“Duncan?”
“Speaking.”
A long pause, then, “you don’t know who this is, do you?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Jesus Christ! I didn’t think I was that unimportant in your life.”
“Tiffy!” Her habitually reproachful tone solved it. “How are you?”
“I’ve been a whole lot better.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, to start,” Tiffy said, “I’m in jail. Think you could bail me out?”
Duncan almost did not recognize her when a deputy escorted Tiffy into the lobby. She had on the black leather outfit she had worn on stage hours earlier, minus the riding crop. She had left it behind when the deputies pulled her out of what they believed was a stolen car.
“Tiffy,” Duncan said, “you look . . .”
“Beautiful?”
“Well, yes . . .”
“Sexy?”
“I guess . . .”
“Or maybe the word you were looking for was cheap.”
Duncan did not admit it, but that was the second word he had thought of. The first was wow. Tiffy brushed by him. He followed her outside.
“See you Saturday, Roxanne,” the deputy called after her.
Duncan opened Assan’s mini-van. “Why did he call you Roxanne?”
“That’s my stage name.”
They drove north on San Vincente then turned left on Sunset.
“You’re an actress now?”
“A stripper.”
Duncan had not see that coming, though judging by her attire, he perhaps should have. He picked up his jaw from it’s resting place on his chest and laughed.
“First grand theft auto, then stripping. You’re a very bad girl.”
“Always have been. You just never noticed.”
Duncan pulled into the lot of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Tiffy got out.
“Walk me to my room,” she said.
He took a ticket from the valet and followed. She stopped at a door surrounded by vines and ferns and struggled with the lock.
“That’s just great,” she said.
Duncan followed her back to the registration desk. She threw her key on the counter before a tall, thin man with watery eyes.
“My goddamn key doesn’t work,” she said.
“We changed the lock,” he said with a gentle lisp. “It was Mrs. Delaney’s wish.” He rang a bell and a hop appeared. “Ms. Bradshaw’s things please.”
“Damn bitch,” Tiffy said.
“That’s my mom you’re talking about.”
She turned on him. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
Duncan backed up. Last time Tiffy was this mad she punched him into a flower bed. Tiffy ripped open one of the bags the hop brought and threw clothing about until she came to her purse.
“It’s all there, Ms. Bradshaw.”
“It goddamn better be or I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?” The clerk’s lisp was gone and the teeth he showed were sharp and clean. “Call the police? Sure. You could explain to them about the white powder and marijuana in your bag.”
Tiffy turned abruptly and left. Duncan picked up her bags and followed. They waited at the curb for their car. Tiffy turned back towards the lobby.
“Let it go,” Duncan said.
The valet they called Rudolph brought up the mini-van. Tiffy ignored him. Duncan tossed her bags in the back. Rudolph stood in the driveway and made the sign of the cross as he sadly watched them drive away.
“Where to now?” Duncan asked.
“Your place.”
“I don’t . . .”
“Jesus Horatio Christ, Duncan, don’t you fail me now! You’re talking to the woman who took your cherry and screwed you for seven years straight, and if you don’t think you owe me a little consideration you got another thought coming!” Tiffy gazed out the window. “It’s not like I’m going to try to sleep with you.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Duncan lied.
“Well, why not?”
“For one thing,” Duncan said, “You don’t want me anymore.”
“Don’t tell me what I want.”
Duncan knew from past experience he could not win. He had learned long ago to pick his fights with Tiffy, and as soon as a situation demanded it, by God he would stand up to her.
“I’m pretty good, you know. Not at sex. I mean I am. But that’s not what I mean. At stripping. I’m good.”
“I bet you are.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I bet you’re good at it.”
“As good as your girlfriend.”
“How do you know about her?”
“Jesus Christ, what do you use for brains? Fiona brought me out here.”
“Oh,” Duncan pulled into Assan’s parking lot. “I don’t know how good she is. I’ve never seen her strip.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Well you should,” Tiffy admitted, “she’s fantastic.”
Duncan got out and put Tiffy’s bags on the sidewalk. He went inside and gave Abdul the keys and bought a twelve pack of beer. He handed the beer to Tiffy and picked up her bags. She trailed him around the building and upstairs. He opened the door and followed her in. He dropped her bags, took the twelve pack, and headed for the refrigerator.
“What a dump,” Tiffy said.
She spotted the painting of Pris on the easel. She sat down heavily. Duncan came out of the kitchen with two beers. He gave her one and sat on the floor against the wall.
“You okay?” he asked. “You look pale.”
As she stared at the painting, Tiffy remembered a photograph her father had taken when she was nine. She was sleeping in that picture, her face framed by her long white hair, a smile on her face from a comfortable dream. Her father called her his angel, and he kept this picture in his wallet as proof should anyone deny his claim. She had never liked the picture, but now, looking at Duncan’s painting, she realized there were worse things to be than somebody’s angel. She would have cried had she been capable. Instead the emotions the memory evoked made her angry and spiteful.
“You want to see me strip?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“I don’t mean just taking off my clothes. There’s more to it.”
“Thank you, no.”
“I wish you would cut this goody two shoes crap. I don’t buy it. You know, I was sleeping with other guys when I was with you.”
“I know now.”
“I thought you did. I thought you just turned a blind eye.”
“Nope. I would not have stood it.”
“Oh no? What would you have done? What would you have said?”
“Goodbye, probably.”
“Right. Like I believe that.”
“I said it before I came out here, didn’t I? And with less provocation.”
Tiffy stood. “Do you mind if I put on some music?”
“Go ahead.”
She took a compact disk out of her bag and put it in the stereo. A Latin band played a seductive, rhythmic cross of flamenco and jazz. She put the beer down. She picked up her bag and headed for the bathroom.
“I have to pee,” she said.
She shut the bathroom door. She stripped and put on white panties, cotton socks, a white lace bra, a knee high plaid skirt, and a white silk blouse. She left the blouse untucked and unbuttoned. She turned off the light and opened the door. Duncan still sat on the floor across the room. She danced toward him, softly moving to the music. She swayed and thrust her hips and let her blouse fall naturally off her shoulders to the floor. She unbuttoned her bra and slowly opened it, unleashing the power and the glory of her magnificent chest. She thrust her nipples out as if to pierce his soul. She fell to her knees and looked into his face.
“I’ll be damned,” she said.
Duncan’s arms were crossed over his knees and his head rested on his arms. He snored softly. Ti
ffy found a blanket on a shelf in the closet and draped it across his shoulders and knees. She sat half naked on the floor and watched him sleep. The anger had vanished. She did not know where it went. She just knew it was gone. She kissed his cheek.
“Good night, sweet Duncan,” she whispered.
She turned off the light and undressed. She lay on the couch and pulled the sleeping bag up to her shoulders. She fell asleep and dreamed of two teenagers lying in a pasture’s midnight grass beneath a summer sky, holding hands and watching shooting stars flame across a diamond studded heaven, burning their way into oblivion like a young woman’s anger.
Hours later, Pris found Tiffy on Duncan’s couch, naked after the sleeping bag had fallen to the floor. Duncan slept on the floor against the wall, still fully clothed. If he was down to so much as his shorts Pris would have walked away and never returned. But looking at him, she knew whatever he had done, he had done in kindness. She kissed his forehead. Duncan mumbled something that was probably her name. He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw her. He saw Tiffy lying naked on his couch.
“Pris,” he said, panicked, “it’s not what you think.”
“Yes it is,” she said, and she kissed him again. “And I love you for it.”
Sixteen
Duncan was painting Roscoe and Sven when Misty came up. She collected empty bottles and got full ones from the refrigerator. She passed out beers and stood behind Duncan.
“That’s better than the others,” she said. “It’s more natural.”
Duncan stepped back. She was right, though he could not say why. The scene itself was unremarkable, just two men looking at television. He scratched his head with a brush. Three days he had vainly tried to paint them. The first day he posed them arm wrestling. But that just looked posed. The next day he faced them nose to chin (Sven was taller) looking belligerent. That just looked stupid. The third day he decided to paint when inspiration struck. But both were fidgety and they left prematurely to have a beer. Duncan had plenty in the refrigerator but they declined his offer. He had wondered if he offended them. Apparently not, as both returned that morning. And now they seemed happy watching professional wrestling on the television Benjamin had purchased the day before.
“Got tired of watching you paint,” Benjamin explained when he brought the set up.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Misty asked.
“Which one?” Roscoe asked.
It pained Misty to ask the question and the answer, which reminded her two women remained queued before her, near collapsed her lungs.
“Pris,” she finally said, “the other one is your ex-girlfriend, right?”
“That’s right.”
After Pris woke him that morning, he had draped the sleeping bag over Tiffy. She stirred at the touch of nylon, smiled, and introduced herself. Duncan watched nervously, but the two got along, and Pris suggested they go to breakfast. Duncan did not know if he was relieved or terrified. He thought he would make it until Tiffy suggested a threesome. He was halfway into a swallow of buttermilk pancakes. The ensuing coughing fit did not require a Heimlich. Pris smoothly declined while slapping his back. Her refusal realigned his estimate of her sexuality to roughly eighty percent heterosexual.
“So,” Misty persisted, “where is she?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for three days.”
“Have you called?”
“I would have,” Duncan said, “but she never gave me her number.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Roscoe said, “she doesn’t have a phone.”
“Everyone has a phone,” Sven said.
Roscoe shrugged. “Pris doesn’t.”
“What do you want to see Pris about?” Duncan asked.
Actually, Misty did not. It was just an excuse to come see Duncan. And now, when asked, she was unprepared to answer.
“To settle a bet,” she finally said. “I said Duncan could paint anyone to look sympathetic and Cassandra said there was at least one of three classes of people he couldn’t.” The conversation had occurred, though it involved no wager. “Child molesters, murderers, and personal injury lawyers.”
“Why do you need Pris?” Sven asked, “Just ask Duncan.”
“I don’t know.” Misty blushed. “Maybe someone close to you can know you better than you know yourself.”
“He’s already painted a murderer,” Roscoe said. “Wilson did time for manslaughter. They charged him with second degree murder but he pled it down. And Peewee’s done time for statutory rape.”
“That shouldn’t count,” Misty said. “We all thought Amber was eighteen or she wouldn’t have been hired.”
“I don’t care how old she looked, she was fourteen and built for sin and Peewee did her. He told the judge it was not right for a girl so young to have a body so old, but her daddy brought her to court in pigtails with an ace bandage around her tits and the judge slammed him.”
“What about a personal injury lawyer?” Misty asked.
“I don’t know,” Duncan said, “I’ve never tried.”
Roscoe stood. “I’ll be right back.”
Duncan kept painting. Something about the canvas bothered him, even though it was turning out as well as Roscoe and Drive By, though not as well as Sleeping Pris. Roscoe returned with a thin man in a rumpled suit with a crumpled shirt and a polyester clip-on tie with a spaghetti sauce stain near the knot. His dyed yellow hair had gray roots, and his small, red eyes were set so wide he could almost see inside his ears. He gave Duncan a business card. Stuart Yog Esq., it said, Divorce, Personal Injury, and Worker’s Compensation on a Contingency Basis.
“You must be Delaney. Roscoe told me what happened.” He examined Duncan’s face. “Healing nicely, I’m afraid. Did you take pictures?”
“Well, no. I painted a self-portrait though.”
Duncan set the painting of Roscoe and Sven on the floor. He put his self-portrait on the easel. Yog studied the face on the canvas.
“Ok. Any idea who did it?”
“Yes, but no proof.”
“Doesn’t matter. Does he have money or insurance?”
“It was a she.”
“Ouch. So much for your manhood. Sorry. Not so much jury appeal, but that’s what we got. How is she set up financially?”
“Very well, I believe. But how can we prove . . .”
“Prove schmoove. We sue for a million and settle for whatever her insurance company is willing to pay. We never set foot in court and split the settlement fifty-fifty.”
“But what if she didn’t do it?”
“Who are you, Prince Valiant? Who the hell cares? As long as we can convince nine out of twelve citizens it doesn’t matter if she did it or not.”
“I thought a contingency fee was one third,” Sven said.
“Half, third, who’s counting? What do you say, sport?”
“Let me think about it.”
“All right,” Yog said. “But don’t think too long.” He squashed a small creature crossing the floor. “The cockroaches might get impatient.”
“That was a spider,” Misty said.
“Who the hell cares? It’s still an insect.”
“Actually, spiders are arachnids,” Duncan said.
“You’re too much,” Yog said.
After Yog left, Roscoe said, “Well, what do you think?”
Duncan took the self portrait down and put the painting in progress back on his easel. “Cassandra wins the bet,” he said.
They spent the rest of the night arguing over the relative worth of insects and arachnids. Duncan contended all spiders, save the poisonous varieties, were beneficial and should be spared. Misty dissented, maintaining that spiders were yucky. All agreed it proper to seek out and kill cockroaches while ladybugs should be granted life everlasting.
“Caterpillars are fair game,” Roscoe said.
“But not butterflies,” Sven said. “They are so beautiful.”
Misty said, “Don’t butterflies come from c
aterpillars?”
“Just kill the hairy ones then,” Roscoe said. “And flies. I hate flies.”
“Kill all the flies you want,” Sven said, “but don’t touch butterflies.”
“All right, already! I said butterflies were okay.”
“Wasps die,” Misty said, “but bees live.”
Duncan laughed. “And crickets must always be spared.”
Roscoe looked confused. “Why?”
“Because they sing in the night.”
Duncan was almost drunk, and the thought of crickets serenading the darkness seemed profoundly beautiful.
Roscoe stood. “It’s late.”
“It’s only ten-thirty!” Duncan protested. “I’m almost done.”
“I got to get back to the Hollywood. You with me, Sven?”
Sven rose. “Yes. I would like that.”
“All right. I can finish without you.”
After they left Misty asked, “How come you never come into the Hollywood?”
“I don’t know. I guess I wouldn’t feel comfortable there.”
“Why not? We’re all there because we want to be.”
“Really. Did you grow up thinking, gee, I’d really like to be a stripper?”
“Of course not. And thanks for making me feel like dirt.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re there for the money, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I don’t want to support it.”
“Oh, a feminist man.” Misty nodded. “Feminist men just want to get laid.” It was something she had once heard Sheila say to Pris.
“All men do. It’s how you go about it that matters.”
Benjamin came in an hour later when Duncan had regained most of his sobriety. He stood beside him and studied the painting.
“You never told me Roscoe was gay,” he said.
Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom Page 18
