Sick City by Tony O'Neill Page B

He was sitting there, lighting the butt end of a cigarette, trying to suck the last of the nicotine out of it. At first Jeffrey thought that this was some kind of flashback, a hallucination brought on by the effects of the withdrawal. He blinked his eyes, looked away, and then stared once more at the man who sat at the table.
    He had the vaguely handsome, bland look of a newscaster. His skin glowed with good living and wealth. He smiled, showing dazzling white teeth. With or without the leather Gestapo getup, there was no doubting that this was a sick fucker who went by the name of Brian Hammer.
    â€œThe Hammer” was a longtime regular at Bill’s legendary “Extreme Halloween” parties. That was until the first Halloween that Jeffrey came on the scene. Catching sight of him, Jeffrey felt his asshole twitch, as if it had some kind of sentient memory of the Hammer’s brutal excesses that year.
    Just then the Hammer looked up and caught Jeffrey’s gaze.
    â€œWelcome!” he said. “Come—come! Sit down. We’re about to start.”
    Jeffrey stood there, frozen, his mouth flapping open a little. The others turned now—a well-to-do-looking black man in a suit and a red-faced ex-drunk with jug ears. They all smiled welcomingly and beckoned for him to take the seat next to the Hammer.
    Be cool, motherfucker. Be cool. He doesn’t recognize you. Not dressed like this.
    â€œWelcome, everybody,” the Hammer said. The voice was chillingly familiar. Nasal, dry, the hint of a Kentucky accent. Jeffrey felt his palms getting sweaty.
    â€œNow, normally we don’t do this, but I’m feeling particularly thankful to be here today. It’s my fourteenth sober birthday, and what better way to mark the occasion than by coming back to the place that saved my life? So if y’all don’t mind, I’d like us to join hands, bow our heads, and say the Lord’s Prayer. . . .”
    Â· · ·
    Before he knew what was happening, the Hammer had slipped his hand over Jeffrey’s. His grip was powerful. The others, oblivious to Jeffrey’s discomfort, all bowed their heads.
    â€œOur Father,” the Hammer began, “Who art in heaven . . .”
    The last time Jeffrey had seen the Hammer was four Halloweens ago. Bill’s Extreme Halloween parties had been a strictly invite-only occasion and were famous among the perverts, drug fiends, and thrill seekers in Bill’s inner circle as the social event of the year. Hired help walked around with silver trays loaded with a brain-cell-massacring array of uppers, downers, and hallucinogenic substances brought in from every corner of the globe. The finest Peruvian flake cocaine and the purest Chinese heroin were among the more vanilla selections. There were vintage intoxicants from the LAPD’s seizure rooms, stuff that brought back memories of bell-bottoms and roller-disco, like PCP and Quaaludes. A priceless batch of original Owsley acid was dragged out of the freezer and handed out like party favors. There were a variety of rare pharmaceuticals imported from all over the world, including Diconal, Palfium, Eukodal, and temazepam jellies. The booze ran the gamut from a $100,000 bottle of 1947 Cheval Blanc to a case of original Ripple wine procured from a private collector for an undisclosed sum.
    That night Jeffrey was in a blood-splattered white dress and blond wig, with a shattered tiara on his head. Bill looked unrecognizable—his skin pigmentation had been professionally altered to give him a vaguely Middle Eastern appearance. A wig of tight black curls blended in with his head seamlessly. He was wearing a torn-up Armani suit, and was covered in blood. A piece of glass looked to be sticking out of his neck, and the coup de grace was a foot or so of intestine that snaked out of his belly and had been casually slung over one shoulder like a feather boa made of raw meat. This year they were Princess