Hot Ticket (19 page)

Dropped the last ten feet to spongy earth. Justine’s car was parked in Fausto’s driveway. The clouds growled as I raced across
his lawn toward the high windows of the music room. Visibility poor through the organza but I saw his hands on the keyboard.
Splotches of Saint-Saëns seeped outside. Justine shared the sofa with a man whose head lay in her lap. Duncan? Couldn’t tell:
too many feathers. The two of them listened to the whole damn triptych. Incredible: Saint-Saëns usually made my accompanist
break out in boils. Now he was sitting through just the
piano part
of a duo?

Fausto finished his half-assed recital, to dull applause. Justine stood and so did the gentleman. My pulse dipped when I saw
Bobby Marvel.

Last spring the president had been reprimanded for sneaking out of the White House without his Secret Service contingent.
Needed space, he had whined. No one had wanted to ask with whom, and Bobby had promised not to do it again. But that was months
ago; in Washington, fruit flies lived longer than oaths. I watched the escapee totter to the sideboard, pour himself a drink.
Bobby eventually seated himself next to Fausto at the keyboard. One lit a cigarette, the other a cigar, then they began to
play the Schubert
Fantasy.
Justine turned pages.

Their musicale so hypnotized me that I didn’t hear the van until it was in the driveway. I hit the deck a second before its
headlights splashed the wall behind me. What now, the Supreme Court coming to sing
Liebeslieder?
A kid with two pizza boxes entered the pool of light on Fausto’s stoop. Half of me accepted him at face value. The other
half calculated how many seconds the delivery boy would need to strangle Fausto, put a few holes in Bobby, and drive away.

Fausto answered the door. I held my breath as he let the kid in. No immediate gunshots, but that meant nothing. I crawled
to a break in the curtains. Inside, Justine remained at Bobby’s side, staring at the music. He appeared to be studying the
score as well. They seemed frozen, on edge. Then I saw the hem of Justine’s red skirt rise. Bobby’s fingers were trilling
between her legs and, judging from the arch of her back, precipitating turbulence.

Twenty feet away, Fausto’s front door opened. “Thanks,” the pizza boy called, returning to the van. Fausto watched it drive
away, then lit a cigarette. While he putzed with the flowerpots on his stoop, I found another breach in the drapery just in
time to see Bobby heave Justine facedown over the piano and begin ramming her, using the same short, brutish strokes I had
seen in the bathtub video. He held her ankles wide apart, as if maneuvering a wheelbarrow full of feathers over rough terrain.

When Bobby’s knee crashed into the keyboard, Fausto looked up from his begonias and smiled. Damn, coming my way: I rolled
into the shrubbery as his slow steps crossed the patio. Fausto took my post at the window, observing the action between drags
on his cigarette. Copulation seemed to excite him about as much as dead fish. He chuckled once before going back inside.

Another crunch in the driveway as a black Lincoln inched next to Justine’s Mercedes. Three men, heavily armed, herded a fourth
to the door. I probably should have been a little more surprised to see Krikor Tunalian, who didn’t even have to knock before
Fausto answered. “Come in, come in,” he announced grandly. “The president is waiting.” Since Tuna had left two bodyguards
at the door, I stayed in the bushes. Not for long, though: pizza party broke up in fifteen minutes. Tuna’s contingent left
first, Justine/Bobby shortly thereafter. Fausto practiced like a madman for another hour before packing it in.

What the hell had just happened?
Clueless, I returned to the hotel. About to step into the bathtub when the phone rang. “You’ve been out.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“You looked gorgeous in that greenhouse tonight. Sorry I couldn’t talk. Paula has eyes like a cougar and fangs to match. She
was all on edge, too. Hasn’t been herself lately. I ignored you for your own good. Don’t take it too hard.”

“No problem,” I yawned. “Sounds like Polly stood your wife up, too. Does the First Lady have any idea you two were sleeping
together?”

Bobby stuck to the original subject. “You left before dinner. Those two empty seats were like a slap in my face the whole
night long.”

“What’s the problem? Fausto paid the going rate, didn’t he?”

“You missed a terrific speech.”

Yawn. “Fausto wanted to practice. We’ve got a concert tomorrow.”

“You left
me
in order to
practice?
”

Ah, trick question. “No, Fausto practiced. I went for a drive.”

Perturbed silence. “I’m all wound up, baby. Come see me.”

“Haven’t you had enough excitement for one evening?” I asked sarcastically.

“Just gettin’ my second wind.”

I stuck a toe in the water. “I’m flattered that you called, Mr. President. But nothing interferes with my bath.”

“Bitch! This is the loneliest job in the world,” he whined.

“I’m sure it is. Enjoy.”

I wasn’t about to become the fluff in Bobby’s second wind. Sank into the tub, disturbed by twists in current events. Marvel
evades Secret Service, an accomplishment in itself, to meet Tuna. He’s assisted by the perfidious Justine, whose affair with
Duncan does not prevent her from spreading her legs for an old flame. Worst, I kept seeing Fausto’s contented smile as he
looked up from the begonias. All was proceeding as he had planned. I didn’t have one clue in hell what was going on.

I was caught in a torrent, rushing toward a waterfall. Trees and houses shot over the edge, hitting the rocks with a
boom! Boom!
Shuddered awake. Rain pelted the window. Sudden bright lightning, a thunderclap: storm over Washington. Fringe of a hurricane,
claimed the weather channel. Duncan barged in as I was watching the news. The blue sling for his cast matched his bow tie.
“Justine and I are going to Cleveland,” he announced. “She’s going to meet my parents.”

I waved him quiet. We listened to an update on Jojo Bailey, now sharing his room with wife, mother, and spiritualist. The
action cut to Bobby Marvel emerging from the hospital looking puffy and sad, as if he had been up all night administering
last rites.

“This is a tragedy for the American people. I ask everyone to join me in prayer.”

“Prayer for what?” Duncan asked.

“Swift confirmation of Aurilla Perle.”

Duncan scowled: I had reminded him of this evening’s house concert. “I danced with her at the White House. She had about as
much rhythm as a fire hydrant. Why have you play at her damn party? You don’t fit in at all.”

“Maybe it’s you she wanted.”

“Pfuiii! I have no further interest in dancing with that woman! Or her guests!” Duncan helped himself to a brioche from my
breakfast trolley. “By the way, you were right about Justine shooting Marvel years ago. She’d really like to know how you
found out.”

“I think it was on the Net. Did she tell you why she clipped him?”

Duncan munched enigmatically. “He deserved it.”

“Something strange about those two, Duncan. Would you hire someone who shot you to be your press secretary? Would you go to
work for someone you shot? Maybe they’re more attached than you think.”

“For Pete’s sake, they’ve known each other forever! It’s a family affair!”

“So’s incest.” I turned off the television when Aurilla’s powdered face took over the screen. “When’s that cast coming off?”

“About a week.”

I wanted both of us out of here by then. “It’ll feel good to start playing again.”

Duncan merely peeled a banana with one working hand and his teeth. After he left, I practiced. When the rain stopped around
noon, I took a long run around the Tidal Basin. This was an annoying town, deep as a Monopoly board. I pounded past the White
House, irritated that the president was meeting arms dealers while his press secretary was setting up an innocent pianist
for the mother of all falls. I was irritated that a monomaniacal scientist could vanish and that a philosopher
manqué
could control everyone—especially me—like puppets. God only knew what he had in store tonight at Aurilla’s.

The clouds reared and rumbled as I jogged by Watergate. Glanced up at the ninth-floor balcony, wondering how many months in
advance Barnard had paid her rent. Sorry, friend. Some avenger I turned out to be. Suddenly, convulsively, I missed her. While
she lived, I was not entirely alone. Now I was last of my kind, unlikely victor of an undeclared war, survival of which had
brought desolation rather than glory. I had not foreseen that.

The sky spat warmly at me as I returned to the hotel. On the table was a fresh bouquet of orchids.
Play well tonight.
That put me over the edge so I called Curtis. “Cancel the concert. Tell Aurilla anything you want. I’m not going.”

Agent sinking but this was an open line. My manager had to play his part. “What’s the problem?”

I began with the most blatant. “Fausto.”

“He can’t cut it? You’ve been rehearsing for days.”

“He can cut it. I just don’t want him there.”

“Sorry, that’s not reason enough to cancel. Try another.”

“I’m not ready,” I whimpered. “Fausto picked a ridiculous program.”

“You’ve got five hours. Plenty of time to get your act together. I thought you said no one was going to be listening anyway.”

“That’s another reason.”

“Poor thing,” he said without a shred of sympathy. “Tell you what. I’ll call Aurilla, you call Fausto. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Fifteen seconds of silence. “Feeling better?”

I heard the teakettle whistling. Curtis was in the kitchen, probably wearing his plaid apron. Maybe he had a batch of oatmeal
cookies in the oven. I violently wished I were home, milk glass in hand, watching his perfect round rump. “Can you come to
Washington?” I whimpered.

“Sorry, I’m tied up with your accountants. How’s Duncan?”

“Screwing merrily toward Big Bang.”

“It’ll do him good. Hold on.” I heard the oven hinges squeak. “Derschl called this morning. He wants Beethoven the last week
of October. I told him no problem.”

“What are you baking?”

“Kirschtorte. Just play the concert, Les. People are counting on you.”

Ah, Curtis: the mere sound of his voice soothed my wretched life. I couldn’t disappoint him, even if I went down in the process.
Practiced a little more, trying not to think about Fausto. Not possible so, yielding to temptation, I listened to the cassette
Bendix had sent over. His sonata was awful but Fausto’s performance was brilliant. Once again, I lusted to get close to the
brain behind those sounds: no aphrodisiac like talent. Perhaps I was not completely alone after all. Picked up the phone.
“Ready to roll, Fausto?”

“I’m a little nervous, sweet. You’re the only person I’d ever admit that to.”

“What are you wearing?”

“A tux, naturally.”

“Black?”

“Is there any other color?”

“Just checking. Wouldn’t want to clash. Are you interested in trying Aurilla’s piano?”

“Hell no. It is what it is.”

Duncan would have demanded a three-hour dress rehearsal, with tuner present. Then again, Fausto and I were playing charades,
not a real concert. “Dinner’s at eight. I presume we make noise around ten.”

“We forgot about encores. Why don’t you come over at six and run through a few.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon watching bulletins about Jojo Bailey, who was fading fast. What a crass time for his successor
to be throwing a dinner party.

Where the hell was Louis?

D
ESPITE HIS GIRTH
, Fausto looked excellent in a tux. Five thumbtack-size diamonds glistened between tie and cummerbund. He had combed his hair
straight back, revealing a stark widow’s peak. I smelled cologne and excitement. “Eh, you dog.”

His round eyes traversed my pink satin gown, upswept hair. “The hell with Aurilla. Let’s take my plane to Paris and dance
till dawn.”

“You dance?”

“Every civilized man does. Oh well. Another time.” He swished through the doors to his music room. “Business before pleasure.”

As I laid my violin case on the sofa, the downdraft lifted a red feather into the air. It settled near a pillow as I tuned
the Strad. Fausto hadn’t bothered to straighten the embroidered throw on top of his piano, which now looked like an unmade
bed: I found that mildly insulting. “What treasures have you got for me this time?”

“
Flight of the Bumble Bee.
The perfect encore.” Cute, but so were most pieces about insects. I played it so fast that he had difficulty keeping up.
“Obviously one of your favorites,” he breezed afterward. “If they keep clapping, we’ll do this.”

A Joplin rag immortalized by
The Sting.
Clever piece, but I wasn’t in a ragtime mood. “Is all this bug and sting shit one of your inside jokes? Isn’t that in rather
poor taste, considering Jojo’s condition?”

Fausto looked up from the keyboard. “You’re taking this seriously?”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten. This is how I earn my living.”

He burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re just a poor widow trying to make ends meet? That’s why you’re doing this?”

Careful: after all these rehearsals, he knew me too well. “Aurilla called, my manager booked it. Period.”

Fausto smiled sourly. “Did your manager tell you to hire me?”

“No, that was spur of the moment. I thought that up all by myself. I wanted to know if you played as well as you talked.”

“And?”

I stared at his eyes, his rosy mouth.
Backstroke, Smith.
“We haven’t gone onstage yet.”

Without a word, he tucked his music into a briefcase and went upstairs. I heard numerous footsteps, then the toilet flush
twice: for someone who wasn’t taking this concert seriously, my accompanist was exhibiting classic symptoms of stage fright.
When he finally came down, he brought more of his mother’s jewelry, this time a square brooch paved with sapphires. “Wear
this for me, would you? It was her good-luck charm.”