“With this over, I thought you’d go back to hating me,” he said.
“You and Billy both, for damn good reason.”
“Well. That’s sort of what I meant.”
“Got a light?” she asked, hardly able to stifle a laugh. It was actually quite a lame attempt.
“You don’t smoke,” said Walter.
“I know, but it seemed like a good line. I guess I flubbed it.” Tucker Poesy was wearing the same tiny yellow bikini she wore on the beach in Puerto Rico. The low-cut, tattered and torn jean shorts barely hid the bottoms. He caught himself thinking, if her ass looked good-and it did-her legs looked great.
“Costs a pretty penny, I bet, to get a pair of jeans as ripped up as those.”
“You like them, huh?” She smiled at him, more seductively than he’d ever seen from her. He couldn’t help himself now. She excited him, and he couldn’t hide it, and it pleased her.
She glanced down, down at his pants. Did her eyes say things to him he wanted to hear? “I thought I’d take a Caribbean holiday. This is a nice little island here,” she said. “I think I might stick around awhile.”
“What do you want?” asked Walter.
“Woody Allen and Mariel Hemingway,” Helen spoke up from near the middle of the bar, as she moved bottles of vodka and tequila from one place to another behind her. “Unlikely and unsavory too.”
“I know that one,” Tucker Poesy volunteered. “Manhattan.”
“That’s right. Creepy, wasn’t it?” Helen asked.
“Didn’t see it,” Billy piped up. He had been down at the other end of the bar. But when he saw Tucker Poesy walk in, he edged his way toward Walter. Billy’s eyes met Tucker’s. It was still a source of embarrassment for him.
“Are you paying now?” he asked in a voice so low she could hardly hear him.
“Never,” she said with a warm grin. “Never.”
Billy turned and put his arm around Helen, kissed her very gently, smack on the lips, and offered his opinion. “Sonny and Cher.”
“You like Cher?” Helen asked, with a note of amazement. “I always knew you preferred your women meek and mild, slightly abused even,” she smiled coyly, “but I never figured you for gay.”
“No one knows better than you, huh?” laughed Billy.
“Well, actually,” said Tucker, “my favorite is really Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett-there was a pair.”
“Unlikely, but not unsavory,” said Walter. “And Lyle Lovett’s kind of cute too, in his own way.” He looked quickly at Tucker Poesy. “I didn’t know girls like you had time for movies and music,” he said.
“All work and no play makes Tucker a dull girl, don’t you think?” she laughed.
“What about,” Walter began, “Michael Jackson and whatshername? Elvis’ daughter?”
“Priscilla?” said Billy.
“That’s his wife,” Helen interjected. “Walter means Lisa Marie.”
“Yeah, right,” Walter said. “What about them? Weird and weirder, no?”
“People who don’t fit,” said Helen.
“People who look like they don’t fit,” corrected Tucker. Helen actually winked at her after that.
“Well, that’s too many,” said Billy. You have to pick one, just one.” Billy looked at his friend with noticeable trepidation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ike’s empty table. This was the first time they’d done this since the old man died. “Just one,” he repeated.
“Okay,” said Walter. “I’ll take…”
“Hey, you guys, what about Marilyn Monroe? Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller?”
“Who’s he, Helen?” said Billy. “Arthur who?”
“Playwright, Billy,” Tucker said, reaching over and taking a sip of Walter’s drink. “The Misfits. We’ve all got a bit of misfit in us, don’t we?”
Billy mumbled something none of them could understand and then Walter spoke up again. “Okay, I’m taking Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. What the hell was she doing with him? You ever look closely at Bogart? Acne.”
“Great,” said Billy. Quickly, he moved toward the blank chalkboard. He seemed in a hurry to get this done. “You got Bergman amp; Bogart, and I got Sonny amp; Cher.” And that’s just how he wrote it.
“Ike and Tina?” offered a giggling Tucker.
“That’s not so funny,” Helen said. “That woman had a devil of a time, and came out on top too, God bless her.”
“We need one more. We do, don’t we?” Billy spoke tentatively, again looking around for help. Arched eyebrows and arms outstretched, he looked to Tucker Poesy.
“No, no,” she said. Then she locked one arm around Walter’s, patted him on the shoulder and gently snuggled against him. “I’m with him,” she laughed.
“You are?” he asked, quite understandably amazed.
“Just kidding,” Tucker whispered. “I haven’t made up my mind. I might fuck you. I might kill you. I might do both. By the way, Walter, where’s the Lacey Confession?”
“Is that what you want? I could tell you that,” he whispered back, smiling all the while. He kissed her on her cheek. “But I’d have to kill you then, wouldn’t I?”
“Helen?” said Billy. “You got one? Or should we just go with two from now on?”
“Hold your horses, Billy boy,” Helen said. “We’re not finished yet.”
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The Lacey confession l-2 Page 37