Hot Ticket

by Janice Weber

  That taunt couldn’t be ignored. I left the zoo and walked ten minutes to Fausto’s steep, quiet street. The night was soupy and dark, perfect for peeping. Most of his neighbors had either gone to sleep or left town for the weekend. I smiled to see lights ablaze in his music room. Good boy … sort of. Walked back up his hill, stopping at the ninth telephone pole. Its upper third was shrouded in willow leaves. Held my breath, then jumped. Thigh disliked all that friction but I had to get to the iron hooks, out of headlight range, fast. Soon I was embowered with the black box at the top. Snapped on my flashlight, went down the neat pairs of terminal screws, searching for the red and white wire that ran from here to Fausto’s cupboard. Connected two of my own wires to his. Fausto was now sharing his line with a transmitter about the size of a deck of cards. I started down the pole but whoa: car: froze as a Mercedes scuttled past. The driver wore red feathers. She had a passenger.

  Dropped the last ten feet to spongy earth. Justine’s car was parked in Fausto’s driveway. The clouds growled as I raced across his lawn toward the high windows of the music room. Visibility poor through the organza but I saw his hands on the keyboard. Splotches of Saint-Saëns seeped outside. Justine shared the sofa with a man whose head lay in her lap. Duncan? Couldn’t tell: too many feathers. The two of them listened to the whole damn triptych. Incredible: Saint-Saëns usually made my accompanist break out in boils. Now he was sitting through just the piano part of a duo?

  Fausto finished his half-assed recital, to dull applause. Justine stood and so did the gentleman. My pulse dipped when I saw Bobby Marvel.

  Last spring the president had been reprimanded for sneaking out of the White House without his Secret Service contingent. Needed space, he had whined. No one had wanted to ask with whom, and Bobby had promised not to do it again. But that was months ago; in Washington, fruit flies lived longer than oaths. I watched the escapee totter to the sideboard, pour himself a drink. Bobby eventually seated himself next to Fausto at the keyboard. One lit a cigarette, the other a cigar, then they began to play the Schubert Fantasy. Justine turned pages.

  Their musicale so hypnotized me that I didn’t hear the van until it was in the driveway. I hit the deck a second before its headlights splashed the wall behind me. What now, the Supreme Court coming to sing Liebeslieder? A kid with two pizza boxes entered the pool of light on Fausto’s stoop. Half of me accepted him at face value. The other half calculated how many seconds the delivery boy would need to strangle Fausto, put a few holes in Bobby, and drive away.

  Fausto answered the door. I held my breath as he let the kid in. No immediate gunshots, but that meant nothing. I crawled to a break in the curtains. Inside, Justine remained at Bobby’s side, staring at the music. He appeared to be studying the score as well. They seemed frozen, on edge. Then I saw the hem of Justine’s red skirt rise. Bobby’s fingers were trilling between her legs and, judging from the arch of her back, precipitating turbulence.

  Twenty feet away, Fausto’s front door opened. “Thanks,” the pizza boy called, returning to the van. Fausto watched it drive away, then lit a cigarette. While he putzed with the flowerpots on his stoop, I found another breach in the drapery just in time to see Bobby heave Justine facedown over the piano and begin ramming her, using the same short, brutish strokes I had seen in the bathtub video. He held her ankles wide apart, as if maneuvering a wheelbarrow full of feathers over rough terrain.

  When Bobby’s knee crashed into the keyboard, Fausto looked up from his begonias and smiled. Damn, coming my way: I rolled into the shrubbery as his slow steps crossed the patio. Fausto took my post at the window, observing the action between drags on his cigarette. Copulation seemed to excite him about as much as dead fish. He chuckled once before going back inside.

  Another crunch in the driveway as a black Lincoln inched next to Justine’s Mercedes. Three men, heavily armed, herded a fourth to the door. I probably should have been a little more surprised to see Krikor Tunalian, who didn’t even have to knock before Fausto answered. “Come in, come in,” he announced grandly. “The president is waiting.” Since Tuna had left two bodyguards at the door, I stayed in the bushes. Not for long, though: pizza party broke up in fifteen minutes. Tuna’s contingent left first, Justine/Bobby shortly thereafter. Fausto practiced like a madman for another hour before packing it in.

  What the hell had just happened? Clueless, I returned to the hotel. About to step into the bathtub when the phone rang. “You’ve been out.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

  “You looked gorgeous in that greenhouse tonight. Sorry I couldn’t talk. Paula has eyes like a cougar and fangs to match. She was all on edge, too. Hasn’t been herself lately. I ignored you for your own good. Don’t take it too hard.”

  “No problem,” I yawned. “Sounds like Polly stood your wife up, too. Does the First Lady have any idea you two were sleeping together?”

  Bobby stuck to the original subject. “You left before dinner. Those two empty seats were like a slap in my face the whole night long.”

  “What’s the problem? Fausto paid the going rate, didn’t he?”

  “You missed a terrific speech.”

  Yawn. “Fausto wanted to practice. We’ve got a concert tomorrow.”

  “You left me in order to practice?”

  Ah, trick question. “No, Fausto practiced. I went for a drive.”

  Perturbed silence. “I’m all wound up, baby. Come see me.”

  “Haven’t you had enough excitement for one evening?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Just gettin’ my second wind.”

  I stuck a toe in the water. “I’m flattered that you called, Mr. President. But nothing interferes with my bath.”

  “Bitch! This is the loneliest job in the world,” he whined.

  “I’m sure it is. Enjoy.”

  I wasn’t about to become the fluff in Bobby’s second wind. Sank into the tub, disturbed by twists in current events. Marvel evades Secret Service, an accomplishment in itself, to meet Tuna. He’s assisted by the perfidious Justine, whose affair with Duncan does not prevent her from spreading her legs for an old flame. Worst, I kept seeing Fausto’s contented smile as he looked up from the begonias. All was proceeding as he had planned. I didn’t have one clue in hell what was going on.

  I was caught in a torrent, rushing toward a waterfall. Trees and houses shot over the edge, hitting the rocks with a boom! Boom! Shuddered awake. Rain pelted the window. Sudden bright lightning, a thunderclap: storm over Washington. Fringe of a hurricane, claimed the weather channel. Duncan barged in as I was watching the news. The blue sling for his cast matched his bow tie. “Justine and I are going to Cleveland,” he announced. “She’s going to meet my parents.”

  I waved him quiet. We listened to an update on Jojo Bailey, now sharing his room with wife, mother, and spiritualist. The action cut to Bobby Marvel emerging from the hospital looking puffy and sad, as if he had been up all night administering last rites.

  “This is a tragedy for the American people. I ask everyone to join me in prayer.”

  “Prayer for what?” Duncan asked.

  “Swift confirmation of Aurilla Perle.”

  Duncan scowled: I had reminded him of this evening’s house concert. “I danced with her at the White House. She had about as much rhythm as a fire hydrant. Why have you play at her damn party? You don’t fit in at all.”

  “Maybe it’s you she wanted.”

  “Pfuiii! I have no further interest in dancing with that woman! Or her guests!” Duncan helped himself to a brioche from my breakfast trolley. “By the way, you were right about Justine shooting Marvel years ago. She’d really like to know how you found out.”

  “I think it was on the Net. Did she tell you why she clipped him?”

  Duncan munched enigmatically. “He deserved it.”

  “Something strange about those two, Duncan. Would you hire someone who shot you to be your press secretary? Would you go to work for someone you shot? Maybe t
hey’re more attached than you think.”

  “For Pete’s sake, they’ve known each other forever! It’s a family affair!”

  “So’s incest.” I turned off the television when Aurilla’s powdered face took over the screen. “When’s that cast coming off?”

  “About a week.”

  I wanted both of us out of here by then. “It’ll feel good to start playing again.”

  Duncan merely peeled a banana with one working hand and his teeth. After he left, I practiced. When the rain stopped around noon, I took a long run around the Tidal Basin. This was an annoying town, deep as a Monopoly board. I pounded past the White House, irritated that the president was meeting arms dealers while his press secretary was setting up an innocent pianist for the mother of all falls. I was irritated that a monomaniacal scientist could vanish and that a philosopher manqué could control everyone—especially me—like puppets. God only knew what he had in store tonight at Aurilla’s.

  The clouds reared and rumbled as I jogged by Watergate. Glanced up at the ninth-floor balcony, wondering how many months in advance Barnard had paid her rent. Sorry, friend. Some avenger I turned out to be. Suddenly, convulsively, I missed her. While she lived, I was not entirely alone. Now I was last of my kind, unlikely victor of an undeclared war, survival of which had brought desolation rather than glory. I had not foreseen that.

  The sky spat warmly at me as I returned to the hotel. On the table was a fresh bouquet of orchids. Play well tonight. That put me over the edge so I called Curtis. “Cancel the concert. Tell Aurilla anything you want. I’m not going.”

  Agent sinking but this was an open line. My manager had to play his part. “What’s the problem?”

  I began with the most blatant. “Fausto.”

  “He can’t cut it? You’ve been rehearsing for days.”

  “He can cut it. I just don’t want him there.”

  “Sorry, that’s not reason enough to cancel. Try another.”

  “I’m not ready,” I whimpered. “Fausto picked a ridiculous program.”

  “You’ve got five hours. Plenty of time to get your act together. I thought you said no one was going to be listening anyway.”

  “That’s another reason.”

  “Poor thing,” he said without a shred of sympathy. “Tell you what. I’ll call Aurilla, you call Fausto. I’m sure he’ll understand.” Fifteen seconds of silence. “Feeling better?”

  I heard the teakettle whistling. Curtis was in the kitchen, probably wearing his plaid apron. Maybe he had a batch of oatmeal cookies in the oven. I violently wished I were home, milk glass in hand, watching his perfect round rump. “Can you come to Washington?” I whimpered.

  “Sorry, I’m tied up with your accountants. How’s Duncan?”

  “Screwing merrily toward Big Bang.”

  “It’ll do him good. Hold on.” I heard the oven hinges squeak. “Derschl called this morning. He wants Beethoven the last week of October. I told him no problem.”

  “What are you baking?”

  “Kirschtorte. Just play the concert, Les. People are counting on you.”

  Ah, Curtis: the mere sound of his voice soothed my wretched life. I couldn’t disappoint him, even if I went down in the process. Practiced a little more, trying not to think about Fausto. Not possible so, yielding to temptation, I listened to the cassette Bendix had sent over. His sonata was awful but Fausto’s performance was brilliant. Once again, I lusted to get close to the brain behind those sounds: no aphrodisiac like talent. Perhaps I was not completely alone after all. Picked up the phone. “Ready to roll, Fausto?”

  “I’m a little nervous, sweet. You’re the only person I’d ever admit that to.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “A tux, naturally.”

  “Black?”

  “Is there any other color?”

  “Just checking. Wouldn’t want to clash. Are you interested in trying Aurilla’s piano?”

  “Hell no. It is what it is.”

  Duncan would have demanded a three-hour dress rehearsal, with tuner present. Then again, Fausto and I were playing charades, not a real concert. “Dinner’s at eight. I presume we make noise around ten.”

  “We forgot about encores. Why don’t you come over at six and run through a few.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon watching bulletins about Jojo Bailey, who was fading fast. What a crass time for his successor to be throwing a dinner party.

  Where the hell was Louis?

  Chapter Eight

  DESPITE HIS GIRTH, Fausto looked excellent in a tux. Five thumbtack-size diamonds glistened between tie and cummerbund. He had combed his hair straight back, revealing a stark widow’s peak. I smelled cologne and excitement. “Eh, you dog.”

  His round eyes traversed my pink satin gown, upswept hair. “The hell with Aurilla. Let’s take my plane to Paris and dance till dawn.”

  “You dance?”

  “Every civilized man does. Oh well. Another time.” He swished through the doors to his music room. “Business before pleasure.”

  As I laid my violin case on the sofa, the downdraft lifted a red feather into the air. It settled near a pillow as I tuned the Strad. Fausto hadn’t bothered to straighten the embroidered throw on top of his piano, which now looked like an unmade bed: I found that mildly insulting. “What treasures have you got for me this time?”

  “Flight of the Bumble Bee. The perfect encore.” Cute, but so were most pieces about insects. I played it so fast that he had difficulty keeping up. “Obviously one of your favorites,” he breezed afterward. “If they keep clapping, we’ll do this.”

  A Joplin rag immortalized by The Sting. Clever piece, but I wasn’t in a ragtime mood. “Is all this bug and sting shit one of your inside jokes? Isn’t that in rather poor taste, considering Jojo’s condition?”

  Fausto looked up from the keyboard. “You’re taking this seriously?”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten. This is how I earn my living.”

  He burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re just a poor widow trying to make ends meet? That’s why you’re doing this?”

  Careful: after all these rehearsals, he knew me too well. “Aurilla called, my manager booked it. Period.”

  Fausto smiled sourly. “Did your manager tell you to hire me?”

  “No, that was spur of the moment. I thought that up all by myself. I wanted to know if you played as well as you talked.”

  “And?”

  I stared at his eyes, his rosy mouth. Backstroke, Smith. “We haven’t gone onstage yet.”

  Without a word, he tucked his music into a briefcase and went upstairs. I heard numerous footsteps, then the toilet flush twice: for someone who wasn’t taking this concert seriously, my accompanist was exhibiting classic symptoms of stage fright. When he finally came down, he brought more of his mother’s jewelry, this time a square brooch paved with sapphires. “Wear this for me, would you? It was her good-luck charm.”

  Fausto’s cold fingers brushed my throat as he pinned it on. I had to admire his choice of weapons: gems and music. “Do you think I need luck?”

  “No.” He was so quiet en route to Aurilla’s that I almost asked if he had taken any tranquilizers. But I kept my mouth shut, just in case he was thinking about his piano part: Duncan always did his most earnest practicing half a mile before show time. Besides, sympathy was useless now.

  He looked over. “Sorry I was a little testy before. Thanks for asking me to play with you. You took a huge risk.”

  I was still taking it. “So did you.”

  “No matter what happens, I want you to know that you gave me a very happy week.” He kissed my hand. “I’ll never forget that.”

  As his skin touched mine I heard soft, ecstatic laughter from a faraway place. I almost asked him to pull over and kiss me again, on the mouth, but that was a dangerous thing to do to your accompanist before a debut performance. So I merely smiled.

  We left the Corvette with a valet outside Aurilla�
��s mansion. Since my last visit, her gardeners had planted asters along the front walk. Brass doorknobs gleamed in the fading light. The place looked more like a movie set than ever. “I wonder what she did with Gretchen,” I said.

  Fausto rang the doorbell. “Let’s hope she’s upstairs in a straitjacket.”

  A maid led us to the concert room, a cream and brocade extravaganza about the size of Fausto’s but with more chairs. I placed the Saint-Saëns on an ornate music stand. “Sure you don’t want to run through anything?”

  “Absolutely not. Bad luck.”

  “Where’s the green room?” I asked the maid. “Where musicians hang out beforehand. A room with a toilet.” She didn’t know what I was talking about: obviously Aurilla didn’t sponsor many musicales. I gave her my violin. “Put that upstairs. Keep the door locked.”

  Fausto handed the maid a stack of lavishly printed programs, instructing her to place one on each chair. We were shown to the backyard, where two dozen guests were tanking up at a canopied bar. No manicured fund-raising crowd, this. Aurilla’s crew was scruffier and deadlier, the Gamblers Anonymous who had helped her arrive and were prepared to sacrifice everything for a few asterisks in the best-seller that would hit the bookstores in a few years. Aurilla, in a gold-white-black pants suit, looked every ounce the queen bee. Drone Bendix stood at her side, collecting handshakes and collusion. The two of them looked triumphant as newlyweds. Fausto leaned over my ear. “I don’t play Pomp and Circumstance. Neither do you.”

  We paid our respects. “Fausto! I’m finally able to reciprocate for all your breakfasts.” Aurilla gushing was like an iceberg melting. “We’re so looking forward to the program.”

  She wouldn’t be hearing one note. “How’s Gretchen?” I asked.

  A nanosecond of dead air: who the hell was that? “Very well.” Aurilla excused herself to speak with some real guests.

  Bendix kissed my hand. “I haven’t seen that brooch in a while, Fausto.”