Devil's Food (29 page)

Slavomir had left her two smudged sketches of—herself? Terribly unflattering, one. Where’d he get the wicked little smirk,
the naughty gleam in the eye? Beneath that sketch, Slavomir had written
Diavolina.
The second drawing was softer, more innocent; Slavomir had titled that one
Angelina.
On the reverse was a short message in wobbly block letters:
Leo loks for you. Be carful.
That was it? Emily peered into the envelope: nothing.

Why would Leo be looking for her? Why should she be careful? What were these pictures all about? Who drew them? Emily tried
to recall her brief association with the dishwasher: not much raw material there. He had never spoken directly to her, except
for the first time Ward had introduced them to each other. Slavomir had dropped his spray nozzle, soaking everyone.
Thereafter, he had been drunk and totally unreliable. That last night at Diavolina, he had swilled a half bottle of port,
stumbled over the gas repairman’s toolbox, bumped his head, gone berserk, and rested in her office. Emily next saw Slavomir
at the morgue. End of story. She stared at the sketches for a long time. Little Angel, Little Devil? And Leo, always back
to the phantom Leo. How did Slavomir know Leo was looking for her? Was she that hard to find, for Christ’s sake? What was
Leo going to do when he found her?

Enough of this nonsense: back to Philippa. Emily found a phone and called information. “Byron Marlowe, please.” Hopefully,
his roommate was still alive. “Jimmy? This is Emily Major, from the restaurant.” Silence. “I’m Philippa s sister. I wonder
if I could talk to you.” Resuscitating at once, Jimmy arranged to meet Emily at a little cafe in the North End. He liked the
cannoli there.

She waited for him at a sunny corner table. Byron’s bereaved roommate wasn’t hard to spot: head-to-toe black, shoes shiny
as his heavy sunglasses, chainsmoking. He still wore an overdose of the perfume she remembered from the
Choke Hold
gala. “Jimmy?” she called, waving uncertainly. Technically, they had never met.

“Hi.” He slid into the chair opposite her and studied her face a moment. “You’re prettier than your sister. She overdoes her
eyebrows. You really must tell her about that.” He lit a fresh cigarette, calling over his shoulder for a double espresso
and cannoli.

“I’ve very sorry about Byron,” Emily began.

“I’m not. He lied to me. Told me he was reformed. I spent an absolute fortune on that bastard’s rehabilitation. I bought him
clothes, food, and jewelry. What does he do first chance he gets? Dives right back into the slime. I hope he doesn’t think
I’m going to pay for his funeral now. I absolutely refuse. Fucking liar.” A tear dribbled beneath Jimmy’s sunglasses. “I hate
him.”

Emily ignored the two women staring at them from the adjacent table. “Were you together a long time?”

“Almost a year. I found him in the gutter, you know.”

“I understand Byron led a rather bohemian existence.”

“Bohemian? The man was a prostitute! I rescued him!”

A round, pleasantly bristled woman brought Jimmy’s cannoli. Emily watched as he pressed his fork into one, raining crumbs
over the table. “Did you find Byron his job at Diavolina?”

“No, he met Leo at a supermarket. They were arguing over the last slab of mortadella.”

“What was Leo like?”

“A wild stallion. He had an eye patch. Byron worshiped him.”

“Why?”

“He treated him like a son, I guess.” Jimmy lapsed into a black reverie.

Emily finished her espresso. “Why would Byron start doing drugs again?”

“Honey, I don’t know. He had a rotten past and a neurotic imagination. He always thought his enemies were after him.”

“What sort of enemies?”

“I don’t know. People from the street. Former Johns.”

That narrowed it down to ten thousand or so suspects. “Where would Byron get the cash for a drug habit?”

“He had a job and I gave him money, you silly thing. I spoiled him rotten.”

“That night of the party, weren’t you together the whole time?”

“Darling, I didn’t walk around with my thumb up his butt. He had plenty of opportunity to go off with someone for a few minutes.”
Jimmy pulled angrily on his cigarette. “Byron was depressed after your sister’s agent shat on him. Afterward, he went into
the men’s room without me.”

“Had he been drinking?”

“This was a party, wasn’t it?”

“What had he been drinking?”

“What else, darling? Vodka with dried cherries.” Jimmy calmly finished his cannoli. “Byron always thought you were a very
nice lady. Much nicer than your sister.”

The smoke from Jimmy’s cigarette was beginning to singe Emily’s eyes. She paid the bill and left.

A
h Emily, what a fine little hypocrite you are. Apparently it’s all right for you to screw Guy, but it’s not all right for
me to screw Marjorie. I’m delighted that you discovered a pair of purple bikinis in my briefcase. Shook you up a bit, eh,
my dear? Now you know how I felt finding that lovely photograph of Witten and Philippa in your back pocket. I’ll bet you couldn’t
believe it at first. It never makes sense for the first ten horrible seconds; thereafter, it makes perfect, obvious sense,
so obvious in fact that you can’t believe your own stupidity. Humiliation feels terrific, doesn’t it? Black, hot as tar: quite
unlike any emotion you’ve ever experienced before. Interesting, though, how differently we reacted to it. You came flying
into the bedroom, knickers in a twist, throwing that little box at my head, demanding an explanation, so delighted to discover
a sin counterbalancing your own that you never stopped to think that perhaps I’m quite innocent. And now you’ve played your
hand. The Wounded Bride probably expects me to come groveling home tonight with flowers and perfume, begging forgiveness.
It’s
not going to happen like that, darling. First of all,you have no sin to forgive. Secondly, I’m still sitting on my own nest
of rotten eggs, hatching your punishment. It’s always better to think and wait, love. Remember that adage about revenge being
a dish best eaten cold? Obviously you don’t. Women always feel better, somehow more purified, burning their bridges. The night
I discovered those pictures of yours, I would never have stomped into the shower and demanded an explanation. Why not? Because
I know you too well: You would have left me then and there, and I wasn’t sure I wanted that. Besides, you did not deserve
such an easy out. You married a man who dislikes bedroom Armageddons, who prefers less spectacular methods of evening the
score. You know I’ve got the patience and cunning, Emily; just give me a bit of opportunity. We’re not done with this yet.

A legion of disgruntled mercenaries tromped briskly along State Street, disregarding traffic lights whenever possible. As
a sharp wind blew in from the harbor, Ross once again reminded himself to wear a hat to work tomorrow morning; sunshine no
longer induced mild temperatures. As usual, he was first at his office. Nothing had changed since he had left last night except
for the quality of light; now a fragile, yellow glow suffused the rooms, inviting him in. He loved working here alone before
anyone else arrived, before the phone hijacked his imagination and a thousand petty little crises chiseled his energy to dust.
In that marvelous, yellow quiet he drew his best buildings, dreamed his purest dreams.... Ross’s heart invariably sank the
moment he heard someone rattling the coffeepot in the kitchenette, for then the gods fled, demoting him from creator to traffic
controller. He didn’t mind too much when Dana had been around to insulate him from ambitious assistants and horny clients,
all gunning for promotions and seductions and commissions that would make them famous. Without Dana, the bickering overwhelmed
him. And the fun was gone; Ross hadn’t
realized until now that the fun was as important as the money. But Dana had been telling him that for years.

The fax machine trailed a long streamer of queries and quibbles. Ross stopped reading after five pages. He had little enthusiasm
for business today. Perhaps it was time for him to ... what? Retire to the cabin in New Hampshire with Emily? Chuckling, Ross
went into Dana’s office and flopped onto the deep, green couch where his partner had spent so many hours recuperating from
six-martini lunches and extramarital fiascos. If he looked out the window from this soft vantage, all he saw was sky. No humans,
no buildings, just sky: No wonder Dana spent so much time lying here. Ross ached like a defeated man. Soon he’d have to decide
what to do with this office. He couldn’t leave it empty too much longer. Raising himself up on one elbow, Ross looked around.
What the hell was he going to do with those old books? These embroidered pillows from Dana’s girlfriends? That stupid bust
in the corner? And why would Dana save a pair of purple bikinis from someone named Madly? Dana had kept a lot of secrets to
himself. Some damn best friend!

Marjorie walked in with a memo pad and a new blue dress with, for her, a daringly short hemline. “Good morning,” she said
agreeably, sitting in a chair and crossing her legs as if their tiff last night had never occurred.

Ross could see a good twelve inches up the back of her thighs. For the thousandth time, he thought about pulling her onto
the couch and seeing if her legs were as strong as they looked. But that would answer only one pleasantly intriguing question
at the cost of a trillion darker ones, and he was tired of those, so Ross got off the couch and went to the bronze bust in
the corner. “Where did Dana get this?“he asked.

“Someone sent it to him. That’s what he said, anyway.”

“Why? To repay a favor?”

“You got me.”

“When was this?”

“About ten years ago. Ross! What are you doing? That thing weighs a ton!” Rushing to the corner, Marjorie steadied the pedestal
as Ross tipped the statue on its side.

“Does it say anything on the bottom?” he asked. “Initials? Date? Occasion?”

Marjorie peered at a patch of small incisions. “’R.W. 83.’ That’s all.”

Disappointed, Ross rolled the bust back to its former position. For a moment there, he had thought it looked like the statue
in Joe Pola’s bedroom. His eyes must have been deceived by the sunlight on Marjorie’s thighs. He returned to the couch but
didn’t lie down. “What did you find out about that chapel Dana built forJoePola?”

Marjorie back-paged through her memo pad. “According to my notes, Pola called here about two years ago.”

“Why? Did someone recommend us?”

“Don’t know. Dana’s notes don’t say, either. Dana drew a few sketches and construction began in September. They finished by
Christmas.” Marjorie handed Ross a photograph of the finished chapel. “Not much for two million bucks.”

He barely remembered it. “What was I doing at the time?”

“Commuting to Turkey.”

Ross took the folder. “What was Joe Pola like? You met him, I presume.”

“Oh yes. Very sexy.”

“Well? What the hell does that mean?” he snapped. “Tall? Short? Bald? Fat? He had to be at least eighty.”

“He looked fifty. Wavy white hair, medium height, slim, tan. He wore beautiful suits.”

“And that made him sexy?”

“The way he walked, the way he looked at you was ... very attractive.”

“Sounds like you had a crush on him.” Ross tried to sound amused.

“He always brought me yellow roses.”

“Did he ever ask you out?”

“What? Of course not.”

Ross’s irritation ebbed a tiny notch. “Did he ever come in here with Dagmar?”

“No. Never. My suspicion is that Dagmar didn’t even know about this project.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Joe and Dana were having too much fun. Two afternoons a week they’d drive out to the site in Dana’s Jaguar and not
get back until after midnight. Unless Dagmar traveled in the trunk, she didn’t go along. Anyway, you’ve met Dagmar. Not what
you’d call a blithe spirit. She strikes me as the type of wife who would have been here every day counting nails had she been
in on it.”

For a long moment Ross stared at the bust in the corner:
Dana, Dana, answer me.
“Well, she knows about the chapel now.”

“Why are you so interested in it?”

“I’m trying to get a fix on Dagmar. She’s more interesting than you think, by the way.”

“You always did have a soft spot for the old ladies.”

“Speaking of soft spots,” Ross retorted, “what in hell possessed you to put those purple bikinis in my briefcase? I had a
great time explaining them to my wife.”

“But you’re so good at explaining, Ross.” With infuriating nonchalance, Marjorie flipped to the next page on her memo pad.

“Well? Why did you put them there?”

“I presumed you wanted them.”

“Sometimes you presume too much.” Inexplicably enraged, Ross jumped off the couch. “Cancel my appointments until this afternoon.”

“Where are you going?”

“Errands.”

Outside, the sun had gotten higher but the earth had not gotten warmer, so Ross took a cab to Newbury Street. He got out at
a shop wedged between a furrier and a goldsmith. As he entered, the tinkling of the bell above the door was immediately stifled
by the plush rugs. Potpourri overwhelmed oxygen. Along the dark green walls, tiny pools of light played on briefs and bras
as if they were Grecian urns or the Star of India. A salesman whished oven “May I help you, sir?”