Rain-out Theater Presents: an excerpt from Vic Fortezza’s as yet to be published near 200,000 word rock n roll epic, Rising Star. The band has just completed shooting a video and is off to a Hollywood party:
They completed shooting by early evening. Richardson charted a limousine to take Richie to the airport. Everyone else was invited to his home.
"I have a feeling you're going to regret missing this," said Mitchell.
Richie returned a sour look. "You tryin' to make me stay so ya won't look bad? I could give a rat's ass about the party. I miss my wife an' kid. Want me to call Bonnie?"
"I talk to her enough."
"I'll do it anyway, moron."
Richardson lived alone in a mansion in Beverly Hills. He led his guests inside. Everyone was awed.
"Not bad for a kid from the Bronx, huh? My exes let me keep it. They only want my money."
"This's like the houses ya see in the movies," said Mike, transfixed by the elegant chandelier hanging in the spacious living room.
The furniture was chic, spare, seemingly for display rather than comfort. The walls were white and bare.
"My last wife got the art work," said Richardson.
The floor was hard and cold. Paul conjured images of Hollywood's depiction of ancient Rome.
"What's your real name?" he said -- "if you don't mind my askin'. It can't be Richardson. It's gotta end in a vowel or a 'witz' or a 'berg.'"
Richardson smiled. "I can't remember that far back."
The others laughed. Someone asked about Michaels.
"One of the few dedicated family men left in this town," said Richardson, “a real mensch."
None of the crew was present, either.
"All weirdos or fags, but great at what they do."
In the evening he dismissed his servants.
John had an arm around two of the women who'd participated in the video. Mitchell was flirting with others. Paul stood by nervously. Richardson encouraged everyone to sample his wide range of liqueurs and poured a mound of cocaine onto a coffee table. There was also hashish, stuffed into an elaborate pipe and passed about.
Although Paul had fantasized about such parties, he found himself appalled at the willingness of the others to debauch themselves. He wondered if Susan's presence was oppressing him. He kept an eye on her, afraid she might participate. She was huddled in a corner with Richardson, who had to contend with the doting of Mike. Paul was certain Mike would relapse tonight. He was tempted to tell Susan to monitor him just to keep her out of Richardson's grasp.
"You seem bored," said Richardson, moving closer to Susan.
"I'm impressed as hell," said Mike. "That's dynamite coke."
Susan coiled in anger. "You didn't do it in front of Paul, did you?"
"Are you crazy?"
Richardson put down his drink. "I'm insulted that my party's boring you."
"I'm sorry," said Susan. "I'm too worn out to appreciate anything right now. I shouldn't've come. I'll call a cab."
"Wait. I have just the thing for you. Come upstairs."
"Please, Howard, you're a nice guy, but I'm not up to it tonight."
"My dear," said Richardson condescendingly, "I'm not talking about anything so mundane as sex. That's for mere mortals. I've got something that'll make you feel like a goddess."
Her eyes brightened. "You've got my attention."
To her chagrin, Mike followed. His appetite for drugs now surpassed his appetite for sex. He rarely brought a woman to the room any more. He'd shown no more than a token interest in the beauties of the video. She considered having Paul order him to remain downstairs, but decided Paul would be less suspicious should the three of them go upstairs together.
The upper level was plush and infinitely more comfortable. Susan loved the feel of the soft red rugs under her feet. The curtains were of the finest fabric. The artwork was first rate. She felt her temperature rise as she followed Richardson into a bedroom, where he unlocked a wall safe hidden behind a painting.
He beamed, shaking a clear plastic bag he'd withdrawn. "Know what this is?"
"H?" said Susan, tense.
"That's right, doll. The major leagues, Broadway, Hollywood, prime time. Hero, heroic, heroism, heroin. Are you up to it?"
"Are you addicted?"
He shrugged. "Probably, but I can afford it."
She was torn. She'd experimented with every drug she'd ever fantasized about except heroin. She was afraid she would become addicted or die of an overdose. After all, she loved cocaine -- heroin was supposed to be the ultimate high. She might never let it go. Then again, she feared the opportunity to try it might never present itself again or that her courage would fail her next time. She longed to know the high and regretted that her body was polluted with cocaine, that the effect of the drug would not be pure. She even hoped the drug would flush the craving for cocaine from her system. She thought it would be foolish to bypass this chance to journey to the edges of life. She had only one reservation -- Mike, who seemed eager to fill his veins. She doubted he was strong enough to resist addiction, especially as she wasn't sure she was herself.
"Go downstairs," she told him. "This isn't for you."
"Oh, yeah? I'll tell Paulie."
She stared, wishing he were dead. There was no recourse.
Vic's Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
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