When I got home I was too tired to swim and opted for a warm bath, which I do when I need to meditate on the slings and arrows of life in the fast lane.
The Ford wagon was in its berth, but the kitchen was empty. Ursi and Jamie, therefore, were in their quarters over the garage. Hobo stuck his nose out of his castle and withdrew almost instantly. Is his abode air- conditioned?
Once in my sanctuary I undressed, drew my tub and added a dollop of scented oil to the warm water Mountain Pine. One comes out smelling a little like a Christmas tree, but is that bad?
I floated the rubber duckies Connie had given me as a gag hint, hint, you are immature then eased myself into the aromatic brew where one’s troubles are supposed to melt away and exquisite rapture enfold the senses. Well, that’s what it says on the bottle of Mountain Pine. This was not to be my experience. The rubber duckies reminded me of Connie and my inability to make a commitment to her. “For the likes of such as me, mine’s a fine, fine life.” Is it? There are times, like when I’m soaking in a hot tub, that I’m just not sure.
Not too long ago, when Connie had caught me carousing with a young lady, she told me she had considered hiring a hit man and having me blown away. Believe me, with Connie’s Cuban cousins by the dozens, this is no idle threat. Lucky for me she reconsidered and decided instead of honor our open relationship by accepting a date with my friend, Ferdy Attenborough. I was shocked to learn that Ferdy had asked her for a date, but having preached the virtues of an open relationship for so many years I could only say I was glad and hoped she had a good time.
That night, alone, my one small marc was almost more than I could handle. My bed became a carousel,
which spun in counterpoint to my leaky ceiling. I’m sure Ferdy Attenborough, riding a broomstick, went flying by with a mocking grin on his dumb face. If she did or did not go out with Ferdy, I will never know because I never asked and Connie never told. Henceforth, Ferdy appeared uncomfortable in my presence, or was I imagining it? One night at the Pelican I ran into him in the men’s room. He ran out saying he had made a mistake. Really? Had he intended to use the ladies’ room?
After that I was especially attentive to Consuela Garcia and she showed her appreciation in many ways both public and private. This taught me that what is good for the gander is not good for the goose and I am a chauvinist A. Gide notwithstanding.
I climbed out of the tub and patted myself dry, removing the moisture and leaving behind the scent of Christmas in July. I wrapped myself in one of my favorite kimonos, the one picturing Jack and Jill tiptoeing through the tulips.
I sat at the desk, removed the top from my Mont Blanc, and recorded both the interview with Richard Cranston and the antics of Gillian and Zack. I ended by saying the omens were ominous and, as Ursi had once written on her shopping list, “The Tide is out and there is no Joy.”
With this I closed the case of The Man That Got Away one mo’ time.
Sixteen
“I’ll just go powder my nose. Won’t be a minute.”
That exit line could account for at least a dozen chores milady was on her way to performing while her gentleman caller cooled his heels. When he took her home, if all went well, she would excuse herself with,
“I’ll just slip into something comfortable.” Or did that happen only in the movies?
I was cooling my heels in Bianca Courtney’s parlor on cement blocks, sipping a white wine that had never been within a mile of a cork. It was dreadful. Bianca did not keep hard liquor in the house, owing, no doubt, to her mother’s caution, “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.”
I reflected sadly upon why I was sitting in a railroad car decorated in buttons and bows, boxed in by Al Rogoff’s sleeper and Binky Watrous’s caboose. Final answer: pure lust. Bianca’s idea of decor was to bring the outside inside. Every piece of fabric had a flower motif, many with birds and bees and butterflies, all on the wing. I would happily trade the wine for an antihistamine nasal spray.
Bianca had greeted me dressed in peach linen slacks and a blouse just a shade lighter. The blouse was of a material so gossamer that as she moved one caught glimpses of her bra. I found this distracting. The outfit, accesorized with a pair of finely crafted leather sandals and a tiny matching baguette bag, bespoke not only a casual chic, but expensive taste. If these trappings were due to the largesse of the late Lilian Ashman Gilbert, I could see why Bianca was incensed at the lady’s passing, but not a reason to point a finger at poor Mr.
Gilbert.
Seeing her peach ensemble I was glad I had avoided pastels for the occasion and had chosen instead white jeans with a button fly and a boat-neck cotton pullover from JHG in navy. I thought it befitting for a shore dinner and, besides, it made me feel like Gene Kelly dancing with Jerry the mouse. Knowing when to compete and when to withdraw, my
“I-shirt was not visible beneath the pullover.
Upon returning, Bianca had added a lightweight pashmina wrap to her costume, but not a discernable trace of powder on her pretty nose. I’m ready but we can wait if you want to finish your wine,” she said.
“No, no,” I protested. “Let’s go. Our reservation is for eight and they do get testy. It’s a popular joint. I’ll just leave this in the kitchen.” Where it might discourage night crawlers, and I did not mean Binky and Al. When the summer sun sets, Florida vibrates with the pitty-pat of many-footed creatures of the night.
I had parked in Binky’s space. Was there no limit to my brass? and once again lucked out with Al Rogoff’s carport empty. He was at work today, so he was most likely at some highbrow offering this evening, incognito. Last winter Al attended the Jacques Thibaud String Trio at Dreyfoos Hall in the Kravis Center and was in ecstasy for weeks. Tweeny does not understand why Al refuses all invitations to enjoy an evening at her digs viewing wrestling or the Roller Derby on her mammoth TV.
“I pay the cable company extra to get those channels,” she tells Al, who is not sympathetic.
It was a refreshingly cool evening, the sky cloudy and dark. “The top is down,” Bianca cleverly noted. “It looks like rain.”
I opened the door for her and sang, “Last night we met, and I dream of you yet, with the wind and the rain in your hair.”
She giggled. “What’s that?”
An old song.”
“How old?” she insisted.
I got in the driver’s seat and started the engine. “How old are you, Bianca?”
Twenty-two.”
I shifted and got us free of Binky’s space and onto the road leading out of the Palm Court. “Let’s say the song is older than you but younger than King Tut.”
“How old are you, Archy?”
“Older then you but younger than King Tut.”
“Binky told me how old you are,” she said, laughing. It was such a pleasant sound. Like a child poking fun at a doting uncle. Should I have worn a black mustache and a cape instead of bells and boat neck? I must do something about my cravings. Was there a twelve-step program?
I would ask Dr. Gussie.
Her laugh was charming, but her question was disconcerting. If Binky had disclosed my age, why did she ask? Was she testing my integrity?
Was she clever or obtuse? Was I on a fool’s errand? How wide the ocean? How deep the sea? Questions, questions. “Binky lies,” I said.
“But he’s cute. Do you know he does birdcalls?”
Blessed mother of Sam Spade, did that boy really do his pathetic birdcalls for her? But why not? He does them for anyone forced to listen. “Yes,” I said. “I do know. His loony bird is remarkably accurate.”
“Oh, Archy,” she scolded, and rested her head on my shoulder.
Her perfume was potent and top-of-the-line. Her hair, moving gently in the breeze, wafted over my right ear.
