by Gary Ruffin
She went into her bedroom as I checked the map and found that the ride wouldn’t be too bad. The Ritz was turning out to be pretty much centrally located as far as our itinerary went. We were expected to arrive no later than eight thirty, which gave us plenty of time, as it was straight-up five o’clock. Or at least, it gave me plenty of time—Cherry was another story.
I turned on the TV to a local station, and saw that our little escapade at the theater was the lead story on the news. The cat was out of the bag. Cherry Page was in Atlanta, and was being stalked by a serial murderer. I tried the other local stations; two more also had the news on, and were breathlessly telling the story of Cherry’s situation.
I called her in to watch, and just as she came into the room, the screen was filled with Cherry in her old-lady costume walking in front of the camera. The sheer lunacy of it all had us both laughing, and we forgot for a moment that a madman was hunting her.
I switched around to the other stations, and each one had a glimpse of us walking through the crowd, acting our brains out. Cherry laughed until she cried, and then she cried until she laughed, finally dropping to the floor in a heap. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, and said, “Get me to a nunnery. I surrender.”
I took her hands and pulled her up to her feet, and gave her a swat on her rear end.
“Get that thing in gear, young lady; you have a show to do tonight. Lemme call Sally and see if Will is on his way.”
A knock at the door, and a singsong voice calling “Miss Cherry Pa-age” announced Will’s arrival.
I walked over and let him in, and he blew into the room. Well, maybe that’s a bad choice of words. Anyway, he was ready for action again, this time carrying a smaller case.
He asked, “How are you, mister bodyguard man? I see you got my girl home safe and sound.”
“I’m fine, Will. Get our star ready for her big night, will ya?”
“That’s what I’m here for, cowboy,” he said, and sidled over to his gal pal.
Cherry had quickly recovered from her attack of near hysteria, and they went into her room to get her ready for the evening.
A moment later, she called to me, “Cooper, would you care for a haircut? Will is dying to get his hands in your hair.”
My hair is always a little long and shaggy, so I agreed, and fifteen minutes later I had a really sharp new look. Will is an expert, and I wondered how much it would have cost me to get a haircut like that in London. I thanked him; he said it was a pleasure, and went back into the bedroom to attend to Cherry.
In a few minutes, I heard the shower running, so I checked out my tux and accessories while I waited for my shot at the hot water. The tux was an Armani, and while I don’t know a lot about fashion, I know enough to appreciate quality. The wardrobe people had done a great job with the alterations, and it fit me as well as my one and only suit.
I went to the prom twice in high school, like most people, but unlike most people, I didn’t wear a tuxedo because I was too cool for that, being on the football team. We all went dressed in our Gulf Front letterman jackets, and looked like complete idiots, unbeknownst to us at the time.
But those unfashionable days were behind me. I was escorting an international movie star to an affair catering to the hoity-toity types of Atlanta, and I was wearing Armani, my friend.
I made a mental note to have my picture taken with Cherry at the museum. Penny would kill me twice if I didn’t record the event for posterity.
15
THE HIGH MUSEUM OF ART STANDS BACK FROM THE STREET A WAYS, and the one it stands back from is the world-famous Peachtree Street. It’s painted a brilliant white, and to me, it looked like what an architect might have designed in the thirties if he was trying to build something ultramodern.
From reading the brochure Sally left for me, I knew that it had won several architectural awards, and deserved each one. From the outside it looked very clean, with its rounded, partially glass front. Sophisticated is the word that came to mind. In the moonlight it shone like a big, white, Miami Beach hotel.
There was heavy security in the parking lot and at the front door, and I was relieved to see so many uniforms and weapons in attendance. I also saw several guys and one woman who I thought were probably FBI. Surely the stalker-freak wouldn’t show up at such a gathering, but the extra help was appreciated.
The officers helped keep the news people away as we parked and headed towards the entrance. What had been a small group had now become a small mob. There must’ve been fifty photographers calling out to Cherry as we entered the museum.
Once inside, I was impressed even more. Part of the main floor is a four-story atrium, and wide, circular ramps go upward and around at a not-too steep angle. As you walk up you see art on the walls, and the people below. It’s the perfect place for rich people to hang out with a movie star.
Cherry was absolutely stunning in a pale silvery gown that looked like something Marilyn herself would’ve worn. It had a low back, and showed off her cleavage just enough to draw every man’s eye to that vicinity. Her glowing red hair was down, with her trademark wave in it. Cherry looked every bit the international star, and I looked pretty good myself, I must say, decked out in my Armani tux and new haircut.
In the ground-floor area, where most of the guests were gathered, there was a bar almost everywhere you looked. Any other time, I would have been tempted, but not while I was on duty, so the bars didn’t really matter to me. What mattered was that several waiters were walking around passing out food, and there was a long buffet table in the back as well.
Huge mounds of giant shrimp, hor d’oeuvres of all kinds, and a big ice sculpture of three cherries with stems attached were in the center of the table. I mentally marked my territory as we came in. As soon as Cherry started her speech, her bodyguard was going to be gobbling.
Three photographers, and guests both male and female quickly surrounded Cherry. The interesting thing was that both genders seemed to want to be near her. The men were a given, but it’s been my experience that gorgeous women usually are not warmly welcomed by other females. Especially when the gorgeous woman has the undivided attention of every husband, boyfriend, and male escort in the vicinity.
But I would find as the night went on that all the ladies’ comments I overheard about Cherry were complimentary. In fact, they were all as taken with her as Penny is. It was definitely not what I had expected, but there it was: Everybody loves Cherry Page.
Except one sick bastard.
I stayed close to Cherry most of the time, constantly scouring the crowd around her. It was fascinating to watch her work the crowd, and I saw what she meant about her having to be there to make the big bucks for her foundation. If she had stayed away, the party would’ve been insufferably dull and lifeless. Half of the people looked like they were not long for this world; “Old Money” were the operative words. But with the fabulous Ms. Page in their midst, I could almost hear the rustling of paper in the checkbooks as they opened. The wealthy folk of Atlanta made more than generous donations in the name of their object of desire. We would find out later that the night was a huge success monetarily.
I even managed to get the official foundation photographer to snap a couple of pictures of Cherry and me standing by a Rothko, whoever he is. The photographer promised to send copies over to the Ritz as soon as possible, and I could see Penny hanging the framed prints on her living-room wall, smiling at me and not killing me.
The only thing that made it less than perfect for me was the awful music being poorly played by a four-piece combo. Their leader was a heavyset woman of probably sixty-five or so, dressed in a vast black dress that thankfully covered her entirely, who sat banging away on an ancient electric piano. The sound of the piano was so distorted that it sounded like it must have been dropped on concrete about a thousand times. That’s the only thing that could’ve made it sound so bad, in my unprofessional opinion. But I seemed to be the only one who noticed. The big piano w
oman certainly didn’t seem to care.
To the right of the big piano woman sat a guy of fifty or so in a metal folding chair, playing an electric bass. He looked like some derelict she’d picked up off the street, and was wearing what looked to be a forty-dollar tuxedo. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more bored-looking human being, but he was actually the only good player in the band.
The drummer was tippy-tapping along, seemingly striking as many parts of his drum kit as he could at any given moment, and the effect was more confusing than rhythmic.
Last, and fighting for least, the diminutive guitar player wore large white Elton John-type glasses, and strummed a big, fat electric guitar that was half as big as he was. He was in dire need of talent, and a good tuning. His alleged playing left almost everything to be desired, and what I loosely call his “singing” was made even more annoying by the cheap, distorted P.A. system. But, to their credit, they seemed to know every song in the book—especially the irritating ones—and hardly took a break the entire night.
The crowd ignored them completely, and if anyone danced, they didn’t bother to applaud. Just for laughs, I went up to them as they were taking one of their short pauses, and told them they’d “never sounded better.” They all smiled and said thanks.
I don’t think they got it.
Throughout the evening, nearly every guy in the place made a pass at Cherry, and I heard a lot of the lines they tried on her. Cherry defended herself brilliantly, and I don’t think any of the dreamers were offended. Disappointed, definitely, but not offended. She often would use me as an excuse, explaining that I was her escort for the night, and if that didn’t work, I became her boyfriend. In a couple of extreme cases I was designated as her fiancé, so a couple of the fellows really disliked me after that. Cherry would take my arm, or hold my hand when the water got rough, and I was, without question, the most despised man at the ball.
Let me give you an idea of what Cherry was dealing with the entire night:
Fat, bald guy, maybe fifty-five or sixty used this approach: “My business has me here in town for three more days, and I’d love to take you up in my helicopter.”
Cherry said she “suffered terribly” from airsickness.
A fellow of perhaps thirty-five, athletic-looking, with a mass of curly gold locks, tried these lines: “Remember me? We’ve met before, last year in London at another of your charity foundation gatherings. I was able then—as well as now—to make huge contributions because I made my fortune in dot-com stocks, and was smart enough to cash out before the bubble burst. Maybe we could have dinner one night while you’re in town?”
Cherry said, sorry, she didn’t remember him, but she meets so many people, and no, her fiancé wouldn’t like the idea of her going on a dinner date with another man. Especially a strong, handsome, rich, smart man.
The girl is good.
Short, stout, fortysomething guy tried a different tactic: “My mother just adores you, and she would be so happy if you would come with me to the nursing home for a visit. I could pack a picnic lunch, and the three of us could eat out by the lake at Greenwood. Can I call Mother and tell her it’s a date?”
Cherry pulled me over next to her, and said (to me), “Darling, I want you to meet—I’m sorry, what was your name again? Oh, yes. Harold. Meet Harold, dear.” To Harold: “Harold, this is my lover, Butch Hardmon.” She got a hundred points for my new name.
Tall, slim dude, dressed in a formal western outfit, cowboy hat in hand, tried to rope the filly with these words: “Ma’am, I live on a nice spread just outside of town, near Marietta. I’d be honored if you’d let me take you to breakfast in the mornin’, after we take in all the sights Atlanta has to offer tonight. Country-and-western music is my specialty. You like to line dance?”
Cherry said she had no line-dancing experience whatsoever, and skillfully denied his next request to “just relax and let him guide her into the land of rhythm and pleasure.” I was introduced as her bodyguard this time, so I looked at Cowboy Guy as menacingly as I could. He decided to hunt for another mare to corral.
Older gentleman, very short, probably eighty, distinguished-looking, thick silver hair, was one of my favorites, and Cherry’s: “Young lady, my private jet is only a thirty-minute limousine ride away, and my yacht in Palm Beach only a short flight from there. I lost my wife last month, and am now free to offer you a life of luxury and excess beyond your wildest imaginings. Don’t give me your answer now. Think it over and let me know before this evening is but a memory.” With that said, he bowed, kissed her hand, and left without another word. Cherry waited until he was out of earshot before asking me which of the gentlemen she should choose to be her escort while in Atlanta.
I said, “Well, I can’t decide between the cowboy and the little old chap you just talked to. You can’t go wrong choosing either one of those guys.”
“Mmm,” she said. “It truly is quite a dilemma.”
“Go with the old guy. You’ll be a rich widow in no time,” I said.
“Cooper, you’re a true romantic.”
At that moment, the lady in charge of the gathering came over and told Cherry that it was time for her speech. Cherry thanked her, excused herself, and went to the ladies’ room to freshen up, which was totally unnecessary in my mind. But it was nice to see her feeling safe and happy in her natural environment, preparing herself to be the center of attention.
I was sure there would be plenty of time to feel unsafe and unhappy in the coming days.
16
LOIS LANGLEY ORDERED HER SECOND GIN MARTINI FROM THE BARtender in the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead Lobby Lounge, and settled her tab by charging it to her room. The day had been a long and trying one, and she’d eaten at a Burger King on the way back to the hotel after her downtown meeting. All she wanted to do now was finish the martini and head up to her room for a long, hot soak.
A voice from beside her asked if she would mind passing the bowl of spiced nuts, and Lois reached for it and placed it in front of her neighbor. They struck up a genial conversation, and within ten minutes were laughing and joking together like old friends.
Lois felt the stress of the day melting away as the discussion turned to things of a more risqué nature. Maybe she wouldn’t have to be alone tonight after all.
Having intended to make the second martini her last, Lois surprised herself when she accepted the offer of a third, then a fourth, and finally a fifth. It was nice to have someone else pay for her drinks, so she wouldn’t look like such a barfly when she handed in her expense report back in Minneapolis. Besides, the companionship was welcome, since she’d been through quite a long dry spell in the romance department. Three and a half years without sex was too long for anyone, especially when you were used to being in a relationship. A relationship that had been the best two years of her life. And two out of four wasn’t bad, she liked to say.
The barroom was becoming a bit fuzzy, so Lois asked her new friend to come upstairs so they could continue their conversation and see what else they might find to do. Two hundred-dollar bills left on the bar by her new friend covered the tab and tip nicely and they walked to the bank of elevators, Lois leaning on her escort for support.
When they got to her room, she had trouble inserting the key-card, and they both had a good laugh. Finally, it was in the slot and they were in the dark room. The only light came through the open curtains from the streetlights outside, and the light from the hall.
She closed the door, and as she turned back around, she found herself in an embrace, her lips being kissed softly. She kissed back, harder, and they staggered to the bed, still locked at the lips. Her new friend turned on a bedside lamp and smiled at her, looking her up and down.
As a rule, Lois was shy about undressing in front of other people. She was what her mother called “full-bodied” and her ex called “fat.” Uncertain about her looks, she had always wished she were slender, and blond instead of brunette. But the martinis had washed all those feeling
s away. The two quickly undressed, and were in a clinch before Lois could catch her breath. There was nothing subtle about it, no need for any more talk or attempts at seduction. They both wanted the same thing, and they both wanted it five minutes ago.
Half an hour later, as they lay spent and entangled on top of the bedspread, Lois asked, “Now, what was it you wanted me to Google for you again? That last drink seems to have made me a little scatterbrained. Not to mention what my second orgasm did.”
Chuckling, her lover said, “I was hoping to find some information on a character called ‘Baal.’ I saw that program on the History Channel about ancient deities, and it got me interested, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, now I remember. That sounds interesting to me, too. Just let me boot up my laptop, and we’ll have all we ever needed to know about Baal in no time.”
“Great. But that can wait for a little while longer. Let’s stay here in bed and try and get you orgasm number three.”
Lois said, “Three? Hell, let’s go for five or six!”
“Sounds good to me. Let’s do it like it’s the last time we’ll ever do it.”
17
CHERRY SPOKE FOR TEN MINUTES TO AN ENTHRALLED AND HUSHED audience, and did herself and Poppy proud. The speech was entirely off the cuff, and obviously straight from the heart. When she finished, the crowd stood and cheered for a full two minutes. Everywhere I looked, I saw women crying, and men trying not to. She was passionate and articulate, and I was as proud of her as I possibly could have been.
Even with all the emotion in the room, I still managed to eat about fifty bucks’ worth of shrimp. You can’t let emotion get in the way of free food.
When the applause died down, Cherry graciously chatted and posed for pictures with the crowd for about fifteen minutes. Then an officer came and told me that the path to our car was clear, so I signaled Cherry. She said good-bye to the crowd and the lady in charge, and we headed out the side door to another round of applause. The paparazzi tried unsuccessfully to get closer, and their frantic attempts to get my date to acknowledge them continued.
