DEEP IN THE DEPTHS OF THE ACME WAREHOUSE "I think I want to be raped," Lucy touched her breast and said She stretched slowly against the plastic lounge chair. Her sunscreen smelled hot and buttery. Her brain was clouded with sun and 'ludes. Lucy Minx tugged her thong straps further down her hips, exposing just the shaved beginnings of her mons. She turned her head and flipped up her mirror shades, flashing her wonderful Italian eyes. "I think I want to be raped by you." She slid back her sunglasses and shivered in the sun. Languidly she reached for her white wine spritzer, sipped from the straw. Mina Rush chugged her beer. It was tepid and tasted like the plastic poolside cup. She glanced at Lucy, wondering: What next? Mina was wearing a black one-piece and wishing she had Lucy's figure and could get away with a chartreuse thong bikini. "Say, what?" A black man in a dark blue jumpsuit was pushing a red vacuum cleaner across the lighter blue poolside carpet. Mina stared at his crotch. Breeze fluttered across the pool, whipping false waves through the chlorine-drugged surface. A slight bit of crumpled newspaper rolled against her bare feet. Mina picked it up. Elvis had been seen in Brazil. Elizabeth Taylor was pregnant by Prince Andrew. Rock Hudson was assassinated by the CIA. Plastic extrusions from flying saucers had raped a nun in France. Lucy examined her straw, flicked it behind her shoulder, followed it with her cup. She had a luxuriant mass of black hair with a lazy natural curl, and she liked to toss it about for emphasis, just as she liked to flash her eyes. Tossing and flashing, she pulled and twisted bits of her bikini, fussed with her bag of things, and then she left for the shower. During all this, Lucy said to Mina, "Or forget it" There was a dead thing in Mina's beer cup. She said, "Shit." And then she repeated it, really meaning it this time. Lucy was a nut case, but Mina had dreamed about her too many times not to have scored. She knew that Lucy knew that she wanted her, and she knew that Lucy enjoyed this sense of control. Lucy might tease and flirt, but for Mina she never gave more than a mocking smile and a brief heartless kiss. "A prick-tease," their drummer had once confided. Mina Rush was a henna-head with expressive if narrow green eyes and a Prince Valiant haircut that did little to help her rather angular jaw. Her right upper front tooth had been broken when someone lobbed a Jack Daniel's bottle early on in her career, and she flashed a neat gold cap with an inverted pentacle when she smiled. She had long legs, boyish hips, girlish breasts, and a bad attitude. She was maybe the finest white female blues singer since Janis Joplin, but she couldn't hold a group together for more than one tour, and her next album was a year late. On the edge of superstardom, Mina Rush made only three mistakes: She had a weakness for cocaine, she had an obsession for Lucy Minx, and she had an encounter with Kane. Something was blocking the sun. Already testy, Mina raised herself on her elbows and glared suddenly upward. It was not as large as a refrigerator, but only just. He wore denim cutoffs, a black Hawaiian shirt with palm trees and dancing girls, and mirror shades. He was carrying two tall frosty glasses with tiny umbrellas on top and some opalescent liquid inside. The sign at the hotel pool gate commanded: No Class. "Drink this," he said. "There's a bug in your beer." Mina accepted the glass automatically, and he reclined upon Lucy's vacated lounge chair. The plastic and aluminum creaked, but held. Mina wondered whether he would sink in the pool like a stone. The man seemed to be a solid block of muscle and bone, very roughly hewn, and was probably in his early thirties. He had a neat red beard, slicked-back red hair, and when he lifted his sunglasses the intensity of his cold blue eyes made her want to look away. "I'm Kane," he said. He raised his glass. "Cheers." "The Kane?" Mina sipped her drink. Her record company had just recently been acquired by something called Kane, Ltd. All Mina knew about it was that it wasn't Japanese-owned, and no one knew much else about the firm that now held her contracts. Supposedly the head of the organization was enigmatic and unapproachable. Photos were rare, but Rolling Stone had described him as an NFL lineman turned outlaw biker. Mina thought about the foggy photographs she had seen. Yes, could be. The drink tasted of licorice and took her breath away. "What is this?" "Absinthe on the rocks," said Kane. "Not on the bar list here." "I'd always thought absinthe was illegal. Even here in New Orleans." Kane swirled his drink. "So is cocaine, Mina. Will you drink up, or call for the police? Besides, a little tincture of wormwood is good for the soul. This bottle was laid down in 1837." "Where'd you get a bottle?" Mina knew when she was being served up bullshit, and in this case she decided it was with a glass of Pernod or Herbsaint. "Connections," Kane told her. "You can obtain anything if you have connections." Whatever it was, the drink had a kick to it. That, plus the sun. Mina crunched a hit of ice. A small lizard crept out of the poolside shrubbery and warmed itself on the stone wall. Two children splashed about noisily in the shallow end of the pool. She could smell steaks broiling in the hotel restaurant. Lucy would be toweling off after her shower a few doors away. A sparrow was hopping along the terrace, looking for morsels. Only now there was a shimmering haze to the air, sounds seemed too distant, and the world had moved light-years away. A crumpled pack of Camels drifted aimlessly across the patio. A radio played "Run Away" in the distance. But in the dream state, Kane remained. "Of course," Kane said, "I now hold all your contracts. Do you fancy another?" He held up his glass. "Another what?" Mina heard herself say. A large black-gloved hand took her glass. Another glass took its place upon the poolside table. Mina saw a large person, wearing black biker leathers and mirror shades, longish black hair and black beard, black motorcycle boots. He hadn't been there before. "Thank you, Blacklight" said Kane, sipping a fresh drink. "We're just talking contract." "What's that?" Mina wondered if she were the only one here without mirror shades. "Blacklight sometimes helps me with negotiations. And I sense that you are not happy." "Personal matters." "The elusive Miss Lucy Minx?" "Is she under contract, as well?" "Eventually, everyone is." "I want her." Kane considered his drink. "An admirable choice, if dicey. Anything may be obtained." The drink was making her giddy. Mina asked, "What's the price? My soul?" Kane seemed offended. "Worth nothing to me, Mina. All I want is your next album. The one that's so overdue. I think, once released, platinum in three weeks. I'll personally produce it for you." "So. What have you ever done?" "Far more than you'll ever live to guess." "You're most reassuring." "You can't do the album without Lucy. I'll give you Lucy. You give me the album. I'll even write some of your material. But we'll discuss this in good time." Blacklight had reappeared. Only the three of them seemed to be at poolside. He handed Kane a glass phial with a silver spoon attached. Kane, with surprising delicacy, snorted a spoonful of white powder, paused and remarked: "Nearly there, I think." He then handed the phial to Mina. "Yours to keep." Mina tasted a few spoonfuls. If it was coke, it was better than any she'd ever had. Perks of being a rising star. She had another couple. Kane was watching her with more than casual interest. Mina tried to say something, then felt Kane inside her mind. "Most interesting," Kane said. "Did you know she has a thing about Elvis?" "Obviously." "She's a wicked twist." "Obviously." "You'll need a proper dildo." "Are you through?" "Do you remember the Plaster Casters?" Kane suddenly produced a yellowed issue of Rolling Stone. "They were a joke." Mina glanced at the tabloid paper. "Jimi nearly lost his cock when they worked on him." "Not the only joke about," Kane said. "There were more than a dozen like them. Groupies, whatever. They made plaster casts of their favorite rock stars' cocks. Messy job, if you haven't tried it. Not so much the erection - the plaster is an exothermic reaction. Bad job getting it loose from the pubic hair. The fad didn't last all that long." "I'm sure I can't relate to this." Mina's head was increasingly clouded. She tried a few more spoons to clear it. "Well," said Kane, finishing his drink. "The deal is simply this. I have available a latex replica made from a plaster cast of Elvis Presley's cock, captured by a couple of really serious fans in 1969. I offer this to you. You and Lucy must make your own arrangements. You will then work together on the new album, material for which I shall supply. It will go platinum. Millions will listen to it All will be satisfied. You may keep the cock. And keep the coke." Kane held out his hand. Blacklight slapped down a cardboard container about the size of a shoe box. Kane dropped it onto the aluminum table beside Mina. "Done. And good hunting." When Mina set down her glass and sat up, there remained only a cardboard package, a phial of white powder, and the rumble of two Harleys receding into the afternoon sun. Mina Rush waited until she was back in her room before opening the package. A little help from her nail file, and the seal was broken. Sitting on her bed, she dumped the contents onto the quilted coverlet. Out tumbled on...
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