Free Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1) Page A

“Is that what you want, Jack? Stardom? Fruition? Will you put yourself in my hands?"
                 Jack
watched those hands fondle the thin bronze girl. He shrugged. “What have I got
to lose?" he said.
     

           LUDE
     
     
                 O
Connor watches the movie star seated on his gray slate patio in his pale
blue terry-cloth robe, vaguely smiling, ignoring the sounds from the swimming
pool right nearby. He's good at ignoring things, O'Connor thinks.
                 The
reminiscence of the introduction to Irwin Sandstone floats in the lambent air, dissipates like opium smoke in the sun. After a little
silence, the famous Jack Pine sleepily says, "Irwin was the genius, not
me, and we both knew it." Slowly he is arching backward, body collapsing
gradually onto the slates. Lying there, blindlooking eyes gazing skyward, voice
fading more and more, "But Irwin came thruuuuuuuuuu," Pine murmurs.
"Ahh- hhhhh, I'll give himmmmmm . . ."
                 The
eyes close. He has drifted off, his breathing deep and even. O'Connor waits a
moment, memo pad in left hand, pencil in right, but the actor doesn't alter in
any way. At last, O'Connor leans forward from his chair, extends his right arm
forward, taps the sleeping star on the knee with the eraser end of his pencil.
"Mister Pine?" he says. "Sir?"
                No response.
                 Abruptly,
the stone-faced butler, Hoskins, appears with a silver tray bearing a glass
full of oily black muck. "Allow me to help, sir,” he says.
                 "He's
all yours,” O'Connor says, and leans back in his canvas chair again to watch.
                 Hoskins
goes to one knee, places the silver tray on the slate beside himself, props the
actor up against his raised knee with practiced ease, pinches the actor's nose
between thumb and forefinger of left hand, and with the right hand pours the
glassful of oily black muck down Jack Pine's throat.
                 O'Connor
winces, empathizing despite himself. He says, "Does this happen a lot,
Hoskins?”
                 Still
pouring, the viscous fluid slowly oozing from the glass into the unconscious
man's mouth, Hoskins says, "We have an amazing amount and variety of
chemicals in our body, sir. Maintaining the balance is not at all easy.”
                 "I
can see that,” O'Connor says.
                 The
glass is now mostly empty, only an oily metallic coating still staining its
sides. Hoskins puts the glass back on the tray, and lowers the body to the
slate. Then he picks up the tray, stands, and says, "We should be coming
around any instant, sir.”
                 With
which, the actor pops upright,
sitting at attention, legs straight out in front, arms stretched out and back
behind him like flying buttresses. His eyes are wide open. "Hoskins!” he
cries.
                 Hoskins
bows a deferential head in his direction. "Sir?”
                 Speaking
at incredible speed, Pine says, "I've got it! We'll put white pillars
every seven feet all around the side, and put the lawn on top, and then we can go underneath when it's too sunny!”
                 "Interesting, sir,” Hoskins says. As Pine's head
twitches back and forth, his wide eyes staring here and there like a demented
bird, Hoskins stoops, picks up the empty glass that once contained the fuzzy
drink, puts it beside the black muck glass on the tray, nods at O'Connor, and
departs, walking ramrod-stiff toward the house.
                Pine's darting head and staring eyes
find O'Connor, gawk at him. Pine giggles. He points at O'Connor, teetering on
only one buttress, giggling with accomplishment, with his own discovery. “People'.” he cries.
                 O'Connor,
bewildered, looks around and then points the pencil at himself, saying,
"No, sir, it's just me. Like before."