by John Berendt
“How do you like my look?” she said, striking a sexy pose against the piano.
“I like it just fine,” said Joe.
“Marry it then,” she said.
Joe gave Mandy a kiss. Then he went back to the business of writing checks. He gave one to the man who had installed the lights. He gave another to the carpenter and a third to the general contractor. Joe and the men bantered lightheartedly, as if all of them really believed the checks were good.
After the workmen had left, an old black man appeared beside Joe at the piano. He was leaning on a cane. He had been at the bar most of the afternoon, making coffee for the workers and keeping the place swept clean. “Quittin’ time, Mr. Odom,” he said. He cast a glance at the checkbook.
Joe shook his head. “Uh-uh, Chester. You don’t want to fool with those things. Always insist on the real McCoy when you can get it.” He pulled out his wallet and gave the old man the only bill in it, a twenty. The man thanked him and hobbled off.
“Now about these folks you’ve been consorting with,” said Joe, turning his attention once again to me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I kind of like the people I’ve been meeting in Savannah. I’ll admit I might have to upgrade the car though.”
“Then maybe there’s hope after all,” he said. He lit up a cigar. “’Cause you know, Mandy and I are fixing to rent a house with a pool out in Hollywood for when they make the movie out of that book of yours. But it’s starting to look like our costars are going to be nothing but a bunch of creeps. We need to do something about that.”
“Who do you have in mind?” I asked. “The mayor?”
“Lord no, not him,” said Joe. He thought for a moment. “We’ve got a lady staying with us at the house that you might be interested in. She writes a sex-therapy column for Penthouse magazine.” He looked at me expectantly. “No? No.”
I reached into my pocket and took out a note I had jotted to myself. “As it happens,” I said, “I am about to widen my circle of acquaintances. See if you approve.” I handed him the note. It read: “Jim Williams, Mercer House, 429 Bull Street, Tuesday 6:30 P.M.”
Joe nodded with the solemnity of a jeweler appraising a rare gemstone. “Well now!” he said. “This is much better. So much better. Jim Williams is a stellar individual. He’s brilliant. Successful. Much admired. A little arrogant, maybe. But rich. And the house ain’t bad either.”
Chapter 9
A WALKING STREAK OF SEX
And so it happened that I spent that extraordinary evening in Mercer House in the company of Jim Williams and his Fabergé trinkets, his pipe organ, his portraits, his Nazi banner, his game of Psycho Dice and—briefly but memorably—his tempestuous young friend, Danny Hansford.
“Well, what did you think?” Joe Odom asked me when I stopped in at Sweet Georgia Brown’s afterward.
“I think I’ve met the young man you found in your bed,” I said, “the one with the tattoos and the ‘Fuck You’ T-shirt. He works for Williams.”
“So that’s who it was,” said Joe. “He must be the kid who drives that souped-up Camaro that’s always parked in front of Mercer House. He hot-rods it all over town, whips around the squares like they were his own personal Indy 500.”
Danny Hansford was unknown to most of the residents of Monterey Square. At best he was a nameless presence, someone seen entering and leaving Mercer House, parking and taking off in his black Camaro, wheels squealing. One of the few people who had met him was an art student named Corinne, who lived on the top floor of a townhouse just off the square. Corinne had soft white skin and a tumbleweed of auburn hair. She designed her own clothes, which were always black and usually emphasized her best features—her bosom and her buttocks. She breakfasted regularly at Clary’s drugstore, and she was not ashamed to admit that she knew Danny Hansford. “He’s a walking streak of sex,” she told me.
Corinne had watched Danny from afar long before they had ever spoken. He was in his late teens, she surmised, roughly her own age. She was thrilled by his lean, muscular body, his tousled blond hair, and his tattoos. She was particularly taken with his walk, a cocky strut that said “Fuck you” as boldly as the T-shirt he wore so often. He was a motion study in energy and turbulence, never looking right or left or acknowledging the presence of other people on the street, except on one occasion that she vividly recalled.
She was crossing Monterey Square one afternoon when she heard the roar of Danny’s Camaro coming down Bull Street. She quickened her step so as to put herself in front of Mercer House as he pulled up. He bounded out of the car and came face-to-face with her. He smiled shyly. Corinne congratulated herself on having put on a skintight jersey top and a skimpy skirt that morning. She stood squarely in his path and said hello. She asked if he lived in the big house.
“Yeah,” he said, “I sure do. Wanna come in and see it?”
“You bet I did,” Corinne told me months later in Clary’s drugstore as she recounted in precise detail what happened after that.
She followed him up the walk, she said, her eyes fixed on the seat of his jeans, the back of his T-shirt, his arms. But when she stepped into the cool vastness of the entrance hall she forgot, momentarily, about all that and gaped in silence at the sight before her: the spiral stairs, the portraits, the tapestries, the crystal chandeliers, and the gleaming furniture.
“Good God,” she murmured.
Danny stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels and eyeing Corinne. He had a boyish face, a pug nose, and sensuous lips that seemed to be fighting back a grin. “All this shit comes out of castles and palaces,” he said.
“This is a castle,” Corinne replied in an awed whisper.
“Yeah,” said Danny, “and it’s worth a couple million bucks too. Jackie Onassis tried to buy it off us once. She was the president’s wife, y’know. But we told her, ‘It ain’t for sale, lady.’ Man, we told that Jackie Onassis to fuck off.” Danny laughed at the idea of it. He scratched his chest, hoisting his T-shirt slightly and revealing a glimpse of washboard stomach. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
They were alone in the house. As they walked from room to room, Danny gestured at the portraits on the wall. “All these guys are kings and queens,” he said. “Every damn one of ’em. And the metal stuff is gold and silver too. Man, we got burglar alarms all over the place. Anybody tries to break in here, man, they’re gonna get the shit kicked out of ’em. I hope I’m here when somebody tries it. Yeahhhhhh! ’Cause nobody fucks with me and gets away with it.” Danny cut the air with a karate chop and then quick-kicked the imaginary intruder. “Hung-GAH! Choong! Choong! Eat it, motherfucker!”
They moved into the dining room, where Corinne paused before an oil portrait of a periwigged gentleman in a ruffled neck cloth. “Who’s that?” she asked.
Danny looked up at the painting. “That fat sumbitch up there? He’s a king, like I told you.”
“The king of what?” she asked.
Danny shrugged. “The king of Europe.”
Corinne started to say something in reply but caught herself. Danny glanced at her with a look of uncertainty and then abruptly headed back into the living room. “Hey,” he said, “let’s you and me have a drink. Then maybe we can go upstairs and shoot some roulette. Would ya like that?” He poured two tumblers of vodka and handed one to Corinne. Before she had taken three sips, he had drained his glass. He looked at her with an impish grin. “C’mon. Let’s go upstairs.”
In the ballroom on the second floor, they spun the roulette wheel a few times; then Danny pounded out a crude rendition of chopsticks on the pipe organ. Finally, he brought her into the master bedroom and took a plastic bag of marijuana out of his pocket. He rolled a fat joint.
“I got the best shit in Savannah,” he said. “You can ask anybody. That’s what they’ll tell you. ‘Danny Hansford’s got great shit. It don’t come any stronger.’ I grow it in the garden out back and dry it in the microwave. It’ll get you off for sure.”<
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They smoked the joint. Corinne felt herself becoming lightheaded.
“Do you like me?” Danny asked, a note of tenderness in his voice.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
He put his arms around her and stroked her back with both hands, caressing her throat lightly with kisses and sending a shiver down her spine. They tumbled onto the four-poster, and he began kissing her breasts while at the same time pushing her skirt up and pulling down her panties. She reached down to remove her shoes, but before she could do it, he was pressing against her, probing with his fingers, gently and insistently. With the other hand he unzipped his fly. He took her buttocks tightly in his hands and pulled her toward him as he thrust into her. She breathed the salty smell of his T-shirt and felt his belt buckle rubbing against her stomach. Their rising body heat enclosed them like a steamy towel.
It was over soon. He raised his head and looked at her. “That was great, wasn’t it. Huh? You liked that, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Maybe next time we can even take our clothes off.”
Corinne was not taken in by Danny’s pretense of being the squire of Mercer House—she knew, as everyone in Savannah knew, that Jim Williams owned the house—but she played along, because the charade seemed to put spunk in Danny’s swagger. Corinne sighed convincingly when Danny showed her the Jaguar XJ12 parked in the garage; she gasped when he opened a dresser drawer and showed her his “golden” watch and his “royal” cuff links. Corinne looked at him starry-eyed as they stood in the entrance hall saying good-bye. She told him she adored his castle and that he was a very handsome and sexy Prince Charming. Then the front door opened and Jim Williams walked in.
“Hey, Sport!” Williams said. He was in a cheery mood. “We was just leavin’,” Danny mumbled. “What’s your hurry? Stay for a drink. Introduce me to your pretty friend.”
“We already had a drink,” said Danny. His mood had turned sullen.
“Well, it won’t hurt you to stick around a few minutes and be sociable,” Williams replied amiably. “There’s always time for that.”
Williams introduced himself to Corinne and then walked into the living room with an air of such self-assurance that Danny and Corinne followed as if summoned by decree. Corinne told Williams she was a student at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Williams responded by telling several gossipy tales about various members of the SCAD faculty, much to Corinne’s amusement. Danny sat on the edge of his chair, glowering.
Williams lit up a King Edward cigarillo. “I assume Danny has taken you on a tour of the house,” he said. “Did he show you how to play Psycho Dice? … No? Ah! Then allow me!”
He took Corinne over to the backgammon table and sat her down. He explained the rules of the game and said that by concentrating on the dice, a person could improve the odds. He told Corinne about the scientists at Duke University and how their experiment had proved that if you really focused your mental energy you could make things happen—in dice or in just about anything. He glanced over at Danny, who was still sitting glumly in his chair. “Now, see, for example,” Williams said slyly, “if we both put our minds to it, I mean really concentrate, we can probably get Danny to get up out of that chair and make himself useful by fixing us a drink.” Danny got up wordlessly and left the room. Moments later the front door slammed with a house-shaking wallop.
Corinne jumped in her seat. Williams hardly flinched. He arched his eyebrows and smiled a bemused smile. “I guess the message was received,” he said, “and returned to sender.” He shook the dice and tossed them onto the green felt board.
Half an hour later, after having had a drink with Williams and played a few rounds of Psycho Dice, Corinne left Mercer House. Danny was standing by the curb, leaning against the fender of his black Camaro, his arms folded across his chest. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached down and opened the passenger door.
“Get in,” he said.
It was late afternoon. Corinne had errands to do and plans for later on. She glanced at Danny’s jeans, his T-shirt, his arms, and the smile that was beginning to creep across his face, and she got into the car. Danny made a ceremony of holding the door open and closing it politely. He walked around and got in.
Corinne patted his arm. “Okay, ‘Sport,’” she said, “now, maybe you can tell me why you left in such a hurry.”
Danny shrugged. “I don’t like nobody making moves on a girl I’m with.”
“Is that what you think Jim Williams was doing?”
“Yeah, and I don’t go for that fuckin’ shit.”
“Let me tell you something,” said Corinne. “I’m pretty good at knowing when somebody’s making a pass at me. Jim Williams was not making a pass.”
“He was bein’ a wiseass.”
“He was letting you know who’s boss,” she said.
Danny turned the key in the ignition. “Same difference. And, like I said, I don’t dig that shit.” He threw the car into gear and floored the accelerator. The car shot out from the curb with an ear-piercing squeal. Corinne grabbed the dashboard to brace herself. “Jesus Christ!” she said.
Danny swung around the corner of the square. A cloud of bluish-white smoke hung over the street in front of Mercer House.
“Buckle up!” Danny shouted. “You’re gonna have the ride of your life!”
“No, I’m not!” Corinne answered. “Let me out! Now!”
“Later!” he said. “And don’t worry. I ain’t gonna kill ya. I’m a great driver, and this is the hottest damn car on the road. This baby is supercharged!” Danny was smiling triumphantly; his eyes were bright. His self-confidence had returned. If he was not exactly the master of Mercer House, at least he was king of the road.
Corinne breathed a sigh of resignation and settled back for the ride. “Okay,” she said, “where are we going?”
“Out to Tybee,” he said. “I want to show you something neat.”
They sped east on the Islands Expressway toward the beach. Corinne looked at Danny, sizing him up. She preferred this cocky mood over the sullen one. “So tell me, what’s your connection to Mercer House and Jim Williams?” she asked.
“I work for him,” he said, “when I feel like it. Odd jobs and shit.”
“Well, that sounds more like it,” she said. “You didn’t strike me as the stately homes type.”
“I make good money, don’t you worry. And if anybody hassles me, I’m gone, man. I don’t take any shit.”
“So I noticed.”
“Yeah! Hey, I almost knocked that door off its hinges when I hauled ass, didn’t I? I bet Jim was pissed.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Corinne. “I think he got a charge out of it, which I thought was a little weird.”
The bridge to Tybee Island lay up ahead. Danny suddenly gunned the engine and picked up a burst of speed. He swooped around the car ahead of him, leaving an open stretch of roadway to the bridge. “Hang on, now,” he said. “This is where we really take off!” The car accelerated like a rocket. With a whump it hit a swayback bump in the road, and all four wheels lifted off the ground.
“Airborrrrrnnnne!!!!!” Danny howled.
“Jesus Christ,” Corinne muttered as the car bounced back onto the road. “Is that what you brought me out here for?”
“Yeah! Neat, huh?” said Danny.
Corinne brushed the hair out of her face. “I need another drink.”
They continued on to the DeSoto Beach Hotel, a somewhat seedy oceanfront motel that was popular with the young crowd. It had an open-air lounge with a pool, a rock band, and a tropical-style bar with a straw-hut roof. They ordered piña coladas and sat on the seawall to watch the surf and the people strolling on the beach. Within minutes, two good-looking young men came over, friends of Corinne’s, fellow students at the Savannah College of Art and Design. While they talked, Danny remained silent. He became increasingly restive. He looked up the beach, down the beach. He fidgeted. He sighed. As soon as Co-rinne’s friends sai
d good-bye and walked away, he stood up.
“I got an idea,” he said. “Bring your drink. We’re goin’ back into town.”
That was fine with Corinne. She had things to do anyway. “You’re not planning to fly over that bump again, I hope,” she said.
“Nah, it only works in one direction.” They got into the car and roared out of the parking lot, leaving a billowing back-blast of gravel and dust.
“Did I detect a teeny bit of jealousy back there?” Corinne asked.
“No, uh-uh.”
“You didn’t think they were ‘making moves’ on me, did you?”
“They were a couple of assholes is what they were.”
Corinne did not answer. She was comparing Danny with her two friends. The other two were more clean-cut than Danny and better educated too; their families had money, and their futures were pretty much assured. Those two were probably not unlike the man she would eventually marry, whoever that might be. But neither one of them had a fraction of Danny’s sex appeal. She looked at the Confederate flag tattoo on his arm, at his flat stomach, at the way he gripped the wheel with one hand and rested the other lightly on his upper thigh. He looked back at her and smiled.
“Hey,” he said softly, “you know what? On the way back to town I’m gonna take you to the most beautiful place in Savannah. It’s my favorite place to get high in the whole world.”
He turned off Victory Drive and drove down a winding road through the gates of Bonaventure Cemetery. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the trees and cast soft, lengthening shadows. They walked down an avenue of oaks smoking a joint.
“Dreamy, isn’t it?” said Corinne.
“Yeah,” said Danny.
“What do you think about when you come here?” she asked.
“Dyin’,” he said.
She laughed. “I mean, besides that.”
“Bein’ dead.”
“That’s horrible!” she said. “No, come on, really.”