SUICIDE HILL

497

The room was all white, furnished in Danish modern/High Tech—white walls and carpeting, metal tubular desk, bentwood chairs with white fabric backing. Scenes from rock videos were hung on the walls: Elvis Costello in fifties garb superimposed against an A-bomb mushroom cloud; Bruce Springsteen hopping a freight train; Diana Ross drenched to the bone at her Central Park concert. Rice sat down without being asked and watched the kid flip through a white Rolodex on the desk, moving his lips as he read. Thinking of him coupled obscenely with Bobby Garcia kept his revulsion down and gave him an edge of frost.

With a sighing pout, the kid looked up and said, “Yes, we’ve done business with Mr. Rifkin. In fact, we’ve sent over lots of foxes for his theme parties.”

“Theme parties?” It was a reflex blurt, and Rice knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.

The youth hooded his eyes. “Yes, theme parties. Many of our foxes are aspiring actresses, and they enjoy theme parties because they get to act out more than they would on a straight assignment. You know, playing slave queens or topless cowgirls, that kind of thing. What do you do in the Industry?”

Rice said, “I’m a talent scout,” and knew from the young man’s puzzled expression that it was an outdated term. “I’ve been out of the Industry for a while,” he added, “and Jeffrey Jason is helping me get rolling again. It’s a tough racket to get back into.”

“Yes,” the young man said, “it is. What kind of fox were you looking for?”

Rice stretched his legs and smoothed his shirt front, then said, “Listen, I’m very choosy about my women. If I describe exactly what I want, can you check out your files or whatever and take it from there?”

The young man said, “We can do better than that. We’ve got au naturel photographs of all our foxes.” He dug into the top desk drawer, and pulled out a white plastic binder and handed it to Rice. “Take your time, sweetie; it’s a fox hunter’s candy store, and nobody’s rushing you.”

Rice opened the binder, feeling a crazo sensation of being ripped upward from the crotch. The first page was a spiel about rare breeds of foxes and fulfillment of fantasies, scripted on lavender paper; on the second page the women began. Posed nude in identical reclining postures, they were all outright beautiful or outright gutter sensual, superbly built in the skinny model and curvy wench modes. White, black, Oriental, and Latina, they all firebreathed sex. Rice turned the pages slowly, noticing blank spots where other photos had once been pasted; he read the hype printed below each girl’s first name 498

L.A. NOIR

and physical stats. “Aspiring actress” and “aspiring singer” were the usual subheadings, and next to them were lurid sex fantasies, supposedly written by the “foxes” themselves. The ridiculous accounts of three ways and four ways made him want to retch, and he flipped through to the end of the binder, looking only for the body he knew by heart. Not finding it, he glanced up at the young man and said, “Is this all your women?”

The youth nodded and flexed his biceps. “You’re really hard to please. Those foxes are the crème de la crème.”

Rice thought about mentioning former “foxes,” then got an idea. “Listen, do you know most of the girls who work out of here?”

“Some. I’ve only been dispatching for a little over a week. Why?”

Rice said, “I was looking for a chick I saw walk out of here the last time I was in L.A. About five-six, one hundred ten, blonde, skinny, classy features. Preppy clothes. Ring a bell?”

The young man shook his head. “No . . . I’m new on the job, and besides, the owners wouldn’t let the foxes dress preppy—no sex appeal.”

Another idea clicked into Rice’s head. “Too bad. Listen, since I didn’t see that particular girl, I’d like you to give me a recommendation. Brains turn me on. I want a smart chick—one I can talk to.”

The young man smiled, picked up the binder and leafed through it, then handed it to Rice. “There,” he said. “Rhonda. She’s got a master’s degree in economics, and she’s really groovy. A real brain fox.”

Rice studied the photograph. Rhonda was a tall buxom woman with a dark brown Afro; deeply tanned except for bikini white across her breasts and pelvis. She was described as an “aspiring stockbroker,” and her fantasy was listed as “orgies with rich, intelligent, beautiful men on my own private island in the Adriatic.” Rice thought she looked shrewd and probably didn’t write the retarded fantasy blurb. Snapping the binder shut, he said, “Great. Can you send her over to the Holiday Inn on Sunset and La Brea, in an hour?”

The youth gave his sigh-pout. “I’ll call her. Rhonda is three hundred dollars an hour, one hour minimum. All our foxes gratefully accept tips over that amount. Rhonda carries her own Visa, Mastercard and American Express receipts and imprinter for the basic fee, but please tip her with cash. What room number?”

“814.”

“We require a friendship fee of one hundred dollars for first-time fox hunters.”

“Like a hunting license?”