“You degenerate pig,” I muttered.
“It can’t be helped,” he said, nodding at the bulldog girl.
“This is Lucy.” He laughed distractedly. “You know - like Lucy in the sky with diamonds..
I nodded to Lucy, who was eyeing me with definite venom. I was clearly some kind of enemy, some ugly intrusion on her scene… and it was clear from the way she moved around the room, very quick and tense on her feet, that she was sizing me up. She was ready for violence,there was not much doubt about that. Even my attorney picked up on it.
“Lucy!” he snapped. “Lucy! Be cool, goddamnit! Remember what happened at the airport… no more of that, OK?” He smiled nervously at her. She had the look of a beast that had just been tossed into a sawdust pit to fight for its life…
“Lucy… this is my client; this is Mister Duke, the famous journalist. He’s pairing for this suite, Lucy. He’s on our side.”
She said nothing. I could see that she was not entirely in control of herself. Huge shoulders on the woman, and a chin like Oscar Bonavena. I sat down on the bed and casually reached into my satchel for the Mace can… and when I felt my tumb on the Shoot button I was tempted to jerk the thing out and soak her down on general principles, I desperately needed peace, rest, sanctuary. The last thing I wanted was a fight to the finish, in my own hotel room, with some kind of drug - crazed hormone monster.
My attorney seemed to understand this; he knew why my hand was in the satchel.
“No!” he shouted. “Not here! We’ll have to move out!”
I shrugged. He was twisted. I could see that. And so was Lucy. Her eyes were feverish and crazy. She was staring at me like I was something that would have to be rendered helpless before life could get back to whatever she considered normal.
My attorney idled over and put his arm around her shoulders. “Mister Duke is my friend,” he said gently. “He lovesartists. Let’s show him your paintings.”
For the first time, I noticed that the room was full of artwork - maybe forty or fifty portraits, some in oil, some charcoal, all more or less the same size and all the same face.
They were propped up on every flat surface. The face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t get a fix on it. It was a girl with a mouth, a big nose and extremely glittering eyes - a demonically sensual face; the kind of overstated, embarrassingly dramatic renderings that you find in the bedrooms of young female art students who get hung up on horses.
‘Lucy paints portraits of Barbra Streisand,” my attorney explained. “She’s an artist up in Montana…“ He turned to the girl.
“What’s that town where you live?”
She stared at him, then at me, then back at my attorney again. Then
finally she said, “Kalispel. Way up north. I drew these from TV.”
My attorney nodded eagerly. “Fantastic,” he said. “She came all the way down here just to give all these
portraits to Barbra. We’re going over to the Americana Hotel tonight, and meet her backstage.”
Lucy smiled bashfully. There was no more hostility in her. I dropped the Mace can and stood up. We obviously had a serious case on our hands. I hadn’t counted on this:
Finding my attorney whacked on acid and locked into some kind of preternatural courtship.
“Well,” I said, “I guess they’ve brought the car around by now. Let’s get the stuff out of the trunk.”
He nodded eagerly. “Absolutely, let’s get the stuff.” Hesmiled at Lucy. “We’ll be right back. Don’t answer the phone if it rings.”
She grinned and made the one - finger Jesus freak sign. “God bless,” she said.
My attorney pulled on a pair of elephant - leg pants and a glaze - black shirt, then we hurried out of the room. I could see he was having trouble getting oriented, but I refused to humor him.
“Well…“ I said. “What are your plans?”
“Plans?”
We were waiting for the elevator.
“Lucy,” I said.
He shook his head, struggling to focus on the question.
“Shit,” he said finally. “I met her on the plane and I had all that acid.” He shrugged. “You know, those little blue barrels. Jesus, she’s a religious freak. She’s running away from home for something like the fifth time in six months. It’s terrible. I gave her that cap before I realized… shit, she’s never even had adrinkf’
“Well,” I said, “it’ll probably work out. We can keep her loaded and peddle her ass at the drug convention.”
He stared at me.
“She’s perfect for this gig,” I said. “These cops will go fifty bucks a head to beat her into submission and then gang - fuck her. We can set her up in one of these back - street motels, hang pictures of Jesus all over the room, then turn these pigsloose on her… Hell, she’s strong; she’ll hold her own.”
His face was twitching badly. We were in the elevator now, descending into the lobby. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I knew you were sick, but I never expected to hear you actually say that kind of stuff.”
He seemed stunned.
I laughed. “It’s straight economics. This girl is a godsend!” I fixed him with a natural Bogart smile, all teeth… Shit, we’re almost broke! And suddenly you pick up some muscle - bound loony who can make us a grand a day.”
“No!” he shouted. “Stop talking like that!” The elevator door opened and we walked toward the parking lot.
“I figure she can do about four at a time,” I said.
“Christ, if we keep her full of acid that’s more like two grand a day; maybe three.”
“You filthy bastard!” he sputtered. “I should cave your fucking head in!” He was squinting at me, shielding his eyes from the sun. I spotted the Whale about fifty feet from the door. “There it is,” I said. “Not a bad looking car, for a pimp…
He groaned. His face reflected the struggle that I knew he was having, in his brain, with sporadic acid rushes: Bad waves of painful intensity, followed by total confusion.
When I opened the trunk of the Whale to get the bags, he got angry. “What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.
“This isn’t Lucy’s car.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s mine. This is my luggage.”
“The fuck it is!” he shouted. “Just because I’m a goddamn ‘I lawyer doesn’t mean you can walk around stealing stuff right in front of me!” He backed away. “What the hell is wrong with you? We’ll never beat a rap like this.”
After much difficulty, we got back to the room and tried to have a serious talk with Lucy. I felt like a Nazi, but it had to be done. She was not right for us - not in this fragile situation. It was bad enough if she were only what she appeared to be - a strange young girl in the throes of a bad psychotic episode - but what worried me far more than that was the likelihood that she would probably be just sane enough, in a few hours, to work herself into a towering Jesus - based rage at the hazy recollection of being picked up and seduced in the Los Angeles International Airport by some kind of cruel Samoan who fed her liquor and LSD, then dragged her to a Vegas hotel room and savagely penetrated every orifice in her body with his throbbing, uncircumcised member.
I had a terrible vision of Lucy crashing into Barbra Strei - sand’s dressing room at the Americana and laying thisbrutal story on her. That would finish us. They would track us down and probably castrate us both, prior to booking
I explained this to my attorney, who was now in tears at the idea of sending Lucy away. She was still powerfully twisted, and I felt the only solution was to get her as far as possible from the Flamingo before she got straight enough to remember where she’d been and what happened to her.
Lucy, while we argued, was lying on the patio, doing a charcoal sketch of Barbra Streisand. From memory this time. It was a full - faced rendering, with teeth like baseballs and eyes like jellied fire.
The sheer intensity of the thing made me nervous. This girl was a walking bomb. God only knows what she
