She rose from her chair.
“Well,” she said, “you two are gonna have to meet with him on your own tonight.” She glared at Becky. “I’m gonna be meeting with my insurance agent. Just in case.”
Becky turned to Clive, expecting him to beg off also. She wasn’t disappointed.
“Paperwork,” he said helplessly, spreading his hands to indicate the reams of paper piled up on his desk. “You’ll tell me all about it tomorrow.”
“Are you two going to be any help with this at all?” Becky asked disparagingly.
Clive stood, drawing himself up to his full height and said earnestly. “If, and mind you, I said if, its turns out that we have a…” He swallowed convulsively a couple of times. “…a werewolf in our midst, I don’t know how I’ll handle it, but I’ll do my best. That’s a promise.”
Becky turned to face Burman. “Oh, I suppose so,” Pamela said tiredly. She opened the door in preparation for leaving. “I guess it can’t be that much worse than that damned Rottweiler my neighbor tried to sneak into the condo, right?”
Burman strode down the hall and Becky tried not to smile as Pamela’s voice came floating through the open door.
“Shit! I knew I should’ve stayed with my niece another week.”
Chris and Troy had spent the rest of the evening packing. By the time Chris finally went to bed, the sun had been up for hours.
“I hope you’re happy,” Chris had sighed at one point after looking at the seriously depleted balance of his checking account.
“Why?” asked Troy, still attempting to feign innocence. “You chose the building, Mabel.” Chris’ only response had been a mildly offended sniff.
The packing looked to take some time. Not only had they acquired an excess of “stuff,” but Troy finally managed to improve Chris’ foul mood and halt his breakneck pace. He affected an inability to simply remove things from shelves and drawers and place them in boxes. Each item of clothing had a story, which he was intent on re-telling; where it was purchased, how much it had cost, how cute the salesman was who sold it to him and, surprisingly often, the sexual habits and boudoir eccentricities of said salesman. As Troy’s vanity made him a sucker for a compliment on his appearance, especially if the person who bestowed the compliment was male and more than moderately attractive, there were many such stories.
As for the videos, DVDs and movie posters, Troy insisted on recounting the entire plots of each and every one of them, even though he had already made Chris sit through most of them at least twice. Chris, however, took such vicarious delight in Troy’s enjoyment in acting out all the parts, especially those of the female stars, that he didn’t have the heart to stop him. Troy dramatically tossed his blond head hither and yon, emoting with wild abandon. Chris affectionately watched and tried to hide a smile as Troy became more and more outrageous, attempting to act out Ali McGraw’s final scene in Love Story. He had a marvelous, rather gamine quality, Chris told him afterwards, but was it really appropriate for heavy drama?
Due to the length of Troy’s performances, they had only managed to pack two boxes of Troy’s clothes, the bookshelves and one movie cabinet in the living room. Chris had finally gone off to bed after issuing the ultimatum that, when he woke up, he expected the rest of the living room and Troy’s remaining wardrobe to be neatly boxed and labeled. He’d also instructed Troy to secure a moving company that would work at night.
Troy went directly to the Gay Yellow Pages and, after an hour of careful consideration, he had decided that he could not possibly endure the stress and strain of their imminent move without the loving support of Five Hunky Guys Movers, Ltd.
He telephoned them immediately, got the owner of the company on the line and subtly went about obtaining important information relative to their move: Were there really five of them? All single? What did the advertisement mean by “hunky?” Did Troy have anything to say about what they would or would not be wearing while they helped move? Did the owner of the moving company know he had a sexy voice? How tall was he? Would he be helping them move? Was he single? Did he like to fool around anyway?
The conversation went on and on. Finally, thoroughly horny, Troy hung up after ensuring that, for a price, the movers would be willing to render their services, of some nature or other, in the early evening a week or so hence.
Pleased with his accomplishment, Troy had just made the decision to forego his own nap in favor of packing just one or two boxes of movies, even in the absence of Chris as an appreciative, albeit captive, audience when the telephone rang. He waited for a second until the machine clicked on and he heard Becky’s voice. Not bothering to listen to the message, he turned the volume all the way down and returned to his packing.
He grabbed a stray DVD and prepared to pack it away but stopped, gasping in delight at the face of Judy Holliday on the cover. With evident relish, he began to silently sing to himself the entire score of Bells Are Ringing, dancing about the room with the disc clutched to his heart.
By the time Chris woke that evening, Troy had done a monumental job of finishing the packing. Crates and boxes had miraculously materialized, and, to Chris’ surprise, most of their belongings had been placed inside neatly. He spied a pile of Box Brothers boxes sitting on one side of the living room and was about to start putting them together, when he noticed Troy, passed out, sound asleep on the couch.
He stood for a moment, watching the peaceful rise and fall of Troy’s bare chest, and a wave of tender emotion flooded over him. He moved quietly toward the couch and gently ran his hands through Troy’s tousled curls as the blond boy, still fast asleep, involuntarily pushed his head into Chris’ hand, like a dog begging to be scratched.
Slowly, playfully, he bent down and, with the tip of his tongue, licked Troy’s taut little bare belly. Getting no response, he ran his tongue down from the center of Troy’s chest to the waistband of his cut-off shorts. Troy moaned gently in his sleep as Chris watched the crotch of the shorts slowly expand.
Aroused now, he carefully undid the buttons and unzipped the fly slightly to reveal the darker golden curls below. Nipping gently at Troy’s pubic hair, he listened in satisfaction as Troy’s moans became deeper and more frequent. He licked and nibbled for a few minutes more, delighted at the response he was provoking, when suddenly, Troy shifted in his sleep, suddenly twisting his hips and thrusting his crotch forward into Chris’ face.
Chris paused in his ministrations and looked up to see Troy grinning at him, wide awake.
“A little down and to the right if you don’t mind,” he said.
“How long have you been awake?” asked Chris with mock disapproval.
“Oh, about ten seconds after my little friend down there woke up.” He bucked his hips once again.
“Don’t be a smart ass, monkey. I’ll spank you.”
“Oh!” Troy’s eyes grew round with feigned innocence as he sat up. “Would you? Please!”
This game of theirs was an old one. Actually, Chris had never laid a hand on him, though often sorely tempted to at least box his ears, and would have happily killed anyone who did. Quite honestly, except for the limitations of their distinctive individual natures, their sex life was, though always pleasurable, quite catholic.
Chris pushed him back down on the couch and started in on him in earnest. Although he’d long ago memorized every nook and cranny of Troy’s muscular little frame, he never tired of exploring it anew with lips, hands, teeth and tongue. Within three minutes, Troy’s body was bathed in sweat. His grunts and moans became louder and louder until Chris was afraid he’d disturb the neighbors. Chris finally flipped him over onto his tummy after thrusting one of the throw pillows into his hands. Troy clutched it to his face to muffle his cries of pleasure.
When Chris had finally finished and Troy had climaxed in an impressive display of shudders, moans, cries and grunts, Troy rolled over onto his back once again.
“That was lovely,” Troy said with exhausted gusto. “You can bring me breakfast in bed any time, Rhett,” he added, allowing his southern accent to become heavier in a passable Vivien Leigh impression.
“That was a thank you for finishing the packing,” Chris said as he kissed him gently on the forehead.
“Mmmmm. We’ll have to move more often.”
Chris stood up. “Not bloody likely,” he growled. He spread out his arms, taking in the remaining furniture. “We still haven’t figured out what to do with all this red junk. Do you know anyone who’s planning on opening a bordello in the near future?”
“I bet Sheldon’ll take some of it,” said Troy, referring to their upstairs neighbor, an elderly man who had expressed his admiration for their taste in decor on several occasions. Troy had met him in the laundry room some time ago, and Sheldon had been captivated by the blond haired boy, stopping by their apartment on any possible pretext. Chris, needless to say, was not very taken by Sheldon’s neighborly behavior.
“Well, are we getting dressed this evening, monkey? Or are you going out like that?”
Troy stretched once, languorously and then headed for the bathroom. “Why?” he asked as he struck a pose in the bathroom doorway, his naked little butt thrust out provocatively. “Don’t you think they’d let me into Studio One like this?” He blew Chris a kiss and, with an artful twitch of his fanny muscles, vanished into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, over the sound of the shower, Chris heard him call out, “Miss Thing called. You know, our friendly neighborhood ghoul. There’s a message on the machine.” Chris heard the shower door slide back, and in a second, Troy’s dripping head appeared around the corner of the bathroom door. “Don’t worry. I didn’t listen to it.” He disappeared once again.
“She’s not a ghoul,” Chris yelled back, for easily the hundredth time, and pressed the message button on the machine. The tape rewound with a whirring sound, replaced almost immediately by Becky’s familiar voice.
“Chris? Me. I know you’re probably asleep by now but call me when you wake up.” He heard odd slurping sounds which were explained when Becky’s voice added, “Christ, I hate Slim Fast.” There was a polite little belch. “Oops! Sorry…Oh, yeah…Did you happen to know there’s gonna be a full moon tonight? And, we may have a problem. Call me.” There was a click as the message tape stopped and the machine reset itself.
When Troy came out of the bathroom a half hour later, stark naked, Chris was still playing the tape, over and over, a look of concern on his face. Troy stopped dead.
“What’s wrong?”
Chris looked up. “Huh?”
“Whenever you do that to the machine, aside from making me totally crazy, it means someone left a message that something’s wrong.”
He looked at the antiquated contraption, dubiously. “You know, we really should switch to voice mail.”
“People could listen in on voice mail,” Chris responded, absently.
“No they can’t. You’re thinking of a party line, honey. Nobody’s used them since that dashing man in the wheelchair was president. The one who used to use that fabulous cigarette holder. I always wanted one of those but, I suppose, you have to be a smoker to really get the proper effect. Anyway,” he chattered on with a toss of his curls, “the least we could do is get one of those new-fangled digital ones. That whirry rewind sound over and over…” He shuddered. “Besides, none of my friends even have actual telephones anymore. I saw the darlingest cell phone about a month ago. The most adorable shade of purple. And they have covers, so you can change the color whenever you want.” He finally noticed Chris’s somber expression and stopped his babbling immediately. “What is it?”
Chris played the message back for him.
“I hope she’s kidding.” Troy wasn’t quite able to hide his unease.
Chris picked up the telephone. “Get dressed and we’ll go find out.”
CHAPTER 7
In the late 1940s, Gertrude Stamford, Gertie to her friends, had been a rodeo star. She’d traveled from town to town, throughout the Midwest, headlining Wild West Shows, her reputation for being pretty wild herself preceding her. Parents from Louisville to Tulsa quickly learned to lock up their daughters whenever Gallopin’ Gertie’s Ropin’ Round-Up came to town. But then, she’d met Ruth Mumms, and the two of them had settled down.
We never heard of lesbians back then, Gertie often thought. We called ourselves Sapphic!
Ruth had been a hopeful young costume designer, making her weekly rent by sewing the spangled and fringed jackets worn in Gertie’s and other similar shows. Several years after they’d met and set up housekeeping in the same trailer, Ruth’s favorite uncle, a moderately successful film choreographer, had invited the two of them to spend the winter in the guest house of his Hollywood home.
Within a week, Gertie had landed a job doing stunts part time and Ruth had managed to obtain a summer position in Edith Head’s costume department. By the time the start of the rodeo season rolled around again, Ruth’s design flair had clinched her a permanent job at an exorbitant salary.
Their friends and acquaintances all said they’d never last. Gertie spoke in a loud bray compared to Ruth’s soft contralto. Ruth was even-tempered and always pleasant; Gertie was quick to anger and exploded at the least provocation. Even physically they were opposites. Gertie was a tall, unattractive woman with angular, weathered features and slim wiry muscles from her years on the circuit. Ruth, on the other hand, was soft, pretty and, even back then, had tended toward maternal plumpness. But, they’d proven everyone wrong for more than fifty years.
Even their attitudes toward pets differed. Ruth adored soft, fluffy creatures. Gertie, on the other hand, really couldn’t understand the theory behind domesticating something that couldn’t be milked, ridden or hitched to a plow. And right now, Gertie’s already minimal tolerance for the damned critters was being stretched past its limits.
“What in heaven is that?” asked Ruth, coming out of the kitchen where she’d been drying the dishes.
“Damned cats,” replied Gertie, momentarily ungluing her eyes from the television. “Gettin’ on my nerves.”
“I should think so!” exclaimed Ruth as she wiped the brightly colored dish towel around the rim of the china plate she was holding. “The poor things sound like they’re dying out there.”
At her words, Ruth looked up, her eyes meeting Gertie’s, filled with concern. They’d both heard about the rash of pet murders, and it was clear their thoughts were taking a similar path.
Gertie hauled herself up out of her chair and went to the corner cupboard where she kept her ancient, pearl-handled six-shooter. It wasn’t much of a gun being mostly for show, but Gertie had kept it as a memento. And though her youth was long behind her, Gertie figured she was still a good enough shot to stop a Cat Killer any day.
“Well, how’s about I go out there and take a look?” she drawled, pulling out a crumbling pasteboard box full of bullets from one of the kitchen cabinets and loading several in the chamber.
“You’ll be careful?” cautioned Ruth.
“Always am,” said Gertie and pecked Ruth on the cheek as she passed her on the way to the back door. She paused in the doorway. “Ruthie,” she added thoughtfully, “you mebbe want to call 911. Just in case.”
Ruth put down the plate and picked up the wall phone in the kitchen, hastening to comply as Gertie moved out onto the rear patio.
Gertie and Ruth lived in a small one bedroom apartment in the converted old Charlie Chaplin Studios on Poinsettia Place. Each unit was unique, and, to most people, would be uninhabitable with oddly slanting floors and windows and doors chosen for quirkiness rather than functionality. In the women’s living room, the trunk of a huge avocado tree grew smack dab up through the middle and out through the roof which Gertie had surrounded with a cunningly constructed wooden bench adorned by Ruth’s needlepoint cushions. Visitors found their home strange, but Gertie and Ruth loved it.
When the Chaplin Studio collapsed, the building was purchased by their current landlord who had divided it into rental units and had held on to it ever since. Unfortunately, the landlord was one of those people who was addicted to “cute” lawn ornaments and had liberally adorned the patio and garden with them. During the past twenty-odd years, the new owner had installed wishing wells adorned with tiny carved gnomes, bird baths surrounded by cunning ceramic families of multi-colored cartoon canaries, plastic gaggles of geese and ducks and more reflecting orbs than one could count. It was a masterful conglomeration of truly bad taste. The centerpiece was a large sundial planted in the middle of Ruth’s flower garden, the herd of bronze unicorns galloping majestically around its outer rim adding a mythical touch to the carefully tended rare plants of which Ruth was so fond.
