by Judith Gould
“You’re a comfort, sweet pea, you know that?” Edwina put an arm around her daughter.
“Plus, if it makes you feel any better, there are my two plainclothes cops as well,” Billie Dawn added. “They’re lurking around somewhere outside, so that makes us six.”
“And you’re a comfort too,” Edwina said warmly.
“Come on, Billie,” Hallelujah said as she hopped impatiently off the runway. “I’ve rested long enough. Let’s run through it again. Then, soon’s I’ve got it down pat, we can blow this joint.”
Billie hopped off the runway looking like a centerfold, all torso and legs in a flesh-colored body stocking. Unself-consciously she flipped her waist-long hair back over her shoulders, and smiling, held out a hand for Hallelujah.
Not for the first time, Edwina marveled at Billie Dawn’s physical perfection; it would have been easy to hate her if she weren’t so down-to-earth. They had, in fact, become good friends.
Hallelujah twisted around. “Aren’t you comin’, Ma? We like need ya to switch on the music, y’know?”
“The music?” Edwina said faintly, and groaned.
“Y’know, that barfoid tape for the fashion show?”
How well she knew. And to think that she had selected it herself! She should be kicking herself.
Edwina reluctantly pushed herself off the runway and followed them toward the steps to the plywood stage. “Happiness is never hearing a bossa nova beat ever again,” she said. “Or did I already mention that?”
Hallelujah rolled her eyes. “As a matter of fact, dozens of times! C’mon, Ma! Cheer up. After tomorrow we’ll never have to listen to it again!”
“Amen,” Billie Dawn added softly.
Suddenly Edwina frowned and tipped her head to one side. “Wait. What was that?”
Billie Dawn looked at her. “What was what?”
“Ssssh!” Edwina held up a hand to silence her. “There. You hear it?”
All three of them listened closely.
Now they could all hear it: approaching footsteps in the hall outside of the ballroom’s two doors.
Hallelujah groaned in disgust. “What’s with the two of you, anyway?” she scoffed. “You’re actin’ like this place has ghosts or something. It’s just Anouk.”
“No, it’s not,” Edwina whispered. “Anouk doesn’t shuffle like that. Her heels click. That’s—”
“—a man!” Billie Dawn finished for her, and they stared at each other.
“Are you expecting anybody?” Edwina whispered.
A sudden fear sprang into Billie’s eyes. Quickly she shook her head. “No.” She could barely speak. “Are you?”
Edwina shook her head, reached for the nearest folding chair, and lifted it high. Hallelujah, facing in the opposite direction, picked up another one and held it above her own head.
Now the footsteps were very close. Billie shut her eyes and mouthed a sibilant prayer. Edwina and Hallelujah, sandwiching her between their turned backs, kept their eyes on the two different entrances. Neither of them dared breathe.
Then a local uniformed policeman walked in through the nearest door. Seeing the three frightened women, he raised both hands slowly and held them up, palms facing outward.
“It’s all right, ladies.” He smiled. “You can put those chairs back down now.”
Neither Edwina nor Hallelujah moved a muscle.
“Who are you?” Edwina demanded.
“Southampton police, Officer Moody. An NYPD detective by the name of Koscina called in and asked us to keep checking up on you.”
“It’s okay,” Billie whispered. “It’s not him.”
Exhaling sighs of relief, Edwina and Hallelujah put down their chairs. They were both still shaking.
“I apologize if I frightened you ladies. I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s. All. Right.” Edwina could barely speak.
“This house is getting to me,” Billie said faintly.
“It’s gettin’ to all of us,” Hallelujah interjected. “You’ve even got me actin’ all squirrley!”
“Look, ladies, I’m going to make myself scarce. We’re just patrolling our regular beat. I’ll come by in about forty minutes and check up on you again. Is that okay with you?”
Edwina nodded. “That will be fine.”
“But next time, warn us that it’s you who’s coming,” Billie said weakly. “This house is creepy enough as it is. Don’t sneak up on us again.”
He smiled. “I promise I won’t.”
“Thank you, officer,” Edwina said.
“My pleasure, ladies.” With a slight smile he pushed up the shiny black visor of his cap and went back out. They could hear his slightly shuffling gait receding.
“Let’s go to work,” Edwina suggested. “The longer we hang around here, the more spooked we’re liable to get.”
Billie glanced at her sideways. “Not only that,” she pointed out, “but the longer we stick around, the longer Anouk has to stay too. And you know that sweet way she has while managing to ice you?”
“Good point.” Edwina nodded.
Anouk was roaming the far end of the second floor, slowly working her way from room to room. Having to stick around for Edwina, Billie Dawn, and Hallelujah gave her just the opportunity she had been waiting for—namely, doing something about those perfect rooms of certain designers who had fallen into her disfavor over the years. It wouldn’t hurt, she’d decided, to make some wee little last-minute changes in some of their efforts. Most of the designers wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow, so they would never be the wiser. At least not for a day or two.
It really was too simple—moving a perfectly aligned chair from here to there, bending the stalks on the expensive flower arrangements so the blooms would wilt and droop overnight, tilting a few paintings so that they hung crookedly, squashing some carefully fluffed cushions, jumbling a few precisely folded bath towels, smudging a mirror or two . . .
Anouk was consumed by the electrifying urge to vandalize. Now she knew just how those spray-can-wielding graffiti terrorists must feel. Powerful and yet frightened of exposure—both at the same time. Exhilarating! Her hands were actually trembling and her mouth tasted like cotton. But her blood felt so . . . Yes! So alive! It actually seemed to percolate! And best of all, nobody could blame her, because tomorrow morning the caterers and the party staff would descend in full force, and there would be people everywhere, all with the opportunity for a little sabotage.
Even better, if none of them got blamed, then there was always Hallelujah Cooper to use as a scapegoat—she just looked like a vandal with that wild hair and bizarre makeup.
Quietly moving from room to room, Anouk continued on her little spree. It really was too, too delicious for words!
“Snake, honey? ‘Member that time, months back, when we watched TV? And your ex was being interviewed?”
Christ! What a dumb fuckin’ bitch. How could he forget something like that?
“Yeah,” Snake growled noncommittally, and finished his can of Bud. He crushed the empty with his hand and tossed it over his shoulder before wiping his mouth on his hairy forepaw. “What about it?”
“It said her name was Billie Dawn, right?”
“Shirl. Her fuckin’ name’s Shirl.”
“Sure, Snake. Shirl. Anyway, I picked up this newspaper an’ flipped through it? An’ look what I found! She’s mentioned in a column, an’ it’s even got her picture. See?” Conchita held up the newspaper.
He snatched it out of her hand. “What you doin’ readin’ shit like this?” he snarled, but he lumbered over to the table under the lighting fixture, spread the paper out flat, and pulled up a chair. He plopped himself heavily down into it and hunched forward, squinting closely at the tiny print. “Where does it mention her?”
Conchita came up to him from behind. “Right there, see?” She pointed toward the end of Riva Price’s column.
Snake read the paragraph laboriously, mouthing each word while slowly running a f
ilthy-nailed finger along the print. Reading was not one of his strong points. Harley engines and bustin’ ass were his particular areas of expertise—and pride.
“What’s this say?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at a word.
“Lemme see.” Putting her hands on his hunched shoulders, she leaned down over him. “ ‘Beau,’ “ she said.
He twisted around to look up at her. “Yeah, but what’s it mean?”
“You know . . .” She shrugged and scratched a breast idly. “Like a boyfriend. Someone she’s dating.”
“You mean—like he’s her old man?” he demanded. “That what you’re sayin’?”
Conchita could feel the meanness emanating from him and knew it behooved her to be diplomatic. When Snake got riled up, he could be frighteningly violent.
“Well, not exactly,” she said slowly, trying to diffuse his anger. “It could be they’re just seein’ each other. Friendly-like. You know?”
“Yeah,” he said, and added with a sneer, “And I just might become President of the United States.”
She decided to keep quiet.
To her relief, he grunted and turned his attention back to the newspaper. For the moment, at least, he was more interested in finding out the whys, whens, and wheres of what Shirl was involved in. There was time enough later to deal with the fuckface she was seein.
Moving his finger to the top of the column, he read it through from the beginning, a process which took him the better part of forty minutes and two more cans of Bud.
When he was through, he scraped his chair back and burped mightily. Got to his feet and scratched his belly. “Go get me the road map for the Island,” he told her. “I’m gonna ride out there.”
Her eyes lit up. “Can I come too?” She did a series of excited little hops. “Oh, Snake, honey! I always wanted to go out there!”
“Not this time, foxy,” Snake said flatly. “This is sumpin’ ‘tween your ole man and a bitch that took a hike. Ain’t none o’ your business.” He slapped her on the rump. “Map,” he reminded her grimly.
She snuggled her ass up against his crotch and wiggled her tight little buns against him. “I thought I’m your ole lady now,” she purred with mock petulance.
“Sure you are, baby. But see, I got some unfinished business to take care of, and you’d be in the way. Now, get your ass outta here.”
“Oh, all right,” she said morosely, moving off reluctantly and doing as she was told.
Outside the showhouse, in the unmarked police car parked by the roadside, one of the NYPD undercover cops complained, “God damn. Sure gets colder’n a witch’s tit out here during the night. You’d never know it’s nearly goddamn June.”
“Yeah,” his partner agreed. “But if I turn on the car heater, we’re liable to fall asleep. You heard our orders. No cooping.”
“So what? Who’s gonna see us? And who’s gonna care? There ain’t nothing doin’ out here anyway. ‘Sides, nobody knows she’s out here, right? The psycho’s back in the city.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But crack your window. I don’t want to get no carbon-monoxide poisoning.”
“You betcha.”
Both windows came down about an inch.
The plainclothes cop in the driver’s seat turned on the engine and let it idle. Soon the heat and the gentle vibration had their effect.
Both men’s eyelids drooped; then each began to snore.
Same World/Same Time
In the Realm of Miss Bitch
“Just one more itsy-bitsy stroke of eyeliner . . .” Miss Bitch said softly aloud. Leaning into the bulb-lined Hollywood-style makeup mirror, be carefully drew the black eyeliner along his right lid. Then be put the eyeliner down and sat back. “There. Now Precious is beautiful.”
He blinked his false lashes rapidly—just like Donna Mills used to do on Knots Landing. “Give yourself a kissy-kissy,” he said.
Hunching his shoulders forward, he puckered his lips, lowered his eyelids, and blew his reflection a sexy Marilyn Monroe air kiss. “Mwah. Mwah!”
He giggled and did it again. And again. And again.
“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah mwah mwah!”
“Hellooooo, beautiful!” he tinkled at himself in his best falsetto.
“Heeeeellooooo—oh! “
“Hello-hello!”
Batting his lashes some more, he fluttered his fingertips like frenetic, vibrating wings.
Oh yesssss! he was sooooo beautiful. So gorgeous. So—sexy!
“Mwah!”
Pushing back his little pink-and-gold boudoir chair, he adjusted the pink lace bustier that corseted his spongy flesh-tone falsies. Ran his palms over the smooth black nylon stockings hooked to his garter belt. Delicately felt his penis, tucked coyly out of sight under the Maxi Pad and held in place with wide strips of adhesive tape. Raised his shapely legs to coo over his feet. They were shod in his favorites—simply the most devastatingly vulgar pair of spike-heeled pink maribou mules. Frederick’s of Hollywood, of course! Nothing but the best for this girl!
But it was his hair and makeup that were artistic triumphs—it had taken him nearly two hours to get the look just right.
He patted his elaborate hairdo. The scalp wig was Vienna Farrow’s, which he had spent half a day styling just so.
And the makeup. Ah! The makeup was positively inspiring: black slanting eyes and ruthless cheekbone shadows that looked exactly like Obi Kutis . . . lips like Joy Zatopekova’s.
He was a pastiche of all his winsome little beauties. All those bad, bad girls rolled into one!
He picked up the atomizer filled with Bal à Versailles and spritzed himself. Oooooh! It felt so cold! Smelled so yummy! More! More! Miss Bitch just loooooved smelling like a French whore. Like a very, very bad girl.
Last but not least, he gave his crotch a squirt for good measure.
Now he was ready!
He shivered deliciously with anticipation. It wouldn’t take more than another hour for him to reach Southampton. The showhouse must be crawling with sprightly bad girls. All getting ready to kick out for tomorrows fashion show.
He could just see them. Lips pouting, hips snapping, and splendid legs flashing as they strutted down the runway, and twirl! strutted back out.
Popping up from the boudoir chair, he posed momentarily in front of the bulb-ringed mirror and then prudently turned off the lights before yanking aside the dividing curtain. He leaned down to peer out the windshield of the Winnebago.
It was nice and dark out, and traffic was light.
So ingenious, this vehicle. So perfect for a Hellcat on Wheels!
Miss Bitch plopped himself happily into the driver’s seat and swiveled around to face forward. Turned the engine over. Glanced in the side mirror to see if anybody was coming up on his left. The coast was clear.
He sighed happily.
Miss Bitch was ready to roll!
“Girls, here I come!” he shrieked, and floored the gas pedal.
Chapter 68
“Once again, gals. From the top.” Edwina poised her finger on the play button of the stereo. “Ready?” she asked. Then she counted to five and punched it.
Basia’s mellow bossa nova blared again. After four beats, out Billie Dawn strode onto the runway in that leggy, limber-limbed strut that is the hallmark of the high-fashion model.
Edwina stepped back and folded her arms, tapping one foot to keep rhythm with the music while she watched closely.
Billie Dawn moved with incredible perfection. With every run-through, she repeated each carefully choreographed move with the exact same precision as the time before, she was that consistent.
By now, Edwina knew every move by heart. From the doorway to the center of the narrow runway took twelve precise strides. Then a twirl, and twelve more strides, then a double twirl at the far end, and back again.
It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. One missed beat could throw the rhythm off and create chaos—especially when there were five or six girls out there at one
time.
Billie Dawn’s double twirl was Hallelujah’s cue. Now she came striding out. She didn’t possess Billie’s practiced precision, but she had a way of moving that was all her own.
Watching her, Edwina felt a warm surge of maternal pride. Until Hallelujah had first stepped out on the runway, she hadn’t realized quite how leggy and slim her daughter really was. Or that she was possessed of such inborn grace.
Do I have it too? she wondered.
As Hallelujah stepped out on the runway, Billie headed back in.
They would pass each other at the midway point and twirl simultaneously.
Edwina held her breath. Now came the tricky part. There wasn’t much room for them both to maneuver.
Hallelujah’s cocked elbow knocked Billie.
Damn! “No, no, no, no, no,” Edwina moaned. She hit the stop button on the recorder. “Hal, my sweet,” she called out. “Colliding just won’t do. It’s got to be timed perfectly so that your elbow is a few inches behind that of whoever else is out here with you.”
“Sorry, Ma,” Hallelujah said meekly. “I feel like such a geek. It may look easy, but it isn’t. Y’know?”
“I know, sweetie,” Edwina commiserated, “I know. Except for this part, you seem to have everything down pat. I tell you what. Why don’t we just practice this part a few more times without any music?”
“Before we do that,” Billie said, “what’s the time? I forgot my watch.”
Edwina consulted hers. “Five past eleven.”
“What? Yikes!” Billie squatted and jumped neatly off the runway. She had to call Doc—she’d promised him she would check in every couple of hours, and knew that if she didn’t he would be worried sick. “I’ll be right back,” she called out over her shoulder. “I’ve got a quick call to make.”
“Tell Daddy hi for me,” Hallelujah said.
“Don’t forget to use one of the pay phones!” Edwina called out after Billie.
“I won’t!” Billie assured her.
The pay phones had been specially installed by the Showhouse Committee before the redecorating of the house had begun. The one regular telephone line was taboo for everyone except the chairperson of the committee—Anouk.
