Vermilion (11 page)

Trudy turned slightly to one side, and then to the other; Clarisse looked her up and down appraisingly. “Fine,” she said, “you're just where you should be. But where's your lipstick?”

Trudy looked away, and touched her mouth nervously. “I gave it up—New Year's resolution. A little fat girl at the cosmetic counter at Filene's told me lipstick was out this season.” Trudy pulled absently at the curls at the back of her wig.

Clarisse opened her envelope and pulled out a comb; she ran it slowly and thoughtfully through her thick black hair. Out of the corner of her eye, through the mirror's image, she watched Trudy examining her lashes and straightening the wide collar of her green blouse.

Clarisse put the comb away, and pulled out a tube of lipstick. She uncapped it and turned the tube up; carefully she applied it to her lips. She felt Trudy's eyes on her.

“Nice color,” said Trudy.

Clarisse smacked, and smiled broadly to test her outlines. “‘Savage Cerise.' Only at Bonwit's.”

“I wonder if they would have the shade that I used to wear all the time,” said Trudy. “It was darker than yours, and brighter, and it had maybe just a little purple in it. It was so hard finding something that went with green.”

“What is it called?”

Trudy shrugged. “I don't know. Vermilion something.”

Clarisse turned and looked at Trudy. “You've worn it for five years, at least. How can you not know what it's called?”

“Well,” replied Trudy, “my wife used to buy it for me, half-dozen tubes at a time, and mail order. Nobody could beat Rochelle when it came to color-coordination. I wouldn't think of leaving the house until she had looked me over. Well, when Rochelle knew she was about to—pass over—she ordered two dozen for me. She asked if I wanted her to order more, but I said no, that by the time that I had used them up, I'd be dead of grief. I've run out now, or almost—I'm saving the last tube for whoever does my face for the coffin. I'd order more myself, but the dog went wild after Rochelle—kicked off—and ate all the order blanks.” Trudy smiled sadly.

“You must miss Rochelle.”

“Next year would have been our fortieth anniversary—that's rubies. We were planning on identical outfits. Rochelle was the best seamstress I ever met. We wore the same size, a perennial ten, both of us. And there couldn't be anything more convenient than that. Life is a drag without Rochelle…” She took a deep breath and straightened herself. “Well,” she said bravely, “it's not New Year's anymore. Let me borrow your lipstick, doll.”

Clarisse handed her the tube, and Trudy applied it with abandon. “Death,” she said, staring at her mouth in the mirror, “is a bad trip to lay on somebody you love.”

“Yes,” said Clarisse vaguely, rummaging in her envelope, “like that poor little hustler in the bushes.”

“Yes,” said Trudy, after a two-beat pause, “he had everything against him. Bad skin, thin shoes—”

“And somebody who wanted him dead.”

“Nobody wanted him dead. He had just turned nineteen. Just a little boy…”

“In his trade,” said Clarisse, “nineteen was hardly a spring chicken. More like a roaster. Did you know him?”

Trudy looked at Clarisse briefly in the mirror. She recapped the lipstick, and handed it back. “Of course not. What kind of people do you think I hang out with? A working grandmother doesn't have time to hang around with little boys who sell their bodies for profit.”

Clarisse shrugged. “You talked about him as if you knew him, as if you were sorry he was dead.”

Discomfort crossed Trudy's face. She grabbed at the waist of her skirt and pulled it up. “Of course I'm sorry he's dead. The dead die young, and all that. God, my panty hose are driving me crazy!” She turned violently and wiggled her hips. “Don't ever think you're saving money by buying cheap panty hose. The elastic always breaks at just the wrong time. Did I ever tell you about my Waterloo with panty hose?”

“Ah…no you didn't, Trudy.”

“Well,” she sighed. She released her skirt, smoothed it neatly over her curving hips. She pushed Clarisse out the door and followed her into the Wicker Room. “It was in Provincetown, about three years ago—”

Trudy crossed and sat at the piano. The three empty glasses had been removed and another drink had been placed on a cocktail napkin beside her music stand. She sipped at it. “—and I went to see Martin Drake, who does the best Joan Crawford act you ever saw in your life. We were old friends, and he had gotten me a ringside seat. I was wearing my tuxedo dress outfit—very chic that summer. So Martin finished re-creating the first dressing room scene in
All About Eve
—his Thelma Ritter is flawless—and he makes 'em put the spotlight on me, and introduces me as having the best set of legs in Provincetown…” Trudy turned on the piano bench, and crossed her legs at the knee, displaying them to Clarisse. “Well, all the boys—and half of 'em I didn't even know—started chanting ‘Trudy, Trudy, Trudy' and Martin begged me to come up with him. So two waiters lifted me up on the stage, and the boys all cried out, ‘Show us your gams, Trudy! Show us your gams!' So I played the band to beat Miss Grable, and hiked up my skirt—” She swallowed half her drink.

“And?” coaxed Clarisse.

“—Not a whisper in the house. They were stunned, and I thought, ‘My legs aren't
that
good.' Then they started to laugh. I raised my skirt higher. Martin picked up the mike and said ‘Put your skirt down, Trudy, your twosies are hanging out.' God, they still talk about it on Commercial Street. I won't go down there anymore. Last June I was there and some little boy leaned out of a car and shouted, ‘Show us your twosies, Trudy!' Always buy the best,” concluded Trudy sententiously.

“Well,” said. Clarisse, “it must have been embarrassing, but it's not the kind of thing that's likely to happen to me.”

“I suppose not,” said Trudy, and turned with a small smile to the piano.

Clarisse realized how long she had neglected Valentine, and turned back to the bar. She saw him leaning forward, in close conversation with Jack; but a couple of feet behind his back was an enormous package, done up in bright red foil paper and wide gold ribbon tied in a grotesquely large bow. It was held by a well-built man with black hair and a full black moustache. The man wore a heavy black leather jacket, new-pressed jeans, and heavy mud-stained work boots. The hands holding the package were strong and wide, with thick dark hair across the backs. All his strong fine features were smiling.

“What's
that
?” whispered Trudy.

“Oh, God!” mumbled Clarisse, and moved away from Trudy without answering.

Jack had stopped listening to Valentine and was staring over his shoulder. Valentine turned about on the stool.

“Happy birthday!” cried the man holding the package.

“Mark!” exclaimed Valentine.

Clarisse stood between the men smiling pleasantly. “Hello, Mark,” she said, “we're
so
glad you made it.”

He nodded, still smiling, but didn't take his eyes from Valentine.

In the Wicker Room, Trudy struck up a florid version of “Happy Birthday,” and the entire bar joined in on the second line. The song was repeated with increased fervor; Trudy ended with a flourish and everyone applauded.

Valentine was flushed. “I'm a Libra,” he whispered. “I was born in October.” No one paid attention.

Mark stepped forward and placed the package across Valentine's lap. He bent forward, took Valentine's aggrieved face gently in his hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Valentine tried to pull back, but wasn't allowed to. There was applause throughout the thirty-second embrace.

“Break it up,” cried Clarisse. “You're steaming the mirrors.”

“Mark,” gasped Valentine, “it was very thoughtful of you, but, you know, it's not my birthday.”

Mark unzipped his jacket, and threw himself onto the stool beside Valentine. “I know, but I wanted an excuse to give you something.”

“Open it, Val,” demanded Clarisse. She stood beside Mark, with her hand gently on his shoulder. Valentine untied the ribbon and pulled the red foil aside. Clarisse took the discarded paper, wadded it, and threw it at Jack.

Valentine pulled open the top of the box, and lifted out a waist-length jacket. It was of shining dark-brown leather, had zippered pockets, a wide collar, and dark-fur lining.

“It's gorgeous, Mark, but you shouldn't have put your money into something like this for me.”

“Don't be rude,” said Clarisse.

Valentine laid the jacket across his lap and rested his hand on Mark's thigh. “I don't deserve this, I—”

“You deserve it, for just being who you are—”

Behind Mark's back, Clarisse rolled her eyes. She snatched the coat out of Valentine's lap to display it to the curious and admiring onlookers.

“—and besides, I have a friend who does them. He practically gave it to me, when I told him who it was for. I mean, when I told him how much you meant to me, and how much I wanted to give you something.”

“Well, I appreciate it, Mark. In fact, I love the jacket.”

Clarisse had turned back. “Yes,” she said, “maybe now you can pass for butch.”

Valentine ignored her remark. He removed his pea coat and reached out for the jacket. A man who had been rubbing the fur lining against his cheek and exclaiming its softness handed the gift back to Valentine. He slipped it on, said it fit perfectly, and turned to examine his appearance in the mirror behind the bar.

Trudy played “Easter Parade” until Valentine gave her the finger, and then she modulated into “I Enjoy Being a Girl,” which was greeted with even greater laughter. Valentine ignored it.

“I love the coat,” said Valentine to Mark.

Mark nodded happily. “I'm glad,” he whispered.

“We have to talk,” said Valentine. “Not right now, not here, but later.”

“Oh, sure,” said Mark.

“Clarisse and I are going out to eat. Come with us.”

Mark held up his hands. “I stopped on the way. Lumberjacks eat early. I'm dead too, been up since four. Can I drop my pack at your place and lie down for a while? I could use a shower too.”

Valentine detached his keys from his back belt loop and handed them to Mark. “Take your time. Why don't we meet at the Eagle about midnight. I guess we can talk there as well as anywhere else.”

Mark nodded and stood. He squeezed Valentine's arm affectionately, smiled at Clarisse, and was gone.

Clarisse fingered the collar of the coat. “Most beautiful wedding ring I've ever seen.”

Valentine whipped about on the stool. “Rye,” he said to Jack, “straight up. And pour a bottle of Perrier over Loveless's head.”

“That's Love
lace
, creep.”

Jack brought drinks for them both and after remaining silent for several moments, Clarisse turned to Valentine and blurted, “Oh, guess what!”

“What?”

“I caught some of the noontime news on the TV, and guess who was on it?”

“The five top winners in the Mamie Van Doren look-alike contest.”

“No,” said Clarisse, “just the second runner-up: Mario Scarpetti.”

“Oh, God!” cried Valentine, “what did he say?”

“Well, of course they asked him about the dead boy in the bush, and he went into this tirade about the ‘homosexual element' in Boston, and how it had lowered the moral climate and property values and raised the tax rate, and if we didn't stop it, this place was going to be worse than California, and we weren't going to have any blue laws, and we'd be seeing unwashed men kissing each other on park benches, and everyone would have to send his children to Catholic schools because that's the only place where homosexuals couldn't get at 'em—”

“Oh ho,” interrupted Valentine miserably, “I should introduce him to that hot priest from Fall River that I carried home Saturday night. He was late for mass because I made him help me scrape the Crisco off the walls on Sunday morning.”

“Anyway,” said Clarisse, “during the commercial, they had to wipe the foam off his mouth…”

While she talked, a tall, dark-complexioned man with straight black hair and a small moustache had entered the bar and taken the stool next to Valentine's. He wore a denim jacket and a heavy black sweater beneath it. After ordering a beer from Jack, he and Clarisse exchanged brief, almost startled nods over Valentine's head.

Valentine slid his empty glass toward Jack. “Anybody been in here looking for me?”

“No. Are you expecting someone?”

“Maybe,” said Valentine. “He's tall, fat, got pink skin and bristles, a little round snout and big pointy ears that you can't make a silk purse out of. He's got beady eyes and a badge.”

The man next to Valentine laughed.

“What?” said Jack.

“A cop named Searcy. Watch out. He's been coming down hard this week.”

“You expect him in here?” said Jack nervously.

“No. Maybe. You haven't seen me. He'd be wanting to talk about that little hustler that got killed.”

The man in the denim jacket and the black sweater made a noisy movement. His brow furrowed, and he guzzled down half his beer. He nervously pocketed his change and dropped off the stool.

Clarisse, having watched all in the mirror behind the bar, turned and stared after the man who rushed past the checkroom and out into the cold January night.

T
HE TUDOR HOUSE was a restaurant, seating about seventy-five, on the ground and second floors of a converted townhouse on Newbury Street. It had walnut paneling, leaded-glass windows, and middle-aged waitresses. Its menu was known less for the items on it, which were of the standard beef-and-potatoes variety, than for its pricings which were arbitrary and peculiar. Creamed corn for instance was forty-seven cents, while the complete liver-and-bacon dinner was four dollars and one cent.