“So,” she said. “How much is left?”
“About six hundred,” he replied blithely.
“Doan!” She got up, pushed him into his seat, and hovered over him. “How did you spend nine thousand dollars in a week?”
“Simple. Our rooms were two fifty a night, apiece. That’s a thousand each, so that’s two thousand, and I was here a night before you were, that’s another two fifty, then there was room service for you and Luke for three days, that’s seven fifty ...”
“Oh, no. That can’t be right. We didn’t eat that much.”
Doan smiled. “I’m sure you didn’t, dear. However, to give you an idea of what we’re talking about, your morning pot of coffee cost seven dollars and fifty cents.”
“For that little thing? There were only two cups in each one!”
“Oh, is that why you had four each morning?”
“Oh, Doan, I’m sorry, I had no idea. I promise I’ll pay you back, I will, really.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I spent more on me than on you, anyway, and it would have been a mortal sin for me to have shattered your paradise with information about how much you were spending. Besides, the bar bill for myself and the dim but incredibly beefy thing I adopted was five hundred bucks by itself.”
“But now it’s all gone! You could have lived on that for ages.”
“Oh, no, that wouldn’t have been right at all. It was given to me as spending money, so I spent it. When I’m old and poor and living on cat food, I’ll have a memory of a time of complete frivolity to look back upon, a few days where worries about money never entered my head.”
“You’re not going to live on cat food; I’ll feed you if necessary.”
“No, I’m not. I’m going to abandon the whole idea of love and marry this doctor who’s had his eye on me as soon as we get back. They have buckets of money, and they’re never home. It’s just like being single and rich! See, I was right. That is our plane. Let’s go.”
The first day she was gone, KC had called Binky and gotten her answering machine. “Hi,” the recording said, “don’t ask me how or why, but I’m on my way to Bermuda for a while. Name, number, blah blah blah...you’ve got one of these, too; you know the drill.” He instantly saw Doan’s hand in this and decided against leaving a message. He knew that no matter what he decided to say into that machine, it would come out sounding stodgy, repressed, and critical, and would only give Doan more ammunition in his war to make Binky as irresponsible as he was.
Even when she’d called him last night, telling him they were on their way back and could he pick them up at the airport this morning, he’d only said, “No problem,” and asked her if she’d had fun.
No, he’d leave worse enough alone, wouldn’t say anything. He knew Doan thought little of him and the life he led. He often wondered how Binky ended up with two friends so different. While Doan spent his days lunching with heiresses, having tea with people like Eleanor Ambermere, and maybe dusting off a table at Binky’s before settling down on her couch for a long gossip session, KC spent his days in his home office getting ready for tax season, when he made the majority of his yearly income. While Doan ate out every night, KC had friends over for dinner at least once a week and took pride in his culinary skills. Doan danced all night for exercise, KC went to the gym and ran each morning. Doan had champagne and pastry for breakfast at noon, KC drank protein shakes for breakfast at the crack of dawn. Doan lived for nightclubs; KC visited bars in the afternoon only to see his friends who were bartenders and left long before the crowds arrived. Doan lived for new import dance singles; KC listened to classical and jazz.
For all his scorn for things peaceful and calm, still, there was something about Doan that...no, not attracted him, he dismissed that thought with a laugh. But there were times when he was with him that he felt like he was forgetting to breathe. There was never a lack of excitement around Doan. KC laughed, thinking of what a scene it would be if his friend Stan met Doan. Stan could keep KC laughing for days with his mimicry, and he considered introducing the two of them, if only because Stan’s mimicking of Doan would be so...
Hell, he thought, I told Stan yesterday that I’d take him down to San Mateo today. He occasionally cursed but usually accepted that commandment of city living that said, “He who has a car in the city will always have friends among the nine out of ten who don’t.” Wait - the airport’s right there, right? Drop Stan off, pick them up, no problem.
He smiled to himself. Boring or not, there’s a lot to be said for a life where this is the biggest problem I’ll have to face today.
KC had obviously not heard of the phrase Don’t tempt fate when he had spoken. First Stan was late, then they got caught in a traffic jam, and so Binky and Doan’s plane was landing as they were passing the airport on their way to San Mateo.
“Uh, do you mind if we get them now?” he asked Stan. “I thought I’d be on time, and, well, they’re not the sort of people you want to keep waiting long. Besides, I think you’ll get a real laugh out of Doan.”
“No problem,” Stan had assented.
And it wasn’t a problem, at least not until Doan emerged from the plane in an Alexis Carrington-esque outfit, chattering madly to Binky, who was murmuring her inattentive agreements while completely fascinated with every word coming out of the incredibly good-looking man she was arm in arm with. Doan threw his hands up in the air, left them in their mutual raptures, and approached KC - or rather, swept past KC, pulling him into his wake.
“Hello, thank you so much for coming to get us, here’s our luggage tickets, Luke was handling all that but he’s got to get back to the city as soon as possible, he’s the detective investigating the SoMa killings, isn’t that fascinating, and Bermuda was so wonderful and I’m sure Binky will tell you all about it when we get back to the city and I would myself, but I’ve got far too many people to see and things to do that I left behind in my rush to get out of town, and they’re all waiting for my attention, and did you see that guy with all the hair back there, he’d be awfully attractive if he’d only do something with that mop, don’t you think?” he finished only when he ran out of breath. He’d turned around to make sure KC was still with him and that Binky and Luke weren’t too far behind, and now he found himself looking not at KC but into the gorgeous dark brown eyes of the guy with all the hair back there.
“Absolutely,” he agreed with Doan with a completely straight face. “It’s a shame.”
KC caught up with them then. “Doan, this is my friend Stan. Stan, I’ve told you about Doan.”
Doan bristled, mentally jumping into I’ll-kill-him mode. But, “I’ll bet you have” is all he said with a smile. How do you do?”
Stan smiled. “Fine. Pleasure to meet you.”
So, Doan thought. This is KC’s kind of man. Who’d’a thought? The figure before him was about his own height, wiry but not skinny, with high cheekbones and thin, cruel lips. Best of all, set into this cold, hard face, were the biggest, warmest brown eyes Doan had ever seen. With consummate skill gained from years of cocktail parties, Doan maneuvered next to KC and spoke in a manner that precluded Stan’s overhearing. “Where’s the man we’ve all come to expect you to bring home to meet us, someone named Norman who’ll be a bureaucrat who wears boxer shorts and granny glasses? This certainly brings you a notch up in my book.” Doan turned to Stan with a smile. “So, dear, what is it you do?”
“l’m an artist.”
Doan held the smile (another cocktail party skill) and said only, “How nice.” And then murmured to KC, “You’re kidding, right? No, you’re not. Oh my God, you didn’t have our irresponsible selves around to remind you what happens to people like you when they break out of the dull gray routines they were meant for, so one night you flipped,” his voice rose, attracting the attention of those around them, “you went out and that first night all you did was buy a chocolate bar, and you had that instead of your six hundred and forty - seven grain goo for dinner. Then the nex
t night you bought something purple, a sweater or a shirt, and later that night you went out to a bar, and you got up on a table and announced that everyone could have their way with you, three at a time ...” By this time the three of them had stopped cold, but the traffic behind them didn’t mind, far more concerned with how this story ended than with where they had to be. “ ...But only about thirty of them took you up on your offer. And then the next day, oh my God, worst of all, you went to a gallery and you bought some modern art! And you met the artist! And you let him stand there and talk, and oh mercy saints and stars, you fell in love with him! Aaah! The universe is collapsing, the universe is collapsing!”
“Police,” Luke announced, “coming through.” He deftly pulled Doan through the crowd and out of the baggage area. “Next time you do that, you know, the cop on hand might not be as forgiving as me.”
Doan looked up into Luke’s eyes, batting his lashes. “I’d never do anything so dangerous if I didn’t have my hero so close at hand.”
Luke only shook his head and laughed. “See you later, Doan.”
“Bye. You take care, now.”
Doan watched Luke leave with a sigh, but it was no longer a forlorn one. Gosh, he thought with surprise, my first straight male friend. Who on earth is it safe to seat one of them with at a dinner party? he thought frantically. He tried to picture Luke fending off a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence on one side, a window dresser from Macy’s on the other, and a homewrecker across from him trying to play footsie (you just had to invite a homewrecker or it wasn’t a good party), but his reverie was interrupted by a call from behind him. He turned to see KC and Binky, obviously cross with him, and Stan, amazingly enough amused, and he smiled sweetly. “Hello, dears. Which way to the car?”
Somewhere between the terminal and the car, Doan discovered that Stan and KC weren’t lovers, and Stan decided he didn’t need to go to San Mateo after all. KC asked him repeatedly if he was sure, because it was no trouble at all. He had to ask one last time, before he got into the lane that would put them on the freeway back to the city.
“ Yes! ” Doan shouted, his patience exhausted the second time KC had asked. “He is sure. He has said so four times. If he now says that no, he isn’t sure, I for one will brand him a wishy-washy wimp for the rest of his life.”
KC silently made the turnoff toward the city. “I’d really like you to come by my studio and see some of my work,” Stan said to Doan, and KC almost hit the divider. In all the years he’d known Stan, no one but KC and the owner of the gallery where Stan sold his work had been admitted to the studio. Now, after fifteen minutes of acquaintance, Doan was being granted the trust it had taken the others years to attain.
“Oh, no,” Doan said, looking out the window. “Most of the artists I like are dead. I can’t stand what comes out as art today.”
“Neither can I,” Stan said, and Doan gave him a little more of his attention. “I mostly do representational work.”
“You mean, like, things and people? Do tell!”
KC was quickly lost in the sea of names behind him, but Doan surprised him. He had somehow managed to know the work of every artist Stan spoke of, and spoke knowledgeably of their lives and works. Not that there was any chance of Doan remaining completely serious for too long, though. The first time Stan spilled a bit of dirt on a fellow artist, Doan was hungry for more, and the rest of the trip Stan spent telling him who was and wasn’t gay, who was afraid anyone would find out, who had slept with the owner of a gallery to get his first showing, and so on.
After dropping Binky off, they headed to Stan’s SoMa studio. Stan was one of those rare people in San Francisco who lived in an artist’s loft and who was actually an artist. When he had moved into his “space,” as a real estate agent would call it today, he was generally thought weird for wanting to live in a big room with no walls, above an old warehouse. Now, while his art was considered quaintly old-fashioned, he was indisputably considered a real estate prophet for having bought the property when he did. Doan was not unimpressed with financial acumen in others, although (perhaps because) he had so little of it himself.
“What’s the upkeep on this place?” Doan asked.
“Doan!” KC chided disbelievingly. “Stan isn’t one of your wealthy patrons, you know.”
“So?”
“So you can’t just ask perfect strangers about their finances.”
“Are you a stranger?” Doan asked Stan sweetly.
“Not anymore.”
“Are you perfect?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
KC can hardly be blamed for suddenly feeling like a third wheel at this juncture. “Call me when you’re done,” he huffed, throwing himself down on a sofa to read a magazine.
“So let’s see your stuff,” Doan said.
“Start right here,” Stan replied, indicating a huge canvas behind Doan.
“Goodness!” was Doan’s first reaction. Stan had executed a copy of a Fragonard, identical in almost every respect to that eighteenth-century Frenchman’s soft-focus paintings of aristocrats at play, but with one glaring difference. Sitting on the garland-entwined swing hanging from the gracefully arced tree, in a magnificent blue silk dress, was a skeleton, grinning as only skulls can grin. Behind the dear departed was another skeleton, dressed in man’s finery, pushing the swing. The ground around them was littered with other dead picnickers and even a happily prancing little dog skeleton.
“I love it,” Doan whispered. “But I don’t understand. It’s so weird, it ought to be popular. I mean, I love it, but it is weird.”
“Weird in the wrong ways,” Stan assented. “Too classical for the big galleries, even if it is filled with dead people having fun.”
“What else have you got?”
“Well, in my bedroom, I think you’ll find a surprise ...”
Doan lifted his eyebrows. “Double entendre? And you were doing so well.”
“Trust me. You’ll be surprised.”
KC couldn’t help overhearing this conversation, and even though Stan shut his bedroom door behind them (the only door in the place), he could hear Doan’s startled “Oh!” When neither further exclamations nor the pair of lovebirds were forthcoming, he thought it time to leave.
He soon found himself at home alone in his own bed, trying to figure something out. It was Doan who had caused the scene at the airport, who had embarrassed him before Stan in the car, who had manipulated him into the long detour out to Stan’s.
So why is it, he wanted to know, that it’s Stan I’m annoyed with? This, he thought, is not good news.
Little in the way of good news greeted the three returnees, either. Binky discovered that she had, indeed, lost her job with the Police Department for failing to show up or call in for a week, and only moments later, she opened a letter from her wizened old trustees at the bank back East informing her that next month’s check would be late, so sorry. Doan’s night at Stan’s had ended with the two of them drinking several bottles of champagne, painting each other, and then rolling around together on a canvas to make the ultimate modern art statement, which they titled “Jeff Koons’s Brain.”
Returning home, Doan discovered that his remaining six hundred dollars would have to go immediately to Macy’s, as he had impulsively and recklessly purchased a black Chanel suit for the trip (it had been too perfect for the trip’s air of mystery to pass up), and Macy’s had kindly informed their valued customer that he was exactly that amount over his limit.
So Binky was forced to lie to KC to get him to sell a few stocks without a lecture, telling him that she’d lost her job over a little misunderstanding and that she’d have another in no time flat. Doan was forced to take a more drastic measure. He had returned to the part-time job in a record store that he’d abandoned, he’d hoped, forever.
But it was Luke who had the worst luck of all. He hadn’t unpacked before the call came: The SoMa Killer had struck again, and he was back on the case.
Thi
s time, he found out at the scene of the crime, the murderer had merely crushed the artist’s head in with a psychedelically painted pipe. All the renewing energy of that week in the Caribbean, all the ecstasy of three days with Binky, was drained from him when a collector approached him at the scene of the crime and asked him if the “work,” dead man not included, might possibly be up for sale sometime in the near future.
Then it got worse, as he heard a horribly familiar voice behind him ordering the plainclothesmen, his men, about. He turned around, and there he was, Sergeant Seamus Flaharity, who saw him, shouted his hello, and began working his way across the dead man’s studio toward him, destroying evidence with every careless step. “Well, Detective, we’ve sure got a mess here, eh? This killer’s real fond of messes, that’s for sure. Not to worry, you’ve got me on your team now!” Luke said nothing, only looked momentarily to heaven before heading out of the building and away from Flaharity, into his car, and back to the station.
“Don’t say a word,” Captain Fisher said before he had the door all the way open. “It wasn’t my decision.”
“Oh, come on, Captain. You could’ve blocked it. Now I’ve got that incompetent bastard to deal with. You know what he’ll do if he even overhears the name of a suspect? He’ll find the guy and beat him up until he confesses. That’s what happened when he got into Marsh’s investigation of Sykes. A murder investigation’s not like breaking up a street fight.”
“It was the chief’s own decision.”
Luke sat down, deflated. “Shit. Why?”
Captain Fisher blew on her coffee, took a sip, blew again, then took another. It was a delaying tactic that allowed angry subordinates to cool off before she faced them with the mysterious ways that bureaucrats wielded their power over policemen.
“Flaharity is a liability in most parts of this city. So we keep him in the Sunset, where he’s a hero. Every now and then he busts some kid’s head open, and we move him downtown until the press cools off. The chief can’t fire him, can’t reprimand him, and can’t leave him be. Besides, you know cops: a big killing is a gravy train in overtime, and everybody wants their share of the pie.”
Death Wore a Smart Little Outfit Page 6
