Incubi

from the Harbour Square Shops. Frolicking droves of revelers moved from one bar to the next. Pedicabs carried lovers away under the moon, and music beat in the air. Becky’s sheer, clinging dress inspired a periodic whistle; four midshipmen in summer whites leered as her long legs carried her across Randall Street, high heels clicking. A new place called the Map Room beckoned her with cubistic neon squiggles in the window; she entered into a crush of young lawyers and upper-class floozies. Another clique bar, where people came to pretend to be chic and paid eight dollars for a mixed drink. New Order beat bleakly from high speakers; more neon lights flashed. At the long black marble bar, men stood leaving their Porsche and Jag keys in plain view, while their dates sat perched alertly on Art Deco stools, laughing at jokes they didn’t get. The waitresses looked like an old Robert Palmer video, and the barkeeps looked like genetic hybrids of Mickey Rourke and Morrissey. False pretenses raged; Becky liked the place.

“Excuse me, miss—”

The sparsest of accents, sexy in reservation.

She turned around.

“May I buy you a drink?”

She stared through the utter failure of trying not to. The urge was a summons.

He was beautiful.

“Yes, you may,” Becky replied as the clock struck midnight.

* * *

Veronica sat up late in the vast living room, sharing her company with Amy Vandersteen. Very little in life came easily, Veronica reasoned, but disliking Amy Vandersteen was an exception. She was arrogance, pride, and ego all wrapped up in one.

“I’m doing a short screenplay, a melange,” Amy said. She stretched rudely on the couch with her feet up. “I’m not clear yet as to the leitmotif, but Erim suggested I use my dreams as the basic thematic premise.”

Erim, Veronica thought. She still didn’t know how to assess Khoronos; her initial physical attraction seemed to be restructuring itself into something more complex. Yet whatever the attraction, she still had to confess an incontrovertible jealousy.

She didn’t, for instance, like the way Amy said Erim. The lax, easy tone implied they’d known each other for years, which she undoubtedly wanted everyone to think. “So what do you think of… Erim?” Veronica finally asked.

“Oh, he’s absolutely awesome,” Amy replied, wriggling her toes in the plush couch upholstery. “He’s the most aesthetically sagacious person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something, considering my own creative status. He and I get along famously.”

Veronica’s frown menaced her face. “Famously, huh? How long have you known him?”

“Oh, just a few weeks. He came to my latest opening, Princess Sex and Death. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t known each other long. Truly great relationships often begin spontaneously.”

Veronica wanted to howl. Relationship! All she wanted to do just then was dump her iced-tea right into this silly woman’s lap.

“He told me he’s from Yugoslavia,” Amy went on. Her face was a smugly content mask within the frame of ridiculous white-dyed hair. “I don’t know about the other two, but who cares, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Gilles, Marzen — they’re babies. You can have them, you and your novelist friend. Me, I prefer an older man, more mature and sophisticated. I’m gunning for Erim.”

Veronica, hot not to scowl, reserved comment, though several rather articulate ones came to mind. This “retreat”—the entire idea of it — perplexed her more and more. So far it was a bust. They’d had a few communal meals together, a few conversations, and that was it. In fact, Veronica hadn’t seen Khoronos and his two proteges all day. She hadn’t seen Ginny either, not since morning.

She picked at a tray of cold hors d’oeuvres they’d found in the refrigerator: handmade Korean egg rolls and spiced cabbage. No dinner had been prepared tonight, which made her wonder further. Khoronos might be mysterious and intellectual, but as a host he was striking out. With her fingers, she ate several pieces of cabbage.

“This stuff’s not bad,” she remarked. “You should try it.”

Amy Vandersteen grimaced at the tray. She dug in a pocket, extricating a tiny steel pipe, a lighter, and a vial.

“You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Veronica groaned.

“Why? It’s a free country.”

“Someone could walk in.”

“Who? Just your novelist friend, and I haven’t seen her. Erim left with Marzen and Gilles hours ago. He has a beautifully restored Fleetwood, all black. He said they won’t be back till morning.”

This, too, puzzled Veronica. “Where did they go?”

Ms. Vandersteen tapped white powder from the vial into the steel pipe. “Business, he said.”

Business? At midnight? Just what kind of business was Khoronos in? “Did he give you that shit?” she asked.

Amy laughed chidingly. “No, he did not give me this shit. Frankly, I don’t think Erim uses coke, none of them do.”

“You should take an example.”

Another dismissive laugh. “A prude, are you, Veronica?”

“I’m not a prude. I just don’t think it’s too cool to come into a man’s home and freebase cocaine without his knowledge.”

Amy Vandersteen was heating up the pipe. “It’s not Erim’s house, it’s a friend’s, some investor who’s out of the country for a while. Didn’t you know that?”

Apparently there was a lot Veronica didn’t know. Hadn’t Khoronos implied it was his house?

“Erim vacations here a lot. That’s what he told me.”

“Where does he live, then?”

“All over — he told me that too. Kind of strange.”

Yes, it was. Suddenly Veronica felt steeped in questions, and this made her jealousy worse. Amy Vandersteen seemed to know everything about Khoronos. What made her so privileged? “Do you know what he does for money?” she finally summoned the nerve to ask. Rich friends. Living from place to place. Business at midnight. And what had he said their first day here? Faith bestows treasure upon the faithful? “Is he involved with drugs?”

“You’re so paranoid. Erim is not involved with drugs. He’s independently wealthy — old, old family money.”

Veronica watched in loathsomeness. Amy brought the tiny pipe to her lips and sucked until the flame sublimated the cocaine. Then she relaxed back on the couch, grinning dopily. “Class A,” she said.

“Jesus Christ.”

“You want some?”

“No thanks. I’d prefer not to contribute to the denigration of our society.”

Amy Vandersteen chuckled tightly, eyes closed in the sudden infusion of bliss. “You’re unique, Veronica. A conservative artist.”

“I’m not a conservative, I just don’t break the law.”

“But laws are only for the inferior minority.”

“Is that so?”

“Because I’m superior enough to handle it.”

“Tell that to the two million cocaine addicts in this country. They thought they could handle it too. The same people you buy that shit from are the same people who sell crack to elementary school kids. It’s all part of the same machine.”

“Other people’s weaknesses aren’t my problem.”

“That garbage ruins people’s lives, and it’s shitheads like you who lend a helping hand every time you buy it.