Mercury Falling
They lusted for each other on first sight, flirting with their eyes in furtive stolen glances at the sold-out concert. Van looked at women in a way that made them all think he only wanted to be with whoever he was looking at in that particular moment, and they all believed him.
He could have had any one of them, but Lara was something special, a stunning ingénue so beautiful that when he looked down on her from the stage the entire audience disappeared except for her. Van knew how to overdo it when he decided he wanted one of them, and tonight he overdid everything he had overdone before — dropping to his knees, moaning, crying, ripping off his clothes.
By intermission the stage was littered with a colorful array of women’s unmentionables; by the end of the show women had simply fainted and had to be carried out on stretchers. Van put on a good show that night, and like always, he signed autographs outside his dressing room for as long as anybody was still there holding out a photo or a CD with his picture on it.
Lara was there clutching his first three albums, each cover in mint condition though she had worn the vinyl down so bad that none of the records played anymore. She held back, letting all the women go before her, have their turn, have their pictures taken with Van, have them escorted giddily to the exit door until she was the last one there waiting.
She was not a woman without those necessary skills it takes to catch a man, especially when that man was all too willing to be captured, and Van had already been captivated that night. Then again, so had she. Van had not only expected to see her backstage, he had anticipated it, dismissing his hangers-on and bailing on the after-hours party. Watching them try to play it cool, it was difficult to tell who was the prey and who was the hunter.
I see you like the old school, he said, scribbling his name across the LPs. What about them new joints? You ain’t feeling them?
He flashed the smile that made women sizzle and melt, but Lara had her own dazzle and charm.
The new joints are fine but they’re not who you are, she said. I don’t care how much you dress it up. You’ll always be the old school guy on these three records.
Van liked that. She knew how to stroke him and he let himself be played for a change. At the end of the day, he knew who would be calling the tune.
Lara left in a taxi with friends, which Van took as misdirection since she had discreetly slipped him a little note with her phone number on it. When he finally got to his limousine Van pulled out the note and hit her digits. She picked up on the first ring.
Let’s have a late dinner, he said.
She said sure and he picked her up at her apartment and took her to a quiet restaurant in Little Italy that made a simply divine linguine and scampi which they washed down with bottles of Prosecco and Chianti. Later, as the driver cruised downtown, Van made them martinis from the limo bar then rolled up a fat spliff.
They got weeded out, half-naked, and crazy.
They were making out heavy by the time Van said Take us to the hotel. They were giggling like schoolchildren when they got out but the driver paid no mind to that since that’s not what he was paid to mind. He decided to park and get some sleep. He was always on call when Van was in town.
He was awakened by a knock on the window, unsure how long he had slept. He got out and opened the door.
Why didn’t y’all just call down? he said. Van went to sleep, Lara said dryly, otherwise not seeming to think anything about that one way or the other.
She got in the car and lit a cigarette; something the driver had not seen her do all night. Shall I take you home? he said.
She was silent for a few seconds and then told him where to go. He turned around and stared at her. Her hair was mussed but otherwise, she looked fine. He asked her to repeat that. She did.
He turned around and started driving without another word. She picked up the limo phone in the back seat and punched in three numbers.
Hello? she said when she got through to someone, expelling a long plume of smoke.
I’m calling to report a rape.
