Read Online Lady Midnight by Timothy C. Phillips - Free Book Online

make some short movies on the side, you know? Mostly content for websites, or shorts for videos. So I told her about it, and we thought up a stage name for her, which I thought was great, and she just really took off with the whole thing.”  
    “So you’re telling me that Connie—who is now calling herself Bonny Golightly is making adult movies?”  
    “Oh, totally. At least, she was. I mean, we sort of drifted apart after she got her own place, and . . . other things.”  
    “Other things?”  
    Nookie Uberalles was definitely enjoying the mystique of her knowledge, of which I was not a part. She apparently found this very sexy. I found it very confusing, and a little tiresome.
    “Would you happen to know how to get in touch with her?” I asked, with failing hope.  
    “I’m not giving you her number or anything. Not without asking her first. You seem cool, but she’s a real friend. You got a card or something? I’d have to check it all out with her first.”  
    “Fair enough.” I fished around in my pockets and came up with a card. I found myself wondering where she was going to put it. “Have her call me. It’s very important.”  
    “Sure. She’ll be in touch.” Nookie Uberalles smiled. “Maybe I’ll be in touch, too.”  
    I turned to go and she grabbed my elbow, pulled me close. “So, Roland Longville isn’t your porn name?”  
    I smiled. “No. that’s my real name.”  
    “Wow. With an awesome name like that maybe you should get into porn.”  
    I looked at her, searching for some sign that she was joking, saw none, and then nodded with the utmost seriousness.  
    “I’ll give it some thought.”  
    Nookie giggled her little giggle, and mixed herself a volatile cocktail from the ingredients on the counter—something with vodka, rum, and tequila in it, maybe her own idea of a Long Island Tea. I followed her back out to the pool, where Carter Britton was holding court, apparently telling a story while simultaneously acting as judge over a drinking game. I took a good look around. There were naked girls and a few surly-eyed college-age guys hugging up to them, and plenty of alcohol on hand. But I still saw no sign of a band setting up anywhere nearby.  
    I wondered how late I’d have to hang out here to meet the errant Anthony Herron, and what mistakes I might make during that long wait. Not that I had other things to do—but I was and am a recovering alcoholic. All the alcohol I’d seen tonight had yet to exert any pull on me, which I was thankful for. I’d been dry for five years—a long time. The longer an addict was free of their drug of choice, the freer he or she was. But all the female nudity around me presented other pitfalls, mistakes that might be just as costly for me, ultimately, as taking a drink.  
    I resumed my former seat for the moment and listened as Carter Britton started telling a story. Everyone around that pool was rapt with attention, or wrapped with a tension; it was hard to tell.  
    Carter Britton took a big gulp from his complex and powerful drink and intoned:  
    “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan  
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:  
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran  
    Through caverns measureless to man  
    Down to a sunless sea.”  
    The little group clustered tightly around Britton, and his charisma held sway. The man held court well. He was obviously a great talker, and he kept the young people laughing, and their eyes seldom strayed from his jovial, round face.  
    I was just putting together my exit speech when a young man whom I hadn’t seen before appeared from around the corner of the house and announced, “It’s a raid! The cops are coming up the road!”  
    There was a collective gasp from the little group, and Britton stood without preamble and beckoned them all to follow him. I stood hesitantly, but Britton came around and grabbed my elbow and fixed me with a mad eye.  
    “Come, friend, you’re mincemeat if they catch you