Vogel has a hell of a lot of money backing him up. He could have set the show in posh California quarters. Or at the very least he could have sprinkled some of those resources over Atlantis Star to make the place slightly less dilapidated. But what the hell would be the fun in that? I have a bad feeling it’s all intentional. Of course it is. There’s nothing more American than a sordid tale of celebrity ruin.
The structure that squats behind the brothel is the old caretaker’s house. It was all right when I stayed here. The air conditioner wasn’t really enough to deal with the thin walls and living with Monty was like rooming with a wolverine. But other than that, it was fine. It actually doesn’t look much different and a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. I’ve passed through dozens of places in my life and rarely thought of any of them as home. Something about being back here leaves me feeling a little out of sorts though. I suppose I knew that would happen all along. If this place didn’t mean a thing to me I wouldn’t have come.
No one answers my polite knocks. There’s a camera trained on me, of course, but I’ve already decided not to even think about that. After all, I have no intention of watching whatever kind of strange brew they turn into a so-called show.
The doorknob turns in my hand and since I don’t feel like standing out here in the heat all day I have no qualms about going inside.
“Hello?” I call.
Someone spiffed up the inside of the place. I know Spencer lives at Atlantis full time but the leather couch, hipster wall prints and turquoise accents don’t seem like things he would choose.
No one answers me but in a few seconds I can see I’m not alone. Well, I’m never alone now. The Camera Creep comes slithering through the doorway after me and I know there are fixed cameras installed all over the place. I was told that the crew tails us in shifts for about twelve hours a day and the fixed cameras pick up anything else that might be exciting. Maybe I should have asked Cate Camp if they’re everywhere, even in the bathrooms, but then again maybe I’d rather not know. If someone really finds it interesting to watch me brushing my teeth and taking a shit, then we as a people have probably fallen off the evolutionary abyss.
It’s not just the Camera Creep keeping me company. Not six feet in front of me is Montgomery Savage. He’s sprawled in a chair. He’s got no shirt on, a web of dark ink on his body and his pants are open. His bleary eyes try to shift into focus. Then they widen. “The fuck are you doin’ here?”
“I’m not here,” I say, dropping my bag. “You’re dreaming.”
Monty utters a grumpy string of curses and rolls out of the chair, finally straightening up and glaring at me like he’s an angry bull and I’m standing here with a red blanket screaming ‘Toro!’ He’s pretty ripped, more than he used to be, and it’s obvious he’s been roughed up by life. But I would bet that I could take him down if I needed to. I’d rather not though. We’re not fucking teenagers anymore.
Luckily, Monty seems to settle down after a few seconds. He pats his pockets and finds a pack of cigarettes there, lighting up and looking me over coolly.
“Jesus,” he says with a short, humorless laugh, “I wonder who else will come crawling out of the fucking woodwork.”
“Yeah, I’m glad to see you too, Monty.”
He puffs on his cigarette while I look around. Monty probably isn’t going to make things any easier, or more pleasant. I’d rather just stay out of his way.
“So is there anyone else home?”
Monty shrugs. “Spence is jerking off in the creosote somewhere. The girls are probably in the big house.”
“I saw them already.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
I look him in the eye. “It is.”
The last time I spoke to Monty Savage we had a difference of opinion. I thought he ought to mind his own goddamn business and he thought I needed to get acquainted with his fists. I wasn’t about to be taken down by some Hollywood pretty boy no matter whose brother he was so I gave it right back to him, like I usually did. We both came out of the scuffle rather worse for