Sympathy for the Devil Read Free Page B

off did he get the joke. Yeah, Bruno could be funny. At someone else’s expense.
    After leaving their cars, the guests ascended the wide stone steps that staggered up the short hill to the front ofthe house. They followed a trail of hundreds of tiny jack-o-lantern faces that flickered their loony smiles and daggerlike frowns all the way up from the street to where I was standing. The effect in the dark night was mesmerizing, like each pumpkin face was in on some evil secret.
    Mr. 850csi was dressed as Captain Hook, with a terrific black satin cape, a patch over one eye, and an expensive-looking long curled wig. I noticed that he couldn’t stop fiddling with his hook. His companion was dressed as Peter Pan, all in green. And the tights revealed very shapely legs.
    â€œJohn Parmentor and Drew Barrymore,” said Mr. 850. The guard at the security table took the proffered invitation and checked off their names on his master list.
    â€œYou may pass,” Rudy told them and he handed them each an appointment card printed with the time they’d be expected at the soothsayer’s cottage for a personal reading. Then Rudy pushed a hidden button that lifted an artfully creaky iron gate, and they were able to cross a humped bridge and move on back to where the party was taking place behind the main house.
    Rudy was dressed as a giant, menacingly ugly troll. He stood at his post shirtless, so that his overdeveloped pecs and delts, smeared with black soot, were clearly visible under the gray cape flung back over his shoulders. He wore black tights and knee-high boots and his face was disguised by a wart-covered rubber mask.
    A large sign was posted at the medieval table at the entrance that read: “No invitation or no costume and absolutely no admittance!” These had been Bruno’s orders.
    It was pretty difficult to throw guests out at the door when they were actually holding an invitation to the party. Not to mention impolitic when the guy you’re tossing owns a movie studio. Virtually all of my bouncers, including Rudy, were “the next Stallone,” and they worked my parties to make a little money while they were waiting for their Rocky . At my parties, they might even be discovered. However, it doesn’t take someone with the genius of a Schwartzenegger to realize it’s more difficult to make thatimportant contact when you’re humiliating the very man you need to make you a star.
    It had been decided that the only way our bouncers could turn away important guests would be to do it incognito—hence the warty masks. It was still early yet, but so far no one had arrived without proper paper and cloth and things had been going smoothly.
    â€œHalt! Who goes there?!” Those were Rudy’s lines and he spoke them as if he were at an audition.
    After a small exchange, Regis and Joy Philbin were admitted, looking like a rather compact Batman and Cat-woman.
    â€œNice work,” I whispered to Rudy. “Keep it up.” Then I turned after the Philbins and followed them back toward the party.
    I met Wes on the pathway next to a lush hillside covered with ivy. We eyed each other’s costumes and chose not to comment. The Wizard of Oz and Glinda the Good Witch. Bruno had taken his own pleasure in selecting what the staff was to wear.
    â€œYour hair is perfect,” he said. Good old Wes, straining to find something nice to say.
    I dragged my fingers through the nest of light reddish-goldish hair that I almost always wear pulled back, just to keep the weight of it off my face. Tonight, the mass of heavy curls had been left down, sprayed with silver glitter.
    I made a face and Wesley laughed.
    The party had started and, as usual, I was beginning to enjoy myself. Just then, I felt something lightly touch my ankle and I absentmindedly rubbed my other shoe against the spot out of reflex. Looking down, I watched a rat with a foot-long tail streak across the garden path and out