Butterflies in Heat (23 page)

Numie stared back at Ned, but he was tense. Ned was too cocky and belligerent for his taste.

"Baby," Dinah squealed, running toward Ned. He picked her up in the air as he kissed her, his bulging muscles clearly prominent in his white T-shirt.

Lola glanced first at Numie, then at Ned. The men's eyes were like headlights tonight. All those beams were focused directly on Dinah. "Cut out this disgusting spectacle," Lola demanded, getting up from the sofa, tossing her boa on the arm. "You don't seem to realize, Ned Papy, there's a lady present." Back arched, she stood proudly, the way she had seen Leonora enter the bar the other night.

"Well, Miss La Mour," Ned said, breaking away from Dinah. With a leer, he looked Lola up and down. "Forgive me for not showing the proper respect. After all, I'm just a cheap, common field nigger—not a grand lady who lives at Commodore Philip's, goes off on yachting weekends, and is seen about town in a
white
Facel-Vega."

Lola was fuming. Ned's look—the arrogance of it—was the same look lilywhite mothers gave her. But she controlled her temper. Ned resented her because she'd made it big, and he hadn't. It was the resentment the very poor reserve for the rich. She decided she was going to behave in a most ladylike manner. "I want you to meet my escort, Numie."

"Put it there, Numie," Ned said, extending a broad hand.

"Glad to meet you," Numie said, with as much vigor as he could arose. The prospect of a long evening with these people lay heavy on his stomach.

Ned smiled. "Dinah's a pretty lucky girl, wouldn't you say?"

Numie was taken back. Was Ned asking for a compliment? He couldn't be sure. "What do you mean?"

Ned seemed piqued that Numie didn't get the point right off. "Having me for her old man," he said, like an irritated parent to an unruly and stupid child.

"For sure," Numie said, hoping to sound as noncommittal as possible.

Ned glared. He seemed itching for a fight. "I'll take that as a compliment,
white
boy."
Letting go of Dinah completely, he took a menacing step toward Numie. "Or was it a proposition?"

Numie backed away, hoping to avoid a bad scene. "A compliment. "

"I think there was a little proposition there, too," Ned accused.

Lola nervously ran her fingers through her blonde wig. She stepped between them. "Numie don't go that way," she practically hissed in Ned's face.

Ned grinned contemptuously at her. "Miss Rubber Tits," he said, "you don't seem to get it. Hanging out with you makes him gay."

"He's strictly the man," Lola protested.

Ned pulled up his pants to emphasize his merchandise more prominently. With a sneer, he glanced down at what Numie was showing. "Any time you want to get it on, baby, you're welcome.
If
you've got the bread."

Numie swallowed. He was used to being insulted, and he thought he could handle this, too. "Thanks for the offer," he countered, "but I'm fully booked."

"Besides," Dinah said petulantly, linking her arm with Ned's again, "when I get through with that hose tonight, it won't be able to put out no fire nowhere."

Ned looked down at her, then he smiled. "That's one promise you're going to keep, bitch." He grabbed her again.

"You got me all messed up," Dinah said, trying to break away. "Come on, Lola, let's freshen up before we go out with our old men."

Reluctant to leave Ned alone with Numie, Lola finally consented to follow Dinah to the back bedroom.

Into the kitchen and out with two glasses of whiskey, Ned offered a drink to Numie.

"Thanks," Numie said, accepting the glass, but feeling acutely uncomfortable in Ned's presence.

"You're welcome,
white boy.

Numie sat the glass down on the top of an old television set. "It's going to be a long night," he said, the irritation in his voice clear. "So let's cut the 'white boy' thing. You're black and I'm white. Now we can sit around and talk about that phenomenon all evening. But it won't get us far."

Ned's face froze. At first Numie didn't know if he'd gone too far.

Then that face broke into a smile. "Right you are," Ned said. "But I just can't resist socking it to white boys, though. My people have taken so much shit from you guys, I like to toss a little of it back in your face"

Picking up his glass again, Numie said, "Don't throw any at me" Then he smiled, too, to soften the edge between them.

"Got nothing personal against you," Ned said, pulling off his shirt and using it to mop under his armpits. He also seemed to be flexing his muscles. He rolled the shirt in a ball and tossed it into the corner. "It's just that my heart's burning."

"Just?"

"Yeah," he said, turning and glaring. "On fire with rage." He banged a fist into the palm of his hand. "I hate white people, every one of 'em."

Placing the glass back on the television, Numie was heading for the door. "That tells me where I stand."

"Nothing personal," Ned said, going after him and laying a hand on Numie shoulder. "Stick around."

"I didn't think I was welcome."

"Shit, man," Ned said, breaking away in disgust. "You think you've got some patent on being white? I could pass for white if I wanted to."

To Numie's surprise, he flashed a triumphal expression only outclassed by Lola herself.

"In fact, I once hitched to Chicago, and people took me for white." He searched Numie's face carefully. "Well, maybe Puerto Rican. But they sure didn't think I was black."

"Did that tum you on?"

Ned's temper flared again, but he held the reins on it. "For a time it did," he said.

Numie thought this was the only honest statement he'd made all night.

Ned plopped down on the sofa, resting his feet on a table strewn with cigarette ashes. "I liked getting it on with white women who would have died if they'd known it was a black man tearing into them." He frowned. "But then I made up my mind that was nowhere. I'm black and proud of it. Black is where it's at, baby."

"I think being who you are and being proud of it is out of sight."

"Not with Lola, it ain't. She's a white nigger."

"What do you mean?"

"She's still freaked out she was born black. Not just black, but blue black. There's no mistaking the color of that pussy"

"You don't sound like you're her friend at all. I thought you were."

"I'm no friend of that dumbass queen. Not Ned Papy, baby." He raised his booted feet slightly from the coffee table, then slammed them down again.

Finishing the bitter, cheap whiskey, Numie sat the glass down for the final time. He glanced toward the bedroom door, where he heard nothing but giggles. "Then why are we here?"

"She's here because she likes to take us out and show off her sports car, her fancy clothes, and her latest white boy friend."

"Does that impress you?"

"We ain't impressed, my Dinah and me. The only thing that impresses us is that she pays the bill."

A silence drifted between them. Even before the evening had gotten under way. Ned seemed to have already had a lot to drink. Numie was hoping at this point to find an excuse to leave. "Maybe Lola and I had better split back to the bar. After all, she said herself she didn't know when the Commodore was going to show up."

At the mention of that name, Ned sat up. "The fact that she's got the Commodore don't turn me on either."

"I didn't know you knew him."

"Oh, he calls me every now and then to ... perform. Bores the hell out of me, but I get it up for his pleasure."

Numie immediately asked himself if the commodore would want the same from him.

"Can't stand the bastard," Ned went on. "Talk about color. Just as Lola is pure blue-black, the commodore is ghost white. Palest white I've ever seen. So delicate—like you think he's gonna go at any minute, first time somebody comes up and says boo at him."

At this point, Dinah appeared at the door.

Lola trailed. "I'm just standing here," she said, barging in front of Dinah, "looking at you two rotten excuses for men." She ran her hands up and down her body, relieved that both men were staring at her now. "You've got the two most gorgeous pussies in town—and you don't deserve us."

In the heart of black town, the Hollywood Palace had lived many lives. Originally it was an opera house, with twin wooden domes on its facade and simulated arches leading to its two-story interior. In those days, it was once the border between the black and white sections of town. But now the area around it had been consumed by blacks, except for a sprinkling of Cuban families.

With not enough lovers of opera to keep its doors open,
it
was converted to a cigar factory. Streamers of nut-brown leaves—ready for cigar rolling on the ground floor—had hung from the balcony. The old seats had been removed, replaced by long tables where black men and Cubans worked hard hours.

When tobacco was no longer imported, two entrepreneurs found the money to open a night club and cocktail lounge. On Saturday nights, such as this one, the whole black community showed up.

Leading her pack, Lola stood in the neon glare of the club. My daddy used to slave here," she said to Numie. "Those goddamn white men draining all his spit day by day to make their cigars."

Numie was vulnerable, exposed standing out here on the sidewalk under the harsh lights. The men lounging against .the wall made him feel like a moving target.

At the door, Lola flashed her membership card. "This is strictly a private club," she said over her shoulder.

Ned and Dinah trailed her in.

Numie lingered behind until the smiling eyes of the fat woman guarding the gate assured him it was okay. As he entered, music from an Art Deco jukebox filled the air. Sawdust covered the floors, and the smell was of sweaty bodies and cheap whiskey.

He was the only white man there. Eyes sought him out, and at first he was afraid. Then he relaxed. Those eyes weren't menacing—rather, amused at the show. A freak show, that's what they were. Lola and her white boy friend. It was clear to Numie that because he was there as Lola's white boy, he was no threat to the other men. Besides everybody was too busy having a good time.

Lola was well known. Many men called out her name. However, no women acknowledged her at all, turning from her presence whenever she got near them.

Lola was gleeful, though she tried to act cool. Here, for the first time, Numie could see how many men wanted her. Let the women snicker and tum from the sight of her. They were half out of their minds with jealousy.

A rancid patina layover the club. Tiny strings of theater lights were strung from a central chandelier, laced with cobwebs. Many of the bulbs had burnt out, never to be replaced.

Lola directed Numie to a high-backed booth that had been slickly covered in red and gold oilcloth. Ned and Dinah followed.

Lola grabbed Dinah, pulling her along to the fonner stage of the opera house.
It
was now a dance floor. Grandly Lola ascended the central winding staircase, fringed by ornate plaster banisters. From a rear projection booth, an ever-changing spotlight sent shafts of colored lights upon the dancers.

The spotlight picked up Lola and Dinah—and stayed there. Deftly Lola moved to the center, quickly pushing Dinah to the periphery of the glare. She could have asked Numie or Ned to dance with her, but it was important at this moment to show up Dinah in front of the huge crowd. Even though Dinah was younger, Lola knew all the men were looking at her, Lola. And why not? She was far more devastating than Dinah. As Lola danced, the other customers backed away, acknowledging her position as star performer.

A five-piece combo had replaced the jukebox sound. The men were blasting out hot rhythms to keep the palace rocking.

The drone of chatter ceased in the smoke-filled room. The crowd was reaching a moment of high intensity.

To the rhythmic thumping of a congo drum, Lola under her blonde wig was love goddess of the island, beautiful, radiant, alive—all woman. Moving her body rapidly, she could feel the devouring eyes upon her. For her, the room was filled with desire.