by Janice Weber
Gretchen had put reptile and an old peanut-butter sandwich in her bathtub. “I’m going to name him Chopper,” she said. “Because he has so many teeth.”
I gave Chopper’s new mistress a few tips on keeping him alive. Bendix could always eat him if things didn’t work out. “Do you miss playing your violin?”
“No. I want a flute now.” Gretchen tried to tantalize Chopper with a raisin. “I can do whatever I want. Wallace said Mom’s going to be president. I’m going to live in the White House.”
Obviously no one had yet told Gretchen she’d be living in Switzerland. I felt a tinge of pity: perhaps I should take her back to Berlin, away from that monstrous mother. But compassion had its limits. “If you ever want to go back to the violin, give me a call, all right?”
“Sure,” she sighed with an ennui that made me want to rap her knuckles. With the iguana.
I left. Planted receiver/transmitter beneath Aurilla’s mailbox then pulled into a park up the street. Sat in Fausto’s Corvette, inhaling his ghost, for hours. Day faded into dusk, then night. Finally my headset clicked on: pickup from Aurilla’s office. I pulled my ragged brains back to earth. Heard footsteps and an “Oof’ from the chair in the corner. “My feet are killing me,” Gretchen’s mother bitched. “Wallace, bring some wine.”
More footsteps. “Would you like me to massage your calves?” the devoted aide asked. “You’ve been on your feet all afternoon.”
“No! Just get this goddamn thing working before I split a gut! Christ! Bendix! Get in here!” Short pause. “What were you doing up there?”
“Your daughter’s acting very strangely,” Bendix replied. “The bathroom door is locked. God knows what she’s hiding this time.”
“Couldn’t be anything worse than a monkey,” Aurilla retorted. “You and your asinine bribes.”
Bendix wisely changed the subject. “Did you get a nibble, Wallace?”
“This afternoon. I just picked up the tape.”
“Bobby went out to the cottage? I thought he had business in town all day.”
“You know Casanova,” Aurilla snorted. “Wallace, what is the problem? I don’t have all night for this bullshit.”
“Hold on. Here we go.”
Silence as they watched Cecil and me cavort in the tub. “That slut,” the almost vice president said. “I thought she was fucking Fausto.” Fifteen, fifty, ninety seconds went by. I felt my face burning. Disinformation, Smith: part of the job. Finally, in a voice nigh orgasmic with satisfaction, Aurilla said, “We’ve got the stinker by the balls now.”
Which stinker? Fortunately Bendix explained. “Marvel can’t talk his way out of two bimbos in a bathtub.” Footsteps, more clinking glass. “Bravo, Aurilla. We did it.”
“I never had any doubts.”
In the background, a loud shriek. “Moooooommmm! Chopper bit me!”
Curses, shuffling, silence. I sat in the dark marveling at Aurilla’s ambition and my own stupidity. She knew Bobby too well: dangle a female in front of his nose and he would always come charging. He had fallen for Barnard first. How had Aurilla lured her to the house? Tutor for Gretchen? I had been the convenient violin teacher. I smiled acidly, remembering how Bobby had happened to meet me the first time I had visited. As usual, the Queen had been correct: you don’t bump into the president of the United States by accident. Aurilla’s plan was simple, perfeet, flawlessly executed. Become model senator and presidential favorite. Clear Jojo out of the way with a few mosquito bites. Slide into scoring position. Then sayonara Bobby with a final outbreak of bimbitis. Balls! Alas, pride went before a fall: seeing wasn’t always believing, Aurilla. And you put the wrong girls in the bathtub.
Through the headphones, seven almost imperceptible plastic clicks. Tape running again. Someone had returned to Aurilla’s office to make a phone call. “We’ve got a problem,” Wallace muttered. “Meet me in an hour.”
I burst out laughing. Oh God! If only Fausto were here to enjoy this treachery! For a second I saw his round face, that mischievous glint in his eye when the plot thickened: then all went dark and his absence cut through me like a bolt of lightning. I collapsed over the steering wheel as something stole my guts. Get up, Smith. Return serve. Rolled the Corvette down Aurilla’s street as a Subaru pulled out of her driveway. Followed Wallace to the only cemetery that had seen any action in this campaign and stalked her on foot to the public vault. The earth here felt alive, eager to swallow. Things that went down the maws of that vault never came back. Soon I’d be bringing Fausto here? No!
The night was warm, ruffled with winds and the scent of dead leaves. The moon was red. Wallace didn’t like waiting near that great dark hole any more than I did. Three cigarettes and a few thousand paces later, a Lexus pulled up to the vault.
Vicky Chickering.
I sighed to an overhead airplane. Shouldn’t have been a surprise. I had stumbled on Chickie alone upstairs with Wallace at Aurilla’s party. Hadn’t given them a second thought because Chickering acted more like pope than pol. Good trick: both Barnard and I had fallen for it. Someone on Bobby’s side, Fausto had said. As always, he had been several layers of subterfuge ahead of me. Indeed Chickering was on Bobby’s side, but that was because she was now and forever on Paula’s side. That union went back to bedrock in Kentucky. Whoever threatened Bobby threatened Paula, the diesel behind this presidency. Bobby was only the cowcatcher.
“What the hell’s going on?” Chickering demanded.
“He’s back in the bathtub. This time with Frost.”
“That cunt! Wasn’t Fausto enough for her?”
Hey ladies, just doing my job. “Aurilla’s got enough ammo to bury Bobby now,” Wallace said. “You’d better tell Paula. She’s got to deal with the problem same way as last time. We can’t afford any loose ends with this bitch, either.”
“I’ll tell Paula right away.” Chickering paced over rumpled graves. “The Frost problem will get fixed soon. You’ve got to take care of the tapes tonight.”
“I’ll erase them, but that’s dangerous.”
“Please, Wally! Your job is nowhere near as dangerous as mine. We’ve got no choice. Aurilla and Bendix are not going to wait with this.”
“Poor Paula,” Wallace said after a silence. “Maybe we should just take care of Bobby next time. You know there will always be a next time.”
Chickering laughed caustically. “And here I thought Frost was after Rhoby.”
“Don’t be so sure she’s not. The bitch probably goes both ways.”
Wishful thinking, Wally. With a fervid embrace, the First Lady’s teammates parted. Wallace’s Subaru bumped past many headstones out to the real world. Before leaving, Chickering took a ruminative stroll around the chapel, pausing now and then, as if she heard a choir singing inside. I left quickly because that great gaping hole of the public vault just got darker with the passing of night and each time the wind kicked up, I thought I heard it inhaling. Chickering was going to fix me tonight? Let her try.
From the car I called Rhoby Hall at the FBI. “This is Leslie. Sorry I haven’t been able to reach you sooner.”
“No problem! What’ve you been up to?”
“The usual. Do you have a lunch break, or whatever it’s called on the graveyard shift? We’ll grab a bite.”
“Sure. But it’s at four in the morning.”
“That’s okay. I’m trying to get back on European time.” We arranged to meet at an all-night diner on A Street. “Oh, Rhoby. I wonder if you could help. I met a fellow at Aurilla’s party last week. Tanqueray Tougaw. Remember him?”
“Jesus, how could I not? Chickie practically lives with the guy in our kitchen. They make all kinds of weird stuff for Paula.”
“Do you know where he lives? I’ll be needing something for my jet lag.”
“No idea. Call Chickie. She’d know.” Rhoby recited seven digits.
“What’s the area code for Annapolis?”
“This number’s Washington. She’s at the Watergate
.”
I felt my hair rise. Watergate? “I thought you two lived in Annapolis.”
“That’s my apartment. Chickie lives in town. We switch from place to place depending on the state of our relationship.”
True? I couldn’t tell anymore. In this town, the worst thing you could do was declare whose side you were on. “Where are you sleeping now?” I asked.
“Her place.”
I wandered to the Watergate complex, where I had fished a few keys out of a fountain several lifetimes ago. Stood for a while at the three shallow basins, listening for that low, mysterious laughter that had so entranced me. Moon was round and ripe as a melon, the Potomac burbled like a primeval spring … how could that laughter be gone? Another zzzzt as Fausto’s specter jolted through me and into the next galaxy before I could even raise a hand to stop him. Finish the job, Smith. With an effort, I located Chickering’s apartment. It was three away from Barnard’s.
Drove to the diner on A Street and dozed until four. Rhoby was waiting inside with coffee and crossword. Since our last meeting she had lopped off another few inches of hair but made up for it with shoe leather: tonight’s boots laced almost to her crotch. Perhaps the FBI relaxed its dress code for the phone operators. “So did you get Chickie?” Rhoby asked excitedly.
“Sorry. Lost my nerve.” Slid into the booth with seats the color of stale blood. “She reminds me of my first-grade teacher. I’m always expecting her to reach into her back pocket and whip out a wooden spoon.”
“That’s so perfect! The old sow!” Rhoby sounded giddy, under the influence of something. I hoped it wasn’t love. “God, it’s great to see you! You’ve been so busy! Tell me about it! I want to know everything!”
Oh, rehearsals, practicing, interviews…I made it vague enough that corroboration would be impossible. “How’s life at the FBI?”
“Over. I just quit.”
I barely swallowed my coffee. “What? Tonight?”
“My adviser didn’t want me to leave the building. So I told him to shove it.” Rhoby suddenly took my hand. “Let’s go dancing.”
Our first stop was a lesbian speakeasy on Rhode Island Avenue. Dark, crowded, humid with testosterone: not many lamb chops in this mutton market. Rhoby didn’t even let me go to the bathroom alone. I kept her floating in champagne and screwdrivers to celebrate her liberation from the FBI. We danced tità-tit until five, when a new band tried to blow out the windows. Next we drove to a raunchier dive on Maryland Avenue, where all the rejects went for one last shot before heading home alone. I had never seen so many deliberately grungy women in my life. But I was an anti-American bitch, incapable of realizing that three-foot-wide asses and rotting tank tops were signs of gay pride rather than evidence of blatant self-indulgence. At least in Berlin the lesbians tried to look like Marlene Dietrich instead of John Belushi.
Rhoby switched from screwdrivers to mai-tais after the third woman came to the table asking for Vicky. “Working,” Rhoby retorted for the third time. “Just ignore them,” she muttered, as if I were offended.
I looked her deep in the eye. “Are you and Chickie having problems?”
“Problems? We’re through. Chickie just doesn’t know it yet.”
“What happened?”
“She started out like a mother but now she’s just a jailkeeper. This politics bullshit does a number on her head. She comes home and thinks she’s still bossing around the country. Never shuts up about Paula, either. The two of them are twisted. I belong with musicians. At least they’re real people. Know what I mean?”
Sure I did. My sympathy was entirely with Chickie, who lusted after both innocence and power. In the great ocean of desire, Rhoby was a rowboat, Paula a nuclear submarine. The sub could surface, enjoy the sun, but the rowboat could never explore the awesome world beneath the waves. Ah Chickie: never fall for the rowboat. One day the wind would carry it away. “You must have some things in common.”
“I guess we both like horror movies. But it was the beginning of the end when Chickie gave her piano away.”
“Why’d she do that?”
“Paula needed it, of course! One morning it was just gone! An old Mason and Hamlin with the most gorgeous mahogany case. Weighed ten tons. It sat in the corner of her apartment and when the sun came up, it was the most beautiful thing you ever saw. The place looks empty without it.”
A thread of ice between the eyes: I blinked a few times but it wouldn’t go away. “When did she get rid of it?”
“A few weeks ago. It was our first big fight. Who cares if I wanted the piano? Her Majesty comes first.” Rhoby’s eyes welled at the injustice. “You and Fausto could have played trios at my place.”
Again that cold wind. Please God let there be a swirling gray world after this one, full of mist and shadow, where I’d find him again! “Let’s dance,” I said, getting up. Rhoby clung to me like a wounded child. We were the main act on the floor. Males had never looked me over with such open lechery as these ladies; still, I was flattered. Around seven o’clock I sloshed Rhoby into the car. Sun was high and hot and the sidewalks thronged with briefcase-swinging People Making a Difference. “Whererr you taken me?” Rhoby asked.
“Home. Chickie’s probably climbing the walls by now.”
“Fuckr! I don’t wan go t’ Chickie. I wan go home wi you.”
“Sorry, I have a rehearsal this morning.” I screeched the Corvette into a tiny pocket in traffic. “We can ask Chickie when the piano’s coming back.”
“Shit onner piano.” Rhoby sagged against my shoulder. Made me a little nervous because I didn’t want her eyebrow studs catching on my jacket but I guess laceration was half the thrill of body jewelry. Fought my way to the Watergate complex and lugged Rhoby upstairs, making sure the doorman noticed her condition. Chickie’s apartment was a nine-second walk from Barnard’s: what colossal bad luck.
Rhoby kicked open the door. “Chick! I’m home!”
Chickering, dressed for managing the nation, came running but stopped short at the awful sight before her. Long silence as her flowing tunic slowed to a standstill, then, “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” I cried cheerfully, dragging Rhoby toward the kitchen. One counter was covered with dozens of brown bottles: medicine for Paula. “Any coffee in the house? We’ve had a long night.” Chickie followed at our heels as I propped Rhoby at the table and cleared away a pile of newspapers. “You read these and eat breakfast at the same time? Sheesh.”
“Where were you, Rhoby?” she demanded. “I’ve been calling for hours.”
“You can throw that number away,” I told her. “Rhoby quit that nowhere desk job.” Pushed a steaming cup of coffee under Rhoby’s chin. “Drink this, honey.”
“You whore,” Chickering hissed at me. She turned to her lover. “She’s playing with you, Rho. I happen to know your friend here was screwing Bobby Marvel just this afternoon.”
I laughed without concern. “What have you been inhaling, Chick Pea? Fumes from Doctor Tougaw’s stewpot?”
Rhoby sloshed to a little book near the telephone. She tore out a page. “Therz hiz numr.”
“Hey, thanks. Rho tells me you’re thinking of opening up a pharmacy, Chick.”
She tried an obelisk stare. “Leave. Now.”
“See whad I mean ’bout jailkeepr?” Rhoby threw an arm around me. “Chickie shouldv joined the KGB.”
“Just don’t let her hit me with a wooden spoon!” Rhoby and I giggled hilariously. Then I peered into the living room. “Hey! Didn’t you say you had a piano here, Rho? Is it in the bedroom or something?”
“You hearr me,” Rhoby pouted. “Iz gone.”
“Can you get it back?” I asked Chickering. “I just love those old Mason and Hamlins. I can’t believe you’d let something like that out of your sight. They’re worth a fortune.”
Chickering’s face went like a fish. She looked at me with infernal doubt and a thread of fear: did I know everything or was she just paranoid? A
h, Fausto, if only you could see me now! He would not only be amused, he might be able to tell me how to proceed. All I really wanted from Chickering was a clue to the whereabouts of her piano. I wouldn’t mind killing her as well: payback for Barnard. I could reach across the table and snap her neck. Right now. Or I could sic Cecil on her. He’d love some real action after all this playacting. Hell, maybe I should just take the next plane out of here.
I smiled at Rhoby. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”
Dragged her to the king-size bed in a room painted hideous maroon: maybe that was Chickie’s idea of the color of passion. Rhoby didn’t resist as I unlaced her boots thigh to ankle and stripped her down to cotton underwear. Pretty body: she’d have no trouble finding another partner. “Why can’t you stay?” she whimpered.
“Shhhh.” I pulled down the shades. “We’ll talk later.”
Returned to the kitchen, feigned surprise to see Chickering still lording over the linoleum like Mr. Clean. “Don’t you have to get to work, Chickie?”
She puffed up to full width, like a cobra. The sight was impressive, especially if one considered the acres of farmland involved. “I told you to leave Rhoby alone.”
“Why? Does she have your name branded on her butt?” I slumped onto a kitchen chair and began rummaging through the little brown bottles. “Did you get all this stuff from Tougaw? Awesome.” Removed a cork, sniffed. “Got any aphrodisiacs? Next time you want to screw Rhoby, I suggest you get her to swallow the whole bottle. The poor thing was beginning to hit on me before she passed out back there.” Kept sniffing, bending my head far down, exposing plenty of neck. Finally saw Chickie fingering that obnoxious notepad on her chest, remove a stubby pen. Ah, so that’s our needle. Unoriginal, but so was Chickering. I bent with renewed interest over the bottle tops. Come on, Chickie! I didn’t have all day! “Oh damn. I think I just got my period. Any tampons handy?”
