Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  The children—defiant of an outsider treading on their only playground—quit their games and stood back. A pathway was cleared for Numie. The haunting eyes of these little people posed some undefined threat.

  "Castor," he called out frantically. The sun was turning each object it hit into giant diamonds, their reflecting glares blinding him.

  "What's the matter, white boy?"

  "All of a sudden I hate this place. Forget the tour."

  "Wait a minute. I got strict rules. Guys who don't finish the tour gotta pay me an extra dollar."

  "No way," Numie said. His pathway cleared, he darted up the street.

  "Violet eyes," Castor screamed after him, chasing him up the alley. "Money, money, money."

  "Rise and shine," came a gruff voice.

  A stick was poking Numie in the ribs.

  "Get your ass out of that bed, punk," said another voice, growing nearer.

  Quickly Numie opened his sleepy eyes into the blinding glare of flashlight. Someone was turning on the light in his hotel room.

  Two cops in uniform were standing over him. A tall, lean man was at the door.

  "No funny business," the man at the door said. "I'm Yellowwood, the sheriff."

  "Get your hands up," one of the cops ordered.

  "What's all this?" Numie asked.

  "You do what you're told," Yellowwood said. "I'll ask the questions. Now haul your ass out of that bed."

  Head throbbing, Numie demanded, "You can't arrest me. I've done nothing. I know my rights."

  "If you don't get your ass out of that bed," Yellowwood said, "Dave here will clobber you with his nightstick." Dave was pulling back the sheet exposing Numie's nude body.

  "Sheriff, there's only one weapon on him," Dave said, "and that's not very concealed."

  The other cop laughed.

  Numie cringed at the way he was being eyed. Yellowwood came over and stared long and hard at Numie before commanding, "Get your clothes on. Search the room, boys."

  Into his pants, Numie confronted Yellowwood. "Now you can tell me what this is all about?"

  "Our informer tells me you're in town peddling dope," Yellowwood said.

  "That's a goddamn lie," Numie answered. "Could your informer be a twelve-year-old psychopath named Castor Q. Combes?"

  "We never reveal the identity of our informers," Yellowwood said.

  "Nothing," Dave said, after going through the duffel bag. The other cop was tearing the sheets off the bed and looking under the mattress.

  "Okay," Yellowwood said, "you've got it stashed—that's for sure. I want you out of town—and fast. Tonight."

  "You've got nothing on me," Numie protested.

  "I said tonight—and that's what I mean. If I find you here tomorrow, you can expect real trouble."

  "What kind of place is this?" Numie asked. "Running a man out of town before he's done anything."

  "We don't want your kind here," Yellow wood said. "This is a good town with good people. They like to live in peace."

  "I'm not disturbing the peace," Numie said.

  "I don't have time for no arguments," Yellowwood said. "Tonight or else." He left, the cops following, slamming the door as they went.

  The room was now in shambles, Numie's few possessions tossed on the floor.

  "Tonight or else," he mocked, plopping down on the disheveled bed.

  Chapter Two

  Later that night, the west side of Tortuga was ablaze with life. The little shrimping port rattled with the noise of rock and roll bands. Every third building was a bar.

  Young people were everywhere. Elvis Presley-style hair flowed like a river. Dress was kept to a minimum. In tight jeans, boys wore white T-shirts. One girl had removed her top, exposing her pubescent breasts.

  In front of his rambling, tin-roofed hotel, Numie sat on the wide veranda in a wicker rocking chair. The air was not polluted and unfamiliar to his nostrils. It was scented with the smell of night-blooming jasmine.

  Two pudgy Cubans stood under an old iron lamppost. They stared at him strangely. But he did not look back.

  Wherever he went in this town, hostile eyes followed. Getting up, he made his way down the arbored sidewalk. Then he realized what he had become—a fugitive in Tortuga.

  Into the pay phone, he quickly found Hadley L.Crabtree's number. After the first ring, the attorney was on the line.

  "l'm Numie Chase, the hitchhiker you picked up on the keys. Remember?"

  "Yeah, I know. Didn't expect to be hearing from you so soon. You busted?"

  "No, I'm clean, but the sheriff and two of his men searched my hotel room. Didn't find anything but ordered me out of town, 'tonight or else.' What should I do?"

  "I told you not to come here in the first place. But Yellowwood, that's who it was, can't force you to leave. He always makes these threats against you newcomers. But providing you're clean and have some visible means of support, there's not much he can do against you—except watch you like a hawk. And Yellowwood just loves to watch."

  "Then you think it's safe to stay?"

  "No, he'll get you in the long run, but that don't mean you have to clear out tonight. What's wrong with tomorrow night? You've come all this way. Might as well enjoy yourself before heading back."

  "Thanks."

  "This is the last time I'm giving out free advice," Crabtree said. "Understand?" He slammed down the phone.

  By now, Numie knew where to go. Not because anybody told him. He just knew. He felt called to Commodore Philip's bar as dogs are summoned to their masters by whistles pitched too high for human ears.

  Just a block from the sagging pier, the bar was a primitive two-story structure. The doors were wide and open, the interior dimly lit by colored glass buoys hung from the ceiling.

  Inside there was a nautical look. Fishnets swagged from beam to beam, interspersed with conch shells, sponges, and sea fans. Crude tables for drinks had been made out of cable spools.

  Around the walls were framed and unframed photographs and newspaper clippings of fishermen and their prized catches.

  An occasional voice was heard, but it was the quietest bar on the street. Easy to miss.

  But Numie didn't.

  At the door, he paused—to listen to the tinkle of ice. Then, he went in.

  Here and there in a comer, a customer sipped a drink. The faces were cold and hard—brutally appraising every stranger who appeared.

  Numie took a seat on a stool around a circular bar in the center. "Scotch," he said without looking up.

  "Whatever you want, I've got!" came a voice.

  Numie stared hard.

  Behind the bar stood a black creature under a platinum blonde wig. She was dressed entirely in white. A Jean Harlow gown, cut low.

  She openly met Numie's stare. "If some trick looks at me like you just looking—burning your eyes out and letting your mouth hang open like you catching fIies—I charge admission."

  "The attraction doesn't interest me."

  In moments the whiskey was slammed on the counter.

  "Not interested!" the blonde-black said. "I've never met a john yet who wasn't interested in Lola La Mour."

  "What kind of name is that? Well, I'm glad to be the first."

  Lola looked defiant, pursing her heavily painted mouth.

  "Some people just can't appreciate the better things of life—even when they is as easy to come by as sticking a red hot poker into a tub of freshly churned butter."

  "Some guys don't want what's easy to come by."

  "You one of those racial bigots? Think I'm not people or something?"

  "No, I'm not prejudiced."

  "Then why are your marbles so messed up?"

  "I like girls."

  "What in horsefeathers do you think this gorgeous pussy is? Yeah, me. The one right up here getting inspected like a naked jaybird."

  "A drag queen."

  She gave him a mean look. "Well, la-dee-dah, you got some bad hang-up about drag queens?"

 
"No, I've seen a few in my day."

  "Shit!" Lola said, smoothing down her gown. "You gonna sit there, like some steeple on a lilywhite church, laying it on me that you've seen but not touched?"

  "A few have climbed the mountain. That is, those who didn't mind paying the price."

  Lola blinked her eyelashes, her stance growing more rigid. "See that Facel-Vega, all glowing white, sitting out there on that street? That little sports car is all the advertising your mother needs. I must be doing something right."

  "Lola," a man yelled. "Gotta move your car. De la Mer's here."

  Lola shrugged her shoulders. "Dykes," she said. "The worst thing God put on this sweet earth. Why anyone in his right mind would want to go down on a woman! It bugs the shit out of me just thinking about something so disgusting. It ain't natural."

  Numie turned on the bar stool.

  The Facel-Vega disappeared up the street. It was replaced by a custom-made Lincoln from the 20s.

  Suddenly, the door burst open. A pair of pencil-thin, red high heels emerged from behind the door. It was followed by a mountain of flabby flesh. It was a woman, a real one. "Lola," she yelled in a Deep South voice, "we're here."

  Numie could not conceal his fascination.

  For one thing, that citrus-orange hair she let flow in every direction. That fire-orange lipstick coating the whole area around her mouth. And to finish it off, that dress—with its lavender and turquoise flowers—dripped on all over like soup.

  Lola came out from behind the bar to kiss the cheek of the orange-haired woman. "Tangerine." But no lips ever touched the sagging flesh. The kiss was just pretend.

  Numie met Tangerine's twinkling eyes openly now. She was just two feet away.

  He turned aside only to investigate a commotion coming from the car.

  From behind the enclosed, black-curtained compartment appeared a yellow glove. Then a woman's long, yellow-stockinged legs slid off the leopard-skin upholstery and out of the car.

  "Who's that?" Numie asked Lola.

  "Leonora de la Mer," was the tart reply.

  Leonora—all six feet of her—stood on the sidewalk of the shabby street, casting a spell. She could have been arriving at the premiere of a film. Her chin jutted into the night air, concealing the wrinkles of her neck and enhancing her nobility. To Numie, she was like something from a time capsule. A mass of fabric, all bright yellow. The pearl necklace hanging down to her waist bounced in time with her step as she moved from the Lincoln to Commodore Philip's. But her walk was a stiltlike stride—legs connected to her shoulders and the trunk of her body motionless.

  From the front seat appeared a tall young couple in jeans. The man sneered at the woman and walked ahead. She yanked at his sleeve, then yelled, "You can't talk to me that way."

  He turned around, glaring at her. Then he struck her across the face and stalked away.

  The young woman cried out.

  Leonora moved over to comfort her. Putting her arm around the woman's slender waist, Leonora helped her inside.

  "Some husband! He's nothing but a prick," the young woman said. "Some day I'm going to get even with him, I really mean it."

  "You'll do nothing of the sort," Leonora said, clasping her arm, "and you know it."

  "I need a beer," the young woman said. "I'll buy you one, too."

  "A beer? Darling, Leonora de la Mer doesn't drink beer. I have never had a public fight with a lover ... or invited anyone to have a glass of beer. We've ordered champagne tonight."

  Leonora bowed gracefully to Lola. She even acknowledged Numie's presence with a slight tip of her head.

  Lola assumed a mask of twisted charm. Her friendly attitude to Tangerine obviously didn't extend to Leonora.

  "Good evening, Miss La Mour," Leonora said.

  "Good evening to you," Lola answered in her grandest manner.

  "Such a lovely evening," Leonora said. "That's why I thought we'd have a drink at your quaint little bar."

  "Yes," Lola said, "the evening was lovely.

  "I beg your pardon!" Leonora said, turning and walking quickly to her table.

  Numie smiled at Tangerine.

  "Lola," Tangerine admonished, "now don't you go being rude to Leonora."

  "Shit," Lola said, "this bar ain't big enough for two Super Stars."

  "Tangerine," the young woman with Leonora called, "come and join us."

  "Later," Tangerine said, brushing aside her invitation for the moment. Then she extended her hand, saying, "I'm Tangerine Blanchard." Three large Mexican rings perched on her hand like snails.

  "Numie Chase."

  "I'm the official greeter around here," she said, smiling. "Even though Lola ain't put me on the payroll yet."

  "That's some car and some woman," he said.

  As he turned to look for a moment at the yellow-draped woman, she was nodding to Tangerine.

  "New in town?" Tangerine asked.

  "Yeah, just got in."

  "And you made it to the commodore's. Right away. Well you won't be a stranger for long."

  What a voice, Numie thought. She sounded like a bullfrog with a cold.

  "My full name's Fern Cornelia Blanchard," she went on, "in case you should hear somebody calling me something other than Tangerine. Fern and Cornelia don't. actually suit me. Remind too many people of a southern virgin ... You can call me anything you like—except, for God's sake, Miss Blanchard. Don't remind me."

  He was learning fast that Tangerine didn't give anyone a chance to reply.

  Right in front of him, she scratched. Then, she yanked her dress to straighten it, saying, "I've got on a man-eating girdle. It bites into my flesh, so please excuse all this gyrating ... Where you from? I come from Georgia. A Georgia peach, my daddy used to say. But the last time he looked at me—that was right before he died—he said, 'Fern, honey, you look like a pulverized pumpkin'."

  "Tangerine," the young woman in jeans called again.

  Tangerine looked at Numie. "Would you like to join our table?"

  "I don't think I'd better," Numie said. "There's enough going on over there tonight."

  "Child," Lola said to Tangerine, "could you two pipe down just a minute? You keep jabbering like a concubine from a peanut plantation. I'm getting ready to do my big number, and us artists have to get it all together right before we let it all hang out."

  On a circular platform was a miniature piano. At it sat an elderly black man.

  "That's BoJo," Tangerine whispered. "He's supposed to play when Lola isn't singing."

  BoJo was clearly too drunk to play.

  A pink spotlight was turned on the mound. Rushing over to the jukebox, high heels clanking, Lola stuffed a quarter into it, then made a selection. She raced back, landing in a huff under the soft glow.

  The number on the record began, the sounds of, 'C'mon and get it, honey', drifting across the bar. Lola was only mouthing the sultry song, but was not quite coordinated with the words.

  A man in front laughed loudly at her bad timing.

  Breaking the entire routine, Lola turned and glared before picking up with the number again.

  Under her blonde wig, she bled every word for innuendo. Undulating her hips and shaking what appeared to be tiny breasts, she leered at the audience. She licked her heavily coated lips, rolled her eyes, raised one brow—a facade of sensuality .

  Even under the most flattering of lights, Lola appeared much older to Numie than she had when he first encountered her at the bar. But so much of her face was obscured by that blonde wig, it was hard to tell exactly what she looked like.

  Turning around, Lola ended her number with an assshimmy.

  The same man she'd reprimanded before with a glare now called for an encore.

  Obviously pleased, Lola squealed, "Christ, give a working girl a break. Gotta take a pee." She disappeared into a back room.

  Ignoring his earlier refusal, Tangerine now took Numie's hand and escorted him over to Leonora's private table.

  "Leonora, A
nne," Tangerine said, "I want you to meet Numie, my new friend."

  "You just met him," said Anne.

  "I am her friend," Numie said defiantly.

  "Young man," Leonora said, "please be seated."

  "Is this a papal audience?" Numie asked. Nevertheless, he obeyed her command, sitting down next to Anne.

  Tangerine squeezed her plump body in opposite him.

  "Do you know who I am?" Leonora asked.

  "I've never heard of you," Numie answered, matter-of-factly.

  "She's the fashion queen of Tortuga," Anne said.

  "Whatever that means," Numie replied.

  "I have my fashion house here," Leonora explained. "In the 30's and 40's, I was the most famous dress designer in New York. Stage stars, anyone with money and taste, came to me. I was better than any of the French designers, including that dreadful Chanel creature. Of course, I spent a great deal of my time flying to the coast to design for films."

  "What are you doing here? Numie asked. "A remote place like this?"

  "Leonora wanted a change of scenery," Anne volunteered. "A more dramatic climate in which to create."

  "Indeed," echoed Leonora. "Don't get the idea my clothes went out of style. I've always been the pace-setter in fashion."

  "Sounds like a good business," Numie said.

  "And what do you do?" Leonora asked.

  "I'm a hustler," Numie said. "Anyone who can pay."

  "Business must be rough," Anne said.

  "It sure is," Numie answered. "I'm broke."

  "You'll have a difficult time hustling in this town," Leonora said. "It's filled with young men only too eager to give it away. No one really has to pay here."

  "Sorry to hear that," Numie replied.

  "Frankly, I find the whole idea disgusting," Anne said.

  "Dear heart," Leonora said to Numie. "You must excuse Anne. She's a dreadful loser in life. That's why she's so cruel. I, on the other hand, who have always been at the top, am so secure I need never be unkind to anyone." Pausing to look at Tangerine, she went on, "Tangerine, sweetheart that she is, always brings young people to meet me when I visit Commodore Philip's. I want to keep in touch with the young generation."

  "'I'm not exactly the young generation," Numie said. "I'll never see thirty again."

  "We can't be children forever," Leonora said. "Perish the thought. I possibly could help you, give you a job at my fashion house."