Incubus

Chapter 1

Ishould’ve known it the first time I looked into his eyes, that this one would be the death of me. I should’ve seen it in the way he swung his long legs around the bar stool, should’ve seen it in the way he glanced at me with all the promise of an unholy night. I should’ve known it right then.

But I didn’t know it. I was too charmed right off the bat, too willing to help. That’s always been my problem: too willing to go all-in when someone’s got angel eyes and a sinful mouth. And just look where it got me, that Boy Scout nature.

Bleeding to death in a Bel-Air mansion.

I guess that’s just the way things go for schmucks like me.

It was at Chateau Marmont I first saw him. I was trying to shake off a clingy bad mood, so I headed to the Chateau to unwind with a bourbon. My rent was past due and I had a loan shark circling, waiting for me to start bleeding before he’d move in for the kill. But there’s nothing finer than Kentucky bourbon for making a fellow forget his troubles, and nothing finer than drinking it at the Chateau. Overpriced, maybe, but you can’t put a dollar figure on atmosphere. As it turned out, that yen for luxury was what skewed me off my happy path into a side-street Fate put on the map just for kicks.

I smelled him before I saw him; some woodsy cologne that I knew a broad must’ve bought for him. The bar was empty, but he sat right next to my stool like he wanted my company or was looking to sell his own. You never can tell at the Chateau; sometimes it’s a little of both.

Hello, friend, he said. His eyes were molasses pooled on cedar, and the gaze he gave me was definitely more than friendly. You look like you could do with another.

I’ve got two rules: never turn down a free drink or a free fuck. So I let him buy me a drink and hoped maybe he’d give me a reason to follow my second rule too. We sat without chitchat, giving each other the up-and-down in the dingy mirror behind the bar. He was a looker, alright, and suave as Mephistopheles. Dressed up to the nines with lapels too skinny to be anything but European. Manicured was the word that sprung to mind, from the dense but disciplined thicket of his brows to his buffed nails. He maybe had some Italian in him. I decided I wouldn’t mind some Italian in me if it came down to it.

You done? he asked, once we’d downed another bourbon each.

Sure, I told him. He put a room key on the bar and I picked it up for him. You’re out of luck if you’re looking for green, I said. Just so we’re clear.

His teeth, when he laughed, were whiter than I’d seen for some time on the people around me—or maybe it was his sun-burnished skin making them seem that way. Do I look like I need it? Leave it five, then meet me there. He walked out of the bar without a look back.

I grabbed up my hat and followed him five minutes later. A man’s got to stick to his rules, after all.

He was staying within the secluded grounds of the Chateau, in one of the new bungalows on the hill. It was the furthest from the main hotel, so I had some time to think about what I was doing as I walked, but of course I didn’t think about it. Why should I? When I let myself in through the maroon lacquered door the radio was playing cool jazz, slow with a smoky percussion. He’d taken off his jacket and let his suspenders down around his waist. He stripped to his undershirt as I watched, twisting my hat in my hands, and then he strolled over to the bar. He was lean and ropy like a panther, and when he turned to raise a tumbler glass at me I got an eyeful of his chest hair poking over the neckline of his undershirt, bushy and black.

Want another? he asked.

Sure. I hung up my hat on the hook near the door, and did likewise with my jacket. It was getting threadbare around the elbows.

I don’t stock bourbon. Scotch?

On the rocks. And soda. It was only mid-afternoon, and I hadn’t known the fellow for long. I wanted my wits about me.

I glanced around the joint while he put together the drinks. It was modern, sparkling chrome around the wall of windows and the sliding door that led from the living room to an enclosed garden. The sofa was the latest model, thin legged and stylish and a vivid orange that warmed up the whole room. In front of it stood a cherry wood and glass Noguchi coffee table, with a heavy ivory ashtray sitting neatly in the middle. A single cigarette burned in it. The end wall of the room was open red brick, with a built-in fireplace; the other walls were cream-painted plaster and bare aside from a large round mirror and an incongruous print of the New York City skyline. All in all, it was light and sleek and fashionable.

I could see why these new bungalows were the talk of the town. I’d heard Bogie stayed in the poolside bungalows sometimes, and I could see him here too, mixing drinks and making nice with a sultry Lauren Bacall draped across the sofa.

I wondered what the bedroom looked like.

Ellwood, he said to me, handing me my whiskey. He gestured with his own drink around at the walls. Craig Ellwood. The hotel got him in to design this bungalow after he did his Case Study House in the Hills. It’s actually modeled after that house. But then I guess a guy like you wouldn’t know architecture.

I didn’t take the bait. Some fellas like to big note themselves. "Maybe I should be asking you for cash," I said instead.

He took a sip of his drink while he looked me over, and then shrugged, licking neat scotch from his upper lip. If you like.

Depends, I said, and tossed back my drink in a few swallows. I gave him a grin and set my glass down. Let’s see what you’ve got, first.

He set his own glass back on the bar with one hand and grabbed my tie with the other, pulling me to him. This close up I could see the black tones in his iris, smudged and inky.

He wasted no time undressing me, and the way he crouched to unlace my boots and wriggle ’em off like I was royalty made me think for a minute that I’d read him slightly wrong. But no, once he’d got me naked to his liking it was clear he considered himself the top dog.

Rich fellows, they always act the same. Lucky for him I liked it that way.

He clung to me where he was kneeling, wrapping his arms around me and rubbing his face into my thighs, mouthing at my balls. I ran a hand through his hair, but he grabbed at my wrists and held them secure behind my back. Alright, I thought. I didn’t mind that show.

It was the greedy way he suckled at my prick that really took me by surprise, like a man starving for it. He kept it up without a break until I finished, as though he was just getting the formalities out of the way, and then he pulled me down to the floor next to him.

Give me your ass, he said, his voice rough. He was still dressed, but he kicked off his trousers as I turned over obligingly. He left the room for a moment to bring me a pillow and arranged it under me to cushion my tender parts from the carpet. Considerate, I thought, until I realized it also gave him more recoil when he was fucking me. He wasn’t gentle; he slathered me with Vaseline and used some oil on himself too, but there was no easing into it. If anything, he seemed to like the way I cursed him out when he drove home, inch by thick inch.

I don’t know what it was about him, but I enjoyed it. There’s a perverse part of me I guess likes to be treated shabbily. It gives me the opportunity to feel altruistic. But in truth, I got pleasure out of it as well, having him slam away at me there on the floor, the new carpet still stinking of glue as he pushed my face into it and sighed deviant things about how good I felt to him. I’d never had it quite like that before, both more frank and more sensuous than my usual bathhouse fumblings.

He even did me the courtesy of leading me to bed and having me for a second time on clean sheets. The bedroom, I discovered, was as modern and fashionable as the rest of the bungalow. The furniture was wood and glass, funny-shaped puzzles, like the side tables preferred to be art instead of useful. The bed was sturdy and plush, with a deep auburn-blushed wood frame and soft red velvet quilted to the headboard.

It all seduced me as quickly as my new friend had.

The second time he was more leisurely, like his frenzy had been tamed. He maneuvered me into a three-quarter, facedown position, shifting my limbs until he was satisfied. It all felt staged to me, the exactness of it, but there are some men who know what they want and won’t settle for a hair out of place. I supposed he was one of them.

Leg, he said briefly, and slapped at it until I bent it up and out of the way.

"You could just ask," I told him over my shoulder.

I did, he said, and breached me before I could say another word. It took him longer this time to build to a climax, his strokes slower and drawn out. He kissed me across the shoulders and licked up the side of my face, pressing his teeth into my cheekbone.

I didn’t usually go for that kind of thing with pick-ups, because I’d had trouble in the past when teeth got involved, but with him it was different. I got the sense he wanted to eat me all up, like I was Little Piggy number three and he might not have been able to blow my house down yet, but he was sure as hell trying. And I didn’t mind, not one whit.

He said filthy things in my ear, things I’d never realized I wanted to hear, but now I’d heard ’em, I wanted to do ’em. Or rather, I wanted him to do them to me. I’d heard a lot of dirty talk before, but it never did much for me. This was different. Maybe it was his voice, slippery and syrupy and strangely accented, sticking over some of the vowels like he was reciting a sorcerer’s incantation. He bewitched me then and there.

All my senses were full of him: the scent of our coupling as it built between us, the sound of his breath gusting by my ear, the taste of him on my lips. He’d wrapped my mouth shut like I’d threatened to shout out all his secrets. It just made it hard to breathe in the end, his fingers sliding higher and over my nose as we went on, and his other hand wringing out my prick.

I ran out of air just before I reached my peak and pulled at his wrist, seeing stars, but he only let go when he felt me convulsing and my release sprayed his fingers. It didn’t take him much to finish after that, deep as he could get, like he wanted me wet inside and out.

Maybe it should have alarmed me then, the way he liked to love. But there seemed no reason to bellyache about it. I’d known from the start he’d be rough trade. I guess he’d seen something compliant about me, too.

Chapter 2

W ell, well, I panted. That was something.

Something, alright, he agreed. No complaints?

I won’t be asking for a refund, if that’s what you mean, I said with a grin.

We smoked in bed; he had Gauloises, of course, stored in a silver cigarette case, and I had one of his and another whiskey. There were initials inscribed on the case, but they were too curlicued to make out.

Inside, though, the declaration was clear: All my love forever, Alice.

I lay down and balanced the drink on my chest, a cold hard circle to set an example for my heart. He set the ashtray on my gut. Nice to be able to serve, I thought. He slid down in the bed on his side, propped up on one elbow to look at me. He’d reapplied his cologne—to cover the smell of us? I wondered—and it flooded my nose, wiping away the scent of French cigarettes.

What do you do, friend? he asked.

Why, I sit around Chateau Marmont waiting for good-looking men to buy me a drink.

I expected a rise, but I didn’t get it. And what else? was all he said.

I’m a writer, since you ask. Scriptwriter. B-films here and there, whatever pays.

Anything I might have seen?

I doubt it. I did a few romances. And I got fired offa that Robin Hood remake, did you see that? No? Well, you didn’t miss anything. Anyway, I’m through with the movies. The truth was, the movies were through with me. My agent wasn’t returning my calls and I couldn’t get a look-in even from my oldest friends in the business. I’m working on a novel, next, but it’s hard to write when you’re worrying about your next meal.

He fished out an ice cube from my whiskey and rubbed it on my nipple, studying the response. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of squirming, but other parts of my body weren’t so obedient.

Where are you from? he asked.

City of Angels, born and bred. You?

Back east.

That explains a lot, I muttered.

What’s that mean?

Old money.

He gave an odd smile, his eyes hooded. Good to know I pass, at least out west. I’ll have to tell Alice. She’ll laugh.

Tell your old lady about your conquests? Haven’t heard that one before. Give her all the details, do you?

He said nothing. I’d known there was a dame since I saw him at the bar, but I still didn’t want her pushed in my face. I pictured her dowdy: stringy hair, adenoids and bunions maybe. Maybe his elegant fingers had to rub her feet nightly. The thought made me feel better.

And what about you? I asked. Some gigolo who’s married up?

He took a suck of his Gauloise, one eye squinted shut against the smoke, and breathed the stream out the side of his mouth. With precision, he ground out the cigarette in the ashtray, pushing it into my diaphragm. Something like that. He put the ashtray on the side table, took a drink from my whiskey, and kissed me again.

A kiss like that can steal a fellow’s soul, so I decided I’d better make a move. Well, I’ll be seeing you, I said, and sat up. I have to lay on a bet before tonight.

You’re a gambling man?

I’m a man who needs to pay the rent, and I got a tip about a horse.

You can take what you need from my wallet, he said, and yawned. It’s on the dresser.

Don’t get cute.

I know you’re no lizard. But if I have it and you need it, why not take it?

I ignored him and pulled on my clothes.

Say, listen, he said. That tip you got, is it solid?

Sure, I told him. Calambro in the third. Jimmy Wu told me, and he knows his horsemeat.

Then take the money in my wallet and put it on Calambro for me. When she comes home you can keep a bookie’s fee, and leave the rest at the front desk for bungalow four. We both win, see?

Look, I have my pride just like anyone else. But what he said made sense. And Calambro was as sure a thing as anything can be in this world. So I took the cash and told him I’d leave his take at the desk in a few days.

Calambro came in just like old Jimmy said she would, and even just ten per cent off the top of the full win was enough to make me feel like a king. I bought and drank half a crate of champagne before I remembered exactly who I had to thank for my good fortune. Come Thursday I paid my back-rent and even covered another week in advance. I gave the loan shark enough to get him back out to open waters for a while.

On Friday I made my way back to the Chateau, via Schwab’s Pharmacy. I nodded to the industry folks I saw and dropped a dime to call my agent, who was available to me for the first time in a long time.

Well, whaddya know, Freddie? You ain’t dead.

Not yet, and you can keep your smart mouth to yourself, he snapped.

Settle down, settle down, I said, surprised at the heat in his Australian accent. Just wondering if there’s anything in the pipeline.

There was a long pause, and a rustling of papers. I’ve got nothing for you this week, he said, and he sounded far away from the receiver.

But? I prodded. Christ, it was like pulling teeth.

A scuffing noise, and then he was louder in my ear. But there might be something coming up. You wrote for the papers back in the day, right?

Sure, sure, I said. You want to get ahead in this business, make enough to pay the rent, buy a new shirt occasionally, then you’ve done everything anytime someone asks and you’re willing to do it again.

"Word is the Los Angeles Examiner is looking to branch out, get some more human interest pieces, you know the kind of thing. Their circulation’s gone way down since the Black Dahlia, but they might strike it big again with this new case. The Incubus."

Oh, sure, I said, like I knew what he was talking about.

So I’ll keep you in mind if I hear any more, he said crisply.

It was better than the short shrift and out-to-lunch messages I’d been getting from his secretary for the last month, so I said that’d suit me fine and to let me know. I felt more cheerful than I had in a while, even on the whisper of a promise, so I set out to the Chateau to celebrate my good fortune and make good on my deal with the Italian.

It was busier at the Chateau this time, but dark as always in the lobby so you never knew if you were bumping into a chambermaid or a star. It might have been Ava Gardner in the corner under the velvet-shaded lamp, or it might have been a New York socialite with a judicious surgeon.

I made my way to the desk to leave the packet, but the concierge materialized behind me and asked me to wait a moment. He was a curly-haired, baby-faced kid with his nose in the air and a hammy French accent.

I don’t need any trouble, I told him. Just doing a favor. I don’t know the name, but it’s for bungalow four.

But he insisted. "You will wait in the lounge, s’il vous plaît."

I don’t think so, pal. At the bar, maybe. I need a drink.

"Come-come, s’il vous plaît, he said, and he hustled me by my arm through to the lounge. It was dim and empty; the bar, I had seen, was bright and full of life, and there was a sweet-faced strawberry blonde in my view—just what I was looking for. I managed to pull my elbow out of his grip. Now, just wait a minute. I just came to leave something, that’s all, and maybe enjoy the atmosphere over a drink. There’s no call—"

I believe bourbon is your drink? He waved a finger, and a glass of comfort appeared before me on a platter, held by one of the Chateau’s servers. Their staff always looked the same to me—so focused on being discreet that they faded in and out like specters. Compliments of the house, the concierge added.

Well. If you insist.

They had the day’s copy of the Examiner there as well, so I looked it over. The new murder case Freddie had mentioned took up most of the front page. They were calling this one the Incubus Killer since his victims died from asphyxiation—or plain old strangulation, reading between the lines. The victims had all been beautiful blondes, and the latest was a jazz singer to boot. The other two were touted as starlets, but I knew what they really were. Anyone in LA longer than a night knows a Hollywood hooker when he sees one. Mystery solved, as far as I was concerned.

But the rags must have their sensational stories, not to mention lurid nicknames, and ‘Incubus’ was vivid. The implications in the story were clear, even though the details were left vague. It was a sex crime, plain as day, and further convinced me that it was some sick john, or maybe a pimp had decided he needed stock turnover.

The second half of the story was filled with tenuous allusions to the Dahlia case from ten years back. I lost interest, and turned to the ponies to check how my last flutter had gone. It hadn’t; the nag had been scratched. I groaned. Still, it was better than another loss. Perhaps my luck was turning.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when my heavy-browed acquaintance turned up ten minutes and another house-gifted bourbon later. He was smartly dressed in a crisp linen shirt and vicuna coat.

Hello, friend, he said, as though he was glad to see me. So you made your rent?

I stood up. What’s the big idea? I thought we had a straight deal. I left your cut at the desk, like we agreed.

Some days back then, when I’d got down to nickels and dimes and had to decide between bourbon and the rent, I’d stare myself down in the bathroom mirror while I tried to make up my mind. The look he gave me then was a dead ringer for mine in those times.

He swallowed, drew breath, and asked, Are you in a hurry?

Chapter 3

He was a convincing fellow. That’s how I found myself back in that bungalow, back in his bed, enjoying him all over again. I was beginning to feel downright spoiled. He took his time this go round. No frenzied coupling on the floor; it was through to the bedroom, where he teased me with his mouth until I wanted to move things along. No point making this fling memorable. It would just get me down when I had to go back to bathhouses and dimly lit park benches.

Come on, I said. Just give it to me.

He slithered back up the bed and put a hand around my throat. Not yet, he said, squeezing a little. No, not yet.

I thought about removing his hand, but it felt snug where it was. I smiled instead, and he looked intrigued.

You like this?

I don’t mind it.

He took it away then, and wrapped it around my prick instead, wet with his spit. Let’s get you seen to, he said. Since you’re in such a hurry.

I tried to protest, but he worked me hard and fast, almost painfully. When that was done he sat on top of my chest, so I had to fight a little to breathe. He liked watching me strive for it, I guess, and made me pull at him until he finished on my face. I was gasping for air as much as he was by that time, but he just sat back and looked at me, smiling a little.

You get rid of your loan shark?

Now, how did you know about that? I puffed.

With guys like you, there’s always a loan shark.

Maybe he was right, but I didn’t see the need to be insulting about it, and not when he was making it so damn hard to breathe. I pushed at him, and he tumbled back on the bed with the grace of a gymnast. Why the interest in my finances?

Instead of replying, he reached over me for his cigarette case and the square silk handkerchief he’d taken from his pocket when we’d undressed. He handed the latter to me and watched me clean my face while he lit one of his Gauloises.

He offered it to me, so I took a drag and handed it back. I grabbed the ashtray and held it for him. You ever going to tell me your name? I asked.

He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and blew three rings before he replied. Mancini.

Italian, just like I’d thought. You got a first name?

Leo.

That short for something?

What’s your name? he asked, instead of answering my question.

Coleridge Fox. My old Ma was a sucker for the Romantic poets. But look up my byline sometime; my agent tells me I’ve been drafted for the newspaper game.

Mancini coughed and stabbed out his cigarette. Is that so? he said after a moment. You don’t sound happy about it.

It was my turn to blow smoke rings. It gets my name out there, I said at last, but I’d rather be known for my novels. You know, I met F. Scott Fitzgerald at Schwab’s once? Not far off the time his ticker went out. He asked me for a light. I wish I could say we talked about something big, something worthwhile, but all he did was compliment me on my cufflinks.

Well, now; that’s still something.

My sister bought ’em for me. I don’t know why, but it struck me as funny, and I laughed. So did he. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh. It was just a small chuckle, like he was unwilling to let it out, but I felt like maybe it showed we had more in common than just the physical.

The thought disturbed me somehow, so I rolled away and got out of bed. I pulled on the robe lying on the chair in the corner. It smelled like him, like the cologne he always wore: somber, expensive and continental, like a cedar box with amber inlay.

You still have them? he asked, stretching. He rolled onto his side and propped up his head with his hand. His cock, heavy and long even in its resting state, draped across his thigh. Your Fitzgerald cufflinks, I mean. What happened to them?

Sold ’em, I said briefly, and tried not to seem down in the mouth about it. I’d come over melancholy for no good reason. Those cufflinks had bought me five weeks’ freedom from the Walker Boys, after all.

You’re going into reporting, you say. You know anything about this Incubus Killer all over the papers? he asked.

I shook my head. "Nor does the Examiner, I’d bet my soul, but they’ll make up whatever they need to if it’ll sell."

The room felt close, so I pulled up the blinds to open the window.

Don’t do that, he said, and before I knew it he’d sprung out of the bed behind me and closed the blinds again. We can turn on the ceiling fan if you like. But don’t open the window; don’t pull up the blinds. You never know who’s looking in or listening. His tone was terser than I’d heard yet.

You on the run?

It was just a stupid gag, but he turned away. He walked into the living room, naked still, like he was used to the state. When I followed, he’d already poured me a drink from a brand-new bottle of bourbon.

Chateau Marmont can cast a kind of spell over you before you know it. It looks like a fairytale castle and it can make you start dreaming fairytale dreams. This guy might’ve been my Prince Charming for all I knew, even though he’d only just told me his name; tall, dark and handsome, with a bottle of bourbon. I have simple tastes.

You ever feel trapped, Fox? he asked abruptly. We were standing at the bar, looking at each other.

Something about the stare he was giving me made me truthful. Every day of my life.

What would escape look like to you?

I laughed at that. I guess it would look something like this. Living here in this fine hotel, drinking the best bourbon money can buy, writing my heart out and spending my free time with someone who gives a damn about me.

You think that, do you? He gave me a calculating look then, a look I hadn’t seen on him before. You think I give a damn about you?

I wandered to the window and peered out between two slats of the blinds. Sure seems like it. No other reason you’d buy a bottle of bourbon on the off chance you’d catch me again when I came in.

Maybe I like bourbon.

You’re a scotch man; that much is clear.

I loathe scotch, he said violently.

Okay, I said. No need to go blooey over it.

Say I do give a damn about you.

Alright, let’s say that.

Say I want you to come live here. Give you a break from things so you can write this great American novel of yours, or live up to your romantic name and write poems. This is the perfect place. Maybe you’ll meet the ghost of Fitzgerald in the bar. He drank here, you know.

Sure, I know. ’S’why I come here. I may be a lush, but even my soaked brain could tell something was up. What’s going on here?

He smiled, treacle-sweet. A business proposal, and perhaps a little pleasure on the side. You live here, all expenses paid, and maybe you keep laying on bets that pay out like that last one did. Write your stories without worrying about the tedious little details in life.

Anything else?

I enjoy your body, that’s no secret. You certainly seem to enjoy mine. Why shouldn’t we set things up to make it easier to do that?

Outside, by way of my letter-box-slot view through the blinds, I saw a blur of white coming along the path. It was a woman, tall and slim, her face concealed by an enormous white hat. She stopped at the bungalow next door. The way the broad’s hat moved around I could tell she was looking about carefully before she opened the door and pushed inside like the hounds of hell were on her tail.

Hollywood. It’s a whole different world.

I turned to look at my companion. Put some clothes on, will you? You make it hard to think.

He raised one of his thick eyebrows, set his whiskey down, and untied my robe. I let him take it off me and put it on himself. The man wanted to make a point, so why not let him?

Is this better for you? he asked.

Seems to me what you want is a kept man.

He leaned in to kiss me, that kiss of his that could suck out my will and reason and leave me panting. He used it as a weapon, and my defenses were failing. Not at all, little fox, he said, leaning his face against mine so I couldn’t look away. I want to be your artistic patron.

Patron, eh? The idea appealed to my vanity. Things are always clearer looking back. He could play me like a fiddle.

And bedfellow, he amended. But one does not necessarily have to follow from the other. Still, it seems foolish to turn down free board and amenities. I can give them, and you need them, so—

So why not take them, I finished for him.

It’s my weakness, and I know it now, to take the easy way when it’s offered. I lived like water my whole life, finding the quickest way to flow from A to B, and if it meant I ran over rocks or crashed down a waterfall here and there, I’d learned to ignore it. I didn’t realize I