Julie stopped in front of an unprepossessing brick building with a few tables and chairs outside. “Here we are,” she said. “Ernie’s got an all-you-can-eat spaghetti and salad bar.” She pushed open the door and a wave of noise came from inside. “You get us a table,” she said. “I’ll hit the buffet line.”
Camilla searched the crowded room, saw a couple get up from a small table in the corner and dove for their seats, draping her coat over one chair as she sat in the other.
The patrons of the café were mostly young. A noisy group next to her had pushed a number of the little tables together and were loudly ordering breakfasts from a tired-looking waitress.
“Hey, listen to this,” said a young man in black who had just ordered three eggs and double hash browns. “The good doctor is in rare form today.” He began to read aloud in a piercing falsetto—
“Dear Dr. Lavinia—my boyfriend and I are having an argument that I hope you can settle. He said you can’t get herpes from a hot tub, but I say you can if you go in without a suit. He said that there’s no point in getting in a hot tub if you wear a suit and I’ll embarrass him in front of his friends if I do. What do you say? Also, is it true that eating garlic can help you develop an immunity to herpes?—Paranoid”
There was general laughter from the group.
“So what does the doctor say?” said a big woman with a lot of red hair.
The man cleared his throat and read again, this time in a stately English accent.
“Dear Ms. or Mr. Noid—” he began. “Dr. Lavinia is of the belief that keeping one’s clothes on is an excellent precaution against all social diseases. She welcomes your suggestion of eating garlic as a further deterrent, but is afraid the average reader might find the measure too drastic. Very Truly Yours, Dr. Lavinia.”
“The lady is awesome,” said another of the men. “Can’t you see her? Sort of a Margaret Rutherford type with a pince-nez and beige support hose.”
“Not Dame Margaret. I was doing Edith Evans.” The man in black looked injured.
Camilla couldn’t help feeling pleased. Other people had inner children, but she seemed to have gotten in touch with an inner great aunt with her Dr. Lavinia voice.
Julie emerged from the crowd with two heaping plates of gooey orange pasta “Isn’t this a fantastic place?”
“It certainly seems—popular.” Camilla gingerly tasted a forkful of the spaghetti. It didn’t taste quite as bad as it looked.
“Julie, you old snake!” said a voice from the next table. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”
The large, red-haired woman waved at Julie. “Sit over here with us. We’re giving dramatic readings from Dr. Lavinia’s column. You’ll love it!”
Julie shook her head as she swallowed, but it was too late. The red-haired woman stood over them.
“I’m Bernie Magee,” said the red-haired woman. “Short for Bernadette.” She pushed a chair between them.
“I’m…Randy,” Camilla said as she tried to shrink to make room for her.
“Bernie’s the stage manager at the ‘F’ Street Theater,” Julie said. “I’ve worked props over there on a couple of shows.”
“She’s great, too,” Bernie said. “This woman knows the inventory of every thrift shop in the county. She found us nearly a hundred toasters for True West.” She slapped a hand on Julie’s shoulder. “We really need you back. You wouldn’t believe the flea-brain I have to work with on this show. We close Sunday, thank God, and he’s going to some theater in L.A. How about it? We don’t open the next show for three weeks.”
“I’ve got a real job now. There’s no way I’d have the time.”
“Your paper sure has livened up. The reviews are biased, of course, but I love Dr. Lavinia—and all that great dirt about Jon-Don Parker.” She paused to pour the contents of three Sweet ’n’ Low packets into her coffee. “Hey, do you know her—Dr. Lavinia?”
Julie giggled. “As a matter of fact—”
Camilla stopped her with a kick under the table.
“The doctor is a very private person” she said, anxious to protect her new secret identity. She turned to give Bernie a full-on debutante smile. “Tell me about your theater,” she said. “What’s the new play?”
“A couple of one-acts,” said Bernie. “You May Already Be a Winner and Clark Gable’s Ears. Do you want to work props? I could sure use somebody. This production ought to be a lot of fun. Plantagenet Smith himself might show up for some rehearsals.”
Camilla’s fork fell into a pool of spaghetti sauce with a greasy plop when she heard Plant’s name. She did remember those plays of his—stuff he wrote in college.
“And who is Plantagenet Smith?” said Julie. “Are we supposed to be impressed?”
“The playwright, Julie,” Bernie said with heavy condescension. “He’s the guy who wrote Winner and Gable’s Ears. He wrote Boadicea! you know? Julie, for a lady who used to be an actress, you don’t know much about contemporary theater.”
“True West taught me more than I want to know about contemporary theater,” Julie said. “Smashing fifteen toasters and a typewriter every night. On stage. And guess who got to clean up the mess.”
“That’s nothing compared to the mess we’re going to have with Winner,” Bernie said. “It’s about these two gay artists who are always trying to win contests and sweepstakes, and the whole set gets covered with cereal boxes with the tops cut off, and torn up magazines, and all these plastic flamingos. That’s the only thing they ever win—one hundred plastic flamingos. Maybe we need two props people, come to think of it. We did for my college production.” She took a large gulp of coffee and turned to Camilla. “I played the landlady who found their dead bodies at the end.”
“The play sounded like a real winner, all right,” Julie said. “I don’t really think that Randy—oh, damn.” She lowered her voice. “Speaking of winners, guess who’s headed our way.”
“Ah, three lovely ladies with whom to share my repast,” said Stuart. He plunked his plate down on the already crowded table. Grabbing a chair from somewhere, he pushed in next to Camilla. “You two missed all the excitement.”
“What a shame,” Julie said in a bored voice. “Did Angela Harper bless us with one of her royal visitations?”
“Better than that.” Stuart mixed a glob of pink dressing into his salad. “Our beloved leader has just been rushed to the hospital.”
“Oh no!” Julie said, growing pale. “What happened?”
Stuart laughed loudly.
“He fell down the stairs. Or rather, Bob pushed him down the stairs. Not on purpose, of course. With anybody else, you might suspect evil intentions, but Bob was just being Bob. He suddenly had some huge breakthrough on the Jon-Don story and needed to rush off to Texas. The boss happened to be at the top of the stairs at the time, and—splat! One bad-tempered editor ended up on the ground floor.”
“How badly is he hurt? Is he going to be OK?” Camilla said.
“He’ll be fine. He didn’t even want to go to the hospital, but his ankle hurt, so we made him go. I think Bob was more freaked than Genghis, actually. That didn’t stop him from zooming off to Texas, though.”
“What’s he going to Texas for?” Julie said. “Jon-Don was from Oklahoma.”
“Something to do with Jon-Don’s underworld connections,” Stuart said. “There was some evidence found on the body that had to do with a religious cult in Texas, and since Parker wasn’t heavily into religion, Bob thinks it’s a front for a drug ring. Besides, the police haven’t done a damn thing to follow the lead, so the drug ring may be connected with some FBI sting operation. At least I think that’s what Bob is after. You know how he can be. He speaks in a language known only to Bob—like, he kept saying he was going to Texas to look for a camel.”
“Camel?” Camilla clutched the edge of the table. “Why did he say a camel?”
“Probably meant mule,” Bernie said. “That’s somebody who carries drugs over the border. This i
s turning out to be a great mystery! Do you think the FBI killed him?”
Stuart chewed salad noisily. “Look, I probably shouldn’t be saying all this in front of you.” He looked at Bernie. “You don’t work for the Sentinel, do you?”
“‘F’ Street Theater. Bernie Magee,” she said. “Didn’t hear a thing. But what’s this about Angela Harper? You know her? What’s she like?”
“Would I like to find that out!” Stuart said with a leer. “That is one sexy old broad. When I started at the paper last spring, she was around nearly every day, but since she stopped getting it on with Genghis, she’s just about disappeared. She’s living with some pretentious writer now. Pendragon or something. Pendragon Smith.”
“Plantagenet Smith?” Bernie grinned broadly. “That explains it! Out of the blue, Angela Harper offered to finance our next production—two Plantagenet Smith one acts.”
“She’s not going to be financing us much longer, if we don’t get back to work,” Julie said. “Come on, Randy. With the boss in the hospital, I hate to think what a zoo I’m going to have to deal with over there.”
“Poor Mr. Kahn,” Camilla said, trying to maintain her composure.
“He’ll be fine,” Stuart said. “I’m not so sure about you, though. You look like you’re going to lose your lunch. Are you OK?”
“Never eat the spaghetti on Tuesdays,” Bernie said.
“I’m fine,” Camilla lied as she followed Julie’s mad dash out of Ernie’s. All she wanted was to go back to her desk, where she could play the part of Dr. Lavinia, a very proper lady who had never known Angela Harper or Plantagenet Smith. Or taken cocaine with Jon-Don Parker. Or written the name “Camel”, and her phone number, on the back of a pamphlet put out by a religious cult in Texas.
Chapter 18—Dinner for Two
Julie and Camilla were hanging out by the coffee machine on a Thursday afternoon when Bob came back. He looked defeated as he trudged up the stairs.
“How was Texas?” Julie said.
“A dead end.” He gave a tired sigh. “The L.A. cops had already been there, and they didn’t find anything either. Looks like my whole ‘camel’ theory is shot.”
“You went looking for a camel who wasn’t really there? Oh, Bob, I’m so sorry.” Camilla fought the urge to burst into giggles of relief. All week, an annoying little verse from Winnie the Pooh had been going through her mind: “I think I am a camel. Behind another camel. Behind another camel. Who isn’t really there.”
Bob sighed. “Not as sorry as the boss is going to be when he sees my expenses. Where is he? He is OK, isn’t he?”
“He only broke his ankle,” Julie said. “He’ll be on crutches for a few weeks.”
“Crutches?” Bob gulped his coffee. “I’d better get this over with.”
“Hold off a few more minutes,” Julie said. “He’s still on the phone with Her Majesty. You had a bunch of calls, too. Your cousin in L.A., mostly.”
“Mr. Kahn is on the phone with Angela Harper? Is it true they used to be an item?” It seemed unfair that Angela should have all the attractive men.
“They’ve been on again/of again for years.” Julie’s smile widened into a can-we-talk grin. “They met back in the Vietnam days, and it’s been a soap opera ever since. You know her ‘Blood Red Roses’ album? That was all about their big break-up in ’78. That was before she got involved with what’s-his-name, the actor who ran for mayor of Burbank—and that painter, the one who paints live trees with red spray paint.” She drew Camilla closer. “But things heated up again between her and the boss when he came out here from New York last winter. Then—all of a sudden—she dumped him. I don’t think he’s over it yet. At least he doesn’t seem interested in getting involved with anyone else.” She gave a little sniff.
Camilla tried to picture the terrifying Jonathan Kahn in the role of wounded lover.
“Now what is Bob up to?” Julie looked over at Bob’s desk, where he was leafing through the San Diego telephone book and chanting, with great enthusiasm, the words “Ocean Beach, Ocean Beach.”
Camilla’s body went cold.
~
By the time she finished her day’s column, nearly everyone had gone home. As she put on her coat, she saw that even Mr. Kahn was leaving. She watched him hobble toward the stairs on his crutches. A broken ankle and a broken heart. Maybe he was human after all.
She had to pass Bob’s desk on her way out. She wasn’t happy to see him grinning as he typed. What had he found out about Ocean Beach? Did he know about her party?
“’Night, Randy,” he said without looking up. “I think I’ve done it! I think I’ve found my camel.” He gave a triumphant laugh.
Camilla rushed out of the building into a torrent of rain.
Strange. The sky had been cloudless when she drove to work this morning. Her cashmere coat would be soaked through before she got to the parking lot. She ran quickly, cursing the rivulet of water that flowed down her hair and under her collar. She considered stopping in a doorway just ahead before she made a last dash for the corner, but saw two shadowy figures already occupied the small area of shelter.
As she got nearer, she could hear voices coming from the dark door—and the sound of a scuffle. She slowed her pace as she neared, wondering if she would be safe walking by a territorial battle between two homeless people looking for shelter from the storm.
But the rivulet down her back was turning into something to rival the Hudson. She never dreamed California had rain like this. Now she had more understanding of Violet’s story of being rescued by the driver of the number twenty-four bus.
As she was about to pass the disputed doorway, where the yelling was louder now, she remembered another of Violet’s stories. She thrust her hand into her purse, feeling for her can of hairspray. She heard what sounded like a fight, then a guttural cry and a thud. At the same moment, something hit her shoulder.
She screamed. With a quick pivot, she squirted hairspray into her attacker’s face. He gave a choked cry, pushed past her, and disappeared down the street.
A moan came from the doorstep, where a crumpled figure lay, his face covered with blood. One leg was folded under him, and the other stuck out straight. His foot and ankle were covered with a thick, white bandage. Next to him was a crutch. On the sidewalk was another crutch—probably what had hit her shoulder. The man moaned again and opened his eyes.
“Ms. Randall?” he said.
~
Mr. Kahn insisted he didn’t need a hospital. But Camilla didn’t think it was safe to let him drive, so she took him home—to a motel-like building near Balboa Park. He looked too wobbly to climb the staircase to his second story apartment, but at least his nose seemed to have stopped bleeding.
He seemed a little dazed and said very little except: “at least the bastard didn’t get my wallet.”
He didn’t want her to help him up the stairs, but she thought she’d better see him safely inside his apartment. When they’d completed the slow, wet, climb, he handed her the crutches and dug in his pocket for his keys and let out a sudden roar of laughter.
“An Edsel!” he said. “Jesus Christ!” He leaned on the doorframe as he unlocked the door. “I’ve been rescued by a debutante who drives a goddam 1958 purple Edsel. They would not believe this back in the Bronx.”
She didn’t know what to say as they both stood outside the open door.
“Come in, Ms. Randall. Come in,” he said. “I’m sure it’s bad manners not to offer one’s rescuer a drink.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Kahn,” she said. “I wanted to make sure you were OK, but now I’ll hop in my Edsel and drive home.” She was trying to join in his joke, but the words came out sounding silly and prim.
“I’m OK as I ever was, bad manners and all,” Mr. Kahn, said, holding the door open. “Come on in, Camilla, for God’s sake. You look like a drowned kitten.”
“You look a little the worse for wear yourself, Mr. Kahn.” She scanned his bloodied face and
clothes. “But it would be nice to warm up for a minute, if it’s OK.”
Camilla. He had just called her Camilla. It had been a long time since anybody called her by her real name.
“It’s OK,” he said. He flicked on a light.
The apartment was square, barren and a little sad. The only pieces of real furniture were a large, office-style desk and chair, covered with books and papers, and a couch and coffee table, also piled with papers. Along the wall, books had been stacked nearly to the ceiling on boards and concrete blocks.
“You’re right. I’m a mess.” The caked blood and dirt looked worse in the bright light. “I’d better clean up a bit. Why don’t you pour us a couple of drinks? There’s a bottle in the kitchen, and a bag of ice in the refrigerator. Two cubes. No water.” He hobbled toward the bedroom. “I hope you drink Jack Daniels. It’s all I’ve got.”
She smiled politely. She never drank anything stronger than wine or beer. She hoped that whatever a Jack Daniels was, it didn’t contain gin. She had tried a gin martini once and it was nasty. She had no trouble finding the bottle. It was the only thing on the counter except for a small microwave oven. She found a couple of glasses in a cupboard. One was decorated with a yellow Chargers football helmet, and the other with Darth Vader from Star Wars. She put two ice cubes in each one, as instructed, and filled them with the Jack Daniels.
After a couple of quick, burning sips, she removed her sodden coat and shoes and tried to repair her hair and make-up. Her silk blouse was soaked, but it would dry quickly. What she really wanted was sit down, but she was afraid to disturb all the important-looking things that covered the couch. Finally she decided to move the New York Times Index from the center cushion. After placing it under the coffee table she seated herself carefully between a stack of Spanish-language newspapers and a stack of books about Afghanistan.
She put the Darth Vader glass on the table and took another sip from the Chargers one. The liquor tasted better after another sip. She could feel it beginning to warm her.
Randall #01 - The Best Revenge Page 13
