Butterflies in Heat (43 page)

Alone at the beach, Numie pulled off all his clothes. The day was nearly over, and he had just two hours by himself—two hours before he had to start driving Lola and Ned around the island again.

In one dash, he made a flat racing dive into the cold water. Face buried deep, he began a steady stroke carrying himself out as far as he could without raising up. Could he swim across the gulf to Mexico without ever coming up for air?

Lungs bursting, he cocked his head and sucked in fresh clean air. Jumping like a dolphin, he shot up, clearing water as far down as his crotch. Then he came down again in a splash, deciding to float for a while this time.

The sun was sinking. Here he was, alone out at sea. The thought sent a sudden chill racing through his body.

He'd gone out much farther than he had wanted to. Still on his back, he rolled over and swam hurriedly to shore.

Silent and brooding, he stood looking back at the sea from which he'd just emerged. Its salt water was still running down his nude body.

What messages from what far-off lands were washing up on the shore right now?

Instead of wanting to remain in Tortuga, he was stirred by a sense of wanderlust. Nothing was right for him here. Everybody, except possibly Anne and Tangerine, were getting it on. But he was left out. The driver to a crazed drag queen and an egotistical pimp.

"Where is home?" he asked the silent sea.

The answer was clear. The only home he had he carried around within himself.

"This is off-white," Lola was screaming. "Off-white goddamn you." She tossed a soggy coffee container in a wastepaper basket. "I can't stand off-white, pearl gray, ivory, oyster white. I can only operate against a background of
pure
white." The entire world seemed to be conspiring to keep her from having what she wanted, even if she could afford it.

Without saying a word, Spider turned and left the Dry Marquesas Hotel suite. "I swear I've had it!" he cried in the corridor.

Pulling out a badly crushed glazed doughnut from a paper bag, Numie said, "But your wedding dress wasn't white."

Lola ran her hands along the naked flesh of her arm. The smoothness of it sent shivers of excitement through her. "That was different," she said. "I was a blaze of silver glory." Anger and frustration seethed inside Numie.
"If
you don't stop finding fault, Spider won't let you redo this suite."

"He
won't!" she said, hands on her hips. "We'll see about that." She caught sight of herself in a newly arrived tall standing mirror near the window.
It
was impossible to hold back a smile of pleasure and admiration for the sight she beheld.

"Okay, so you've got power," he said. Heading for the bathroom, he stopped at the presence of a painter, summoned here only this morning. Then Numie went in anyway, taking a leak—loudly—at the stool.

Lola was in pursuit, barging in and almost upsetting a gallon of white paint. She was sticky and uncomfortable, her anger just sweating up inside her. "Just what are you insinuating?" she asked Numie.

Shaking himself, he turned to stare. "I didn't mean a damn thing."

"It's about time you started showing some respect." Glowering at the painter, she said,
"If
you think I'm going to accept the paint job on that ceiling, you've got another thought coming. I want that ceiling as white as our face. That old paint is bleeding through."

"I've put on three coats already," the man protested, "As soon as I finish this bathroom, I'm leaving. You've got to get someone else."

Surging and throbbing, Lola's guts were about to explode. "So," she said menacingly, "you think you're too good to work for someone of my color?"

"Lady, I work for anybody who pays me," the painter said. "It's just this particular job. You're the most demanding woman I've ever come across in twenty years. Worse than my first wife."

Numie brushed past, heading back to the living room. "Wha ... " He was startled to see the tall, lean frame of Johnny Yellowwood on the sofa. "I didn't hear you knock."

"I didn't," the sheriff said. "The door was open."

At first Numie was scared. Memories of the thrill killer flashed through his brain. Then slowly his courage returned. "Do you always walk in every door you see open?"

"If
it suits my purpose," Yellowwood answered. "This time it did. You hear more interesting conversations that way. See more sights." He wet his lips and smiled.

Really angry, Numie snapped, "The circus just shut down."

"To the contrary, boy," Yellowwood said, "I think it's just opening night."

As if to confirm the sheriff's words, the painter rushed from the bathroom, shouting, "I quit! Lady, you're crazy for white. Too bad you couldn't have been born white."

"You son-of-a-bitch," Lola screamed after him. His words ate away at her heart. She wanted to strike back so violently the painter would be wiped out. "You're also a fag. I saw you looking at
my
Numie when he was taking a leak."

Out of the room, the painter was slamming the door behind him.

Lola rushed over and threw it open again. "Cocksucker," she yelled down the hallway. Her hands fluttered in the air, like wings unfolding. Now that she was in a position to have slaves, nobody was into taking orders.

"The one and only Lola La Mour, " Yellowwood said, lighting a cigarette.

Resentment flashed through her brain. Had it not been for the actions of this man, she would have had a picture in the newspapers of herself resplendent in her wedding dress.

"I hope I haven't chosen an inopportune moment to calIon a lady," Yellowwood said. "But I've come to pay my respects. As you know, Phil was my best friend."

Lola stopped, pausing awkwardly.
Then she quickly regained her composure, assuming the stance of a sulky blues singer. "Johnny Yellowwood, what an unexpected pleasure." Her heart was beating fast. She didn't trust him for one second. "I was meaning to give you a call, but I've been so broken up inside over my commodore's death." She glanced at Numie. "You remember my friend, of course."

Painfully self-conscious, Numie said,
"If
he doesn't, I remember him."

The sheriffignored the remark. "You didn't have much of a mourning period, " he said to Lola.

Lola bit her lip. Was everybody in this rotten town expecting her to go around forever crying her eyes out?

"Phil's body has hardly cooled," Yellowwood said. "And here you are—out with another man. He's certainly better looking, I must say. Real pretty white boy you've got for yourself."

Numie wanted to punch the sheriff in the mouth. What a ballbreaker he was! "You should know," he said, "you've checked me out enough."

Again, Yellowwood ignored him. "Look," he said, turning
to Lola,
"I ain't knocking your taking up with another guy so soon. I understand it. Life is for the living. No use moping around and crying your eyes out over something you can't do one goddamn thing about."

She knew this was no sympathy call. The way white men beat around the bush infuriated the hell out of her. "What do you want?" she asked abruptly, dropping all the charade of ladylike manners.

"May I speak frankly in front of your white lover boy here?" the sheriff asked.

Numie was ready to walk out the door at this point. He'd had about all the humiliation in this town he could stand.

"I have no secrets from him," Lola said, fearing Yellowwood was going to reveal something to make her sound sexually unattractive. "What is it?"

The sheriff settled back on the sofa, fingering a cake of mud on his boot and letting it drop to the floor. "I want the same arrangement I had with the commodore. You know, sheriffs don't make much money, and I kinda got used to the good life."

Numie looked long and searchingly at Lola. He wished he had had all this ammunition when he was the victim oflaw and order in this town.

"These platform shoes are killing me," Lola said, resenting the sheriff's intrusion to the point of rage. She feared white men. They only gave you money for the sheer pleasure of taking it away. "As I said, I had every intention of ringing you up tomorrow, but seeing that you're here today we can get on with it. I told the commodore's attorney this morning he'd find me very generous." This time only one hand went to her hip. "I'm sure you will, too." She paused to enjoy her new power position. "For instance, I know you like to go on boating trips. Here I am with four of 'em. Now what is a girl going to do with four boats?" The tall mirror confirmed once more her lifelong belief that black was definitely not her color. "There will be other presents from time to time." She ran her hand ever so gently across her platinum blonde wig. "Presents just between friends."

"I understand," Yellowwood said, a smile slowly crossing his face. "What do you want in return for such generosity?"

"There will be requests on and off," she said, vaguely trying to think of one at the moment. Numie crossed her vision. "Like, if stud hustlers get out of hand." Her voice grew intimidating. "Little things like that." Her head was beginning to pound as if she had the most hideous hangover. "Big ones, too, if certain grand ladies living in certain grand mansions forget who they are and start thinking they're grander and more important than me."

"I see," the sheriff said.

She smiled, too, knowing that she'd served lunch, and Yellowwood was devouring every mouthful. "Then we understand each other?"

"Perfectly," Yellowwood replied.

"Drop in any time, Johnny," Lola said, now firmly convinced she was in the driver's seat. "Don't bother to knock. You might even catch Numie and me going at it ... like two animals in heat." She gave him a wicked grin. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I sure would," he said, getting up. "Thanks for the invite. I've got to be going now that we've had our little mutual understanding. But we'll keep in touch." Almost in a whisper, he hissed in her ear. "Real close, like kissing kin." He pecked her on the cheek.

She instinctively backed away, the kiss lingering like a bee sting. A sudden silence fell over the room after the sheriff shut the door.

Numie waited for a long moment. "I think the commodore is all but forgotten. Life sure does go on."

"I'm not into this nostalgia shit!" Lola said. "I broke one of my fingernails hassling with that goddamn painter." Nervousness about the oncoming night flooded her. "As far as I'm concerned, I don't even remember the commodore. Fuck yesterday. I'm a
today
girl!"

In Leonora's Lincoln, Numie was driving Ned and Lola to JOAN'S on the north shore. The time alone on the beach had restored his spirits enough for him to endure this evening.

"This is the kind of night I should be cooling my honeypot in a tub of ice—not going out to some cathouse on a joy ride," Lola was saying. "That house of hookers really needs me to give it some class."

"Right on!" Ned replied. "You're a million-dollar baby."

Once at the house, Numie opened the rear compartment door for them, then trailed them.

Two hookers were sitting at a wicker table, drinking beer. Overhead colored lights were flashing, and flies were buzzing about.

At first the women thought Numie was a customer and started preening their feathers. Then they realized he was only an employee of Leonora's.

It
was about eight-thirty in the evening; and neither woman had changed into her working clothes yet. One, a Cuban of about thirty-five years, still had on an artist-type smock, covered with cigarette burns.
It
was the color of the American flag: red, white, and blue. Three plastic rollers crowned the top of her long and stringy blue-black hair. Her feet, encased in black suede high heels, rested on the porch railing.

The other, a fat, bleached blonde of forty-five, was in a short mini-dress of purple crochet, badly tom in parts. Her large breasts showed through, and she was wearing a pair of black panties stretched around her enormous bottom. Gold mules gave off a metallic flash. Only her long centipedic eyelashes had been applied for the evening's work. Otherwise, her puffy face was without makeup.