The Smell of Death by Bruce Duff

Author:Bruce Duff
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rare Bird Books
Published: 2014-03-06T16:00:00+00:00

Following Tim’s cigarette fiasco, we’re now strapped for cash more than ever, so we make the brisk evening walk across increasingly chilly Milanese streets to save on cab fare to Club Hollywood. We show up right around midnight, and we’re buzzed with anticipation and more than a little tap beer. Simon and I walk up to the doorman, bypassing the queue, showing off business cards, and spewing several lines of bullshit. “Ah, yes, rock ‘n’ roll band on tour from America, looking for a place to blow off steam, Nikki Sixx recommended we come here, said ask for Mumble Harumph...”

It actually worked, and we’re soon down four endless flights of stairs into the dank underworld of Club Hollywood. It’s a dimly lit, lengthy, thin room stretching out from the entrance at the bottom of the stairs. A fat, Italian rapper is working through some shout-outs while his wiry sidekick spins the wheels of steel. We try to look nonchalant—not at all an easy feat as we are by-and-away the most shabbily dressed people we can immediately see—and we casually walk to the bar and order a round of beer.

Four cans—not bottles, for God’s sake—of Heineken wholly deplete our supply of cash. We acknowledge this fact and walk toward the dance floor. We all stop, and silently share the same thought, no question about it.

My God! This is beyond the realm of comprehension. This is a veritable garden of earthly delights, a swarming beehive of Cosmopolitan magazine covers, all dressed in the wildest, très chic styles from Milan and Gay Paree. Surely we’d been run over by a bus outside, and we’re now being deposited in Heaven.

There’s a roped-off section for VIPs. We were let in for free. Therefore, we’re VIPs. We assemble at a table behind the rope. No one talks for a few minutes. We just look into the sea of dancers, who are about eighty percent women, ninety-nine percent of whom are postcard magazine-cover beautiful.

Z leans over like he’s gonna bum a smoke. “Can you believe this?!” he asks. “You’d never see this in L.A. Not anywhere.”

“Nope. Not Beverly Hills, not Hollywood...” We look at each other.

“Not even the Rainbow!” we say to each other, chuckling. Another few minutes pass, and we just sit quietly, almost reverently, just watchin’ the girls dance. The ladies all dance in this sort of detached manner, just kinda wafting about as if they’re unaware of anyone else on the dance floor, even though they’re packed in like sardines.

“We’re about out of beer,” says Tim. “Are we just going to sit here?” It’s obvious we’re all feeling too shy to dive into the sea.

“I have Traveler’s Cheques,” Z announces severely. “Maybe I could cash them in here, somehow.”

“Go to that bloke at the front door that let us in. See if he can help you,” offers Simon. “You’re Sicilian, let him have it with some Italian bullshit.”

About fifteen minutes pass and Z returns. “Wow, that was weird. The guy at the door says to me, ‘Sure, we can probably cash those in for you.

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