Butterflies in Heat (4 page)

"Tangerine," the young woman in jeans called again.

Tangerine looked at Numie. "Would you like to join our table?"

"I don't think I'd better," Numie said. "There's enough going on over there tonight."

"Child," Lola said to Tangerine, "could you two pipe down just a minute? You keep jabbering like a concubine from a peanut plantation. I'm getting ready to do my big number, and us artists have to get it all together right before we let it all hang out."

On a circular platform was a miniature piano. At it sat an elderly black man.

"That's BoJo," Tangerine whispered. "He's supposed to play when Lola isn't singing."

BoJo was clearly too drunk to play.

A pink spotlight was turned on the mound. Rushing over to the jukebox, high heels clanking, Lola stuffed a quarter into it, then made a selection. She raced back, landing in a huff under the soft glow.

The number on the record began, the sounds of, 'C'mon and get it, honey', drifting across the bar. Lola was only mouthing the sultry song, but was not quite coordinated with the words.

A man in front laughed loudly at her bad timing.

Breaking the entire routine, Lola turned and glared before picking up with the number again.

Under her blonde wig, she bled every word for innuendo. Undulating her hips and shaking what appeared to be tiny breasts, she leered at the audience. She licked her heavily coated lips, rolled her eyes, raised one brow—a facade of sensuality .

Even under the most flattering of lights, Lola appeared much older to Numie than she had when he first encountered her at the bar. But so much of her face was obscured by that blonde wig, it was hard to tell exactly what she looked like.

Turning around, Lola ended her number with an assshimmy.

The same man she'd reprimanded before with a glare now called for an encore.

Obviously pleased, Lola squealed, "Christ, give a working girl a break. Gotta take a pee." She disappeared into a back room.

Ignoring his earlier refusal, Tangerine now took Numie's hand and escorted him over to Leonora's private table.

"Leonora, Anne," Tangerine said, "I want you to meet Numie, my new friend."

"You just met him," said Anne.

"I am her friend," Numie said defiantly.

"Young man," Leonora said, "please be seated."

"Is this a papal audience?" Numie asked. Nevertheless, he obeyed her command, sitting down next to Anne.

Tangerine squeezed her plump body in opposite him.

"Do you know who
I
am?" Leonora asked.

"I've never heard of you," Numie answered, matter-of-factly.

"She's the fashion queen of Tortuga," Anne said.

"Whatever that means," Numie replied.

"I have my fashion house here," Leonora explained. "In the 30's and 40's, I was the most famous dress designer in New York. Stage stars, anyone with money and taste, came to me. I was better than any of the French designers, including that dreadful Chanel creature. Of course, I spent a great deal of my time flying to the coast to design for films."

"What are you doing here? Numie asked. "A remote place like this?"

"Leonora wanted a change of scenery," Anne volunteered. "A more dramatic climate in which to create."

"Indeed," echoed Leonora. "Don't get the idea my clothes went out of style. I've always been the pace-setter in fashion."

"Sounds like a good business," Numie said.

"And what do you do?" Leonora asked.

"I'm a hustler," Numie said. "Anyone who can pay."

"Business must be rough," Anne said.

"It sure is," Numie answered. "I'm broke."

"You'll have a difficult time hustling in this town," Leonora said. "It's filled with young men only too eager to give it away. No one really has to pay here."

"Sorry to hear that," Numie replied.

"Frankly, I find the whole idea disgusting," Anne said.

"Dear heart," Leonora said to Numie. "You must excuse Anne. She's a dreadful loser in life. That's why she's so cruel.
I,
on the other hand, who have always been at the top, am so secure I need never be unkind to anyone." Pausing to look at Tangerine, she went on, "Tangerine, sweetheart that she is, always brings young people to meet me when I visit Commodore Philip's. I want to keep in touch with the young generation."

"'I'm not exactly the young generation," Numie said.
"I'll
never see thirty again."

"We can't be children forever," Leonora said. "Perish the thought. I possibly could help you, give you a job at my fashion house."

"Thanks, but I don't know anything about clothes."

"You don't have to," Leonora said. "We'll find something appropriate for you. Come and have lunch at my home tomorrow. We'll discuss it."

"Where do you live?" Numie asked.

"Just ask anybody on any street corner," said Leonora. "Everybody knows where Sacre-Coeur is."

"Then I shouldn't have any trouble."

"Now, what was your name again?" Leonora asked. "Numie, isn't it?
New me.
Each of us like a flower blooming eternally. "

He didn't know what to say, so he smiled.

"You have a good face," Leonora said. "I liked it at once. Like a young river trying hard to find its way to the sea. Real faces are hard to find on this island ... on any island. But I had a premonition I'd find one tonight. Didn't I, Tangerine?"

Tangerine gave Numie a tired glance.

Leonora said to Numie, "Now you must go. I have to talk to Tangerine and Anne. And we're going to have champagne."

"Very well," he replied, getting up quickly. "Tangerine, I liked meeting you. I'm sure I'll see you again."

"Good night, sweetie," she said. "Sure, I'll see you. Real soon, I hope."

"Good night, Anne," he said.

"I'll see you tomorrow when you come for lunch." Her face was non-committal.

"Miss De la Mer, a pleasure," he said.

She extended her gloved hand.

He paused a moment, then realized she wanted
it
kissed. He complied.

At the door, he put a dollar bill in Lola's outstretched hand, glittering with zircons.

"Where's the tip?" Lola asked. "We're not opposed to a few gratuities around here."

"I don't have anything extra."

"I knew you didn't have much."

"I've got
it,
babe, but you've got to pay for it," Numie said.

"Lola has never paid for
it.
Lola
is
paid for it."

"Night." He walked out to the street.

The black Lincoln still stood on the curb—looking battered out of its owner's presence. Here and there, its body bore dabs of black paint over orange splotches of rust.

Salt air and humid weather were supposed to be bad for automobiles. And for other things. This wasting away, so it was said, was known as Tortuga cancer.

Back at his hotel, Numie raced up the creaky steps to his room. Shutting the door quickly, he rubbed his back against it, hoping the wood had living strength to keep out what was pursuing him.

His shirt, soaked with sweat, clung to his body. After he'd left the bar, the shakes had descended.

With trembling hands, he reached for a half empty bottle of cheap wine on the dresser. He put its neck to his mouth, downing it. Some of
it
dripped from his chin onto his clothes.

Throat burning, he stared into the black-specked mirror. He was coming apart right before his own eyes!

He stripped and got into bed. There he lay—tossing, tumbling.

He was going to make it in this town, or he wasn't going to make it at all.

At some point, he fell asleep—but not for long. He woke up suddenly, slinging his arm and knocking over a lamp.

It
was still dark.

He could sleep no more. Something told him to get out of bed, find a connection, move into life. Time was wasting.

He put on a pair of jeans, nothing else. Slipping into sandals; he walked softly out.

No place to go.
It
didn't matter. Getting away did.

At the end of the hall, an annex was barricaded by two crossed slabs of lumber. He stepped across and turned a comer leading down to an enclosed veranda under a high ceiling.

He stumbled along the musty passageway until he banged into an old settee. On one side were rooms where seemingly no one lived. The other side faced a clump of bushes. Double layers of rotting bamboo shades kept out the moonlight.

Going on, he came upon a pedestal. On
it,
a marble cupid poised his arrow. Dragging his hand along the mildewed, red-brocaded wallpaper, he finally reached a comer. Here, moonlight streamed in again. The palm trees swayed gently in the wind.

He soaked up the stillness, the remoteness. For this moment, he was safe, protected. Nothing in the world could touch him or harm him.

The illusion was shattered by footsteps approaching. He backed against the wall—hiding. Then with caution he peered around
the
corner.

Three men were outlined in the dim light. Two were in sailor uniforms. The third was trying a key in the door. The Navy men followed him in.

Numie sneaked off in the other direction. But right away a wall stopped him. The only other way to avoid their room was to jump over a steep railing into the bushes.

Then a loud crack announced the opening of the door. Both sailors ran out. They raced up the veranda.

From the room came the faint sound of moaning. Numie moved in its direction. The room smelled of gardenias turned to dust.

"Are you okay?" Numie asked, slightly apprehensive.

"Who's there?" the man cried out in panic. In the near darkness, his half-dressed figure was sprawled on a canopy bed.

Numie flicked on a light switch, but
it
didn't work. Striking a match, he moved to the bed. The shrill chirp of a cicada gave him a start. Was it a warning not to get involved?"

"What do you want?" the injured man demanded. He was holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose.

"Just to find out if those sailors damaged any vital parts"

"Leave me alone."

"Gladly." Numie backed away.

"Look, could you bring me a towel?" The man's voice changed, now trusting and pleading. "Soak it in hot water. I'll pay you for your trouble."

That god-damn cicada again. For a moment, Numie was silent. He felt duty-bound to help the man; yet at the same time he wanted to run up the hall. "Sure," he finally said, reluctantly.

"But don't let anybody know I'm here."

"I wasn't planning to run an announcement in the society column," Numie answered, showing his irritation. Out on the veranda again, he was more wary than before.

On his return, the mugged man held the towel to his face. "Dammit," he said, "my head's spinning." For the first time, the entire body of the man was visible.

Numie had lit a candle.
It
stood on the nightstand. The man was vaguely familiar. His shirt lay crumpled on the floor. Black stubble peppered his face; and his eyes were large bulbs reaching out to draw in the light. The face was lean and hungry.
That face.
The same face outside Commodore Philip's. He was Anne's husband!

Numie withdrew. After all, he'd seen how this man had treated his wife earlier in the evening. He could muster little sympathy for him, now that he was the victim of violence himself.

"I should explain," the man said.

"What's there to explain? You wanted to get laid, but got ripped off instead."

"That sure spells it out."

"Why conceal the obvious?" Numie asked.

"What's your game?"

At first, Numie hesitated—not because he was reluctant to reveal his profession, but because he didn't want to get confidential with this man. Then he smiled wryly to himself, the very thought that a hustler as broke as he was could pick and choose among people was ridiculous. "I hustle, too," he managed to say, "but I deliver." Unable to resist a john, he was selling. "And I don't rip anybody off." That was too much hard-sell, he decided, but the words were out. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crushed package of cigarettes, lit one, and handed
it
to the man.

"Thanks," he said, smiling, his fingers lingering caressingly over Numie's. A crooked grin distorted his face.

"What were you doing down here? I didn't think anybody came here any more, except me."

"Okay," Numie said, "I didn't ask you questions. You don't ask me questions." After his earlier come-on, Numie thought it best to play hard to get.