The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [61]
Leon is looking at the floor and sighing and then at the girl and then at me and then back at Martin and I have the feeling I’m not going to be able to have lunch with Martin, which is a loss of some kind.
“Leon,” Martin says, “this is Graham, Graham this is Leon.”
“Hi,” I say softly.
“Yeah?” Leon mutters.
There’s a longer pause, this one more distinct. The cameraman stands up, then sits back down on the floor and lights a cigarette. The band just stand there, no evidence of motion, staring at Leon. The cameraman says “Smoke machine busted” again and one of the girls from outside walks in and asks if anyone has seen her KAJAGOOGOO T-shirt lying around anywhere and then if Martin needs to use her anymore.
“No, baby, I’ve used you all up,” Martin says. “That’s not to say you weren’t great but someday I’ll give you a buzz.”
She nods, smiles, leaves.
“She’s pretty hot,” Leon says, watching her walk away. “Did you do her, Rocko?”
“Don’t know” is Rocko’s answer.
“Yeah, she’s pretty hot, she stays in shape, she’s fucked everyone I know, she’s an angel, she has a hard time remembering her phone number, her mother’s name, to breathe,” Martin sighs.
“But the point is I could fuck her quite easily,” Leon says.
The girl sitting on the pillows who kind of knows Leon looks down.
“You would be fucking an abyss,” Martin says, yawning, stretching. “A clean, vaguely talented abyss. But an abyss nonetheless.”
I put my hands to my head again, then in my jeans.
“Well,” Martin starts. “This was all refreshing. What are we doing here, Leon? Huh? What are we doing here?”
“I don’t know.” Leon shrugs. “What are we doing here?”
“I’m asking you—what are we doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Leon says, still shrugging. “I don’t know. Ask him.”
Martin looks at me.
“I don’t know what we’re doing here either,” I say, startled.
“You don’t know what we’re doing here?” Martin looks back at Leon.
“Shit,” Leon says. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s take a break. I’m vaguely hungry. Does anyone know anyone who has beer? Hal, do you have any beer?” he asks the cameraman.
“The smoke machine is busted,” the cameraman says.
Martin sighs. “Listen, Leon.”
Leon is now staring into the hand mirror, checking his hair, a huge, stiff, white-blond pompadour.
“Leon, are you listening to me?” Martin whispers.
“Yes,” Leon whispers back.
“Are you listening to me?” Martin whispers.
I start to walk away, move out the door, past the girl on the pile of pillows, who is pouring a bottle of water over her head, in a sad way or not I can’t tell. I walk down the stairs, past the girls, one who says “Nice Porsche,” the other, “Nice ass,” and then I’m in my car, driving away.
• • •
After finishing part of a salad made up of ten different kinds of lettuce, the only thing she ordered, Christie mentions that Tommy from Liverpool was found somewhere in Mexico last weekend and that maybe there was a hint of foul play since his body was completely drained of blood and his neck was hacked open and his vital organs were missing even though the Mexican authorities are telling people that Tommy “drowned,” and if he didn’t drown exactly then maybe it was just a “suicide,” but Christie is sure that he definitely did not drown and we’re in some restaurant on Melrose and I don’t have any cigarettes left and she doesn’t take off her sunglasses when she tells me that Martin’s a nice guy so I can’t see where her eyes are focused which would probably tell me nothing anyway. She says something about immense guilt and the check comes.
“Forget it,” I say. “I’m not really sorry you brought it up in the first place.”
“He is a nice guy,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s a nice guy.”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“You slept with him?”
She breathes in, then looks at me. “He’s supposedly ‘staying’ at Nina’s.”
“But he told me Nina is, um, insane,” I tell her. “Martin told me that Nina is insane and that she makes her child work out at a gym and that the child is four.” Pause. “Martin told me that he had to spot him.”
“Just because he’s a child doesn’t mean