Butterflies in Heat (41 page)

"If you don't want some coins from our little pot of gold, that's okay with me, man," Ned said. He pinched Lola's ass. "Come on."

Hands on her hips, Lola said, "You forget I own this shop." Turning her back on David, she reached to fondle Ned's hair. "Your lease has run out." Her over-the-shoulder voice was matter-of-fact.

"Anything you say," David said nervously. "I'd hate to lose my shop. I think I know what you have in mind." He eyed his merchandise. "My clothes have been looking pretty dull lately. I could spice them up a bit."

With exhaled breath, she commanded, "Charge Ned's suit."

"You mean .. ." David asked hesitantly, "on the commodore's account? But he's dead."

She giggled, then suppressed it. "I just happen to know where my commodore is," she said. "No, I mean on
my
account!" With that announcement she was half out the entrance and into the street. She waited impatiently for Numie to open the door to the back compartment of Leonora's Lincoln.

Numie was trying to pretend today wasn't happening.
It
was very hot, and the air was heavy. He longed for a little wind to blow away the rotten smell of this whole place.

Ned trailed Lola inside the car. "This leopard skin upholstery's too much," he said, fondling it like he did the breast of a woman. "Bet that was some cat. Love to have me a jacket of that cat's hide."

Lola patted him on the knee. "You will," she said.

"You are, in fact, Haskell Hadley Yett?" an attorney was asking. "Not Lola La Mour."

Lola crossed her legs and checked her hosiery for a snag. "One and the same," she answered, holding her head high. "Lola La Mour is my professional name."

"And what kind of profession is that?" the attorney asked, settling back in a leather chair and lighting a cigarette. "That requires you to dress, act, and talk like a woman?"

Lola licked her lips, knowing that made her sexier. "I'm a cabaret entertainer," she said, adjusting her black dress. "My fans expect
it
of me."

The attorney fingered his mustache and moved uncomfortably in his seat. His white shirt was soaked. "Who are these gentlemen with you?" he inquired.

Lola started to answer, but Ned interrupted. "I'm her business manager here to protect her interests."

As if threatened, the attorney sat up rigidly. "Her interests are well taken care of, I can assure you."

"I'm the driver," Numie interjected, hoping to stay out of this whole affair. In the far comer of the room, he had refused even a seat. Cast in the servant role, he was determined to play it through. Aimlessly his eyes wandered, taking in the termite-eaten Cuban wicker furniture, the thirsty plants, and the bamboo ceiling. His head was dark today, and sounds had a hard time reaching him.
It
was some kind of hell he was hearing, but he was a long way from it.

"As you know," the attorney said, turning to Ned, "Mr. Yett was Commodore Philip's sole heir."

"Heiress," Lola corrected. She smiled demurely. "I'm known by my professional name." Trying to appear casual like watching a fly, she glanced at Numie in the back of the room. That white boy infuriated the hell out of her. He didn't seem to be impressed that she was an heiress. And that had been the one thing she knew would impress him.
It
didn't make sense, unless Numie was playing a game. Holding out for higher stakes.

"I'm sorry,
Miss
La Mour," the attorney said, trying to catch her eye. "Whichever term you prefer is acceptable to me." He settled back again. "The commodore has a close relative."

The word sent a shiver racing up Lola's spine.

"I think one sister is still living in New Orleans," the attorney continued.

Memories of the banquet and the call from Sister Amelia flashed through Lola's head.

"She's not mentioned in the will," the attorney said. "I had warned Phil to at least mention her. Now I must warn you: I expect his sister will contest the will."

In spite of running eye shadow, Lola tried to appear as confident as possible. "I'm not worried," she said.

She flung herself back in her peacock chair like a limp dishrag. No need to appear tense. The bars on the windows caught her eye. The office was like a goddamn jail, and she was not going to be the prisoner of white men for much longer. Sitting up rigidly, she was ready for business. "Exactly what does the commodore's estate consist of?" Her words hung heavy in the air. From the open but barred window an aroma of honeysuckle wafted across, only to be smothered by the attorney's cigarette smoke. "He never talked to me too much about his property on the mainland."

"It's quite large," the attorney said. "You're going to be a very wealthy ... person."

A tingle began in Lola's chartreuse-painted toe, traversing her hosiery-encased legs, settling for a brief moment in her little honeypot, then traveling up her breasts, lodging finally at her temples, streaked with pancake makeup. "I know he had boats," she replied, again trying to sound as casual as possible. "He used to bring his yacht down from time to time."

"Yes, I know that," the attorney said. "He owns four, including the yacht. I wouldn't exactly call them boats. They're more like ships."

Her temples practically exploded. Then the tingle began its downward descent, this time anchoring permanently at the honeypot.

"You know, of course, he wasn't a real commodore," the attorney said.

Lola practically laughed at his face. She wanted to say, "You know, motherfucker, I'm a strange lady, but I can out-pussy any pussy!" But she refrained from uttering such crudeness, mentally reminding herself she must avoid such bad taste. It didn't become her new position in life.

"Look, man, Ned was saying, "with that many boats, you're the commodore of your own fleet."

"Yes," the attorney said stiffly. "He owned quite a bit of property in Tortuga. The bar he owned outright. Nearly everything else is in partnership with Leonora de la Mer, including her fashion house."

That tingling sensation in her honeypot was getting completely out of control. It was rape. She loved his last words so much she wished she'd had a tape recorder so she could hear the words over and over, memorizing every sound and imbedding it deep in her brain. Visions of herself as a fashion designer, bigger and more successful than De la Mer ever was, danced through her head. But back to business. "What about Sacre-Coeur?" she asked pointedly, knowing her luck couldn't hold out forever.

"No," the attorney said, "that's completely owned by De la Mer. Inherited
it
from her husband."

"And the Facel-Vega," Lola said impatiently. "Don't forget that and the Rolls-Royce." Her breath was coming in gasps.

"Lola, you can do better than that old broken down Rolls," Ned said.

Her eyes spat fire at him. "We'll discuss
it
later
if
you don't mind," she said in her best ladylike voice. The more her eyeballs took in Ned, the more convinced she was he was a field nigger.

"Now," the attorney went on, but in a hesitant voice, "there is the question of the body."

Utter silence fell across the room.

Lola was remembering her wedding and wishing she'd saved some of the flowers. Had she known the wedding and the commodore's death would be taking place so close together she would have.
It
would cut down tremendously on the florist's bill. But she never gave flowers to the commodore alive. He never liked anything he couldn't eat or polish.

"The body's not buried yet," the attorney said when he was getting no response from Lola.

"I'm no gravedigger,· she said indignantly.

"No one is expecting you to dig the grave,· the attorney snapped. "But you've got to make arrangements, or else give me instructions so I can."

Lola shifted her legs again, swinging her arms. Was he trying to suck her into a trap? "I'm not into fancy coffins,· she said firmly. "Something simple. Maybe just a pine box."

The attorney cast a disdainful eye, then said, "You mean a pauper's coffin?"

"Call it what you like,· Lola answered, angered now, as she never wanted to associate herself with poverty ever. "My departed commodore told me he didn't like spending money on funerals or undertakers." She remembered his telling her that one time, and here was one request she could live with.

"We don't call them undertakers any more," the attorney said.
"If
you insist on an inexpensive coffin, the commodore's friends at the yacht club on the mainland will be horrified. I feel I should warn you."

"Why do those cats have to know?" Ned asked.

"They'll find out at the funeral, ., the attorney replied.

"What funeral?" Lola asked. She feared she was losing control of the
conversation—and,
after all, she was the heiress.

"I don't see no need for a funeral.· Her voice was cold. Then she softened her tone, and started to put her hand to her temples until she realized it would streak her makeup all the more. "My commodore's death has left my system in such a state of shock I couldn't bear to go through with no funeral. We'll just have to bury him—that's all. I have my memories. Thank the good Lord for that."

"Miss
La
Mour," the attorney said, "if you don't mind my asking, exactly what was your relationship with the commodore?"

The sun was hot and glaring, and its light seemed to be slashing right through those bars. Lola reached into her purse, putting on a pair of rhinestone sunglasses. "We lived together for years," she said.

You mean you worked at his saloon?" the attorney corrected her.

"Yes, I worked there," Lola said, "but I also lived with my commodore." Once again, she wet her lips for effect. "He was my husband."

"Surely you're mistaken," the attorney said. "Although you're known professionally as Lola La Mour, you are a man." He crushed out his cigarette. "And men don't have husbands!"

All this slander about her being a man burned the hell out of her. "Darling," she said in her most biting voice, "I had a husband. Of course, we weren't legally married until just the other day, but a boss player like you should have heard of common law marriages."

"Please," the attorney said.

"Why don't you please?" Ned interrupted. "The lady here said she was married to the commodore. After all, she should know."

"You have a point there," the attorney said. "A most unusual case."

Lola was all to pieces right now. Abruptly she stood up, seeing if the attorney would rise to acknowledge her action. He did. Lola's smile was confident as she said, "At the moment, I'm tremendously short of cold hard cash. I need a whole pot of gold until all this red tape is cleared up."

Clearing his throat, the attorney said, "I think that could be arranged. I could advance you a suitable amount." He extended his hand. "Miss La Mour, you have my deepest sympathy at the loss of your dear ... " He hesitated, then said, " ... husband. He was my finest client, and I will personally feel his departure deeply."

Lola extended her hand tentatively, wishing she'd worn gloves for the occasion. "Thank you."

"Of course," the attorney continued, "I know the commodore's affairs intimately, and I hope you will see fit to retain my services."

"Yes," Lola said, glancing absently at the slowly moving blades of the wood fan overhead. "But at a much higher rate."

"Really?" the attorney said, finding it hard to suppress his enthusiasm. "I think the arrangements—the burial and all, the settling of the
estate—can
be
taken care of speedily and efficiently." Walking around his desk, he took her by the arm and escorted her to the door. "I totally agree with you, by the way. Funerals are morbid events and shouldn't be dragged out."

"Then we understand each other?" Lola asked, adopting a model's stance at the door that best showed off her girlish figure.

"Perfectly," the attorney replied, squeezing her elbow ever so gently.