The Lillian Byrd Crime Series

by Elizabeth Sims

“Not really. What’s this?” Genie asked the kid who brought her car up. It was a Jaguar, rented. She plucked an envelope from beneath the windshield wiper.

  “I don’t know,” he said, pocketing his tip. “It was there.” I noticed she gave him a fiver. That was nice, I thought.

  When we stopped at a light at the foot of the hills, she opened the envelope, drawing out a small folded sheet.

  “Fan mail from some flounder?” I said.

  Her face went white as she read it. It was a short message. After a second she crumpled it in her fist.

  “What is it?”

  She didn’t answer or look over at me. The car behind us honked; automatically, she let up on the brake and the Jaguar moved into traffic.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  She wasn’t, though; a sudden heaviness had come over her, as if an iron bar had dropped down onto her shoulders. I watched her sideways and saw her mouth working. She touched her forehead, then rubbed the back of her neck. I looked out the window at the nightscape of Sunset Boulevard and breathed in the smell of the leather seats.

  By and by, I heard her laugh.

  Again I asked, “What is it?”

  “It’s just me.” She’d shaken it off. “I’m an idiot sometimes.”

  “Me too, lots of times. Where’s the house?”

  “Hollywood.”

  “Think we ought to pick up a six-pack along the way? Some Doritos?”

  She laughed. “You. Are. Funny. Calm and funny. And you have a...a...”

  “An earnest face?”

  “That’s not what I was going to say, but come to think of it, you do. Goodness, I need to relax.”

  “Maybe I should drive.”

  “Naw, we’re almost there.” We were climbing again, through narrow streets.

  It was too dark to see much of the house, which was perched close to the road, but it seemed to sort of spill down the canyon in a multitude of rooms. A Hollywood house.

  Inside the style was sleek, minimalist. As Genie ushered me through I caught a glimpse of the kitchen, which looked as if you could walk right in and start doing brain surgery on any surface.

  We went directly to the hot tub, an in-ground hot tub, I add, nestled in a bower of flowers out back. A few ground-level lamps in the shrubbery gave out a soft glow. The night had turned cool, and a skim of warm vapor hovered over the surface of the water.

  I stood looking up at the stars as Genie pressed a few buttons, and the jets began their jet-thing. I saw one light in the house go off and another go on in a different room. I guessed they had sophisticated timers in Tinseltown.

  “Now, my new friend,” said my new friend, “I’d like to get to know you better.”

  I really wanted a drink of water, but Genie hadn’t offered me anything yet. This minor lapse in hospitality disappointed me, for I assumed her to be perfect in every way. That is, I was operating under the perfect-until-proved-flawed system, which has its perils, but is more generous than prove-to-me-you’re-wonderful.

  We helped each other out of our suddenly cumbersome clothing and descended the tiled steps into the roiling water. Very nice. The water felt perfectly clean, but didn’t have that chlorine reek I remembered from the one other hot tub I’d been in, in somebody’s backyard in Melvindale. That one you had to clamber up a ladder to get into. This was Hollywood. The seats were nicely positioned. There was room for half a dozen people comfortably, plus a flotilla of rubber ducks.

  Genie’s body was more exciting than even my fevered imagination had pictured. She was smooth. A firm waist, a real waist with muscles I could feel. Breasts that looked like Sno-Kones of the angels, and a wowzer pair of legs I could hardly begin to appreciate when they disappeared into the churning depths. Even seated, she moved with poise.

  This was one serious whirlpool. I allowed the small of my back to be battered by one jet, while my feet found pleasant abuse before another.

  We enjoyed the water quietly, each of us heaving sighs as the tensions of the party dissolved. Yes, it was very quiet. Thus I was able to hear sudden footsteps close by and coming closer.

  My heart jumped into my throat as a tall figure loomed over us, blotting out the stars.

  “Oh, hi, Hesper,” said Genie, looking up. “Thank you. Lillian, this is Hesper.”

  A large, large woman set down a silver platter laden with a water pitcher, glasses, a plate of sliced fruit, and delicate cookies. She swung an ice bucket down from one elbow, containing—what else?—more champagne. She was a burly one.

  “How do you do?”

  “Good evening, Ms...”

  “Lillian Byrd.”

  “Ms Byrd.”

  Hesper’s eyes glowed like a cat’s in the dim light. Crouching easily, she poured the champagne and arranged the tray so we could reach everything, then disappeared.

  “I thought you said it was private here,” I whispered.

  Genie looked at me. “It is. Oh! You mean—oh! That’s good!”

  Hesper reappeared with an armful of towels and set them on a low stool nearby.

  “We won’t need anything more tonight,” said Genie.

  “Good night, then, Ms Maychild,” said Hesper.

  We laid back in the tub, hooking our necks over the edge and letting our stomachs and toes bob up to the surface. We drank a little more champagne, each of us knowing better than to get drunk. I read the label on the bottle. “Dom Perignon. I’ve heard of that.”

  After a while Genie reached over to the tray and made as if to feed me a slice of mango. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  Ignoring the mango, I looked into her eyes and said, “Yes. I’m very hungry.” And she had the sense to know what I meant. It’d been a long time—oh, I hate to tell you the length of the drought I’d been through. Her eyelashes fluttered, and I hoped they were an indicator of her heartbeat.

  She took my hand. “Look, I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it. I like your company. I like you. I wish...”

  “What do you wish?”

  Her finger drew circles on my palm.

  The bedroom was exactly five paces away.

  I’d never made love with an athlete. Genie Maychild had the strength of three gym teachers, combined with the finesse of a Renaissance glassblower.

  She understood skin the way I understood it: our best organ, one we humans, tragically, tend to underrate.

  “Do you feel that?” she murmured. “How about now? Can you almost not feel it? That’s it. Yes, that’s it, love. I want you to barely feel it.” She had a marvelous talent for the phantom touch, the touch that flies and settles like a breath of air, then flies and settles again.

  By way of compliment I said, “My backside never had it so good.”

  It seemed everything I said made her laugh.

  Genie did with my body exactly what she wanted to do with it. Which was fine with me, except I eventually worried that I wouldn’t be permitted certain liberties of my own. A silly worry, as it turned out.

  At one point I remember being supported for a moment, acrobat-style, on her solid feet, looking down at her composed face. As she lowered me she began to describe my skin in terms Keats would’ve envied. I listened carefully, mercenarily, thinking to what good use might I put those words myself someday.

  After a while I took the opportunity to explore the world of her, which, as I’ve said, filled me with awe and longing. It wasn’t merely that she was in great shape, and it wasn’t merely that she was exquisitely sensitive.

  She seemed to have a sixth sense, an extra something, that made her deliciously—how can I put it?—anticipatory. It was as if she could guess what I was going to do next, even though I was mixing up my pitches pretty well, so to speak. She guessed, then she allowed herself the luxury of anticipating the sensations, then actually feeling them. As if she felt everything twice. I sensed more than saw this happening. In making love to her, I came to learn more about making love, and to love it still m
ore than I already did.

  Love through the perceptions of a self-possessed body, a body singing with life—well, we should all be so lucky, every one of us.

  Genie sang, and I sang, and then we slept, and the house was very quiet.

  8

  I awakened to Genie climbing over me on her way to the bathroom. “It’s morning,” she announced, planting a big smack on the back of my neck. “It’s morning and it’s a fantastic day—let’s go, let’s go.”

  I closed my eyes again, listening to the running water in the bathroom, and opened them when the bed jounced slightly.

  Hesper had silently entered and placed a breakfast tray at the foot of the crisp white coverlet. Reflexively, I clutched the sheet to my bosom, but she glanced only into my eyes.

  She had one of those haircuts where it’s buzzed short in the back, then kind of floppy on the sides and front. Her neck was heavy, swelling into her shoulders like poured concrete. Yet she moved lightly, and I saw that her feet were quite small.

  “Will you want a hot breakfast, Ms Byrd?” She bent her broad back over the tray to adjust a tiny silver vase holding a pink tea rose.

  “Uh, no, thanks. This looks great. Jeez.” There was plenty of food—fruit and buns and such.

  When Genie came out, she said, “Good. Hesper makes popovers to die for.”

  “Did she come with this house or is she—you know—yours?”

  “Came with. Hey, let’s go. I’ll drive you to get your stuff. Because I love you and you’re going to stick with me all weekend, right?”

  “I had a wonderful night.”

  “Me too. Goodness, I needed that.”

  I stood up and stretched. She watched me. “You are built like a blade of grass, you know that?”

  “I know it.”

  “I think I got bruises from your hipbones.”

  “You did not.”

  “Where’d you get that mark? I didn’t notice it before.”

  She was looking at my right thigh, where a maniac had shot me a few years ago.

  “Oh, it’s an old dueling scar; I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  She was the kind of person who accepted a response like that with a look that said, I look forward to it. I’ve known women who would’ve said, “No, no, tell me now, what happened?” and insisted on hearing the whole damn story, who couldn’t rest until they’d heard the whole damn story, then would’ve gone drama queen over it, deciding I was either a marvelous hero or a complete dimwit (I’m half of each, actually), and would either insist on a commitment ceremony on the spot, or run off to change her phone number.

  But not old Genie. She understood privacy, and timing. She valued her own privacy, I’d noticed. There were things she didn’t want to tell me, stuff about before she was famous. As a journalist, I’d occasionally met famous people and had gotten particularly interested in that gap between nonfamous and famous—you know, that magical time that comes when hard work, or luck, breaks through that barrier that separates the stars from the asteroids. What was it like to go from being a washroom attendant to having somebody ask you for your autograph? That’s what I ask about, and I’d tried to get there with Genie last night, but she deflected me. It was fun to be deflected, given the other things we had to do.

  I thought about the offer I’d just been made. It seemed like an offer, anyway. I’d imagined a morning of lazy talking, and more hanky-panky, followed by a fond adieu. Now I figured Genie and I would have a voluptuous weekend, then on Monday we’d go our separate ways. She gearing up for the tournament, I melting into the crowd.

  I showered, my body feeling brand new.

  _____

  Genie’s morning-after energy propelled us to Truby’s, where we found her doing yoga, with Todd for company.

  Everything was okay. I introduced Genie, and we sat and shot the breeze for a few minutes. I was afraid my friend would be downhearted from not having scored last night, but no.

  “I’m making progress, Starmate,” she said. “You know the woman I was talking with when you left?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, we kissed.”

  “Right on. How was it?”

  “Scrumptious...absolutely...divine.”

  “Will you see her again?”

  “Tonight.”

  “She coming over here?”

  “Eventually, I hope. We’re meeting for dinner at Cobalt. She lives in Burbank.”

  “Good,” cheered Genie, smiling her upside-down smile. “You won’t have any trouble.” She was holding her palm out to Todd, who was sniffing and inching closer.

  “Right,” I said. I could tell Truby felt fine about me taking off for the weekend. We’d reconnect on Monday. “Come on, Toddy, we’re going for a ride.”

  _____

  The crack made by the collision of the face of Genie’s driver with the backside of a golf ball was a sound of authority, the likes of which I’d never heard.

  “That’s it,” said Dewey O’Connor.

  “I felt like I hardly hit it,” said Genie, looking after the ball, which was racing a jet through the crystalline sky.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” said O’Connor. “When you hammer at it you lose power.” He was a jockey-size Irishman and sounded like it. When ye hommer at it, ye lose power. “Your hands were gettin’ too quick.”

  We were standing beneath a high flat L.A. sun at O’Connor’s golf academy in the San Fernando valley—”the Valley,” people in L.A. call it. The Valley may be suburban and dreary, but O’Connor’s spread was super-luxe, catering to professionals and high-rolling amateurs. He’d built a special lesson tee for his most precious clients; we were shielded by a thicket of cedars from all prying eyes and spy cameras. I’d brought Todd because I felt he’d missed me overnight and needed to hear my voice. I kept him in his travel case on the ground nearby.

  I was feeling extremely sparkly. Tagging along with Genie I felt as if a big hand were following over my head, throwing glitter down. Every time she glanced my way, my heart wiggled in my chest. I yearned to wrap my arms around her again.

  When we arrived, O’Connor scanned me all the way down to my shoes, as my party hosts had done. I was wearing shorts and my faded pink polo shirt, plus my black high-top Chuck Taylor basketball sneakers. I understood perfectly well they weren’t appropriate golf wear, but they were the only shoes I’d brought besides my loafers. Back home I did have a pair of golf shoes, but I played in my sneakers sometimes, liking the feel of the ground beneath the worn soft soles. I expected O’Connor to curl his lip, but he gave me a kind smile and said, “Do you golf, then?” His face appeared unnaturally healthy, no spider veins, no rheum in his eyes—as if he never touched a drop.

  “Gimme the six,” said Genie, looking downrange and holding out her hand. Needless to say, she looked perfect in an outfit of fine knits and impeccable leather.

  O’Connor looked at me. Realizing my role, I pulled Genie’s six-iron from her absurdly large golf bag and handed it to her, grip first, as I’d watched caddies do, and received her driver. I propped it against the bag, thinking she might want it again.

  She raked a ball over to a clean piece of turf, set herself, and hit it.

  It was as if her body had no bones, only resilient muscles. She was as supple as an otter. She made the club look supple. With a pure click, the ball left the clubface, rose into the sky, and fell to earth at the distance most of my drives go. Its flight path was perfectly straight; the ball bounced and stopped to the left of a fluttering yellow target flag.

  “I was trying to fade it in a little bit.” A crease of disappointment appeared in her brow. I wanted to leap forward and kiss it away. “Just a second,” Genie said. She handed me the club, then bent down and rummaged in her bag. She came up with something I recognized from my childhood: an asthma inhaler. She flicked it open and took two long puffs, exhaling through her nose.

  “There’s something in the air out here my tubes don’t like,”
she said.

  “Asthma?” I asked sympathetically.

  “I don’t call it that. I just need a shot of this stuff once in a while.”

  “How’s your breathing been?” O’Connor asked.

  “Not bad. My tubes just don’t like California. Now, Dewey, listen.” She took her stance again. “I’m thinking I’m coming over a little bit and pulling it. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said O’Connor.

  She hit another shot. This one started out straight, then curved a bit and stopped closer to the flag.

  “I still feel like I’m fighting a pull, like I’m changing my plane at the top.”

  “Quit thinking, Genie. Now’s no time to be thinking. Forget the fade, you don’t need a fade. You hit a naturally straight ball. It’s a gift. Just because everybody else thinks they’ve got to work the ball doesn’t mean you have to. Merely see the shot and hit it. See it and hit it. Feel it and hit it. Easy, now.”

  She hit a few more, in silence. I could’ve watched her forever. She switched back to the driver, and hit four balls that disappeared over the horizon—I suppose they landed in Nevada or Texas, maybe.

  “Oh,” she said at last.

  “That’s it,” said O’Connor.

  And the lesson was over.

  _____

  “What would you like to do now?” Genie asked as we zoomed onto the Ventura Freeway. “Tomorrow we’ll play golf. I want to go over to Woodley.”

  “You don’t want to play golf with me.”

  “Yes, I do. But how about now?”

  “Well,” I said, “you think there’s any way we could, you know, test the old mattress again? In the Biblical sense?” I touched her arm, stopping short of grabbing it and stroking it madly, stopping short of diving into her lap as we rolled gaily along.

  “I want to look at you again,” I went on. “I want to look at you all over. You’re so—Christ, alive!”

  “Lillian.”

  I stopped.

  “Later,” she said. “Later we’ll ride the hurricane. All right? Let’s talk about it all day.”

  I liked that. “Well,” I said, “first we should drop off Todd at the house and give him a little safe space. Then...well, what would you like to do?”