Butterflies in Heat (7 page)

"Don't we all do that?"

"Of course," she said. "But the mask won't keep the wind from biting you again."

"No," he said, "but it'll help. I'd feel really naked without it. " He shifted in the armchair, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. "Do you mind
if
I have one of your cigarettes? Marijuana, isn't it?"

She moved her hand through the air like a swan lifting its wing. "Yes, it is," she said. "Take one of the blue ones. Blue is your color."

He laughed. "You don't know me well enough to know my color."

"You're wrong! I know you very well. Most of the night I spent thinking about you." An obvious lie, she knew, but she liked the sound of the words.

He inhaled the smoke. Choking, he put the cigarette down. "You were a surprise when I met you. Totally out of place in this rundown town. When you arrive on the scene, people sit up and take notice."

"That wasn't always so," she said, her interest rising.

"I mean, you're really stunning looking." He was saying this not only because he believed it; but because he knew she wanted to hear it.

"I wasn't always," she said. "When I was just a girl, braces covered my teeth, and, worse, I started to grow tall and gangly."

"You certainly turned your tallness into an asset," he said. "Tall women are just great."

"But children, especially one Ruthie Elvina, used to make fun of me. They even called me 'the ugly duckling'."

"They called me a lot of things, too, but that's gone now."

"Not for me it isn't. I still haven't forgiven them."

"But you became glamorous," he said. "What does it matter now what some kids thought a long time ago?"

"Showing them, especially Ruthie Elvina, what I really was has been one of the most important goals of my life. I knew I would one day rise above them. Even then, I knew."

"So, you got back at them." He wanted to change the subject, but there was a sudden fierceness and determination in her eyes. He knew she wouldn't let go.

"I knew," she said, raising her voice. "That's why I was able to take their abuse. That doesn't mean
I
didn't have my heart broken time and time again. Now my poor heart has so many scars I can't feel with it sometimes. I want to. But a lifetime of betrayals has left me immune."

"Is that why you can't accept me?"

"I want to. You intrigue me. But I'm afraid of you at the same time. You're a self-admitted hustler. I know you're out to get something from me."

"Whatever I take from people, I give them something in return."

"I
wish I could believe that. Are you really interested in me?"

"Yes, I am. I think you're one of the most fascinating women I've ever seen."

His words set her off, her head spinning—almost in reverie. He was right. She was fascinating! She chose a role, and became that role. She showed the women of America what they could do with themselves creatively. To do that, she had to don many costumes. Her clothes were in demand—by everybody. She was now fully caught up, remembering, barely aware of Numie. Whatever she had felt, she became. Why, once she dressed up like a man and walked down Fifth Avenue. Of course, she created a scandal. She had created scandals all her life. But she wasn't rejected. She was in her power then. Women all over America adopted her styles. Never had she followed other styles or conventions. She had set them. Leaning forward, she looked full face at Numie—blinking her wild, almond eyes.
"If
I am fascinating, as you say I am, it's because I went out in the world to make my wildest dreams come true. Whatever I wanted, I reached out and tried to capture. Many times I came up empty-handed, but I never stopped reaching." She crushed out her cigarette, shifted her position, and reached for a bamboo fan.

He blended his fingers together, then cracked his knuckles.

"An irritating habit you have."

"Forgive me," he said.

She emerged from the darkness just enough for the light to capture the outline of her face. Her violet lipstick glowed in the shadows. "Am I grotesque to you?"

"Not at all."

"You're lying—that's good. Never tell the truth to anyone—just to yourself. Of course, you consider me a freak, unfairly, but I know what you're thinking. You're not bright enough to distinguish me from that show at Commodore Philip's bar."

"I don't think I understand."

"That awful drag creature who calls herself Lola La Mour, a cheap imitation of my own name. You obviously have had more experience around garbage than around ladies."

Too bad you feel that way." He couldn't comprehend this sudden attack.
"If
I've not behaved right, I'm sorry."

"And well you should be." She didn't know why she was attacking him. An impulse. Perhaps she was afraid of him as she was afraid of all strangers. "I must warn you" I'm not rushing into any relationship with you, chauffeur or whatever. We'll meet again in a few days ... perhaps. By then, your manners may have improved. Good day." Her disappearance from the study left a lingering trail of intoxicating perfume.

He paused. Then he picked up one of her blue marijuana cigarettes and put it in his pocket.

The sounds of a typewriter led him to a downstairs office, off the parlor. Behind a desk, Anne was answering a letter.

"I'm afraid I struck out with the boss lady," he said, standing at the doorway.

She looked up. "That's very predictable. She likes to test people. See how much abuse they can take. If she attacks without provocation, and sees that you don't fight back, then she knows you're material for her stable."

"Thanks for the warning, but I could have used
it
before facing the firing squad."

Over Anne's desk was a billboard advertising, Leonora de la Mer presents THE TASTE OF STEAK TARTARE, a three-act play by Ralph Douglas."

"Is that the Ralph we know?" Numie asked.

"One and the same."

"I didn't know he was a playwright."

"He's not. The play was never produced.

"Was there a play at all?"

"Yes, Leonora was going to produce it, or so she said, When you're fishing, you've got to used bait. We accepted her invitation to come to Sacre-Coeur so Ralph could revise it. Nothing he ever wrote seemed quite right to her. The rewrites stretched on and on. Just as Ralph was about to explode, Leonora would praise him and tantalize him with her backing. I kept urging him to leave Tortuga and go back to New York. But he wouldn't. One morning we didn't hear the typewriter any more." She sighed. "I type letters on it now."

"You could have gone back alone."

"With no money? I can just imagine what that would be like. Even though I don't have a husband, I can still be taken to the grocery store in a limousine every time
I
want a quart of milk."

"Why are you confiding in me? You have every right to hate me."

"I just know, I can feel you're joining the household. Tangerine, Ralph, and I are the permanent fixtures. The Numies of this world come and go. You're the new me.
If
you're going to be joining our happy home, you might as well know something about us."

"She gave no indication I had the job."

"Nor would she. That's not how she operates. Believe me, I know her well. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Through the office doors and into the patio, Numie was blinded by the afternoon sun. The air was so hot he could hardly breathe.

From the upstairs window, a velvet drapery swung into position. Was Leonora watching?

Quickly he made his way through the open door, through the garden, through the iron gate, and out onto the street.

Then, and only then, did he slow his pace.

Back in the hotel lobby, the clerk was holding Numie's key.

"The key, please," Numie said.

"The bread, man. You should have paid in advance. You didn't."

"Okay," Numie said,
"I'll
go to the bank. Cash a check. Now give me the key."

"Man, you've got no checks to cash. We both know you're in town to hustle our ass. You'd better find a john if you want that room back tonight."

"Okay, shithead," Numie said. "Keep the room and my possessions, too. Why not?"

On the street, the day was moving in. Numie was breathing hard.

Ralph's gold watch glistened in the sun. In the comer, Numie spotted two Cubans sitting on a bench under a palm.

"Is there a pawn shop in this town?"

"No," one of the Cubans said. "No hock. What are you selling?"

"It's gold." Taking it off, he handed it to one of the Cubans.

The man fingered it softly, then held it up and listened to it tick. "Give you five dollars."

"Five dollars—for a gold watch?" Numie said, retrieving it. "Not my gold watch." He walked on down the street.

That left his remaining chance. The black drag queen, Lola La Mour.

She repulsed him. But she wouldn't be the first person he'd slept with who did.

Walking faster now, he could almost feel her lipstick-coated mouth snaking his sweat-drenched body. Maybe he could have sex with her and blot out the vision of what she was. After all, a hustler in his position could hardly select desirable bedmates.

"Damn it!" he said aloud. "Paying for it's the only way a creep like you is ever going to get near me." Imaginary conversations he'd never have with Lola. Suddenly, he was aware he was talking to himself. But there was no one on the street to notice or care.

It wasn't that Lola was black. He'd gone that route many times before.
It
wasn't even that she was a black drag queen. That was familiar turf too.
It
was her being both black and a drag queen in a small redneck southern town. The tolerance level toward blacks must be low enough. But toward black drag queens, the worst. Or was the worst reserved for a white hustler willing to sell his body to a black drag queen?

"What the hell?" he asked finally. "A one-time shot in the dark." He laughed bitterly at his own pun.

At Commodore Philip's, the white Facel-Vega glistened in the afternoon sun.

Inside, not one customer. Only the bartender, Lola, doing her nails.

Brushing back her platinum wig, she stuffed a cigarette into her holder with such masculine force she surprised even herself. Then, with more delicate and ladylike fingers, she lit it, blowing smoke rings into the air.

Breathing deeply, she held out her breasts, making them seem larger than they were. For the life of her, she could never understand what men saw in such things. Breasts repulsed her, particularly hers today. They were sagging absurdly.

She nervously studied her reflection in the powder-smudged mirror of her compact. Her make-up wasn't staying on right, but running in the heat wave.
If
she didn't repair it instantly, she looked like a clown. When the Commodore returned from the mainland, she was going to have to entice him to buy air conditioning, a plea she'd registered for the last ten years.

Suddenly, Numie appeared on the street. A feeling of triumph shot through her. She knew he'd be back. Slamming the compact shut, she adjusted her dress, and prayed that her sweat glands would stop working overtime.

She stared harshly. No woman ever snared anything by being too easy to get. "The Big Spender!" she said sarcastically. "Come to toss another buck at Lola."

He eased onto the bar stool. His left leg, held rigidly stiff, started to shake furiously. He hoped Lola wouldn't see it.

"Look at her," he thought with disgust. "Licking her chops already. She just can't wait to get me," he said to himself.

"Hi," he said out loud, swallowing hard. "You look just great today. I don't know how you manage in this heat."

"Get you!" The blood raced madly through her. Thank God she had time to repair her face. She studied him carefully. Despite what he said—about her looking great and all—she could see no desire in him. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe, and this made a lot more sense, he was playing hard to get, too. After all, he was a hustler.