Hot Ticket

by Janice Weber

  “No! No! Never! That would be violating a customer’s confidence!”

  “Could you give me a few hints, then? My curiosity is killing me.” I placed a C note on the counter. “Boy or girl?”

  “It—it’s—” Brandon threw the money back at me. “Please! I can’t tell you! It’s a matter of national security!”

  “In that case”—I sighed, tucking the bill into his apron— “please tell my admirer not to be so shy next time.”

  Brandon could only wheeze in fright. I left the shop, holding my breath as I passed the carnations. Whoever sent those orchids had made quite an impression on the florist. A matter of national security? Get serious. More likely the client had threatened to break Brandon’s neck if he didn’t keep his mouth shut. I plopped into the Corvette and roared through Georgetown. M Street writhed with students, tourists, panhandlers, and, occasionally, exquisite women. Everywhere, guts and butts: two across blocked the entire sidewalk. This was a nation of hogs, and the situation wasn’t much better in the street. Confused by the dead ends and one-ways preventing their escape from the main drag, drivers crawled along, braking timidly at each intersection. Why was Georgetown a tourist attraction? M Street was nothing but a strip mall minus the mall. The constant stop-go didn’t suit the Corvette. It was edging toward meltdown when I finally noticed that an old gray Chevy had been behind me for too long. Driver wore sunglasses opaque as my own, white baseball cap. Dressed like an aimless slob but he didn’t tailgate like one. The shape of his face, his nose, looked familiar, but he was out of context. As I was taking another look, he suddenly grinned and cut away.

  Coincidence, Smith. Unconvinced, I took the Corvette for a spin along the canal road into Maryland. The Chevy might be gone but Fausto’s shadow remained. I wondered if he always conducted such intimate conversations with strangers or if I were a special case. Either way, aggravating. Although I hadn’t told him anything, I was sure he’d learned exactly what he wanted to know, and I had learned … nothing.

  An hour later, out of gas, I returned to the hotel and made some noise with the Strad. Come what may, I still had a concert in Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. Senator Perle’s secretary interrupted once, confirming my seven o’clock appointment with the daughter. After a few hours, I quit. Wrists hurt, intonation splattered. Instead of seeing notes, I saw Barnard bleed as I dug a pin into her neck. Her blood was not red, but the rich purple of orchids. It smelled of grilled pineapple. I couldn’t believe she was dead.

  The door connecting my room and Duncan’s flew open. “What is that god-awful odor?” he cried, flopping onto the bed.

  “Herbal tea. Good for the joints. Have some.”

  “Please! I’ve just had a very nice lunch!” The king of hypochondriacs suddenly realized what I was telling him. “What’s the matter with your joints? Tendinitis? It’s probably from squeezing the brakes on that fucking motorcycle!”

  “I haven’t squeezed anything in days. Who sprang for lunch, you or Justine?”

  “Nobody sprang for anything. Will you stop prying into my personal affairs?”

  So Justine had bought again. I looked pointedly at my accompanist’s loud new tie, obviously a gift from his inamorata. Duncan would never buy himself anything red. “How many hours did you practice today?”

  “Zero. I know these pieces backward and forward.”

  “Let’s get going, then. I found a new place to rehearse.”

  “Oh God, not another boyfriend’s house! I hope the piano is decent!”

  “Should be. He used to play two hundred recitals a year.”

  That put a dent in Duncan’s cheer. He became even more upset at the sight of Fausto’s Corvette in the hotel lot. “Where’d you meet this guy?”

  “Ford’s Theatre. He gave me the car at breakfast today.” I let Duncan’s imagination run amok as we drove past the zoo. “Name’s Fausto. Don’t embarrass me now.”

  I nosed the Corvette into Fausto’s driveway. Duncan frowned at the house as he followed me up the walk. “Why do I feel like Hansel and Gretel going to visit the Wicked Witch?” he asked as I rang the doorbell.

  Still in pajamas, our host answered. Purple half-frame glasses matched the violet in his eyes. “Welcome back. Had lunch yet?”

  Duncan glared at Fausto’s embroidered kimono. “It’s three o’clock,” he announced, striding in. “We’ve eaten long ago.”

  “You must be Duncan Zadinsky. I’m Fausto Kiss.”

  Their palms grazed. Duncan swiveled his head about the foyer, searching exaggeratedly for a long black object with eighty-eight keys. “Would you mind if we got right to work? I’m pressed for time.”

  Grinning, Fausto led us to the music room. “I’d love to hear your program,” he said, “but I’m in the middle of a Scrabble game.” He closed the doors quietly.

  “Scrabble,” Duncan muttered, following me to the piano. “How degenerate! Does he ever get dressed? Or can’t he find anything to fit?”

  “Calm down, Duncan. He hasn’t touched a piano in years.”

  We rehearsed hard. Fausto was correct: the acoustics here far excelled those in the East Room. Of course Duncan disliked the piano. The place was too warm. His music didn’t stay open. Finally he stopped playing altogether and motioned for me to come to the piano bench. “He’s listening at the keyhole,” he whispered.

  “So what? We’re not exactly cloning sheep in here.”

  “You know I can’t stand eavesdroppers! Make him go away!”

  I opened the faraway doors: no one. “Done so soon?” Fausto called from the breakfast room.

  He really was playing Scrabble. “Just getting a glass of water,” I said, going to the sideboard. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

  “Not at all.” Fausto extended an arm. “Come, I’d like you to meet an old college friend.”

  His opponent lifted his head from the game board. When his green eyes met mine, I felt a mild, delphic shock. “Mr. Kaar.”

  Fausto whirled on his old friend. “You sly bastard, Ben.”

  Bendix took my hand. I was struck by his quiet yet arrogant possession of my flesh. “You’re looking a bit happier today,” he said.

  “Happier than what?” Fausto asked.

  “A few nights ago at the White House,” Bendix replied.

  “You went to that tacky affair? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.” Bendix had not let go of my hand. “How nice to see you again.”

  I took a step backward, breaking contact. “We’ll be done in an hour, Fausto.”

  When I returned to the music room, Duncan was leafing through the house copy of the Brahms sonatas. “What stupid fingerings,” he huffed, tossing aside the score. “No wonder no one ever heard of him.” After Brahms, he insisted that we practice Messiaen. Since I hadn’t yet told him about our cancellations, I had no choice but to humor him. But I wanted this rehearsal over now that Bendix was listening.

  Finally Duncan glanced at his watch. “My God! Look at the time!” The wife of some cultural attaché had invited him to dinner. “Will you step on it!? I can’t keep foreign dignitaries waiting!”

  “Give me ten seconds to say good-bye.”

  The breakfast room was empty. Duncan snatched a note from a silver platter in the hall. “‘I’m in the bath. Feel free to join me.’ Gad! Where do you find these people?”

  I unlocked the front door. “Come on.”

  Rush hour: red lights, redder tempers. Cabs, horses, and prams choked Connecticut Avenue. Duncan was accustomed to Berlin, where jaywalkers at least had the courtesy to step a little faster while they blocked traffic. After a few minutes, realizing that nothing was to be gained but a robust case of laryngitis, he stopped shouting insults out the window and sank into a pout. As we passed the long boundary of the zoo, he suddenly perked up. “You met Fausto at a play?” he asked in an oddly conversational tone.

  “Ford’s Theatre. Justine didn’t tell you she sat next to me?”

  Dunca
n frowned. “Was there a good crowd?”

  “Packed. Bobby and Paula were there, too.”

  He waited three seconds. “How’d you get a ticket?”

  My accompanist had about as much finesse as a trash compactor. “Why does Justine want to know?”

  “What a stupid question! Will you stop picking on her!”

  “Someone sent it to me,” I sighed. “I don’t know who.” Duncan would pass along the fib.

  “And you went?”

  “Why not? I love Schnitzler.”

  “Maybe it’s the same guy who sent the orchids. Could be a stalker.”

  I zoomed through a yellow light. “Any more questions I can answer for your girlfriend?”

  “She asked about your love life,” he whimpered finally.

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “That after Hugo you only had one serious fling. But with two men.” Thanks a mil, Duncan. Very elegant. “She wondered if you were seeing anyone in Washington.”

  “For Christ’s sake! I just got here!”

  “That’s what I said.” Duncan was sinking into a funk. “Now that I think about it, every other question was about you. Justine’s not interested in me at all.”

  “Come on. She was just trying to break the ice.” Against my better judgment, I extolled her virtues until we arrived back at the hotel. Duncan ran smiling to his room and I spent an hour in the gym converting guilt to sweat. Although women were much more invidious adversaries than men, I knew I could handle Justine Cortot. She was nothing but a feisty amateur with an ability to see one step ahead of her enemies. To survive in this town, however, she’d need to see ten steps ahead—twenty behind—and Justine was a little too smug to pull that off. Sooner or later she’d go down. I didn’t want Duncan dragged down with her.

  My room reeked of wilting orchids. I threw them out. Last thing I needed tonight was a musical exhibition by Aurilla Perle’s daughter. However, since the invitation smelled totally rotten, I was obligated to go. Showered, dressed in narrow pink pants and fuzzy halter. At precisely seven o’clock, parked the Corvette in front of Senator Perle’s castle a few miles up the Potomac. Wide balconies, a chandelier in every leaded window: she obviously didn’t need a husband for economic survival. A man stopped me at her front stoop. Holster under the arm, audio pickup in left ear: armed guards, and she hadn’t even been named vice president yet. “Leslie Frost,” I told him. “The violin teacher.”

  “Leslie Frost,” he repeated into the intercom, poising me in front of the camera.

  Senator Perle answered. She wore the same dress as that morning, but without the power belt. Her hair was still perfectly glacéed but the twenty-four-hour makeup was nearing the end of its shift. I had not seen her wearing glasses before. She looked her age. “Thank you for being punctual,” she said as a second guard ran a metal detector over my bra. “My daughter is waiting.”

  Aurilla’s unnamed assistant, a pastiche of earth tones, emerged from a large first floor office. “Have you met Wallace?” her boss asked.

  “Gretchen’s so excited that you’re here,” Wallace assured me, crushing my hand as if it were a stress relief ball. “So am I.”

  “Hold my calls,” Aurilla commanded. I followed the proud mother to a beautifully appointed parlor. It was like the senator’s hairdo: not an atom out of place. Looked less like a room than an extension of its owner’s will. In the middle of the carpet lay a mound of French fries.

  “Gretchen dear,” said Aurilla, stepping over them, “this is Miss Frost.”

  Motionless as a doll, arms resting on the chair as if it were her throne, a girl of maybe eight watched my approach. One was tempted to ruffle the flyaway black hair, pat her adorable cheeks, until one saw the eyes. I understood why Aurilla had thanked me for arriving on time. “Hello,” I said.

  The girl spat. We both watched a gob of potato cling to my thigh before dropping to the carpet.

  “Gretchen!” Aurilla snapped. “Miss Frost is a famous musician! Shake her hand!”

  Sliding off the chair, the girl extended her hand. I was about to shake it when she tried to kick me. Bad move, even for an eight-year-old. I caught her foot and flipped her to the floor. Luckily, the French fries cushioned her fall. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Neither of them moved so I tuned the violin lying on top of the sofa and ran a few scales up and down. Aurilla had bought her daughter an expensive instrument. “Get up and play something,” I said after a while, handing it to her.

  “I don’t want to.”

  Wouldn’t a mother have rushed to her humiliated flesh and blood, screamed for the security guard, had me thrown out? Conversely, wouldn’t she have reprimanded the girl again? Aurilla merely stood in place with that ghoulish, plastic smile.

  “Don’t play, then,” I shrugged. Tucked the violin under my chin and, strolling about, began a Paganini caprice. Nothing in this room told me anything about Senator Perle except that she had money and a ruined daughter. Eventually I cut short the fireworks. “How long have you been studying?” I asked the girl, yanking loose hairs out of the bow.

  “Four years.”

  “Like it?”

  “No.”

  I resumed playing, waiting for Aurilla to make her move. Why did people in this town always have to involve a third wheel in their petty machinations? I wandered to the window. In the driveway, three black cars had come to a halt. Two men alit from the first and last vehicles. The four of them fanned out, adroitly taking positions along the perimeter of Aurilla’s property. The rear door of the middle car opened. Four men in suits clustered a fifth, hustling him to Aurilla’s front door. As the bell rang, I smiled at my own stupidity: textbook Secret Service. Aurilla had been waiting all along for Bobby Marvel. Maybe he had come to give her some acting tips for Jojo’s funeral. Fat chance, Smith. He had come to see me.

  “You could get a hundred grand for this,” I told Aurilla, setting down the violin. “Why don’t you cash in and send Gretchen to the Citadel.”

  After a soft knock, the door opened. Aurilla’s assistant peered in. “Excuse me. The president is here.”

  “Thank you, Wallace.” Aurilla’s android smile rose a notch. “Gretchen, play something for Miss Frost. Right now.” She left.

  I sat on the girl’s chair. “Got a checkerboard?”

  She finally got up from the cushion of French fries. “I want to play my violin.”

  I handed it over. “Not too loud, please. I can’t stand squeaks.”

  She didn’t make many. As I had suspected, the girl was very gifted: not many chromosomes separated psychopath from prodigy. “Nice,” I said when the Mendelssohn had ended. “Who’s your teacher?”

  “Uncle Bendix.” While my mouth was hanging open, Gretchen added, “But he hasn’t given me a lesson in a long time.”

  I sighed. “Play something else.”

  Mozart. Gretchen’s face became wise beyond her years; I recognized the look and pitied those who would someday become her lovers. After she finished, I showed her a few bowings. We were deep in horsehair when a voice interrupted.

  “Wonderful.” Bobby Marvel, three feet away.

  Gretchen immediately reverted to form. “Who asked you?” she snapped, cracking her boot against the president’s shin.

  Marvel managed a smile as he rubbed his bruise. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

  Aurilla appeared. “What’s going on here?”

  As Bobby straightened up, a few fries fell into his cuff. “Just tying my shoelace.”

  “You were not,” Gretchen cried. “Buzz off!”

  “Gretchen Perle! Mind your manners!”

  Ah, if Maxine could see me now. I put down the violin and patted the girl’s head. “Keep up the good work, dear.” Now for the tricky part. “Good night, sir.”

  He wouldn’t let go of my hand. Worse, his thumb was wandering. “That was such a fantastic concert the other night. I could listen to the whole thing all over again.”

  When I
didn’t offer to play the whole thing all over again, Aurilla stepped into the breach. “President Marvel’s quite a musician, you know.”

  Spoons? Washboard? “I brought my cornet with me to the White House,” he boasted. “Still play it sometimes with the Marine Band.”

  They must just love that. My hand was beginning to sweat but Bobby held on through a long-winded paean to his cornet teacher. “One in a million,” the president blubbered, eyes bright with tears. “I still think of him every day.”

  I finally got my hand back. Nearly ran to the Corvette but my getaway was not quite fast enough. As I was buckling my seat belt, a Secret Service agent caught up with me. “The president would like a word with you, ma’am. Just wait a moment.”

  My usual reply would have been a fifty-foot swath of rubber. However, I was a member of the armed forces, he was my commander in chief, so I walked dutifully to the car waiting in the shadows. No voters here, so Marvel didn’t need to act presidential; in fact, he sat in the backseat with his legs curled, the better to massage the welt on his shin. I sat in the corner and tried to appear awed. After Barnard’s video, it just wasn’t possible. “Hurt?” I asked finally.

  “Goddamn brat. Did you like Mr. Schnizzler?”

  Took a moment to figure out whom he meant. “Not really. It was a bad translation. Badly acted.” Bobby watched as I crossed my legs. “Lousy night.”

  The president suddenly leaned forward, chin jutting like a pit bull. At last he looked like the guy on fifty-cent postcards. “Someone else was expected in that seat.”

  As my heart thumped against my halter, warm French perfume blossomed in the dark. Go! Now! I leapt over the cliff. “Polly gave me her ticket.”

  He gasped. “You know Polly?”

  “We’re old friends.” A drop of sweat inched down my side. I smelled like a bitch in heat, and Bobby noticed. “She tells me everything.”

  “Is that a fact. What does she call me?”

  I viciously raked my brain, exhuming only that message on Barnard’s answering machine. “Something to do with ice cream, I think.” Bobby grunted unpleasantly. Roll the dice! “If I were you,” I said, slowly recrossing my legs, “I’d forget about her. She has a short attention span.”