Vanity Fire

by John M. Daniel

  I finished about eleven. It was another warm, clear, breezy evening. I hadn’t eaten and I wasn’t tired.

  So I locked up Carol’s house and went back out to the street and climbed into the car. I drove to Arnoldi’s, where I sat at the bar and ordered garlic bread and a bowl of steamed clams. Jim, the bartender, bought me a couple of drinks, after I’d already had a couple of drinks, and I bought him one and he and I played cribbage. He whipped my ass.

  “So what’s this I hear about you and Carol?” he asked.

  “You tell me,” I answered. “What have you heard?”

  “How were the clams?” he asked.

  “Jim, I want to tell you something.”

  “What’s that, Guy?”

  “I know who burned down the old DiClemente Avocado warehouse.”

  “Who?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said.

  “Not really,” Jim said.

  ***

  I drove to the Kountry Klub and parked in back of the building, next to Kitty’s pink Datsun. The back lot was brightly lit, which didn’t stop the bouncers and the babes from coming out between dances to share a joint and a breath of hot wind. I kept my head down. I knew I might have to wait a long time.

  The more I thought about it, the more obvious it was. A no-brainer.

  Then there she was, she and the guy named Terry, standing outside the back door of the Kountry Klub, under the glow of the parking lot light, passing a paper bag back and forth between them, taking sips. Kitty wore a green fluorescent dressing gown; Terry sported his orange Kountry Club tee shirt.

  I got out of my car and closed the door.

  They both looked across the lot at me.

  In for a penny. I stepped forward a few paces.

  Terry covered the distance in no time. He grasped the front of my shirt with his left hand and lifted until I felt the cotton bite into my armpits. He held that bottle-stuffed paper bag in his right hand like a club.

  “I gotta see Kitty,” I said.

  “Go home and jack off,” he told me. He turned me around and shoved me toward my car. I hit the car and bounced back. I turned and said, “Listen, all I want—”

  Whummmph. The butt-end of the bottle, right in the belly. I gasped for breath, then went down on my knees, then fell forward, the heels of my hands grinding into the asphalt.

  “Terry, stop!”

  I looked up and Kitty was pulling the bruiser back. She squatted down beside me and said, “Guy, honey, you little fool, get the fuck out of here before Terry beats the shit out of you. Okay?”

  “I have to talk to you, Kitty,” I wheezed.

  Her robe parted a bit, giving me a flash of her left nipple and her shaved pudendum. She stroked my head and said, “No you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. You’re just lonely, Guy, that’s all. And I’m just trouble. Not a good combo. Now go on home.”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “That’s not my problem, okay? Now I gotta go in there and show my titties to a bunch of nice gentlemen. It’s been real, Guy, but go away. If you don’t, Terry here will kick your butt all the way to Goleta, right, Terry?”

  “You got it, doll.”

  I lay back on the asphalt and looked up into the bright floodlight, trying to focus on Kitty’s sweet, troubled face.

  “I’ll help you find Gracie,” I said. “I know where she is.”

  Kitty turned around and faced the bouncer. “Step back,” she said. “Go on back inside. I’ll take care of him.”

  “You sure?”

  “I can handle him.”

  “I’ll wait over by the door,” he said. He walked away, leaving Kitty with me.

  She helped me to my feet and propped me against the back of my car. She tightened the dressing gown around her body and said, “Okay. Where is she?”

  “Jefferson County,” I answered.

  “Gracie’s in Jefferson County?”

  “No, Carol is.”

  “I could give a fuck about Carol, Guy. Where’s Gracie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said—”

  “But we’ll find her,” I promised. “You and I. We’ll find her.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow. First thing. We’ll get started on it. Maybe have breakfast and—”

  “How about tonight?”

  “You have to work tonight,” I reminded her. “And I have to go check into my hotel. I’ve moved out of Carol’s house.”

  She turned around and called across the parking lot, “Terry, tell ’em I’m taking off for a few days. Starting now.”

  Terry walked over to us and glared at me. He put his hand on Kitty’s shoulder and said, “Everything’s cool?”

  Kitty smiled. “He’s going to help me find Gracie.”

  He glared at me some more, then turned on his heel and walked back across the lot and into the club.

  “You can just walk off the job like that?” I asked.

  “It’s not like they pay me to dance,” Kitty explained. “I do it for the tips. You can stay at my place. Wait here while I change and get my stuff.”

  ***

  “So,” she said, “welcome to the humble abode.” We walked into her Bath Street studio apartment and she switched on the light, which was a soft pink bare bulb in the ceiling of the living room. It was typical low-rent furnished-apartment furniture: wall-to-wall dirt-colored industrial carpeting, a sofa on short peg legs, a coffee table made of imitation oak, a pole lamp, two chairs from different eras and different thrift stores. On the coffee table were a book of matches and several cigarette burns, an open, empty peanut butter jar with a spoon standing in it, and a mirror, face up. Against the opposite wall a metal stand held a television set; on the floor next to it was a boom box. I set my overnight bag down next to the coffee table. The room smelled faintly of kitchen garbage and unemptied ashtrays.

  “You can sleep in the bedroom with me if you want,” Kitty said.

  “You have an extra bed?” I asked.

  “Gimme a break.”

  “Well, I don’t want to impose.”

  “The bed’s big enough for two people, and Gracie’s not coming home tonight,” she said. “Apparently.” She turned her attention to the door of the apartment, which she closed, locked, and double-locked, then chained.

  “I’ll be comfortable on the couch,” I assured her.

  “Suit yourself.” She plopped herself down on one of the chairs and said, “So you want to do a couple of lines?”

  Ye gods. “Show me around the place,” I said.

  “Not a whole lot to see.” She rose and led me to the end of the living room, which turned the corner into a kitchenette: two-burner stove, one-bowl sink, and a short formica counter in between with a toaster oven on it. The walls had cupboards and there was a half-sized refrigerator. “This place isn’t much, I admit,” she said, “but big enough for me and Gracie, and Roger pays the rent.” Then she led me back to her bedroom, which was barely big enough for a king-size unmade bed and two end tables that matched the coffee table in the living room. A closet door with a full-length mirror and an unfinished pine chest of drawers.

  “Bathroom’s in there. If you have to go in there in the middle of the night, be quiet coming through my room, okay? And sit down if you have to pee or whatever, no offense.”

  “Nice of you to put me up,” I said. “I’ll be very comfortable here.”

  “No problem,” she said. “You and me have a job to do. You want to order a pizza?”

  “I’m not really hungry,” I said. “But if you—”

  “Me neither. We’re really going to find Gracie, right? You and me?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Yeah, but what’s the plan?” she asked.

  “Let’s go in the living room and sit down,” I said. “That’s as much of a plan as I can come up with, but it’s a good start.
Kitty, do you have anything to drink?”

  “Just Diet Doctor Pepper,” she said. “But we could do a couple of lines, or a doob.”

  “That’s okay. I mean you go ahead if you want, but I need to stay clear.”

  We went back into the living room and I sat in a chair. She sat on the couch and put her feet up on the table. Somehow she produced a joint out of thin air and picked up the matches. She lit a match and sucked at the flame through the joint, and suddenly the room smelled like college, like my first marriage, like fun. She held the joint out in my direction.

  I waved my hand, shook my head, then changed my mind and took the joint, said, “What the hell,” toked, coughed, grinned, toked again, and handed the joint back to her, watched her inhale, which was a beautiful sight, let my breath out slowly, whoa that was good stuff, took a long, long look at this sweet slutty porn queen in her Kountry Klub tee shirt so tight I could read her rib cage, and another deep breath while she scratched the underside of her left breast.

  “Down boy,” she said, grinning. “We got work to do. Your turn.”

  “I’ve had plenty.”

  “Tell me about it.” She set the joint, still lit, on the surface of the coffee table and said, “Major planning session. Your turn.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Do you have any idea where Roger Herndon is?”

  She squinted at me through the cloud and said, “Newp. Let’s talk about Gracie.”

  “Okay. So where was Gracie the night of the warehouse fire? I expected to see her at the Klub, but she didn’t show up.”

  “You didn’t see enough pussy?” Kitty asked, a mock pout on her lips.

  “Where was she, Kitty? Any idea? Have you seen her since then?”

  Her pout trembled. “Fucking bitch,” she said. “She told me she was going to go do a number on that Commander Fucknose guy. She never came home.”

  “Commander Worsham,” I said. “What does that mean, do a number?”

  “A private show, maybe the works, and then turn it around so he’d feel like shit. I figured she was going to go to his yacht and promise him the moon, then give him the shaft. She was going to charge him for every feel and make him want to spend a thousand bucks, then walk off with every penny in his wallet. She does this thing with handcuffs, see. I won’t go into details.”

  “Are you aware that Worsham’s body was found, well-done, under the ashes of the warehouse fire?”

  “I read it in the paper. But I swear to God she didn’t kill him. Gracie wouldn’t kill anybody. She’s, like, nonviolent.”

  “So you don’t think Gracie burned down the warehouse.”

  “No way. She loves you, Guy. We both do. Everybody loves you.”

  “Maybe not everybody,” I said.

  “Aw.”

  “Enough of that.” Carol was the last person I wanted to think about.

  “Come on, let’s go to bed,” she said.

  “Enough planning for tonight?”

  “I want you to come to bed with me, Guy. I could use a hug. You know?”

  “Kitty, I don’t really think I could do, well I mean I really like you and you’re the prettiest thing since Snow White, but shit, I just don’t think I’m up for what I think you might be talking about.”

  She reached across the corner of the table and laid a perfectly shaped hand on my knee. “You shush,” she said. “You got a little problem, and I see a lot of it. We call it guilt wilt. I know how to fix it.” She stood up and held out her hand.

  And what do you know, I stood up, too and took it.

  ***

  I made breakfast the next morning, stretching the only egg in the fridge into two omelets with Cheerios, some aerosol cheese, and what was still edible of a couple of bananas. I plated the omelets on top of toasted Wonder Bread and served them with Tang and Maxwell House instant. I brought the meal to the coffee table in the living room and we took the seats we’d sat in the night before. I wore boxer shorts and she wore panties and a loose tee shirt. Just like old married folks.

  “This is fucking delicious,” Kitty said. “You’re a good cook.”

  “Carol does most of the cooking,” I said. “I just…aw shit. Yeah, this is pretty good, I got to admit.” I was that hungry.

  “Sorry about last night,” she said.

  “Why should you be sorry? If I remember correctly, I was the one who couldn’t get it up.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Kitty said, “but I could at least have given you a—”

  “Let’s talk about Gracie,” I said. “What kind of car does she have?”

  “Pink Datsun,” she said. “Just like mine.”

  “Is that some kind of girl thing?” I asked. “I mean, that’s fine, but—”

  “It’s Roger’s trademark,” she explained. “Cheapest shit car on the market, but he has them painted pink to make them special. All his movie stars get them. It’s like his trademark. The cars are actually company property. Roger’s company.”

  “Caslon Oldestyle Press?”

  “No. His other company, XXX-Tra Credits. Company doesn’t exist anymore. Roger’s retired from the movie business.”

  “How many women are driving around in these classy automobiles?” I asked.

  “Just me and Gracie now,” she answered. “Roger’s downsizing. Some of his old girlfriends may still have their cars, but chances are they’ve moved on to bigger spenders.”

  “What kind of car does he have?”

  “Roger? He doesn’t have a car. He just drives Gracie’s. He’s a first-class mooch.”

  “I already knew that,” I said. “Except for the part about first class. Why do you and Gracie hang out with that asshole?”

  “Roger’s not so bad,” Kitty said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s just…never mind.”

  “Come on. We’re working here. And I’m getting very, very, I mean very tired of secrets.”

  “Let’s just say Roger has a good retirement package. Really, Guy, I’m not supposed to be talking about this. You want some more coffee? I can make it.”

  So I drank another cup of instant and she smoked a Salem and we didn’t talk for about fifteen minutes while I put the puzzle pieces I had together. They were almost all there. There were still some missing pieces, and Kitty probably had one or two of them, but for now I worked with what I had.

  When I came to the end of my coffee I took the dishes into the kitchen and washed them while Kitty got dressed. When I got done drying the dishes and putting them in the cupboards, I walked back into the living room and then into the bedroom looking for something to read. Anything, even Cosmopolitan, but no dice. I almost turned on the television. The answers were starting to form, and I didn’t want to force them.

  Kitty came out into the living room wearing flip-flops, cutoffs, and a sleeveless purple tee shirt. Her bleached and streaked hair was wet and limp, defenseless. “Your turn,” she said. “I left you a dry towel.”

  While I showered it came to me.

  “Ready?” I asked when I appeared in the living room, wearing clean clothes out of my overnight bag.

  “Where are we going, Sherlock?” she said.

  “DMV,” I told her.

  ***

  The clerk behind the window at the Department of Motor Vehicles turned away from his computer and looked me straight in the eye. “Do you own that vehicle, sir?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “We’re looking for its owner, actually.”

  “We could give a shit about the car,” Kitty added, and I bumped her leg with my knee to get her to shut up.

  “I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “I’m not authorized to give you any information about this vehicle unless you can present proof that you are its legal owner.”

  I picked up a business card from the tray on the counter. Irving Thomas. I handed the card to Kitty and said, “Listen, Mr. Thomas, I’m asking you to do me a favor. We know w
ho the owner is; it’s Roger Herndon, who happens to be a business associate of ours, and we’re worried that he may be in trouble. So—”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Irving Thomas said. “I’m not allowed to give out such information.” Then he turned his attention to Kitty, who was gently nudging me to move out of her way.

  I ignored Kitty and held my ground while I reached into my wallet and brought out Rosa Macdonald’s business card. I slid it across the counter and said, “I’m gathering information for a police investigation.”

  He picked up the card and read it, then handed it back to me. “You should inform Detective Macdonald that she’ll have to call Sacramento. I’m not authorized to give out this sort of information to her, let alone you.”

  “My turn,” Kitty said.

  I turned and looked at her and she was giving Irving Thomas the diamond smile. She nudged me again. This time I took the hint and moved to the side while she stepped up to Irving’s counter, which was just the right height for her to rest her breasts upon. “Irving,” she said, “where did you get those cool suspenders?”

  “They’re braces,” Irving said, reddening. “Not suspenders. There’s a difference.”

  “No shit?” Kitty said. “Did you know the English people call garters suspenders?”

  “Yes, I do know that,” he said, his glance rising briefly to her face, then dropping back down again to the comfort zone.

  “So I wear suspenders, too,” she said. “In my job.” She reached into the hip pocket of her cutoffs and pulled out two business cards of her own. She gave me one, and I looked it over as she slid the other one across the counter to Irving, who picked it up as if it were the Queen of Spades. The card had a color photo of Kitty’s face in its wickedest grin, with the caption, “I’m Pussy. Want to see more of me?”

  Irving and I turned our cards over at the same time.

  FREE PASS—ADMIT ONE.

  THE KOUNTRY KLUB