CoverBoys & Curses (8 page)

Chapter Twenty Two

Let’s
Begin

“WE
TRY TO MAINTAIN a family atmosphere around here and that goes for both the
community homes and our therapy rooms here at The Centre. For those that
insist, I have my wall of certificates and pedigrees, somewhere around one of
these halls.” He offered an easy laugh. “Do you have your questionnaire
completed for me?”

I
understood what he was really asking. If I was going to see him, even one time,
I was agreeing to a true commitment. Most specific, the questionnaire made it
quite clear that I would be asked to make regular appointments—or sessions, as
they called it. When I thought about it, no matter what I claimed or fussed
about, time was on my side. I was young, my company was launched and with an
excellent and loyal staff, and so what if I had some major personal issues to
resolve before I fucked anything else up. One issue. Why did everyone I ever
love have to die? To expect that Dr. Coal could help me would be like me expecting
a white picket fence with two cats in the yard, and breakfast and bed served
by—well, someone handsome.

I
wrestled and cast out any regrets or concerns. I caved into the serenity of
Harlan Coal’s office. And by caving, I had won. Twenty minutes hadn’t passed by
and to me it was as if Cinderella was there to greet me after I took a spin on
the teacup ride at Disneyland. I felt warm, comfortable and safe. Maybe I
wasn’t a lost cause and maybe I wasn’t going to need years of therapy.

Maybe
someone would love me, and live.

“Let’s
take a walk,” Coal said, and grabbed his dark sunglasses. He reminded me of
someone. A star, perhaps. Only a short time in L.A., and I was already inflicted
by the dreaded celebrity-watch disease.

Coal
guided me on a quick tour of his office and compound. The halls boasted
slightly rounded angles. To the street-side, the walls were solid and lined
with modern art. He corrected me. The paintings were the creations of his
younger patients, although he never once used the word
patient
. He referred to the artists as clients, community members,
and even friends.

On the
interior sides, solid banks of windows and glass doors overlooked a triangular
shaped courtyard. The mere size of the garden setting surprised me, especially
for a plot of land in Hollywood Hills.

The core
of the triangular grounds contained several stone tables with circular seating,
a massive barbecue pit, three Jacuzzis, and a sprinkling of colorful children’s
play equipment at one end. The play area Carly had already mentioned.

I stood
in the main building that formed the office side of the triangle. Small hacienda-style
homes flanked the other two sides of the lawns and gardens. Structured from
both stone and stucco and quite similar in design, Dr. Coal explained
individuality was for the heart. All were privately owned. One lucky and proud
new owner was Carly Posh.

At the far
point of the triangle, directly across from the therapy complex, another
structure loomed. Erected of the same stone and stucco, it was the only two
story building and much larger than the surrounding homes.

“That’s
my private residence,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Truth is I occupy small
living quarters in the front of the building.”

“And the
rest?” Immediately my face flushed, ashamed I’d been too nosey.

“The
remainder of the building is my private library. It’s our central nervous system.
Without it, The Centre wouldn’t exist.”

He left
it at that, and I didn’t dare ask him anymore about it, but I did ask him about
the lack of doors and locks.

“There
are doors on the homes, mainly to keep out the elements, but we don’t have
locks.”

“Why?”

“Privacy
and respect go hand in hand. We don’t need locked doors. Not unless you go and
give some of your burglar friends this information.”

“Sorry. I
just have a curious nature. And I like to know how things work, and why.”

We
circled our way back to the offices. Coal jumped in front of me and said, “Let
me get that for you.” He then pretended to open an imaginary door for me.

“All of
us are here to become better persons, myself included. If that’s the intended
personal goal, then it translates to a group goal. We don’t have fear. We don’t
have secrets.”

My mind
raced, maybe with my own old fears. “What about doctor-patient
confidentiality?”

“I can’t
say that I’ve ever treated anyone that’s committed a heinous ax-murder, Ms.
Visconti.”

He’d
called me Lauren earlier. Had I insulted him?

He
continued, “It goes back to our idea of family and community, even if you don’t
live here on the grounds, and as you can see only a couple dozen or so people
are lucky enough to do so. We all trust one another. And the path.”

“The
path?” I’d asked to quickly. The pitch of my voice rose too high.
Vulnerable, and he knows it.

“The
reason you’re here.” His voice remained calm. Paced. Secure.

I didn’t
know that much about his therapy or his path, only that everybody else seemed
to think I needed it. He didn’t look like the Beverly Hills shrink I’d
envisioned, but he didn’t look like a wild Charlie Manson type, either. Then
again, Manson wasn’t too weird for the California sixties. And Ted Bundy was a
hunk in the eighties. My mind froze while my stomach became a butterfly on
speed.

“I don’t
mean to be rude, Ms. Visconti, but I have many people that need and want my
time. They respect it. If you’re uncomfortable with The Centre then perhaps we
should say our goodbyes now and not waste each other’s remains of the day.”

Damn my
mouth! Damn my mind and my stomach! “It’s nothing like that”, I blurted out. “I
want to be here. I need you to help me sort some things out.”

“Then
let’s begin. Let’s schedule a time to meet for our first session.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Two
Moons

THE
SKINNY GIRL DESERVED to die. It was her destiny. For the good of all humanity.
Someone had to pay attention.

           
Moon Blade held no regrets about
slashing the perfectly sculpted lanky body. For one, the model didn’t even put
up a fight. She was hopped up on dope, and even if she had thrown a defensive
punch Moon Blade would have easily countered it.

           
America’s idol. The beautiful. But
physically fit? Hell, no. She was a string bean steaming in a cauldron of her
chosen poison.

           
Moon Blade liked the weapon of
choice. No skull cracking. No chicken-shit bullets or too impersonal of
poisons. No awkward strangulation.

           
The sword suited Moon Blade. And the
emerald ring carved from the victim’s finger? What to do with that but
something divisively delicious.

FIVE
DAYS LATER Brock Townsend showed up on my doorstep, armed with brilliant coral
roses, a supermarket rotisserie chicken, and an exuberant smile that transcended
all our past failures at relationship snags, or rips, or broken bones. In fact,
he should have been the poster boy for world peace. If there was any
indiscretion tainting our past, I forgot.

After touring
him through my new home and introducing him to Teddy, the cat, we ended up in
the kitchen. I gathered up the bag of chicken and grabbed a bottle of
chardonnay to take out on the deck. Brock rambled around in my kitchen in
search of glasses and napkins. His casual gentle-giant presence reminded me I
had a friend I could always depend on. A friend who happened to be a major
league hunk who slept with my friends, but that was beside the point. At least
for the night.

We
attacked the whole chicken like savages on a wild boar. I wiped my greasy
fingers so I could pick up my glass of wine without it looking like a two-year
old’s
sticky fingers had been handling it.

Brock
lifted his glass in a belated toast. No words. The glasses clinked. The Greeks
used to say we could see the wine, smell it, taste it and even touch it, but to
toast was to hear it. Finally, he spoke.

“What’s
gonna
be in your next issue, Ms. Magazine?” he asked.

“Besides
nearly naked men?”

“Just
waiting for you to ask me to pose for you. But yeah, I’m talking who you
gonna
nail next?”

“Afghanistan.
A brilliant female doctor named Dhurra Sulayman. She’s been chastised and
abused. Even tortured. And she’s given us an exclusive.”

Brock
contemplated his wine, twirling it for its rich legs trickling down the inside
of the glass. “I’m guessing that took some guts. I’m proud of you.”

“Not me.
The doctor! She’s the one with the courage. I’m just the medium for her to get
her message out.”

“I heard
about that runway model. Ugly.”

“Ugly,
but I guess she shouldn’t have been hanging around a
laundromat
in the wee hours with a fucking emerald on her finger that rivaled the Hope
Diamond.” I immediately wished I hadn’t said that.

Brock
nodded with a gentle smile that told me he was proud of me, no matter what. We
sat in our old familiar comfortable silence, the only voice—that of the waves
crashing below us.

“Have
you broken in this new deck of yours?” He tilted his brow and studied me as if
analyzing my batting stats in some pre-game coaching conference.

“I don’t
follow you.”

“Have
you made wild and mad and passionate love in the arms of a capable man, right
here with this full moon and the ocean waves crashing behind you, in rhythm
with your own movements?”

A muscle
quivered somewhere down my spine and through to my inner thighs. Flesh
quivered, too, of that I was certain. I thought about my bedroom and getting
that sexy man smell layered between my new sheets and my skin. I was open to
alternative suggestions.

“Let’s
see. Carly was here to introduce me to my new posh possessions, Sterling came
by for dinner, and I’ve interviewed a housekeeper. None of them are my type for
breaking in a deck.”

“Too
bad.”

The
beach was deserted. The moonlight—intoxicating. I knew Brock would spend the
night with me afterward, like he always did after we made love, or had sex, or
whatever it was we did so well.

Without
words, I went inside and retrieved my old plaid stadium blanket. Within
minutes, per our usual M.O., we were naked in a tangled heap of flesh on top of
the scratchy wool.

He had
no idea how long it had been for me, I thought, but for the last time we were
together. In the bungalow. When I wanted him to spend eternity with me but was
too stupid to ask him to stay even for another day.

We
thrust forward and rolled back like a ride on Space Mountain with all the
dangerous curves, twists and hard bumps, with more to follow, and then we
silenced our bodies, perfectly still. He pulled up from me and instinctively
nibbled and tantalized me into ecstasy. Sensing I’d brought him to his own
urgent needs, I pulled back. And then I pushed. I gave him all of what was me,
and he responded. The ocean waves were no match compared to the undulations of
our synchronized bodies.

Brock
reached for something from his jeans pocket next to chest. He raised it to my
nose.

“Take a
whiff, Laurs. You’ll like it.”

I
recognized it instantly. “What the fuck?”

Jumping
up from our tussled blanket, I covered myself with what was left of my crumbled
clothes.

“What’s
the matter with you, woman?” Brock looked shocked more than angry, as if I were
the problem.

“Get
out!”

“It’s
just a little amyl nitrate. What the hell’s the big deal?”

“Get
out, Brock. Now,” I shrieked, tossing his clothes at him.

“You
crazy bitch. Laurs. What’s the matter with you?”

I didn’t
wait for him. I grabbed what I could to further shield my body and stormed into
my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

He’d get
my picture, baseball legend that he was. Only my rules were
two
strikes and you’re out.

A vial
of amyl nitrate? I’d never seen it before, but I knew what it was and I
absolutely knew how Brock got it. It was a classic. It was Sterling Fall’s
trademark post-coital indulgence.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A
Session for Sanity

COAL
SMILED, REVEALING perfect white teeth and dimples, “Thank you for escorting Ms.
Visconti in to see me and holding her accountable for getting here,” he teased.

He took Carly’s
hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as he watched her from behind John Lennon-type
wire-rimmed glasses, only much darker than Lennon’s preferred rose tint.
 
It proved to be a simple but effective way of
signaling it was time for her to go. I’d noticed that technique before.

As Carly
walked out onto the grounds she turned back, “Dr. Coal. You’re helping so many
people. I’m grateful to have you in my life.”

Coal
flipped on a tape recorder. He saw the instant hesitation register across my
face. “I keep the recordings under lock and key. They are confidential.
Everything that occurs between us is confidential. But when I talk to you I
want to listen. I don’t want to be taking down cryptic notes. I find it’s far
more effective this way. Okay?”

“Sure.”
I guess so.

“This is
just an introductory session, Lauren. Nothing heavy, I promise.”

He
pointed to the pillows on the floor, and seeing again there were no seating
options outside of the simple Scandinavian desk, I propped myself up in a
corner of pillows, mortified with
 
my too
short skirt, my too high
 
Manolo
Blahnik
heels, and the
captivating if not commanding charisma of my newly appointed therapist.

He asked
me core questions about my background, reviewed the notes on the oral interview
I’d provided, and scoured my completed questionnaire. My novella. If he knew
what he was doing, there was no out for me. The conversation would quickly turn
to the subject of love and death.

“For
starters,” he said, “maybe you need to realize how lucky you are. I know it might
sound trite, but you’ve heard the old saying, ‘it’s better to have loved and
lost’.”

I found
it very trite but I said nothing. And he was good. There we were on the subject
of death. Opening line.

“It
seems to me as if you’ve had a life rich in wonderful relationships. Loving
relationships. Do you know how many people I see going through life with no
love at all? Not the love of a good parent, a sibling, a companion? Not even a
good friend.”

“So
you’re saying I’m spoiled rotten and should count my blessings.”

He
chuckled, “Well, that’s being a bit hard on you, Lauren, but it does bring up a
second point. You’re more than just a bit hard on yourself, aren’t you?”

I noted
that I was no longer Ms. Visconti, but surely that’s not what broke the ice
that sealed my soul. I really don’t have an explanation. In less than thirty
minutes this man penetrated my very being and began dissecting the vessels of
my pain. Somehow he made me feel stronger, without all the psychiatric
‘you-talk, I listen’ bullshit. He engaged in conversation with me. And I
talked. I still wore the veil of the newest poor little rich girl, but I wasn’t
hiding behind it. I talked about my family. I even fumbled through my handbag
and produced photographs of all of them. I talked about my engagement. And the
plane crash. With each story, an ounce of weight lifted from my heart.

Until I
got to Payton. Payton was fresh death. Unacceptable death.

Dr. Coal
ended our session. I’d only been at The Centre for an hour.

“We have
a gathering, third Saturday of every month. Food, a little wine if you like,
and a nice talk. If it fits for you, join us. Meanwhile, let’s get together
again sometime next week. You can sign up for an hour on our website calendar. And
you’ll always know I’ll give you a full hour.”

Only
then did I realize he didn’t wear any jewelry, including a watch. I hadn’t even
seen a wall clock, as during our session I myself had to sneak glances down at
my Rolex several times.

Lauren
Visconti would have found this too much. Too soon. Too much vulnerability.
Instead, I found hope. I was hurting, and I’d finally found a road to kill the
pain. Or at least, ease it.

Two
young boys gathered outside his office. They peered in, since there was no
door, but immediately backed away when they saw me with the doctor.

He
reached his hand over to mine in one swift motion. He gently squeezed my
fingers and pulled his glasses down from his face with his other hand. His eyes
confirmed it was time for me to go. It was the end of my session.

“Hey,
Lauren,” he called after me. “Next time, wear sweats and sneakers!” he teased.