Mojo - 30. Chapter 27: Pool Party [of the Gods (???)]

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Chapter 27: Pool Party [of the Gods (???)]

Someone did an ugly-ass belly flop into the pool. The feelgood music was temporarily drowned out by screams and the sounds of chlorinated water slocking those sitting poolside.

A moment later, laughter bubbled as freely as the flowing booze, and the party tunes came back into focus in my ears. Everybody was suitably loose as midnight rolled by unnoticed.

We were gathered by the stern of the vessel, and I personally had a perfect view of everything from my seat at a table. Off the portside, obscure masses floated by a few miles away; I took them to be the craggy hills and shoreline of a sparsely populated Baja California. Behind us, two ever-expanding wakes churned up white foam from the Ekdíkisi’s props, but other than that, the sea was dark and still as a black mirror.

No moon was out, so atop the surface of the ocean a milky abundance of stars stretched from one horizon to another in their slow-motion of dance. However, not singly or en masse could any of those fiery bodies compete with the sheer beauty of my boy emerging from the pool in his yellow striped trunks; he had a radiant smile for me.

After the lounge brawl and truce accord, a contingent of Filipinos went with me and Gordon to our cabin to change. They used some sort of white cream to clean off our make-up, and then one of them kindly instructed me on how to paint on fairly believable eyebrows. I was glad my boy was spared this indignity. After they left – and after a quick-but-loving hand job for my better half – I slipped into cargo shorts and a tank top to enjoy the flowing libations and perfectly warm night up on deck.

Gordon toweled off poolside, and then joined our table. He sat with the terrycloth draped around his neck, but soon the lank stares by Lloyd and Trọng made my boy shift the towel to cover his exposed nipples, especially from the Vietnamese guy’s lascivious lip-licking.

Our table had a pitcher of margaritas, so I poured my boy a salty glass and topped up everybody else’s too. We were having a good time, and our formerly hard feelings seemed to be fading. For that matter, Lloyd was growing downright friendly again.

We heard loud laughter and shouts of “Don’t do it!” Turning, we saw Sadeeq shaking a champagne bottle and spraying a small constellation of twink boys, one of whom appeared to capture the middle-aged poet’s fancy with his brooding good looks and short dark hair.

The four of us settled back to our drinks.

“May I propose a toast?” Lloyd held up his glass, and we at the table followed suit. “To – renewal in all its varied forms. Cheers!”

Yum; the Tequila was nice and strong. The taste of agave made me think of the Mexican interior just a few miles to the east.

“So, Gordon,” said Trọng, reaching his hand across the table. “It’s so nice we can be friendly again.”

My boyfriend briefly shook the offered hand, as if that was what Trọng had in mind.

I chuckled. “Maybe we should have gotten our peace treaty in writing.”

“Why not?” Lloyd shrugged. “Plenty of paper here.” His left hand fell on a stack of dry cocktail napkins.

“Have a pen?” I asked.

Trọng pulled one from his bag and handed it to his partner.

“Okay,” said Lloyd, “what’s first.” The pen clicked, ready for action. “But,” the sea captain warned, “both sides must have and offer up something the other – aggrieved – party wants.”

We all withdrew into ourselves a moment and became pensive.

Lloyd, inspired, scribbled and told us, “All right, let’s start with the absolutes; the back and whites if you will. Article 1: In exchange for info on the whereabouts of my golden statuette, Trọng and I promise to stop hunting you.” He looked up at me and Gordon. “Fair?”

“Yes.” We nodded.

“Now for the penalty clause,” said the sea captain.

I joked, tapping on a fresh piece of paper for Lloyd to write on. “Article 2: I agree to pay a cash penalty if I ever, accidentally, defile one of your shrines again.”

We laughed, but the man in charge wrote it all down anyway. “How much?”

“Um,” I said, “$500 for each occurrence.”

The captain objected. “A thousand first occurrence; five hundred for each subsequent defilement.”

“Agreed,” said yours truly.

Trọng twittered: “Oh, that’s just silly. Can we put a clause in there that Gordon Sanchez promises not to be so goddamn cute?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

We all laughed again. Trọng poured the next round of drinks.

Lloyd passed the pen and the stack of cocktail napkins to me. “Now, it’s your turn to state what you want.”

“You do the honors, babe.” I slid the ‘contract’ towards my boy.

Gordon leaned elbows on the table and got into writing position. “Okay, where do we start?”

I jumped right in. “Do you, Sang Trọng, being of sound mind, promise from the bottom of your heart to never gripe, bitch or complain about past grievances – real or imagined – received from Gordon in the past?”

“Geeze, Kohl…!” my boyfriend said as he scribbled to catch up. “What are you, a fricken shyster-jackleg?”

We laughed, but when my boy was caught up, I asked Trọng, “Well, do you?”

“Yes – if he pledges not to withhold his friendship from me – I agree.”

“And furthermore,” I stated litigiously, “Sang Trọng hereby affirms he will never force kiss, coll, or closer hug on my boy without forfeiture of one hundred dollars for each and every occurrence.”

I was going to ask for agreement, but Gordon interjected first with mercenary exactitude.

“That is,” he said, “as long as we tally you up, and you pay cash-money first. No lay-away plans.”

That made everybody bust up, but Gordon recorded it in the notes as soon as Trọng licked his lips and nodded enthusiastically.

“Agreed,” he said.

“Now, the articles between me and you, Lloyd,” I said. “Do you, being of sound mind, promise from the bottom of your heart to forgive and forget all that’s occurred before this date?”

“I do.”

“And do you furthermore promise to refrain from threatening my life directly, or contracted through others to achieve the same, with the payment of $2 million forfeited to Gordon Sanchez if I be so killed?”

There was a tense moment of deadly serious quiet. All eyes trained on the sea captain to see what he’d say.

“Agreed.”

I smiled, watching my boy put the finishing touches on our demands.

“However,” said Lloyd, “you must agree to our part of this bargain as well.”

“What do you want?” Gordon asked.

“We want,” Lloyd announced sternly, “for you to keep secrets better. The fine for each loose lip of indiscretion is will not be paid in dollars, but – affection. Trọng and I are to collect kisses and BJs for minor slips, and a thoroughgoing fucking for major infractions.”

I glanced at Gordon. We agreed, but I first joked: “My ass has never been ‘fracked’ before, but so help me Gott, if I ever accidentally out you again, my cherry is yours for the plucking, Lloyd.” I gave him a shit-eating grin.

“So write it,” instructed the grave sea captain – quite frankly, turning me on….

The sounds of the raucous party going on all around us re-interceded. We cheered one more time, and affixed our signatures on the motley, cocktail-napkin concord.

After that, we settled down for a while, and I noticed a sort of sentimental mist settle over my boy’s eyes. He was feeling all romantic and took my hand.

To our shipboard hosts, he asked, “How did you two first get together? Was it a ‘story’?”

Trọng chuckled. “I know what you mean. I get bored with people telling me they met at a bar or on a dating app.” He took Lloyd’s hand too. Trọng’s tone became soft and choked with real emotion. “We have a story. I was this big stud’s personal mani-pedicurist. And one day, after about six months, he gave me an extra big tip – right down my throat!” He flushed with joy. “I’ll never forget it.”

Me and Gordon exchanged glances; we were going to be ‘good’ and not laugh our asses off, but it was hard.

“And what about you?” Trọng asked. “How did you and Kohl meet?”

“Um, um…” Gordon stuttered. “I was just out of high school—”

I cut him off, knowing he was going to deliver a story fairly close to what actually happened, but I knew the mood called for some wild tale: one fitted to modern ideas of violence and love = romance, à la Pulp Fiction or The Living End.

“Let me tell it, hon. This goes back a couple years; Gordon had started community college in Portland, Oregon, and gotten into the wrong circle: tweaking all the time and selling meth.”

Lotto!

Trọng gasped. Lloyd’s interest perked up too as the couple closely inspected my boy’s now-blushing face.

“Yeah, so,” I continued, “the good news is he got into this high-end rehab facility where I was a day nurse. Anyway, the court acted the fool and wouldn’t let Gordon go free”—I noticed my boy rapt to my tale just as intently as our hosts; he was hinge-ing on every word—“so I busted Gordon out with a pistol, and a shotgun. That’s how we met.”

Lloyd and Trọng were suitably amazed, and so was Gordon for that matter. I kissed the back of his hand and added, “And now I feed him the only ‘junk’ he needs – my love.” I cocked my head and looked at him all lovey-dove.

That was almost too much. My boy’s eyes glowed like coal, primed and ready to explode in laughter.

Suddenly Gordon squeezed my hand, and his expression went cold and sad. He asked Trọng, “Is it too late to go back to these article thingies?”

“Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d help us with one more, very important item?”

Trọng glanced at Lloyd. “Me?”

“Yes.” Gordon explained. “You’re connected with the cult that cursed Kohl’s…. That cursed Kohl. Can you put us in touch with some ‘good’ Priapeans to take it off again?”

Trọng looked uneasy, and that was hard to do with him.

“Well…” he started slowly, “no guarantees, but after we get to Puerto Vallarta, perhaps we can take a road trip. There’s one particular holy site, and maybe—”

Gordon didn’t let him finish. He burst out with a “Thank you,” and nearly tipped the table over reaching to hug Trọng.

While they were still thus engaged – the Vietnamese guy using his shirt to dab at Gordon’s happy tears – Lloyd leaned towards me and spoke low and dark.

“We’ll see how long it lasts.”

Just as I was trying to digest these ominous words, someone slapped my back with loud laughter.

“Hiya!” Sadeeq called out, slamming down a bottle of tequila on the table. He then put his arm around the dark-haired pool beauty, who had accompanied the poet over to us. “This is Michael-Francis.” He then sat down without further ado and poured a slug of liquor.

After the boy took a seat, we all did our own intros, and I realized this smiling cutie was a grifter too – takes one to know one, they say. Michael-Francis must be scamming the old fart under the misconception that the social media ‘poetry biz’ is a lucrative one.

Sadeeq poured us all a drink, announcing generally, “I’m glad your fences are mended, or as Robert Frost would versify – your New England stone walls are re-stacked.”

Michael-Francis chuckled with an eye-roll and reached for the bottle. “I’ll drink to that, babe!”

I shivered internally, but then caught Gordon’s smile at the newcomer’s antics.

“Michael-Francis and I have just been discussing matters of truth versus perception,” said Sadeeq. “Take for example Twitter. Did you know they've been working behind the scenes?”

“Doing what?” Gordon inquired.

“Working quietly, undercover to identify and block Kremlin-sponsored cyber espionage in the US. They rolled out the new bot-detecting software all at once one fine morning. And poof!!! Just like that, Donald the Dumpster lost over 360,000 so-called supporters. Their fake-ass, Russian-accent accounts blocked and erased in an instant. Just gone, like the So-Called himself needs to be, if people woke up and realized they have the power to bring real democracy into action.”

Gordon chuckled. “Yeah, right. How likely is that to happen.”

Michael-Francis cleared his throat and addressed the table generally, “So, what have you guys been talking about?”

Trọng got weepy again. “We were just talking about ‘grand connections’ – tales about how we met the love of our life”

Sadeeq squealed: “Ours is simple! Twas twenty minutes ago, over by the pool.”

We all laughed at that.

My muse took over, almost beyond my willpower to wrestle her down; my boy’s eyes goaded the loveliness of my thoughts.

“You know,” I said, “the beauty of this calm, clear night, the reunion of friendship and love reminds me of a passage from Golding’s translation of Metamorphoses. It goes:

“The King of Gods did burn everywhere in love for Ganymede,

The Phrygian lad who was found where Jupiter kept steed,

And rather be than what he was, could the god not beseem

The shape of any other bird but the eagle we most esteem?

And so, he soaring in the air with borrowed wings, trussed up

The Trojan boy who still in heaven even yet you shall see,

Bringing Him sweet nectar, though against Dame Juno’s will it be.”

Into the comparative quiet of contemplation, Sadeeq stroked his ponytail and said, “True, true, but if it’s love and devotion you want, I’ve got a story for you. This happened to a friend of mine, so you know it’s real.

“My tale begins in that bastion of projected power and authority – Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

“The Federal Prison there is famous for housing the best and the baddest thugs in the land.

“So it happened that a certain infamous North Jersey mobster was caught up in a well-planned and tried RICO case, and sentenced to thirty years on a tax-payer funded retirement plan.

“Now, his wife was beautiful – long, Sicilian dark hair, a killer body, self-control – and it was obvious to the casual observer how she was about three decades younger than her made-man husband.

“Whether Gianni knew the type of woman he’d married before his sentencing, he sure knew afterwards. Livia, who had been living like a princess, sold all her Prada and Gucci to buy a trailer next to the penitentiary. She dumped all her plans for life, her friends; her cell phone! She was hellbent on being the ideal Mob Madonna and spend all of her time worrying and doing what she could to make Gianni’s prison life more bearable.

“Her daily routine was this: up at the crack of dawn, she’d dress all in black; make her padrone the finest espresso she could from Italian beans she’d grind by hand; once breakfast was made, she’d pour the coffee into a thermos, pack his morning vittles, and troop sadly over to the side entry, where the visitor sally port lived.

“Through a series of bells and whistles, and sounds of metal gates sliding open, she’d find herself in the sparse check-in room.

“’Back again, eh, Mrs. Vitantonio?’

“The young buck of a prison guard was someone the Leavenworth Matron had a hard time keeping her horned-up eyes off of. Tall, fair, studly – and able to fill out his tight polyester uniform slacks like few others she’d seen – she tried to keep her Madonna gazes averted from his soul-searing blue peepers. His warm smiles also helped her not a bit.

“’Yes, officer Aramis,’ she replied meekly.

“’No, please call me Bruno. We see each other every day, and have for a year now – when it’s just you and me, call me Bruno.’

“She glanced around. No insider – rat-fink informant – eyes were around that might pass word on to her husband. ‘Well. In that case, I suppose you may call me Livia, if you like.’

“She could not avoid that radiant, manly smile now. It stirred her parched and lonely lady-parts down below.

“’Then, Livia it is.’

“Flushing, she waited to be led to a visiting room.

“Once there and alone, she sighed deeply, wondering what had become of her full and active life. Although it’s true she has been a ‘good girl’ to please her father and never had sex before her wedding night, the allure of the non-Italian, non-‘lifestyle’ men she knew always turned her on. In high school, it had been a positive torment to attend the football games with her girlfriends and see the tightly-clothed male buttocks on bent-over display. It made her tingle to think about the slight protrusions of the jockstrap through the silken material.

“She was startled with surprise. Her husband was shown in through the other door, and she realized with horror she’d forgotten to lay out his breakfast. She quickly unpacked and poured him an espresso while the man sat down in lordly ease across from her.

“’You’re a saint, you know that?’ Gianni told her.

“’Um…I just do—'

“’You do a lot for me. You make my life bearable.’

“She glanced at his wrinkled and gray face. The man was tough, and she had always told herself she loved him…in her heart….

“’Where’s my breakfast, baby?’

“’Here. I made an asparagus frittata—'

“’What! Again?! Marron.’

“Later that night, as she did every night after a long day of feeding her man trailer-made manicotti, baked ziti, penne alla vodka, amaretti di Saronno and mascarpone-stuffed cannoli, she fell to her knees and prayed to the Virgin Mary to remove the lust in her heart for the sexy-ass guard.

“What she could not have known, being young and innocent, was how Bruno Aramis wanted to drill her both for snitch-level intelligence on how Vitantonio continued to be the boss of his operation from behind bars, and literally.

“One fine day in spring she had a break in her cooking-visiting-prayer routine. Giada came to visit from the East Coast. Gianni’s youngest sister was vivacious, brash, beautiful – in a totally fake way – and about the same age as her brother’s spouse.

“’Oh. My. GAh-awwwd,’ she screeched after ducking her power-hair below Livia’s trailer doorway. She looked around and saw the cramped quarters of penance the Leavenworth Matron was forcing herself to inhabit. ‘You “live” here, Livvy?’

“’Yes.’ Livia added, lying, ‘It’s not so bad; I like it anyway.’

“The other Jersey girl let her Versace handbag slip dramatically into the crook of her arm. She popped a bubble inside her mouth. ‘Me and yous needs to have a talk, sis-in-law girlfriend.’

“Sitting down to coffee and uneaten cannoli from the day before, Giada laid it on the line for her sister-in-law. ‘Sweetheart, you know I loves yous, so I say this with mad respects, but shake out of it girl! I look at yous and think: “Weak!” See, honey, sweet-tits, now that Johnny is in the pen, it’s your time to party a little, and have lots a fun. If he ever get outs again, then you can revert to being the saint-wife these men make up and tell themselves in their heads. But you don’t gots to be a fricken livin’ Saint Chasty-Belt here while he’s out of the ways. Marron, grows up a little, girl. Live, Livvy!’

“The young matron was not too sure, and dared to confide in her in-law that there was a blond man who’d caught her fancy.

“’Then fucks him!’ Giada cried. ‘Screw his brains out. Go for it – gets your rocks off where and when you can. Lord knows I do’s.’

“About a week after Giada returned to the coast to screw her brains out, Livia was alone in the supermarket. Her daily routine left little ‘free’ time – what with the morning feedings and evening suppers – so she needed to spend the noon-hour shopping for more mobster fuel: pasta, tomatoes, cheese, red wine.

“’Livia…?’

The distracted woman turned nearly into the arms of Bruno Aramis.

“’Oh, my God, it is you. How are you doing?’ he asked.

“In Livia’s mind the ‘doing’ word stuck and threatened to become her total undoing.

“’I’m fine, Bruno. Just taking care of a few things.’

“She omitted to ask what he was doing in the store that time of day, distracted by the ripples and teasing rolls of his off-duty jeans, faded and worn-in with sexy aplomb.

“The guard helped her, and fenagled his way into her trailer, ostensibly to assist with all the ricotta-filled shopping bags.

“’Well, sit down, if you like.’

“His shy smile said he liked indeed.

“’Can I make you a cappuccino?’

“’No, no – you wait on your man hand and foot. I don’t need anything from you, except maybe for you to sit and talk with me.’

“Slowly, she pulled out a chair. ‘Talk about what?’

“’Just things. I’d like to know….well, if you are happy, I guess.’

“Dirty pool, Livia thought to herself with a frown. He knew very well…. Her thoughts had to pause; for in them, he’d taken her on the trailer tabletop, and she liked it.

“They talked for hours, both opening up to one another, and both becoming more and more enamored with the other.

“That night, Livia called the prison to let them know she would not be coming, and missed her first regular appointment with her husband. Instead, she spent the evening and sleepless night on her knees, begging for the Madonna to show her some mercy. If her lot in life was to suffer, she could take it, but why then temp her with matters of the flesh – big, strong, blond-haired flesh that made her go weepy in all the wrong places. A Verdi-like figure she struck, a second Desdemona with clenched fingers, on her knees, solemnly saying her Ave Maria with pained passion for clarity.

“The next morning she awoke late, and realized with horror she hadn’t made a thing for Gianni to eat. She scrambled to get her act together; she’d have to change her routine and arrive with a mid-day repast.

“She’d never been to the visiting rooms this time of day, so was not too surprised to find some other guard on duty, however, she let her heart acknowledge how disappointed she was not to see Bruno’s smiling come-ons greet her as she signed in.

“’Umm…’ the middle-aged guard stammered.

“’Is there a problem?’ she asked, snapping back to reality.

“’Mr. Vitantonio, he is, um—'

“Following a premonition, she walked boldly to the room she and her husband usually occupied and peeked through the square window. Another woman was there, handfeeding a smiling Gianni spoonfuls of tiramisu.

She went back to the guard. ‘And who is that?’

“’His wife Linda. She comes every day at this time.’

“Livia calmly picked up her food basket and dumped the whole thing in the trash.

“She then found Bruno and shagged his brains out in the pat-down room. She’d never been so satisfied, or felt more alive.

“After that, she sold the trailer, ratted on her husband’s ‘business dealings’ to keep him in jail the rest of his life, and ran away with Aramis to Florida – where else?”

Sadeeq laughed to finish and deliver the moral of his story: “So you see, dear friends, The Leavenworth Matron is a memento mori: let this corpse of a tale be a lesson to us all. Make the most of life while you still can. Live each day as if it’s your last.”

While the mad poet had been delivering his mad morality play, I had been noticing punk-boy Michael-Francis drinking more and slowly souring on his mark, no matter how much money he thought Amergin had. To entertain himself, the dark-haired guy started to smile suggestively at my Gordon. That was something I did not appreciate one bit – but I had vowed to be better, and I was trying hard, so I simply took Gordon’s hand in my lap and held onto him lovingly.

Yet, as Sadeeq continued to drone, I also began to perceive things around us change. The weather turned moist; the sea, a bit choppier. And then the breeze began to pick up from the west. However, I have to say it was all a tad blurry to me as I focused most of my attention on the boys and only looked at the rest of the world through the green-eyed lenses of my jealousy.

The tale completed, I realized the party was over. The music was dead, and the few people still left on the stern deck by the pool were bundling up and heading indoors.

The wind had picked up precipitously.

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