creepy eyes will pucker your orifice.”
The writer’s forehead knotted like burls on pine. “Putting a face to the evil is unnecessary. The man in the pit believes he is going to die. True horror is not physical pain. It is the anticipation of pain, the realization that death is a certainty, whether by falling into the pit or being eviscerated by the pendulum. Do you understand, sir?”
“ Sure. You don’t like Anthony Hopkins. You want to go younger? My daughter says Clive Owen makes her panties wet. Whadaya say?”
“ Mr. Beazle, I cannot surrender my integrity.”
“ Not surrender. Sell! I’ll get you a suite at the Peninsula. Room service. Blow. You want a hooker? I got a chippie you’ll love. Name’s Lenore.”
The writer pulled himself up, knees wobbling. “If I agreed to your terms, it would indeed be a midnight dreary.”
“ Sit down, Eddie!”
“ I think not.” He took a step toward the door.
“ You’re saying no to money, pussy and drugs? What the hell kind of a writer are you!”
But he was already out the door.
Beazle couldn’t believe it. A moment earlier, the bastard was perched on the edge of the abyss. Beazle grabbed his suit coat and hurried into the corridor, alligator sneakers clomping on the tile. He caught up with the writer at the elevator bank.
“ Eddie! Is it the dough? I’ll double it.”
Two elevator doors opened simultaneously. One attendant, a smoking hot redhead in a black leotard festooned with orange flames, winked and said, “Down?”
The writer recoiled as waves of heat rolled from the open car.
In the other car, the attendant, a petite blonde in a white leotard with snowy wings, smiled angelically and said, “Up?”
“ Last chance Eddie!” Beazle implored.
“ Never more,” the writer whispered, soft as a lover’s lament.
Beazle sighed in surrender. He didn’t lose often, but when he did, it hurt. “He’s going up.”
The writer stepped into the blonde’s elevator, the door closing with a quiet whoosh.
Beazle grabbed a fat cigar from his suit pocket. A Cohiba, a gift from Fidel himself at the Havana Film Festival. Beazle ran the wrapper paper under his nose and inhaled deeply. Not even burning sulphur smelled this good.
Beazle took a double guillotine cutter from his pants pocket and snipped off the cap of the Cohiba. He snapped his thumb and middle finger together, setting off a spark that engulfed the tip in flame. He drew smoke – his mother’s milk – into his lungs, and held it there.
“ There’ll be others,” he said, exhaling a cloud as black as coal dust.
There were always others, drying to sell their souls. Writers who dream of starlets and red carpets and their own insignificant names flickering across the screen. Vainglorious fools, every one, all destined to spend eternity in development hell.
SOLOMON & LORD: TO HELL AND BACK
“ What aren’t you telling me?” Victoria Lord demanded.
Jeez. Her grand jury tone .
“ Nothing to tell,” Steve Solomon said. “I’m going deep-sea fishing.”
“ You? The guy who got seasick in a paddle boat at Disney World.”
“ That boat was defective. I’m gonna sue.” Steve hauled an Igloo cooler onto the kitchen counter. “You may not know it, but I come from a long line of anglers.”
“ A long line of liars, you mean.”
The partners of Solomon & Lord, Attorneys-at-Law, stood in the kitchen of Steve’s bungalow on Kumquat Avenue in Coconut Grove. The place was a square stucco pillbox the color of a rotting avocado, but it had withstood hurricanes, termites, and countless keg parties.
Unshaven and hair mussed, wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt, Steve looked like a beach bum. Lips glossed and cheekbones highlighted, wearing a glen plaid suit with an ivory silk blouse, Victoria looked sexy, smart, and successful.
“ C’mon, Steve. What are you really up to?” Her voice drizzled with suspicion like mango glaze over sautéed snapper.
Steve wanted to
The writer’s forehead knotted like burls on pine. “Putting a face to the evil is unnecessary. The man in the pit believes he is going to die. True horror is not physical pain. It is the anticipation of pain, the realization that death is a certainty, whether by falling into the pit or being eviscerated by the pendulum. Do you understand, sir?”
“ Sure. You don’t like Anthony Hopkins. You want to go younger? My daughter says Clive Owen makes her panties wet. Whadaya say?”
“ Mr. Beazle, I cannot surrender my integrity.”
“ Not surrender. Sell! I’ll get you a suite at the Peninsula. Room service. Blow. You want a hooker? I got a chippie you’ll love. Name’s Lenore.”
The writer pulled himself up, knees wobbling. “If I agreed to your terms, it would indeed be a midnight dreary.”
“ Sit down, Eddie!”
“ I think not.” He took a step toward the door.
“ You’re saying no to money, pussy and drugs? What the hell kind of a writer are you!”
But he was already out the door.
Beazle couldn’t believe it. A moment earlier, the bastard was perched on the edge of the abyss. Beazle grabbed his suit coat and hurried into the corridor, alligator sneakers clomping on the tile. He caught up with the writer at the elevator bank.
“ Eddie! Is it the dough? I’ll double it.”
Two elevator doors opened simultaneously. One attendant, a smoking hot redhead in a black leotard festooned with orange flames, winked and said, “Down?”
The writer recoiled as waves of heat rolled from the open car.
In the other car, the attendant, a petite blonde in a white leotard with snowy wings, smiled angelically and said, “Up?”
“ Last chance Eddie!” Beazle implored.
“ Never more,” the writer whispered, soft as a lover’s lament.
Beazle sighed in surrender. He didn’t lose often, but when he did, it hurt. “He’s going up.”
The writer stepped into the blonde’s elevator, the door closing with a quiet whoosh.
Beazle grabbed a fat cigar from his suit pocket. A Cohiba, a gift from Fidel himself at the Havana Film Festival. Beazle ran the wrapper paper under his nose and inhaled deeply. Not even burning sulphur smelled this good.
Beazle took a double guillotine cutter from his pants pocket and snipped off the cap of the Cohiba. He snapped his thumb and middle finger together, setting off a spark that engulfed the tip in flame. He drew smoke – his mother’s milk – into his lungs, and held it there.
“ There’ll be others,” he said, exhaling a cloud as black as coal dust.
There were always others, drying to sell their souls. Writers who dream of starlets and red carpets and their own insignificant names flickering across the screen. Vainglorious fools, every one, all destined to spend eternity in development hell.
SOLOMON & LORD: TO HELL AND BACK
“ What aren’t you telling me?” Victoria Lord demanded.
Jeez. Her grand jury tone .
“ Nothing to tell,” Steve Solomon said. “I’m going deep-sea fishing.”
“ You? The guy who got seasick in a paddle boat at Disney World.”
“ That boat was defective. I’m gonna sue.” Steve hauled an Igloo cooler onto the kitchen counter. “You may not know it, but I come from a long line of anglers.”
“ A long line of liars, you mean.”
The partners of Solomon & Lord, Attorneys-at-Law, stood in the kitchen of Steve’s bungalow on Kumquat Avenue in Coconut Grove. The place was a square stucco pillbox the color of a rotting avocado, but it had withstood hurricanes, termites, and countless keg parties.
Unshaven and hair mussed, wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt, Steve looked like a beach bum. Lips glossed and cheekbones highlighted, wearing a glen plaid suit with an ivory silk blouse, Victoria looked sexy, smart, and successful.
“ C’mon, Steve. What are you really up to?” Her voice drizzled with suspicion like mango glaze over sautéed snapper.
Steve wanted to
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