Dirt

Chapter 11

On the West Coast, as Dino left Elaine’s, Allan Peebles arrived at his Beverly Hills home after a long editorial board meeting at the “newspaper” he edited, The American Infiltrator. His editorial board consisted of a dozen writers and editors who had failed at real newspapers and magazines and had ended up, as Peebles had, at the last stop for a journalist, a seamy tabloid. They were consoled by the fact that they were considerably better paid than their counterparts at real newspapers.

Peebles was an androgynous Scot who had fled his native Glasgow, pursued by rumors about his sexual orientation, for London, where he had acquired an English accent, an English wife, and, apparently while holding his nose, two English daughters. When the marriage failed, his father-in-law, who owned a London tabloid, had sent him to America to found a similar organ there, on the condition that he not return to England until his daughters were of age.

To his father-in-law’s surprise, Peebles had succeeded in putting together a highly profitable, if highly disreputable, publication, which specialized in exposing those parts of the lifestyles of the rich and famous that they had hoped would remain secret. Peebles did this with some glee, while, in the permissive atmosphere of La-La Land, indulging his own rather specialized appetites. Tonight, Peebles was hungry for pizza.

Upon entering his empty house, he shucked off his jacket, picked up a phone, and pressed an unlabeled speed-dial button.

“Jiffy Pizza,” a whiskied female voice said.

“It’s number two zero two; how are you, sweets?”

“Fine, baby; what’s your pleasure tonight?”

“I’m in the mood for the special.”

“’Round-the-world?”

“You bet.”

“With sausage?”

“Lots of sausage.”

“That’s going to run you twenty,” she said. Twenty meant two hundred.

“And cheap at the price, I’m sure it will be.”

“Half an hour, sweets. Your order is in the oven.”

“The sooner the better. Bye.” He hung up and walked into the kitchen. Opening the freezer door, he extracted a bottle of lemon vodka and poured himself a double. He always had to be a little drunk for pizza.

Three miles away, Sheila consulted her book and dialed a number.

“Hey, talk to me,” a husky male voice said.

“It’s the pizzeria,” Sheila said. “I’ve got an order for a ’round-the-world, with lots of sausage; I thought of you.”

“Of course you did, baby.”

“You available immediately?”

“How much?”

“Ten; you won’t be there long, believe me.”

“I can do it.”

She gave him the address. “Oh, and pick up a pizza on the way; we want this to look good, don’t we?”

“Sure we do.”

“And be sure to get paid before he starts eating.”

“You know it.”

Allan Peebles finished his drink, poured another, then went to his bedroom and stripped off his clothes, donning a terrycloth robe. He was looking at himself in the mirror, playing with his hair and sipping his drink, when the doorbell rang.

When he opened the door, a muscular young man in shorts and t-shirt was leaning against the jamb, holding a pizza box. He smiled broadly, revealing good dental work. “Delivery,” he said.

“Why don’t we dine out by the pool?” Peebles said, waving the young man to follow.

The young man entered the house, kicking the door behind him. It did not quite close.

Peebles led the way through the house and out to the pool, switching on the underwater lights as he went. The garden was suffused with the soft glow of the pool lighting. Peebles let his robe drop to the ground. “I never dine clothed,” he said. “Do you?”

“I never complete a delivery until the check’s been paid,” the young man responded. “Nothing personal.”

Peebles picked up the robe, extracted two one-hundred-dollar bills from the pocket, and handed them to the young man.

“There’s a nice tip in it for you, if the service is good.”

The young man dropped the pizza and got out of his clothes in a trice. “The tip’s about to be in it for you, darling,” he said.

Out on the street, another young man got out of a car and opened the trunk. Inside was a large aluminum case, which he opened to reveal a selection of photographic equipment. He selected a machine-operated 35mm single lens reflex camera and a small video camera, fixing them both to a bar containing two floodlights. Getting into a battery belt, the young man plugged in the lights, closed the car trunk, and started toward the front door of the house, where he could see a crack of light.

He opened the door an inch and peered inside. Nothing. Emboldened, he stepped into the house and listened. A strange sound reached his ears; it seemed to be coming from the rear of the house. On tiptoe, he crossed the living room and approached the sliding doors to the garden. Outside, in the soft light from the pool, he could make out what he had come for. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “This is absolutely fab.”

As he stepped through the doors he was able to see clearly, without the reflected glare from the sliding panes. Perched on the diving board were two figures, one on his hands and knees, the other in more of a riding position. The one on top was slapping the naked ass of the one on the bottom with his open hand.

“Giddyap!!!” the rider cried.

The one on the bottom made loud, horsey noises.

The intruder made sure the microphone on the video camera was operating, then pointed his equipment and switched on the floodlights.

“Ride ’em cowboy!!!” he crowed as he began to photograph and tape. “Give him the crop!!!”

Confusion ensued. The equestrian took one look at the floodlights, disengaged, swept up his shorts, and fled across the garden, plowing straight through a privet hedge.

The figure playing the equine role looked wide-eyed over his shoulder and rolled off the divine, board into the water. A moment later he surfaced, peering shyly over the rim of the pool and shouting, “Get out! Get out! Get out!!!”

“Glad to oblige, Old Paint! Got all I need!” He turned and vanished into the house, then onto the street.