A Small Matter (7 page)

Vickie laughed. “No,” she said. “He’s not
practical about such matters. He’s the kind of man who’s happy
simply to have clothes on his back and a hot meal. Not that he’s a
pig. He shaves and showers every day, and he’s in incredible
physical shape. He’s got low self-esteem, though, because he’s a
little on the short side--like me--we’re both short and a little
stocky.”

“He sounds refreshing,” Mary-Jo said. “And
you’re not stocky--voluptuous is the word.”

“You can afford to be generous with your
compliments with that set of wheels,” Vickie said.

“I’m thirty-five and I still haven’t met a
man in this town I could tell apart from the last one. I’d love to
have a rough-cut man like your brother to polish to suit my
tastes.”

Vickie brought out the photo she kept of Dalk
in her wallet.

“Ooh-la-la,” Mary-Jo said. “You didn’t tell
me he was so cute. Is he seeing anybody?”

“He’s been unattached for the past couple of
years. He needs a house and somebody to look after him. I can’t
leave him alone to wander around friendless and homeless in this
land of barbarians. His big problem is he has no head for money.
You should see the car he drives--an old heap one of his students
traded him for some lessons.”

“Student? Is he a teacher?” Mary-Jo said.

“Brace yourself,” Vickie said. “He’s a
martial artist--he works for LAPD.”

Mary-Jo drained off her White Russian. “He
sounds like he walked straight out of my dreams,” she said. With a
sharp eye, she summoned the waiter. “The White Russian didn’t cut
it,” she said. “What’ve you got with an edge?”

“How about a Suicide,” he said. “151 rum,
light rum, dark rum, vodka, triple sec, and five fruit juices, all
slushed together--it’ll cut through anything.”

Mary-Jo nodded at Vickie. “Do you mind?” she
said. “ I know it’s unprofessional, but I suddenly feel the need
for us to achieve some sort of state of grace here as quickly as
possible.”

“I agree,” Vickie said.

“It’s settled then,” Mary-Jo said. “I’ll have
a Suicide.”

“Make it two,” Vickie said.

“Your brother is like one of those macho,
self-imposed exiles-from-the-world that women dream about,” Mary-Jo
said. “The minute I saw his picture, I was ready to quit everything
and go with him on horseback to anyplace wild.”

“You should be careful,” Vickie said. “One of
his dreams is to go to Alaska and do that dogsled thing they do up
there.”

“That’d be better than what my life is now,”
Mary-Jo said. “My love life has really been reduced to foraging for
nuts and berries the past few years--nothing of substance has
graced my paths for a long time. I’ve made some money selling Real
Estate, even in this difficult market, and I guess that’s left me
vulnerable to the kind of dream guy who’s just that--all dreams and
no money--the kind of guy who’s looking for somebody to take care
of him while he goes to all the right Studio parties praying for a
miracle Producer to snap him up and make him the next Brad
Pitt.”

“Dalk is a bit of a wild beast,” Vickie said.
“He’s your basic meat-eater--not the type to inhabit the enclosed
environs of the movie people.”

The Suicides arrived, brightly sheathed in
mounds of multi-colored ice crystals. Each lady took a sip through
their straws.

“Whoo,” Mary-Jo said. “One of these and it
will be with the utmost reluctance that I ever return to
reality.”

Vickie felt a stirring in her lower back and
a whisper of fear in her heart. The pain, forgotten for a precious
few hours, was awakening from its slumber. She fumbled with her
vial of Mulroney Specials, palmed a couple of caps and took them
with a sip of Suicide.

“What’ve they got you on?” Mary-Jo said.

“I’m really not sure,” Vickie said. “I'm
self-medicating. My fiancé supplied me with them this
morning--they’re working, that’s all I care about for now.”

They sat and sipped, nodding in tune to the
beat from the bar--Elvin Bishop, Fooled Around and Fell in
Love--the angel-sweet crooner framing his testimony to the value of
true love found.

“Your brother’s name is Dalk?” Mary-Jo said.
“Is that a nickname?”

“I know what you mean,” Vickie said. “It’s
unusual, isn’t it? He had a lot of trouble from the other kids when
he was growing up--plus, Dalk’s a little on the short side--it’s
probably why he was attracted to the warrior life.”

“Does it mean anything?” Mary-Jo said. “The
name Dalk, I mean.”

“Dad always told us it was the ancient Celtic
word for iron, which meant strength,” Vickie said. “But after Dad
died, we did some research and weren’t able to find any proof. It’s
possible Dad simply made it up. At this point, it’s a mystery.”

The Promenade before them was suddenly
deserted, in one of those accidents of fate and timing, and Vickie
felt the curious sensation of silence about her. She took a deep
breath and felt something hard at the end of it, as though someone
had tied a rock to her lungs with a string. When her lungs
expanded, the rock pulled downward at the same time, making her
effort to obtain oxygen enormous.

“Ohhhh,” she wheezed. The feeling passed, the
rock disappeared, and she inhaled deeply, greedily.

“You went three shades whiter,” Mary-Jo said.
“Shall I call for a doctor?”

Vickie felt ashamed of her weakness.
Struggling to avoid eye contact, she turned deliberately away.
“No,” she said. “No doctor. Phew! I feel like I survived an Al Gore
masseuse bear hug--I have no idea where that came from.”

“It’s anxiety,” Mary-Jo said. “What with all
you’re facing, it’s not unexpected. A lot of people go through it
when they contemplate purchasing real estate.”

Vickie turned back around. “Well, I’m pretty
tired of this nonsense--I keep praying for it just to be over--but,
you know, I’m still here. My fiancé is probably keeping me alive
with his prayers.” She sipped her drink and the straw sucked air.
She needed another frozen cylinder of booze. In her attempt to
signal the waiter, she was surprised to find she could barely lift
her arm. The thing weighed a ton.

“Order me another drink,” she said to
Mary-Jo. She took a quick look around. Nobody seemed to be noticing
her display of weakness, but Mary-Jo’s face brimmed with emotions
Vickie couldn’t place for a second, but then it caught up with her.
Mary-Jo was giving her The Face--the one people gave to the
dying--a sickening blend of sadness and pity Vickie had never seen
before. She realized that she herself must have given such a face
to other dying people in her lifetime, but it came as a shock to
find it turned on her.

“Stop with the face,” she said to
Mary-Jo.

“You’re a brave woman,” Mary-Jo said. “I can
see you fighting it with everything you’ve got--you’re a little
saint.”

“If I’m anything,” Vickie said, “it’s a
concerned sister. I’m concerned for Dalk--but only because I
suspect he’ll be adrift without me. That’s why I need you to find
him a good house.”

“Then let’s get busy and find him one,”
Mary-Jo said. She slid closer to Vickie and together they flipped
through the electronic database of pictures of available beach
properties. Vickie sat back. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m too
tired. Shut the computer off.”

Mary-Jo closed the lid and the machine
whirred its way to silence. “Maybe tomorrow, when you’re feeling
better,” she said. “I understand.”

“No,” Vickie said. “You don’t understand--I
can’t do this--I’m too weak. You’re going to have to do the whole
thing for me.”

“You want me to buy you a house without you
even seeing it?” Mary-Jo said.

“Make sure it’s got a little spot out front
for some flowers,” Vickie said. “And a nice fireplace. Dalk always
liked a nice fireplace.”

“How much do you want to spend?”

“I’d say around a million,” Vickie said. “Can
you find something around here for that?”

“Are you kidding?” Mary-Jo said. “Don’t
worry. I’ll see you get the very best.”

“There’s just one thing,” Vickie said.
“You’ve got to find the house and buy it today. I want the
transaction recorded and closed by tomorrow morning.”

Mary-Jo chewed on her tongue a moment and
took a big sip of her drink. “Okay,” she said. “But I better get
moving. Where can I get in touch with you later?”

“Meet me tonight,” Vickie said. “There’s a
bar in Van Nuys, The Lamplighter, on Sepulveda a tad north of
Vanowen.”

Mary-Jo stood up and grabbed the chit.

“Leave it,” Vickie said.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Mary-Jo said. “I’m
sure I’ll have some good news.”

“Mary-Jo,” Vickie said. “There’s one more
thing I want you to do for me.”

“Name it,” Mary-Jo said.

“Marry my brother. He’ll be at the bar
tonight. I’ll introduce you.”

“Marry Dalk,” Mary-Jo said. Her face
registered the struggle as she sought from Vickie’s eyes an
accurate reading on her demeanor and intent.

“He needs you and you need him,” Vickie said.
“I’m serious. When you’re dying and you know it, you begin to see
the truth about people and the nature of things. You learn that
though the game is played out here, the planning is done someplace
else, someplace higher. I just now saw the truth about you and my
brother--you two are made for each other. You’re a perfect match.
Besides, you haven’t so much as said it, but I can tell you’re
lonely as sin.”

“I can’t just marry somebody I never met,”
Mary-Jo said. “I don’t even know him.”

“Would it make any difference if you knew
him?” Vickie said. “What good has knowing the guy ever done you
before? You haven’t been able to arrange it on your own. I’ve met
you and I know you. I know my brother. I know you two would go
together. Everything in life happens for a reason. I’m here looking
at you and you’re here looking at me. Our lives have led up to this
point. The reason we’re here is for me to give you a message--marry
Dalk.”

“Oh my gosh,” Mary-Jo said. “I had chills
shoot all through my body when you said that. While you’ve been
talking, there’s been a movie running in my head. In the movie, I’m
walking into a bar and meeting the man of my dreams--I’m going to
meet the man I’m going to marry tonight!”

“You’re a lovely woman,” Vickie said. “Your
problem with men is that you’re too beautiful--you’ve only
attracted the superficial kind of men. Dalk isn’t like them. Your
beauty has been your curse, yet it can also be your salvation.
Because of your beauty, it’s in your power to marry Dalk. Your
physical beauty will overpower him. He won’t refuse you--it’s his
destiny.”

“Whatever is happening here between us,”
Mary-Jo said, “I’m praying it’s real. You showing up in my life
like this now is really amazing. You have no idea what I’ve been
through lately.”

Vickie felt a sweeping compassion for the
green-eyed girl before her, felt Mary-Jo’s life enter her own, and
saw Mary-Jo’s heartaches and dashed hopes. She reached out and took
her hand.

“You’re free now, Mary-Jo,” Vickie said. “You
can stop trying to figure it all out--when you meet Dalk, you’ll
know for sure I was right.”

Mary-Jo turned and left, leaving Vickie
sitting alone on the sunny October patio, contemplating her
newfound gift of wisdom and watching the people who lacked it
stroll down the Promenade. They were ordinary people, and none of
them appeared to have rocks tied to their lungs or be heading for
distant tombs on faraway hills.

Chapter 11

“I’m in trouble,” Vickie said to Mulroney.
“Something’s wrong with my legs. I don’t think I can walk.”

She was linked to him via some satellite
overhead connecting her from her table at Chillers to the
hands-free in his Suburban.

“Where are you?” he said.

“Chillers--at a table on the patio.”

“Five minutes,” he said.

While she waited, she reflected on the fact
that all her life she’d been an extraordinarily neat person. She’d
maintained a fastidiousness which extended to all her belongings.
Her personal effects were kept carefully in order. During her
childhood with Dalk, her parents had always chided him to model his
behavior after her shining example. Vickie was neat and clean--it
was who she was--but all that was ending. It was part of the reason
why her tumor disgusted her, and inspired feelings of guilt. The
tumor was anything but neat. It was unpredictable and messy. It was
out of order.

The present loss of feeling in her legs,
discovered moments before when she’d tried to rise from her seat,
had jarred completely her equanimity, even to the point of amazing
her. It was why, when she realized she couldn’t walk, she didn’t
squeak like a mouse in fright, or cry, or cause a scene--she was
simply too amazed for her emotions to react. She’d gone on
autopilot and speed-dialed Mulroney. Now she sat in full view of
everybody on the Promenade. Waiting. Keeping her secret.

Mulroney wasn’t worried about neat. He drove
right up the middle of the Promenade in his big blue machine,
parking beside the patio railing adjacent to her table--appearing
like a miracle. Driving up the way he did was a big no-no--Vickie
saw security closing in on the vehicle. The Promenade was
off-limits to cars, a result of the City’s efforts to create some
sacred strolling grounds. Mulroney’s big Suburban, appearing out of
nowhere, violated all the rules. His presence as a former police
power was amply demonstrated as he stepped out and said something
to the security guards, who nodded and faded away. He vaulted the
rail, an act a man his size should not have been able to
perform.

“Nice vault,” she said.

“My heart doesn’t think so,” he said. “I just
got a monster pain. But the vaulting is in my blood--it’s something
in my lineage. All the men in my family look big and slow, but
we’re surprisingly agile.”