Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom

by A. L. Haskett

  “We brought crab cakes,” Sven said, “but Benjamin ate them all.”

  “I couldn’t help it. They’re so damn good.”

  “She’s not coming,” Duncan said.

  “Of course she is,” Misty said, “she’d be crazy not to.”

  Actually, he thought, she’d be crazy if she did marry me. After thinking it over for a half day he knew marriage made no sense. What he knew of her hinted at an unpaved pothole of a road ahead. He did not dare estimate the chances this union would survive. But he did not want to spend his life wondering if he had let the best thing that ever happened to him get away.

  Duncan had awoken at dawn and taken the Cadillac down the hill from Bolo’s to a market on Ventura Boulevard. He returned to find Pris still sleeping on the couch. He knelt beside her and took a gilded plastic ring with a big glass stone from a bag. He had found it in the market’s toy section and paid two ninety-five for it. She woke when he slipped it onto her left ring finger. She looked at the ring and then at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m asking you to marry me.”

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  He answered with a gentle kiss and when they parted Pris laughed and cried and Duncan did not know if he should be happy or frightened. She wiped the tears from her eyes and stared at the ring.

  “It’s so ugly, it’s beautiful,” she said.

  “It’s just temporary,” he said. “Until I get you a real one.”

  “I don’t want a real one.” She kissed him again, longer and harder. She smiled when they finally separated. “Of course I’ll marry you. Who else would be dumb enough to put up with me?"

  Still, wide-ranging doubts filled Duncan as he stood at his easel enlarging Assan’s nose. Every time his hopes dared fly, she ripped the wings off and sent his foolishly aspiring carcass to the rocky earth below. And with the stakes now greater and his hopes higher, he feared but was unprepared for the likely fall. Duncan jumped at a knock on the door. It was Assan and Angela. Assan studied the painting.

  “My nose is too big,” he said.

  “Sorry.” Duncan dabbed at Assan’s face.

  Angela threw her coat on the couch. “I got here as fast as I could,” she said. “What’s the big surprise?”

  “Duncan’s getting married,” Benjamin said.

  “That’s wonderful! When?”

  “Tonight,” Misty answered. “In Vegas.”

  Duncan looked at his watch. “Assuming the bride shows up.”

  “Tonight?” Angela frowned. “I had plans for you tonight, Duncan, but this is obviously more important. I need your best painting.”

  “What for?”

  “Never mind. It’s a surprise.

  “Well, all right.” Duncan put down his brush.

  “Is it finished?” Assan asked. “Can I take it now?”

  “It’s all yours. I hope it pleases your mother.”

  Assan took the painting off the easel. “I might get her a Rolex instead.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, no! I love it. It will hang downstairs in my store. Thank you.”

  Duncan placed his self-portrait on the easel. “How about this one?”

  “That’s nice,” Angela said. She flipped through his paintings and took out Sleeping Pris. “But this one is fantastic.”

  “It’s not finished.”

  “Jesus, Duncan,” Misty said. “It’s perfect.”

  Roscoe said, “If you do any more to that you’ll fuck it up.”

  “Well spoken,” said Sven.

  “All the same,” Duncan said, “I choose the other.”

  “All right. I’ll have a messenger pick it up tonight.”

  “But I won’t be here.”

  “I’ll stay,” Misty said. “Somebody has to take care of Cat.” She smiled to hide her splintering heart. “Besides. I hate Vegas.”

  Duncan’s door slammed opened. Sheila Rascowitz stepped in. She wore black jeans, a black silk shirt, black boots, and a man’s black tie. Her face was twisted and Duncan feared she was some evil harbinger ascended from hell to rip his chest open with her nails and extract his entrails with her teeth. Instead she stepped aside and allowed Pris to enter behind her. The skirt she wore was the color of fresh cream. Silk stockings wrapped her legs. She wore white leather pumps with one inch heels, a white silk blouse open to her sternum, and a linen jacket the color of her skirt. Her hair was loose and long and she carried a bouquet of small white roses and baby’s breath.

  “Holy Jesus,” Woody whispered as Misty cried what everyone erroneously assumed were joyous tears, “it’s an angel fresh from heaven.”

  Duncan was happy to stand there gazing upon her splendor until a nervous red-haired woman came through the door and broke the spell. Duncan embraced her and led her to Woody.

  “Woody, I’m so sorry,” Fiona sobbed.

  “It’s all right.” Woody held her tight and kissed her forehead. “Everything’s fine now.”

  Misty sat in the window stroking Cat for an eternity. She watched traffic stream below. In the hour since Duncan’s departure she had cried herself out, and had ultimately conceded the futility of continued lachrymation. She set Cat down and replaced the self portrait on the easel with Sleeping Pris. She lay on the couch and stared at the painting. Cat climbed into her lap. She hugged him and decided to get a cat of her own.

  “You’re nice, but you’re taken,” she said.

  She imagined herself in thirty years, corpulent in spandex and a low-cut blouse, tending bar in a strip joint, serving beers to equally obese bald men who favored girls young and beautiful over her, girls who ranged the stage like sex, but without the contact or the lubrication. She would leave the bar with a pocket half full of ones while the girls on stage departed with twice as many tens and twenties. She would drive a twenty-year-old Honda with bald tires to an apartment full of cats and a microwave. She questioned how she got here and how to get out. She fell asleep with Cat still on her lap.

  Hours later when the messenger knocked, Misty stirred but did not wake. He opened the unlocked door and walked in. Angela had warned him of Duncan’s odd living arrangements and said it was okay to do so. He stopped and stared at the beautiful girl sleeping on the couch. The messenger was nineteen and still a virgin. He had never seen anyone as lovely. He thought to wake her, but ultimately decided against disturbing such serene perfection. He helped himself to a beer and took Sleeping Pris from the easel. He shook his head. Two perfect females, one painter. Thinking to himself how some guys had all the luck, he left with the wrong painting, and thus sealed Duncan’s fate.

  Eighteen

  Elnie Marcos was ordained a minister in the Church of Jesus, Philosopher in May 1987. Five feet tall and nearly as wide, she was a distant relative of the deposed Philippine dictator. She had received her degree from the Arizona College of Theology and Mortuary Sciences, a correspondence school and diploma mill run out of a post office box in Phoenix by a mortician who lost his license years before when he cremated seven corpses together and returned the bones of a seven-foot former pro basketball player to a carnival midget’s wife. She spotted the mistake immediately, realizing the femur protruding from the ashes was too long to have grown inside her beloved. She reported the problem to the state board, and after a short investigation and a series of articles in the Phoenix Sun, the mortician found himself in need of employment. So he opened and operated his mail order university until he was arrested by Postal Inspectors and convicted of mail fraud in connection with a moderately successful Ponzi scheme. After that he ran his college from a federal prison cell.

  Elnie knew nothing of her distant professor’s travails. She studied the mail order materials he sent and consistently scored upper nineties on the tests she mailed back to Phoenix. Every student scored in the upper nineties but not every student knew their bible the way Elnie did. She took her degree and her vocation seriously, even if her school did not.
Elnie tried to start several congregations, but the Church of Jesus, Philosopher was not a known or accredited sect, and after several aborted attempts, she went to work at the Bright Star of Light and Hope Wedding Chapel located five minutes from the Las Vegas Strip. She saved her salary and after six years of marrying on commission as many as one hundred couples per day she bought her employer out. She had married everyone from transvestite Elvis impersonators to ultra right wing white separatists wearing camouflage fatigues and carrying M-16s. The white separatists wanted a white male to wed them, but were unable to find a suitably racist minister who would allow loaded, fully automatic firearms in his chapel. They grudgingly settled for Elnie. She did not care who they were or what they believed. She was happy to unite them under the philosophical eyes of her Jesus. Even racist extremists were God’s children, and when they robbed her after the ceremony and left her bound, gagged, but still alive, she thanked god, not for her life, but for the possibility of their redemption. So the only thing that struck her as odd when she married Duncan Delaney to Priscilla Nolan, besides how beautiful the bride and how nervous the groom, was how the maid of honor, a short haired masculine woman wearing black, kept looking at the best man, a long-haired Native American dressed in blue jeans and a long sleeved cotton shirt. The maid of honor never smiled, not once throughout the ceremony. If it was not such a happy occasion, as evidenced by the red-headed woman’s tears and by the magnificently built blond man weeping into the bald biker’s shoulder, she would have sworn the maid of honor begrudged the best man.

  After the ceremony Elnie followed the menagerie from the chapel to the street. She lit a cigarette and watched the bride and groom get in an immaculate white Cadillac. The maid of honor got into a bright red truck between the best man and a lovely dark-haired woman. The groom’s mother and a leathery cowboy got into a rented Lincoln. The tall blonde man, the biker, and the short Pakistani squeezed into the Lincoln’s back seat. The Chapel organist joined Elnie on the sidewalk. He was once a replacement keyboard player and studio musician whose closest brush with fame was playing background piano on a Bobby DeLaRoy single in the early seventies. After that a bad cocaine habit sidelined him to Vegas house bands and even that did not last. He spent fifteen of the last twenty years on the street and would be there still if Elnie had not spotted him playing organ at the soup kitchen where she volunteered twice a month. The organist lit a cigarette and together they watched the party drive away.

  “Circus must be in town,” he said.

  He crushed his cigarette and went back inside the chapel, where he spent the remaining five minutes of his break playing show tunes for a nervous couple from Omaha waiting to spend the remainder of their lives together.

  Duncan sat on an absurdly comfortable couch in the suite Fiona had rented for him at the Mirage. He sipped champagne and watched Pris dance with Benjamin. Sheila stood by a window talking to Angela. Fiona and Woody snuggled across the room. Sven was making omelets in the kitchen. Assan was downstairs playing blackjack with Benjamin’s cousin April. Roscoe sat beside Duncan. He wore a too small t-shirt with a tuxedo silk-screened across the front. A fold of belly showed between hem and belt.

  “Well,” Roscoe said, “I guess you figured out by now that I’m a fagot.”

  “Yup,” Duncan said. “When did you find out?”

  “Long time ago. I just never admitted it to anyone. Never a reason to before I met Sven. Does it bother you?”

  “Couldn’t care less.”

  Sven came out of the kitchen carrying plates. “Dinner is served.”

  “That first night Sven took me to his place on the west side and made me an omelet. He’s got a weight room and a tanning booth. I remember eating the omelet and thinking, this is the man for me. He’s kind of vain, but he’s a hell of a cook.” Roscoe laughed. “I think I’ll keep him.”

  Pris sat beside Duncan. “I want an omelet. Can I get you one?”

  He smiled. “I’ll have some of yours if that’s okay.”

  She kissed him and left. Sheila left Angela and joined Duncan.

  “Truce?” Duncan asked.

  “Truce hell. You won the war.”

  She put her hand out. Duncan took it. Her grip evoked painful tears, but anyone watching would suppose they were letting bygones be.

  “Listen to me, you little squid,” she hissed through teeth clenched beneath a cordial grin, “if you hurt her, if you make her sad, if you bore her, I will hunt you and kill you and skin you and stuff you and hang you over my fireplace.” She released his hand. Duncan felt the cool rush of blood returning to his fingers. “And just so we’re clear on this: I look forward to you fucking up.” She left to get an omelet.

  “It’s nice to see you two getting along,” Pris said when she returned with a plate. “What were you talking about?”

  Duncan took a bite of omelet. It was amazingly good.

  “She just wanted to wish us luck,” he said.

  “I told you,” she said when they were alone, “I won’t be very good at this.”

  “Can’t be worse than me.” Duncan lit a candle by the bed.

  “Tiffy seemed to think you were pretty good.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “We talked at the restaurant when you were in the bathroom. She said you were the second best she ever had. She said you were clumsy at first but you improved with age.”

  “Who did she say was best?”

  “Some valet. But since he’s not here I was hoping you could teach me.”

  Duncan laughed and kissed her. “We’ll learn together.”

  He turned off the light and took off his shirt. He got on the bed beside her and ran his hand up her arm to her shoulder. He kissed her again. When he tried to roll on top of her she stiffened.

  “Not like that. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Pris undid his belt and pulled his pants and shorts off. She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor. She pulled her skirt and her panties down and straddled him. She kissed him, her elbows at his ears and her breasts rubbing his chest. She moved her pelvis against his. He took her breast in his mouth. She stiffened, but as his tongue caressed her nipple she relaxed and said uh-ngh-ah. Duncan ran his hands from shoulders to her back and around her buttocks. When he stroked her inner thigh, she moved his hand away. Her hair glowed in the candle light as she took his penis in one hand and mounted him. He moved his hips up.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  He lay still. She moved up and down, her breasts bouncing slightly with the motion. Duncan felt tension in his groin but before he could ask her to slow down she sped up instead, arching her back, her hands on the bed beside his knees, and to Duncan’s everlasting satisfaction her orgasm occurred less than two seconds after his. She sat up, her face twisted in what Duncan assumed was ecstasy.

  “Oh god,” she said.

  “Was I that good?” he joked.

  She put her hand to her mouth. She jumped off him and off the bed and ran to the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her. Duncan listened to her retch. He got up and stood beside the bathroom door.

  “Are you ok?”

  “Go back to bed,” she said. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He returned to bed. He listened to the toilet flush and the sound of brushing teeth. He listened to silence for a minute. Pris came out and turned off the light behind her. She lay naked beside Duncan.

  “That’s the first time I ever made anyone vomit,” he said.

  She clutched him tighter. “It must have been the champagne.”

  “Do you want to sleep?”

  “No,” she answered. “I want to get this right.” She straddled him again. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

  “Me too,” Duncan said. He pulled her head down and held his lips against her ear. “A lifetime,” he whispered.

  Nineteen

  You have sixteen messages, Duncan’s answering machine said when he call
ed from Bolo’s Monday morning. The first was from the body shop, telling him his car was ready. The second was from Angela. “Look in the Calendar section of the Times,” she said. “Your surprise is there.” The remaining fourteen were hang ups. Duncan retrieved the paper from the lawn. The lead story in the Calendar section was titled, LA’s Hottest Artists, by Robert Armstrong. Beneath the banner was a photo of Sleeping Pris. He sat beside Pris and put the paper on the table in front of her. She dropped her tea cup and it shattered on the floor.

  “How did that get there?” she asked.

  “Angela asked for a painting before we left. I chose my self-portrait. I guess they picked up the wrong one. Are you ok? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” She picked up the paper. “This is a wonderful article,” she said. “Listen: One artist stands out. Duncan Delaney, a transplant from Wyoming of all places, paints like a cross between an urban Rembrandt and an underground Van Gogh.”

  He picked up the broken cup and wiped up the tea. He made pancakes while Pris read. He warmed maple syrup. He poured glasses of orange juice. She was still staring at the paper when he brought breakfast in. Duncan devoured his food. Pris sipped her juice and let her pancakes grow cold.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  She picked up the paper again. “I’m not hungry.”

  Duncan cleared the table. He took a shower and dressed and when he came out she still sat at the table in her robe looking at the newspaper.

  “Can you give me a ride into town?” he asked. “I have to pick up my car and get my stuff from the studio.”

  Pris put the paper face down on the table. She looked up and smiled.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Duncan had to wait an hour at the body shop while a worker reinstalled a backwards seat belt. When finished, the car smelled faintly of burnt insulation, but was visually perfect. Duncan paid his deductible and left. Misty was in his studio feeding Cat when he opened the door. Cat kept eating. Misty stood. She wore no make up and her eyes were puffy.