green. He looked at her in her gown. Then back to the mussed bed with the edges of newspaper peering out from underneath. “Good gracious,” he said. “I figured you would be ready by now.”
“Did we set a time?”
“About ten years ago.”
She laughed. “We manage everything, don’t we?”
“To the last detail.”
Max walked into the room, slipping between her and the door. He sat down at the blond desk placed directly across from the matching headboard, the dented pillows reflecting in its mirror.
She closed the door, stood still for a moment, and then sat down at the edge of the bed. She ran her hands over her cheeks, feeling the tenderness of her skin. “We are not going to the King George, are we?”
“There is a driver downstairs waiting to take us to a restaurant downtown that the concierge recommended.”
“I need quiet.”
“Supposedly it is.”
“That is my one request.”
“Only one?”
“And no Abbot Kinney.”
“You think that I would do that to either of us?” He looked at her in the mirror with a slight smile. “Besides, that is two requests, and we need to go. The car is waiting.”
“If you want me to change clothes, then stop looking at me. You think this is the Moulin Rouge? No free show here, Molly.”
“Frankly, I would rather have pitchforks in my eye than be caught unawares by a female breast.”
“Then look the other way, or go ask your friend Abbot Kinney for a pitchfork.”
“I would certainly take a pitchfork in the eyes before having to set sight on that pretense.”
She rose from the bed and stepped behind Max, looking away from her reflection in the mirror. She placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed tenderly. “I love my Molly. I truly do. But I need you to help me through how I see Marguerite.”
“We will get through this,” he said. “We get through it all.”
She squeezed his shoulders again. “You know that I love you, don’t you?”
He reached back and took her hands. His grip was confident. His hands warm and manicured. “You know Marguerite better than you know yourself.” He laughed. “Again, you find yourself distracted by loudmouth fanatics that are angry at their God for putting them in a world they detest. The only way they can maintain their faith is to find someone else to blame. There is no justice here. Only ignorance. And we are professionals at dealing with ignorance, we have managed it with every American tour…And, yes, I do know how much you love me. I tell myself every day.”
She didn’t move her hands. She wished he could hold them forever. She swallowed and fought back a tear. Her eyes could have exploded. “All right then,” she said, wanting to tell him that yes they may have been through this time after time on their American tours, but now she was wearied by it, and it suddenly felt like anything but routine, and even at that this chaos had nothing to do with not being able to see Marguerite anymore. She loosened her grip and gave Max a pat on the shoulders that seemed suddenly chummy. “You sit tight, dear. I’ll change in the bathroom. Don’t want pitchforks in your eyes.”
“You don’t have to—”
“The beige blouse, or the puritanical white?” She pointed to the open closet.
“Sarah, I can wait outside.”
“Beige or white?”
“White. But don’t wear puritanical white. Wear angelic white.”
“Better for the Catholics, I suppose.”
“They’ll see your shoulder blades as wings.”
“And you’ll be my guardian angel.”
“Can an angel have a penis?”
“If they can have wings, I don’t see why not.”
“Well.” Max smiled. “We’ll just have to ask Bishop What’s-His-Name when we see him. Penises and wings… What’s the answer, Mr. Bishop?…Penises and wings. Penises and wings. How Greek of us.”
“My Molly.” Sarah walked into the bathroom despite Max’s final protests. The lavatory had a sterile sheen. The floor laid out in glossy black and white tiles positioned as connecting diamonds. The freestanding porcelain sink blended into the floor, and behind a milky bath curtain the tile pattern repeated itself in an ivy climb up the wall before stopping abruptly at the plaster. She draped her clothes over the curtain rod and sat down on the toilet. The seat, crisp from the partially open window, almost stung her bare bottom. The trickling of pee into the water was almost silent. And through the window shone only a slip of natural light, the rest clouded and blurred through the leafy pattern of the beveled glass. Almost as artificial and contrived as sunrise appearing through the glass panes on the set of Marguerite’s traveling 9, rue d’Antin flat. Swear to god, if it weren’t for the crack of natural light Sarah wouldn’t know the difference between the stage and reality.
AL LEVY’S ON THIRD AND MAIN was a trendy type of restaurant that had made oyster cocktails highbrow, just the type where a concierge would undoubtedly send a guest. It reeked of kickbacks and questionable funding, but where an assumed pact was made with the patrons to become coconspirators in the illusion of East Coast sophistication. The lighting was sparkly silver, set by a row of Italian imported chandeliers that hung in two straight lines along the almost impossible length of the vaulted ceilings. Each tinsel of glass was no doubt cleaned daily by an underpaid Mexican duped into believing that he had been immaculately chosen to apprentice for a dignified trade critical to keeping the American dream moving—making sure the diamonds sparkled. A grand elegant staircase rose from the center of the dining floor, with mahogany steps at least eight feet in length, made royal by a red woolen runner that draped the middle, balanced by a matching banister with carved lions’ heads at both top and bottom. The ascent up the stairs led to the balcony, and in the balcony was the bar, where a pianist in tails intermingled Mozart and Joplin.
Vince Baker sat at the end of the bar. Gone upscale for an evening. Maybe half a chance at meeting a sophisticated puss who would be seduced by his combination of rough edges and power. No promises. No odds. No hard feelings if he walked away alone. As with most nights he was content with avoiding his lonely box of an apartment, which, despite being new and in a more desirable location, felt just as empty and terrifying as every other place where he had lived. The only times he ever felt a connection to the outside world from his quarters were the occasions when the woman four times his age in the apartment across the street would stare vacantly out the window behind a single candle, a sad expression, wearing only a gigantic bra that looked more akin to a Visigoth’s armor. He held his place quietly at the end of the bar, wearing a rumpled dress coat pulled from a pile in his closet (his most suitable attire), looking out over the dining room at the patrons in their quest for Los Angeles culture. He’d give it twenty minutes or three more drinks, whichever came first, and then it was the next cab down to Willie’s for a nightcap and a shot at the last-chance dolls.
He hadn’t caught any rest at all today. Hadn’t done much of anything other than contribute to a follow-up on some City Hall scandal by getting a quote from a chirpy clerk hoping to make his mark through squawking. Baker probably wouldn’t even get a credit on the byline for that, but who really cared. He had spent the better part of the day trying to sniff out something good, a hot tip on some action that was going down, anything that he could take back to Scott to get him off the Bernhardt story.
By his third rusty nail he was beginning to consider the idea of just quitting. He lit up another cigarette, feeling the breeze of cool smoke calm his chest.
By the fourth rusty nail he kept a hawkish vigilance over the room.
He moved seats until he was tucked into the corner, camouflaged by a potted palm tree and the jacked-up hood of the grand piano. His own voyeur’s nest, where he could watch up close without being seen, not as a reporter, but as a person fascinated by the quirks of his own species. Still he took care to keep himself hidden. This was the kind of place where the power brokers that he covered would seek refuge. They loved joints like this; made them feel like the wild Spanish-American west had been made submissive through opulent grace. Baker scooted his stool deeper into the corner. He didn’t want any of these somebodys to look up from their sparkling tables, champagne toasts in hand, and see him looking down on them, mistaking him for one of those F. T. Seabright types,
