“I’m Nula, are you thirsty, Luvvie?”
Lorraine nodded. Nula’s voice was deep and rasping, and as she teetered across to Lorraine, pouring the water into a paper cup, she bent across the table, revealing heavy breasts.
“Water, water, Lorraine, yes? Did Art say you were called Lorraine?”
Lorraine nodded, taking the paper cup gratefully.
“I knew someone called Lorraine once, in high school. She was horrid—well, to me.”
Lorraine turned to Didi, who almost outdid her friend Nula in her style of dress. But the effect was softened because Didi was very pretty: big wide brown eyes, an uptilted nose, and rosebud lips accentuated by a vermilion red lipstick. Didi was also much smaller than Nula, and rather plumpish, or curvaceous as she preferred to be described. Didi was not wearing a wig. Her dark hair was drawn back in a ponytail, snatched back from her young, round face. On her ears she had big gold-looped gypsy earrings, and she wore a pair of tight denim jeans cut off as shorts and a black stretch top that showed that, like her friend, she, too, had a very ample bosom. But unlike Nula’s, her voice was high-pitched, almost feminine. She was intently sorting out tapes, and Lorraine noticed her hands were large and mannish but with long false nails, painted silver.
“Let’s play some nice music.” She smiled at Lorraine as she crossed to a ghetto blaster and slipped in a cassette. Lorraine expected some ear-shattering music to interrupt her calls, but was surprised by Didi’s choice.
“This is Mahler’s Symphony Number Nine, I just love it.”
The volume almost restful, Lorraine smiled. Didi laid out a neat row of tapes, choosing each with studied concentration. She turned to Lorraine, asking in her whispering high voice: “Do you like opera?”
Lorraine nodded as Didi selected the next tape. She had never listened to opera in her life. She jumped as Art dived toward her and banged the phone. “Come along, dear, start working, busy, busy.”
The pace at which Art and his two friends worked was astonishing. Nula and Didi whipped off their clothes and stacked shoes and pulled on old shirts and, barefoot, hurried around the room. They hardly spoke as they painted, neatly and rapidly, as if they had done it before. They had painted all the walls with a quick-dry rough white, swept the floors, stacked the rubbish, torn down the screen partitioning at the front of the store, and were now painting that area, using big rollers on sticks.
Lorraine remained at the table, making calls and listing acceptances and refusals. She now had her spiel down to a bare minimum: “Good evening, I am calling on behalf of Art Mathews’s new gallery, Art’s Place …” She gave the address, time of the show and mentioned that wine and canapés would be served from seven o’clock. Most said they would try to make it, but only twenty said they’d definitely be there.
The strains of Puccini floated through the room, and Lorraine downed two bottles of water as she continued her calls. Nula slipped her some homemade banana bread wrapped in a napkin, a little bowl of fruit salad, and some crispbread with homemade pǎté. Her big hands were encased in bright yellow rubber gloves, and her shirt was covered in white paint splashes, but she had the friendliest wide and warm smile. Lorraine often caught Nula looking at her. She would give her a wink as she painted and cleaned, and Lorraine noticed that it was Nula who was doing most of the heavy lifting and carrying. Didi, the more feminine of the twosome, paid Lorraine hardly any attention. She was prissy, constantly asking Nula if her work was all right, and twice Lorraine saw Nula cross and kiss her, congratulating her like a child. When they did take a short break the three huddled together, admiring the gallery, discussing where the paintings and photographs would look best. Art occasionally leaned over Lorraine to see the list, but on the whole behaved as if she weren’t there. It was almost ten o’clock when Lorraine made the last call to a Craig Lyall. The deep, rather affected voice inquired if it could speak to Art. She covered the mouthpiece. “Art, it’s a Craig Lyall, he wants to speak to you.”
Art passed his brush to Nula. His whiter-than-white outfit was filthy, his round glasses speckled with paint. “This is he,” he lisped into the phone.
Lorraine got up and stretched. Her back ached, and her mouth was dry again. She wandered toward the main room where Nula and Didi were unwrapping canvases and stacking them against the walls. Art hung up, came across, and put his arm around Lorraine. “Well, that, my dear, was good news. Sweethearts, Craig Lyall is coming.” He peered up into her face. “You can go now but I insist you’re here tomorrow. What on earth did you do to yourself? Car crash?”
Lorraine stepped away from him, her hand automatically moving to her scarred face. “Yes.”
“You should have it fixed, dear. I know the best surgeon if you want his name …” Art put his arm back around her waist and gave her a little hug, beamed, then released her to dig awkwardly into his tight pants and take out a thin leather wallet.
Lorraine felt embarrassed as he counted out thirty dollars in ten-dollar bills, but she took the money and pocketed it fast. “See you tomorrow, then,” she said, hovering at the doorway. All three smiled and Art accompanied her to the door. When he unlocked it, it started to buzz. He tutted, “I’ll have to get this fixed.”
Lorraine turned back to see him inspecting the faulty buzzer, his bald head shining in the streetlights. She intended to get a bus, and was heading toward the bus stop, when a car traveling in the opposite direction tooted its horn. Lorraine looked over and was relieved to see Jake at the wheel. “You want a lift?” he called. By the time she had crossed the street, Art had closed the door and returned to Nula and Didi.
Nula looked at Didi and nodded. “Tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Art asked, his attention focused on the paintings.
“I think I’ve seen her before, though I can’t put my finger on where. I’ve been trying to remember all evening. How did you find her?”
“She just walked in off the street. I thought she was from that agency I use, but she was looking for work at Seller Sales.”
Nula studied her nails. “That’s been shut for months.”
Art said, “Didn’t you like her?”
Didi shrugged. “I’ve just got this funny feeling about her.”
Art wished they would pack up and leave, as he liked hanging paintings alone, taking his time to choose where each would go. “Isn’t it time you two left?”
Nula gave a sarcastic, “Well, thank you …” and started to gather her stuff together. On went the wig, the makeup was freshened, and finally she grew another four inches as she clasped her shoes on. Didi was almost ready, giving a last look around. “It looks good—be even better when I bring some more knickknacks tomorrow.”
Art kissed them both, almost tearful with gratitude. “You’ll be here in the afternoon, won’t you? Are you working tonight?”
They chorused “yes” and as he watched them walk off, arm in arm, they both turned and flicked their hips at him, laughing, only their rather broad shoulders giving away their former masculinity—at least if you were as nearsighted as Art.
As soon as they were out of earshot, their good humor act ended abruptly and Nula snapped, “I think you should have told him.”
Didi pouted. “Why didn’t you? It’s always me. We’ll have to work it out between us. If he finds out he’ll go ape-shit, so we’ll deal with it.”
Left alone, Art took out a tiny square envelope from his jeans pocket and carefully laid out a half-inch line of crystal meth. This would see him through his all-night session. He snorted, blinked back tears as it burned his nostrils, then took a few deep breaths. No rush, nothing immediate like cocaine … he’d given that up. It would be a while before he felt any real benefit, so he placed the canvases around the room, then sat cross-legged in the center of his little white gallery to appraise each painting. They were awful and he knew it.
* * *
Nula and Didi, still arm in arm, headed into their apartment in a wondrous and outrageous building that
perfectly suited them. They shared a large studio apartment in the famous Castle Green building. At one time it had been exotic, the palm trees and the Moorish-style opulence of bygone days still in evidence if a little worn down, the paint peeling. A lot of artists lived in Castle Green, a lot of oddballs, but not many as odd as Nula and Didi. Nula had changed into an even more overtly sexy outfit: higher stacked heels, tight leather miniskirt, and, as she was well endowed, showed off her tits with an outrageous, low-cut spangled bodice. She heard the door opening and turned from her makeup table. Didi dangled the car keys, then walked and stood over Nula at the dressing table.
“Nula, I need some more spirit gum, you know how I hate to take this off.” Nula reached up for Didi’s hand. “I know and I’ll pick some up for you, promise. Will you just check my wig, darling?”
“Well, okay, but then leave me alone. You know I hate anyone seeing me like this.”
Nula pouted at herself and dipped her fingers into thick moisturizing cream. She hated her big hands, which, even with nail extensions, looked too large and mannish. “Funny the way I keep thinking about her, that Lorraine. Do you think she’s a prostitute?”
Didi teased Nula’s wig. She was wearing a thick, curly red-haired one, the long straight one thrown to one side. There were lots of wigs of every shape and color, some on wig stands, others bunched up on the floor. “I suppose you could always ask her. She said she’d be there tomorrow. You look lovely, now go on, get out or I’ll never be ready.”
Left alone, Didi stared at her reflection in the mirror and then, using the tail end of her comb, began to ease the wig meshing from her face. Lorraine had been wrong about Didi having her own hair. It was a wig, a very expensive wig made from real hair, unlike Nula’s synthetic crap. The wig was inched slowly away from Didi’s face and gently eased back. She checked the meshing, knowing it would need to be cleaned later, and then carefully pinned it to an old cloth-covered wig stand she’d used in some show. She carefully pinned the meshing down, not wanting it to stretch or become wavy; satisfied, she began to remove her makeup. As she drew the tissues across her fine cheeks, she stared at herself, hated what she saw—her own wispy balding head was as bad as Nula’s, but unlike Nula she hated to see herself without her tresses.
Half an hour later Nula was on their turf, on Sunset Boulevard, hustlin’ her tricks, duckin’ and divin’ down to the cars that cruised past. Most drivers knew she and Didi were trannies—the area was known for it. Both had their own regular customers and both paid off a regular lookout. Curtis wasn’t actually a pimp, more of a minder, but he took a cut of every trick and seemed to know how many Johns came and went. But Nula and Didi paid up without argument. It wasn’t worth the aggravation to protest. Besides, at times they were grateful for his tips, as he seemed to know in advance when the Vice Squad was in their area.
Tony de Savoy, nicknamed Curtis because he wore his hair like Tony Curtis used to wear his, strolled up smiling warmly. He kissed Holly, his special sweetheart, tapped her tight little ass for her to get moving, then turned to Nula.
“Hi, how you doin’?”
Nula shrugged. “Kinda quiet tonight. Curtis, you know a broad called—oh, I can’t remember her name—Lorraine Page. Big tall blonde with a sort of beat-up face?”
“She’s not one of mine, why?”
“I just met her tonight, remembered her from someplace.”
Holly folded a piece of chewing gum into her baby-doll mouth and chewed hard. Curtis looked at the wrapper she had dropped. “Put it in the trash can, slut.”
Holly pouted and bent down exaggeratedly to retrieve it, sashayed past, and flicked it into an overflowing trash can.
Curtis nudged Nula. “She’s a looker, isn’t she? And with a figure to match. Hey, Holly! Shake that tight ass.”
Holly giggled and twisted, showing off her tits, then flounced off, teetering on her high heels, swinging her ass. Holly was heading down Sunset toward her territory. They never or very rarely crossed over. The Johns knew where the transsexuals hung out, the whores; they all had their hustler territories marked out.
Nula saw the car cruising and took off as Curtis slipped a comb through his slicked-back hair. “See you later. You just missed a trick—nothing gets by my sweet Holly.”
He laughed as Nula started to cross the road toward the John but Holly was ahead of her. “I’ll be at the Bar Q,” he called out as she side-stepped an oncoming car and gave the finger to the driver.
Nula watched Curtis stroll on down his territory, stopping to chat to his girls. Holly was starting to get into the John’s car and Nula hurried across the road after her, giving a quick look back to see if Curtis was still watching. But he was chatting up two black chicks, laughing and still flicking his comb through his grease-mop hair.
“This is mine, Nula baby. He wants a real woman. See ya.” Holly laughed as she got into the passenger seat.
Lorraine sat in Rosie’s bedroom, telling her about Art and the gallery. She even gave her ten dollars toward the rent.
“So, will you go back for the show?” Rosie asked.
Lorraine pulled off her creased shirt. “Well, he wanted my phone number in case he has some more work, so I think I’ll go.”
Rosie bashed the pillow. “Put my earrings back in the box! And ask next time—they happen to be real pearls. About the only thing my ex-husband ever gave me …”
Lorraine made a show of removing them and replacing them. Rosie watched her every move, irritated yet again by Lorraine’s confidence. She seemed to be getting herself back together, but instead of feeling pleased, Rosie felt jealous.
“Maybe I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t go out of your way. What’s the matter with you?” Rosie sat up. “Nothing—but didn’t you think I’d be worried? Jake was, too.”
Lorraine unzipped her skirt. “Did you send him out to look for me?”
“Of course I did. I didn’t know where the fuck you were—no note, nothin’ to tell me what you were doing.”
Lorraine stepped out of her skirt, and Rosie turned away, not out of embarrassment but with the shock of seeing just how thin and scarred Lorraine was. “What the hell happened to you?” she asked softly. “All those scars …”
Lorraine wrapped a towel around herself. “I got them when I was too drunk to feel I was getting them. Some of them are cigarette burns—maybe I did them myself …”
Rosie sighed as she heard the shower running. She’d meant to tell Lorraine, and Jake for that matter, that she’d lost her job at the hospital. It was nothing she’d done: they were cutting back on part-time staff.
By the time Lorraine emerged from the shower, however, Rosie was fast asleep. Lorraine turned off the light and went into the living room to turn the sofa into a bed. She sat, still wrapped in her towel, with the TV turned down low, smoking a cigarette. Another day without a drink—and a day when she felt she had done something positive. But what did it all mean, anyway? She closed her eyes as she leaned back. Was every day going to be like this? Tramping from one place to another looking for work? She got to thinking of how much Art and his two helpers had achieved in one evening. They had transformed that shitty little place, not into anything fantastic, but he was going to be able to open a gallery—maybe even make some decent money. What was she cut out to do? She wondered what Nula and Didi did, probably hooking she suspected. Then again, maybe not; they seemed pretty professional about painting the art gallery. Maybe they worked in another gallery or a nightclub. She’d liked them, Art, too, and the music—maybe things could get better.… Maybe the key was to do as Rosie and Jake said and take each day as it came, not try to think of any long-term goal, just another day—and one without a drink. She was so tired she fell asleep almost immediately, before any pictures of her past had time to squeeze across her mind. She had no way of knowing that her past would catch up with her the longer she remained sober. Old memories long forgotten would resurface to haunt her, like her dead brother’s
face. She had been able to deal with Kit, but there would be more, much more, and she was not ready for it. The closer the past inched toward the present, the sooner she would have to face what she had obliterated by drinking.
Nula met up with Curtis for breakfast. She hadn’t seen Didi for hours, so presumed she had scored either a hotel John or an all-nighter. Curtis was edgy. He’d been looking for Holly and kept asking everyone who came and went if they’d seen her. Nula said she’d seen her score but not since. She could tell he was pretty coked up, so she downed her coffee, paid what she owed him, and took off. It was almost five-thirty and she was feeling strung out, worried that Didi hadn’t turned up.
Didi was at home, lying supine with an ice pack on her head. Nula leaned over her, concerned. “You okay?”
Didi removed the ice pack to show a bruised eye. “What do you think? Look at me, I got a black fuckin’ eye and my foot, I twisted my ankle when I got out of the car, it’s all swollen up.”
Nula brought more ice and wrapped it in a dish towel to place on Didi’s foot. She was concerned: the bruised face could always be taken care of, but if Didi couldn’t walk, that blew it for picking up customers.
Didi sighed, shifting the ice pack on her head. “Oh, I remembered where I saw that Lorraine …”
Nula was creaming her face. “Where?”
“AA meeting, we were both there, few days back.”
“So, that’s that then.” Nula wiped the tissue over her chin, looking at the blur of grease and makeup removed from her stubble-free face. She touched the soft skin lovingly; the hormone pills cost a hell of a lot, but they were worth every cent just to feel her skin so smooth. Odd that she hadn’t remembered Lorraine from the AA meeting. She was usually good with faces.
“I’m gonna look terrible for the opening,” Didi moaned. “Art won’t let me in, I’ll look so bad—you know the way he is.”
Nula looked at her. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to. I was worried, then I thought you might have scored. Curtis was strung out, lookin’ everywhere for Holly.”
Cold Shoulder Page 11
