down on the bed. While she looked on, I began stroking myself. She pressed my other hand to her tits, then wet her fingers deep in her pussy, brought them up, and pushed them into my mouth. Licking the hand, I continued pumping. She wet the fingers again and wiped them across my lips. ‘Taste my pussy, baby. Taste it. You’re my man. Taste it. Do you love my pussy?’
I came like a rocket.
As we were getting dressed, there was a knock at the door. Then banging. ‘Timothy, mijo,’ Jimmi called, ‘just a minute. We’ll be right out.’
It swung open. Laylonee stood before us in the doorway, fully made up, black heels, wearing a tight top and form-fitting spandex. She had now gone the other way, and she was wired, a one-eighty from where she had been an hour before, popping her fingers to the rock ‘n roll in her head. ‘Hey sugar,’ she giggled at Jimmi, ‘your honey baby girl’s getting married tomorrow. It’s time to par-tee.’
The intrusion pissed me off. I was about to shave, my shirt still half on. ‘Sorry,’ I snapped, stepping toward her, ‘we’ve got tickets to a show.’
Two blank bullets stared back through me.
Laylonee hurried past me to Jimmi and began pulling her by the arms. Giggling again. ‘Sure, okay, okay, no big deal. Five minutes. Five seconds. C’mon pregnant lady, at least come’n look at my dress. Cost me three grand. C’mon, c’mon.’
Jimmi followed her, reluctantly, being tugged across the carpet.
Five minutes became half an hour. Finally, shaved and irritated by the delay, I went out to the living room. The kid was still busy on the patio battling his video game. ‘Hey,’ I called, ‘we have to go pretty soon. Where’s your mom?’
He didn’t look up. ‘They’re gone, Bruno.’
‘What?’ I said, not getting it, then noticing Laylonee’s open bedroom door.
‘A few minutes ago. Mom required me to tell you. She said for us to go out by ourselves. She’ll be back later.’
‘Where did they go? Did she say?’
‘You know my mother, Bruno. You know how she is.’
‘Fucking cocksucker!’
Still not looking up from the game. ‘Bruno…’
‘What!’
‘I’m a juvenile. That language is unacceptable in front of a child.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’
She wasn’t at the wedding the next day at noon, and Laylonee hadn’t seen her since some time in the middle of the night. Mickey-o had arrived to pick them both up at a penthouse in the Belagio Hotel. Jimmi wouldn’t leave. She was having fun and decided to stay on at the party.
At three o’clock that afternoon, I was alone in their apartment with Timothy when the phone rang. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi Bruno, babee.’
‘Hi.’
‘How was Sigfried and Roy? How’s Timothy?’
I could hear the cocaine in her voice. ‘Hey, fuck you, Jimmi!’
‘…Yo, chill man. Whaz your fuckin’ problem?’
‘For one thing, you abandoned your kid.’
Silence. Spooky nothingness. Finally, I heard her light a cigarette. ‘Okay, look, take Timothy back to L.A. with you. I’m flying in tonight. Maybe later. Okay?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m asking for a favor, Bruno. A simple fuckin’ goddamn favor.’
‘What’s going on, Jimmi?’
No answer. Her end of the phone had clicked dead.
Chapter Twenty-five
IN L.A., ON the way back from the airport with Timothy, I stopped by my P.O. box at the Venice post office. There, amongst the crap and junk mail and bills, was a letter without a window. Boudoir Magazine’s red logo was on the upper corner. I held it against the light, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the envelope.
Outside, in my Chrysler, I handed the letter to Timothy and explained what it was. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘you do it. You’re a lucky kid. Open it for me.’
‘That’s a ludicrous superstition, Bruno.’
‘Just open it, please.’
Timothy yanked the envelope apart. There were two pieces of paper inside. One appeared to be a blank questionnaire. It fell to his lap. He picked the form up, examined it, and passed it to me. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘A good sign. Keep going.’
He unfolded the letter. ‘Shall I read it out loud?’
‘Good idea. That or stab me with a knife.’
‘It says, “Dear Mister Dante. We would be pleased to publish your story Compatibility in our December issue of Boudoir Magazine. Enclosed is our tax form to be completed. Kindly fill it out and send it back. Upon receipt of the form, we will forward our check in the amount $1,750.00. Best wishes, Carla Gould, Senior Story Editor.”’
‘Thanks, Timothy,’ I said. ‘That’s all it says?’
He passed me the letter. ‘Congratulations, Bruno. You’re a magazine writer.’
I held it in my hands