Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Painfully self-conscious, Numie said, "If he doesn't, I remember him."

  The sheriffignored the remark. "You didn't have much of a mourning period, " he said to Lola.

  Lola bit her lip. Was everybody in this rotten town expecting her to go around forever crying her eyes out?

  "Phil's body has hardly cooled," Yellowwood said. "And here you are—out with another man. He's certainly better looking, I must say. Real pretty white boy you've got for yourself."

  Numie wanted to punch the sheriff in the mouth. What a ballbreaker he was! "You should know," he said, "you've checked me out enough."

  Again, Yellowwood ignored him. "Look," he said, turning to Lola, "I ain't knocking your taking up with another guy so soon. I understand it. Life is for the living. No use moping around and crying your eyes out over something you can't do one goddamn thing about."

  She knew this was no sympathy call. The way white men beat around the bush infuriated the hell out of her. "What do you want?" she asked abruptly, dropping all the charade of ladylike manners.

  "May I speak frankly in front of your white lover boy here?" the sheriff asked.

  Numie was ready to walk out the door at this point. He'd had about all the humiliation in this town he could stand.

  "I have no secrets from him," Lola said, fearing Yellowwood was going to reveal something to make her sound sexually unattractive. "What is it?"

  The sheriff settled back on the sofa, fingering a cake of mud on his boot and letting it drop to the floor. "I want the same arrangement I had with the commodore. You know, sheriffs don't make much money, and I kinda got used to the good life."

  Numie looked long and searchingly at Lola. He wished he had had all this ammunition when he was the victim oflaw and order in this town.

  "These platform shoes are killing me," Lola said, resenting the sheriff's intrusion to the point of rage. She feared white men. They only gave you money for the sheer pleasure of taking it away. "As I said, I had every intention of ringing you up tomorrow, but seeing that you're here today we can get on with it. I told the commodore's attorney this morning he'd find me very generous." This time only one hand went to her hip. "I'm sure you will, too." She paused to enjoy her new power position. "For instance, I know you like to go on boating trips. Here I am with four of 'em. Now what is a girl going to do with four boats?" The tall mirror confirmed once more her lifelong belief that black was definitely not her color. "There will be other presents from time to time." She ran her hand ever so gently across her platinum blonde wig. "Presents just between friends."

  "I understand," Yellowwood said, a smile slowly crossing his face. "What do you want in return for such generosity?"

  "There will be requests on and off," she said, vaguely trying to think of one at the moment. Numie crossed her vision. "Like, if stud hustlers get out of hand." Her voice grew intimidating. "Little things like that." Her head was beginning to pound as if she had the most hideous hangover. "Big ones, too, if certain grand ladies living in certain grand mansions forget who they are and start thinking they're grander and more important than me."

  "I see," the sheriff said.

  She smiled, too, knowing that she'd served lunch, and Yellowwood was devouring every mouthful. "Then we understand each other?"

  "Perfectly," Yellowwood replied.

  "Drop in any time, Johnny," Lola said, now firmly convinced she was in the driver's seat. "Don't bother to knock. You might even catch Numie and me going at it ... like two animals in heat." She gave him a wicked grin. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  "I sure would," he said, getting up. "Thanks for the invite. I've got to be going now that we've had our little mutual understanding. But we'll keep in touch." Almost in a whisper, he hissed in her ear. "Real close, like kissing kin." He pecked her on the cheek.

  She instinctively backed away, the kiss lingering like a bee sting. A sudden silence fell over the room after the sheriff shut the door.

  Numie waited for a long moment. "I think the commodore is all but forgotten. Life sure does go on."

  "I'm not into this nostalgia shit!" Lola said. "I broke one of my fingernails hassling with that goddamn painter." Nervousness about the oncoming night flooded her. "As far as I'm concerned, I don't even remember the commodore. Fuck yesterday. I'm a today girl!"

  In Leonora's Lincoln, Numie was driving Ned and Lola to JOAN'S on the north shore. The time alone on the beach had restored his spirits enough for him to endure this evening.

  "This is the kind of night I should be cooling my honeypot in a tub of ice—not going out to some cathouse on a joy ride," Lola was saying. "That house of hookers really needs me to give it some class."

  "Right on!" Ned replied. "You're a million-dollar baby."

  Once at the house, Numie opened the rear compartment door for them, then trailed them.

  Two hookers were sitting at a wicker table, drinking beer. Overhead colored lights were flashing, and flies were buzzing about.

  At first the women thought Numie was a customer and started preening their feathers. Then they realized he was only an employee of Leonora's.

  It was about eight-thirty in the evening; and neither woman had changed into her working clothes yet. One, a Cuban of about thirty-five years, still had on an artist-type smock, covered with cigarette burns. It was the color of the American flag: red, white, and blue. Three plastic rollers crowned the top of her long and stringy blue-black hair. Her feet, encased in black suede high heels, rested on the porch railing.

  The other, a fat, bleached blonde of forty-five, was in a short mini-dress of purple crochet, badly tom in parts. Her large breasts showed through, and she was wearing a pair of black panties stretched around her enormous bottom. Gold mules gave off a metallic flash. Only her long centipedic eyelashes had been applied for the evening's work. Otherwise, her puffy face was without makeup.

  "I'll give you a discount," the blonde said to Numie. "Seeing you're part of the household."

  "No thanks," Numie said. "I'm on the job."

  "Too bad," the blonde said. "It'd be nice having someone young for a change."

  "That's what all the boys say when they have to go to bed with you," the Cuban said.

  The blonde slammed down her beer. "You stinking spik. I'll scratch the tatoos right off your titties."

  "You're just jealous," the Cuban went on. "I can't help it if the men keep requesting me. The young ones come here to get away from their mothers, the older ones from their wives. You remind them of the dumpy broads they've got back at home."

  "That's a lie!" the blonde said. "I'm very much wanted."

  "Only by those who call you 'Deep Throat'. As for me, I refuse to do it that way."

  "Oh, yeah," the blonde said. "By doing it the way some of 'em like it, I made two-hundred motherfucking dollars last week."

  "I made three-hundred and fifty."

  "I don't believe it," the blonde said.

  "Ask Joan."

  "You think you're so hot."

  "Look at these legs, the Cuban said. "Men go for that."

  "Frankly," the blonde said, "I think the more you cover up, the better you look. Men are more attracted to blondes than that mop of yours. If you washed out that tint, it'd be gray."

  "We could all be blondes," the Cuban said defensively, "if we knew Lady Bleach so well as you."

  Numie flipped his cigarette into a nearby bush and passed through the cranberry glass doors into the foyer.

  Joan was puffing furiously on a cigar. In navy slacks with a white shirt open at the throat, she stood rigidly, eying Ned and Lola skeptically. "I got a call from Leonora. Said I might be getting a little visit from you."

  "I'm the new madam," Lola announced, tossing her boa around her neck and prancing across the room in her finest whorish swagger.

  Joan gingerly fingered one of her hoop earrings. "Last time I called central casting, that was my role." She'd stopped smoking now, and was holding her cigar tentatively.

  "At th
e moment," Ned said, swaying on the balls of his red-shoed feet, "let's call it a peace-loving co-management. Sweet harmony."

  Lola surveyed the rickety old rundown toilet right off the hall. Stepping inside, she spotted cigarette butts dumped in the bowl. She flushed it, the sound hitting her ears like a dam broke loose. Back in the hallway, she asked, "How many hookers you got hanging out 'round here? I saw two pigs on the front porch, not even dressed for business." She dug a heel into the floor. "Get their asses off there. Gives this dump a bad name."

  Arching her back, Joan replied, "Five girls in all."

  Rock 'n roll music blasted down from upstairs. To judge from the shaking floor, someone was wiggling and twisting. "What are their nationalities?" she demanded of Joan.

  "Two came from Havana—a mother-daughter act," Joan said.

  "The other three?" Ned asked.

  "One's a local woman," Joan said. "Her husband, a shrimper, drowned at sea. The other two are Navy wives."

  Joan's brash tone offended Lola. "That's not what I meant, child," she said. "How many of my soul sisters work here?"

  "None," Joan answered.

  Lola was like a jack in the box who'd lost his springs. "There's gonna be some changes made around here," she said. "From now on, we're gonna be equal opportunity employers."

  "I have nothing against colored girls working here," Joan snapped.

  "Colored women fuck better than white women," Ned declared. "Honey, don't ask me how I know—'cause I ain't jiving you. This one black chick could take thirty a night and still call for more."

  Through the beaded curtains came a teenaged Cuban girl, in blue jeans and a skimpy halter. Totally wiped out, the girl turned and looked in Ned's direction. Seemingly thinking he was a trick, she crossed the parlor to him. Her pale, anemic body nestled up to his, and she smiled into his eyes.

  Fury raged through Lola. "You cheap spik hooker!" she yelled. "Lay one hand on my man, and I'll castrate your pussy. That humpy number belongs to me."

  "Now, Lola," Ned said, restraining her, "you're the boss lady. But I didn't know you owned my dick."

  Startled, the girl ran back, looking once at Joan before disappearing behind the curtains.

  "That was Maria," Joan said. "One of Leonora's favorites."

  Shivering flashes ran through Lola's body. She looked around the room, trying as hard as possible to appear bored. She didn't want Ned and especially Joan to know how young girls could upset her.

  "How old is Maria?" Ned demanded.

  "Just thirteen," Joan answered.

  Lola winced as if in pain. She was more than three times the age of Maria!

  "That's too young," Ned said. "You've got to get rid of her."

  "I told you," Joan said, "she's one of Leonora's favorites."

  "No matter," Ned said. "That girl has to go back to her parents, if she's got any. I didn't start selling it till I was sixteen. Thirteen's too young. Give her three more years."

  "If you want to discuss her employment," Joan said stiffly, "why don't you talk to her mother? She's one of those 'pigs' sitting out there on the front porch."

  Lola went over to Ned, taking his arm. "Don't say nothing too hasty, handsome," she said. "Some of those rednecks like 'em that young."

  "I know—but thirteen," Ned protested.

  Ned was really making her mad now, because she knew he wanted Maria for himself. "Shit, man, my daddy raped me when I was just twelve."

  "That's no reason to keep Maria on here," Ned said.

  Lola closed her eyes tightly, but there was no way for her to forget the look on Ned's face. Here was her man—right in front of Joan—with hot pants for a younger woman. This evening wasn't going at all the way she planned.

  Numie settled back on the mission oak sofa after securing one of Leonora's color-wrapped joints from the wooden box. Lighting it, he coughed on the first puff. Too harsh, he thought. Just like Leonora herself. He was enjoying the show, mainly because he wasn't one of the subjects of dispute.

  At the liquor cabinet, Joan poured herself a stiff drink of Scotch. "You can't just walk in here and tell me how I should run my house."

  Lola spun around. She'd had enough defiance of her authority. "I not only can, I am."

  Joan faced her. "I happen to have been running cathouses before you were born."

  "From the looks of you, that's the mother-loving truth," Lola said. If thought contained any power, Joan would have died on the spot—so strong was the resentment pouring from Lola.

  If Joan's face were a good barometer of her inner emotions, the feelings were reciprocated.

  "What this dump needs is a blood transfusion," Ned added.

  More than ever, the obsession to dominate was paramount in Lola right now. "The name alone—JOAN'S—so corny."

  "What would you prefer?" Joan asked sarcastically.

  "Leonora came up with something pretty good," Numie said, getting up from the sofa. His head was swimming. "The Garden of Delights."

  "Yeah," Ned said. "I like that." Turning to Joan, he continued, "Right now you're drawing the redneck potbelly trade. You've got to offer more refined pleasures—keep up with the times."

  Joan drew back in disgust. "And how should I do that?"

  "This parlor could be turned into a dance bar," Ned said. "Give the tricks a chance to get acquainted with the goodies before sampling. Install the bar over there."

  "A bar?" Joan asked, spitting out the words. "You give johns their liquor free. Otherwise, they'd resent it."

  Lola's hands went to her hips again. She was in a fighting mood. She'd gotten out of bed this morning like a fox hungry enough to eat a cow. That would come later. Right now this tired old hyena had to be devoured. "Time was," Lola said, "when you went into a saloon and got free eats. Those days are gone forever, baby. There will be no more free eats or drinks or nothing else at this house. We ain't the Red Cross."

  Belting down the rest of her drink, Joan said, "I hear you." Her lips were quivering.

  Lola felt in total control. "One more thing," she warned, "there'll be no more drinking on the job by the hired help. How can you know what's going on if you're high all the time?"

  Joan didn't answer at first, but stood pouting. "Listen, you damn fag."

  The word hit Lola like a whiplash. Under no circumstances had she ever considered herself a homosexual. She preferred men! "Look who you're talking to," Lola screeched, her voice competing with the rock music upstairs. "You muff-diving, bleached-out, burnt-up old dyke. I happen to be a lady."

  "Don't talk back to Lola, Ned said, or else you'll find your ass back on the streets. 'Cept this time, you won't find no paying customers."

  "If that unclassified freak's a lady, I suck eggs," Joan said.

  Insults to Joan were no longer enough for Lola. She wanted to feel blood under her chartreuse nails. Those nails arched, she lunged her slender frame against Joan's blubber.

  Numie rushed over to hold her back. "Cool it!" he yelled.

  "You're fired," Lola screamed at Joan. "Get your ass out of here. I can't stand dykes no way." Tears of rage were forming. "They're always looking at me in the bar—their eyes burning up with heat for my body." She shuddered. "My spine turns to jelly just thinking what you slimy creatures would do to me."

  Joan looked at her as if she couldn't believe her ears. "You're sick!"

  Lola started for her again.

  But Numie held her back.

  Ned slammed his fist into his open palm. "The lady here said you was fired."

  Her hand nervously at her breast, Joan countered, "Only Leonora can fire me. I take my orders from her—and only her.

  Eyes veiled, lips unsmiling, Lola moved toward Joan. "I happen to own half this property." Her stomach churned, and bitter thoughts swept across her like waves.

  "That's not official yet," Joan countered. "I figured you'd come here and make a grand play." She smiled with condescension. "So just an hour ago I was on the phone with the commodore's only survivi
ng sister in New Orleans." Joan paused to judge the effect on Lola's face.

  Her eyes were angry and violent. The prospect of Sister Amelia's arrival was illusion-shattering. The warmth seemed to be going out of her whole body.

  "She's going to fly here," Joan continued. "Plans to contest the commodore's will. His estate could be tied up in the courts for years. Years!" she shouted, her face flushing red. "Until the estate's settled, you're not entitled to take a free shit out here. Now get out!"

  Lola just stood there, stunned into silence. For the first time in her life, she didn't have a response to an attack from someone.

  The rock music died down. A long silence fell over the parlor.

  "C'mon," Numie said to Lola, "I think we'd better be getting on."

  "Why you got me all dressed up like this?" Dinah was asking Lola. "I look like a virgin." In low-heeled shoes, Dinah was wearing a plain gray skirt with a gray blouse.

  Until that question, Lola was sitting quietly in the patio of Sacre-Coeur. The soft colored bulbs were turned on, spotlighting the plants as they moved gently in the breeze blowing in from the Gulf. Finally Lola spoke, "Social secretaries aren't supposed to look like cheap whores."

  "I like red lipstick," Dinah said, turning in desperation to Numie. "Flaming red. But Lola made me wash my face with soap."

  "You never looked younger or more innocent," Numie said. "Leonora will be very impressed." He was anxious to be by himself. Already he felt he'd been through the contortions of a sideshow rubber man at the carnival.

  "Dinah was wearing the same shade of lipstick I have on," Lola said, directing her statement at Numie. That white boy didn't seem to be paying her no mind. "She don't seem to get it through her thick head she ain't supposed to compete."

  At this point, a sudden movement signaled the entrance of Leonora. The top of her dress was like an old-fashioned bathing costume, a black background covered with gigantic pink camellias. Attached was a skirt of zebra stripes, the camellia motif picked up again on the bottom border. Trailing from her wide-brimmed hat was a long piece of fabric, again covered with pink camellias. Her hair was totally hidden by the hat, showing only her carefully groomed face, a mass of cold white powder and high arched eyebrows. "Good evening. I'm wearing black in memory of Phil. But death is so dismal I had to brighten it up with pink."