Vermilion (12 page)

Valentine and Clarisse were seated at a small table cramped into the leaded-glass embrasure that looked out over the Newbury Street sidewalk. Their waitress was a tall slender woman with short platinum hair, a pale soft complexion, and wide light-blue eyes. She smiled as she edged her way toward them. Leaning forward and resting her palms on the edge of their table, so that it was in danger of overturning, she said, “Well, haven't see you two in a while. D'you have a nice Christmas?”

“We went to the Yucatan,” said Clarisse. “It was great.” She slid her coat off her shoulders, and it fell over the back of the chair.

“You look tired, Marie,” said Valentine.

Marie smiled again, and showed off her perfect teeth. “My feet are screaming,” she said.

Clarisse glanced at the menu briefly. “The chicken and black coffee. No appetizer. Salad with Russian. You choose the dessert.”

“German chocolate,” said Marie, and scribbled on her pad.

“Herring and coffee,” said Valentine. “Tomato soup, no salad, German chocolate for me too.”

“Sounds awful,” said Marie, and scribbled again. “Cook's going to come out here and shoot you dead, ordering herring and tomato soup. I'll be back in a minute.” Marie edged through the tables, skillfully ignoring a woman who desperately wanted her check.

Valentine rested back in his chair and peered out onto Newbury Street. The fashionable small shops and boutiques were all closed at this hour, but the street was fairly busy with couples wandering from one lighted window to another. Most passersby stopped at the display of the shop next to the Tudor House in which seven formally attired female mannequins were threatening one another with ice trays.

Valentine watched carefully the dismay of two young women who had stopped in front of the window.
Students
, thought Valentine.
Boston University, School of Applied Music, 700 Commonwealth Avenue, one has a boyfriend who's a trumpet player, the other is a closet lesbian
. They moved on before he could delve any deeper into their obvious lives.

Valentine turned back to Clarisse. She was smoking. She drew in on the cigarette and let the smoke waft from her mouth in soft curls. She stared at him with weary eyes.

Valentine didn't smile, but he said, “Ida Lupino.”

Clarisse nodded, shaking her hair so that one dark wave fell down over her right eye. “Right. But what film?”

Valentine cocked his head, and closed one eye. “Ummmmm.
They Drive by Night
.”

“You're too good,” she said, and pushed her hair back.

“Who was that man?”

“Which man?” said Clarisse, glancing out the window.

“At Bonaparte's. Black hair, denim jacket, black sweater.”

“He's a neurosurgeon at Mass General. He was the last person to see Vivien Leigh alive.”

Marie brought two cups of steaming coffee. Clarisse and Valentine nodded thanks, and Valentine said then, “No. Who was he?”

“You want the story?” She smiled and raised her eyebrows.

Valentine shrugged. “Sure.”

“You're not interested in him, are you?
Interested
, I mean.”

“No.”

“His name's Frank Hougan. I've never told you about him?”

“No,” said Valentine, with impatience. “So tell me. He rented his flat from you, right?”

“A year ago, maybe more. I was at work one day, and he came by with his girlfriend. His girlfriend's name is Boots, Boots Slater.”

“Boots…?” said Valentine skeptically.

“Yes,” said Clarisse, “and as it turned out, ‘Whips-and-Chains' would have been just as accurate.” Clarisse smiled then for the first time. Valentine leaned forward now with more interest. They both laughed.

“You've seen her,” said Clarisse in a low conspiratorial voice. “A little shorter than I, skinny, long straight brown hair. Keeps her hair shoved up under a black leather motorcycle hat.”

“Does she ride a motorcycle?”

“She's usually so stoned, it's all she can do to ride an escalator without losing her feet in the treads. Always wears black leather—hat, vest, pants, boots, has a heart outlined in golden studs on her crotch.”

Valentine nodded ruefully. “I followed her three blocks once, thinking she was a hot new man in town. Then I saw the darts. I see her now and again, lurching along, but only at night.”

“Bride of Dracula. Sunlight does nasty things to her skin.”

“So what else do you know about them?” demanded Valentine.

“Well, they came in looking for an apartment, both of 'em dressed in black, both of 'em with dark glasses, even though it was late afternoon and the sky was overcast, and Hougan said he wanted something with lots of room and a beamed ceiling. Didn't care about anything else. Didn't care if there was a fireplace, or a view, or a kitchen big enough for more than two cockroaches at once—but he had to have a beamed ceiling. So I went through our files, and showed him everything we had with a beamed ceiling. Took him to Jamaica Plain, but that was too far out. Showed him a place on Louisberg Square, but that wasn't big enough. Finally found a place on Commonwealth Avenue with beams in every room. Even the bathroom had beams—he
loved
that. All that took two days.”

“And?”

“So they signed the lease, or rather Hougan signed the lease, and they moved in. Rent was always on time. It's one of the buildings we manage—one of
my
buildings in fact. They never complained about light bulbs going out in the hallway or the radiator exploding or anything like that. But then the neighbors started calling.”

Clarisse paused dramatically.

Valentine refused to coax her on.

They both sipped their coffee for a couple of moments, and sat back for the arrival of Valentine's soup and Clarisse's salad.

“Mr. Hougan and Ms. Slater were running an ad in the
Phoenix
classifieds. You read those things, so you're bound to have seen it. ‘Leather master and leather mistress will make pleasure out of your pain. You'll crawl away satisfied. No scene too far out. Will work separately or together. Men or women or couples welcome. Well-equipped play room. Reasonable rates. Visa, Master Charge, other major credit cards accepted.' Well, the place became a parade ground of perversion, two or three people a night, all hours.”

“And the little old ladies across the street complained about what they could see through their windows?”

“No. But the people in the building got tired of muffled groans of ecstasy and whiplashes in the night. People pleading, and people screaming, and people swinging from the chains they had attached to the beams.”

Valentine laughed. “What'd you do?”

“Well, I called 'em up. I
had
to. Fortunately, I got hold of Boots, and I told her, straight out, that it didn't bother me if they wanted to beat people up for profit, but that they were making too much noise.”

“Was she mad?”

“No,” said Clarisse. “She was very sweet. She apologized, said she didn't know that the noise traveled like that, and that they would put up soundproofing. Evidently they did, because there hasn't been a complaint in the last six months. And the ad's still running.”

“Yes,” said Valentine, “it's in this week's paper. Why didn't you tell me about them before?”

“I think when all this happened, you and I weren't speaking. That's why I didn't tell you.”

Valentine nodded, then said, “You were surprised to see him tonight.”

“Yes,” said Clarisse, “I assumed he was straight. I mean, he's probably kinky enough to do anything as long as it pays, but he didn't strike me as the kind to go to a gay bar, and certainly not Bonaparte's. He was probably just as surprised to see me there. I thought it was a little strange in fact that he remembered me at all.”

“I saw him in the mirror,” said Valentine. “Then I was talking to Jack about Searcy. Hougan started to say something, and then he changed his mind.”

“He left in a hurry,” said Clarisse.

“Because I mentioned Searcy.”

“No,” said Clarisse, “he left when you mentioned Billy the Dead Boy.”

Valentine smiled as Marie removed his soup plate and replaced it with a plate of herring salad. “The cook hates your guts,” she said, and went smiling away.

“Well,” said Clarisse, spearing a shred of chicken with her fork, “you think you ought to say anything to Searcy?”

“Say what? That a man in a black sweater left the bar when I mentioned his name?”

Clarisse shrugged. “You're right. He was probably just late for an appointment.”

“Yeah,” said Valentine, “somebody was going to pay him five dollars to walk on his face with cleats.”

B
OLSTERED AGAINST the cold by the Tudor House's German chocolate cake, Valentine and Clarisse strolled leisurely down Newbury Street, crossing from one side to the other several times in the length of each block to stare into the windows of their favorite shops. Valentine was particularly taken with a large penguin driving a racing car in the display of F.A.O. Schwarz, and Clarisse desperately wanted to possess a Chinese laundry basket fashioned in the likeness of Donald Duck. But, arm in arm, looking for all the world like an affianced couple in the “Living” section of the Sunday
Globe
, they paused longest before the window of a small dress shop, whose branches were located in Palm Beach and Milan. In it, a leggy mannequin attired in high '40s style stood on the unhinged door of a star's dressing room while an adoring fan (or perhaps her husband) lay crushed beneath it.

“It's an allegory of Time,” Clarisse explained.

Valentine pulled her to the next shop, where they studied the high-contrast black-and-white photographs of the latest and most fashionable hairstyles. Clarisse pulled her thick black hair back, and pushed it up, while examining her reflection carefully in the smoked glass of the shop's window.

“You think I would look more like Faye Dunaway if I cut it all off?”

“No, but if you bleached it nobody'd be able to tell you from Diana Dors.”

Clarisse opened her hand. The waves of her black hair fell softly about her furred shoulders. “I'd look awful with short hair. Like Glenda Jackson when she's not smiling.”

“Or Marjorie Main when she is.”

They moved farther up the street. “But the real question,” said Clarisse, “is what are you going to do about Mark?”

“I'm going to break it to him gently. ‘Mark, I like you, I don't love you. Give me a call sometime. Good-bye.' And then, so that he won't feel so bad, I'll see him off at the bus in the morning.”

“Where's he going to sleep tonight?”

Valentine laughed. “I've never thrown anything that looked like
that
out of my bed!”

“That's encouraging him.”

“He'll sleep on the couch.” Valentine fingered the zipper of his new jacket. “You don't think I should offer to return the coat, do you?”

“He'd be hurt.”

“Good,” said Valentine, “then I won't even offer. He might take me up on it.”

“Doesn't it make you feel the tiniest bit obligated, that he gave you a jacket tonight—in the presence of witnesses—that would cost you one-seventy-five on the open market?”

“Well,” said Valentine, and then paused. “Maybe I won't make him sleep on the couch after all. The trouble is, he's not going to want to
sleep
at all.”

Clarisse hurried him up Exeter Street. “One more look at the Christmas tree—they take it down tomorrow.”

Boylston Street was busy with foot traffic, especially right around the jazz bars and the liquor stores. A fat bearded man was distributing questionnaires on the state of passersby's souls; two young women with long straight hair were playing a recorder duet near the entrance of Burger King; and drunks were taking shelter with their bottles of Thunderbird in the recessed doorways of banks and travel agencies. Tourists stumbled along dazedly, afraid to ask directions. A disco version of “We Three Kings of Orient Are” filled the sidewalk outside of Strawberries record store, but as they continued uptown it was gradually overtaken by more traditional versions of Christmas carols that poured out of windswept Prudential Plaza.

There, Valentine stood behind Clarisse with his ungloved hands deep in the pockets of her fur coat. They stared up at the tremendous blue spruce. The sixty-foot tree was covered over with tiny twinkling colored lights, and a star the size of a high-seas distress signal was perched at the top. Chubby white plastic winged cherubs with white lights in their bellies were scattered among the branches. The wind whipping around the base of the tall building stirred the branches and the cherubs seemed coyly to pursue one another through the greenery. “Jesus Bambino” in a reed-organ-and-carillon accompaniment played lustily.

Clarisse thrust her hands into her pockets and squeezed Valentine's wrists affectionately. “Got a blowtorch?” she whispered.

“I hate Christmas,” he replied.

A strong gust dislodged a cherub and smashed it against the concrete a few feet from them.

“It's an omen,” said Valentine.

“We'll have good luck for the rest of the year. Let's drink on it.”

They hurried to the Café Vendôme on Commonwealth Avenue, which was mercifully out of sight of the Christmas tree. The small, intimately lighted café was uncrowded and warm, and they were so taken with the bartender, who didn't seem to be able to make up his mind between them, that they stayed through two rounds of Black Russians. When they made their way out onto the unpopulated boulevard of Commonwealth they did not mind the increasingly sharp gusts of wind.

As they neared Berkeley Street, Clarisse abruptly stopped and grabbed Valentine's arm. She nodded to direct his attention across the street, and as she did so she stepped back a few feet into the shadows. Retreating also, Valentine saw nothing more than a battered blue Fairlane, probably ten years old, maneuvering into a parking space. Its front fender was an incongruous bottle green.