The Creep (25 page)

"Listen up, will ya? We'll use Interstate Distributors and our own people will sell the advertising. The most wonderful thing about this magazine is that all the copy is about making money. Now if you think about it, what does every red-blooded fellow think about ninety percent of his waking hours? Only two things right! Money and pussy, and not necessarily in that order, right! And now you can get them both in one monthly magazine,
Tycoon
!

"We're all highly excited about it this end. They've s
pent a lot of money on the mock-
up, it's superb! I've also read it from cover to cover. If they can keep up the standard for a few years, this will be worth a few hundred
million to us. I've been longing to take Bob Guccione and Hugh Heffner head-on, and this is our chance.

"I know you'll come in - I've alread
y committed you! Four million a
piece, right. Yeah, the guy's name is Jon Golding. OK, Arnold, have a great weekend. Yeah I know
,
you're in Manhattan next Thursday. And it's your shout for dinner, you old rascal."

Leo lifted his weight to one side, away from Bishman, and let rip a loud fart. "It's still working," smiled Leo.

Leo inserted a tape into the tape deck. It was screwed up and played at a funny speed. It was playing a squeaky rendition of Gene Vincent's
Be-Bop-a-Lula
. He ejected it and inserted another cassette which played perfectly:
The Man Who Sold
The
World
, sung by Lulu. He turned down the volume so they could talk over the top of it.

Some people just know how to get people to open up and talk and make conversation and life flow smoothly. Bishman was one. Leo Prendegast was another.

"Tell me about yourself Bob. You obviously like travelling, seeing a bit of the country. What else do you like?" Leo was probing, ever so gently.

"I'd like to be a Disciple of Mammon. I've never had two cents to rub together. All I've ever done is panhandle for small change and get myself around the country a few dozen times.
Living by my wits.
You must have some advice." Bishman was serious. He would like to be a billionaire. He'd been on the streets for far too long. He knew he had a mind, but he didn't know how to use it.

"Well if you're asking advice I don't really have any. I could be facetious and say 'You make a billion here and a billion there and it soon adds up.' But I won't. I've worked hard for over thirty years building the empire that my father left me and his father left him. If there's one thing I've learnt it's this.
You've got to have options, escape routes, back doors and weasel clauses. And the greatest thing of all
is knowing
how to turn disaster and failure to your advantage - but more
than that, read positive thinking books like
Talk and Grow Rich
.

"The other thing, Bob, is you gotta work out of Manhattan. You know many Americans think Manh
attan is the capital of America and other think it is the capital of publishing.
They've got it all
wrong,
it's the capital of the fuckin' universe! Mind you, I love that saying of yours, Disciple of Mammon. My ass! Where did you get that one from?"

"It just popped into my head,"
which it did, said Bishman
.
The other thing that popped into Bishman
’s
head was
that the three tab
s
of acid that he pop
p
ed were having no ef
fect
whatsoever
and
the fact
he had been ripped
off and someone was going to pay for that. He
bit his lip.

Soon the open road was getting them nearer to Groton and further away from Manhattan. Bishman had already learnt a lot about Leo, who was a compulsive talker.

"You know what, Bob? You're more than welcome to stay the weekend at my place. I've got a large
estate,
you'll have a lot of fun. I know we've still got quite a few miles to go yet but if I know you're staying over, I can get some dinner organized. I like to give the chef a little time to get prepared. Not only that, I like to eat when I get in the door, not two hours later. It would be my pleasure to have you as a house guest.

"Not only that, I promise to have you sucked and fucked and blowed in more ways than one.
How about it?"

"Let's do it," replied Bishman, but not without reservation. He knew this was going to happen. He could feel it.
What the fuck am I getting into here?
he
thought.

Answering Leo about taking risks, Bishman replied, "Yeah, sure I take risks. Living on the streets is a risk every day you go out there,
what with all the wierdos and whackos about.
There's
some right fucked-up people out there you know, Leo, some real funky people too. Yeah, sure I take risks, but not as many as I used to when I was heavy into booze and drugs."

"You seem to have come out of it all relatively unscathed, Bob. You don't seem to have suffered at all. Some people who've been into the drug scene are crazies. Living in Manhattan you see it all the time. In New York we get about a hundred murders a day. It's criminal, if you'll excuse the pun. What we've got is a glut of serial killers and a dearth of good detectives."

Leo told a filthy joke, Bishman countered: "A guy went to huge party and desperately had to use the bathroom only to find that it was already overflowing with menstrual turds, toilet paper, faeces, used rubbers and piss. He had to take a shit because he was about to explode. The toilet bowl was already level but he carefully balanced on the rim and took a dump. Just as he finished he slipped and his ass dunked in all the shit. The thought of it made him violently sick. Well, you know how a syphon works?" Leo topped up drinks, spilling half of them with laughter. They were having fun and they knew it.

The car swung over to the right and pulled in over some railway tracks. An Amtrack train sounded its horns - long blasts - and rang its bells. Bishman looked out and could see the ferry:
The Chautaugwau
.

Harvey was biding his time, his decision being made. He switched off the tape recorder and completed his notes on paranoia, and the fact that Bishman had developed a nervous tick in his left eye and his nostrils flared continually through the regression.

Bishman stayed in an altered state for another six hours and twenty minutes without saying a word, but snoring remarkably loudly.

It was the end of one of those hot, hazy, smog-filled Los Angeles days. The wind was just coming up and the slight breeze made the evening more bearable. The yellow Rolls Royce pulled into the parking lot at the back of Buccaneer Street in Venice. The driver got out, carrying with him a wide crocodile-skin briefcase.

He knocked on the door and in due course the door opened. He stood staring at a beautiful young woman.

"Are you Lyn? I'm Trevor Stanton," said the gray-haired forty-five year old.

"Yes of course, come right in, I've been expecting you." She turned her cheek as if to be kissed, which he did. He could smell her perfume and was immediately attracted to her. He'd never experienced such arousal. She'd fingered herself beforehand and rubbed her vaginal juices behind her ears, like the hookers used to do in the old days.
There must be some truth in the animal magnetism of natural body aromas
, thought Lyn.

"Come right through
...
make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a drink? Whiskey maybe, gin, vodka, rum and coke?" She went over to the drinks cabinet and waited for his reply.

"I usually drink pink champagne and, as it happens, I've got a couple of bottles right here." He opened his briefcase. "They're both cold, they haven't been out of the refrigerator long, but perhaps you'd like to chill this one down for later. Oh, while I'm at it, here's the money. I'd rather get that side
of things cleared up now. Fifteen hundred dollars as agreed, right? Cash, count it if you like." He threw the money onto a polished ebony coffee table; it landed on some art books.
Fifteen hundred dollars, with the bank wrappers still around the three bundles.
A lot of money.
For that, he'd expect a lot too.

"Want something in that?
Strawberries, maybe?"
She smiled.

"Yes, that would be great." Stanton looked around the graciously appointed apartment where everything spoke softly of wealth and class.
Exceptionally tasteful
, he thought,
for a hooker
.

"What is it you do exactly?" she asked, as she passed him his drink, deliberately coming closer than she really needed so he'd pick up the pussy odor again. "Work in the film industry, or what?"

"No, in fact I'm a consultant from London. All sorts of management consultancy, helping companies get out of debt, that kind of thing, saving them from the predators. Creditors, right - we call them predators, ha ha ha." Stanton
popped a couple of strawberries into his mouth. They were cold and delicious, even crunchy.

"Sounds good.
Why don't you bring your drink through to the bedroom and we'll have a little fun." She led the way and waited.

"Why not indeed.
That's what I'm here for, right?" Stanton took his drink and followed Lyn into the bedroom which was tastefully decorated in pink - incredibly feminine too.

Lyn cast off her evening gown and revealed a long, slender figure. She was wearing black stockings, black panties, black suspenders and a black bra.

"If you just sit there and relax, I'll put on a little show for you. Would you mind if I played a little music?" She turned on the stereo. Eurythmics,
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
, played at just the right volume.

"No, you carry on." Trevor Stanton took a drink,
then
topped the glasses up with champagne. He made himself comfortable: he could already feel himself becoming hard.

The music was obviously chosen because it suited her dance routine. Lyn rolled her hips and body in the most suggestive movements imaginable. She went right up to him, simulating intercourse by rocking back and forth, still in her lingerie, practically letting her panties touch his face.

Lyn then started to undress conspicuously slowly, one stocking at a time, rolling it down, carefully taking it off and placing it delicately over Stanton's arm. She did the same with the other stocking. She wiggled her hips and
moved graciously back and forth like a professional belly dancer, all the time
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
played rhythmically, hauntingly, in the background.

She slipped off her bra and stepped backward, then built up a circular movement so that her full breasts where swinging around and around. Stanton was transfixed. This was what he was paying for.

She dropped the bra on his lap and, accidentally on purpose, brushed his hard-on that was now bulging in his trousers.

Then carefully, slowly, she undid her suspenders and, just as slowly, slipped off her black lace panties. She walked toward Stanton, briefly brushed her golden bush in his face then pulled back.

She went to the side of the room and brought around a big pile of lingerie.
All sorts of goodies.
She took them behind a screen, just three yards from where Stanton sat, a screen that came just up to her shoulders - the gauze-like material, aided by carefully-placed back lighting, letting through a willowy silhouette topped by two delightfully full breasts that grew even larger as she bent over to slip on her panties. Stanton had the double delight of seeing the shadowy figure slip off the last remnants of one ensemble and
just as sensuously
slip
on the next
...
before presenting herself. The bulge grew even harder.

"This is the famous Frederick's of Hollywood collection," said Lyn as she emerged in
Secret Appeal
, a sexy cami-top pant set of exquisite black and gold lace. She turned around,
slipped out of the outfit and laid it across Stanton's knee.