Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  “And booze, I suppose, or maybe... smoke?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Anything you want, we got it. The three S’s, that’s us. Sin, sex and smoke.” She gave them an impudent grin. “And don’t worry none about raids. The cops are on the take.”

  “Does that orchestra ever play a tango?” Juliet asked.

  “You a Rudy fan? I go for Latin lovers myself. Sure, I’ll put a bug in Frank’s ear. That’s the gink that’s leadin’ the band.”

  “Thanks.” Colin pressed another bill into her hand.

  “Geez.” She looked down, her eyes widening as she saw another hundred. “You got what it takes’n we’ll take what you got.” She clapped a hand to her mouth and looked actually discomfited. “Listen to me. I sound like I’m comin’ unstrung.” Her grin appeared again. “Maybe you’d like to go downstairs, huh? Lotsa partyin’ goin’ on down there’n upstairs, too. You let me know when you dogs get tired’n I’ll find a nice comfy place for you to lie down.” She fluttered one of her heavily beaded eyelashes and moved away.

  “If you get to those black satin sheets before I do, let me know,” Juliet whispered.

  “I’m not that thirsty, yet,” he muttered.

  “You...” Juliet paused as the music suddenly changed from “Ain’t She Sweet,” to “Jealousy.”

  “A tango,” she announced.

  Colin dutifully led her onto the floor, but before they had accomplished their first swoop, he felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned to find a tall, slender young man with slicked-back black hair and dark langorous eyes—at least they would have been langorous if he had not been staring so avidly at Juliet.

  Colin, glancing at his sister, received the high sign he expected. He relinquished her into her new partner’s arms and finding a nearby potted palm in the curve of the stairs, he stood beside it, half-concealed by its fronds, searching out the various women who were minus escorts. He recognized half a dozen famous faces but regarded them without interest. He was not there to court publicity. A dance with any one of them would be accompanied by photographs, the results of which he did not like to contemplate. He glanced at several unknowns. They didn’t interest him either, mainly because they looked the worse for the quantities of booze they must have imbibed. He still remembered the time in New York when he had drained a tipsy socialite with disastrous results to his own constitution. He had managed to make it back to the cemetery, but Juliet still talked about how she got him into his coffin just in time.

  One of the women had to be the woman. Though his need was, as yet, just a little tickle in his throat, it would grow. Before the night was out, his thirst must be slaked. However he had time. He frowned as a cry of protest touched by fright reached him.

  “But Mr. Galgani, I didn’t come here for that. You said I’d meet a lot of people—producers.”

  “Aw c’mon, Morna, you’re so big on begin’ a vamp,, whyn’t you try ’n vamp me?”

  “I don’t want to go upstairs. I’ve heard about... about what’s up there. Ow, you’re hurting my wrist!”

  “Lissen, you little twit, I spent a hell of a lotta dough on bringin’ you to this here clip joint an’...”

  “You said...”

  “I said we’d have ourselves a damned good time’n we will. All you gotta do is be Theda and bare it.” His loud laughter made Colin wince. “Get it,” he chortled. “Theda Bara?”

  “I get it and I don’t want it,” she retorted bravely. “Now take your big paws off of me and... ahhhh.” She screamed as Colin heard the sound of a slap.

  Fury raced through him. Making his way around the curving newel post, he looked upwards and saw a squat, chunky man in ill-fitting evening clothes half-dragging a slender young woman in black chiffon up the stairs. Swiftly he mounted them, arriving at the top a split second behind the couple. Moving down the corridor, he managed to get ahead of them and turning swiftly said softly, “I don’t think this lady wishes to go with you, sir.”

  “Yeah,” he received a lowering glare, “an’ I don’t think it’s any of your damned business what she wants.”

  “Oh, please.” The girl stared at Colin out of dark eyes heavily rimmed with mascara. Her dark hair framed a thin pretty face in heavy bangs. Spit curls seemed pasted to both cheeks. Her mouth was unfortunately a trifle wider than the bee-stung pout she had painted on it. She wore quantities of cheap but flashy jewelry in the form of beads and chains around her slender neck, bangles on her wrists and a snakeskin belt complete with serpentine head hugging her slender waist. Moved as he was by her plight, Colin, recognizing the popular “vamp” look, had difficulty swallowing a grin as he wondered what several vampiric ladies of his acquaintance would say were they confronted with the girl and her costume. He wished he might tell her that with the possible exception of his sister Juliet they dressed very quietly.

  His stream of thought was interrupted as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Like are you goin’ to stop botherin’ us, sonny boy? Or do I have to give it to you with the knuckles?”

  “I shouldn’t suggest that you do,” Colin said pleasantly, his hand closing on Mr. Galgani’s thick wrist.

  “Aowwww,” the bully screamed. “Leggo, yer breakin’ my wrist!”

  Colin did not even glance at him. Relaxing his hold, he offered his arm to the girl. “Come, my dear, let’s go downstairs.”

  Her huge dark eyes were wide and tears gleamed in them. A good portion of her mascara was running down her purposely whitened cheeks. “That was wonderful of you, but... look out!” she screamed as the big man slammed against them, grabbing for Colin’s sholder. He turned, and in another instant Mr. Galgani was tumbling down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, he jumped up and dashed through a forest of tables, knocking down a few as he went and finally running out of the club.

  Though her hand had tightened convulsively on his arm, Colin was inordinately pleased to find that the girl seemed totally in command of herself. She was actually smiling as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  They were confronted by an angry and blustering Kitty. “Look,” she began, “I don’t go for no rough stuff in this here joint. Tony Galgani is a good friend of mine.”

  “You ought to be more selective,” Colin said softly. “But as it happens, this young lady and myself are just leaving.” Moving past Kitty, he said solicitously, “Do you have a wrap, Miss...”

  “Moran,” she supplied. “Morna Moran, but look, you needn’t bring me home. You were swell. You were really swell, but I don’t want to make you go to any more trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t want you to go home alone.”

  “Well, I guess I won’t say ‘no,’ then, Mr....”

  “Colin Veringer,” he supplied.

  “Gee, that sounds English,” she commented with a touch of hauteur.

  “Don’t you like the English?” he inquired.

  “Well, I guess I do like some of them,” she allowed. “My grandfather came over to the U.S.A. because of the potato famine, but I guess you didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “No,” he said quickly. He himself had dark memories of that period—the Irish starving in their wasted fields. It had really reached him, and now he also remembered why. He said, “I’m half Irish, myself.”

  “Hey, how’s about that!” She clapped her hands. “That’s really peachy-keen. Did your folks come here because of the potato famine, too?”

  “Other reasons. Let’s go, shall we?”

  “Sure thing. I really don’t like this joint. Can you imagine that big galoot told me he had all sorts of connections in the movies? Didn’t tell me he had another sort of connection in mind for me.” She flushed. “I’m sure glad you showed up when you did.”

  “I’m glad I did, too.”

  “Hey, I really like you, Mr. Veringer.”

  “I like you, too, Miss Moran.”

  They were playing another tango as Colin and the girl skirted the dance
floor. He came to a stop as he saw Juliet. She was still in the arms of the Valentinoesque young man and arched in so deep a bend that her head nearly touched her partner’s pointed patent leather pumps, but in another second they were moving across the floor, their heads and shoulders immobile, their clasped hands thrust forward, their expressions seemingly frozen into passionate frowns, a pose that was quickly abandoned as Juliet sighted Colin. Still clutching her partner’s hand, she hurried toward her brother, saying breathlessly, “Colin, I want you to meet Gareth Garnet, who is, as you can see, a marvelous dancer.”

  “It is you who are marvelous, my dear.” Garnet visited a glowing look on Juliet but produced a jealous glare for Colin. “You are both marvelous!” Morna exclaimed.

  “I agree,” Colin said enthusiastically. “Juliet, dear, this is Morna Moran.”

  “Delighted,” Juliet responded, looking at her questioningly.

  “I’m taking Miss Moran home,” Colin amplified.

  “Will you be coming back for me?” Juliet asked.

  Gareth said hastily, “I’d like it if you’d let me see you home, Miss Veringer.”

  “Oh, you’re related!” Moran blurted and blushed.

  “Yes, we’re brother and sister,” Colin explained and was immediately surprised by his admission. Usually he and Juliet posed as husband and wife. He glanced at his sister, expecting to read surprise or possibly annoyance in her expressive eyes, but she wasn’t even looking at him. Her gaze was fastened on her partner’s face. “Come,” Colin said to Morna. “Let’s go.”

  It was in keeping with her fantastic costume, he thought amusedly, that Morna should claim a long black cloak from the hatcheck girl.

  Coming out of the club, she suddenly left him to run toward the cliffs edge, staring down at the glistening white swirl of surf. “Smell that air!” she said ecstatically as a rising breeze whisked her hair back from her face and sent her cloak billowing out behind her.

  Colin stared at her, feeling as if he were seeing her for the first time. Her profile was faintly Grecian and definitely beautiful. Desire rose in him. He wanted to embrace her but did not dare. Now that she was no longer frightened, there was a joyous innocence about her that he wanted to preserve a little longer. This would not be the last time he would see her, he knew that, and an embrace would certainly open the door to other desires. He said, “Why do you wear black? You ought to be in colors or, better yet, white.”

  She whirled around to face him. “Holy Gee, I’m supposed to be a vamp. You know... like Theda Bara? Haven’t you ever seen her?”

  “I don’t think I have. Of course, I’ve heard of her.”

  “I guess you don’t see many movies, huh?”

  “Not many, but you have?”

  “I’ll say.” She grinned at him. “I’ve even been in a couple, not so’s you’d notice me.”

  “I’d always notice you.” He smiled down at her, finding that he really meant it.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” she said positively. “I was a Babylonian priestess in Intolerance four years ago. Not even my own mother, God rest her soul, could’ve picked me out.”

  “Four years ago!” he exclaimed. “You must have been a mere child.”

  “Oh, go on.” She giggled. “I was eighteen. I just turned twenty-two. I bet you aren’t much older than that yourself.”

  It always startled Colin when anyone tried to guess his age and arrived at what would have been the correct amount of years—they had that is, if met in 1788, the year of his transition. Usually it did not carry with it the regret he suddenly experienced at this moment. It was hard for him to say casually, “That’s about it.”

  “I knew it,” she said happily. “I’m sort of psychic, I guess, at least where ages are concerned, and maybe a couple of other things, too. The Irish are fey. Anyhow, as I was telling you, you really need a big break if you’re going to climb out of the extra ranks. I thought I’d done it when I was in The Love Flower for Mr. Griffith again, and I actually had a scene but it ended up on the cutting room floor. You can’t get anywhere unless you doll up fancy and maybe somebody sees you and thinks you’re the cat’s whiskers. That’s why I came here with Tony. He said he’d introduce me to a lot of people. He said I was star material. I guess I should’ve known he was the big kidder.”

  There was so much wistfulness in her tone that Colin found himself saying, “It might be that I have a few connections, too.” At the same time, he resolved to get in touch with Richard or Septimus as soon as he could.

  “You have connections?” she questioned excitedly. “You look just like a movie star yourself.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t photograph well.”

  “I can’t believe that,” she exclaimed, staring up at him. “Maybe you ought to look in your mirror more often.”

  He wondered what she would say if she knew he hadn’t seen himself in a mirror for over a century. Thinking about that, he remembered that he was thirsty. He said quickly, “I’d better take you home. I’ll see if I can get a cab.”

  ❖

  A short time before dawn, Juliet skipped down to the cellar. She was humming to herself as she sped toward that part of the labyrinth reserved for herself and Colin. Upon entering the wide room, she found her brother wrapped in the Chinese robe he donned for his “rests.”

  “Oh, you’re here. Did you?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “Did you?”

  “I didn’t either, but I am going to see him again.”

  “Same here.” he returned. “I had a rabbit tonight. What about you?”

  “A squirrel,” she replied, and meeting her brother’s surprised stare, she added flippantly, “I wasn’t really thirsty.”

  “I wasn’t either,” he lied, as he lifted the lid of his coffin. Juliet slipped out of her garments and hung them on a long steel costume rack provided by Septimus, who had filched it from the Empire Theater in Peoria. “He’s a good dancer.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And what does she do, that strange looking girl?”

  Since he was too tired to either argue with Juliet or defend Morna, he said merely, “She wants to be a vamp in the movies.”

  “Well, she’s certainly come to the right place for instruction,” Juliet drawled.

  “Do you know? I’m not entirely sure of that—or maybe she has. It all depends on Richard.” With that enigmatic remark, he slid into his coffin.

  Juliet started to ask him what he meant but thought better of it. Colin was in one of his moods tonight, that was obvious. She, too, was in a mood, she who had gotten out of the habit of wishing for anything was thinking of Gareth Garnet, as she pulled down the lid of her coffin, and wishing that she were allowed the luxury of dreaming.

  ❖

  Ruth Fiske, seated on a canvas chair next to a similar chair which bore Matthew Vernon’s name in white letters on a tan background, watched as Richard and Kathie Grenfall rehearsed a scene from the screen play of Cagliostro and the Queen. That was the new title and, she was sure, one that probably would be changed again very soon, given Mr. Goldbaum’s mercurial decisions.

  She was glad that the producer was busy in his office this afternoon rather than storming around the set. That would have been something he surely would be doing had he been privileged to view his new stars enacting the moment when Cagliostro persuades his timid wife to deliver the necklace to the queen.

  Kathie, she noted with surprised approval, was even better than she had been the previous day. The girl was all shyness and distress as she mimed her fear of embarking upon The Questionable Quest, the title that would be flashed upon the screen between shots. Richard, on the other hand, stood stolidly, frowning only when sharply prompted by the increasingly, impatient director. Otherwise the expression came and went like the sun on a cloudy afternoon.

  “Son,” Septimus yelled from his vantage point behind Ruth’s chair, “for God’s sake try and act!”

  Of course he was totally out of li
ne, and Matthew Vernon would probably give him a good strong lecture or perhaps not, given his obvious penchant for Kathie Grenfall. Ruth firmed her lips. It was a pity that Richard had to act. He had better talents. He had come up with some very canny clauses to the contracts he prepared prior to embarking upon rehearsals. Though Mr. Goldbaum had howled “foul,” he had signed. Later he had agreed with Ruth that Richard did have the makings of an excellent and, amazingly enough, fair agent—something the industry badly needed. But, as she had on the last two mornings, she wondered why their New York talent scout hadn’t fastened on Septimus rather than his son for the role of the magician. The Cagliostro dreamed up by Joe, Dave and Aaron Goldbaum, the producer’s nephews, had called for an older man. Almost immediately she recalled that Septimus had not been performing on the afternoon Richard and Kathie were spotted. Her thoughts were abruptly scattered as Matthew Vernon predictably called for a recess and came storming over to Septimus, his eyes alight with ire and his lower lip thrust out.

  With a sinking heart, Ruth recognized the expression. The director had worn it on the day he had tossed Evangeline Goldbaum, her employer’s beautiful but interfering bride off the set. Evangeline had gone into strong hysterics and ordered her husband to fire Matthew. With the business acumen and common sense that had built the Goldbaum-Magnum enterprise, the producer had immediately made arrangements to divorce the lady. It would be a pity if he fired Septimus, who did seem to know as much about the period as was necessary for a picture of such doubtful authenticity. She wished she might say something that would throw oil upon Matthew’s boiling waters, but she knew from experience that it was no use.

  “Mr. Grenfall,” the director began, “will you please change places with your son? I have decided that as an actor, he might very well be the best agent in Hollywood. I will not have him mucking up this production any more than it has been mucked up already by possibly the worse script that was ever invented by man—or rather men. It would take a magician to save it, and I understand from your daughter that you are a superb magician!”

  “Sir, are you saying that you believe my son to be a bad actor?” Septimus inquired sternly.