"Yes, that's why I'm here," she said softly. "I called the hospital. The operation's this afternoon."
He was trying to read her face for any trace of compassion but found no clues. She was matter-of-fact, but not cold, the way Ralph had been. "I know," he said finally. "How did Leonora take the news?"
Anne wasn't finding the sofa agreeable. "She didn't seem overly concerned." Then she sighed. "Said when you've seen as many deaths as she has, you can't get hysterical over another one. Then she barged around the room in a fit, claiming all her lovers—except one, that unspeakable Joan—were dead."
Anger flashed through Numie. "I hope you reminded her she has another one," he said. "If that's what Dinah is called."
"I didn't, of course," Anne said.
He was upset by Anne's casualness about Tangerine. "I hope Leonora gets it through her head Tangerine isn't dead."
"She is as far as Leonora's concerned." Getting up from the impossible sofa, Anne paced the floor. "Poor Tangerine, will she be okay?"
Numie warmed inside. For the first time today, Anne was responding the way he wanted her to. It just took her a little while to get it out. He could understand that. All those years at Sacre-Coeur had to have some kind of effect. "r hope she will," he said.
Anne seemed embarrassed to be in Tangerine's apartment alone with him. "How about a beer?" she asked, breaking the tension building between them.
He laughed. "You know Leonora doesn't like you to drink beer."
"Forget her," she said, heading for the kitchen. "Bronx girls drink beer—and that's that. They learn it from their daddies."
"Okay, beer it is," he said, squeezing past her. He could smell the sweetness of her body, fresh from the rain storm. Opening the refrigerator door, he removed two cans.
On their return, Anne's mood had changed to serious once again. "I've applied for a job in New York as a secretary." She sought his face.
But he turned from her, shifting his eyes again to those two dying plants.
"I'll know if I got it in a week or two," she continued.
"You're really going through with it?" he asked, still not looking her in the eye. "Does Leonora or Ralph know?" He was grasping for some words floating on his mind, but couldn't reach them.
"Neither one," she answered.
"Thanks for trusting me with this," he said, enjoying the coolness of the beer inside him. He felt the breeze stirring restlessly in the living room.
After a long moment of silence, she said, "Nothing good is happening on this island. I have a feeling it's going to get worse."
Numie stood up. He was flushed, as if his head were about to explode. "Will you get a divorce?"
"Yes," she said. "I shouldn't have married Ralph in the first place."
This was old news to him. He went and stood by the window. His hand was shaking. He didn't dare expose his vulnerability .
"I want to be free," Anne said, talking to his back. "Just in case anybody else ever comes along." She laughed nervously. "Guess I sound like Tangerine. Waiting for the man who never turns up."
"There's a slight difference between you and Tangerine," he said almost bitterly. "That poor girl didn't have much of a chance."
In a voice growing harsh, Anne said, "She had just as much chance as the rest of us. But she blew it."
He resented Anne for making this judgment, yet suspected it was true. He felt they weren't really talking about Tangerine anyway—but about themselves. That sounds pretty hard on her."
She didn't say anything for a long time.
He kept his back to her, his eyes glued to the scene below.
"Now that you know my plans, what about you?" she asked.
"I'm just hanging in for a little longer," he said. He clutched his sweat-soaked hands, his body tightening into steel. "I don't intend to go to New York. I've spent my last days on those streets."
"Ever thought about going inside?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing perfectly well what she meant.
"Get off the streets," she said.
"I've tried that," he said sharply. "Far as I got was a stoop."
The rain stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. The moist air smelled fresh and pure.
On the sidewalk below, a long-haired girl haggled over price with three drunken sailors. Two young men in jeans were sharing a joint.
The sleazy bars were getting ready for the night.
On the mainland, the temperature had been in the upper eighties all week long. Construction workers building a new airport terminal paused in the muggy weather to look at a car coming to a screeching halt in the parking lot.
"A pimpmobile," one of them called out.
A fat eat's dream of Detroit art, it was a two-tone Cadillac in chartreuse and cream. White walls, silver initials on the side, special chrome attachments—psychedelic poetry in motion.
Lola snuggled back against the hand-rubbed, green-dyed leather, resting her platform shoes on the white shag carpet. She felt much like a pussycat. Leonora de la Mer could have her tired old leopard skin.
In the back seat mirror, she checked out her make-up. Perfect! Christ, she was looking good today. For her first meeting with the commodore's sister from New Orleans, Lola had decided to dress modestly. Instead of a blonde wig, she chose a straight black one that hung gracefully down her shoulders. Even though it was only afternoon, she was wearing a long-bodied, green satin gown, with tulle shoulders and sleeves sprinkled with satin flowers.
In the driver's seat, Ned was also preening his feathers. For the occasion, Lola had his hair straightened and styled and dressed him in a robin's egg blue suit with a matching silk scarf and shirt. In his alligator shoes, and with his cock almost completely revealed in his too tight pants, he practically danced out of the front to open the rear door for her. "These wheels are out of sight, but I wanted you to order your own machine—custom designed by me."
"Fuck off," Lola said, getting out of the car and adjusting her rhinestone sunglasses in the glaring light of the airport parking lot. "When I saw those initials, all gleaming silver, I knew it was for me."
"But the cat who owned this car was gunned down," Ned protested. "It's bad news to take some dead cat's car over."
She ignored him. "Just look at those three silver L's. They're perfect for me. Lola La Mour Le Blanc."
"Le Blanc," Ned said. "What kind of name is that?"
"That was my commodore's last name, stupid," Lola said. "It means white. Didn't you know, I'm the new Mrs. Le Blanc." She caught herself. "The late Mrs. Le ... hell,
you know what I mean."
"You forgot," Ned said, poking her in the ribs, "you're a widow."
She looked at him with fury. "Like hell I forgot. That's one thing I'll never forget." She adjusted a satin flower.
"C'mon, we're late. Amelia is already landing."
In a roped-off section, Lola stood with Ned.
Two university students were also waiting for an arrival. Dressed in plaid Bermuda shorts and T-shirt, one of the young men eyed Lola strangely.
Hands on her hips, Lola returned the stare. She couldn't go anywhere. Even out on business, without men looking at her with desire. On a normal day, she would welcome the students' attention. But not today—not with Amelia arriving and threatening to destroy her dreams. Time for goodlooking young students later.
The man was whispering something in the ear of his friend. The other student turned and looked at Lola, snickering.
No respect, Lola thought. Even when she dressed conservatively, men still treated her as a whore. White men especially. It was getting so that all white men these days wanted a black chick. She just didn't feel safe on the streets any more. "Do you think Ralph was suspicious?" Lola asked, her mind returning to business.
"About what?" Ned said.
"You hustling him and then volunteering to drive up to the mainland to meet my commodore's sister? That would sound mighty peculiar to me. But then again, white men are so dense."
; "After old Ned finished with him, Ralph had something else on his mind."
"He obviously fell for it," Lola said, fearing she was sweating too much. "Here we are. If he knew I was here, his balls would tum somersaults."
"How you gonna spot the sister?" Ned asked.
"My commodore had a big family album back in Tortuga," Lola said, smiling at her own cleverness. "The face of that ugly bitch is pasted allover it. Looks like a prune."
Just then, the first passengers from New Orleans started to arrive. Most of them had filed out before a tall, gray-haired woman appeared.
Lola moved toward her, then hesitated. It just had to be the one. The woman was the only one on the plane who looked like a Jehovah's Witness. Her skin had a transparency, revealing knotted veins. She walked stiff and upright, her eyes small, but with sharp vision. Her outfit was simple: a green and white gingham shirt dress under a straw-brimmed hat.
"That's her," Lola whispered loudly to Ned. She pranced over to the woman. "How do you do?" Lola asked. "I'm Mrs. Le Blanc."
"You mean, you're looking for Miss Le Blanc?" Amelia asked.
"No, that's you," Lola answered. "I'm Mrs . Le Blanc."
The commodore's sister dropped her purse.
"Help the lady with her bag," Lola commanded of Ned. "I've been dying to meet my sister-in-law," she said, kissing the distraught woman on the cheek. "You're everything my commodore said you were."
"I beg your pardon," the woman said feebly, rubbing her cheek with a hastily drawn handkerchief. "I think there's been a terrible mistake."
"You are Amelia Le Blanc?" Lola asked, polishing her Old Mine diamond.
"Yes," she protested, "but I was to be met by a representative of Miss De la Mer."
"Consider her represented," Lola said, waving her ring in the air. "You are with family now, child, so relax and enjoy yourself."
"Surely I didn't hear you say you were Mrs. Le Blanc." Amelia's eyes widened in horror, and her breath was coming in short gasps.
"That's right, a name we share," Lola said interlocking her arm with Amelia's, even though the smell of her violet perfume was repugnant to her.
"Wait till you see our new car," Ned said enthusiastically. "You'll shi... love it!"
On wobbly legs, a reluctant Amelia was helped along to the baggage claim area—Lola Le Blanc on one arm, Ned on the other.
"I need a slight libation from time to time to steady my nerves," Amelia said, reaching for a martini the waitress was placing on their table. "Never flown on an airplane before, a harrowing experience, let me tell you." She glanced apprehensively around the room. "Think I'll take the train back home."
"Then you're going back?" Lola asked, practically swishing her tail in the plastic chair. In fact, the way she felt right now she'd gladly finance Amelia's bon voyage party to Siberia.
"By all means," Amelia said firmly. An ominous sound came into her voice. "After some business matters have been settled."
Lola's heart dropped.
The robin's egg blue suit she'd bought for Ned was clearly visible from across the air terminal bar. He was returning after a trip to the men's room.
Amelia kept digging her thumb into the aching muscle of her stiff neck. "I haven't had a decent night's sleep since losing my dear brother. Isn't it about time to end the little joke on me? I'm in no mood for humor."
Slurping his drink as he joined them, Ned said, "I don't see nothing funny."
Lola glanced at her long nail on the finger holding the Old Mine diamond. Some of the red polish had flaked off. That upset her so much she forgot what she was going to say. Then, remembering, she said to Ned, "I think our guest means me. That is, my going right up to her and introducing myself as Mrs. Le Blanc."
"Exactly," Amelia concurred, her patrician nostrils raised and twitching.
"That, my dear child," Lola said "was and is no laughing matter." Her eyes swept the room like a tornado, and her hand with the diamond waved the air.
"Are you trying to ruin the reputation of the Le Blanc family?" Amelia asked. That martini glass was at her tight mouth once again, except this time she spilled some on her dress.
As if to show Amelia up, Lola reached for her rum drink, daintily and with precision of movement. She was deliberately postponing answering Amelia's question just to show that grand southern lady that she, Lola La Mour Le Blanc, had nothing to fear from her. Except she did. Plenty. However, that was one little goodie Lola wasn't about to give away. After what she deemed a respectable amount of time, she decided to respond to the question at hand. "Being the lady I am, I will choose to ignore that last remark. The plane has probably messed up your mind, and you don't really know what you're saying."
"I know perfectly well what I'm saying," Amelia protested. "Not a soul back home—not a soul, do you hear me?—must know my late brother married a woman of the colored persuasion."
"Persuasion," Ned said derisively. "Honey, we ain't just persuaded. Like we didn't go around picking out colors. Make mine sunflower yellow. As for you, you'd look great in chocolate marshmallow."
Lola shot Ned a look that silenced him. She caught her breath and started to feel more at ease. Getting around Amelia was going to be just a little bit easier than she'd feared. Amelia was not the canny fox her brother had been. "I was married," Lola said emphatically. "Witnesses to prove it—not to mention the most spectacular wedding gown ever." She fingered her ring. "Still the talk of the town."
"Surely the marriage was conducted in the strictest of privacy?" Amelia inquired. Sitting up tall and erect, she moved her neck as if to catch a breath of fresh air.
"We even got our pictures in the newspapers," Lola lied, enjoying Amelia's discomfort.
"My God," Amelia exclaimed, sinking back into the chair. "I don't know how I'll manage to show my face in Tortuga. Sounds like a Godforsaken place anyway."
Lola flashed a satanic grin. If she had anything to do about it, Amelia would never have to get one lilywhite toe stuck in the slime of Tortuga.
"If my brother," she said, casting a disdainful eye at Lola, "was going around marrying up with colored women, now I know why he wanted to leave New Orleans." She put her hand to her brooch-covered chest. "Marrying that Cajun gal was wicked enough. People back home talk about it so much I can't walk out my front door."
Pain exploded inside Lola. She stared fixedly at Amelia. She knew she wasn't exactly getting virgin purity when she married up with the commodore, but she didn't know anything about any Cajun gal. The whole idea of marrying a man who'd wed a Cajun sounded low class to her.
"My poor sister, bless her soul—she's dead now," Amelia said, "just couldn't understand it either." Her eyes zeroed in on the Old Mine diamond. "Thank God she didn't live to see this day." She paused, as if she suddenly wanted to take flight. "Could the waitress be persuaded to bring me another slight libation? My heart is palpitating at such a dangerous rate I think I'd better slow it down—or else I'll pass out right in front of everybody. "
At this moment, Lola was thinking how convenient that would be for her. She'd be only too happy to pay for another pauper's coffin if it meant getting rid of Amelia for good. A sister-in-law she wasn't interested in. Nevertheless, Lola's fingers snapped the air to gain the attention of the waitress. The snap resounded throughout the bar, attracting much notice.
"You don't have to snap your fingers that loud," Amelia whispered. "Everybody's looking. After all, we aren't at a hog calling contest."
Normally, Lola would have kicked up her heels at that offense. But she decided to go easy with Amelia. It'd all work out better in the long run if she'd play it this way. Lola kept telling herself.
"I understand my brother—in a moment of total insanity, I have no doubt—bequeathed to you his entire estate," Amelia said, moving in on the subject on everybody's mind since the plane landed. "Forgetting his sister who has a house with a mortgage and no means of support." She coughed. "Who's too ill to work."
The shrillness in Amelia's voi
ce sent shivers through Lola. "Your information is correct—that is, the part about his bequeathing his entire estate, every penny, to me, his legal wife." She gazed at the diamond again. "I can hardly consider that a moment of total insanity. Many men leave property to their wives. In fact, I understand it's the usual procedure."
"That's for the courts to decide," Amelia said.
"The courts?" Lola asked nervously. Then she sank back, as Amelia had done, and slowly assumed her mask of calmness.
"You heard what I said," Amelia answered. "I intend to contest the will, even if I have to keep it in the courts forever."
Lola reached for her purse, fumbling for a cigarette. Amelia, she realized, was a little smarter than she had thought at first. With a fierce grimace, Lola turned away. Then she stabbed the air with her cigarette, as if to emphasize a point. Only she realized she'd set the stage for a devastating rejoinder, but had absolutely no counterattack. The cigarette holder fell to the floor. Ned reached to retrieve it, giving Lola more time. "You know what you're getting at?" Lola asked. "According to your little plan, each of us might end up with nothing—not even enough to take care of basic needs."
"My goodness," Amelia said, smiling, her eyes dancing. "At least my brother married a woman smart enough to comprehend business."
Amelia's charade was over. Lola now knew she was just as foxy as her brother. But she liked that. Any dude or chick willing to bargain, Lola could handle. It was those puritanical bastards who couldn't be bribed—those were the ones to hate. Fortunately, she'd never run into too many of that kind. "I'm like you, Sister Amelia," Lola said. "I feel a deep-in-the-stomach need for some slight libations myself." The waitress placed the martini on the table. "Another rum and Coke for me, and a Scotch for Ned. Might as well start getting another martini ready for Sister Amelia here." She let out a hoot. "Bout time we let the cows out to start grazing in the pasture."
The office of the commodore's attorney was on the first floor of a tile-roofed building in the Spanish section of town. In the Andalusian-styled lobby, Lola paused briefly, looking back at Ned helping Amelia along. Then, assured of her appearance in a gilt-framed mirror, she hurried passed the high-backed, dark wood chairs and a sagging, threadbare tapestry.
Butterflies in Heat Page 36