by Jane Lotter
“How would you acquire a key?” I say. “Not that I’m serious.”
“Rube can get one, easy.”
Oh God.
“No!” I say. “Absolutely not! It’s one thing for me or you to take a risk, but Ruby could lose her job.”
Vera snorts. “If you knew the stuff that girl could have lost her job over and didn’t.”
“Well, even if you got a key, I still don’t know what room Georgia’s in,” I say, thinking this whole discussion is absurd. “We can’t go racing through the hotel, opening every door.”
“Course not.”
“Then how—”
“Didn’t you tell me it was Billie Gordon and Nevada Pike who carted your niece off to her room?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll ask Nevada.”
I’m incredulous. “Nevada Pike is a stone wall,” I say. “Billie Gordon too. Neither one of them would give me any information. And you can forget about Ruby getting anything out of them because she doesn’t know them, she—”
I stop. Vera’s watching me as if I were a windup toy destined to run down.
“This isn’t something I’d want getting back to certain people,” she says sotto voce, “but I’ve known Nevada since I first came west, before I ever took up with Ruby. Nevada comes to town for the tournament every year, and when she does, me and her always get together and play—”
“Golf?”
“Around. She has a thing for me.”
I try to take this in stride, but my face fails me.
“Darlin’, don’t look so shocked,” Vera says. “I love life and life loves me back.”
“Well!” I say. “That’s a happy definition of infidelity!”
“Call it what you will,” she says.
There’s a cherry floating in Vera’s drink. She lifts the cherry by the stem, slides the fruit into her mouth, then tosses the bare stem over onto some grass.
“If you stuck around here for a while,” she says, savoring the cherry in her mouth, “and you and me got to know each other, you’d know I always look on the bright side. It’s the secret of my charm. And unlike most folks, I’m not a snob. I judge everyone by how colorful they are, as well as by the content of their character.”
“You have no character,” I say. “You’re a moocher and a cheat.”
“Point taken. However, I’m easygoing, I’m kind, and darlin’, I can be oh-so-gentle. You have no idea.” She smiles at the memory of some love affair, perhaps many love affairs. “Anyways,” she says, “if you’re picking a lock, you want to do that with somebody respectable or somebody who knows what she’s doing?”
I lean back in my lounge chair, clenching and unclenching my toes.
“So now, I repeat my offer,” Vera says. “Partner me tonight, and afterward, I swear on my little pinto pony, I’ll get you into your niece’s room.”
“Look,” I say, trying to work a compromise, “I’m here with that man I told you about, Georgia’s fiancé, Tully. Perhaps he’d partner you.”
Vera rolls her eyes. “Tonight is women only,” she says. “You know that, don’t you? Every gal who comes to the dance is gay.” She pulls her towel tight round her shoulders. “Besides, I lead. I need somebody who can follow.”
“Follow what? What variety of dance do you compete in?”
“Samba.”
“Oh, you’re joking!” I say. The samba was the dance Finn and I competed in the night we won our trophy.
“Darlin’, I never joke about the samba.”
“Well, I don’t know the steps,” I lie. “So that’s that. Besides, I have nothing to wear.”
“I can show you the basics; the rest is just coming along for the ride. As to clothes . . . They hang well on you, don’t they? I noticed that in the bar. Any old little black dress will do nicely.”
“I don’t—”
“Please don’t tell me you ain’t got a little black dress,” Vera says. “Your kind always packs one.”
I picture the darling LBD tucked up in one of my cases. I’m weakening, it’s true, but only because I want to learn what room Georgia is in. I’d like to have a look at that room. But do I really want to compete in this contest? Can I bear to break the promise I made to myself about Finn? Not to mention that Ruby would be risking her job—and if I were caught I’d likely be in a great deal of trouble.
My indecision must show. Vera watches me with a glimmer of a self-satisfied smile. But that smile rubs me the wrong way. Why is everyone always so sure of themselves around me? Why is everyone so certain I’ll do what they want?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But what you suggest is out of the question.”
Vera’s smile turns into a hearty laugh. Not derisive laughter, just amusement.
“You’re wrong, darlin’,” she says. “You’re in this up to your hips and about to go deeper. You won’t turn down a keycard, any more than you turned down your half sister’s offer to earn fifty thousand dollars. Any more than you’re going to turn around, tail between your legs, and head back to LA or off home to New York.” She hoists her glass and drains it. “Thanks much for the libations, by the way.”
Vera gets up from her lounge chair and wraps her towel round her waist. She stands there in her makeshift terry-cloth skirt, gazing down at me. “Sun’s about set,” she says, nodding toward the mountains. A few wispy clouds glow pink and red in the western sky. “I’m going home, eat dinner, get ready for tonight. You better get a wiggle on and do the same.”
“Now, look—” I say.
“Darlin’, please. What? You won’t strike a bargain with me?”
“It’s just that—”
“Well, I’m no bully. You don’t want to do it, don’t. You don’t want my help getting fifty thousand dollars, no skin off my nose. But didn’t you tell me you have to raise money or you’ll lose your business back home in New York?”
I consider the logic of what she’s saying.
“Thought so,” Vera says. “Meet me in the hotel ballroom, nine o’clock.”
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN IN ROME
I go to my room, shower, and call housekeeping to take my little black dress for pressing. Then I have room service bring me a light dinner. After I eat, I get out my makeup kit and do my face, like I used to in the old days, like I was going on a fashion shoot or a big date.
When housekeeping returns my dress, I slip into it and stand in front of the mirror. The dress features a low back and thin straps and is cut just above the knee. It’s always fit me more or less perfectly, and as I slide my hands over my hips, I’m pleased to see it still does. After that, I step into heels, put on some sparkly glam earrings, and I’m ready. Ready to go downstairs. Ready to face the music and . . . dance.
That is, it’s nearly nine o’clock. Time to go downstairs and compete in a lesbian dance competition, followed by some sort of unlawful entry. I mean, it’s time to meet Vera. It’s . . .
I really should get some ice.
I wander out into the passageway. The only sounds I hear are someone’s television and a random bit of laughter.
The ice machine is at the end of the hall. I step over to it and begin noisily scooping ice cubes into a little plastic tub. The door to a nearby room opens. Tully pads out. He’s wearing a wine-colored Asian-style robe that ends just below the knees. He has a book tucked under his arm. He has nice legs.
He sees me. “Wow,” he says. “I mean . . . you going somewhere?”
“Me? No, I’m not. Not at all. No.”
“Well, you look amazing.” He takes a plastic tub from atop the ice machine. He shovels ice cubes into it.
“Thank you,” I say. “I . . . what are you reading?”
He shows me The Dollhouse Book.
“Fascinating,” I say. “Don’t let it keep you up.”
“Nah, I’m exhausted. I’m turning in early.”
“Me too. I’m just going to have some hot cocoa with”—I glance down at the little
plastic tub in my hands—“ice.”
Tully, too, looks at the bucket of ice I’m holding.
“So,” I say quickly, “any luck with that plan of yours to walk around looking for Georgia?” I do not tell Tully my own plan—the one I’ve made with Vera.
“Nope,” Tully says. “I’m thinking tomorrow I’ll talk to the manager.” He yawns. “Sorry,” he says, covering his mouth. “I’m beat.” He looks at me again. “But you . . . you look incredible.”
I go back to my room. I lock the door behind me.
I drop ice in a glass and help myself to a drink from the minibar. After I light a cigarette (thoroughly against hotel rules) and pull out the cell phone, I settle into a purple upholstered armchair. It’s close to midnight in New York, but that doesn’t matter. I call.
“Darling!” Dottie says. I picture her in her Greenwich Village apartment, talking into the handset of an antique French phone. “I thought it might be you. How’s Palm Springs? Found your niece?”
“No, I have not,” I say. I sip my drink. “The only thing I’ve located is the ice machine, the hotel bar, and a bevy of lesbians. I’m up to my knees in lesbians.”
“You paint quite a picture,” Dottie says.
“I’m speaking metaphorically.”
“So I gathered.”
“I have a question for you,” I say.
“Thinking cap on.”
“How do you know what a thing is worth?” I say. “Do you ever get it wrong?”
“Oh,” Dottie says, pausing to consider the question. “Well, let’s see. Naturally, there’s the occasional surprise. I once found five hundred dollars tucked inside the most god-awful vase.”
“Yes, all right.” I rub my forehead. “But in general, what makes something valuable?”
“Often,” Dottie says, “it comes down to essence, a sort of hidden something. I mean, what makes anything worth anything? So many times, what we call ‘worth’ is artistry, the unique beauty of a thing.”
“Does it have anything to do with sentimental value?” I say.
“In my experience, it’s more about passion. There’s a rather crude French phrase some collectors use when they’re excited about an object: ‘Ça me fait bander.’”
“Meaning?”
“This gives me an erection.”
“Well,” I say, “you paint quite a picture yourself.”
“Touché,” Dottie says. “But let me assure you when a connoisseur expresses that level of interest, he’s not describing his grandmother’s tea set. For collectors—serious, wealthy, cutthroat collectors—sentiment has nothing to do with whatever it is they’re pursuing.”
“Then what’s the fuss about?”
“They’re mad for it. Or terribly greedy. Either way, they feel they’ll go insane if they can’t have it.”
For some reason—probably because she’s the best friend I’ve ever had—talking with Dottie always cheers me up. We chat a few minutes more, but in the end I decide not to share with her the details of my bargain with Vera, not to bring up the women’s dance contest or the breaking-and-entering thing. Not now, anyway. Still, after we say our good-byes and hang up, I at least feel game to go downstairs.
When I arrive at the entrance to the ballroom, I’m surprised and pleased to find the well-dressed company is not entirely female. Women and men pass by, chatting and laughing and walking arm in arm. Men! Yes! There are males here after all. Not a lot, but some. And everybody’s dressed in their very best clothes, which is nice. Some of the chaps are even in black tie.
So I must have misunderstood Vera. This dance is not exclusively for women. It’s a mixed bag, a social potpourri, a sort of . . .
Wait a minute. Is that a guy?
Trying not to be obvious about it, I cut my eyes in the direction of a portly fellow standing near me. Like me, he’s lingering outside the ballroom, and like me, he appears to be waiting for someone. He’s medium height, wearing a dark-blue suit, every inch the gentleman. But when he straightens his tie, I note polish on his fingernails. And his face is smooth, not a trace of beard. The more I look at him, the more it dawns on me he’s not a man at all. The more it dawns on me he’s a woman in drag.
Well, she has a right. It’s a free country, isn’t it? And it’s her party, so to speak. I’m the gate-crasher. But now that I’ve figured him—er, her—out, the scales drop from my eyes. I stand at the door, watching people stream into the ballroom, and see that everyone here, whether clothed as yin or yang, is female.
It takes my breath away. The place is wall-to-wall women. There’s not a man in sight, though there are some very convincing drag kings.
It all reminds me of something, but I can’t think what. Then I remember how, decades earlier, on a summer evening, I wandered alone down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village, back when that was the heart of New York’s gay male community. Men were everywhere. Young and old, they smiled at each other from front stoops, they stood entwined in doorways. They called to each other, they cuddled and kissed and drowned in each other’s eyes. And not one of them took any interest in me.
At the time, I was nineteen years old and, like every woman in Manhattan, any time I ventured into the street I risked being the target of lewd remarks from a certain type of male passerby. So it was an unexpected treat, a liberating feeling, to stroll through a sea of Manhattan men and find myself ignored. In a way it felt good, almost as though I were invisible.
Tonight, I’m in the reverse situation. I’m surrounded by gay women, but I’m not invisible. Far from it. Indeed, I blush when I tumble to the fact that I’m the focus of more than one admiring glance.
A striking blonde comes up and taps the shoulder of the blue-suited woman near me. Blue Suit turns round, sees Blonde, and breaks into a smile.
“Remember me?” Blonde says playfully. They embrace, kiss, and together melt away into the crowd.
It’s at this point that a new thought comes to me. What if Vera shows up in drag? What if she taps me on the shoulder and I turn and find her in a Brooks Brothers suit, silk tie, and wing tips? Whoa, Nellie. Vera was insistent about my little black dress, but I don’t recall her mentioning what she would wear.
I’m rooted to the doorway of the ballroom. I stand there, peering at the room and the women in it, at the fantasyland decorations of paper streamers and strings of tiny electric lights. There are candles on all the tables. A female dance band is playing up on the stage. It’s all done quite nicely, actually, terribly romantic. Which is why I hesitate.
The truth is, I’m filled with apprehension. For one thing, attending this dance means I’m basically passing myself off as gay. Just being here feels dishonest and deceitful.
More important, I’m having a Finn flashback. There’s only one person I was ever comfortable dancing with, only one person who made me feel graceful. And he’s not here. I’m uncertain therefore if I should continue with what, for me, is a masquerade. Uncertain if—
“Darlin’,” a voice says low behind me. “I hoped you’d come.”
Like Blue Suit did moments before, I turn to see who’s at my back. It’s Vera, of course, and she’s not dressed as a man. On the contrary, she’s radiant in a one-shoulder white dress that sparkles when it catches the light.
Is it my imagination or is she even taller than before? Oh, yes. High heels. They’ve catapulted her into the stratosphere. I’m tall myself and also in heels, but Vera has several inches on me.
Looking at her in her white dress, with her athlete’s body and sharp features, I cannot deny that Vera, in her own way—in the way of all human beings who are kind and not cruel—really is lovely.
“That’s a fine little black dress,” she says to me. “It fits you to a T.”
“Thank you,” I say. I feel self-conscious and am aware that I have nothing to talk about. I fall back on good manners as a conversational device. “You have a nice dress too,” I say, sounding in my mind like a five-year-old complimenting another at a child
’s birthday party.
“Thanks,” Vera says. “It’s used, but even so, Ruby spent a bundle on it. The little guy who sold it to us swore it belonged to Geena Davis. The actress? Not sure I believe that. She and I are the same height, though, six feet. It’s from this place called Mommie Dearest. You know it?”
“Yes, I . . . I dropped in once.”
“Buy anything?”
“A frock,” I say, remembering the twenty-five thousand dollars I charged earlier in the day to Charlotte’s American Express Black Card. “Nothing special.”
“You’re a phony,” Vera says, and I flinch, convinced that I’ve just been found out, that she knows I don’t belong at this particular party. “Everything in that shop is special.”
Oh, clothes. She’s still talking about clothes. I stare at the floor.
“Anyways, doesn’t matter,” she says. “My, they’ve decorated the place nice. What are we standing here for? Let’s go in.”
We enter the vast ballroom, which by now must have three or four hundred women in it. The band is playing a soulful “Night and Day.” The dance floor is full.
“I love this place,” Vera says, as she shepherds me through the crowd. “Built in 1950. The floor’s on springs, you know that? Floats when you dance on it.”
I follow Vera to a table at the edge of the dancers. “You can leave your purse here,” she says. “Ruby will keep an eye on it.”
“Ruby?” I say. “She’s here?” Sure enough, along with three other women bartenders, Ruby is behind the long ballroom bar, pouring drinks from a stainless-steel cocktail shaker. I catch her eye, and she gives me a thumbs-up.
“Doesn’t she ever get off work?” I say.
“She usually pulls the noon-to-six shift in the lounge,” Vera says. “But they told her to come back after dinner and help with the dance tonight. Just a couple hours, she gets off at eleven. What can you do? They’re shorthanded. Besides, we need the dinero; she owes a heap of cabbage on this dress.”