Jim might have thought he found that woman in Ingrid Thompson, a large, buxom Julie Newmar look alike from Scandinavia. On November 19th, when her husband went to Portugal on business, Jim moved into the Chateau Marmont and they started seeing each other.
“We really got it on,” said Ingrid. “Neither of us was expecting it. He really loved life, and so did I. The only bad thing was there was too much cocaine, which blew our minds. He thought I was crazier than he was, and he wanted to see how far I’d go.”
One night, returning to Ingrid, he brought champagne and a larger than usual amount of cocaine in a film can. Holding both arms aloft with glee, he entered the house and sat down. After he toasted Ingrid’s intelligence, good looks and European charm, he emptied his glass in a single swallow. Then he unscrewed the film can and dumped a pile of coke onto the glass coffee table. Slowly, silently, he pushed it into thin, two inch rows with his BankAmericard. He produced a crisp hundred dollar bill and rolled it tightly. They snorted the powder, consuming about fifty dollars’ worth a piece.
After three hours, the film can was nearly empty. They had taken their clothes off and were dancing in the moonlight. They tossed themselves into bed. Ingrid began talking about her native land, her strange friends there. She said that sometimes, she drank blood.
“Bullshit,” said Jim.
“No. It’s true,” Ingrid swore, nodding her heard honestly. “I do sometimes...”
“Okay,” Jim replied, smiling. “Let’s you and me drink some right now.” He seemed serious.
Ingrid tried to turn it into a joke. Snapping her fingers she said, “I forgot – the blood man didn’t come today.”
“Let’s drink some blood now,” Jim repeated. “Ya got any razor blades?”
Ingrid knew by the way he asked that she would contribute the blood. She went into the bathroom to search. Moments later, she held a blade with one corner barely touching the fleshy pad of skin where her thumb joined her left hand. Nervously, she struck herself, eyes closed. When she opened them, she saw no blood.
On the fifth stab, blood spurred everywhere and Jim whooped, grabbing a champagne glass to catch it in. They made love and danced some more, smearing their bodies red.
The next morning, he awoke on blood caked sheets with dry brown streaks over much of his body. Jim was scared. The paranoia increased.