The Devil's Interval

by Linda Peterson

  “Well, she’s your boss, so you can’t call her a bitch,” said Calvin. “Shall we just settle for a ‘mean girl’?”

  “All right,” I said, trying not to glance at my watch again. “I’m sorry, guys. I’m a little zonked, preoccupied, behind in work, and what else?”

  “PMSish,” offered Puck, helpfully.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Okay, just spill it.”

  “The Crimson Club, Friday night, you and me, Calvin and Andrea. Dig out something you wouldn’t wear to the PTfuckinA.”

  That caught my attention. “Could be some double date,” I said. “Tell me more.”

  “We could probably get an extra ticket for old Mikey, too, if you think he’d be into the scene,” offered Puck. “But the deal is that I got sent four comp tickets for Friday night, because they’re actually having some kind of real band, instead of that trancey, club-mix crap they usually pipe in as background to all the steamy sex.”

  “I didn’t realize it was a performance venue,” I said, raising my hands. “And skip the performance jokes.”

  “I think they’re trying to attract a slightly more mainstream crowd,” said Puck. “So, they’ve sent out a media advisory and comp tickets and the whole deal. Maybe they’ll hand out party favors, too—flavored K-Y jelly or French ticklers or something.”

  “Setting aside just for the moment how I’d position this adventure to Michael,” I said, “how would this be helpful to me?”

  “Maggie,” Calvin said patiently, “don’t be a nitwit. You know that your murdered lady hung out at the Crimson, with or without her husband and paramour. Aren’t you curious to see the inside of the place?”

  “Not particularly,” I lied. Of course, I was curious. I’d wondered about it from the first moment Travis had described it to me. I kept picturing some impenetrable, smoky red-and-black nest, hosted by some guy in a long red cape, and maybe some boots to hide his cloven feet.

  “Chicken,” said Puck, at exactly the same moment Calvin said, “Liar.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” I admitted. “Plus, it would be useful background for the story. For Andrea,” I added hastily. “And me, as her editor. Geez, what’s she going to wear?”

  “As little as possible, I hope,” said Calvin.

  Interval No. 5 with Dr. Mephisto

  I had to hand it to Dr. Mephisto: She seemed to be able to take one look—or sniff or something—and tell when there was something new in the air between us. We were settled in our self-assigned places, watching her pretzel herself into one of her tantric positions, sipping at her peppermint-chamomile-borage-blossom-milkweed or whatever brew it was in that mug of hers.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  We both sat silent. I glanced at Michael. He was extraordinary at waiting me out. I knew he could sit there in complete, self-satisfied silence until I couldn’t stand it a minute longer and spoke up. When my friends went on and on about how Michael was too perfect for words, I would say: “You can’t imagine how exhausting it is living with someone who’s always right.

  He waited. I broke. “I’m going on a little field trip, I think.” I added hastily, “That is, unless Michael really objects. In which case I would want to reconsider.”

  “I have no objection,” said Michael with a bland smile.

  Dr. Mephisto looked from one of us to the other.

  “A business trip?” she inquired.

  Michael cleared his throat.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  I had presented the Crimson Club opportunity to Michael after dinner the night before. The kids were in bed, Anya smooching on the back deck with Dr. Bollywood.

  We both had our feet up, me on the couch, Michael on the ottoman. He was reading The Leopard, in his quest to deconstruct what it meant to be an Italian man. He had politely—if a little impatiently—put his book face down on the arm of his chair once I cleared my throat and started talking. Raider was curled up, crammed into the space between the ottoman and the easy chair, content just to be breathing the same air as Michael.

  “So, that’s the story,” I said. “What do you think?”

  He swirled the brandy in his glass, and looked at it.

  “I think I should start drinking grappa,” he said. “More in keeping with my heritage.”

  “I meant,” I said, “what do you think about going to the Crimson Club?”

  “With Puck and Calvin and Andrea?” he said. “I think you should go.”

  “You do?” I asked, somewhat astonished.

  He took another swig. “Sure. You’ll find stuff out, and tell me about it. And how much trouble can you get in, if Calvin and Andrea are along? Besides, maybe you’ll find out you’re a PWP and invite me along.”

  “PW what?” I asked.

  “’Poly wanna potluck’” he responded. “It’s when polyamorists get together for dining and more.”

  I sat up a little straighter. “Polyamorists? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, really?” he asked. “Not familiar with the expression? Polyamorists are people who have multiple sexual relationships at the same time.”

  “Oh.” We sat in silence for another minute. “How’d you know that?”

  “You’re not the only one who collects arcane pieces of information, cara.”

  Michael picked up his book and began reading again. His right foot slipped off the ottoman and rested on Raider’s fur. Raider let out a huge sigh of contentment. The master’s touch—oh, divine!

  Try as I might, I couldn’t get him to say another word on the topic the rest of the evening. He wasn’t unfriendly, or even deliberately distant, just not engaged.

  After an unrestful night, with Raider snuggled between us, virtually preventing any serious contact, I found myself actually looking forward to the conversation with Dr. Mephisto. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I had some hope she’d coax a little more information out of Michael.

  “Okay, I’m not a mind reader,” said Mephisto. “One of you might explain to me. Maggie, since it’s your field trip, why don’t you start?”

  So I did. Briefly. I felt, rather than saw, Michael’s lazy smile emerge next to me. It’s his “Oh, this should be good,” look, and it usually accompanies his conviction that he’s given someone just enough rope to hang him—or her—self. As I talked, I began to feel very much like the guest of honor at the necktie party.

  Dr. Mephisto took a gulp out of her witch’s brew.

  “I got the picture,” she says. “Michael, you told Maggie you had no objections to her going?”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  “So, then,” she turned to me. “Sounds like you’re good to go.”

  This was not evolving as I’d hoped. I rearranged myself so I was facing Michael. “And you don’t want to talk about this?”

  “Not particularly,” he said.

  “Do you have any interest in going with Maggie?” interjected Dr. Mephisto. “Just out of curiosity?”

  “She didn’t invite me,” he said.

  “Puck only had four tickets,” I said. “It wasn’t my place to issue an invitation. I just got invited as a fourth.”

  Neither Michael nor Mephisto responded. Oh, great, now they’ve both taken up some vow of silence. Of course, I had to start babbling. “Well, I mean, maybe I could get an extra ticket,” I said. “I mean, if you’re interested in coming.” I added lamely, “The tickets Puck has are comped. So, an extra ticket would be a little pricey.”

  “How pricey?” asked Mephisto. “Again, just out of curiosity.”

  I wondered if that was emerging as her mantra. “About what it costs to spend an hour with you,” I snapped.

  “Well,” she offered, “I don’t provide music. Or refreshments. The evening sounds like a reasonable value to me. But Michael, you need to respond to Maggie’s question: Are you interested?”

  “Am I interested in accompanying my wife to a sex club?” said Michael mildly. “I might be,
assuming I wouldn’t be cramping her style.”

  On the way home, I cleared my throat in the car several times, waiting for Michael to look over. Nothing. “Okay,” I said, “I give up. Why didn’t you come right out and say you’d be interested when I brought up the Crimson Club the other night?”

  “What’s your theory about why I didn’t bring it up?” he countered.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I snapped. “How should I know? You were mad. You’re shy about going to weird places like that. Which, for the record, I am shy about places like that.”

  “How do you know?” asked Michael, mildly. “Have you ever been to a place like that?”

  “Well, no, but I’ve been in analogous situations.”

  Michael laughed. “I’d enjoy hearing what those analogous situations were.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure you would,” I said. “But I did have a life before you, you know.”

  “Not much of one,” he said. “You were an innocent little sorority sister when I met you.”

  “Turn in here,” I said, gesturing at the Whole Foods driveway. “We need milk and yogurt and peanut butter.”

  Michael grumbled, “Getting milk and yogurt at Whole Paycheck is like buying a lug wrench at Tiffany’s.”

  “No wonder I can’t tell you about my ‘analogous situations,’” I countered. “You can’t even do a decent analogy. You should say—it’s like getting a pop-bead necklace or something at Tiffany’s. They wouldn’t have any kind of a lug wrench at Tiffany’s.”

  “You know,” said Michael, narrowly missing a sideswipe with a Land Rover loaded with kids and dogs, “you are in a dangerous drift from amusing to pedantic. And not fun.”

  “I’m helping you exercise those analogy muscles,” I said innocently.

  CHAPTER 30

  It was 11 p.m. on Friday night by the time we pulled up to the Crimson Club door. Apparently, as Puck explained, only the non-cognoscenti would dream of showing up before 10 o’clock. San Francisco’s maniac valet service, the Parallel Universe Parkers, were on hand for this evening, complete with roadie jackets that read PUPs on the back. We had done a story on them in Small Town some years ago, in a roundup on essential services for the rich and famous. Their owner had patiently explained to me that since there are no parking places in San Francisco, they take the cars to a “parallel universe” to find spots.

  Although the Crimson Club patrons usually had to fend for themselves in parking adventures, management had decided that the nonregulars would need some help navigating the SOMA alleys. Either that, or a bunch of guys from the local methadone maintenance clinic had just scored some PUP jackets and were going to whisk the cars away. Forever. To the parallel universe. Oh, well, good luck fencing the aged Volvo.

  Michael handed me out of the car—part gallantry, part necessity, since I’d managed to borrow a painted-on black number from my neighbor’s twentysomething daughter, and I could hardly walk, let alone hop out of the station wagon.

  “If I see something I’m interested in,” said Michael into my ear as we walked toward the door, “should I give you the high-sign so you can catch a ride home with someone else?”

  I looped my arm into his and pulled him closer to me. “I assume you’re talking about refreshments when you say ‘something you like,’” I said fiercely. “And just FYI, a little reminder that only women can make the approaches.”

  Michael smiled serenely. “Okay,” he said. “All the better.”

  “Well, aren’t you the self-confident Italian stallion?” I said.

  Calvin, Andrea, and Puck were waiting at the front door. Andrea and I gave each other the once-over. She had on white leather pants and an off-the-shoulder, white cashmere sweater. And unless my eyes deceived me, there was not even a suggestion of a bra underneath.

  “Nice threads,” I said.

  “You, too,” she replied.

  Calvin draped his arm possessively around her shoulder, his fingers coming to rest right above her right breast. “Isn’t she a vision in white?” he asked the group at large. “If she ever proposes to me, I’m going to insist she walk down the aisle in this getup.”

  Andrea rolled her eyes.

  “Or maybe ‘sex up’ that prissy Junior League fashion show in a few days. Show Mommy Storch some moves.”

  “Calvin,” said Andrea sweetly. “Shut up or you’ll never see another move from me of any kind.”

  “Okay,” said Puck. “We’re going in. Check your weapons at the door, boys and girls, and let’s party.”

  I had a visual landscape from Travis’s description of the place, but nothing prepared me for the feel inside. The music was uber-trancey, repetitive, and seemingly without melody, the red walls appeared to glow, and I could feel the floor vibrating under my stilettos. Since the ceiling was red as well, and the floor was polished black, and there were no windows anywhere, I felt as if I was in a large, red candy box, or more accurately, like a slutted-up doll abandoned inside a giant music box.

  All around us, people were moving to the music. Even though I could see the dance floor ahead, packed with people, it was as if the whole place was a giant anthill moving together, trying to get somewhere and not particularly caring where. “There’s a reason they use the verb ‘throb’ in all those softcore porn novels,” I yelled into Michael’s ear. “This place is one large, throbbing organ.”

  “Oh, baby,” he said. “Is that how you talk about me to your friends?” During our pregame chat about the evening, we’d agreed to split up. I pointed toward a doorway, where I could see strobe-style flickering lights ahead. I put my mouth next to Michael’s ear again. “I’m going in, coach,” I said. “If I don’t come back…”

  Michael shrugged and pointed to the bar, “If you don’t come back,” he said, “there’s a delicious-looking Ornamental behind the bar.”

  “Racist, sexist…” I began

  He covered his ears. “Can’t hear you,” he pantomimed to me.

  I headed into the next room and stood for a moment, just getting my bearings. A drink would help, I thought. At the bar, a Nordic-looking sleek blond, with the eyes of a raptor swooping down on prey, asked what I wanted. “Merlot,” I said. She reached under the bar, poured a glass, and presented it with a flourish. I looked around the bar for a tip jar. She raised an eyebrow. “Looking for something?” she asked.

  “No, nothing,” I said.

  “Never been here before, have you?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “What should I know?”

  She shrugged, “Nothing. Relax. Have fun. That’s why we’re here.” Well, that wasn’t exactly why I was here, but I thought it better not to diagram the “we” in that sentence.

  “Go ask someone to dance,” she said.

  “I will, in a minute,” I countered. “A friend told me about this place. Maybe you know her—Grace Plummer.”

  “Never heard of her.” She hesitated. “And just a piece of advice: Our clientele doesn’t go in for last names very much.”

  With that, she turned dismissively, and lavished a brilliant smile on a linebacker-size guy dressed in silk, from unconstructed jacket to loose trousers. I wandered away from the bar. Get going or get out, Maggie, I muttered.

  There was, precisely as Travis had described, an uplit tall vase filled with red roses in the middle of the floor, and as the dancers moved around it, the vibration kept sending petals to the floor. I squinted through the dim room to the vase. The stems stopped me. They were white, and almost seemed to glow. I began working my way toward the vase to get a closer look.

  A man’s voice in back of me said, “Glow-in-the-dark stems. Couldn’t possibly occur in nature.” I turned around and almost stepped on his toe. He put his arms out to steady me. “Whoa there, little lady. You’re going to end up on the floor.” He let go of my arms, but not before he lightly ran his fingers the length of them. He was in his late fifties, not quite my height, well taken care of, and wore a bolo tie with a snakehead at his collar.


  “I was looking at the stems,” I said. “I’ve never seen that kind of rose used as a cutflower. And usually the stems don’t turn white til after the flowers drop.” He stared at me. “They’re ghost brambles,” I finished, helpfully.

  “Are you here from the garden page or something?” he asked, raising his voice. The room suddenly got quiet for a split second, as the piped-in music disappeared. Over the system came a disembodied voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for the Crimson Club’s first live concert. It gives me great pleasure to introduce the Spring Ramp Coalition, performing in our Carmine Room.”

  From the next room, I could hear a few aggressive guitar riffs, followed by a moment of silence, and then—well, undistinguished weirdly mellow metal. “Whaddya think?” asked my garden conversation partner.

  “Ramones-meet-Enya,” I said. “Not to jump to conclusions after just a few bars of music,” I added hastily. “Maybe they’re pals of yours?”

  He laughed. “No, but I’m mighty interested in their name. Do you think it’s about freeway onramps?”

  “Couldn’t say,” I murmured. “Maybe it’s all about early onions.”

  He looked puzzled. “Come again?”

  “Ramps are like onions. Or maybe they are onions, or at least a member of the family. And they come up early.” I gestured with my glass. “Hence, Spring Ramps. And maybe they’re a coalition because they’re fighting the good fight against, I don’t know—green garlic or something.”

  “You sure know a lot about gardenin’,” Mr. Bolo said suspiciously.

  “I know a little bit about a lot of stuff,” I said. “None of it’s very useful.”

  “My name’s Doc,” he said.

  “Pardon? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you—Doc like a doctor or Doug?”

  “Doc,” he said. “Delta Oscar Charlie,” using the military alphabet. I wondered if he was really a vet, or was just doing a little macho swagger.

  “Maggie,” I said and shook his hand. He didn’t quite let go, until I let mine go limp in his hand.