Damn Straight

by Elizabeth Sims

  I ducked, but the full load of champagne cascaded onto my head and back, more or less followed by the flutes, which bounced off me en route to the nice hard floor, where they, of course, shattered. Into a million pieces. With a sound like a rocket falling on Notre Dame cathedral.

  In the silence that followed, I straightened up and met the horrified eyes of the server.

  "I thought you were someone else," I said.

  "Your glass was empty," she whispered.

  Then I turned to the room at large. "I'm sorry."

  After an incredibly awkward sixty seconds, a broom, dustpan, and mop appeared in the hands of two other servers, and the mess was cleaned up.

  My server girlfriend disappeared. Truby was nowhere to be seen, fortunately. Perhaps it wasn't too late for her to pretend she didn't know me.

  Carla and Meredith came over, kindly not having run up shrieking immediately, and I apologized to them. "I'd like to pay for the broken glasses and the champagne."

  They wouldn't hear of it. "It's the caterer's glassware," said Meredith, "and to hell with the champagne. We've got eight more cases, I believe. I'm just glad it wasn't me this time. Thank you."

  "Oh, not at all," I responded generously.

  "Are you all right?" Carla felt my wet sleeve.

  "I'm fine. Just don't set me out in the sun next to an anthill. Is there someplace where I can clean up?"

  She directed me to a bathroom down a cul-de-sac off the foyer. It was done in a Moorish style, with complicated medallions on the wallpaper and a snake-charmer's basket next to the john. I lifted the lid and found a cache of tampons and minipads. Handy.

  As I went out, washed and combed to a degree, I noticed someone waiting in the hallway. I stepped to the side, smiling at the floor, then to the other side, suddenly blocked in by this person. She put an arm up on the wall; I lifted my eyes.

  It is a difficult thing to describe a moment of such impact that, like a violent car accident, you have no clear memory of it. All you remember is what came next: You're in the ambulance, you can't move, your shoes are gone, and someone is yelling at you to name the days of the week.

  "Hello," she said.

  I blinked. "Hello."

  Chapter 6

  Have you ever met a goddess, a real goddess? Neither have I, but this woman was the closest thing I'd seen to one.

  Mind you, she would not have won the Cutest Baby contest in her hometown, had someone even thought to enter her, nor would she have nailed prom queen. Second-string cheerleader? Nah. Her looks were neither golden nor rosy.

  But she had it. Yes. It being a vivid aura of self-possession, of confidence. Of intelligence. Of fun. She had, also, strength: This was clear to me from the firmness of her body, easily visible through her clothes, even in the dim light of the hallway. I saw the quiet way her body rested there on her feet, the balance of it, the stillness of it. The readiness of it.

  She extended her hand. "I'm Genie Maychild." Her grip was firm, all right.

  "Lillian Byrd. How do you do?"

  "Very well, thank you.

  "That's one of us, then."

  "I saw your mishap. That was spectacular."

  "Uh, thank you."

  I'd seen her a hundred times on television, of course: Genie Maychild, dominatrix of the LPGA tour. She'd been on top for years now, maybe eight years? Ten years? She'd won as many majors as Kathy Whitworth, and, last year, had broken the record of consecutive wins, five, held by Nancy Lopez and Annika Sorenstam. And she broke it by three. She was at her peak, but she wasn't a kid anymore.

  "It was a disaster," she said, "that went almost in slow motion. I've never seen anything like it."

  "You've never attended a stadium implosion?"

  She laughed. "Look, how about some more wine?"

  "Guess I could use another glass."

  My next clear memory has me spending a relaxed and, yes, happy hour or so talking with this wondrous creature. We were back in the big room, seated on a fat tufted love seat.

  "So," she said, "what's your connection at this party?"

  I told her, blurting out Truby's story by way of explaining why I was in Los Angeles in the first place. I threw in preliminary details of the power failure, the storm, my plot against Monty, which made her laugh again, and the kindly Mrs. McVittie.

  "God, I don't miss that weather," said Genie Maychild. "I'm from Chicago." She pronounced it like a native: "Chicaugo."

  "Oh, God," I said. "That's even worse than Detroit. Christ, I remember the first time I was in Chicago, I had to walk fifteen blocks downtown, and it was eight below and it was blowing like a bitch, and they hadn't invented wind chill yet, and I had no gloves. I've never been colder in my life."

  "Boy, do I hate that freezing rain."

  "Me too, boy."

  The details of her were ordinary: hair that was probably light brown to begin with, but bleached considerably on top by the sun, cut in a perfect bob and blown fluffy; eyes a color I really couldn't determine yet—green, perhaps, or possibly hazel, set close together—but this made for a look of concentration rather than denseness; a good classical nose with nostrils that could perhaps, I thought, flare nicely if properly provoked; a full mouth sporting an upside-down smile, you know, where the corners turn down instead of up; breasts a bit low-riding; the arms nicely shaped and evenly tanned, except for the left hand. The dead-white left hand announced where it spent most of its time outdoors: inside a leather glove, wrapped around the grip of a golf club.

  I became aware of the scrutiny of other women. They sort of hovered; yes, hovering was occurring. Genie Maychild was like a magnet, and the women in the room were oriented toward her like needles. I saw Meredith looking at me. Then she came over.

  "Genie," she said in a completely different tone than when she'd talked to other people, "I forgot to tell you I have a surprise for you!" Her voice was a full-blown simper.

  "What's that?"

  "Mary Lee Hume is here! And she wants to meet you!"

  Genie's eyes cut to me. I'm sure I reacted. Mary Lee Hume had just won something like four Oscars for her movie Skyhook and Breadfruit, the story of a Malaysian princess who disfigures herself after learning that 10,000 of her people were massacred by the CIA, which unsuccessfully tried to pin it on the Chinese Mafia. It was a hell of a picture.

  And the whole world was talking about Mary Lee Hume. And Mary Lee Hume wanted to meet Genie Maychild.

  "I don't have time," said Genie.

  I watched Meredith swallow that one whole.

  "All right," she said, crouching low, "I'll tell her you've been detained." She smiled a horrible submissive smile that somehow also conveyed firm dislike of me.

  "Mer," said Genie, "I need a glass of guava juice, fresh. Do you have a guava in the house?"

  "Anything, darling. If I don't, I'll send out for one."

  "Do that, would you? Oh, and would you take this?" Genie extended her empty champagne flute.

  "Wow," I said, after Meredith had gone, "is it because you make her lots of money?"

  "Money's the only thing she cares about. I, personally, am nothing to her."

  One thirtyish lovely wearing an odd fringed jacket circled very slowly, and as she passed Genie, she allowed her trailing fringe to skim Genie's arm, resting on the back of the love seat. Genie looked up in cold irritation, and we were alone again briefly, in a tenuous envelope of privacy.

  It was quite clear that Genie had cut me from the herd. Why? Did she merely want quick sex later? I certainly hoped so. Her eyes searched my face thoroughly. I felt self-conscious, thinking about all my ungorgeous attributes. My complexion tends toward sallow, my jaw is too long, and I'm thin-lipped. On the plus side, my cheekbones are halfway decent, both my eyes match (light gray), and my eyebrows don't need plucking.

  Then Genie's eyes quite deliberately moved downward and checked out my body, such as it was. I shifted in my seat.

  I didn't know how sports idols operated. Were they all
jaded from the adulation, or did they continually thirst for it? It seemed I was being given an opportunity of some kind.

  All those times I'd seen her on TV, I'd never felt the pang of cupid's arrow. Never thought about her sexually. Never thought about any of them that way.

  Why? Because they were athletes. Different brand of human. Athletic women always intimidated me, with their easy competence and equally easy aggressiveness. Their bodies were stronger than mine, bigger than mine—bigger around, anyway. They liked to wear equipment. They liked to move with precision.

  Looking at Genie closely, I perceived a—a something, an aspect or an aura that wasn't previously visible to me, not visible at all on television. Was it a solemnity? A depth not revealed during the cold course of competition? Somehow, I didn't feel intimidated. Not very, anyway.

  She said, "You don't look as if you belong here."

  I smiled into my champagne. I was feeling good; I didn't take it as an insult and was quite sure it wasn't meant as one. I suppose this is a cliché, but I felt her power, felt it as a positive force all around her. If this was what she was like just hanging out at a party, what must she be like in competition? Whoa, was my thought.

  "I suppose most women here are pretty significant people," I said. "It's all a bit rich for me."

  Ever so casually, Genie touched one of my fingertips. The resultant spark could've powered Las Vegas for five minutes. "That's not what I meant," she said. "It's just that you're—I noticed you as a little island of calm, there, looking at the statue. You weren't frantic to talk to everyone, to, to—ingratiate yourself somewhere. To not be alone. Then, even when the champagne fell on you, you were calm."

  "Where were you?"

  "I'd come in from the pool a minute before, trying to get away from a group of groupies. I'm playing next week—"

  "Of course."

  "And well, the night is young, but I'm burned out on the flattery."

  "I'd imagine almost any party you go to, you'd run into that."

  "I was told this party would be different. But everybody's so...hectic."

  Truby cruised by, looking at me in astonishment. She cruised back again, holding two full glasses and balancing a plate of food. I gave her a subtle wink.

  "So," I said, "you don't know this crowd?"

  "I know some of them."

  "Meredith manages you?"

  "She does now. Actually, she doesn't so much manage me as represent me."

  "For endorsements and stuff?"

  "Yes. I left the Blevin Group last year."

  "Oh."

  "I was with them for four years, but they went and lost their focus."

  "What happened?"

  "They signed Coco Nash."

  "Ah."

  "You dig?"

  I had to laugh. "Yeah."

  Coco Nash, a.k.a. Cornelia Rosa Parks Nash, was the upstart, the baby phenom, foe of every woman in the LPGA, but most especially of Genie Maychild. It was the natural thing. Genie was at the top, and Coco was rookie of the year last year and had given notice that the top was her rightful spot, and it was just a matter of time until she got there. She'd won four tournaments and finished in the top ten in all but one of the rest. People said she was just warming up.

  Coco Nash talked very tough, and she was black, and she wasn't liked by a great many women on tour (so I'd read in a small item in Golf Today), and she didn't give a shit. She didn't give a shit about endorsements. What she gave a shit about was winning.

  Genie's "You dig?" was a jab at Coco's lingo, which was half hep-cat, half Catholic school. I liked Coco Nash and rooted for her, and I could see how Genie might feel nervous about her.

  "It mustn't be easy to keep up your confidence, when you've got the world snapping at your heels," I said.

  "I don't have much trouble that way," she said.

  "It doesn't bother you that Meredith manages Lona Chatwin, too?"

  "Oh, no. Lona and I are friends."

  "And she's not nearly as good as you, and everybody knows it. No threat. Right?"

  She paused, and I thought I'd angered her. But she said, "Everybody's a threat when you get to this level. But—well. I guess you called it. It's not that I'm afraid of Coco. I just don't like her. I don't like the feeling I get when she's around me."

  "How do you feel when she's around?"

  "Hey," she looked at me closely, "I don't talk about this stuff."

  "Sorry," I smiled.

  "I hate her."

  I laughed. But there was a deadly look in her eye. "Yeah? As in really actually hate?"

  "Yes."

  "How come?"

  After a moment she said, "Because she hates me."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I just know it."

  "But how? Have you guys had words?"

  "What are you, a lawyer or something?"

  "Something."

  "Don't you read the papers, don't you read the magazines? She keeps telling everybody that I'm old and can't win anymore. She says she'll kick my ass. She says she's God's gift."

  "But that's just talk. What have you said about her?"

  "Nothing. I've been polite."

  "Oh?"

  "I have." She touched my finger again. "Look. I'd like to spend more time with you. I want peace before this tournament. I want to relax."

  "You decided not to play in Phoenix."

  "Right, I wanted to take the week off, relax, prepare myself."

  "And you didn't go home? Where's home, anyway?"

  "No. Heck, I live in Orlando now. I don't like time zone changes. I wanted to acclimate to Pacific time. And I wanted to work with Dewey for a couple of days."

  "Dewey O'Connor?" Swing guru to the champs.

  She nodded. "I'm staying at his house. One of his actually. It's nice and..." Pause. "Private."

  "Oh, is it?"

  "Yes." She looked at me.

  "I bet it's ever so nice."

  "It is. It's ever so nice."

  Chapter 7

  It was time to have a word with Truby, who'd been making some progress, it appeared, with a comely lass who sported no visible facial piercings. They were taking their ease in a little cabana by the pool. The musicians must've been on break.

  "Go for it, Starmate," she said.

  "Focus and execute," I said. "Please check Todd's water."

  "Okay."

  "Thanks."

  And so, with Meredith pointedly looking utterly dismayed, Genie and I exited.

  "Is Meredith freaking out?"

  "She's keeping a lid on it. This'll give her more excuse to fuss over Lona. She knows I don't need a baby-sitter."

  "Doesn't anyone travel with you?"

  "Not really. What's this?" Genie asked the kid who brought her car up. It was a Jaguar, rented. She plucked an envelope from beneath the windshield wiper.

  "I don't know," he said, pocketing his tip. "It was there." I noticed she gave him a fiver. That was nice, I thought.

  When we stopped at a light at the foot of the hills, she opened the envelope, drawing out a small folded sheet.

  "Fan mail from some flounder?" I said.

  Her face went white as she read it. It was a short message. After a second she crumpled it in her fist.

  "What is it?"

  She didn't answer or look over at me. The car behind us honked; automatically, she let up on the brake and the Jaguar moved into traffic.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes."

  She wasn't, though; a sudden heaviness had come over her, as if an iron bar had dropped down onto her shoulders. I watched her sideways and saw her mouth working. She touched her forehead, then rubbed the back of her neck. I looked out the window at the nightscape of Sunset Boulevard and breathed in the smell of the leather seats.

  By and by, I heard her laugh.

  Again I asked, "What is it?"

  "It's just me." She'd shaken it off. "I'm an idiot sometimes."

  "Me too, lots of times. Where
's the house?"

  "Hollywood."

  "Think we ought to pick up a six-pack along the way? Some Doritos?"

  She laughed. "You. Are. Funny. Calm and funny. And you have a...a..."

  "An earnest face?"

  "That's not what I was going to say, but come to think of it, you do. Goodness, I need to relax."

  "Maybe I should drive."

  "Naw, we're almost there." We were climbing again, through narrow streets.

  It was too dark to see much of the house, which was perched close to the road, but it seemed to sort of spill down the canyon in a multitude of rooms. A Hollywood house.

  Inside the style was sleek, minimalist. As Genie ushered me through I caught a glimpse of the kitchen, which looked as if you could walk right in and start doing brain surgery on any surface.

  We went directly to the hot tub, an in-ground hot tub, I add, nestled in a bower of flowers out back. A few ground-level lamps in the shrubbery gave out a soft glow. The night had turned cool, and a skim of warm vapor hovered over the surface of the water.

  I stood looking up at the stars as Genie pressed a few buttons, and the jets began their jet-thing. I saw one light in the house go off and another go on in a different room. I guessed they had sophisticated timers in Tinseltown.

  "Now, my new friend," said my new friend, "I'd like to get to know you better."

  I really wanted a drink of water, but Genie hadn't offered me anything yet. This minor lapse in hospitality disappointed me, for I assumed her to be perfect in every way. That is, I was operating under the perfect-until-proved-flawed system, which has its perils, but is more generous than prove-to-me-you're-wonderful.

  We helped each other out of our suddenly cumbersome clothing and descended the tiled steps into the roiling water. Very nice. The water felt perfectly clean, but didn't have that chlorine reek I remembered from the one other hot tub I'd been in, in somebody's backyard in Melvindale. That one you had to clamber up a ladder to get into. This was Hollywood. The seats were nicely positioned. There was room for half a dozen people comfortably, plus a flotilla of rubber ducks.

  Genie's body was more exciting than even my fevered imagination had pictured. She was smooth. A firm waist, a real waist with muscles I could feel. Breasts that looked like Sno-Kones of the angels, and a wowzer pair of legs I could hardly begin to appreciate when they disappeared into the churning depths. Even seated, she moved with poise.