Behind me the kitchen clattered in its steam. Hideous places, kitchens. The kitchen had gas. Gas from cylinders. I left my plate, stepped out. Two dogs loped by, black and straining. I called a hi to the dog handler.
“Lovely animals,” I called.
“Bastards,” he grunted, jerking and pulling.
God, but dogs can look malevolent. A muted roar wafted out into the night. I almost collapsed. Nicko’s win, or loss? The card could fall only one way, no inbetween.
Cylinders. I’d nothing to light anything with, and they were huge great things, shining with dull reflections from the floodlights of the Revere’s facade. It was eerie, a waiting film set. Movie memories. I shook. Maybe I was coming down with something. Worse, maybe I wasn’t, and reality was knifing my soul.
Another guard walked by, coated in red plaid, a hunter’s nebbed cap showing for a second against the lake’s distant gleam, his boots scuffing gravel. I called a hi there, got a grunt as he passed. Maybe I’d sounded drunk enough. I’d tried.
Seven cylinders, two already tubed into the wall below the noisy kitchen’s half-open windows. Each cylinder had a pale panel, presumably warning of calamities that could ensue if you didn’t watch out. I’ve always been frightened of these damned things. I once saw an accident at school. A cylinder had fallen sideways, being unloaded from a lorry, the valve striking against a kerb and popping off a hundred feet into the air. The oxygen cylinder had shooshed along the ground like a torpedo, smashing through the school wall, miraculously missing us little pests standing frozen to the spot. Nobody had been injured. We’d thought it wonderful, especially as the white-faced science teacher sent us all home for the day.
If Nicko’d lost, they’d come looking for me. I reached, unscrewed each of the two connecting nuts until I could hear an ugly hissing sound from the valve. I wanted a long, slow leak. I went along the row of cylinders and did the same. It’s gambling people who are supposed to like fear. I’m not one. My arms were almost uncontrollable by the time I’d done the last. I stood there, legs trembling. Was this liquid gas fuel lighter than air once it vaporized? Did it just float up, to give some future astronaut a fright when he lit his fag in the stratosphere? Or did it sink low and lie on the ground like a marsh miasma? I’d vaguely heard that was what frightened our ancients, when marsh gases lit spontaneously, their sinister blue flames flickering along the roadside swamps and scaring travellers to death. If the latter, I was standing here being gassed, risking being blown to blazes. A stray spark from the kitchen window could set the gas ball off.
I returned the chef’s plate, said it was the best nosh I’d had since my wedding, and scarpered back to the salon.
To see a few men and women emerging for a smoke and a drink. They stayed clustered by the doors to the gallery, not to miss the call.
“It’s the last play,” a woman told me when I asked. “Nicko Aquilina’s on the line this time! Him and L.A. are left in.”
She was drooling, kept taking my arm. Everybody was thrilled, breathing fast, loving it.
“It’s thrilling, hon,” she told me huskily. “Know what I mean?”
“Sure do,” I said. I lit her cigarette for her. “I’m so excited I just can’t tell you. You here with somebody? I’m Lovejoy.”
“My husband.” She hid her scorn so only most of it showed. Her head inclined and her lips thinned. “I’m Elise Shepherd.” A suave man, cuffs glittering with diamond links. Ramon Navarro from some old black-and-whiter. Odd how many here were lookalikes of the famous. Something in the California air?
There was something else in the air.
“Pity,” I said quietly, squeezing her arm. “Elise, love. I’ve watched you since I arrived.” I made sure Ramon Navarro was making headway with a slender bird sequined in turquoise.
“You have?” She squeezed my arm, glancing, weighing opportunities. Somebody caught her rapid scan, waved. She hallooed, trilled fingers.
“Is there nowhere we could go for the last round and… ?”
“Yes?” Her tongue idled along her upper lip.
“And enjoy each other’s company?”
“God, no. I might be able to… No, that wouldn’t work. Bar-ney’d miss me, the bastard.”
An announcer called the restart. I kept hold of her, desperately needing camouflage. She interpreted my fright as passionate desire, which it was.
“There’s a corridor round the gallery,” she said quickly, as we all began to move and talk rose excitedly. Some silly old sod told me this was the most exciting time he’d ever experienced. I could have hit him.
“Where, for Christ’s sake?” I could have clouted her too.
A smile flitted across her mouth. “You’re a tiger, hon. Door to the right. We could hear the calls from out there, while…”
“See you there. Hurry, darling.”
The goon standing at the gallery entrance had seen me talking with the woman. I winked. He raised his eyebrows, knowing the score. I walked through the corridor door, leaving the gallery entrance.
The corridor was empty. Wide, dark maroon velvet walls, gilded statues with lamps simulating old torches in frosted glass. Pathetic. Twice the price of genuine antique lanterns. Designers are unbelievable. I walked slowly down the corridor, counting steps, hearing the faint hubbub inside. The corridor curved round the gallery. Windows, closed against the thick night’s slushy aromatic air, were serried round the curved walls. Ornate, with alcoves every ten yards, plush double seats trying to look Regency.
Except there was a goon, standing against an inner wall. And another beyond him. They’d thought of everything, our Malibu hosts. I walked, nodding as I passed the first. The second was twenty yards further on.
Hurry Elise, you lazy cow. Where the hell was she?
