by Lara Reznik
Oh my God, Paulie. Would I be forced to sleep with him, too? I reminded myself to stay cool like the characters in On the Road. I needed to talk to Joey. He would know the score. I looked around the crowded room for him. I’d assumed he’d followed us inside, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Angel suddenly appeared and removed his rimless spectacles. He had sensual grey eyes that seemed out of focus. “I hope you appreciate this experience, honey.”
Did he expect me to prostitute myself like Ivy? “Yes, sir, I’m sure I will.”
Angel blinked. “You don’t have to call me sir.”
Music blared from the stereo as we entered the grand living room with its flagstone floors and twenty-foot-high wood ceilings. Red chili peppers hung on the wall next to paintings of Indian women and their babies. A roaring fire blazed from the floor-to-ceiling fireplace, and people stood around with drinks and small plates of chips and avocado dip someone called guacamole. The pungent smell of marijuana filled the house.
A gangly dude with long white hair tapped Angel on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Angel winked at me and punched Rojo’s arm. “Keep an eye on her. And remember what I said about getting shit-faced.” Angel disappeared in the crowd, leaving Rojo and me together. I stood gawking at the strange people who more or less ignored us. Most of the women looked like models or actresses, rail thin, dressed in tight jeans or obscenely short mini-skirts. The men varied from standard hippie types, bearded, beaded, long hair tucked behind their ears, to Hollywood producer types dressed in three-piece suits and shiny loafers.
A few people sat on a plush velvet sofa snorting white powder on a glass tray through straws. I’d heard cocaine had become the rage on the west coast but had never seen any before.
Rojo joined the partiers on the couch and I watched from a distance as he did some. Then he returned and babbled on about his life. He confided that he really didn’t think Peaches’ baby was his, but he’d always wonder about it. He said he wished he’d never gotten involved in this business. He had dreams of becoming an architect. “Angel don’t like people to leave. There could be dire consequences.”
“No shit.”
“Forget I just said that.” He made me swear on the life of my future children that I wouldn’t repeat anything he’d just told me.
I told him he could trust me.
“I don’t get to meet a lot of chicks like you. Are you in love with Chris?”
I bristled at the question. “I, ah, don’t know.”
“Joey’s right. You’re too classy for that schmuck.”
I laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He rippled his eyebrows. “You think maybe you and me…?”
I thought about Chris and Ben and Peaches. “Ya know, I just don’t need any more complications in my life right now.”
He placed a kiss on my forehead. “No problem. I don’t get rejected too often, but when I do, I take it like a man. Can I ask you a favor though?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t tell Angel I did those lines of toot, okay?”
“What toot?” I said.
He winked at me, then motored back across the room and struck up a conversation with a blonde decked out in turquoise and silver jewelry.
I snaked through the crowds in search of Joey. After circling through most of the downstairs, I went to the front door and found the bouncer Paulie still sitting on a stool at his post, bottle of tequila in hand. I described Joey and asked if he’d seen him.
He shrugged. “Can’t say I paid much attention.”
I searched the sea of beautiful people but had no luck locating him. A few guys did finally pay attention to me. One asked if I wanted to dance, another suggested we have sex, while a third guy offered me toot. I refused all offers.
I noticed a stairway and decided to see if Joey had gone upstairs. A man with a dark goatee and shiny black hair appeared from one of the bedrooms with bloodshot eyes and a Hollywood beauty on each arm. He looked familiar.
Some guy with a cigarette hanging from his mouth pointed at the guy with the two gorgeous girls. “Do you know who that is?”
“Is he from Bridgeport?”
“Bridgeport? That’s Dennis Hopper, honey.”
Of course. Angel had said we were going to Dennis’s house. I never dreamed he meant the movie star from Easy Rider.
Dennis smiled at me and rushed down the stairs with the two gorgeous women.
I trailed behind them and stood in the entry as the new toast of Hollywood whispered something to the bouncer and then yelled, “Party hardy, my friends. See you in a few days.” A limousine waited outside and whisked Dennis and his two beauties away.
Back in the dining area, young men in white jackets carried platters of meat, cheeses, breads, fruits, and pastries. I grabbed a slice of turkey and a piece of cantaloupe and returned to the living room where the party continued.
Still no sign of Joey. Or Angel and Rojo for that matter. A crowd formed around a baby grand piano that backed to a big picture window. They all were staring at something outside. From where I stood, it looked like a snowman. He even had a pipe in his mouth. A hash pipe. People were laughing.
As I moved closer to the window, I realized the snowman was a person. I glared for a minute. My God, it was Joey! His hair and thick ski parka were covered with snow. He put his face on the window and held his arms up against the pane. His eyes were glassy. I feared between the combination of the bitter cold and the painkillers Jaws had given him, he was in shock.
Everyone was laughing and pointing at the human snowman. Didn’t they realize a guy was freezing to death? Were they too stoned to care? I grabbed a coat by the door, smiled at Paulie the bouncer, and raced outside.
When I reached Joey still pressed against the window, I yelled, “Are you okay?” but he didn’t respond. “Joey, it’s Laila.” I placed his freezing hand in mine. He stood very still for a few moments before acknowledging me. His lips were blue. His ears and nose cherry-red. Most scary were his bare toes on the foot wrapped in the ace bandage. They had turned the color of ashes.
Finally, he looked up and said, “Go back inside, Laila. It’s cold out here.”
“Come with me,” I said.
“They won’t let me in.”
“We’ll see about that.” We returned to the front door where I smiled again at Paulie as I held Joey’s hand. When Joey followed me inside, Paulie said, “No can do.”
After ten minutes of arguing with him, we came to a compromise. Joey could sit down on a wood bench in the hall while I tried to find Angel.
“You got five minutes, and then I throw him back out,” Paulie sneered. “You need a special invitation to party in there.”
I steamed back in the house and raced up the stairs determined to find Angel before Joey froze to death. When I opened the door to a bedroom, I found an overweight man in a suit jerking off as he watched a naked couple having sex on a king-size waterbed. The woman, a pretty redhead sat up. Her face was streaked with black eyeliner. She spat at the voyeur. “Zip it up, Harry. I’ve had enough of your fucking fantasy.”
Who were these people? What rules did they play by? Were there any boundaries?
In the next bedroom, I found Rojo and the blonde I’d seen him with earlier, asleep on a bed. Her turquoise and silver jewelry was scattered all over the floor with their clothing. Should I wake Rojo up and ask for his help? Could I afford for him to say no?
I found his Levis and grabbed the keys to the Mercedes from the pocket, bolted back down the stairs to the front door where Joey sat rubbing his raw-red hands together. I nodded at the bouncer and helped Joey up and out to the Mercedes parked in the circular drive.
The car started right up and Joey shivered as the heat slowly sifted through the vents. “You’re coming back to Connecticut with me,” I said.
“No argument there. But I handle the suitcase,” he said.
I let out my breath. “We’ll figure that out
.”
“There’s a slight problem,” Joey said. “Angel will kill you for stealing the Mercedes.”
“I’m not stealing, just borrowing it to get us to Albuquerque.”
“You’re crazy, Laila.”
“Wait here,” I said and dashed back to the house leaving Joey in the Mercedes with the motor running. I hoped to convince Angel to at least let me drive Joey home. He’d freeze to death if he stayed outside any longer.
The bouncer grabbed my arm as I reentered the door. “Where’s your friend?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Think he went home.”
He loosened his grip and I walked inside, smiling at anyone who looked my way. In the entry was an antique roll-top desk, which gave me an idea of how to handle Angel. I would leave him a note convincing him it was in his best interest that I drove myself down to the airport. The plan was risky, but I assumed by the time he read the note, I’d be on the plane to New York. I opened the top drawer of the desk where I found a box of white stationery and a Schaeffer pen. The pen leaked ink as I scribbled on the paper.
Angel,
It’s very late and I can’t find you or Rojo. With the continued storms, I’m fearful I’ll miss my plane tomorrow. Therefore, I’ve decided to drive the Mercedes to Albuquerque. I’ll leave the car in the airport parking lot. The keys will be left for you at the TWA counter. Don’t worry, I’m taking the suitcase with me to New York as planned. Hope you’re not too pissed off. Thanks for inviting me to this groovy party. I hope to return to The Land of Enchantment someday soon. Until then . . .
Warmest regards, Laila
The letter was not one of my most brilliant ideas, but at least it would buy me some time for Joey. He would not survive if he stayed here much longer. I raced up the stairs and opened the door to the bedroom where Rojo had been sleeping with the blonde earlier. They still lay in bed snuggled together. I left the envelope on top of his wool coat confident he would share it with Angel. Not too soon though.
No mention of Joey accompanying me had been made in the note. Angel would figure that out soon enough. I could only hope he didn’t go ballistic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Darlene and Bob E.
Austin, Texas, 2012
“I insist on paying for this,” Chris says before the Margaritaville bill arrives, but when the puffy-lipped waitress shows up with our check, he struggles to get his wallet out of his back pocket long enough for me to place my VISA in her hand. Neither of us had eaten one morsel of food. She looks surprised as she clears the full plates from the table and trots off with my card.
When the waitress returns, I fill out the VISA slip and we stroll together to the exit. Chris hugs me, then zips out the door without offering to walk me to my car.
Stumbling from the restaurant drunker than I’ve been in years, I wave at the skinheads and punks still hanging out in the parking lot. Don’t you dare mess with me. I’m Laila the fearless one. Right. Who am I kidding? Have I regressed to the stupid girl who flew a suitcase of drugs cross-country in the seventies? Or maybe I no longer care about what happens to me since everything important in my life is imploding.
As I open my car door, I see Chris in the near distance handing something, his card perhaps, to a pretty young woman. What a contrast he is to my husband. Ed would never let a woman walk alone in a sleazy parking lot, let alone stiff her with a big bar bill. I would give my right arm to have him back. Pulling out my iPhone, I text him: “Come home right away. All your fantasies fulfilled. Tonight only. No rain checks.”
I click on the ignition and creep slowly out of the Margaritaville parking lot. Seconds later, the flashing red-and-blue lights of an Austin police car blaze on in my rear view mirror. This can’t be happening. What was I thinking trying to drive in this state?
The squad car passes me by and speeds off to catch another car up ahead. A warning for me to get the hell off the road before I kill myself, or worse, someone else. I cautiously drive the two blocks in East Austin, then cross I-35 into yuppified West Austin with its friendly signs of Starbucks and Whole Foods.
For the next hour, I sip a Chai tea at the natural food grocery store cafe and respond to e-mail on my phone. I call Ed but he doesn’t answer his cell. Nor did he respond to my evocative text. After another hour, I feel sober enough to drive to the rental where he’s staying in south Austin. It’s much closer than driving to Lake Travis.
When I arrive, I don’t see any vehicles in the driveway. After clicking my rental key into the deadbolt, I open the door and enter the small brick house. A rustling sound comes from another room. “Hello, is anyone here? Ed, is that you?”
I wander to the living room where Juanita is perched on a couch with her high-heeled sandals tossed on the floor. She looks up from a big yellow pad she’s busy scribbling on.
The dingbat needs to get herself a laptop. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
She looks up from her notes. “Laila. You’re just the person I wanted to speak with.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say,
“I moved into Ed’s rental across the street. He said I could hang out here today while he finishes getting it painted.”
“Ed left you here alone?”
“He went to Lowes to get more paint,” she says. “Should be back any moment.”
My face burns, my eyes strain, my lips swell like someone who found out that they’d won the lottery, but lost their winning ticket. My imagination runs wild. Who is this bitch? What does she really know of my past? Is there something going on between her and my husband?
Juanita stands. She’s still gorgeous but smaller than I remember. At least two inches shorter than I am. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, perhaps?”
“I don’t want ef’n coffee.”
“You look like you can use some.”
Duh. I still must smell like a brewery. “This is my house, you know. My name’s on the deed along with Eduardo’s.”
“I’m sure it is, Laila. How much did you drink with Chris Reynolds?”
I cough, trying to hide my surprise that she knows about our meeting. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“You can’t trust that man.”
“Who the ef am I supposed to trust? You?”
“Always with the potty mouth. No sé que podria visto Ed en ti.”
“You don’t know what Ed ever saw in me? What’s with you and the Spanish anyway? Eduardo’s not here to impress.”
“Some things sound better in Spanish. I doubt you’d understand.”
“You’re right. And I don’t get a woman who goes after a married man.”
She flinches. “You’ve got that all wrong. I want to help you. If you’d tell me what Chris said, we can start to sort this thing out.”
I laugh. Perhaps somewhat manically. “Like I’d share that with you. Mi mejor amiga?”
“Look. Eduardo’s like a big brother to me. I care about him because of our familias. You are in great danger hanging out with your old friends Chris and Ben. They will take you down in the sewer with them.”
“Give me one reason I should trust you.”
“Better speak to me before the FBI gets involved. I’ve called my friend Agent Lopez. You’ll hear from him soon.”
“How many times did you screw him?” I say.
She slaps me across the face. Hard. “Gringa repugnante.”
I place my hand on my burning cheek. “Touché.”
The sound of “Yesterday”on my iPhone interrupts. I click it on.
“I’m up at the house,” Ed says.
“You’re home?”
“Well yes, I got your text about fulfilling my fantasies and thought that maybe—”
“Juanita said you’re at Lowes.”
“She said that I’m where?”
Call-waiting interrupts. DARLENE pops up. “Ed. Wait there, I’ll be right home.” I click back to my boss. “Hello.”
“I need you to come to my office
right away.” Her voice is throaty, hoarse, and barely recognizable.
“Now? It’s after five, and I have a personal matter—”
“Bob E.’s broken up with me. I have no one else to talk with,” she says morosely.
“I-I’m sorry, Darlene, can we meet in the morning?”
“It gets worse. Someone told my husband about our relationship. I have to ask. Was it you?”
“Of course not. Why would I do something like that?”
“I didn’t think so. But who else could it be?” she asks.
There’s only one person that is capable of that type of behavior, but I don’t tell Darlene. Not yet.
I fly out of the rental house. If my marriage is to survive, I must go home now.
Juanita dashes behind me yelling, “Don’t leave. I need for us to talk.”
I slide in the front seat of the Acura, slam the car door shut, and burn rubber as I take off down Frontier Trail. Juanita stands there with exhaust blowing in her face.
Against my better judgment, I turn onto Mopac Expressway and head north to the LBJ offices instead of home to Ed for our overdue reunion. It’s 5:22 p.m. I promise myself it’s just a ten-minute pit stop.
THERE ARE ONLY A FEW CARS in the parking lot as I maneuver the Acura into a space by the door of the Gartner building. When I arrive in Darlene’s office, she’s slumped in her chair, pecking haphazardly at the keyboard of her laptop. Her blonde hair, normally impeccably styled, is flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other. She smells like a college coed after a late night fraternity bash. Her vain attempt to cover the alcohol smell with Listerine and Lilac Cologne does not work. But who am I to judge?
She points at a white leather chair. “Have a seat, honey.” Her words are slurred. “Richard wants me to move out. He’s threatening to take full custody of the twins.”
I sit down, feeling my face tighten. “What happened?”
“He’s pissed and humiliated. Whoever told him about my affair with Bob E. left no detail to the imagination. It’s like someone was in the bedroom with us. We did some, you know, kinky things.”