“That could never happen again, Mom.”
Regina looked at her daughter and marveled at her beauty—innocent beauty, the purest kind. “How deep into this are you?”
“Sonya and I made the first cut.”
“What’s it about?”
“The winner will promote tourism for the city for one year. Billboards, TV flyers, magazines. She’ll represent San Francisco and all its splendor. Besides, five thousand dollars, a contract with a top model agency, and a new car is nothing to scoff at, Mother.”
“Five thousand?” Regina asked, surprised.
“And a car. That’s only the beginning. There’s the money earned on appearances, modeling assignments and commercials,” she said. “It’s not as if I’m asking to do porn or even a nude layout in a girlie mag.”
“I know, but ...”
“Mom, you take things too seriously. Being attractive isn’t a handicap. And no matter how much you try to camouflage what you have under those guerrilla fatigues and this...” Kristy flipped a frizzy lock of her mother’s hair, “it’s still very obvious.”
Regina allowed herself a quick smile before becoming somber again. She picked at a loose thread on her skirt. “The Miss Classic contest was jinxed, and, well, I have this bad feeling.” She thought of Corinne and what the acid had done to her beautiful face, and then she thought about the crank call she’d received less than two hours ago. But most crucial of all was the gut feeling she had about the whole affair. Something in the back of her mind screamed danger. Something she just couldn’t ignore.
“Feelings are just that —feelings. Unless you’re psychic ...” Kristy let the words off.
Regina sighed. “Yes, of course, you’re right.” They sat without speaking for several moments.
“Mom, it’s not going to happen again.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Regina said, pushing away from the windowsill. “Take a couple of days to think about what I said, and if you still want to go through with this, then ... well, you have my blessing.”
Kristy stood and gave her mother a hug. “Thanks, you wonderful, adorable mother.”
It was obvious to Regina that Kristy’s mind was already made up. Well, it hadn’t killed her, so she guessed it wouldn’t kill her daughter.
CHAPTER 12
Falwell stared down at the dead eyes of the long-legged beauty and grinned maliciously#!@#?&.
“Ah shit,” John hissed in disgust.
Everything he’d written that day had the ring of a damn clichéd, two-bit detective novel. He lifted his fingers from the computer keyboard and brusquely scraped a mound of red pistachio shells into the waste basket.
John Davie struggled with his fourth suspense novel. His first manuscript had sold to a small press, then died. His second had been published, but despite a rather handsome advance and decent reviews, sales had not been as great as he hoped. The advance on his new novel, False Lead, to be released next month, had been in the high five digits. This novel, the one he was working on, was to be the blockbuster. He’d written an explosive beginning and the end was equally volatile, but the middle, like the center of a doughnut, was missing.
His fingers poised over the keyboard like predator claws, waiting. The blinking cursor was impatiently prompting him to write something—anything. He leaned forward and meticulously pecked out with a forefinger, in caps, FUCK YOU, then highlighted it in yellow. Rapid-fire now, with both hands on the keys, he repeated the two words across the page until they begin to run together. A series of low creaks overhead made him pause. He dropped his hands to his sides, tipped his chair back, and looked upward.
The new tenants, mother and daughter, were up there doing “getting ready to move into a new apartment” things.
He groaned. His concentration was shot. Anything he wrote that afternoon would be forced and stilted. He shut down the computer.
A door softly closed above, John rose and moved to the front window. Directly in front of the white VW Rabbit was the tan station wagon. Minutes later he watched mother and daughter cross the walk to the cars. They stood talking, unknowingly allowing John an opportunity to study them. His attention kept returning to the mother.
In spite of the loose, layered clothing, the lack of makeup, and the uninspiring hairdo, she had a certain air about her. John felt that her obscureness was merely a masquerade. She was a very alluring woman.
Where the hell had he seen her before?
He watched them until they entered their respective cars and drove away, his brain still searching for an answer. Forget it for now, he told himself, it’ll come. He leaned his head against the window sash and let his mind drift. In an instant, like a multicolored collage, he saw slick images of another striking woman, though this one had blond hair and bright blue eyes. Darlene. Beautiful, sensual Darlene. Fashion model, wife, and mother, dead these past seven years. Time heals all wounds.
He glanced at his watch. It was time to get ready for work.
After a quick shower, John dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a white dress shirt. He grabbed his leather bomber jacket and went out the door.
He walked the eight blocks to The Bull’s Blood on Van Ness, his aunt and uncle’s bar. The childless couple, Anna and Charlie Szabo, treated him like a favorite son. In return for their love and kindness, John helped out around the apartment house and tended bar at night. He wrote during the day.
Entering the bar, he saw a smattering of the usual customers. His Uncle Charlie was talking to Babs, the cocktail waitress who waited the seven tables and the piano bar.
“Your Aunt Anna called and said you didn’t stop for dinner,” Charlie said when John joined him behind the bar. “Why?”
“Wasn’t hungry. Besides, I was running late.”
“You don’t take money from me for tending bar, yet you rush all the time to get here, and then you stay late.”
“I told you, it’s a rich source for my novels. I’m grateful you don’t make me pay to work here.” John nodded toward a booth in the back where two lovers were brazenly making out, hands out of sight under the table, then at two denim-clad men arm wrestling at the far end of the bar. “Look, there’s romance, adventure, and ... local color.” He waved at Rosemond, a tall, bony transvestite with an eccentric taste in clothing who had just sauntered in. Tonight “Rosy” was wearing an Oakland A’s baseball cap, a red miniskirt over badly snagged chartreuse tights, black Keds hightop sneakers, and a pink see-through voile blouse. “It’s all here, Charlie. Mood, background, characters—”
“Characters we got,” Charlie replied, grunting. “Ahhgh, get something to eat. Go across to Dobos’ and order a good Hungarian meal.”
John shook his head. “Later.”
“Go now, while there’s no business. Louie has added something. Tell me what you think.”
“Added what?”
“Go see. Bring me back dessert. Palacsinta,” his uncle called over his shoulder as he headed down the bar to Rosy.
John crossed Van Ness to Dobos’, a Hungarian restaurant run by old friends of the Szabos. His aunt Anna and Mrs. Dobos had both come from small villages near Budapest.
The interior of the restaurant was dim and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. Someone approached him, a woman, and though he couldn’t make out the face yet, he knew it wasn’t the rotund Mrs. Dobos. This woman was tall and slim and walked like a fashion model on a runway.
“Good evening,” a soft voice said. The accent was heavy and Hungarian.
Before he could respond, Louie Dobos seemed to come out of nowhere, his voice booming, “Johnnie, Johnnie, hey Johnnie. Good to see you. What you think of our new hostess?” He hooked an arm around the girl’s shoulder and pulled her to him. “Pretty, huh? My grandniece Ilona. From the old country.”
John’s eyes had made the adjustment and he saw that the blond girl was indeed very pretty. She smiled, then looked away shyly.
“Johnnie’s a famous writer,” Louie said to Ilona.
�
�Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Come in, Johnnie.” Louie threw his other arm around John’s shoulder and steered them into the empty dining area. “It’s early, you take any table you want.”
John pointed to a small table by the kitchen, but Louie practically pushed him down into a large booth just inside the room, only steps from the hostess station.
“Ilona will take good care of you. Paprikas is best tonight,” Louie said, then marched off toward the kitchen, leaving them alone.
So, John thought, Ilona was the “something new” his uncle had spoken of. No doubt the girl was straight off the boat and looking to stay, and marriage to an American was the simplest method.
John smiled at Ilona. She returned his smile, and a radiant smile it was.
The long arm of the matchmaker had reached out for its victim.
CHAPTER 13
Corinne finished the beer, tossed the can on the floor, then popped the top of another. Somewhat unsteadily she slid back the closet door. As she silently stared inside, contemplating the contents, she took a drag on the cigarette. Ashes fell across the front of her soiled, wrinkled shift.
It was all there, untouched for nearly twenty years--the Miss Classic wardrobe her mother had hung in the closet for her daughter to wear when she was normal again.
Corinne reached out and touched the sleeve of a burnt orange dress. She pushed it aside and pulled out a houndstooth skirt and jacket. Funny, she thought, how fashions have a way of coming around again. Just yesterday she’d seen Sandy on “The Young and the Restless” wearing an outfit almost identical to the one she held.
She put the jacket to her nose and sniffed. It was hard to tell, her sense of smell wasn’t so good anymore, but she thought it smelled musty and smoky.
Flicking ashes on the floor, she stripped the outfit from the hanger and hurried into the kitchen, where she tossed the two pieces into the washing machine.
If it didn’t shrink to nothing, it would fit. Over the years she had lost weight. Eating was such a hassle. What weight she managed to keep on was a direct result of all the beer and her daily inactivity in front of the TV.
Between sips of beer, she rolled her freshly washed hair on large metal rollers she had rooted out of the back of the closet. Although the taping for ‘City Gallery’ wasn’t scheduled until the following afternoon, she wanted to practice. It had been a long time.
In the bathroom she opened the white paper bag. Her hands shook as one by one she lifted out the tubes, jars, and plastic cases that she’d ordered over the phone. That morning the Avon lady, dressed in bright yellow with a striking array of iridescent eye shadow from lashes to brows, had delivered it.
Before starting, she popped another Quaalude. Then, working with great care and trepidation, wetting her dry throat with the beer that gave her a warm buzz, she began.
Ninety minutes later, her legs beginning to feel the fatigue of standing, she added the final touches to her face. She would wear one of her eye patches — after all, the patch in itself was a bold fashion statement. Following a dusting of blusher, she outlined her lips, then filled them in with a matching shade of lipstick.
She removed the rollers and brushed her shoulder-length hair until it crackled with electricity. She sprayed the brush with hair spray, a trick she remembered from a time before, and brushed through again, controlling the wispy strands. Holding up a glossy eight-by-ten photograph of herself, taken before the pageant, she worked diligently to achieve a similar hairstyle. One side was swept up and away from her face, the other side fell in waves along the side. It was done.
She closed her eyes, fighting an inebriated wave of dizziness that washed over her, and stepped back several feet. She turned her head to the left, tipped her chin down, lifted her mouth into a coquettish smile, and, opening her eyes, shifting them sideways, she looked into the mirror. It took a moment to focus. She was startled by the effect. More than that, she was astonished. It wasn’t possible. No, it just wasn’t possible.
Looking back at her was the Corinne of a lifetime ago. Her heart pounded. Her hands trembled.
“Oh, God. Oh my God,” she whispered.
Unable to contain her excitement, she snatched up the can of beer, knocking jars of makeup into the sink, and finished it off, her mind whirling.
All these years she had hated herself. The surgery, admittedly, had made some improvements, but her problem, she realized now, had been compounded by her own damning perfectionism. She had expected too much, had been too hard on herself. She had stubbornly adopted the attitude that if she couldn’t be perfect, like before, she would be nothing.
Neither stupid nor blind —though definitely tipsy —she could still see the scars and facial damage. And, naturally, the years had taken their toll overall. But it was all relative, wasn’t it? Wishing for lost youth and beauty was so damned unrealistic.
Corinne thought about the others. Donna, Tammy, Amelia and Regina. Of all the contestants in the contest, Corinne had feared Regina the most. She had something special that was more than skin deep. When the two of them had stood side by side on the stage, clinging to each other anxiously, waiting for the emcee to name the winner, Corinne had felt an instant choking panic. And then her name had been announced, and suddenly everyone was whistling and cheering, the contestants were hugging her, the crown was being fastened to her head. She thought she would die of happiness.
And God, oh dear merciless God, why had I been chosen? Why not Regina instead?
Stop it. No more negative thoughts. It’s over and done with. It can’t be changed. Take what’s offered now and make a new life for yourself.
In the kitchen she pulled the houndstooth outfit from the dryer, shook it out, and tossing her shift aside, hastily put on the skirt and cropped jacket. It was loose, but that was better than too tight. She ran into her bedroom and rummaged in her closet for shoes. She found a pair of black patent leather pumps with short heels.
Hopping on first one foot, then the other, she slipped them on her bare feet. She’d have to buy hose, but that was no problem. Nothing was a problem anymore. She’d go to the store, any store she wanted. No more deliveries to the house. No more going without. She hugged herself and spun around, laughing and crying until she had worked herself into a coughing spasm.
She stopped abruptly, gasping. The pain in her lungs concerned her little, it was the fear of ruining the makeup that forced her to gain control. The makeup and its miraculous effects were essential to boosting her confidence. If she planned to go on that show tomorrow, she needed all the confidence she could muster. Twenty years of zero confidence.
Twenty wasted years.
“Corinne? What’s going on out there? You having some kinda fit?”
Her father. She’d forgotten about the old man. She glanced at the clock on her dresser. It was way past his mealtime.
“Bring an aspirin with my meal. My leg’s hurting bad. Cory?”
“I hear you, Daddy,” she called out pleasantly. She was too happy to let him spoil her euphoric mood. From now on she would treat him better. There was no reason to be bitter toward him anymore. He was an old man, sick and bedridden with a bum heart and a leg amputated at the knee from complications brought on by diabetes.
Back in the kitchen she made his lunch — a tuna sandwich, a sectioned orange, and a diet Dr. Pepper. She got two aspirins and readied the syringe for his injection.
Looking around the kitchen, she realized how filthy it was. A garbage heap. Dirty dishes crowded the sink and countertops. Trash spilled over the top of a tall wastebasket, filling one corner. The entire joint was a dump. And smelled like one. There was little that could be done about their cheap, plasterboard house, but she could get the inside in shape again like it’d been when her mother was alive.
Walking slowly, the heels of her black pumps wobbling with each step, she carried the tray into her father’s room. Without looking at him, she crossed the room to the night table and put down the tray. She
could feel him staring at her and she waited in agonized silence for him to say something. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she met his gaze.
The look on his face was almost comical. His mouth hung open and his red-rimmed eyes, beneath busy, furrowed brows, were filled with shock and disbelief.
She smiled.
He blinked.
She lifted the Dr. Pepper and aspirin and held them out to him.
He ignored them. Then he began to laugh, a low chuckle deep in his throat.
She stiffened. “What the hell’s so funny?” she snapped.
“Send in the clowwwwns,” he sang out.
She dropped the aspirin on his bed and lightly touched her face. You’re just not used to it. It took me a minute to—”
“A minute? A minute? You wasn’t expectin’ to go out like that, was you?”
She glared at him.
“Girl, are you a complete fool? Look at yerself. No, not now,” he said, when she turned to leave the room. “Wait till you’re sober, then have a good long look.”
“You’re just being mean.”
“Lookit yer goddamn eye. Did’ya think no one’d notice that?”
“I’ll wear the patch ...”
Again he laughed dryly, then became solemn. “Cory, your hair ...”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“That cute littl’ trick with the waves and curls only makes it worse.”
She touched the hair at her temples.
“What’s got into you? Christ almighty, daughter, don’t you understand? It ain’t the eye. It ain’t the scars,” he said in a quiet voice filled with pity, “It’s that ridiculous hairdo and that shitty paint slapped all over yer face. I don’t mean to hurt‘cha, Cory. I just don’t want you making a fool of yerself and yer ol’ man. Go wash it off. Wash it off and comb your hair right and forget this crazy notion that…” His words trailed off.
“I hate you,” she whispered. A rage welled up inside her, destroying the wonderful, dreamy cloud on which, only moments ago, she had floated. A stark, painful realization began to creep in.
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