by Dianne Emley
The man looked trapped.
“What do y’all do for a livin’?” she smiled.
“I’m unemployed,” he said.
“We got somethin’ in common.” She pushed his arm. “I’m unemployed too.”
Iris pulled a card from her inside jacket pocket and handed it to the man. “Aren’t you an attorney for O’Connell and Meyers? A friend of mine works in your office.”
The man pressed his index finger against his lips as if they were sharing a secret. He looked at the card and pocketed it.
Barbie took a long slug of her drink and turned back to Iris. “Betcha he calls you. Whatcha bet?”
“Hey! Lakers!” Art Silva walked up behind Iris, put his hands around her neck, and gave her a shake. “What did I miss, Iris? Give me the play-by-play. Ha, ha! Hey, Jeff.” Art reached across the bar to shake the bartender’s hand. “What up? What’s the score?”
“Lakers, fifty-two forty-seven.” He set a light beer in front of Art.
“Swee-eet! Awright…Here we go, boys…two points, Lakers.” The Lakers made a basket and Art slapped high fives with the bartender and two other men nearby. Art gulped the beer. “You know what I like about sports, Jeff?”
The bartender played along. “No, what do you like about sports, Art?”
“In sports, they don’t care where you come from, who you know, or what you look like. All that counts is how you play the game. Am I right?”
“When you’re right, you’re right.”
“Damn right I’m right.” The Lakers scored again. “All right!” He raised his hand for another round of high fives. Barbie put her palm in the air in Art’s direction and he slapped it.
Barbie slid close to Iris’s left ear. “Who’s your friend?”
Iris faced her. This close, she could see Barbie’s age through her makeup. “Art Silva. We work together.”
“I do believe he’s the most attractive man I’ve seen in Los Angle-lees.”
Iris looked at Art. He evoked a sensation of cool sheets and clean sweat. “He does have a certain animal magnetism.”
“He married?”
“Nope.”
“Got a girl?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s an investment counselor, like me.
“Really! He as good as you?”
“No. But he’s good. He’s learning.”
“Silva. What kinda name is that?”
“Mexican-American. He’s from East L.A.”
Art was wedged next to Iris on her right. Barbie leaned back and looked around Iris for a complete view. Art’s shirt cuffs were unbuttoned and rolled back, revealing olive skin, dark hair, and strong wrists with lean muscles running up beneath the sleeves. His suit pants revealed tight buttocks that the muscles had pulled into hollows on each side. Barbie didn’t miss any of it.
“He’s a young ‘un, ain’t he?”
“I think he’s in his late twenties.”
“Just a pup. I love these Latin men y’all got out here.”
Iris looked at her and was about to speak when Barbie responded for her. “I know! What men don’t I like?” She butted Iris’s shoulder with her own, then raised her glass. Iris clinked her glass against it. “What can I say, honey? Goin’ without for as long as I have can make a woman real cranky. That’s one reason I wanted to get out of Atlanta. Everyone watching the Widow Stringfellow to make sure she behaved appropriately.”
The Lakers scored two free throws and Art high-fived everyone within arm’s reach. Barbie put her hand up again and when Art slapped it, she closed her fingers around his, winking at him before letting go.
Art leaned back around Iris and stole an appraising look at Barbie. “Who’s your friend?” he said into her right ear.
“My new client, Barbie Stringfellow.”
“Yeah? Tell me about her.”
“She’s wealthy, lonely, and horny, and she’s too old for you, sweet meat, and she’s my client.”
“So she’s your client, so what?” Art leaned forward against the bar and looked at Barbie from the front. She leaned forward at the same time.
“Peek-a-boo.” Barbie grinned.
Iris said, “I like to keep business and pleasure separate.”
Art spoke into Iris’s ear. “She’s not my client. She’s good-looking even though she’s got a little age on her.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“But I can do that. Especially if she’s got dough.”
Iris threw up her hands. “Would you like me to introduce you?”
Art’s bright smile answered for him.
Iris stepped back from the bar so that Art and Barbie could face each other. “Arturo Silva”—Iris held her right hand in Art’s direction, then held her left toward Barbie—“may I present Mrs. Barbie Stringfellow of Atlanta.”
Art extended his hand toward Barbie and she delicately shook it.
“Pleased to meet you, Arturo.”
“Everyone calls me Art.”
“You are a work of art…”
Iris rolled her eyes.
“But I’ll call you Arturo.” Barbie rolled the last r on her tongue. She jerked her head toward Iris. “She’s not used to me. I just say whatever’s on my mind. It can be a frightenin’ prospect sometimes, I admit.”
“I’m scared right now,” Iris said.
Barbie picked up Art’s tie and slid it between her fingers. “You a gamblin’ man, Arturo?”
He smiled. “Roll the dice.”
“Since you’re a gamblin’ man, maybe you’d honor us with your presence at dinner.”
Art shrugged his shoulders and looked at Iris. “Sure I won’t be in the way?”
“Barbie, we were going to discuss my investment strategy for you. I’d like to get going on it Monday morning.”
“Well, honey, we’ll snatch a few minutes. You got that cop of yours waitin’ at home?”
“He’s working tonight.”
“Well, let’s make a night of it.”
“Yeah! Let’s party,” Art exclaimed.
“Now I’m not so sure I won’t be in the way,” Iris said.
The Lakers game was interrupted by a news broadcast.
“What is this bullshit?” A man at the other end of the bar gestured toward the television with a lager glass that was half full of beer. “Put the game back on!”
“The trial of four white LAPD officers accused of using excessive force in the arrest of black motorist Rodney King has been moved from Los Angeles to Simi Valley in Ventura County. Attorneys for the officers claimed their clients could not get a fair trial in Los Angeles County.”
“Simi Valley,” another man said. “It’s a redneck town.”
The man with the lager glass shouted, “Who the hell cares? Put the game back on!”
The station played the shadowy videotape of the motorist being beaten by the police. Iris looked away. Barbie watched with fascination.
Someone else shouted, “They stopped the game to show this drunk being beat up for the millionth time?”
“If he’d stayed on the ground, they wouldn’t have had to hit him like that,” a woman said.
“There were four guys kicking him in the head,” Art said. “He didn’t know which way was up.”
“It was his own fault,” the woman continued.
The man with the lager glass said, “The cops should have taken out the cameraman, too.”
The game resumed. Several people clapped.
“Let’s get out of here before I punch somebody,” Art said.
“Sounds good to me,” Barbie said. “I heard about this new place…Tangerine?”
“We’ll never get in there on a Friday night,” Iris said. “They’re booked three weeks in advance.”
Barbie grabbed her purse off the bar and it swung heavily from its strap. She reached in, pulled out enough money to pay for all their drinks, and tossed it on the bar. “We’ll just see
about that. That okay with you, Arturo?” She adjusted her baseball cap.
“Whatever’s your pleasure.”
Barbie put her hand on Art’s cheek. “I love this man.” She turned on her heel and started making her way through the crowd. After a few steps, she looked back. “Y’all comin’?”
Iris grabbed her purse and briefcase. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to Art. “After you, work of art.”
Art spoke into Iris’s ear. “I feel like she wants to eat me with a spoon.”
“She does. Sprinkled with a li’l sugah on top.”
“Oohh,” he said. “That gave me a chill.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Art drove, Barbie rode shotgun, and Iris sat in the backseat of Art’s black 1966 Mustang convertible. He drove Barbie to her car in the office tower garage so she could get her coat. “Swee-eet!” Art exclaimed when he saw the red Mercedes two-seater with white leather interior.
“You like it, Arturo? I’ll let you drive it sometime.” Barbie opened the trunk and pulled out a full-length red fox coat.
“Whoa!” Art exclaimed. “That’s not real, is it?”
“‘Course it’s real.” Barbie got back in the Mustang. Both Art and Iris couldn’t resist touching the fur.
“So beautiful and so politically incorrect,” Iris said.
“Since what I had to do to get this coat was politically incorrect, I figure I’ve earned it. If any of those animal rights people come near it, I’ll tear off their heads and spit down their necks.”
“I do believe you would,” Iris said. “But it’s not very cold out, Barbie.”
“What does being cold have to do with it?”
“Let’s kick it.” Art sped through the garage. The Mustang’s tires squealed against the smooth concrete.
Art drove down Olympic Boulevard, which traverses the city from East L.A. to the ocean. Iris lay across the rear seat with her hands clasped behind her head and her stockinged feet propped up on the side of the car behind Art. The Mustang’s convertible top was down. It was a cool and clear January night, the sky lightened to indigo by natural and artificial light sources—street lamps, jets, news and police helicopters, headlights, houses, businesses, and the pure light of the moon and the few stars that managed to shine through.
The streets near downtown had a Central American flavor. The restaurants, bars, and stores were owned by local moms and pops who painted the building facades with colorful homemade pictures of the fish, rice, meat, empanadas, cold beer, dolls, records, boots, and dresses found inside. There were many people in the streets, walking or sitting on the front porches of grand old homes that had long ago been divided into many apartments, talking and watching their kids play.
Farther west, they reached Koreatown. Stone Buddhas and strings of hanging lanterns decorated the small front yards of the tiny, old wood-framed houses found there and throughout L.A.’s modest neighborhoods, the neighborhoods changing hands over and over again as immigrant populations moved in, moved up, and moved out. New minimalls displayed bright plastic signs in Korean and English for acupuncturists, herbalists, designer clothing shops, small electronics stores, and Korean barbecue restaurants. A large brick church with Stars of David molded into its facade and stained-glass windows wore a new sign: KOREAN PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH.
At La Brea, Iris, Barbie, and Art headed north, and chichi restaurants, bakeries and retro clothing stores appeared. At Melrose, they turned left and entered West Hollywood, a city that was once just an older L.A. neighborhood cluttered with furniture upholstery shops and kosher delis. Now in Westho, it was a full-time job keeping up with what was hot and what was not. Streets were clogged with bars catering to all flavors of gays and straights. There were art deco and vintage furniture stores, interior design shops, hair salons, coffeehouses featuring open-mike poetry readings, and more bakeries and more restaurants and more retro clothing stores. In Westho, haircuts, hair colors, and attire were cutting edge. Parking laws were strict. Neon reigned. Ennui was in.
In front of Tangerine, two red-jacketed, Latino valets hopped up to the Mustang. One of them opened Barbie’s door. She swung an ample but shapely leg onto the sidewalk, the purple miniskirt hiked high around her thighs. A valet ogled her. She stood on the sidewalk and demurely pulled the fox closed around her.
“Jefe,” Art said to the valet who had climbed into the driver’s seat. “Park it up close so’s I don’t get ripped off.”
The valet gave Art a thumbs-up and depressed the accelerator, making the Mustang’s eight cylinders roar.
Tangerine was a white concrete box inset with industrial glass laced with chicken wire and irregularly shaped greenish glass cubes. The restaurant was built around an open-air courtyard and had the requisite glassed-in kitchen, where white-toqued chefs could be seen busily working with knives and fire. White wire patio chairs and metal patio tables were crammed together across the concrete floor. The primo table was next to the kitchen where one could watch the renowned head chef fret over his brood.
“So this is Tangerine,” Art said. “You sit on patio chairs?”
Iris looked at the people crowded around the tiny bar. “And are grateful for the privilege.”
“Look!” Barbie pulled on Iris’s sleeve. “There’s Chet Steele.”
“Who?” Iris asked.
“I don’t know his real name, but that’s who he plays on the soap opera.”
“Oh.”
Art made his way to the table where two black-outfitted hosts decided who sat and where. One was an angular woman with long blond hair held away from her face with a wide elastic band pulled down to her hairline. The other was an angular blond man with freshly trimmed hair cut scalp-close at the bottom and full at the top, where a shock of hair had been bleached platinum. Both of them had gold hoop earrings, long fingers and straight, white teeth. They looked very clean.
“Uuuh!” Barbie inhaled sharply and pulled Iris’s sleeve. “Look.”
“Where?”
“There!”
Iris squinted where Barbie was pointing. “What?”
“It’s Charles Bronson!”
“Huh. I thought he was dead.”
“Isn’t it awful what happened to his wife?”
“Whose wife?”
“Charles Bronson’s. She died of cancer,” Barbie said soberly.
“Oh. Right. Terrible.”
“I wish I had my camera.”
“Excuse me, Barbie. Be back in a minute.”
Iris walked through the restaurant and finally found the restrooms, discreetly tucked in a corner behind a screen. The restaurant’s designer had continued the stark, white, minimalist theme here. The sole decor was a single long-stemmed, waxy, orange-red anthurium bloom in a clear glass vase with clear glass marbles at the bottom. As usual, there weren’t enough stalls. Two women were waiting. One of them had her T-shirt pulled up to bare her perfect breasts.
“They look great,” the other woman said.
“They’re not too big? I told him I didn’t want them too big, that I didn’t want to look like a bimbo.”
In the restaurant, Art walked up to the reception desk and was about to speak when a man shoved in front of him. He was fashionably grungy, wearing torn, baggy jeans cinched around his waist with an oversized belt, a black T-shirt with the message EXTINCT MEANS NO MORE partially tucked in, dusty boots, and a weathered motorcycle jacket. His long hair was caked with a greasy concoction.
He handed the male host a neon-green pager and ran his hands impatiently through his greasy hair, bumping his elbow into Art.
“Hey, man,” Art said. “I was here first.”
“I was beeped.” He drew out his lips and the word with disdain.
The host grabbed two menus and led the man and his date through the restaurant. They tried their best to look as bored as possible.
Art glared at them for a long time, as if staring would vilify the man, then turned back to the hostess, who was smiling vacuously.
&
nbsp; “Hi. What can you do for a party of three?”
The hostess blinked her clear, turquoise-blue eyes. The perimeters of the colored contact lenses were visible just beyond her irises, which were probably blue to begin with but not the desired blue-green hue. “I’m sorry. We’ve been booked solid for weeks.” She sounded as if she meant it.
Art leaned on the table toward her. “See that woman over there?”
She looked at Barbie, who gave her a friendly smile, out of earshot of Art’s conversation. Iris emerged from the rest room and joined Barbie.
“She’s from Atlanta and very rich and very important.” Art told the hostess. “She’s a client of my friend and myself and we’re trying to impress her. She has her heart set on eating here.”
The hostess frowned apologetically. “See all those people waiting? I can’t seat you tonight.”
Art walked over to Barbie and Iris and draped an arm over each of their shoulders. “Ladies, why don’t I take you to a place where we can have some real fun?”
“You’re saying they won’t let us in?” Barbie asked.
“Barbie, I did my best.”
Barbie walked over to the table, the fox swaying with her gait, and approached the male host who had returned. She put her hand on his arm, pulled him aside without a word, turned him so that his back was to the reservation desk, and spoke confidentially into his ear. “Sir. I’m Barbeh Stringfellow of the Stringfellows of Atlanta.” She paused to let her announcement sink in. The host smiled and nodded expectantly. “Your partner told my friend that you’re full up.”
“We’re booked weeks in advance.”
“I understand that, I do. I’m in the restaurant business myself, and I don’t want to put you in a difficult situation darlin’, but”—she unzipped her purse, reached inside, and held out a twenty-dollar bill—“I’m only gonna be in town a short while, because I—”
The host looked amused and gently pushed her hand away. “I’m really sorry.”
“—flew into town to go to my sister’s funeral earlier today. I leave tomorrow, and—” Barbie reached her hand into her purse and added a fifty to the twenty—“I had my heart set on dinin’ at your fine restaurant before I left.” Her eyes filled with tears.
