by Marta Acosta
“That’s true, but I can’t be seen with just anybody. What else do you have?”
“What do you know about clothes?”
“When you model, you learn how to put together a look.”
“Fine,” I said, and showed him my meager stock of clothes.
He looked dissatisfied and said, “This is all hopeless. How do you expect to get a boyfriend dressing like a slag?”
“I already have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, right, Eugene, the blood sports dude.”
“Oswald, and he’s very normal.”
“Whatever.” He went to his closet and pulled out a white linen shirt. “Wear this.”
“With what? Slacks or a skirt?”
“Just heels.”
“I am not wearing a shirt by itself and showing all my girly bits to the world.”
Thomas called me a prude, a priss, repressed, and uptight. He finally compromised and loaned me a pair of white silk boxers that I wore over my own panties. I asked, “Are you sure people will think these are shorts?”
“All you ever think about is yourself.” He buckled one of Nancy’s fancy belts around the shirt and adjusted it. Then he pulled the elastic band off my neat ponytail and said, “Bend over and hang your head upside down.”
Thomas used half a bottle of Paragon’s nonaerosol Shine and Hold spray to turn my hair into a tousled mane. He touched up my makeup, smudging eyeliner, dusting bronzer, highlighting, and shadowing the contours of my face. By the time he was done I looked like the sort of hot, pouty, edgy girl who would date an actor.
“I guess you’ll have to do,” he said. He took my arm and we walked to the Paragon. “What kind of massage did you get today?”
“Deep tissue. Have you heard about something called the Paragon Diamond Club? They have private lounges here. I wonder how much people have to pay for that.”
“I never worry about those things. I’m Thomas Cook—everybody wants me in their private room,” he said, forgetting that until recently he’d been banned from the Paragon.
Gigi had taken over the bistro courtyard for her cocktail party. Dozens of glass lamps glowed in jewel colors of turquoise, amethyst, ruby, and topaz. The bistro tables were gone and long, rough-hewn wooden tables held ceramic platters of food and earthenware pitchers of red wine. Rugs had been scattered over the courtyard and there were piles of bright pillows on them and low benches with cushions. In a corner, a man played a zither and sang a haunting, droning song in a language I couldn’t identify.
Gigi left a circle of guests and came to us. She was wearing a gauzy emerald-green paisley-print caftan over skintight pants. She wore gold sandals and jangling gold necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. “Thomas, you gorgeous animal!” she said, and wrapped him in her arms.
They looked into each other’s eyes and he said, “Gigi, why aren’t you in the movies?”
“I am, Thomas, and if you’re good, I’ll let you see them someday.” She laughed smuttily, then looked at me. “Milagro, sweetie, thank you for bringing Thomas. Ian would just eat you up in that outfit.”
“Um, thanks. And thank you for inviting us. This is amazing,” I said as I looked around. “I can’t believe there’s someone playing a zither. I just heard zither music on the score of The Third Man.”
“It was a surprise to me, too,” Gigi said. “I’d mentioned something to the manager before I came, so he put this together.” Leaning toward me, she confided, “I don’t know half the guests, but they’re members of the Diamond Club, so I’m sure they’re wonderful.”
If the high rollers were here, there was a chance that the Gabriel clone would show up. I let Gigi and Thomas flirt with each other because I wanted to keep watch for the mystery man, and I also wanted to sample the sangria and food.
At one of the tables, a waiter was carving a leg of lamb so rare that the blood pooled on the cutting board beneath it. “Some of the lamb and wine, please,” I said to him.
Perhaps at the ranch they were having a drink now and maybe missing me. I missed them.
As the waiter cut thin slices of meat and placed them on flat-bread for me, I noticed how the rest of the food would have made my vampire friends happy. There were bowls of red berries, beet and goat cheese salad, a shredded red cabbage dish, gingered carrots, potatoes sprinkled with paprika, and smoked red peppers. I hovered near the table, grabbing small bites and listening to the conversations around me.
I felt uneasy all of a sudden, as if someone was behind me. When I turned, there was no one nearby. But at the far edge of the party, away from everyone else, was the bandaged man in the wheelchair. Even though he wore dark glasses, I had the feeling he was watching me. Maybe Thomas was right and I did think everything was about myself.
I tried to make conversation with an older man standing near me, and I thought he was really interested in my opinion about free trade agreements. Then his hand went to my thigh and he lurched forward, saying, “You have nice skin and so much of it.”
I jumped away, stopping the flood of grisly images and said, “If you want to keep yours, you won’t touch me again.” Flustered, I quickly returned to the actor and the socialite.
Thomas was holding hands with Gigi, saying, “You’ll come to the premiere, promise me?” and smiling full-wattage.
“Only if you promise to think about doing a commercial for Barton tissue,” she said. “Milagro, dear, are you two…” She looked at Thomas and raised her eyebrows.
“We’re not,” I said quickly. “We are business associates.”
“Milagro’s my assistant,” Thomas said blithely. “Milagro, get me a glass of wine and a plate of vegetables.” He began leading Gigi to a cluster of people who were laughing.
I was assembling His Majesty’s refreshments when someone behind me cleared his throat loudly. I turned to see Bernie carrying a beat-up brown paper shopping bag, a six-pack of beer, and a jar of dry-roasted peanuts. “Thought I’d surprise you with our own happy hour, but I see you’ve found something better.” He put the beer and the peanuts on a table.
“How’d you find us?”
“I’m a reporter.” He poured a glass of wine, then followed me as I walked to Thomas and Gigi. Bernie smiled engagingly at the blond heiress and said, “Hi, I’m Bernard Vines.”
“Bernie, this is Gigi Barton,” I said. “Bernie writes for the Weekly Exposition.”
“I do,” he said proudly. “Barton as in Barton tissue paper? You’re nothing to sneeze at.” Gigi actually thought this was funny.
I handed Thomas the food and wine and told Gigi, “Thomas treats me like his assistant, but I am really here to work on a screenplay.”
“I thought you were a gardener,” Gigi said. “That’s what I want to talk about. Later.”
“You garden, Milagro?” Bernie asked.
“Yes, among other things,” I said. “How’s your chupacabra hunt going?”
“When I went there after school, the sheep was gone.”
I gave him an I-told-you-so look. “The coyotes that killed it dragged it off.”
“The dingo took my baybee!” Thomas shrieked in falsetto with an Australian accent.
“What’s a chupa whatever?” Gigi asked.
“It’s a creature out of Latin American folklore that kills goats,” Bernie said. “We heard some strange animal in the desert the other night, and we found a sheep’s carcass all torn up. I looked around and didn’t see any drag marks or footprints other than ours.”
I shook my head and said, “Whatever, Deerslayer.”
“Go ahead and mock me with your freshman English references,” Bernie said with a grin. “You did a good job on those essays.”
We were an unlikely quartet, but somehow the conversation flowed and before I knew it an hour had gone by. “Gigi, how long will you be here?” I asked.
“As long as it’s interesting,” she said with a flirty smile toward Thomas and Bernie. “I come a few times a year for the rejuvenating treatments. The Parag
on’s so innovative, and I’ll try anything once.”
I thought she was exhibiting ho-ish activity, but who was I to judge? Thomas got whisked away by admirers, and Gigi eased up to Bernie. She was at least three inches taller than him, and with her heels, she towered over him. “Tell me more about celebrity scandals,” she said.
The groups of guests shifted and for a second I was staring right at the man in the wheelchair. “I think I’ll turn in,” I said. “Thanks for everything, Gigi. See you later.”
I took a last look around the party, hoping to see the redheaded man, but he wasn’t here. As I walked back to the casita, I looked up at the stars and thought about Oswald. Perhaps he was sleeping in a hot, humid shack, too exhausted and dusty to think about the petty problems of his girlfriend and family.
The phone was ringing as I walked in the door. I ran inside and answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Hello, Milagro?” Static broke up the line and made Oswald’s voice sound different.
“Oswald, I was just thinking about you.”
I heard: “[crackle] called [cackle crackle] last [crackle crackle] answered [crackle]. Where [crackle crackle] at?”
“When you called last time I answered faster? I was just outside. I was looking at the stars and wondering if you could see them, too, Oz.”
I definitely heard “ook,” which I took to mean that he would look at them and think of me. “Oz, I love you. Te amo like crazy.”
The line died before he could answer.
Every time I began drifting off to sleep, my thoughts jumbled tonight’s zither music with the vampire’s chewing-metal language. I kept seeing the laden tables at Gigi’s party and Silas’s altar merging together, until I was on the table surrounded by pitchers of blood and the velvet drapes of the Diamond Club room were closing in.
I was grateful when Thomas finally stumbled into the room. He threw off his clothes and bumped into furniture on his way to the bathroom. “Thomas, are you okay?”
“Fine!”
I got up and fetched him a bottle of water from the kitchen. I put it on his bed table and called out, “Do you want some aspirin?”
“Just sleep.”
Okay, I thought, have a massive hangover in the morning. When he came to bed, he mumbled, “This way,” and I obligingly turned toward him, hoping he wasn’t going to get frisky. He took my hand and twined our fingers.
“Tell me the story,” I said.
He mumbled the story about sleeping under the desk, and I could have sworn that his breath smelled like hot chocolate.
I was out so soundly that I didn’t hear the phone ring. I only woke when Thomas pulled his hand from mine and reached over me to answer my phone.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Hello?” He dropped the phone on my chest and said, “No one there.”
I took it anyway and said, “Hello.”
Whoever was on the other end hung up. I told myself that it was probably the wrong number and fell back asleep.
Seventeen
Flash, Cash, and Stash
I sipped a blood and tomato juice cocktail as I talked on the phone with Skip about the screenplay. Through the window, I could see Thomas doing laps in the pool. I had an attack of adolescent celebrity worship at the sight of his brown naked body moving through the water.
I mentioned Thomas’s progress to Skip, and he said, “Actors are like that. They’re used to abusing themselves and bouncing back quickly.”
I thought I would take advantage of my massage to nose around the Paragon. Perhaps my time with Edna’s family had made me as suspicious as they, but I had the troubling feeling that I was just missing something important.
First, though, I checked in with the concierge. “Hi,” I said to Charles. “I was hoping to hear something about my truck.”
“I apologize for not contacting you earlier,” he said obsequiously. “The mechanic called, saying that the damage to your vehicle is major.”
The truck was used, but I had recently taken it in for its annual inspection. “I just had a full maintenance done on it,” I said.
He blinked. “Oh, it wasn’t a maintenance problem.” He seemed to be trying to remember something. “He said that maybe you ran over a large rock or road debris and that damaged the undercarriage.”
“The undercarriage?” I had no idea what an undercarriage was, but I liked the word.
“Yes, the undercarriage.”
“Okay, can you find out when the work will be completed, please?”
He told me that parts had to be ordered from the East Coast. “If you approve, I’ll tell the mechanic to proceed.”
“Yes, go ahead. And, Charles, thanks for all your help.”
He smiled broadly. “Glad to assist.”
Then I poked around for a glimpse of my dear Gabriel or his clone. I visited the seven shops, including the gift shop for children, where I bought a cute tiny onesie for Libby. I peeked in the restaurant and the café, checked out the bar, walked through the bistro, and made my way to the steaming mineral pools outdoors.
I went down the corridor to the Diamond Club, but the entrance was closed. Maybe Triveni would know something.
As I walked to my treatment room in the massage center, I glanced through a doorway and saw a room with interesting stacks of laundry, including the dark maroon of maids’ uniforms.
Triveni spent more time on our breathing sessions and put me through some visualizations. I imagined the bloody images transforming into scarlet blooms of amaryllis. As soon as I thought of the flowers, I felt a sense of joy.
Triveni massaged me with hands warm and slick with oil that smelled of damp earth and moss. I gripped the table and continued my visualizations.
When she was done, I swung my legs over the table and sat up. “Thank you, Triveni. I think that’s helping. You know, I was thinking of joining the Diamond Club.”
She tilted her head and looked at me. “You’ve got that kind of money, honey?”
I shrugged a shoulder and said, “A friend offered to pay for me.”
“But how are you going to get past the ten-year customer requirement?”
“I thought it was only a year.”
“No, it’s ten years to ensure, I dunno, loyalty to the Paragon. Employees who’ve been here for less than two years don’t even get to work in that part of the building.”
“What about you? Do you work there?”
“No way. I’m into natural healing. That extreme stuff skeeves me.”
“How extreme is it?”
She paused, and I could tell she was debating how much she should say. “Experimental things, I think. Things that might not be approved. When I told them I wasn’t interested in working over there, I thought they were going to fire me.”
“I’m glad they didn’t.”
When Triveni left, I dressed slowly, then opened the door a smidge until I saw her go into another treatment room. I walked out and checked that no one was around before stepping into the room with the laundry.
It took less than thirty seconds to find a uniform hanging from a rack. I put it in my Paragon gift bag under Libby’s onesie, and then I walked out of the treatment area.
I hurried through the halls as if I had an appointment. When I saw a ladies’ room, I went inside. A woman was touching up her lipstick in the outer room. I didn’t make eye contact as I passed through and went into a stall. When I heard the door close behind her, I struggled into the uniform, which was so snug across the chest that I had to leave the top buttons undone. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and hid my clothes in the vanity under the sink.
As I smoothed the fabric of the uniform, I felt a hard bump in the tunic. An inside pocket held an employee pass card. Figuring that I should look as if I was doing something, I picked up an arrangement of white and yellow lilies on the side table and walked into the hall with it.
I made an efficient path to the door of the Diamond Club, and then I realized how crazy it was to c
rash a private lounge. I continued down the hall, which ended in a metal double door. Just for the heck of it, I flashed the pass card across the magnetic reader. I heard the click of the lock releasing. Head down toward the flowers, I turned the handle and opened the door.
This area had thick carpets that muffled footsteps and nubby grass-cloth walls. It was silent except for the sound of a water fountain on one wall. A straightlaced young man sat reading a sports magazine at a reception desk. He looked up and said, “What?”
“Flowers.” I lifted the arrangement but kept my eyes down in the way that the shy maids had.
He gestured toward a passage on the left, so I went that way. Suddenly the mummy man and his attendant were in front of me. I raised the arrangement in front of my face and kept walking. His attendant rolled the wheelchair by me without even looking in my direction.
Then I saw a sign on a door that said bath rooms.
I opened the door and stepped into an area that resembled a medical office waiting room, all stainless steel, black-and-white tiles, and pale green walls. I placed the flowers alongside an arrangement on the coffee table.
After waiting and listening for a few moments, I crept to one of the closed doors and turned the doorknob. The room inside had a luxurious porcelain tub in the center. It was, indeed, a bath room. I quickly checked the other two rooms, and they were identical. What was the big secret about taking baths at a spa, I wondered.
I was feeling ridiculous and a bit thirsty when I noticed a stainless steel industrial refrigerator in the back of the third room. I thought I could filch a bottle of mineral water. I swung open the door and there on the shelves was row after row of plastic bags filled with dark crimson liquid.
You didn’t have to have (a) lived with a vampire, or (b) lived with a doctor, or (c) lived with a vampire doctor, or (d) been infected with vampires to recognize blood when you saw it.
Desire rushed through me. I wanted to grab the bags, tear them open, and pour the blood over my face, fill my mouth with it. I wanted to take off my clothes and cover my body with the viscous, rich liquid. I wanted Oswald here, so we could make love, slipping and sliding in a puddle of blood.