A Christmas Wish, the card under the painting said, Sheila Rascowitz.
Angela stood across the room speaking to a tall man in a herring bone suit. She wore a long black dress with a falling back. An onyx necklace hung above her breasts. She waved Duncan over and introduced him to Robert Armstrong, an art critic for the Times.
“I like your work,” Armstrong said. “It’s not technically proficient and lacks maturity but both will come in time.”
“Thanks,” Duncan said, “I think.”
“I don’t think he heard the first part,” Angela said.
“What happened to your lip?”
“Another critic was less appreciative of my efforts.”
Armstrong laughed. “Nice meeting you, Duncan. I will certainly consider you.” He kissed Angela’s cheek and left.
“Consider me for what?”
“It’s a surprise.” She took his arm. “Come with me.”
They obtained champagne from a waiter, and Angela led him to his paintings. In one, Champagne and Cassandra, naked and laughing drunk, sat on his couch holding empty Margarita glasses. In the other Edward, clothed and sleeping drunk, sat on the couch. Duncan lifted his glass to Edward’s image and sipped. He noted the cards below the paintings. He choked and spit champagne. Edward, one said, $8,000. Margarita Time, said the other, $9,500.
“Holy Jesus, Angela!” he said when he stopped coughing, “you don’t expect anyone to pay that much, do you?”
“I’ve been offered six thousand for Margarita Time and seven for Edward.”
“And you didn’t take it?”
“Who’s the agent here? If you’re short on cash, I’ll advance you something. You don’t have to pay me back until the paintings sell. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pee.”
Duncan wandered through the gallery feeling absurdly pleased with himself until he saw Pris standing across the room next to Rascowitz. Pris spoke to Sheila, who turned away.
Here we go again, Duncan thought as Pris approached.
“I’m mad at you,” she said. “Because of you I have a roommate now.”
“Wait a minute. I had nothing to do with the fire.”
She looked him in the eye. He looked back. She relaxed. “You couldn’t lie if your life depended on it, could you?”
“Sure I could. Just not very well.” From across the room Sheila stared at him with poisonous eyes. “She’s not going to hurt me, is she?”
“I told her if she laid a hand on you I would never see her again.”
Duncan then did one of the few truly cruel deeds of his life. He cupped Pris’s head in his hands and kissed her. She did not resist. A shattering of china and a cold, murderous scream bounced against walls and rattled windows. Pris gasped at the sound and pushed him away. Sheila stood next to A Christmas Wish, a felled waiter and a broken plate of appetizers at her feet. She turned and ran out of the gallery.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I should go after her. She needs me.”
Duncan took her hand. “I need you more.”
A busboy with a broom and a dustpan helped the waiter to his feet, then swept up the broken plate. Pris exhaled a long, sad sigh.
“Benjamin?”
Duncan nodded. “He didn’t mean for her house to burn.”
“She has a thousand dollar deductible. She shouldn’t have to pay that.”
He took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and gulped it down. A thousand dollars represented a good portion of his remaining capital.
“I’ll pay it. I have it at home. But before I go, I’d like you to see my paintings.”
“I already have.”
“What did you think?”
“Sheila says your paintings are degrading to women. She says you celebrate degradation.”
“What about her? What about the guy with the metal hat on his penis? What about the cattle drive of naked men? And what would Santa think about that, that . . .” he pointed at A Christmas Wish, “thing over there?”
“She says her paintings are from the heart. And yours are from the testicles.”
“I don’t really care what Sheila thinks of my paintings.”
“Then why are you so defensive?”
“I’m not defensive.” He felt annoyed despite her playful eyes. “I just want to know what you think.”
She stroked his cheek. “I think they’re beautiful. Just like you.” She stood and pulled him up. “Come on. Let’s go get your money."
Cat was so happy when he spied Pris driving up that he leaped from his vantage point in the window and landed in the seat beside her before her Cadillac had stopped. Duncan parked his Saturn in the mini-mart lot. Pris held Cat to her chest and followed Duncan upstairs. He opened the door and turned on the light. She put Cat down and sat on the couch. Duncan got her a coke and himself a beer.
“You drink too much,” she said.
“I’m Irish,” he said.
“Like that makes a difference.”
He put the beer down and removed his shoe box from the closet. He counted out one thousand dollars. He sat by her and held out the money.
“I’m not that kind of girl,” Pris said.
Duncan blushed. “It’s the money for Sheila’s deductible.”
“I know that! I was joking.” She put the money in her purse. “What do we do now?”
“You know what I want to do.”
“All right. But I have to warn you. I won’t be any good at it.”
“Are you kidding? You’re a natural.”
She looked down and clasped his hands. “Tell me what you want.”
“Just sit there. I’ll do the rest.”
She dropped his hands. “Excuse me?”
“Just sit there,” he repeated.
He jumped up and grabbed his easel and positioned it across from the couch. He set a fresh canvas on it and picked up his palette and a brush.
“You’re going to paint me?”
“What did you . . .” Duncan sagged. “Oh god. I am a moron.”
“No, you’re not.”
She kissed him. Sheila Rascowitz, watching from her place on the roof of the hardware store across the street, screamed long and hard. The sound of her banshee wail made sewer rats shiver and stray dogs howl, but as a testimony to the quality of the kiss, neither Pris nor Duncan heard a thing.
Several times that night as Pris lay sleeping, Duncan set down his brush and palette and knelt beside her and studied her tranquil face. Her angry cocoon had split and the resultant butterfly had not a worry in the universe. Duncan stroked stray hair from her closed eyes and dried spittle from her chin with his cuff. Cat slept across her hips, her blouse open to reveal the arc of her breast. She might be dead she was so peaceful. He twice held his hand above her lips to feel her breath against his skin. He painted quickly, his concentration broken by stray thoughts of how his life was evolving. Watching her sleep, he empathized with Fiona and how she must have felt hovering over his crib and later his bed as he slept in his dark room. He silently forgave the bribery and her backfiring evil, as it ultimately had united them. He even absolved Sheila for the catnapping and the beating as all were inspired by the love they shared for Pris. When she awoke hours later most of the painting was complete. She yawned and stretched and Duncan felt a swelling in his throat and shorts. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and stretched again.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
Duncan put down his brush. “I could use a cup of coffee myself.”
“Can I see it?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it that bad?”
No, Duncan thought, it’s that good.
“I want it to be a surprise.”
Duncan led her downstairs. They reached the street and turned into the mini-mart lot. Assan stood beside Duncan’s station wagon. He held a fire extinguisher and shook his head sadly.
“Oh lord,” Duncan said.
Every window in the wagon was shattered. A two-by-four impaled the windshield. The upholstery was shredded and the seats smoldered black beneath extinguisher foam. Fuck me, Fuck me was spray painted in black on the driver’s door. A siren became a fire truck but the fire was already out and when the police arrived all they could do was fill out a report. Pris took the thousand dollars from her purse and put it in his pocket.
“You need this more than Sheila does,” she said.
“You can pick up the report at the station tomorrow.” The policeman gave him a card with a report number on it. “Your insurance company will want to see it.”
Duncan put the card in his pocket and smiled at Pris. She smiled uncertainly back.
“What say we take your car?” he asked.
Fourteen
“Tiffy, dear,” Fiona said, “don’t you think that bikini is a bit small?”
Tiffy put her book down beside her pool chair and lowered her sunglasses. She pointed to a young woman in a thong bikini at the far end of the pool.
“Not compared to that.”
“Still, it is not exactly modest. And you’re such a full figured girl.”
Expressed as a ratio, Fiona’s bikini covered more skin with less fabric and frankly Fiona wanted a little ogling herself. But with Tiffy beside her in that piece of string she had no chance of being the focus of pool society.
“People are looking at you,” Fiona continued.
Exactly, Tiffy thought. She adjusted her bikini. “I’ll put on my other after lunch.”
“Another thing. You’ve been here a week. It’s time you approached Duncan.”
“I want to lose another five pounds first,” she said.
She had actually gained five since her arrival, four of which was muscle grown during her daily work outs in the hotel gym and in the dance class she had signed up for. The final pound had found its way to her chest.
“I know you’re worried you can’t get him back . . .”
As if, Tiffy thought.
“. . . but you must fight for the man you love. You go see him tonight.”
Tiffy had a lucrative contest that night in Hollywood. The prize was one thousand dollars, and she did not want to pass up a sure thing.
“Oh, you’re right,” she said. “But I need a new dress and my hair done and the shoes I brought are all wrong. I couldn’t possibly be ready tonight. I want to look my best when I see Duncan.”
“Tomorrow then.”
There was a contest the next night at a club in the valley, but that prize was only two fifty. If missing it preserved her bungalow for a few more nights, she would still come out ahead. And she did want to see Duncan. She wanted to show him what he had given up. She wanted to take him back from that tramp and, when she had him squirming beneath her one last time, she wanted to spit him out for the insolence of leaving her.
“It’s settled.” Tiffy smiled. “Tomorrow I’ll go see our dear Duncan.”
When Duncan returned from breakfast, Benjamin was practicing bottom-dealing cards with Assan. Keith Gomez had just made Pit Boss and had offered Benjamin a job as a dealer. Benjamin wanted to see if he would be any good at it. Assan shook his head.
“No good. I see the card slide off the bottom.”
“Who’s minding the store?” Duncan asked.
“My cousin Abdul. He arrived from Pakistan last week. He doesn’t speak much English but he knows how to work the cash register.”
Duncan scraped a can of cat food into a bowl. He set the bowl on the kitchen floor next to a water dish. Cat settled into eating. Duncan opened the refrigerator. He hesitated before taking out two beers. Pris was right, he drank too much. But after seeing his new car destroyed he felt the need for cold liquid comfort. He gave Benjamin a beer and Assan a coke.
“No! Your hands are too slow!”
Assan took the deck. He took the five of diamonds off the top and showed it to Benjamin. He placed it on the bottom and dealt two poker hands face down.
“All right, Mr. Benjamin. Which of us has the five of diamonds?”
“Neither. You dealt them all off the top.”
Assan turned over the first card he had dealt. The five of diamonds.
“Hey,” Benjamin said, “you cheated!”
“Where did you learn that?” Duncan asked.
“Yale. Tuition was quite expensive and my fellow students were anxious to part with their parents’ money.”
“This cheating is hard work,” Benjamin said. “I thought it was supposed to make things easier.” But he picked up the cards anyway.
“I have a favor to ask,” Assan said to Duncan. “My mother’s birthday is next month. I would like you to paint a portrait of me for her. I will pay you. One month’s free rent.”
“I’m a little busy now. Can’t you find another artist?”
“No! I have seen your paintings. I want you. Six months free rent.”
“It’s not that . . .”
“You drive a hard bargain. One year free rent.”
“Sold!” Benjamin said.
Assan smiled broadly. “When can we start?”
Duncan surrendered. “Tonight,” he said. He lay back in the couch and closed his eyes. “Give me a few hours sleep and I’ll paint you tonight.”
In the dream, Sean Delaney sat in the Hollywood at a table near the bar, playing gin rummy with Bolo. A bottle of whiskey split the table between them. Bolo discarded a ten. Sean picked it up and laid down his cards.
“Gin,” he said.
“Damn,” said Bolo, “that’s three in a row.”
Duncan sat with them. “You two know each other?”
“We just met,” said Sean. “Care for a whiskey?”
“Thanks. I will.”
Duncan drank the glass Sean poured in one gulp. He looked up. Fiona danced on the stage wearing only a G-string and an arm across her nipples.
“Jesus!” Duncan averted his eyes. “Mom, get down from there!”
Bolo said, “Something wrong with being a stripper?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean . . . I don’t know what I mean.”
“Relax.” Sean threw a wadded dollar bill on stage. “It’s only a dream.”
“And a fairly sick one at that,” Bolo said.
Duncan poured another whiskey and downed it. When he dared look back, Fiona was gone. Now Tiffy hung upside down from the pole. Pendant breasts framed her chin. She waved and smiled an inverted smile. Duncan looked away. Bolo dealt another hand.
“Look who’s up there now,” Bolo said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” Sean asked.
“Why do you think?” Bolo asked. “He’s afraid it might be Pris.”
“Is that right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, get over it,” Sean said. “If you end up with her you’ll spend the rest of your life dealing with the fact that she was a stripper.”
“I don’t care about that.”
Sean picked up two cards from the discard pile. He laid his hand down.
“Gin.”
“Damn!” said Bolo.
“I thought you were a poker playing man,” Duncan said.
“All the good poker players ended up in the other place.”
“Wait a minute. Does this mean that Bolo is . . .”
“Dead?” Bolo shuffled and dealt. “Not yet. Soon though.”
“Jesus. This is going to kill Pris.”
Bolo and Sean looked at each other.
“No, it won’t,” Sean said.
“You have to help her through it,” Bolo said. “Only you can.”
Duncan looked to the stage. Sister Mary Elizabeth and Mother Margaret Mary swung around the pole, throwing off pieces of habit with each revolution. Duncan looked away when they got down to their girdles.
“Don’t tell me you’ve not been to one of these places before,” Sean said.
“I have not. And, frankly, I’m embarrassed to be here with
my father.”
“What’s wrong with father and son enjoying a little rump together?” asked Bolo.
“Nothing,” Duncan said, “if it’s over the dinner table and it’s beef.” He stood. “I should go. I have work to do when I wake up.”
Sean put his arm around Duncan and walked him to the door. “Do me a favor, son. Tell Fiona it’s ok to remarry. Woody’s a good man. They belong together whether she admits it or not.”
“I’ll tell her.”
Sean hugged his son. Duncan held tight and looked over his father’s shoulder. Benjamin was on stage, naked except for a loin cloth, grinding his hips in a suggestive and disturbingly erotic rhythm.
“This really is a sick dream,” Bolo commented.
“Benjamin!” Duncan closed his eyes again. “Get down from there!”
“Why?”
Duncan opened his eyes. Benjamin sat in the window reading a comic book. Duncan shook his head.
“Never mind.”
He went into the bathroom. He undressed and stood beneath the shower. He soaped himself and washed his hair. He closed his eyes and stood there until the water grew cold. He dried himself and wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door. Assan awaited in a pin-striped, three-piece suit with a gold watch and chain in the vest and a bright yellow tie with blue dots. His hair was greased back. Duncan laughed.
“Is it the tie? The girl at the store assured me it worked with the suit.”
“The tie works fine,” Duncan said. “But not the suit. Go dress in your regular clothes. And get the grease out of your hair.”
Assan left. Duncan put on a denim shirt and faded Levis. He rolled up his sleeves and took a slice of pepperoni pizza out of the refrigerator. He ate that piece, and another, and washed the pizza down with a beer. Assan returned wearing blue polyester pants and a white button down shirt.
Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom Page 16
