“Whatever,” said Brian.
“Exactly.” She blinked at him for a moment, then chucked him affectionately under the chin. “Some guys don’t recognize a friendly fuck when it’s staring ‘em right in the face.”
Give a Little Whistle
VUITTON BOUNDED DOWN THE FAMILIAR SLOPE AND barked joyously at the door of the shack. Luke emerged almost immediately and greeted his former companion.
“Whitey, ol’ boy … well, look who’s back!” He glanced up at Prue, who found herself vaguely embarrassed about invading the intimacy of this reunion. “I’ve missed this ol’ boy,” he said.
She smiled a little awkwardly. “It looks like he missed you, too.”
“Happy Memorial Day,” grinned Luke.
“Same to you.”
“The coffee’s on, if …”
“I’d be delighted,” said Prue. Now, she realized, she felt almost privileged to be asked, like a little girl from a fairy tale who had earned the confidence of the troll who lived under the village bridge.
Luke was no troll, however. If you discounted his seedy clothes and his rustic surroundings, he was quite a striking man, really. His amber skin and high cheekbones suggested … what? … Indian blood?
She followed him into the shack and sat down on the big chunk of foam rubber. Vuitton remained outside, chasing small animals through the underbrush. When Prue called to him, Luke advised her: “He knows his way around. Don’t worry about him. He’ll be back when you want him.” He handed the columnist a mug of steaming coffee, catching her eye as he did so. “He’s home now.”
Prue faltered for a moment, then looked down at her coffee. “This smells marvelous.”
“Good. Glad you like it.”
“By the way, Luke … uh, you haven’t run across a little silver whistle, have you?”
Smiling, he opened a cigar box on the shelf above the fire. He handed her the Tiffany trinket.
Prue glowed. “Thank heavens. I’m so sentimental about this silly thing. My husband gave it to me when we were divorced.”
“You dropped it on the ledge. I was saving it for you.”
“I’m so glad. Thank you so much.”
There was something gentle and boyish in his eyes when he looked at her. “It’s good protection for a woman. I was worried about you not having it. There’s a lot of crazy folks running around these days.” He smiled, revealing teeth that were surprisingly even and white. “I guess a lot of people would take me for crazy, huh?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Prue.
“You did,” Luke replied, without malice. “It’s natural. People judge people by the houses they live in, the clothes they wear. It takes a little longer to look into the heart, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Prue, “I guess it does.” She looked down, then blew on her coffee, touched and embarrassed by such an accurate assessment of their first encounter.
“Do you know who trusts me?” asked Luke.
Prue flushed. “Luke, I’m sorry. I trust you. I was just …” She threw up her hands, unable to finish.
Luke’s smile was forgiving. “Besides you, I mean?”
She shook her head.
“Watch,” said Luke, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He drummed his fingers on the packed earth floor. “Chipper, Jack, Dusty …”
Right on cue, three chipmunks scampered from under the bed and climbed onto Luke’s hand. He lifted them to his face and nuzzled them. “These fellows trust me. The buffalo down the road trust me. So do the raccoons over by Rainbow Falls.” He let the tiny creatures down again. “I’m nice to humans, too, but I don’t do so well with them. It’s just a question of knowing where your talent lies, I guess.”
Prue was captivated. She reached down to touch the chipmunks, but they scurried under the bed again. “I see what you mean,” she said.
“I used to have a whole flock of humans,” said Luke.
“What do you mean?”
“A congregation,” smiled Luke.
“You were a preacher?”
Luke nodded. “People are the hardest way to find God, though. It’s easier out here with the animals … and the beauty. Sometimes there’s so much beauty it makes me want to cry.” His white teeth shone at her again. “See what I mean? Crazy as all get-out.”
“I don’t think that’s crazy,” Prue replied. “What happened to your congregation?”
Luke shrugged. “They left me … lost the faith. No one wants to find God anymore.”
Prue stared at him, tears in her eyes. “Luke … if I … would you mind if I … helped you tell your story?”
“Tell who?”
“The people … the public.”
“You’re a reporter?”
“No. Not exactly. Just a writer. You can trust me, Luke, I promise.”
He looked at her for a long time, then lifted his big calloused finger and brushed the tear from her eye. “You are filled with God,” he said.
Meeting
MICHAEL STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF THE SCREENING room and studied the two giants kneeling over film cans in the corner. They looked like Vikings ransacking a wine cellar, but their laughter was so intense and so intimate that an outsider might have come to the erroneous conclusion that they were still lovers.
_______held up a film can so Ned could read the label. “What about this one?”
“I dunno,” answered the nurseryman. “I kinda doubt it.”
The movie star smiled ruefully. “Me too. I screened it for some teenyboppers the other day and they were all in hysterics by the time we got to the hayfork scene.”
“You were great in the hayfork scene.”
“My lats were great in the hayfork scene.”
“Fuckin’ A! And they’ll appreciate that. Play to your audience, man!” Ned rapped_______’s chest with the back of his hand.
“Well,” said______, “maybe it’ll keep ‘em outa the bushes. Mr. Shigeda will have my ass if his begonias get crushed. Where did they come from anyway?”
Ned shrugged. “Santa Monica Boulevard, for all I know. Guido said that Charles told him that Les thought it would be a hot idea.”
“And God knows,” laughed________, “Les can round ‘em up quicker than Selective Service.”
Ned laughed with him. “My friend Michael is out there somewhere.”
Michael saw an entrance and raised his hand. “Uh … present and accounted for.”
Two heads turned instantly in Michael’s direction. Both of them smiled at him. Michael stepped forward hastily and extended his hand. “I’m Michael Tolliver,” he said. “This is a great party.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I don’t know anybody, of course, but …”
“Here’s a handy guideline,” grinned_______. “The blonds are all named Scott. The brunettes are all named Grant. Now you know everybody. Except me. I’m________.”
Michael nodded. “The suspense wasn’t killing me.”
________looked at Ned. “You two aren’t married, huh?”
“No way,” said the nurseryman, winking at Michael.
“He needs a lover,” _______told Michael. “Find a lover for him, will you?”
“He turns them away every week,” said Michael.
“Is that right?” asked________.
Ned shrugged. “I like being single. Lots of people like being single. Michael likes being single.” He looked to his friend for confirmation of this fact.
“He likes being a slut,” said Michael.
________roared, then crooked his arm around Ned’s head and kissed his naked scalp. “I love this slut,” he said. “Hey … how bout a house tour, you guys?”
“I think I’ll pass,” said Ned.
“Hot date?” asked ______.
Ned nodded, smiling. “Somebody named Scott.”
The matinee idol turned to Michael. “What about you?”
“Sure,” said Michael. “I’m game.”
The house tour included an extensive
film library, the pool and cabanas, a terraced garden under the deck off the pool, and the upstairs bedrooms. In the bedroom, ________ flung open the French windows overlooking the guests. “The movie should start in a minute. That’ll quiet things down.”
“What’s the movie?” asked Michael.
The actor made a face. “__________. Pure crapola, if you ask me.”
“I’ve never seen it,” Michael admitted.
“There’s a reason for that,” grinned__________.
Michael looked at him directly for the first time. “I think you put yourself down too much. Those guys must be down there for something.”
“Who?”
“All those … Scotts and Grants. That must tell you something. If you’re fooling people about your talent, at least you’re fooling a lot of them.” Michael smiled suddenly, embarrassed by his own audacity. “If you ask me, that is.”
The movie star appraised him jovially. “You work with Ned at the nursery, huh?”
“Right.”
“And you guys sing together in some sort of group?”
“Uh-huh.” Michael couldn’t hide his pride. “The Gay Men’s Chorus. We’re touring nine cities beginning next week.”
The movie star frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand that.”
“What?”
“Why some people make such a big deal out of being gay.”
Michael hesitated. He’d heard this line countless times before, usually from older gay men like ______ who had suffered silently for years while other people made a big deal out of their homosexuality. “We just want to make it easier for people,” he said at last. “Easier for straight people to like us. Easier for gay people to be proud of their heritage.”
______chuckled ruefully. “Their heritage, huh?”
Michael felt himself bristling. “That’s a good enough word, I think.” He looked at the movie star and smiled. “You’re part of it, incidentally.”
DeDe
THE WOMAN WHO STOOD THERE WAS ALMOST A STRANGER, not at all the marshmallow-plump post-debutante that Mary Ann remembered from days gone by.
This woman was wiry and brown, with long, sun-bleached hair that flowed down her back in a ponytail. Dressed up in one of her old shirtwaists—vintage 1975 or so—she seemed as awkward as a desert island castaway attempting to walk in shoes again.
Mary Ann was speechless. She stared at DeDe, then turned back to Mrs. Halcyon, slackmouthed. “I can’t … I never dreamed …”
Mrs. Halcyon beamed, obviously delighted with the impact she had made. “You two need to get acquainted again. I’ll leave you alone for a while. If you need anything, Emma can help you.” The matriarch squeezed her daughter’s arm, pecked her on the cheek, and entered the house through the double doors on the terrace.
Mary Ann fumbled for words again, advancing clumsily to embrace the apparition that confronted her. “I’m so glad,” she murmured, almost on the verge of tears. “I’m so glad, DeDe.”
She was glad mostly that someone could have a happy ending to the Jonestown tragedy. She had never known DeDe very well; she had simply been the boss’s daughter. And Beauchamp’s wife. The two women, in fact, had seen each other last at Beauchamp’s funeral, where neither had made a particularly visible display of grief.
Mary Ann let go of DeDe, suddenly remembering: “Oh … the twins?”
DeDe smiled. “Upstairs. Sleeping.”
“Thank God.”
“Yes.”
“And … D’orothea?”
“She’s in Havana,” said DeDe.
They sipped wine by the pool while DeDe told her story.
“D’orothea and I joined the Temple in Guyana in 1977. The twins were just babies, but I wanted them to grow up in a place without prejudice. Their father was Chinese. I suppose you know that.”
Mary Ann nodded. The whole town knew it.
“I don’t expect you to believe this, but I actually felt a sense of purpose in Jonestown that I had never felt before. For a while, anyway. On my third day there Jones held a catharsis session and made me stand up and explain …”
“A catharsis session?”
“That was his term. They were nights when he called us together and made us confess our sins. When I stood up, he said: ‘O.K., Miss Rich Bitch, what is it that you think you can do for the revolution?’ I knew I couldn’t lie to him, so I told him I had no skills, and he said: ‘You buy things, don’t you?’ So that’s what I ended up doing. I became a kind of procurement officer for Jonestown.”
“What was your schedule like?”
“Well, twice a week I took the Cudjoe, this little shrimp boat that belonged to the Temple. I caught it in Port Kaituma …”
“I’m afraid I don’t know …”
“The nearest village. On the Barima River. The airstrip is there. Where they killed the congressman.”
Mary Ann nodded gravely.
“It was six hours from Port Kaituma to Kumaka, where I did most of my shopping. I supervised the loading of the Cudjoe, foodstuffs mostly. That took about three hours, and we always headed back the same day. The captain was a man named William Duke, who didn’t work for the Temple but was … uh, sympathetic. He was a Communist, the PPP representative in Port Kaituma, and he liked me and adored the twins. Several days before … it happened, Captain Duke took me into his cabin and told me about the hundred-pound drum he had on the fantail. It was full of potassium cyanide.”
Mary Ann winced. “Jesus.”
“Thank God for that little guy,” said DeDe. “Thank God for that crummy job. I never would’ve known otherwise.” A hunted look came into her eyes.
“Well,” said Mary Ann, trying to help, “it’s over now. You’re home and you’re safe.”
DeDe finished off the last of the wine, then set the bottle down with a frown that suggested anything but safe at home. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I need some more of this before we continue.”
Meanwhile …
JENNIFER RABINOWITZ SAT UP IN BED AND PUT HER BRA back on. “Was that great weed or what?”
“Mmm.”
“My friend Scooter gets it directly from Jamaica. He says Bob Marley used to smoke the stuff. It’s like … official reggae grass or something.”
“Rastafarian grass.”
“Right. That’s the word. I think I could get into that, couldn’t you?” She was on her hands and knees now, feeling under the covers for her pantyhose.
“What? The religion?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s a pretty terrific religion. They smoke enormous joints and dance their asses off and support equal opportunity and all that.”
“They also think Haile Selassie was God. Is God.”
“Yeah. I know. I’d have a problem with that, I guess.” She considered the issue as she wriggled into her pantyhose. “Still … it might be worth it for the grass. Do you see my skirt on your side?”
He shook his head slowly. “The other room.”
“Riiight. I am such a space case.” She bounded out of bed, stopping suddenly when she reached the door. “Look,” she said earnestly, cocking her head, “if it looks like I’m tossing you out, I guess I am. I’ve got Dancercise at four, and this wasn’t exactly an official date.”
“No problem,” he said.
“You’re a great guy. I’ve had a swell time.” She was hopping on one foot now, pulling on a pump. “And I know how whory this looks, believe me.”
He laughed. “I’ve had a great time, too.”
“Can I drop you off somewhere?”
“No thanks. I live in the neighborhood.”
“What’s your last name, by the way?”
“Smith.”
“John Smith. For real?”
He nodded rather dolefully. “I’m afraid so.”
“That’s a riot. We should check into a hotel sometime.”
He let her joke slide by. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again at the Balboa.”
“Sure,” she said
cheerfully. “Maybe so. It’s been great. Really. I was feeling kind of bummed out when you met me.”
The Saga Continues
A ROBIN WAS TRILLING IN A TREETOP AT HALCYON Hill—an odd accompaniment, indeed, for a story as grisly as this one.
“Wait a minute,” said Mary Ann. “How could you be sure that the cyanide was intended for … for what he used it for?”
“I knew,” DeDe replied grimly. “If you were there, you knew. Captain Duke was even more certain than I was. He also knew about Dad’s fixation with the twins, and he knew that …”
“Your father was …?”
“My father?”
“You said Dad.”
DeDe grimaced. “I meant him. Jones. We called him Dad, some of us.” She shuddered, sitting there in the sunshine, then smiled wanly at Mary Ann. “If that doesn’t give you the creeps, nothing will.”
The flesh on Mary Ann’s arm had already pebbled. She held it up so DeDe could see.
DeDe continued: “The point is … Jones was obsessed with my children. He called them his little third world wonders. He saw them as the hope of the future, the living embodiment of the revolution. Sometimes he would single them out at the day-care center and sing little songs to them. I knew he wouldn’t leave without taking them.” She looked directly into Mary Ann’s eyes. “I knew he wouldn’t kill himself without killing them.”
Mary Ann nodded, mesmerized.
“So I discussed it with D’orothea and we planned the escape … with Captain Duke’s help. We left on a regular morning run to Kumaka. Sometimes D’orothea would go along with me, so nobody was particularly suspicious. The twins, of course, had to be sneaked on board when nobody was looking. When we got to Kumaka we took on supplies, then we just kept on going down the river to a village called Morawhanna, where Captain Duke bribed the captain of the Pomeroon, a freighter that made regular trips between Morawhanna and Georgetown … usually with fish on board.”
“Uh … dead fish, you mean?”
DeDe shook her head. “Tropical fish. It’s a big export item in Guyana. They had these big tin drums on board for the fish, and some of them were empty, so we hid out in two of them until we reached Georgetown. Twenty-four hours later.”
Further Tales of the City Page 9