Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Ned burst into hollow laughter. "She'll get you back.

  Numie stepped aside. He was playing a role today, and was determined it would not affect him deeply. "If Lola's through with you, what are you hanging around for?"

  Ned waved his hand, but noticing it was empty, wrapped it around his drink again. "She ain't through with me. Dinah neither. That broad wants me around so she can boss me. Let's face it. Half the fun of being rich is to make those around you eat ass."

  "Not for me it isn't." He nervously paced the bar.

  "Man, you ain't rich—and you ain't never gonna be rich neither," Ned said.

  Numie smiled to himself. All his life he'd dreamed of the rich lady waiting to take him away. But even in his worse nightmares, the lady had not been Lola or anything like her.

  "Jive-ass motherfucker," Ned said, spinning around. "You're just another nigger like me, hanging out with some pussy trying to get a lick."

  Numie couldn't take Ned or any more of this talk. "Does she want me to drive her or not?" he asked abruptly.

  Ned ambled over and put a quarter in the jukebox. A full glass in the other hand, he pounded the jukebox drunkenly in rhythm to the rock music. "She's waiting for you upstairs. That queen is after her some manhood. She's gonna buy yours, watch and see!"

  In Lola's boudoir, Dinah was clicking her heels to earsplitting pop music. She was wearing nothing but a sunflower yellow T-shirt cut into a form-fitting halter top. "Don't stand there with your jaw hanging," she said. "Come on in or you'll let in the flies."

  In a gossamer-thin white morning coat, Lola was in her dressing room foyer. Turning around, she spotted Numie. Quickly she dropped her nail file. Putting her hand to her forehead, she started to mourn, then darted over to the stereo and turned it off. "Ain't you got no respect for the dead?" she demanded of Dinah. Throwing her hands to her face again, she sobbed loudly and rushed over to Numie to embrace him.

  He remained cold and distant.

  She stepped back, her anger apparent. Still, she tried not to show it. "Just imagine," she said, "my dear sweet daddy taken away from me so soon after we was married."

  "But you had so many good years together," Numie said sarcastically.

  Lola glared at him.

  He glanced at his watch. "Want me to drive you somewhere?"

  "Yes," Lola answered, rather grandly. "You know Dinah, of course. She's my new secretary."

  "I didn't know you could type," Numie said.

  "Can't," Dinah answered.

  "Look, gal," Lola said, "you do not receive my business visitors with no pants on." She looked nervously at Numie, trying to detect some attraction on his part for Dinah. She could see none. "That black furry thing," she went on, "is sickening enough without your flaunting it in our faces."

  "'Cuse me," Dinah said, retreating to the bathroom.

  Numie backed away from Lola, staying as close to the door as possible. Lola had the crazed glow of a woman out for a taste of blood.

  Propping her hands on her hips, she said, "I want to survey the mutual properties I own with De la Mer. Is my business manager ready?"

  He shook his head and tried to speak in an unemotional voice. "I didn't know you had a business manager?"

  She strutted around the boudoir, swinging her ass hopefully. "Ned is my new business manager." She kept glancing back at Numie. The way she figured it, he was doing a real good job of concealing his jealousy. "The same job for me that Ralph has for that De la Mer dyke."

  The sunlight coming in through the gauze curtains made the white room yellow. Numie's hand was shaking. "And Dinah is your version of Anne?" he asked.

  "Exactly," Lola answered.

  "Cept I can't type," Dinah called, peering around the comer and shaking a pair of nylon panties at Lola.

  "Social secretaries don't have to type," Lola said, emotionally exhausted. That child had a way of tiring her something awful. "Dinah had to look all over town for me to get a suitable black dress to wear during this time of grief." The line sounded phony, and she knew it. She studied her reflection in her dressing mirror, hoping that would give her more confidence. "I've never worn black, but I think it proper today. Dinah found a Cuban girl my size, and we bought the dress right off her back." She went over to the bed and picked it up. "No style!" she exclaimed with loathing in her voice. "Cubans got no taste at all, but I'll have to wear it temporarily." She ran her hand down her trim figure. "I'm having something made up real special for tonight."

  Numie yawned. He was bored, and he clearly wanted to get on with the business of the day. "Where are we going first?"

  Lola's eyes flared. She wasn't used to tricks yawning in her face. "To get an outfit for Ned," she said sharply. "He don't have no suitable clothes to be seen around town with me." She whipped around, waving her arms in a theatrical gesture and tossing her ass once more at Numie. "Jesus Christ, I'll go broke dressing you men."

  In his pink suit and "Sky" hat, Ned was six-foot-two of new man. He was ready and raring to go.

  "Don't you think it's a little flashy?" David asked, in his high-pitched voice.

  "Man, if you've got something to flash, then flash it," Ned countered.

  In the same boutique where Lola had outfitted him, Numie was pacing the upper reaches, casually examining a pair of badly made slacks.

  "Your mama has to show these dudes how to dress," Lola said. She was not completely pleased with her makeup. Sweat in summer caused embarrassing streaks.

  "You sure know how to pick them," David said, eying Ned carefully.

  "One more thing," Ned added, folding up his old trousers, "this pink suit's the only thing in this joint that sings. Everything else is more for old fags. Next time I come in, I want to see some good stuff."

  Lola looked hopefully up front at Numie, but he was paying her no attention. "Ever seen a rainbow?" she asked David.

  "What do you mean?" he replied.

  Lola did a rolling bump. "Get some color in here," she ordered.

  "Some red on red, some black on white ... and plum," Ned said. "I get off on plum."

  "But I've done very well with this merchandise," David protested. "The pink suit I actually got in a shipment by mistake."

  "Mistake?" Ned was furious. "You saying I ain't got taste, mister?"

  No, I didn't mean it that way," David said, backing off.

  It probably was a mistake," Lola said, swishing gaily around the room. "That's why it's the best suit in the shop—'cause you didn't order it!"

  "But I've never received any complaints before," David said.

  "If you don't want some coins from our little pot of gold, that's okay with me, man," Ned said. He pinched Lola's ass. "Come on."

  Hands on her hips, Lola said, "You forget I own this shop." Turning her back on David, she reached to fondle Ned's hair. "Your lease has run out." Her over-the-shoulder voice was matter-of-fact.

  "Anything you say," David said nervously. "I'd hate to lose my shop. I think I know what you have in mind." He eyed his merchandise. "My clothes have been looking pretty dull lately. I could spice them up a bit."

  With exhaled breath, she commanded, "Charge Ned's suit."

  "You mean .. ." David asked hesitantly, "on the commodore's account? But he's dead."

  She giggled, then suppressed it. "I just happen to know where my commodore is," she said. "No, I mean on my account!" With that announcement she was half out the entrance and into the street. She waited impatiently for Numie to open the door to the back compartment of Leonora's Lincoln.

  Numie was trying to pretend today wasn't happening. It was very hot, and the air was heavy. He longed for a little wind to blow away the rotten smell of this whole place.

  Ned trailed Lola inside the car. "This leopard skin upholstery's too much," he said, fondling it like he did the breast of a woman. "Bet that was some cat. Love to have me a jacket of that cat's hide."

  Lola patted him on the knee. "You will," she said.

  "You are, in fact, Haskel
l Hadley Yett?" an attorney was asking. "Not Lola La Mour."

  Lola crossed her legs and checked her hosiery for a snag. "One and the same," she answered, holding her head high. "Lola La Mour is my professional name."

  "And what kind of profession is that?" the attorney asked, settling back in a leather chair and lighting a cigarette. "That requires you to dress, act, and talk like a woman?"

  Lola licked her lips, knowing that made her sexier. "I'm a cabaret entertainer," she said, adjusting her black dress. "My fans expect it of me."

  The attorney fingered his mustache and moved uncomfortably in his seat. His white shirt was soaked. "Who are these gentlemen with you?" he inquired.

  Lola started to answer, but Ned interrupted. "I'm her business manager here to protect her interests."

  As if threatened, the attorney sat up rigidly. "Her interests are well taken care of, I can assure you."

  "I'm the driver," Numie interjected, hoping to stay out of this whole affair. In the far comer of the room, he had refused even a seat. Cast in the servant role, he was determined to play it through. Aimlessly his eyes wandered, taking in the termite-eaten Cuban wicker furniture, the thirsty plants, and the bamboo ceiling. His head was dark today, and sounds had a hard time reaching him. It was some kind of hell he was hearing, but he was a long way from it.

  "As you know," the attorney said, turning to Ned, "Mr. Yett was Commodore Philip's sole heir."

  "Heiress," Lola corrected. She smiled demurely. "I'm known by my professional name." Trying to appear casual like watching a fly, she glanced at Numie in the back of the room. That white boy infuriated the hell out of her. He didn't seem to be impressed that she was an heiress. And that had been the one thing she knew would impress him. It didn't make sense, unless Numie was playing a game. Holding out for higher stakes.

  "I'm sorry, Miss La Mour," the attorney said, trying to catch her eye. "Whichever term you prefer is acceptable to me." He settled back again. "The commodore has a close relative."

  The word sent a shiver racing up Lola's spine.

  "I think one sister is still living in New Orleans," the attorney continued.

  Memories of the banquet and the call from Sister Amelia flashed through Lola's head.

  "She's not mentioned in the will," the attorney said. "I had warned Phil to at least mention her. Now I must warn you: I expect his sister will contest the will."

  In spite of running eye shadow, Lola tried to appear as confident as possible. "I'm not worried," she said.

  She flung herself back in her peacock chair like a limp dishrag. No need to appear tense. The bars on the windows caught her eye. The office was like a goddamn jail, and she was not going to be the prisoner of white men for much longer. Sitting up rigidly, she was ready for business. "Exactly what does the commodore's estate consist of?" Her words hung heavy in the air. From the open but barred window an aroma of honeysuckle wafted across, only to be smothered by the attorney's cigarette smoke. "He never talked to me too much about his property on the mainland."

  "It's quite large," the attorney said. "You're going to be a very wealthy ... person."

  A tingle began in Lola's chartreuse-painted toe, traversing her hosiery-encased legs, settling for a brief moment in her little honeypot, then traveling up her breasts, lodging finally at her temples, streaked with pancake makeup. "I know he had boats," she replied, again trying to sound as casual as possible. "He used to bring his yacht down from time to time."

  "Yes, I know that," the attorney said. "He owns four, including the yacht. I wouldn't exactly call them boats. They're more like ships."

  Her temples practically exploded. Then the tingle began its downward descent, this time anchoring permanently at the honeypot.

  "You know, of course, he wasn't a real commodore," the attorney said.

  Lola practically laughed at his face. She wanted to say, "You know, motherfucker, I'm a strange lady, but I can out-pussy any pussy!" But she refrained from uttering such crudeness, mentally reminding herself she must avoid such bad taste. It didn't become her new position in life.

  "Look, man, Ned was saying, "with that many boats, you're the commodore of your own fleet."

  "Yes," the attorney said stiffly. "He owned quite a bit of property in Tortuga. The bar he owned outright. Nearly everything else is in partnership with Leonora de la Mer, including her fashion house."

  That tingling sensation in her honeypot was getting completely out of control. It was rape. She loved his last words so much she wished she'd had a tape recorder so she could hear the words over and over, memorizing every sound and imbedding it deep in her brain. Visions of herself as a fashion designer, bigger and more successful than De la Mer ever was, danced through her head. But back to business. "What about Sacre-Coeur?" she asked pointedly, knowing her luck couldn't hold out forever.

  "No," the attorney said, "that's completely owned by De la Mer. Inherited it from her husband."

  "And the Facel-Vega," Lola said impatiently. "Don't forget that and the Rolls-Royce." Her breath was coming in gasps.

  "Lola, you can do better than that old broken down Rolls," Ned said.

  Her eyes spat fire at him. "We'll discuss it later if you don't mind," she said in her best ladylike voice. The more her eyeballs took in Ned, the more convinced she was he was a field nigger.

  "Now," the attorney went on, but in a hesitant voice, "there is the question of the body."

  Utter silence fell across the room.

  Lola was remembering her wedding and wishing she'd saved some of the flowers. Had she known the wedding and the commodore's death would be taking place so close together she would have. It would cut down tremendously on the florist's bill. But she never gave flowers to the commodore alive. He never liked anything he couldn't eat or polish.

  "The body's not buried yet," the attorney said when he was getting no response from Lola.

  "I'm no gravedigger,· she said indignantly.

  "No one is expecting you to dig the grave,· the attorney snapped. "But you've got to make arrangements, or else give me instructions so I can."

  Lola shifted her legs again, swinging her arms. Was he trying to suck her into a trap? "I'm not into fancy coffins,· she said firmly. "Something simple. Maybe just a pine box."

  The attorney cast a disdainful eye, then said, "You mean a pauper's coffin?"

  "Call it what you like,· Lola answered, angered now, as she never wanted to associate herself with poverty ever. "My departed commodore told me he didn't like spending money on funerals or undertakers." She remembered his telling her that one time, and here was one request she could live with.

  "We don't call them undertakers any more," the attorney said. "If you insist on an inexpensive coffin, the commodore's friends at the yacht club on the mainland will be horrified. I feel I should warn you."

  "Why do those cats have to know?" Ned asked.

  "They'll find out at the funeral, ., the attorney replied.

  "What funeral?" Lola asked. She feared she was losing control of the conversation—and, after all, she was the heiress.

  "I don't see no need for a funeral.· Her voice was cold. Then she softened her tone, and started to put her hand to her temples until she realized it would streak her makeup all the more. "My commodore's death has left my system in such a state of shock I couldn't bear to go through with no funeral. We'll just have to bury him—that's all. I have my memories. Thank the good Lord for that."

  "Miss La Mour," the attorney said, "if you don't mind my asking, exactly what was your relationship with the commodore?"

  The sun was hot and glaring, and its light seemed to be slashing right through those bars. Lola reached into her purse, putting on a pair of rhinestone sunglasses. "We lived together for years," she said.

  You mean you worked at his saloon?" the attorney corrected her.

  "Yes, I worked there," Lola said, "but I also lived with my commodore." Once again, she wet her lips for effect. "He was my husband."

&nb
sp; "Surely you're mistaken," the attorney said. "Although you're known professionally as Lola La Mour, you are a man." He crushed out his cigarette. "And men don't have husbands!"

  All this slander about her being a man burned the hell out of her. "Darling," she said in her most biting voice, "I had a husband. Of course, we weren't legally married until just the other day, but a boss player like you should have heard of common law marriages."

  "Please," the attorney said.

  "Why don't you please?" Ned interrupted. "The lady here said she was married to the commodore. After all, she should know."

  "You have a point there," the attorney said. "A most unusual case."

  Lola was all to pieces right now. Abruptly she stood up, seeing if the attorney would rise to acknowledge her action. He did. Lola's smile was confident as she said, "At the moment, I'm tremendously short of cold hard cash. I need a whole pot of gold until all this red tape is cleared up."

  Clearing his throat, the attorney said, "I think that could be arranged. I could advance you a suitable amount." He extended his hand. "Miss La Mour, you have my deepest sympathy at the loss of your dear ... " He hesitated, then said, " ... husband. He was my finest client, and I will personally feel his departure deeply."

  Lola extended her hand tentatively, wishing she'd worn gloves for the occasion. "Thank you."

  "Of course," the attorney continued, "I know the commodore's affairs intimately, and I hope you will see fit to retain my services."

  "Yes," Lola said, glancing absently at the slowly moving blades of the wood fan overhead. "But at a much higher rate."

  "Really?" the attorney said, finding it hard to suppress his enthusiasm. "I think the arrangements—the burial and all, the settling of the estate—can be taken care of speedily and efficiently." Walking around his desk, he took her by the arm and escorted her to the door. "I totally agree with you, by the way. Funerals are morbid events and shouldn't be dragged out."

  "Then we understand each other?" Lola asked, adopting a model's stance at the door that best showed off her girlish figure.