Rose, you have no idea,” Garda said, as he led her through the lower rooms.
“No idea about what?”
“For one thing, what a small world it is.”
“You’re being very enigmatic,” said Augie.
Garda looked at him. He was tall and wiry, with dark hair, penetrating eyes, a straight nose and wide, handsome mouth. His sand colored gabardine suit and white shirt were tailored and like all of his things, showed discriminating taste. His house smelled of sandalwood and spa minerals, with hot tubs both inside and out. Suddenly Garda felt a stab of excitement pierce her tummy, as though perhaps she too belonged in this little corner of palm fronded paradise.
“Someone told me I should get in touch with you.”
“Someone?”
“Someone unrelated to the studio or the bookstore.”
“I’m terribly intrigued. Let’s go upstairs and you can see the bedroom suites.”
“Someone in The Scene!” she said dramatically, turning toward him as they mounted the winding staircase.
“The Scene?” Augie seemed mystified.
“You’re registered with Matchmakers in Random Point, aren’t you?”
“Matchmakers! Yes, I am. Don’t tell me you work for them too?”
“No. But they told me to look you up.”
“You don’t say!” They emerged onto the second floor landing and he began to lead her down the hall to view the rooms. Now Augie took a new look at Garda, from the rear.
“I never met a man here in L.A. who could give me what I wanted in a scene,” Garda bluntly admitted while touring the suite with the wet bar, pink and brown marble hearth and panoramic view of the city stretching away in the distance far below.
“Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you!” Augie agreed cheerfully, quite willing to accept this unexpected boon without question.
“I will. But not now.”
“Know what? There’s a party at a friend of mine’s house Friday night. Why don’t you let me take you?”
“What kind of party?”
“The fun kind.”
“Well, what should I wear?” Garda asked practically as Augie Rose put her into her car a few minutes later.
“Let your mood be your guide.”
Garda was charmed enough to nearly forget why she’d come.
“Oh, Mr. Rose, what about the contracts?” She pulled them out of the portfolio on the front seat of her BMW convertible and handed them to him.
“Where do I sign?” he asked, putting his hand out for a pen.
“Why don’t you look them over and call me if you have any questions,” Garda said, handing him her card.
“I’ll do that,” he smiled.
When they met at The Ivy for dinner on Friday night it was not as strangers. Several lengthy phone calls had stimulated both their imaginations and appetites for each other. Garda was so attention deprived in this area that just talking to Augie in detail about what she might expect from him, was enough to simulate hours of foreplay.
Thus she found herself in a state of intense excitement as she consulted the exquisite menu and Augie Rose informed her that they would shortly attend a party in Beverly Glen at the home of his attorney, Crossjay Patterne, whose lover, Lucy Burke, enjoyed collecting, assorting and mating ornaments of the L.A. scene.
“Will people be playing?” Garda asked, after cocktails were served.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised!”
Ninety minutes later, Augie was ushering her into the impressive home of a more successful attorney than Garda. Their host, Crossjay Patterne, a tall, blond, buff, country club dom, was holding court at the downstairs bar while his girlfriend, Lucy Burke, a blonde in white leather, mixed martinis enthusiastically.
The high ceilinged downstairs suites were milling with denizens of the Hollywood subculture, ranging from professionals to sophisticates, tattooed and profusely pierced streets waifs in a few pieces of good leather to female CEOs in satin evening suits. The mix was not incompatible and due to the profuse amounts of high-grade liquor and catered food, everyone seemed enormously content with their evening’s destination.
Augie walked Garda around the house, upstairs, then down again into the back gardens and pool area, running into people he knew here and there, but mostly just holding her hand tucked in his and smiling quietly at his prize while always keeping an eye out for the perfect corner.
The pool was lit by Japanese lanterns and looked glamorous in the star spangled moonlight. Augie had taken Garda to sit beside him in a big, wooden swing and was on the point of kissing her for the first time when the moment’s dreamlike quality was firmly shattered by the completely unexpected salutation, “Garda Hudson, what are you doing here?” bellowed disagreeably from above.
“Jeffrey!” Garda jumped away from Augie and to her feet. “I could ask you the same thing! Jeffrey Jardine, Augie Rose,” said Garda. The men casually shook hands.
“Did you bring her?” Jeffrey demanded of Augie Rose.
“I did!” Augie replied, smiling at Garda.
“So, were you aware of what kind of party this was going to be, Garda?” Jeffrey demanded, in the hoarse, husky voice that grated so on her nerves.
“Why? What kind of party is it, Jeffrey?” Garda replied carelessly, still somewhat intoxicated from the wine at The Ivy and sipping a fresh champagne.
“Excuse me, Garda,” said Augie tactfully. “I have to go say hello to someone.” He slipped away and left Garda confronting her boss with some hostility.
“Who’s that man you’re with? Where did you meet him? How do you know he isn’t one of these freaks?’
“What do you mean, freaks? Or rather, aren’t you one of them, I mean, us, too?”
“I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t have a padlock through my penis!” Jeffrey revealed indignantly, as though he’d just confronted a half dozen men who did. In reality there was only one, securely bound to a whipping post in the attic and annoying no one. Which was more than Garda could say for Jeffrey.
“Jeffrey, what are you doing here?” Garda asked, suddenly convinced he’d arrived at the party either by mistake or as a gatecrasher.
“The hostess is my ex-girlfriend,” Jeffrey growled, glaring in the general direction of the ground floor rotunda where Miss Lucy Burke was dancing with a cat suited lesbian, herself in a sweetheart cut dress with long sleeves that hugged her slender curves like the skin on hot milk.
“That firebrand Lucy Burke is your
