Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  "Perfectly," the attorney replied, squeezing her elbow ever so gently.

  On the steps leading to the street, Numie asked, "Do I have to drive you around all day?"

  Lola stopped in her tracks, digging her high heel into the step. "Yes, I've always considered it vulgar for ladies to be seen behind the wheel of a car."

  After dropping Ned off at Commodore Philip's bar, Lola was getting into the Lincoln once again. She emerged on the street still clad in her simple black dress. But she'd put on a pearl necklace and wrapped a white boa around her shoulders. Hitting the cobblestones were her six-inch-high Cucaracha Miranda clogs. Numie eyed her skeptically. "You call that a 'mourning' dress?" he asked. He'reluctantly opened the rear door for her.

  She opened her eyes wide, and her voice was cool and controlled. "Honey, just 'cause a girl's lost her husband, and is supposed to wear basic black, it don't mean she can't look glamorous." Lola directed him to drive her to the Dry Marquesas Hotel where he'd spent his first night in town.

  "Can't you read the sign?" Numie called back at her when she'd ordered him to stop right in front of the hotel. "It says, NO PARKING."

  "Darling," she said rather grandly, "that sign was intended for regular people. Not Lola La Mour!" Moving like an electric eel, Lola's tongue slipped out and wet-coated her red lips.

  "We'll see," Numie said. Whenever he was with Lola these days, he wanted to reach out and strangle her. As he led her into the lobby, two Cubans across the street yelled something in Spanish. But he didn't understand.

  Behind the desk the surly clerk was reading a sex book. "Back with another customer?" he asked.

  "No way," Numie said. He surveyed the lobby as if it were the distant past. "I don't need to hang out in this dump any more."

  The clerk slammed the book down on the desk, deliberately concealing the cover. "Just as well—you couldn't pay the bill no way till Ralph chipped in." He took a toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it on the tile floor.

  Lola pranced around the lobby, trying to be forceful, commanding, and sexually provocative. Now that she'd had a chance to redo her makeup, she was more confident. "This place gives me the creeps," she said in a loud voice. "I wish this town had a decent hotel." Hands on her hips, she glared at the clerk. "I might build one one day."

  "Look, nigger," the clerk said, almost hissing through yellowing teeth, "you're lucky I let you in in the first place."

  Numie glanced nervously at Lola, who remained glued to her position, as if a frozen still-life. "Watch who you're calling nigger," he warned the clerk.

  "Take it easy, man," the clerk said, backing off. "I got my own beliefs about things. When myoId man used to own this hotel, we didn't accept niggers."

  Lola was slow to rage, but after a few seconds her fury was in full bloom. She started to say something, but her explosive anger caused her to choke. "Clap Face," she stuttered, "I happen to know your old man went bankrupt. Spent all his money eating thirteen-year-old chocolate drops." Whipping her white boa around her throat as if to protect herself from an imaginary gale, she went on. "He was even run out of town. White trash—just like you."

  Numie couldn't have felt more tight and distant from Lola; he was anxious to avoid a fight. It was a question of being in the presence of two people he hated and forced to decide who had harmed him more. "Okay," he said to Lola, "let's skip the family biographies."

  Coming out from behind the desk, the clerk had an unzipped fly. "What do you want here?"

  Lola paused a long time for effect. "A suite," she answered.

  The clerk laughed and let out a gin belch. "A suite? Nobody's asked for a suite at this place since the old P&O steamship from Havana stopped coming."

  Lola sucked in her cheeks as if all sorts of cameras were turned on her, then said, "I know you have them and I demand the best one."

  "We'll rent you anything you can pay for," the clerk said. Realizing his fly was unzipped, he discreetly tended to it. "We'll even charge you a nickel if you want to take a leak in the can." A frown crossed his face, "But those old suites ain't in very good shape."

  Anxious to get on with it, Numie said, "Let's see what you've got."

  The clerk went ahead.

  Numie followed Lola. "What's this about wanting a suite?" he whispered in her ear.

  Lola's throat was parched, and she was exhausted. The responsibility of being a rich widow was weighing heavily on her today. "I'm no longer a second-class citizen," she said. "The commodore wanted to live over the bar. He thought it camp. I don't!"

  "Okay," he said. Crossing over a barricade of lumber—the same barricade he'd crossed that night he met Ralph—Numie said no more until they reached the suite.

  Unlocking the door, the clerk invited them to step inside. "This is it."

  Numie went in first. "This place stinks," he said, making for a window. "It hasn't been aired out in years." The window was stuck, but he managed to raise it, throwing open the shutter doors. The sun, now high in the sky, flooded the room. Spiderwebs were in the corner. Turning to Lola, he asked, "How do you like it?"

  She hesitated before answering, trying to make up her mind if the clerk was showing her the best. "It's certainly big enough," she said finally. Desperately she was searching for a mirror. She always judged a place by how a mirror in the room reflected her image. "But the decor's all wrong for me. Waving her boa at the ceiling, she said, "This peach color's got to go. I can't operate against a peach background." She was growing frenetic, irascible. "I've always operated in a boudoir all in white, with lots of satin."

  The clerk looked as if he wanted to beat hell out of her. "Take it or leave it," he said.

  "Young man," she cautioned, "don't be impertinent with me." She was remembering how De la Mer one night dressed down a waiter. She assumed De la Mer's stance, even slightly imitating her voice. "I may take it, except it'll have to be redecorated." She stepped away from the harsh glare of the sun. "Everything must be in white. The wallpaper, drapes, carpet, furniture."

  The clerk shook his head. "We're not going to do a damn thing."

  "You don't understand," Numie said, walking over. He shuddered to think the clerk might be sizing him up as Lola's boy, even though he did feel like her boy right now. "Miss La Mour's willing to pay for it."

  "That so?" the clerk said. "Then we'll be only too happy to oblige. Send your own painter and decorator over today. We ain't exactly interior decorators around here."

  "We can see that," Numie said. A truck screeched to a halt near the window. "Man, did anyone ever tell you you should take up hotel management?"

  The clerk looked as if he wanted to spit.

  Turning his back, Numie paced the floor, as distant memories of hundreds of hotel rooms flooded his brain. But he was in control enough to keep one single memory from forming a picture in focus.

  Lola settled herself on one of the dusty sofas. "You obviously have never truly understood who I am," she said. She felt a tightening in her honeypot that needed relief.

  "I don't care who you are," the clerk said.

  Numie studied him closely. He knew he was called Spider, and he was wondering how he got that name.

  "As far as I'm concerned," Spider said, "you're just that colored drag queen shacked up with the old commodore."

  "Listen, punk," Numie said, "the commodore is dead. Miss La Mour's in charge now." He was enjoying lording it over the clerk, after his mistreatment when he arrived in town.

  "I don't like bossy gals," Spider said.

  Lola practically jumped up from the sofa. "Did I hear you say gal?" She ran her hand down her black dress that was being warmed by the noonday sun. "If I wasn't such a lady, I'd rip your balls off—if you've got any."

  Spider stepped menacingly toward her.

  Numie suspected Spider was thinking Lola was really a man at this point, and to the clerk Lola was spewing out fighting words.

  "No man," Lola continued, "black or white, is going to call me gal—like some commo
n streetwalker—and get away with it." She studied Spider's face carefully, wondering how much he really knew about her. After all, Castor Q. Combes, that vicious liar and gossip, often hung out around this hotel and might have slandered her. "I'll overlook it this time, 'cause you're a dumbass, honky, redneck bastard. From now on, it's Miss la Mour—or else!" Lola lit a cigarette and violently blew rings.

  Spider seemed ready to kick her in the mouth, but he thoughtfully headed to the door. "Okay, don't get all hot and bothered." He left quickly.

  Numie turned to Lola. "Are you sure you're doing the right thing moving in here?"

  "Temporary headquarters," Lola said, smiling. She glanced quickly around the room, deciding where she was going to install some gilt mirrors. "I'm not planning to live here forever."

  "Where then?" Numie asked, momentarily relieved that Lola was planning to leave Tortuga.

  "Sacre-Coeur ... and I don't mean in the guest cottage." Sinking back into the sofa, Lola was enjoying this moment of revelation. She waited quietly for her words to sink in.

  Numie was stunned. "I think that place already has a tenant." Then he was curious. "Just how do you plan to move Leonora out?"

  Lola got up, slinking her hips over to the window. "In time, child, I will reveal all." She glanced out at the street scene, and for a horrified moment thought she saw her cousin, Castor Q. Combes. "People of your race are so backward," she said to Numie. "It takes so long for something to penetrate." She pivoted, then stared at him with contempt. "A black stud like Ned would have figured out what I was up to long ago. But you white boys. My people have always had to carry you on our backs."

  "Listen," he said, wishing he could be the servant and not involved in any personal conversations, "you didn't do so bad with the commodore. He's white. or was. And you went for me."

  "Darling," she said, adoring every sweet moment she could humiliate him, "using whities for sex or money and having to depend on their brain capacity are two different things."

  Fists clenched, he said, "You really bum me."

  "I know," she answered, smiling. "But you're doing okay. The two bit hustler I bailed out of jail is on his way toward becoming a big stud in this town." She stood right in front of him, touching his cheek affectionately. "But don't forget—not for one moment—who's going to make you big. Lola La Mour, that's who."

  He seized her hand, removing it from his face. "You making an offer?" He spun around. "Just for the record, I'm not for sale."

  She stalked to the other side of the room. "You was always for sale, ever since that first day you figured out you had a little something hanging between your legs." She stopped short with a slight gasp. "That's never been a question with you. It was always the question of the price." The singing of a bird at the window caused her to pick up a Bible and toss it at the green shutters. The bird darted away. "Between us, my dear, you sell cheap."

  He stared at her blonde wig, her red mouth, her chartreuse fingernails, the mockery of the black dress, the white boa on a hot summer day—enough to make him ill. "I said, I'm not for sale. After that night with you and the commodore, I've had itl"

  "Don't shake one of your balls loose," she said, heading for the door, high heels clanking. "I can understand why you didn't want to get it on with the commodore. For Christ's sake, who did?" She held up the Old Mine diamond, proudly exhibiting it to him. Like a hot flash, embarrassment flooded her brain. She'd been assured—and not just by De la Mer—that Old Mine diamonds are valuable, even though they don't shine. After all, any nigger could have a shiny, sparkling diamond. Only unusual people wore Old Mine diamonds, antique at that. "It was me you wanted all alone," she said, her eyes focusing on Numie once again. "I know that." She whispered softly and confidentially. "It's okay, baby. Let it all hang out!"

  "It's not okay," he said, red with fury. His words were choked. "I don't want youl" he screamed.

  Fearful Spider would hear this talk of rejection, Lola opted to keep cool. "Now you're being ridiculous," she said forcefully. Later on, this white boy would have to face hell for uttering those words. "Every man alive wants Lola La Mour." With that statement, she tossed her white boa around her neck and paraded down the corridor toward the lobby of the hotel.

  Alone at the beach, Numie pulled off all his clothes. The day was nearly over, and he had just two hours by himself—two hours before he had to start driving Lola and Ned around the island again.

  In one dash, he made a flat racing dive into the cold water. Face buried deep, he began a steady stroke carrying himself out as far as he could without raising up. Could he swim across the gulf to Mexico without ever coming up for air?

  Lungs bursting, he cocked his head and sucked in fresh clean air. Jumping like a dolphin, he shot up, clearing water as far down as his crotch. Then he came down again in a splash, deciding to float for a while this time.

  The sun was sinking. Here he was, alone out at sea. The thought sent a sudden chill racing through his body.

  He'd gone out much farther than he had wanted to. Still on his back, he rolled over and swam hurriedly to shore.

  Silent and brooding, he stood looking back at the sea from which he'd just emerged. Its salt water was still running down his nude body.

  What messages from what far-off lands were washing up on the shore right now?

  Instead of wanting to remain in Tortuga, he was stirred by a sense of wanderlust. Nothing was right for him here. Everybody, except possibly Anne and Tangerine, were getting it on. But he was left out. The driver to a crazed drag queen and an egotistical pimp.

  "Where is home?" he asked the silent sea.

  The answer was clear. The only home he had he carried around within himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "This is off-white," Lola was screaming. "Off-white goddamn you." She tossed a soggy coffee container in a wastepaper basket. "I can't stand off-white, pearl gray, ivory, oyster white. I can only operate against a background of pure white." The entire world seemed to be conspiring to keep her from having what she wanted, even if she could afford it.

  Without saying a word, Spider turned and left the Dry Marquesas Hotel suite. "I swear I've had it!" he cried in the corridor.

  Pulling out a badly crushed glazed doughnut from a paper bag, Numie said, "But your wedding dress wasn't white."

  Lola ran her hands along the naked flesh of her arm. The smoothness of it sent shivers of excitement through her. "That was different," she said. "I was a blaze of silver glory." Anger and frustration seethed inside Numie. "If you don't stop finding fault, Spider won't let you redo this suite."

  "He won't!" she said, hands on her hips. "We'll see about that." She caught sight of herself in a newly arrived tall standing mirror near the window. It was impossible to hold back a smile of pleasure and admiration for the sight she beheld.

  "Okay, so you've got power," he said. Heading for the bathroom, he stopped at the presence of a painter, summoned here only this morning. Then Numie went in anyway, taking a leak—loudly—at the stool.

  Lola was in pursuit, barging in and almost upsetting a gallon of white paint. She was sticky and uncomfortable, her anger just sweating up inside her. "Just what are you insinuating?" she asked Numie.

  Shaking himself, he turned to stare. "I didn't mean a damn thing."

  "It's about time you started showing some respect." Glowering at the painter, she said, "If you think I'm going to accept the paint job on that ceiling, you've got another thought coming. I want that ceiling as white as our face. That old paint is bleeding through."

  "I've put on three coats already," the man protested, "As soon as I finish this bathroom, I'm leaving. You've got to get someone else."

  Surging and throbbing, Lola's guts were about to explode. "So," she said menacingly, "you think you're too good to work for someone of my color?"

  "Lady, I work for anybody who pays me," the painter said. "It's just this particular job. You're the most demanding woman I've ever come across in twenty ye
ars. Worse than my first wife."

  Numie brushed past, heading back to the living room. "Wha ... " He was startled to see the tall, lean frame of Johnny Yellowwood on the sofa. "I didn't hear you knock."

  "I didn't," the sheriff said. "The door was open."

  At first Numie was scared. Memories of the thrill killer flashed through his brain. Then slowly his courage returned. "Do you always walk in every door you see open?"

  "If it suits my purpose," Yellowwood answered. "This time it did. You hear more interesting conversations that way. See more sights." He wet his lips and smiled.

  Really angry, Numie snapped, "The circus just shut down."

  "To the contrary, boy," Yellowwood said, "I think it's just opening night."

  As if to confirm the sheriff's words, the painter rushed from the bathroom, shouting, "I quit! Lady, you're crazy for white. Too bad you couldn't have been born white."

  "You son-of-a-bitch," Lola screamed after him. His words ate away at her heart. She wanted to strike back so violently the painter would be wiped out. "You're also a fag. I saw you looking at my Numie when he was taking a leak."

  Out of the room, the painter was slamming the door behind him.

  Lola rushed over and threw it open again. "Cocksucker," she yelled down the hallway. Her hands fluttered in the air, like wings unfolding. Now that she was in a position to have slaves, nobody was into taking orders.

  "The one and only Lola La Mour, " Yellowwood said, lighting a cigarette.

  Resentment flashed through her brain. Had it not been for the actions of this man, she would have had a picture in the newspapers of herself resplendent in her wedding dress.

  "I hope I haven't chosen an inopportune moment to calIon a lady," Yellowwood said. "But I've come to pay my respects. As you know, Phil was my best friend."

  Lola stopped, pausing awkwardly. Then she quickly regained her composure, assuming the stance of a sulky blues singer. "Johnny Yellowwood, what an unexpected pleasure." Her heart was beating fast. She didn't trust him for one second. "I was meaning to give you a call, but I've been so broken up inside over my commodore's death." She glanced at Numie. "You remember my friend, of course."