Pretty soon she sat up, too, and I saw she was laughing. "Oh," she gasped, "Oh." Her body shook.
No one had come in to check on us during this chaos.
"You are the stupidest bitch in the world," said Coco Nash. "I mean to say, you are not bright."
"That may be," I acknowledged, not for the first time in my life. We looked at each other. "Something has changed here, hasn't it?"
She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. Something certainly had changed: All the hard, sly anger in them was gone. I realized she'd been afraid of me. And now she wasn't.
Speaking for myself, I was shook up. I took a few deep breaths and rubbed my forearms, which were bruising already. A pack of cigarettes lay on a small table. They were Shermans, an expensive kind. I reached for them, found them temptingly fresh, and lit one with a butane table lighter fashioned in the shape of a penguin. Its mouth, or beak, flipped open to shoot the flame out.
"Butt me," said the number-two lady golfer in the world.
"You smoke?"
"Kick me one, you jackass."
"If you're going to call me that, you'd better prove it."
"Gladly." Coco Nash smiled at me as if I'd dropped a bouquet of gardenias into her lap.
Chapter 15
She made herself comfortable against a gold brocade couch, while I scooted to lean against a matching armchair. I practically wriggled with the pleasure of the relief I was feeling. She exhaled a stream of rich smoke and said, "Okay. Part of what you said is partly true. Obsessed with Genie Maychild? Not me. Not anymore. But I was."
"I knew it!"
"Where is my box of gold fucking stars? Shut up. Yes. I thought she was God. She was God to me. When I was a kid, I collected all that shit about her."
"It goes up to pretty recently."
"Shut up. I tried to be her. I memorized her every statistic, I watched every minute of her on television I could. When I met her, I was nineteen and playing in my first Open. When she shook my hand I almost fainted. I won the Amateur that year."
"Like Tiger was with Jack."
"H'h," she spat, "that son of privilege. Do not compare me to him. Big daddy was there for him every step of the way—that boy had everything handed to him, even his dick when he needed to piss."
"Except the wins."
"H'h."
"You came up the hard way, I know it." To impress her I sent forth a series of small, very thick smoke rings. She watched carefully.
"Those are good," she said, then hollered, "CARLENE!"
My ears were still ringing as the wedge-faced Norwegian came in.
Coco said, "Ashtray."
Carlene opened a cabinet, took out a silver saucer, placed it on the coffee table between us, and left again.
"But you do not know about the way I came up," Coco said. "My mama killed herself when I was ten. She drank Drano one day until her windpipe was gone and she could scream no more. I consider that the beginning of my blessed life. My granddaddy, he raised me up. He was a Gabriel in toe joints all around the South Coast."
"I'm sorry about your mother. The Gulf Coast?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever pick up the horn yourself?"
"I did not. I see now that you are hep."
"No, but I'm not so off the cob as you thought. I grew up in a gin mill in Motown."
She laughed, a delighted squeal that was startlingly high pitched. "Off the cob! I have not heard that one in years!"
"How come you talk jazz cat from forever ago?"
Again she laughed.
I said, "How come you like to intimidate people? Part of your image?"
"Damn straight. You can believe it or not, but I grew up whacking rocks in a pasture with a stick."
"Sure I believe it. There are plenty of things a little black girl can do."
"I made my own way, just like Genie Maychild made her way. See? She was it. All the way up to last night, she was it for me. I dragged all that shit around to every tournament with me. I collected that shit for years."
"Did you also collect the articles where you insulted her?"
"I insulted her?"
"Well, she says you did, in interviews all over the place. That she was old and couldn't win anymore, and you were going to show the world who's boss."
"Oh."
"Something like that."
Coco's mouth curved into a half smile. "She is speaking of the Sports Illustrated profile on me in which I said—and I am quoting myself verbatim—quote, Older players have experience on their side, but younger ones like myself have a passion for winning. We got the brio. That is an advantage, no matter what anybody else says. I intend to win often. I will be swinging those trophies around my head while everybody else is checking their tickets home. Unquote."
"Oh."
"I did not even mention Genie Maychild."
"Oh."
"She took it a little personal, did she not?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Look, I would not diss somebody like Genie Maychild. I would not diss anybody. People look for diss in what I say and do, and they find it. But not because it is there, dig?"
I certainly did.
"She was my ideal."
"Her caddie's not bad, either."
"Yes, Peaches Oshinsky."
"She told me she's never lost a stroke, never taken a penalty, due to a mistake made by Peaches."
"I'd love to take him away from her," she said.
"All right, Coco. Why burn all that shit?"
"Because it was time, man! Because it stopped working. It started to work against me, even. Because I cannot shoot for something I have already surpassed. I have been playing on the level of the heppest bitch in the game! I had to cut her out of me. Had to cut her out of my mind. I said, 'Cornelia Nash, you got to find a new way.'"
"Well, there are other role models for you out there. Not necessarily golfers."
She looked at me searchingly. I could see her wondering whom I might suggest, but she wasn't going to ask. All she said was, "Right you are. I put that shit out for trash, but I kept seeing it going to Alcatraz, or whatever dump they use, and all of it lying there in the dump getting covered deeper and deeper, and I could see it there in the dark just like it was still in my hands. So I decided to burn it, right that night and—" She broke off and glared at me. "Where did you come from, bitch? Where did you come from?"
"I'll tell you after you tell me about the noose in the picture."
"Lord. Lord. I was studying her swing all the way through last week. It is not a noose. I drew a cord, a wire if you will, around her neck connecting it to the tree to inform myself how steady she keeps her head through the swing, like as if it is wired in place."
"And—"
"I put the arrows in to show myself how her swing originates there, at the knees. At the feet, really, but you can see her activate her knees before any other part of her, if you look just right."
"Oh."
"Do you know I wanted to fuck her? I wanted to fuck her until she cried and said Cornelia Nash, you are the greatest in the world, you are greater than I myself. I wanted that, oh, man."
"Did you get it?"
"No. Did you?"
"Of course I got it," I told her. "That bank opened up wide for me. D'you think I'd go to all the trouble of crossing you if I hadn't got it?"
"What's she like?"
"Like going over Niagara Falls in a Dixie cup."
"She strong?"
"Very."
"Stronger than me?"
I paused. "Yes."
"You are lying."
"Well, all I know is you're a good thug, but I have no idea if you're a good lay."
There was a silence.
I asked, "Well, if you no longer want to go to bed with her, what were you doing sneaking around her place?"
She stared at me, her mind working. "You mean—"
I stared back.
"That was you?" she said, touching her chin. "Who cha
sed me through the sprinklers?"
"Yes it was me! Christ almighty!"
"That was her place?"
"Yes!"
"For this week? Right there on sixteen?"
"Yes!"
"Lord."
I waited.
In a heavy tone that said she wouldn't blame me if I didn't believe her, she said, "I was checking on something on the course."
"Well, what?"
"I wanted to know where the nearest sprinkler head is to where I intend to land my drives on that hole this week."
"How come?"
"Because the ground is always a little bit softer near a sprinkler head, here in the desert. You get a little bit different bounce."
"Wow."
"So."
"Why sneak at night, though?"
"The notion had just occurred to me, and I wanted to go see right then to fix it in my mind. I have not played this course so many times."
"Well, why did you run, then?"
What a smile she gave me. Oh, my. It was a smile of superiority mixed with thirst for my approval. Her teeth were big and beautiful. "For the hell of it. You startled the living Jesus out of me, first. Then I wanted to see if I could get away for the hell of it. And I did."
"Not without shedding some blood."
"You run like a jackrabbit. I almost died beating you."
For an instant I wished I had a wall of fire to walk through for Coco Nash. I breathed a long, happy sigh. "Now all that's left are the odds and ends," I said, "which I can guess about. But tell me, if you would, why did you climb through that window in Hollywood? And what about that note on the car? And the phone calls?"
She looked at me for a minute. "Do not cast a kitten," said Cornelia Nash, "but what window in Hollywood, what note, what phone calls?"
Chapter 16
It was some time before I left the house in Indian Wells.
I slipped into bed beside Genie. She didn't wake up. For a long while I watched her face in the dimness, her composed fourteenth-century face, there so close to mine on the pillow.
.
The next day, Thursday, was go-time for the Dinah. The course looked as though God had pulled an all-nighter on it: spectacular—not a petal or a stalk was out of place. But beauty can be treacherous, as we know. From every player the course would demand the accuracy of William Tell, the courage of Saint Catherine, the patience of Siddhartha, and the stamina of Ma Joad.
The jets were still coming in, disgorging the last big wave of spectators; the hotels were straining their corsets, and rental cars were careening all over the place.
Genie had time to breakfast with me. She'd lined up a courtesy car for herself for the duration of the tournament, meaning that a volunteer would drive her to and from the course; she didn't want the distraction of driving herself even the short distance around the course to the clubhouse, and she didn't want me chauffeuring either.
"You use the Jag," she said. We were having toast and my special veggie eggs with the secret ingredient of tiny bits of chopped pickle. She chewed and swallowed. I loved the shape of her mouth: a perfect bow with those curled corners. "These eggs are good," she said. "It's all business for me from here on in."
"I know." I watched her getting herself into a zone, her zone, a bubble of concentration she would strive to stay in for the next four days. There was a look taking hold in her eyes, a look of intensity, a look of gathering strength.
The phone rang, as I hoped it would, and I jumped for it as Genie said, "No!"
"Hello."
A liquid-sounding male voice said, "He'd be almost fourteen now."
"Who are you calling for?"
I heard the sound of a mouth opening, or shifting, in surprise. A quick silence, then a click.
"Ah," I said into the receiver, "there's no Alejandro here. I think you misdialed. Unh-unh. Bye."
"Who was that?"
"Wrong number, sweetheart."
There was a long pause before she said, "Oh."
"Would you like more coffee?"
"Oh, no, just the two cups. Thank you so much, Lillian. Darling. How did it go last night?"
I squinted out the window at the postcard colors of the golf course, carved out by the desert light that exposes everything. I said, "I'm not going to burden you with a lot of trivia. All I'll say is, Coco has no clue I'm keeping an eye on her."
She looked at me.
"I've do have some covert operations experience," I told her. I didn't tell her how half-assed my experience was, but of course it didn't matter. "And I know how to take care of myself," I added. If I kept saying that, somehow I felt it would be true.
Genie said, "Well, I'm not going to think about it anymore."
"You don't have to think about it. There's your car. Let me kiss you. That one's for good luck. And that one's for good measure."
"Oh, I do love you."
"And I love you."
.
As I slid into the Jaguar, a little bolt of Hey! shot into my head, and I scrounged around the driver's seat. After a few minutes I came up with a crumpled piece of paper. It was a receipt from Randy's Donuts, that place on the surface road by the L.A. airport with the giant doughnut. I kept digging and found the scrap I was looking for. Uncrumpling it, I read: "You can afford it." It was written in blue pen in very even characters—very even and small. A careful, perhaps obsessive person. A neat person. I put the note, the one Genie had found on the windshield after the party in Bel Air, in my pocket.
I rendezvoused with Truby at the practice range. Genie had teed off nicely and was gone, with Dewey O'Connor following her group.
Truby sneaked up behind me while I was observing a rookie I'd never seen before work magic with wedge shots, and goosed me. My heart rammed into my throat, then I heard her laugh.
Turning, I said, "God-damn, Starmate. You shouldn't do that. Sober up now."
We found a patch of grass in some shade.
"Man," she said, chicken-winging her arms, "it's hot enough to melt the tits off a brass monkey." She looked good, as always. Cute outfit, just right: tailored shorts, sleeveless blue chambray blouse, bright white sneakers. Chunky silver bracelet, smooth black shades.
"Did you highlight your hair?" I asked.
"Uh-huh. What do you think?"
"It looks really good."
"Thanks, I thought it'd make me look more outdoorsy."
"It does, it does."
She still hadn't scored yet, I could tell. But she looked upbeat in an unforced way. I didn't doubt she'd succeed. She was waiting.
"All right," I said, "the plot thickens. Somebody's giving Genie a hard time, and it's not who I thought it was. She knows who it is, but she won't tell me. She thinks I think it's a rival golfer."
"What's the matter with her?"
"I guess she just doesn't want me to know, doesn't trust me enough. It's something she really wants to keep quiet." I felt a kink in my back and stretched it. "My philosophy this week is, whatever Genie Maychild wants, Genie Maychild gets. She wants me to think the enemy is this golfer—fine, that's what I act like. She also wants the problem to go away, that's very clear. Well, I'm going to make that happen for her. I got a little bit of information this morning, sort of a—an opening. It's given me an idea."
"What are you really up to here, Lillian?"
"It's just ridiculous, hon. Really. I mean, if I told you I was going to spend this afternoon looking at somebody's charred old scrapbooks that I pulled out of a fire in the middle of the desert the other night, then fly to Chicago tonight to tie up a loose end of Genie's life for her, thus preventing an ugly situation from unfolding, would you—"
"You're really going to fly to Chicago tonight?"
"I might."
"When would you come back?"
"I don't know. Maybe one day'll be enough. I don't know. Hon, I really don't know. I don't even have my own thoughts sorted out yet. I could be totally wrong. All I can say is, Genie is a good woman who needs
help, and I love her. That's it."
An oven-like breeze stirred the trees. I watched a plastic drink cup roll in a wide arc on the paved path near where we sat.
Truby said, "Let me come with you."
"No, you've got your own show to run here. Besides, the stuff I'll be doing isn't dangerous, let me assure you. It's scut work, you know? Like most investigative work is."
She looked at me steadily. I shifted on the grass.
I said, "Come on, Truby, you know me."
"Yeah."
Now we both watched the cup as it skittered back and forth, making an annoying sound. I got up and picked it up and put it in a trash basket. The trash baskets were decorated with Nabisco's logo, a modified woman symbol—ever notice that?
"You might as well tell me how you've been doing," I said, "I'm dying to know."
Running her fingers through her goldeny hair she said, "Well, I've been learning about this femme-butch thing."
"Ah."
"I've been to two parties now. There's as much posing at those as there is at straight-people parties. More!"
"This surprises you?"
"It disappoints me."
"I see."
"Okay, so I know that you don't have to be either a butch or a femme, you know, but my question is this: Can two femmes make it together?"
"Certainly. Certainly they can. But you look confused."
"I thought I knew what a butch was and what a femme was, but I guess the real question is what the hell—I mean, everybody seems to know what butchy qualities are and what femmy qualities are. Everybody but me."
"Oh, no. Dear God, no. The opinions are endless, the arguments are endless, the permutations are endless. That I cannot sort out for you, because it's un-sort-out-able. Maybe you haven't heard the old, 'Butch in the streets, femme in the sheets.' Even within the same person things aren't what they seem."
A dyke couple walked by looking as if they were on vacation from their jobs as bookkeepers in Grand Rapids, wearing identical new Tilley hats, along with their Nabisco Championship logo golf shirts. Truby dismissed them with a pitying tsch.
Damn Straight Page 10