The Insiders

Eve shivered under those eyes, feeling beneath the swift, flickering look he'd just given her as if he'd lifted her skirt with his eyes and looked between her legs. Which was, she knew, exactly what he had wanted her to feel.

"Hi, Eve Mason. Glad to have you here tonight, luv. Francie has told me a great deal about you. In fact, Francie talks about you quite often—don't you, Francie honey?"

Francie's high, childish voice sounded vicious, almost hysterical. Eve noticed how abnormally bright her eyes seemed, and wondered what land of drug she had used.

"If David sent you, you're wasting your time. I'm never going back, and he can't make me—can he, Brant? So why don't you just fuck off. Make her go, Brant!"

"Now, Francie! That's no way to talk to one of my guests. You ought to know better. I'll bet you're just begging to be punished, aren't you, baby? Melvin, why don't you take Francie into one of the bedrooms and slap her a few times? Or spank her, if-you prefer. That's what she prefers, isn't it, luv?"

A tall, skinny man who had been standing by grabbed a suddenly cringing yet obscenely excited Francie by the arm and started to drag her away, while Brant Newcomb stood there, smiling thinly. Francie grimaced at Eve over her shoulder like a kid making faces, and Eve wanted to run after her, but Brant stood in front of her, a drink in

his hand.

Tony Gonsalves had already disappeared somewhere into the depths of the room with Richard, who was his current lover, and here she was, forced to stand with a polite smile feeling frozen on her face as she thought of Francie and what might be happening to her now, right now, in this same house.

"Have you met everyone yet? Here, this is for you— you did say Scotch, didn't you?"

Brant Newcomb was being vaguely polite to her— the Devil transformed suddenly into bored host—and she had no choice but to go with him, play his game, loathingly aware of the light pressure of his hand on her arm.

He was introducing her to some of the people who stood in the farthest corner of the enormous living room, talking about the theater and TV. They seemed to know what they were talking about. In the same group, Eve recognized Jerry Harmon and the two girls with him. They were new in town, called themselves models, but did mostly nudes and seminudes. That was Jerry's specialty, anyway. They called him the "Body Merchant"—he was always introducing new talent to the skin magazines and moviemakers. Jerry was smiling at her, showing his really beautiful white teeth, his smile somehow both knowing and mocking.

"Why, Eve baby! Such a nice surprise!"

"You'll look after her, won't you, Jer? Make sure she has enough to drink and meets everyone. I want Eve to feel at home. Have fun, Eve, and 111 see you later."

Brant Newcomb walked away then, and she was filled with a sudden, unreasoning feeling of relief. One of the girls with Jerry Harmon tugged at his arm and whispered something to him, taking his attention from Eve. She stood there silently, holding the drink in her hand and wishing desperately for David. Please, please come to me, David. Please let this crazy plan work, let me go home safe! She realized she was being childish, but she was afraid, unreasoningly so. Someone, noticing her silence, had asked her a question, and she forced herself to answer lightly, sipping at her drink now, at last. It gave her at least the appearance of being a part of the group, without a care in the world—did people at parties always have to wear the same look? She was trying to pay attention to the conversation, in case someone asked her another question, but it wasn't possible to stop her mind from going back to Francie—how to get to Francie, how to make her listen. It had been stupid and foolish to allow David to talk her into this ridiculous position—she was the last person that Francie would listen to! Still, she was here, she had promised, and she had, at least, to try.

Wild jungle music—all drums and flutes—began blasting out through concealed speakers, and people were starting to dance. Suddenly, Jerry was grabbing at her hand, and she was being forced to go with him— to stand with her body a few inches away from his, moving automatically in time to the beat of the music.

"You're some dancer, Eve," Jerry said admiringly, flashing that white grin at her again. "I dig the way you move your body, baby. Sure wish you'd relent and pose for some of those pictures I was telhng you about."

"Jerry, I'm sorry, but I've already told you I don't go in for that kind of modeling."

"That's okay, baby. Just keep dancing, keep moving, you're great!"

She wished she could stop this farce and go home. Why did she have to stand here and move her body to that sensuous, thudding beat, when she felt nothing but dislike for the man she danced with? She made herself smile, as if the cameras were on her, as if she were enjoying every minute of it. Normally, she enjoyed dancing, loved this primitive-sounding music. Maybe if she just let it take her along with it, stopped thinking...

She didn't know how long it was before Jerry finally tired and led her off to one side. She felt tired and thirsty, and he brought her a drink, being very attentive. With a feeling of relief, Eve saw one of the girls Jerry had been with earlier come up to him and pull at his arm.

"Come on, baby, c'mon!" she pouted. "Don't you like me with my clothes on?"

Jerry shrugged, rolling his eyes apologetically at Eve before he let the girl lead him back to join the dancers.

Eve looked around, trying to get her bearings. Someone had turned most of the lights off; the few dim lights that had been left on seemed to waver like flickering torches—what a weird effect! She could smell the acrid, burned-leaves odor of marijuana—it seemed to hang in the air, stinging her nostrils. Didn't anyone smoke cigarettes anymore? Eve noticed suddenly that the fat, machine-rolled sticks of the weed lay blatantly piled up in silver bowls on every table, alongside smaller, silver-chased antique goblets that were filled with a fine white powder. Oh, God, surely not cocaine? Obviously, Brant Newcomb didn't have to be afraid of police raids. Maybe he just didn't give a damn!

Francie—she had to find Francie. Maybe now was the time, while everyone was occupied and it was so dark you could hardly see. The dancers were becoming more and more uninhibited—some of them looked as if they were making love right in the middle of the floor. Those people who weren't dancing were just as oblivious of everyone else; they either talked with their heads together or were silently entwined with each other.

Eve started to pick her way through the crowd, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She had to find Francie without making her efforts seem too obvious, although by now she had begun to wonder despairingly whether it would do her any good to try talking to the girl. Francie hated her; she always had. Goddammit, why had she let David persuade her into this foolishness?

She wandered through the room clutching her drink in one hand like a talisman and smiling mechanically at anyone who looked at her. Quite suddenly, she caught a glimpse of Francie, just a few yards away. The girl was obviously high on something, and she was giggling foolishly and loudly. Her thin silk dress had been torn, baring half of her torso, and there were purple marks on her back and upper arms. Shocked, Eve started forward quickly and instinctively, but the crowd suddenly seemed to swell, and there were too many people between her and Francie now, all pushing in the same direction. A tall young man with long, shaggy hair, a full beard, and wearing leather-strung turquoise beads swinging against his bare chest, shoved his way past her. The music was suddenly muted, so that the silence seemed to beat against her eardrums.

Now she could see Francie again, standing on one of the heavy, elaborately carved Spanish coffee tables with Brant Newcomb and Jerry Harmon half-supporting her.

Brant was speaking, asking everyone to shut up. Francie started to giggle again, and he slapped her lightly across the rump. Eve couldn't help but notice how the girl pressed her body backward against him immediately, her head twisted around so that she could peer into his face.

"Will you all shut up and listen a minute? Maybe some of you might dig this scene. It's like this chick says she's in trouble with her family and she wants to blow this town; only she needs someone to look after her, give her some bread. Francie here really digs money—she says she'll go anywhere with whoever bids the highest for her. Any takers?"

There was a wild cheer; someone clapped delightedly.