Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  “Haven’t you experienced my work? Weren’t you in Madison’s debut film?”

  “Lord, you’ve got a good memory.”

  “It’s hard to forget a six-foot-four Texan with hair down to his butt.”

  “It wasn’t quite that long,” Samson said. “If I had cut it, Victor would have given me a speaking part. C’est la guerre.”

  “Samson speaks four languages,” I bragged.

  “Five, if Latin counts. What are you drinking, Frannie?” He summoned the bartender. “How about you, Aarons?”

  “Coke,” I said. “I’m off the sauce, on the proverbial wagon.”

  “And I’m off to talk to Madison, assuming he’s back from the shoot.” Sol abandoned his stool. “Nice seeing you again, Roebuck. Frannie, don’t forget room service. You really should rest those ribs.”

  “Barbecue, dry or spare?” Samson said, adopting Sol’s stool.

  “I fell down some stairs and bruised my ribs. No big deal. Bonnie said she saw you sleuthing. How’s the bio?”

  “Just about finished. I should be leaving soon, flying back to L.A.”

  “L.A.? What happened to New York?”

  “Godzilla ate it.”

  “Matthew Broderick. Be still my heart. Seriously.”

  “L.A. is where my publisher staffs his office. He, himself, doesn’t seem to do anything except sleep till noon, attend previews, smoke cigars, and mutter ‘Long live Charlton Heston’ while he cleans his guns.”

  “Cute. Would you like to interview Madison, Samson? I think I can arrange ‑‑”

  “No, thanks. The bio’s done, Frannie. It’s been fun playing sleuth, but I have to leave.”

  “To find a new project?”

  “Yup. I like your hair. Can I call you Mia?”

  “Only if I can call you Willie Nelson. Who’s taking care of your cats?”

  “I gave them away.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yup. Cave canem.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Beware the cat.”

  “Canum means cat?”

  “Actually, it means dog.”

  “You’re such a nut. Speaking of sleuths, I saw you at the high school.”

  “What high school?”

  “Neil Armstrong, not too far from Clear Lake City.”

  “You didn’t see moi.”

  “Yes, I did. You were with the caterers.”

  “Frannie, I’ve never catered anything in my life.” He waggled his eyebrows a la Groucho. “People cater to me.”

  “Okay, but the man I saw could have been your twin. Speaking of twins…” I told him about Andre.

  “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

  “I guess I’d better lie down now, Samson. I’ve got a headache the size of Godzilla and…why are you looking at me like that?”

  “What’s wrong, Frannie?”

  “I just told you. Andre Vaughn is history.” I made a slice across my throat with my index finger.

  “Bullshit. That’s not all of it.”

  Tempted to tell him about the demon, I clamped my mouth shut, unwilling to risk another give-me-a-fucking-break.

  Samson’s eyes were more green than blue as he said, “Why are you clutching your handbag as if you’re afraid something will fall out?”

  My pregnancy kit. “Samson, I always clutch ‑‑”

  “What do you have in there?”

  “Samson, a woman’s purse is as intimate as a woman’s boudoir. That’s from Cosmo so it must be true.”

  “Is it Madison’s room key?”

  “What? Are you crazy? Why would I have Madison’s room key? Here.” I thrust the handbag at him. “Look for yourself.”

  “Okay, forget it, sorry. I was worried about you, that’s all.” He tousled my shorn hair. “You wouldn’t believe what my research has turned up. Trust me, Frannie, you would not, repeat not want to get involved with your fuckin’ director.”

  “I do trust you, and there’s no way I’ll get involved. What has your research turned up?”

  “My workin’ title is ‘Love Them and Leave Them and Let Them be Lonely.’ Is that clear enough?”

  “Great song,” I said. “Great movie. Doris Day and James Cagney.” I gave him a rueful grin. “All a director has to do to get a woman is say he’s a director. It’s an aphrodisiac. Quote, unquote.”

  “Saul Bellows. And it’s writer, not director.”

  “Very good. But you forgot to put Bellows in the form of a question.”

  Gingerly climbing down from my stool, I hugged Samson’s rugged body. Then, exiting the lounge, I rode the elevator to my floor and checked the room number on my plastic key.

  There were at least five uniformed maids with rolling carts. They swarmed up and down the hallway, and my first thought was bumper cars at an amusement park. That image was reinforced when I bumped into one cheerful maid and said hi.

  “Saludo,” she said. “Is chew the movie star in…in…” Perusing her mental dictionary, she gave me a rueful shrug. “In la cinta del diablo?”

  I didn’t need Samson to translate.

  I remembered what Sol had said in the car, his comment about me holding the movie together. “Sí,” I said, assuming a demure demeanor. “I’m one of the stars in the devil movie.”

  Despite my bruised ribs, despite my throbbing headache, despite my split with Andre, the maid had made me feel good. No. Better than good. Like a movie star who commands ten million dollars per film, then modestly says, “Golly-gee, Diane-Barbara-Leeza-Katie-Oprah, I’m not in it for the money.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  I pedaled my stationary bike, going nowhere. I’d already done 45 minutes on the hotel’s treadmill, my sneakers going nowhere.

  Strange as it sounds, I’ve never stayed at a hotel before. Not even an old, opulent hotel, built when dinosaurs roamed the earth, renovated in 1998. Stick a flag-pin into a map at random, any state except Alaska, and the pin’ll land on the house of a Rosen relative. Or the relative of a relative. Or the house of a “she’s always been like a sister to me.” I’d almost made it to the overcrowded Spring-Break Florida motel, but opted (ho-ho-ho) to stay with my Aunt Estelle and soak up some rain. And when the Rosen family hit the road during summer vacations, we stored a carton of generic hostess gifts ‑‑ wrapped with generic paper and leftover Chanukah ribbon ‑‑ in the trunk of our car.

  Thus, I truly appreciated nifty things like a balcony-with-a-view. Room service. Maid service. Swimming pool. A vast, glass-enclosed area with more exercise equipment than The Spa. And, especially, the lounge. I discovered that booze is a depressant, but Cokes have enough sugar to out-hyper Mick Jagger. I discovered that cast and crew members didn’t exclude me, once I un-stressed.

  Best of all, I discovered I wasn’t pregnant.

  The home pregnancy test came up negative, but just to be 100% certain, I bought a second kit. Positively negative.

  I still had “morning sickness” and my breasts were sore, but Andre was probably right; my weight loss had played havoc with my menstrual cycle. There was no disputing I’d lost weight. None of my clothes fit, except denim coveralls that had once been snug.

  Did I mention that my nifty hotel sported a clothing emporium?

  Not that I needed new clothes. Even when I wore my old coveralls, I got hit on. A Sean-Connery-clone from Tulsa, a scriptwriter from San Francisco, a couple of Continental Airline pilots, a guy named Rex, his muscled arms and chest enhanced by a T-shirt lettered MURDER BY THE BOOK, one of the lounge bartenders, you name it. I didn’t get propositioned by women; my “sexual aura” was definitely male-oriented. However, I was off men. Not for the duration of my life, god-forbid, but for the duration of the Forever Asmodeus shoot.

  Madison wasn’t shooting demon possession scenes, so I had a few days to enjoy the sheer luxury of a first-class hotel. Which was fine by me, since my body needed to mend, to get over its weird flu or virus or whatever the heck it was. I hated wo
lfing down a room service breakfast of eggs, biscuits and gravy, grits, coffee and orange juice, just to flush every delicious, expensive, regurgitated bite down the toilet.

  Bonnie thought I’d turned bulimic. She hovered, especially during and after meals. Or maybe she hovered because Madison’s interest in me hadn’t waned. If anything, he’d become more intense, more “lovey-dovey.” Bonnie said, somewhat bitterly, that the tech crew had established a Frannie jackpot, a human football pool. Only instead of guessing the score, they guessed when Madison would score. Hell, I wished I could wager. I’d guess “never” and win. Samson’s warning resonated inside my head. Even more significant, Bonnie was jealous, and her friendship meant more to me than another love-me-leave-me relationship.

  With that last thought, I climbed down from my bike and rode the elevator to my floor. I’d take a quick shower, change into a pair of jeans Cat had loaned me, then join the lounge lizards. It was almost five ‑‑ happy hour. John, my favorite bartender, would be there, and he never charged me for Cokes or appetizers. Maybe this evening I’d have raw oysters, topped with margarita salt and olives. And a bagel. A bagel sounded good, topped with both cream cheese and peanut butt --

  Why is my room door open?

  Deja vu all over again. Except in Andre’s case, the door had been closed.

  Three maids were staging their bumper-car act. Maybe one had garnished my room with fresh towels, then forgotten to shut the door.

  I always left a light on in the bathroom so I’d never be greeted by darkness. Not that the sun had gone down, but…oh, dear, oh, shit!

  The drapes were drawn. Had I drawn them? I never drew them, even though I constantly heard Mom’s voice in my head. An intruder, she’d say, would scale the hotel and rape me in my sleep. But Mom, my head would reply, I like the view and the open drapes make my room look bigger.

  Now, my room looked small.

  And dark.

  Should I ask a maid to escort me inside? No. Because a maid had probably drawn the drapes, and later the merry maids would laugh. At me. In Spanish.

  Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, I scolded. What’s the bottom line? If it’s a rapist, you’ll scream. Or exit stage left. Or hit him over the head with an ice bucket.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked inside. All my senses were as fine-tuned as a Gibson guitar. The bathroom smelled like the soap I’d left in the shower. I tasted my fear. I heard shallow breathing. The wall near the light switch felt bumpy.

  As light flooded my half of the room, I saw a shadowy shape in the corner, huddled against the wall.

  Chapter Forty-three

  “Is someone in here?” I said, the third dumbest remark I’ve made in the last few weeks, surpassed only by what-are-you-doing-Davy? and you’re-not-my-Nana-Jen.

  Because there was definitely someone in my room.

  I flicked another light switch, and as my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw a woman. With her dark curly hair and pink-patched cheeks, she looked like Disney’s Snow White, only older. Actually, it was difficult to determine her age. Somewhere between 35 and 50.

  Could you be a tad more specific, Frannie?

  Why? I asked myself. What difference did it make? The poor girl looked more frightened of me than I of her, and that’s what counted.

  She wore glasses with tortoise-shell frames, a loose, white, ankle-length dress, no accessories, and suddenly I knew exactly who she was. Or thought I did.

  “You’re Peggy,” I said. “Sol’s Peggy.”

  The girl bobbed her head up and down. I kept thinking of her as a girl, not a woman. She was ethereal, ageless, and very pretty. The kind of pretty that transcends age, like a Meryl Streep or a Barbra Streisand.

  I said, “Would you like to sit on the bed, Peggy? I won’t hurt you.”

  “Okey dokey, smokey,” she said. “But where’s Sol?”

  “I don’t know. Oh my God! You thought this was his room because it’s under his name. One of those idiots at the desk gave you this room number. They’re not supposed to give out…Peggy, I can find Sol for you. Sol Aarons. He’s my friend.”

  “My friend.”

  “Yes, I know. He told me all about you. You’re Victor Madison’s sister.”

  “Chaim.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Chaim Mostel’s sister.”

  Her expression changed. Fear? Anger? It made her look older.

  “Piglet,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He calls me Piglet. Chaim does. I like Tigger and Eeyore and Pooh, but not Piglet!”

  “Okay, I’ll call you Eeyore. You look blue, sad, just like Eeyore. If you smile, I’ll call you Tigger. And if you get off the floor and sit on the bed, I’ll give you a candy bar, a Baby Ruth.”

  That got a smile.

  “Not babyruth…Caruth,” she said. “Dr. Caruth. No, he was the old doctor…the new one is…A, B, C, D, E, F…Feldman. Dammit, dammit, dammit…I hate these memory glitches.”

  She started to get to her feet, but almost immediately her legs gave way and she grabbed at the drapes for support.

  “Pins and needles, Peggy?

  She looked confused. Then she said, “Nurse gives me needles.”

  “Shots?” I mimed a huge hypodermic needle plunging into my arm. Eventually, my thumb pressed against a vein.

  “Yes. Little needles too, with colored wool and a sampler. Oh, I really hate that! I’d rather do…dammit…wait, I remember…needlepoint. Sol bought me a kit. The picture on the…canvas…was mostly words. There were lots of red hearts and the words were written by…by…A, B, C…Cow…Cowper! ‘With all thy faults, I love thee still.’ Isn’t that pretty?”

  “Very pretty. And true.” I thought of my mother.

  “After I embroidered the needlepoint, the words and the hearts, Nurse said good girl. But then she gave me a baby sampler and said it was from my brother…a pink Piglet.” Once again, her face scrunched.

  As she sat on the bed, I handed her the Baby Ruth and a can of Coke, for good measure. Then I said, “How’d you get here, Peggy?”

  She cocked her head like an inquisitive bird.

  “Here…Texas…Houston,” she said. “Oh…by airplane, of course. Who are you?”

  “I’m Frannie. Sol’s friend. You came by yourself?”

  “Sure. I picked up a bundle of money at Chaim’s house, and it was easy after that. The lady…oh, her name’s gone now…wasn’t happy about me taking the money, but it was just lying there on the table, and if he’d really needed it, it would have been in his pocket. Right?”

  I nodded, thinking I’d opened a whole new can; not Coke, worms. Had Peggy visited her brother’s house before or after Stevie Eisenberg’s murder? There’d be cops after, right?

  “Peggy,” I said, “did you see the police at your brother’s house?”

  She shook her head. “No…just the lady. Q, R, S…Stevie. She had a cat. Did I remember to tell you that?”

  “Peggy, this is important. Was there anybody else there? Besides Stevie, I mean.”

  “The cat…does it count?” She slumped back onto the pillows. “Gee, but I’m tired. What’s it called? Jet lag? I didn’t think you could get jet lag going north and south, but ‑‑”

  “Just a few more questions, sweetie.”

  “Peggy. And they can wait.” She took off her glasses, carefully placed them on the bedside table, then rubbed her eyes. “Is that okey dokey, smokey…uh, Frannie? You see, even without the meds, I can’t always think straight. Not when I’m” ‑‑ she yawned ‑‑ “exhausted.”

  Then she was gone. Out like a light and just as quick. I had never, ever, seen anyone do that before, at least not that quickly.

  Walking around the bed to the phone, I dialed Sol’s room number. He answered on the first ring, and I told him to get his butt to my room ASAP. He didn’t say anything, not one word, just hung up.

  I waited by the door, saw him round the corner. “How did you know?” I asked.

  “
Her nurse called me. I always leave an address and phone number, for emergencies. That’s how Peggy found out where I was staying, the name of the hotel. She can be very devious. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. Hungry, sleepy, a little scared at first, but fine.”

  Sol sagged against the wall. “I gave her description to every hotel employee, including the doormen, thinking they’d hold on to her. It never occurred to me they’d give her your room number.”