Spanish Disco (9 page)

“Please don’t let her in again. And I’ll call her. I have to call her and tell her she is not allowed to see him. Ever. And please call me tomorrow if he seems upset by this.”

“I will. I’m sorry this happened.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“He’s a very sweet man, your father is. And he’s lucky to have you.”

“If you only knew, Carla. I am so much luckier.”

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up. My hands were as cold as if plunged in a bucket of ice water. Then the rage came shooting up from my stomach. Rage or the chili-pepper-covered casserole we’d eaten that night.

“Roland? I’m going to go for a walk. I need some air.”

“Fine. We’ll be here with Alex.”

On the beach, darkness was descending. I struggled with an imaginary dialogue of hatred and viciousness designed to wound my mother.

You heartless beast. You’re not a mother. You’re a sculpture of silicone and collagen.

But I couldn’t wound her. That would imply she cared what I thought. In truth, she cared about when her next facial peel could be scheduled. Where she would vacation. With who? Where was Blaine Trump buying her next pair of shoes?

“Am I intruding?” Roland’s voice startled me from behind.

“No. Not really. I guess you heard my messy little family situation.”

“Partly. Your mother is a bitch?”

“Something along those lines.” I stared ahead in the darkness, grateful he couldn’t see my face. “She left my father and me when I was a little girl. She was always more interested in her address—that it be Park Avenue—and her couture than she was ever interested in being a mother. Ostensibly, so that she wouldn’t look like the offspring-eating monster that she is, she told all her society pals that I was borderline retarded. Couldn’t read. Needed a special tutor at the private school I attended. So when she moved in with husband number three, there was no sense in uprooting me across Central Park. I should stay with my father and that way I could get the special attention I needed.”

“Points for cleverness.”

“Points for evilness.”

Crabs scattered across the sand. I could hear their scuttling in the still night.

“Your father is ill?”

“Not really. He has the ‘big A.’”

“Alzheimer’s?”

I nodded, not knowing if he could see me in the darkness. Not caring, really. Just wanting my mother to be shark bait.

“What are you going to say to her? You do have to call her.”

“I don’t know.”

“My in-laws hated me. Until
Simple Simon
took off and I made enough money to buy my wife a house, I was that good-for-nothing son-in-law. That writer who couldn’t hold a day job. Who wouldn’t.”

“Did you ever confront them?”

“After the funeral. I told them how she used to lie awake at night and cry because they were so judgmental of me. How she and I were soul mates even beyond death and their jealousy of that is what made them hate me.”

“Touché.”

“Or so I thought. But all these years it’s eaten away at me. Inflicting hurt. I can do it. I can harm others with words. But I choose not to now. I don’t want that skill anymore. Maria’s taught me that.”

“To be kind?”

“You could say that. She’s taught me to love that garden. The rabbits. Caring for them has saved me, I suppose. Her gentleness. All I know is what I’m capable of, and what I don’t want to be capable of. Brilliance, my dear, is a terrible burden. But you know that, of course.”

“I’m not in your league.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.

“You know that’s not true. I can already tell you’ve spent your life knowing you were smarter than anyone around you. Which is why you cannot abide by
Wheel of Fortune.
Your skin crawls each time a contestant can’t fill in the letters and solve the stupid thing. The ‘Wheel,’ Cassie, is a metaphor for life.”

I smiled. “Love the stupid?”

“Perhaps. But never underestimate them.”

“I don’t understand you, Riggs.”

“That’s okay, Hayes. You will.”

He turned to walk up the beach toward his magnificent house, an example of what brilliance can buy. Then he paused.

“Tomorrow…the manuscript. You know pain.”

With that he sauntered up the beach, scattering the crabs as he went.

9

T
he next day around 11:30, I checked my voice mail. They were enough to send me searching for Maria’s bottle of Tabasco sauce. I wanted to drink it and put myself out of my misery.

“Hello…Cassie, this is Martin Morris III. I sent you a manuscript entitled
The Secret Life of a Hairy Woman.
I’m not sure if you read it yet. It’s about the real-life circus love affair between a clown and a bearded lady. I was wondering what you think…please call me at 555-8773. Area code 562. Thanks. Did I say this was Martin Morris III? I think I told you I was the son of a former circus performer. The Human Hammer. He used to pound nails up his nose. Anyway, call me if you can. Thanks. Martin Morris. Thanks.”

The cool modulation of the voice mail seductress told me if I pressed nine I could save my message. If I pressed
seven, I would delete it for all eternity. The son of the Human Hammer? That would be a seven.

“Cassie? Jane Marchand here. Look…I absolutely refuse to do another book signing for you-know-which megastore. I got there, and they didn’t have a table set up. Some sweating, greasy nerd of a manager with an
actual
pocket protector set up a signing table finally, and then he didn’t have enough books. What a schmuck. I am telling you—forget it. No more. Who could put up with this?”

Lucky number seven.

“Cassandra Hayes? Donald Seale from
Conversations
magazine. I think you’ll want to return this phone call. It concerns Roland Riggs. I’m staying at the Sundial Resort on Sanibel. We’re neighbors you might say. Please call me. It’s urgent.”

Seven. I felt stalked. How did he know where I was?

“This is Harry, Cassie. I need to speak with you about chapter six. What’s with this comment here you wrote about Lucy not being believable? She’s horny for the hero. I think it’s perfectly legit. And I can’t even read your writing on the last page.”

Harry…the man writes novels about a swaggering, drinking detective and the women who fuck him. All of the women have breasts the size of the Hindenburg and “gams” with more curves than the Pacific Coast highway. I must have written my comments when I had finally decided he could take his “erect nipples” and “tight little asses” and shove them up his own tight little ass. The se
ries had started as a very fresh approach to the hard-bitten private eye and had deteriorated to shit.

Press nine. Save it until I could respond with an appropriately specific voice mail of my own.

“Cassie…this is your mother. I went to see your father, and he looks unwell. I am not sure where you are, but I would appreciate a status report. You can reach me at the Palm Springs number. I know you won’t call me. You act as if that man is God, Cassie. Well, I’m your mother, and I am entitled to know what is happening with him. You think this is about the estate but—”

Speed up her message. Press seven so hard my index finger turns white.

“Cassie…Michael here. I just wanted to hear your voice, even if it is your damned machine.”

My heartbeat escalated like the disco beat constantly pulsing throughout the house on Roland’s stereo.

“I wish you’d call me. I’m not sure who this famous author fellow is, but he can’t possibly need you more than I do. I can’t finish the book without you. I won’t, actually. Call me. I won’t write another word until you do. And I’ll hold my breath also.”

Silence, but still no beep signaling the end of his message.

“See…I really am holding my breath. I don’t think you want me to pass out. I’m stark naked, and the tabloids would love it now, wouldn’t they? Finding me dead, naked…they would think I’d been wanking off when in fact I had been having a tantrum over my beautiful editor. I’m holding my breath…. You better call me.”

Beep. Message over. I pressed nine. A keeper.

Next message: “Cassie…” Michael again. “I’ve decided holding my breath is just too damned difficult. I’m going on a hunger strike instead. I’m giving up my bloody bangers and everything. I’ll just drink martinis. Just alcohol. No food.”

Press nine.

“Cassie…Michael—”

What was it about English accents? His voice sent a shudder through my body. I sat down on my bed and pulled the blanket around me.

“I’ve decided the hunger strike should not include martini olives. I am going to eat jars of them to sustain myself. And the martinis. Please call.”

Press nine. I was smiling and shivering at the same time. But it was time to call Lou. I explained I hadn’t even seen the elusive manuscript, but I had been promised a glimpse today.

“So what are you doing? Sitting on your ass and drinking piña coladas?”

“Actually, Maalox.”

“What?”

“The food. I e-mailed you. I eat Mexican food and Tums all day long. I can’t take it. Do you know Roland Riggs will not leave his house from seven o’clock to eight o’clock each night?”

“Why?”

“
The Wheel
and
Jeopardy.
”

“I like
Jeopardy.
Nothing wrong with that. Alex Trebek is a smart guy.”

“
The Wheel? The Wheel,
Lou. The man whose command of the English language has sent high school seniors scurrying for
Cliffs Notes
sits on his couch with his housekeeper each night and tries to guess nine-letter words for occupations beginning with ‘a.’”

“Architect.”

“Hmm?”

“A nine-letter occupation beginning with—”

“I got it…. Look, what if he doesn’t have it anymore?”

“How bad can it be? You can whip it into shape. Remember Tawny Phelps.”

“How can I forget? The woman who composed her book on cocktail napkins where she scribbled the bedroom secrets of Washington, D. C.”

“But you turned it into a modest seller.”

“And then she left us for deeper pockets. And her next book sucked.”

“Because she didn’t have you.”

“Okay. I’ll fix Riggs’s book no matter how bad it is.”

“And maybe it’s great. Now how are you, really?”

I heard the trepidation in his voice.

“I know about my mother, Lou. Stratford Oaks called here.”

“She’s a bitch, Cassie. I’ll give her that. But don’t let her make you crazy.”

“I already am crazy. I will spend his entire estate on his
care. There’ll be nothing left. Did I tell you I bought them a new van?”

“Stratford Oaks?”

“Mmm-hmm. And I paid for new eyeglasses for three of the residents who couldn’t afford them. Anonymously of course.”

“You’re insane. Literally. What is she entitled to? Fifteen percent or something? You’re gonna screw yourself out of your father’s money—which you know he wants you to have—in order to screw your mother?”

“Precisely.”

“You are the most stubborn—”

“I know. Gotta go, Lou. Kisses. Hugs. Love you!”

I hung up and decided to venture downstairs. I had by passed whatever Maria’s breakfast had been by sleeping in. I would drive to 7-Eleven and eat a pack of Twinkies before I would put another breakfast burrito in my mouth.

Maria, as expected, was whipping up something red for lunch. Very red with tomatoes and chili powder.

“Hungry?”

“No. I’m going to run to the store. And then I think Roland and I are going to do some work on his book finally.”

“He’s the smartest man I ever met. And the nicest.”

I watched as she added ingredients in pinches and dashes, no recipe, just a familiarity with the kitchen that I would never know. A Mexican Julia Child in a curvaceous body with a knockout smile.

She sighed and started rolling out dough on a pastry board.

“He takes me out to the nicest restaurant on Sanibel every year…on June 22.”

“Your birthday?”

“No, the anniversary of the day I started working for him. But he never forgets my birthday either…. And you see that stove?”

I nodded.

“Jenn-Air. When the old stove broke, he actually took me to the store and let me pick the very best one I wanted. The very best stove.”

“That’s nice,” I said, not knowing a Jenn-Air from a dish washer myself.

“I never had the best. Not of anything. And now I have the best of everything. And he says no matter what happens—even if he—knock on wood—” and then she crossed herself three times “—I can live here until I die.”

“That’s very nice of him. You can take care of all his animals.”

“Actually, Mister Riggs didn’t have any pets until I came here. I told him it’s no good to have no pets, no plants, no flowers. Nothing living. It makes you want to die. So that is why I feed him life. I grow my own chili peppers out back and make sure the food is very alive. Nothing from a box or a can. Nothing is too good for my Mister Riggs.”

Mister Riggs the
Wheel of Fortune
guru. The Pulitzer-
prize-winner. The Bee Gees aficionado. The Tums addict who couldn’t tell his hot-pepper housekeeper she was killing the both of us.