The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [31]
Now, in the bathroom, unbuttoning my blouse, unzipping my skirt, I call out, “Did you tape the newscast?”
“No,” Danny says.
“Why not?” I ask, pausing before putting on a robe.
“Wanted to tape ‘The Jetsons,’ ” he says dully.
I don’t say anything coming out of the bathroom. I walk over to the bed. Danny is wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a FOOTLOOSE T-shirt he got the night of the premiere party at the studio his father is executive in charge of production at. I look down at him, see my reflection, distorted, warped, in the lenses of the sunglasses, and then, carrying my blouse and skirt, walk into the closet and toss them into a hamper. I close the closet door, stand over the bed.
“Move over,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move over, just lies there. “Ricky’s dead. All of his blood drained out of him. He looked black. Biff called,” he says again, coldly.
“And I thought I told you to keep the phone off the hook or unplug it or something,” I say, sitting down anyway. “I thought I told you that I’ll take all my calls at the station.”
“Ricky’s dead,” Danny mutters.
“Someone snapped off my windshield wipers today, for some reason,” I say after a while, taking the control box from him and changing the channel. “They left a note. It said ‘Mi hermana.’ ”
“Biff,” he sighs, and then, “What did you do? Rip off a Taco Bell?”
“Biff snapped off my windshield wipers?”
Nothing.
“Why didn’t you tape the newscast tonight?” I ask softly, trying not to press too hard.
“Because Ricky’s dead.”
“But you taped ‘The Jeffersons,’ ” I say accusingly, trying not to lose patience. I turn the channel to MTV, a lame attempt to please him. Unfortunately, a Duran Duran video is on.
“ ’The Jetsons,’ ” he says. “Not ‘The Jeffersons.’ I taped ‘The Jetsons.’ Turn that off.”
“But you always tape the newscasts,” I’m whining, trying not to. “You know I like to watch them.” Pause. “I thought you’ve seen all ‘The Jetsons.’ ”
Danny doesn’t say anything, just recrosses long, sculpted legs.
“And what was the phone doing on the hook?” I ask, trying to sound amused.
He gets up from the bed so suddenly that it startles me. He walks over to the glass doors that open onto the balcony and looks out over the canyons. It’s light outside and warm and beyond Danny it’s still possible to see heat rising up off the hills and then I’m saying “Just don’t leave” and he says “I don’t even know what I’m doing here” and I ask, almost dutifully, “Why are you here?” and he says “Because my father kicked me out of the house” and I ask “Why?” and Danny says “Because my father asked me ‘Why don’t you get a job?’ and I said ‘Why don’t you suck my dick?’ ” He pauses and, having read about Edward, I wonder if he actually did, but then Danny says, “I’m sick of having this conversation. We’ve had it too many times.”
“We haven’t even had it once,” I say softly.
Danny turns away from the glass doors, leans against them and swallows hard, staring at a new video on MTV.
I look away from him, following his gaze to the TV screen. A young girl in a black bikini is being terrorized by three muscular, near-naked masked men, all playing guitars. The girl runs into a room and starts to claw at venetian blinds as fog or smoke starts to pour into the room. The video ends, resolved in some way, and I turn back to look at Danny. He’s still staring at the TV. A commercial for the Lost Weekend with Van Halen contest. David Lee Roth, looking stoned and with two sparsely dressed girls sitting on either side of him, leers into the camera and asks, “How about a little joyride in my limo?” I look back over at Danny.