Clarisse glanced at the poster by the box office: a gaudy illustration for a film of dubious redeeming social value entitled Hot Queers in Bondage. It apparently had to do with the kidnapping and sexual molestation of five airline flight attendants by an equal number of men in motorcycle jackets.
“Do you think the film’s as good as the poster?”
“No,” said Valentine definitely.
They separated at the edge of Bay Village; Clarisse went on to the real estate office and Valentine returned to his apartment.
Chapter Seventeen
SOUTH END REALTY, sandwiched between a run-down doughnut shop and a Chinese laundry, came into view as Clarisse and Veronica Lake came round the Cyclorama Building and crossed Tremont Street against the light.
The offices were situated in the converted basement and parlor level of a four-story brick townhouse. Fine iron grillwork spread across the front of the building, with gates opening to the original stoop and to the sunken entrance of the rental office. Clarisse swung open the smaller gate and sprinted down the three salt-covered steps. She kicked open the door and swept into the office, with Veronica Lake trotting in after.
Clarisse stopped dead at the receptionist’s desk. A young woman sat behind it, idly leafing through the latest issue of Vogue and nibbling a square of cheap chocolate. She turned a page, equally oblivious to Clarisse’s presence and the ringing telephone on her desk.
Clarisse looked about. In the back of the room, Richie sat at his desk with his back to her and talked on another line. The other three desks were empty. Another voice, muffled, drifted down the staircase from the parlor level.
Clarisse stared at the receptionist, or rather, at her hair. She had never seen a style quite to match it: bangs began at the crown of the girl’s head and swept forward to the top of her eyebrows, and all the rest was an ingenious construction of curls and finger waves. The woman, clearly in her early thirties, was wearing a pink jumper that she must have searched all Boston for.
“Where’s Dennis?” Clarisse demanded.
The woman raised her wide heart-shaped face. “Would you like to see an agent?”
“Where’s Dennis?” Clarisse repeated.
Richie swung his chair about and beamed a smile. He wound up his conversation and slipped the receiver into the cradle. “Darlene sacked him,” he grinned. Darlene was the office manager.
“What?”
“Would you like an application?” The receptionist handed Clarisse a long sheet of printed paper.
“Who are you?” said Clarisse evenly. She took the application.
“Miggie Green.”
Clarisse wadded the sheet of paper into a tight ball and tossed it to Richie at the back of the room. “Miggie?” Richie caught it.
The woman attempted a sweet smile. “Sort of a twist on Meg.”
“I’ve no doubt,” said Clarisse, her eyes wide with wonder. “Are you the new receptionist?”
Miggie Green straightened in her chair. “May I help you? Do you want to see one of our agents?”
“I am one of your agents,” said Clarisse, with ice. She unfastened the leash and pointed Veronica Lake to the wicker sofa. The afghan trotted over and curled beneath it, resting her long sharp face on her forepaws.
The telephone on the receptionist’s desk was still ringing.
“I think you have a call, Mickey,” said Clarisse, and moved toward the back of the room. Miggie placed her hand on the receiver, about to lift it, but it stopped ringing. She shrugged and picked up her chocolate bar again. Richie rolled his eyes at Clarisse and sighed.
“Why do we have to put up with Little Miss Muff here?” asked Clarisse loudly. “Why did Darlene fire Dennis?”
“He caught her in a kickback deal with that cute plumber,” Richie whispered. “She tried to get rid of him before he said anything, but you know Dennis. He ran screaming upstairs and spilled the beans. Darlene’s on the grill in the back office right now.” Richie leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. He was very tall and slim. He yawned, brushed a wayward blond wave back from his forehead and winked one blue eye at Clarisse. “Miss Green is a temporary. Miss Green has perfect sight and hearing, which supposedly qualify her to be a receptionist/accountant. She can type a scorching thirty words a minute, and add three small digits in her head. I thought you were on your deathbed?”
“Oh,” said Clarisse, “actually I feel a lot better now…”
Clarisse turned to drop her bag on her desk and stopped. The entire surface of the desk had been cleared of personal artifacts and was now piled high with neat stacks of manila envelopes.
Clarisse turned livid. “What is this? Christ, I take a long lunch and my desk is turned into a filing cabinet!” She bent forward and with a wide dramatic sweep of her arm pushed all the envelopes onto the floor in front of the desk.
Miggie Green jumped up, threw a chocolate-stained hand over her mouth, and screeched briefly.
“Clarisse,” said Richie. He dropped his feet onto the floor heavily.
“I still work here, Richie!” Clarisse shouted. “Darlene may not like my hours, but I pull in a lot of commissions.” Clarisse wrestled her coat off, tossed it over the back of the chair and threw herself into it, so that it spun across the floor and banged against the wall.
Miggie stared at her, and Clarisse shot back a glance of loathing.
“Clarisse…” said Richie again.
“Richie,” she cried, “what’s happening around here?”
“Lovelace!” cried Richie. “Those envelopes are all yours. Copies of last year’s leases. End of the year audit. I made Miggie dig them all out so that you wouldn’t have to.”
Clarisse lowered her brows by degrees. She sighed and went around the desk to retrieve the envelopes. Richie stood to help her.
“How’s Daniel?” asked Richie, when they had restacked them.
“He’s trying to convince me to go with him to St. Kitts.” Clarisse opened the middle drawer of her desk and extracted her listings and appointment books. Fumbling in the back she pulled out a pack of Kools and an ashtray. She lit a cigarette and sat back, crossing her legs. “I can’t decide whether I really want to go or not, though.”
A door slammed loudly above, and heavy feet crossed to the stairs. In one motion, Richie and Clarisse turned face front. “Here comes the Hindenburg,” Richie mumbled.
A great shadow fell across the office as the body of an immensely fat woman blocked the light from the chandelier in the ceiling of the office above. Darlene was six feet tall, which she imagined excused her for weighing close to three hundred pounds.
An orange pantsuit was tortured around her body. It had several times split up the back and was sewn there with purple thread, thick as yarn. Her waist-length black cape flapped about her as she strode across the office toward the door. She ran her hands violently through her short dyed yellow hair, and stared wildly about. “I’m mad,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “I’m so mad I could bite the sink!”
She pulled the door open so that it hit the inside wall with a shuddering crash. She sidled through the doorway, and lumbered up the steps. On the sidewalk she plowed through a group of Chinese schoolchildren and tumbled three little girls into a snowbank.
Clarisse and Richie exchanged glances. “I guess the heat was on high,” he said.
Richie picked up the phone and turned his back again. Clarisse checked through her listing book. After a few moments a short young man entered the office, ignored Miggie Green, and went straight back to Clarisse. He handed her a sealed white envelope.
“Rent,” he gasped. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Hi, Lewis,” she smiled. She dropped the envelope into a drawer.
“I thought you had hepatitis or something.”
“It was malaria,” she said, “but I’m cured.”
“My radiator’s leaking,” he whispered. “And the toilet’s running and I can’t get it to stop. Something’s wr
ong with the hinges on the bedroom door.” He paused. “I think the whole door needs replacing.”
Clarisse sighed. “What did you and George fight about this time?”
Lewis threw himself into a chair, and rested his elbows on Clarisse’s desk. “He’s gone, Clarisse, he left for good this time.”
“Lewis, the first time George left for good, we had to put in a new bathtub—and George came back. The second time George left for good, we had to replaster all your walls—and George came back. This time we’ll put in a new radiator—and George will come back.”
Lewis rubbed his sunken, haggard eyes. Clarisse offered him a cigarette, and had to light it for him when his hands trembled on his matches.
“He won’t come back,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t come back even if you put in a skylight. He’s gone back to his ex-lover.”
“How much money do you have in the bank?” asked Clarisse.
“Don’t worry. I can still pay the rent.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
He shrugged. “About a thousand. Why?”
“Draw it out—today. Tomorrow at the latest, and book the first flight to San Francisco. Believe me, after a week of debauchery in the shadow of the Golden Gate you won’t even remember who George was.”
“George is in San Francisco. That’s where his ex is.”
Clarisse frowned and thought a moment. “Aruba. Go to Aruba, Lewis.”
“Nobody goes to Aruba for a week.”
“But you will. It’s great this time of year. Val and I were just there. Don’t even stop to think about it.” She grabbed a scrap of paper, and jotted down a name and number. “This is my friend Marcia at Continental Tours. Tell her you’re a friend of mine and she’ll give you a terrific discount.” Lewis nodded, took the paper and left.
Clarisse ground her cigarette in the ashtray and stared out the front window. The snow continued. She had realized, while she was talking to Lewis, that there was something that she ought to tell Valentine: something that he ought to know, or perhaps that she ought to know herself. But she couldn’t think what it was. She picked up her listing book again. If it was important, it would come to her later.
Chapter Eighteen
“JOSEPH’S GOING TO drive me back with him, Daniel,” said Mark.
When Valentine had returned to his apartment after leaving Clarisse, he found Mark sitting in the living room, his pack on the floor at his feet. He looked as if he were waiting for a train.
“Where is he?” Valentine asked, as he removed his new jacket and placed it carefully on a chair. He patted it and smiled at Mark.
“Putting gas in the pickup. You don’t mind, do you, Daniel, my popping in and out like this, I mean?”
Valentine smiled. “You really like him, don’t you?”
Mark nodded.
“And you’re going to continue the whirlwind romance in New Hampshire, in the cab of the oil truck?”
Mark nodded again.
“I’m jealous.”
Mark’s timid smile fled. “I don’t want you to be jealous.”
“Not jealous of him. Jealous of you. You know how partial I am to Italian truck drivers. I’m greener than green.”
Valentine made coffee and the two men talked until Joseph arrived. He did not ask them to stay longer, for he saw how anxious they were to get off together. He did, however, tell them that they had an open invitation to visit Fayette Street anytime they chose.
Standing at the bay window Valentine waved to the two men as they climbed into the pickup, and then watched as it disappeared around a corner. He hadn’t even had time to turn around, before a green ’56 Chrysler New Yorker pulled up into the same spot. When Randy Harmon stepped out, Valentine raised the window and leaned out. Randy held one hand over his eyes to shield them against the falling snow.
“Come on up,” called Valentine. “I’ve just been abandoned, without being seduced.”
“I’m having an anxiety attack, Valentine.”
Valentine sighed. “Dr. Usen’s not in town?”
Randy dropped his hand at his side. “Venezuela. World Hypnotism Conference. I’m in a bad way, Valentine. You’ll have to go to the Green Grocer with me.”
Valentine nodded and pulled back inside. After lowering the window he slipped on his jacket, took extra money from the desk, and ran downstairs.
Randy was sitting on the passenger side of the front seat. Valentine was fond of the car and Randy always let him drive whenever they went anywhere together. Valentine climbed in, and sighed contentedly as he released the brake and depressed one of the panel buttons to put the car in gear. As they pulled away from the curb, Valentine ritualistically pressed more buttons—to push the front seat forward and back and then up and down. The last button turned on the radio.
“So,” he said at last, “why the anxiety?”
“Actually, I lied to you. I feel fine—I really did have an attack, but Dr. Usen left me cassette tapes when he went away, so I just played through the one marked ‘Anxiety,’ and it was just like having him there. But I still thought I needed to get out of the city for a while, and I do have to go to the Green Grocer. I’ve got a crave on for endive.”
“You tricked me,” said Valentine. He gripped the large steering wheel hard. “You know how I hate the suburbs. It’s a jungle out there, Randy.”
“You’ll get over it. Besides, you can buy veg too.”
Valentine drove through the city and got onto Route 93 heading north toward New Hampshire. The Green Grocer was a specialty store about ten miles out of town; it carried a certain kind of pear from Morocco, and fresh lichees from China, and little potatoes from a tiny farm on the Snake River, and half a dozen kinds of fungi from Japan. They had discovered the place when they shared an apartment in Medford while students at Tufts, and now returned as much for the nostalgia as for the fine vegetables.
Shopping there took three-quarters of an hour, since everything was worth examining even when they had no intention of purchasing Brazilian melons that went for six dollars apiece, and Randy took over for the drive back to Boston. He got back onto Route 93, but went only two exits before turning off again.
“Where are you going?” cried Valentine. “This isn’t Boston yet!”
The light was beginning to fail as a blue winter dusk gathered about them.
“I want to show you something—”
“What!”
“Valentine, don’t get panicky. We haven’t been out of the city much more than an hour. You’re not going to have a breakdown yet.”
Valentine slid down in his seat as the car moved through streets lined with large houses set back on neat, snow-covered lawns. “How much further?” he groaned.
“We’ve only gone six blocks, Valentine.”
“I’m not going to have to meet anybody, am I? If I meet somebody and he invites me to a party or something, expecting that I’ll come back out here again, I’m going to kill you.”
“You don’t have to meet anybody.” Randy swung the car around a corner and up a slight grade. Valentine could see that the street ended in a cul-de-sac.
“You’re taking me to meet somebody, I know it!”
“No, I’m not,” said Randy, and stopped the car. He got out and motioned Valentine to follow.
Valentine sighed and climbed out. He moved around to the front of the car. He smiled broadly, lifted his arms and pivoted from the waist. “Oh, God, it’s beautiful out here! It’s just beautiful! So much nicer than the city! The air is clean, the light is gorgeous, the snow is clean and untrampled!” He shook the falling snow from his outstretched arms—“Now let’s get the hell back to Boston.”
Randy pointed at a row of hemlocks just on the other side of a concrete walk. “The scene of the crime,” he said quietly.
Valentine looked down. The ground was slightly more uneven here than it was on the lawn behind the evergreens, but otherwise he saw nothing to distinguish the place. He glanced up at the large stucco h
ouse beyond the linden and spruce.
“That’s Scarpetti’s house?”
Randy nodded.
“Why did you bring me here?” said Valentine.
Randy shrugged. “Why not? If Searcy’s going to try to pin this thing on me, I want to know exactly where it was that I dumped the kid. Actually,” he said, looking about, “I wouldn’t mind living around here. It sure beats the hell out of Goodwin Place.”
They turned to get back in the car but halted immediately. Randy drew in a sharp breath.
Standing motionless at the back of the Chrysler was a tall bearded man in a fur coat. The red pulsating light of the car’s directional signal was reflected off his round-lensed eyeglasses.
“Your treads are too wide,” he said.
Valentine and Randy exchanged puzzled glances.
“To be the ‘death car,’ I mean. Of course, you could have had your tires changed to avoid detection, or you might have been driving a somewhat less recognizable automobile.”
Professor Philip Lawrence stepped forward. He lifted his glasses, and looked carefully from Randy to Valentine. He dropped his glasses back in place.
“Valentine and…ummm, Harmony,” he announced.
“Harmon,” said Randy. “Professor Lawrence?”
Lawrence smiled. “I never forget history majors, especially when they’re…blond.”
“Sorry,” said Valentine, “I didn’t recognize you at first, in the dusk.”
“No excuse. It’s been only nine years.”
Lawrence invited them inside the house to get warm. Once they were settled comfortably in the living room before a blazing birch fire, Neville served them sherry and a kind of Chinese tea roll neither Valentine nor Randy had ever had before. Their conversation centered naturally around the murder of the hustler, and Randy and Valentine each told his connection with it.
Vermilion Page 15
