“Pick a state,” she said with a smile.
Miss America was nearly her brother’s height, but slender and pale, with short curly chestnut hair. Her eyebrows were thick, the lashes long, and she was wearing her white manicurist uniform. Pinned just above her left breast was a stickpin bearing the image of Old Faithful above the word Yellowstone. Her earrings were tiny lumps of coal, rounded and glazed, with the letters W. Va. etched into them. Valentine’s first impression of her remained: there was something forlorn about Miss America, as if she had just that moment despaired of ever having the opportunity to hike up the slope of Mount St. Helens. On a manicurist’s tray around her neck was a platter bearing a number of small sandwiches, the crustless bread dyed a rainbow of pastels, and cut into the shape of all the continental United States.
Valentine picked up a pale blue Mississippi and bit into it—cream cheese and chives, also dyed blue, but tasty.
“I didn’t mean to make Mr. Fred abandon you out here,” said Miss America with a confiding smile. “It’s just that I get so nervous when he’s around liquor.”
“I see,” said Valentine blandly, not caring to pursue that matter.
“Mr. Fred used to be a terrible lush,” Miss America went on, “but he stopped drinking right after the apartment sale.”
Valentine looked over the tray for a second sandwich.
“Try Utah,” suggested Miss America. “That’s my favorite.”
Valentine picked up pink Utah and put it into his mouth—pimento spread.
“You see,” Miss America said, “one time I went to visit our aunt out in Worcester—about six and a half years ago, I guess—and I made the mistake of leaving Mr. Fred all alone. Well, Mr. Fred went out and got drunk on Friday night, but then on Saturday he ran out of money. So on Saturday afternoon he dragged all the furniture out onto the street, put up a for sale sign, and sold every stick of furniture we owned. We had wall-to-wall carpeting, and he pried it up off the floor. Then he spent all that money on Saturday night. When I came back on Sunday, the whole apartment was empty, and there was Fred, passed out in a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor.”
“Well,” said Valentine uncomfortably, “it looks like he’s over that stage.”
“Yes. Do you know that it was a bartender who got Mr. Fred to go to AA?”
“Is that right?” Valentine replied with vague interest.
“It certainly is. Not only did he get Fred dried out, but they became lovers, too. Unfortunately, it didn’t last.”
“Nothing does,” said Valentine philosophically.
“That’s for sure,” said Miss America darkly, pushing a yellow Connecticut toward Valentine with an exquisitely manicured finger. “Last year, Mr. Fred fell off the wagon and used the rent money to put a down payment on a chimpanzee. I have to keep an eye on Mr. Fred every minute. I hate to have to say it, but Mr. Fred is just not ready to deal with the world on the world’s terms. And that’s where I—”
Valentine was saved by the bell over the front door. Julia and Susie had come in. “Oh, excuse me,” said Miss America, and went to greet them.
Susie wore a severely tailored gold silk outfit designed in the style of a garage mechanic’s one-piece coveralls. A patch sewn above the breast pocket read, in crimson thread, Lube Jobs. Julia wore jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a many-zippered, -pocketed, and -belted black leather jacket. Her black motorcycle cap was drawn down so low that the brim cast her eyes in deep shadow. Julia’s fists were plunged deeply into the pockets of her jacket, and her elbows were thrust defiantly out.
“I hate parties,” Julia said to Miss America. “I hate meeting new people.”
“There’s nobody new here,” said Miss America mildly, looking around. “You already know Daniel. Clarisse is in the back. And that’s it. There’s nobody else. I wonder,” she went on doubtfully, “if I should have let Mr. Fred plan this whole thing…”
“Where’s the beer?” said Julia sharply.
“In the refrigerator in back,” said Miss America. “Mr. Fred!” she called quite loudly and very suddenly. “Here comes Julia. Give her a beer. Quick.”
Julia stalked off.
“Julia’s a little upset,” explained Susie with a sigh. “She spent the whole afternoon down at the bottom of the Harvard pool, and then they told her that the check would probably take six weeks to come through. Julia gets real upset about money sometimes. The problem is—”
The front bell rang again, and several more guests arrived: young women—white, black, Hispanic, and Oriental; overdressed, over-madeup, over-coiffed, certainly over-perfumed—and all known to Susie. In another few moments, Mr. Fred came out of the back of the shop with Julia and Clarisse.
By now, the bell over the front door rang continually as guests flooded in. It seemed as though they had waited in the Warren Avenue shadows for the correct, fashionable time to arrive. Several cops coming off duty wandered over to pay their respects. The prostitutes, who seemed to make up nearly all of Mr. Fred’s clientele, came. Members of the male leather fraternity—the Rubber Duckies—who availed themselves of Miss America’s closest cuticle-shearing, dropped by. Proprietors of several small local businesses, sculptors and painters from the Boston Center for the Arts, and neighbors from the area all came by to drink Mr. Fred’s punch and liquor and to nibble at Miss America’s pastel, geographical sandwiches.
Valentine brought a fresh drink to Clarisse and seated himself in the chair next to her in a small waiting area near the front.
“I shouldn’t have this,” she said, sipping it. “I plan to work later on this evening.”
“You know,” Valentine said, “I wondered if we’d get on each other’s nerves living so close together—seeing each other all the time…”
“We shared a house in P’town.”
“P’town was different,” he shrugged. “That’s a resort. This is the city. But I see less of you now than when we lived on opposite sides of Boston.”
“We’re both busy at different things,” said Clarisse. “Me with classes, you with Slate”—she paused significantly—“and with Linc.”
Valentine’s brow wrinkled. “You’re jealous? I thought you had gotten over all that.”
“I couldn’t live so close to you if I hadn’t,” said Clarisse with a little shrug. “I was just pointing out the fact that Linc has all but moved in with you. No, I’m not jealous. Though I have to admit it’s disconcerting to hear you two banging in at half past two on a Saturday night, drunk and happy, while I’m up there going blind, reading. Where is Mr. Hamilton, by the way?”
“He went to pick up some tile samples. He’s been working very hard.”
“He’s been working hard to please his employer,” Clarisse suggested. Then she glanced over Valentine’s shoulder toward the door of the shop. Valentine followed her gaze and saw Paul Ashe come in. His arm was around a tall, muscular, handsome, mustached man dressed in denim and plaid. Leaving Clarisse to fend for herself, Valentine stood and went over to them.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Ashes, “but we had to see a man about a crucifixion.”
Valentine smiled and nodded to Ashes’ companion.
“This is Joe,” said Ashes. “Joe, get me a drink, will you?”
“Oh, sorry…” said Joe, jumping to startled attention. He went off in search of the bar.
“Joe’s hot stuff,” remarked Valentine.
“He’s also a good bouncer,” said Ashes. “And we’re going to need one.”
“I don’t want to start hiring tricks and trade,” said Valentine doubtfully.
Ashes shook his head. “Neither do I. But Joe’s good. I worked with him in Newport. He’s as strong as he looks—and he always apologizes.”
“Apologizes?”
“Apologizes when he throws ’em out. ‘I’m really sorry, mister, but you’re drunk…’ Then wham, bang, out the door. In fact, some people call him Apologetic Joe.”
Joe returned with drinks, and as he handed one to As
hes he said to Valentine, “I know I wasn’t really invited, ’cause I’ve never even met Mr. Fred, but Ashes said…”
Someone jarred Joe’s arm and his drink sloshed onto Ashes’ boots. “Oh, Ashes, I’m sorry, I’m so—”
“Just wipe it up,” said Ashes casually, and went on talking to Valentine. “I was thinking today that we ought to fasten some heavy chains on the walls—shackles, that sort of thing. That’d be hot.”
“Would you like to donate a few items from your extensive collection?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard, Daniel?” said a snide voice behind and somewhat below them. “King Burn-Out here is dismantling his infamous medieval torture chamber.” Sweeney Drysdale II had pushed through the crowd and was suddenly standing in their midst.
“Does the Society for Historical Preservation know about this?” Valentine asked Ashes with mock alarm.
Joe bumped Sweeney as he rose from the floor where he had been wiping Ashes’ boot dry with a yellow kerchief. “Excuse me.”
“I hear,” Sweeney went on, looking up and regarding Joe with undisguised interest, “that Ashes is upgrading his life style. Hoisting it out of the gutter, as it were.” He turned smoothly to Ashes. “What are you going to do with that electric chair?” he asked. “And the stocks?”
“Those I’m keeping,” said Ashes, looking Sweeney straight in the eye. “Just waiting for the right person to drop by. Who invited you here, anyway?”
“Mr. Fred called me up and asked me,” returned Sweeney. “To give the party a little tone.” He adjusted his red glasses and looked around the shop. “And it looks as though it could use some. Be sure you read next week’s column—I’ll have an item in it about famous Mr. Fred’s infamous T ’n’ T. A big item,” he added seriously.
“I didn’t see an electric chair down there,” said Joe to Ashes. “I saw the stocks, but—”
“It’s called hyperbole,” interrupted Sweeney with a sigh. “I was hyperbolizing. Ex-ag-ger-a-ting,” he explained with a schoolmarmish smile.
Apologetic Joe’s expression darkened. He looked down at Sweeney. “I’m sorry to be rude, but why don’t you try folding up and disappearing?”
Sweeney was about to frame a reply but stopped when he saw the anger in Joe’s eyes. Instead, he shrugged and edged away into the crowd. “See you in the papers.”
Joe turned to Valentine and Ashes, all his anger suddenly drained away. “I really hate it when people talk down to me. People see my chest expansion, and they automatically talk down to me. People don’t talk down to Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’m going for a refill.” He moved off toward the bar.
Valentine was finishing a conversation with a District D policeman when Linc appeared at his side.
“You know him?” Linc asked, as the cop moved off toward the bar.
“To speak to,” said Valentine vaguely. He checked the wall clock. “What took you so long? I thought you were going to make a simple pick-up.”
“The tile place was in Acton. I got caught in traffic on Route Two.”
“Well, you’re here. Want to go dancing later on?”
“Sure, but we have to do a little business first. I left the samples for the floor tile next door. I have to get the order in tomorrow, so you’ll have to make a decision tonight on the ones you want.”
“Fine,” Valentine agreed. “You know, I was thinking about that today, and—”
“Well,” said Sweeney Drysdale II, suddenly appearing beneath Linc’s upraised elbow, “eyes of an angel, mouth of a cherub. Body by Nautilus.”
He stepped around so that he was pressed against Linc and Valentine. Then he pushed back a little, smiled, and remarked to Valentine, while keeping his eyes on Linc, “Well, if it’s not Mr. Right, it’s certainly Mr. More-Than-Adequate.”
“I thought you’d left,” said Valentine.
“My name’s—” Linc began.
Sweeney eagerly grabbed Linc’s hand.
“Linc. I know. You’re the one who’s so handy with tools,” he said, as his eyes fell heavily from Linc’s face and down his body, as if dragged irresistibly toward his crotch. Sweeney’s gaze lingered there a moment, just below his eye level. Then he looked up suddenly. “Are those blond tresses naturally curly, or did Mr. Fred give you one of his famous perm- and blow-jobs?”
“You’re being vulgar,” remarked Valentine.
Unruffled, Sweeney asked, “Tell me, Daniel, do you pay this young man by the hour?”
Linc’s mouth dropped, and Sweeney winked at him before stepping away.
“Are you having a good time?” asked Clarisse, stopping Linc with a hand on his arm. She had been talking to Mr. Fred, and Mr. Fred had asked her for an introduction to the carpenter.
Linc stopped and said, “Yes, it’s a very nice party.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Fred.
Clarisse introduced the two men.
“Oh, I’ve seen you going in and out next door all day long. You must work very hard.”
Linc laughed. “Oh, I do. There’s a lot of work to be done before New Year’s.”
“I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful. Daniel showed me what you’ve done, and the place already looks a hundred percent better. Have you always been a carpenter?”
Linc shook his head. “No. In school I was pre-med. But I decided that I didn’t want to have to deal with that kind of pressure.”
“Where did you go to school?” asked Clarisse curiously.
“Tulane—all the way down in New Orleans,” said Linc. “I had a full scholarship.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t have afforded to go to college any other way. See,” he said, blushing slightly, “my family was very poor—this was up in Lewiston, Maine—and they weren’t even going to be able to afford to send me to Orono. So when I got that scholarship, it was like the whole world opening up.”
“I bet it was,” said Clarisse sympathetically. “Did you like New Orleans? That must have been a bit of a change after a New England mill town.”
“A decaying New England mill town,” said Linc, with a trace of bitterness. “Yes, I loved New Orleans. I came out there. I had my first lover there.”
“The first love is always the greatest,” sighed Mr. Fred.
“It’s never the same after the first time.”
“No,” said Linc seriously, “it isn’t. I was really in love, too. I was young, but that didn’t matter.”
“What happened?” asked Mr. Fred. “Did he die?”
Clarisse looked about uncomfortably. The conversation had suddenly taken a disconcertingly melodramatic turn. She had promised herself that she would have only one drink this evening, but she was now on her third. She wondered if she shouldn’t slug down the rest of it and go after another one in order to avoid the remainder of this exchange. No, she decided, she’d stick it out.
“No,” said Linc, “but he was into S&M, and I wasn’t, so every time he felt he needed it, he went somewhere else to get it.”
Linc glanced at Clarisse as if he expected her to say something. “Life is very often like that,” she muttered.
“He didn’t lie about it or make up stories or anything like that; he just told me outright that he was tricking with these S&M people. I couldn’t take it. So after I graduated, I packed up and came back to New England—and I became a carpenter.”
“What a sad story!” exclaimed Mr. Fred. “Do you still sometimes think about your friend?”
“All the time,” Linc said, shaking his head sadly. “In fact—”
Clarisse suddenly threw back the rest of her drink, said, “Excuse me” in a strangled voice, and made her way toward the bar.
Mr. Fred and Linc continued in earnest conversation.
“Where is Susie?” Julia demanded of Valentine. “I want to get out of this place.”
“Over by the door,” Valentine said as he headed that way.
“Let’s go,” shouted Julia when she was less than ten feet from Susie, who was in boisterous conversation with three fri
ends.
Susie turned, not pleased with Julia’s demand. “I want to stay.” Susie’s three friends seemed suddenly ill at ease with Julia among them.
“Susie, let’s go!”
Susie planted her feet firmly on Mr. Fred’s purple linoleum floor. “Julia,” she said poutingly, “you are acting like a white woman!” Over her shoulder, Susie said hastily to one of her three friends, “No offense, Patsy.” She took a deep breath and said with forced calmness, “Go back home if you’re tired, Julia, but I want to stay here and convene with my co-horts. I’m not tired.”
“You’re not tired,” Julia snapped, “’cause you don’t do nothin’ all day ’cept sit at home on your spreadin’ ass watchin’ TV and waitin’ for that goddamn phone to ring.”
Patsy, in defense of Susie, suddenly reached out and yanked the brim of Julia’s cap down over her eyes. Blinded, Julia gasped and swung out with her fist. Susie ducked and Valentine caught Julia’s arm, bringing it down smoothly into the crook of his elbow. To an unsuspecting eye it appeared a friendly gesture. Susie’s three friends scattered into the crowd.
“Susie,” Valentine said with calm authority, “take Julia home.” He released Julia.
Susie roughly pulled up the motorcycle cap. “Fighting in Mr. Fred’s shop,” she said in disgust.
“You know I hate meeting people,” complained Julia.
Susie’s anger melted abruptly, and as they made their way toward the door, she put her arm around Julia’s shoulder. Sweeney Drysdale II held the door open for them.
“Come on, honey,” said Susie, ignoring Sweeney. “We’ll go watch that new wrestling tape I made on Saturday. Big John Studd and the Animal versus the Mighty Aztec Twins—it’s hot.”
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