During the two-week period that her picture was on the cover of
Mulholland
magazine, Flo March, shamed by the controversy she was causing, shrank from contact with everyone she had ever known. She stopped answering her telephone and did not check her message machine. Friends came to her
house and rang her bell, but she did not answer her door. Pooky left message after message on her machine that he would be happy to come to her house before he opened his shop in the morning to take care of her hair, but she did not reply to his messages. Even Glyceria, Faye Converse’s maid, was not able to get into the house on Azelia Way, although she came by each day and brought things to eat, which she left by the sliding door that opened onto the swimming pool. On some days Flo never rose from her bed. She had started to drink wine all day long and take Valium.
It became Sims Lord’s duty to inform Flo that the financial arrangements made in her favor by Jules on the day of his death were going to be contested by the estate. He came to her house to tell her personally, at the behest of Pauline Mendelson, after she did not return several of his telephone calls.
“What exactly does that mean?” asked Flo, stunned by his announcement.
“There won’t be anything for you, Flo. Other than what Jules had already given you.”
“But why?” asked Flo.
“The estate feels that undue pressure was placed on Jules at a time when he was too ill to realize what he was signing,” replied Sims.
“Pressure by whom?” asked Flo.
Sims did not answer.
“By me? Is that what you mean?” asked Flo again.
“I am merely the messenger here, Flo,” said Sims.
“No, Sims. You are not the messenger at all. You are a participant in this matter. Your name is on those documents as a witness.”
“I am acting for the estate, of which I am an executor,” he said.
“The estate is who exactly, Sims? Pauline? Is it Pauline who feels that undue pressure was placed on Jules? You know that’s not true, don’t you?”
Flo was sitting on her gray satin sofa. A feeling of panic overtook her. She rose from her seat so that it would not be apparent to him that her hands were shaking. She walked by him on her way to the bar, where she reached up for a glass and then poured herself some white wine from an open bottle she removed from the refrigerator. He liked the way she was dressed, in pants and a sweater. He liked the whiff of Fracas perfume that preceded and trailed her. He liked the way her
beautiful red hair was tied back in a ribbon. He liked that she was wearing no makeup. He realized that he was very attracted to her.
As she passed Sims on her way back to the sofa, he took hold of her arm and stopped her. “You didn’t offer me a glass of wine,” he said, smiling at her. She understood his smile. She had seen that same smile on the faces of older men who desired her since she was fifteen years old. She pointed to the bar with her head and with her thumb at the same time. “Help yourself,” she said.
He pulled her to him and began to kiss her. She stood there as he kissed her, but did not respond. He began to breathe heavily and pushed himself against her. She pulled back from his embrace.
“No, Sims. That’s not what I’m all about,” she said, waving her hand in front of her.
He continued to hold her. “Listen to me, Flo. I could take care of you. You could stay on in this house. I’d set you up.”
She pulled away from him. “You’ve come here to tell me I’m being deprived of my rightful inheritance, and you want to knock off a quick piece of ass at the same time? Is that it?” she asked. “How did I make the mistake in my mind that you were supposed to have class?”
“Come on, Flo. You’ve really got me going. Feel how hard I am,” said Sims. He took the glass of wine out of her hand and placed her hand on his fly.
“I’m pretty sure that your great friend Jules didn’t lead you to believe that I’m that easy, Sims,” she said, shaking her head.
Sims had unzipped his fly. He reached in and pulled out his penis and held it out to her, as if the sight of it, erect and strong, would send her into fits of passion and lust.
Her glance, filled with contempt, ignored his offering. “Do I really look that cheap, Sims, that you think it’s all right to just pull out your dick in front of me? I don’t think you’d do that with Pauline, up there in the library at Clouds. Put it away. Or jerk it off. White pubic hair never turned me on.”
She sat down on the sofa and picked up a magazine, which she leafed through, while Sims Lord, red with rage, reinserted his diminished penis into his trousers and zipped himself up. Arranged, he moved toward the front door, thin-lipped
now and distant. He opened her door and left without a farewell.
One day Philip Quennell came to her house and rang and rang her bell, but she did not answer. He could see that her car was in the garage and knew that she was inside. As he was about to leave, he tried the door and, to his surprise, found that it was open. He walked in.
“Flo?” he called, when he was in the hall.
Although it was bright daylight outside, the curtains were drawn, and the living room was in near darkness. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that Flo was sitting in the corner of one of the large sofas. In front of her on the glass coffee table were a bottle of white wine and a water goblet from her set of Steuben glasses.
“Not safe to leave your door open these days,” said Philip, taking in the scene. “There’s all kinds of nuts out there.”
“What difference does it make?” asked Flo, looking up at him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m on what’s known in the program as a little slip,” she replied.
Philip picked up the bottle.
“Frightfully good, you know, from the Bresciani auction,” she said, in an exact imitation of Jules Mendelson’s voice.
“This is not going to help,” said Philip.
Flo shrugged. “He hated my cheap wine that I used to buy at Hughes Market, so he sent over a few cases of his best for when he came to call. He hated my cheap glasses too, so he had me order a dozen of every conceivable size glass from Steuben in New York. He also hated my cheap sheets, so he ordered sets and sets from Porthault when he was in Paris. The only thing he liked cheap was me.”
“You’re not cheap, Flo,” said Philip.
“Thanks, Phil Q. That’s sweet of you to say, but you don’t know some of the things I did with him.”
“I don’t want to know either.”
“You’re sounding priggish, Phil Q.”
Philip took the bottle of wine into the lavatory off the living room and poured the remains of the bottle down the toilet.
“You sound like an elephant pissing,” she called out to him.
Philip laughed. He returned to the living room and put the empty bottle in the wastebasket.
Flo watched him. “Lots more where that comes from,” she said.
“Do you want me to take you to a meeting?” he asked.
“Hell, no. I’m not about to stand up in some hall and reveal all my troubles to the world. I can deal with this myself,” said Flo.
“This is dealing? Lying in a darkened room with a bottle of wine?”
“Don’t blow my low, Phil.” She lit a cigarette and let it dangle from her lips. He sat down in the darkened room and watched her.
“Do you want me to turn on the lights?” he asked.
“No,” she said. She inhaled and exhaled her cigarette without touching it with her fingers. She started to cry. “I’m scared, Phil. I’m just so damn scared.”
She got up from her sofa and walked over to the bar in a weaving fashion. She reached into her refrigerator and took out another bottle of wine. She put a corkscrew into the cork, but her hand slipped, and the corkscrew cut her finger. “Do this for me, will you?” she said, holding out the bottle and the corkscrew to him.
“No,” he answered.
“There’s something you don’t understand, Philip,” she said. “I’ve gotten used to living like this. I didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of until I met Jules. I was with the guy for five years. It was more than the clothes and the jewels and the car and the house. He protected me. He paid my taxes. He paid my medical insurance. He covered my overdrafts. He was good to me. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t. They’re going to take everything away from me.”
“Who is?”
“Pauline and Sims.”
“But what did you think was going to happen?”
“I thought the merry-go-round was never going to end. That’s what I thought. I thought Jules Mendelson was immortal. That’s what I thought. Oh, for God’s sake, open this fucking bottle for me, Philip. I need a drink.”
“Look, I can’t deal with you when you’re drunk,” said Philip. “I have no patience with people who are drunk. I feel
no sympathy for them. I have come here to help you, but you are too drunk to understand what I am telling you. If you should pull yourself together, call me. Otherwise, I won’t bother you again.”
He walked toward the front door.
“How’s Camilla?” called out Flo.
“Fine.”
“Tell her Flo says thanks.”
Philip stopped and turned back to Flo. “Thanks for what?”
“She’ll know.”
“I want to know.”
“She was nice to me at Jules’s funeral.”
“She never told me that.”
“The girl’s got class, Philip.”
When she ran out of things she needed, like frozen dinners and sanitary napkins, she started to shop at all-night grocery and drug stores. She would leave her house at two o’clock in the morning, when she knew she would run into no one she knew or who would know her. She wrapped her hair in a scarf and wore wraparound dark glasses and drove to the Hughes Market at the intersection of Beverly Boulevard and Doheny Drive. It was when she was pushing her cart through the aisles, past the magazine rack holding the magazine on which her picture was on the cover, that she came upon Lonny Edge, whom she had not seen since her days as a waitress at the Viceroy Coffee Shop. He was dressed in black, as always, leaning against a counter, reading the article about her in
Mulholland
. To avoid him, she quickly reversed her course, but in turning, her cart accidentally bumped Lonny, and he looked up from the magazine. He recognized her immediately, even though she thought she was unrecognizable.
“Flo! What a coincidence! I was just reading about you,” said Lonny.
“Hold it down, will you, Lonny?” said Flo,
looking
around to make sure no one heard him, even though it was after two in the morning and there was hardly a soul in the market.
“You’re a full-fledged celeb,” said Lonny.
“That’s not the kind of celeb I ever wanted to be, Lonny,” said Flo.
“You’re out late,” said Lonny.
“So are you.”
“You know my kind of life, Flo. Normal hours were never part of my trade.”
“Are you still making those dirty videos?”
Lonny smiled and shrugged. “They keep telling me I’ve got star quality.”
Flo laughed. “I remember hearing about your star quality.”
“Good to see you laugh, Flo. Want a cup of coffee? Or a drink, or something?”
“No, I have to get back,” said Flo.
“Sure.”
“Good seeing you, Lonny.”
“Listen, Flo. I didn’t know Jules Mendelson was your, you know, whatever, boyfriend? Until I heard about this piece in
Mulholland
.”
“No reason why you should have known,” said Flo. “Not many people did.” She turned to go.
“Did you ever meet his son?” Lonny asked her retreating figure.
“His son?” asked Flo, stopping. “Jules Mendelson didn’t have a son. I think you’ve got the wrong guy, Lonny.”
“
Step
son, I mean,” said Lonny.
“I don’t think he had a stepson, either,” replied Flo. “I mean, it’s the sort of thing I would have known. I was with the guy for five years.”
“Spoiled kid. Snotty kid. Named Bippie, or Kippie, or some name like that?”
Flo, hearing the name Kippie, stopped again and looked at Lonny.
“A lot of people thought I was the one who killed Hector Paradiso that night, including that dickhead Manning Einsdorf, because I left Miss Garbo’s with Hector. I went home with him, sure. I balled him, sure. I even hit him around a little, because that was what he wanted. But I wasn’t the last one to see him that night. The Mendelson stepkid came there before I left, looking for money, a lot of money, and Hector wanted me out of there quick.”
Flo stared at Lonny. “Kippie Petworth? Was that his name?”
“Yeah, Kippie Petworth. Snobby little prick.”
Thoughts began racing through her head. She remembered the boy called Kippie. Jules had arrived at her house
before the sun was up, and woken her. “There is a young man here with me,” Jules had said. “Let him sleep on your sofa for a couple of hours. I’ll be back to get him.”
“But who is he, Jules?” Flo had asked.
“He’s the son of some friends of mine.”
“Is he in some sort of trouble?” asked Flo.
“Nothing serious. Some kid stuff.”
Flo pushed her shopping cart back to where Lonny was standing. “Are you trying to tell me that Kippie Petworth killed Hector Paradiso?” asked Flo, looking about her at the same time and speaking in a low voice, although there were no other customers in the aisle of the market at the time.
“Somebody did. And it wasn’t me. And it certainly wasn’t suicide, like your friend Jules Mendelson wanted everyone to believe,” said Lonny. “You can’t shoot yourself five times. Any asshole knows that.”
Flo nodded. “I often wondered about that myself. Listen, I have to be off, Lonny. How do I get hold of you if I have to?”
Lonny took out a ballpoint pen from his jacket and wrote a telephone number on the cover of
Mulholland
magazine and then tore the corner off and gave it to Flo. Then he repositioned the magazine back into the rack, putting another issue in front of it so that the torn corner wouldn’t show.
On the way back to Azelia Way, Flo thought back on the early morning that Jules had brought the young man called Kippie to her house. Until minutes before, when she met Lonny Edge at the all-night market, she had not thought of him again.
“I can’t remember your name,” the young man had said the next noon after he had awakened and she came into the living room. She had wanted to go to an AA meeting early that morning, but she wouldn’t leave her house with the young stranger in it.