I locked orbs with Woodard. An eyeball duel ensued. I broke it off and barged into the crowd. A little bit of my soul broke loose and bopped off unbidden.
People watched me pass. I heard a dozen “Dick Continos.” Tuxedos and taffeta swirled around me. I caught a split-second blip of Chief William H. Parker in dress blues.
I walked out to a palm-lined portico. It was private and peaceful. I figured she’d find me and pounce.
I leaned on a railing and watched cars bomb down Wilshire. I counted up from zero. She pounced at twenty-two.
“I thought you’d at least send me an autographed picture.”
I pulled a perfect pivot and spun around close enough to kiss her. I said, “I knew you’d be here.”
She smiled. She smelled like Tweed or Jungle Gardenia. She was 49 or 50 and looked it. She wore a tight black gown. Her right breast was half again as large as her left. Her cleavage dipped proportionately. Her right nipple was half-exposed. It was dark and pebbled up from cold air or excitement.
I wanted to fuck her. My heart lurched to the left.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
Freddy O briefed me. He said to cite Harrison Carroll’s column.
I stepped closer. Viv reached up and tossed her hair off her right shoulder. I saw a razor nick under her arm.
I said, “I read about the Sister Kenny thing, and I saw your name mentioned.”
Viv stepped back. Her heels snagged on her floor-length hemline. She tottered and caught herself. My heart lurched. I wanted her to reach for me.
I looked over her shoulder. Her husband slid through the ballroom. He had one arm around a young man.
Viv said, “Can I tell you why I came on so strong?”
I nodded. I jammed my hands in my pockets. I didn’t want to touch her too soon.
She said, “To begin with, I acknowledged our age difference and decided to risk the chance that you’d find me elderly, then I thought you might be lonely and vulnerable after all that time in prison and Korea, then I thought I owed you something for the injudicious way my husband has expressed his admiration for you, then I thought that anyone who’s been as candid about their fear as you’ve been would appreciate my candor and not judge me as desperate, and then I figured I’d better act fast before I hit menopause and get indifferent to sex.”
My heartbeat escalated. My chest expanded. A strip of Harvey Glatman’s tape popped loose.
Viv said, “Say something. I had that speech prepared, and you’re just looking at me.”
I said, “Your husband’s in the next room.”
She said, “He’s a homosexual, and he wants me to be with you.”
I said, “What?”
She said, “You’re an artist, so don’t pretend you don’t understand.”
I backed into the railing. L. Trent Woodard walked by the doorway and winked at me. His young man blew me a kiss.
I said, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Viv said, “Be less vulgar, and follow me home. I’ll be in the Packard Caribbean.”
Viv led the way. I followed. The nut-ward guy and the goon tailed me.
We caravanned to 3rd and Muirfield. The nut-ward guy and the goon goosed my tailpipes. Viv stopped in front of her house. She pointed me into the driveway and pulled up behind me.
She boxed my dad’s car in. She didn’t want me to rabbit.
The pad backed up to the Wilshire Country Club. Viv walked in ahead of me and turned on some lights. The nut-ward guy and the goon disappeared down the block.
The house was big and salmon pink Spanish. I walked up and peeped the peephole. Smoked glass smeared my view. My martini-mottled mind went wild.
I saw a Commie commissar corps. I saw my mom strapped to a rack. Trent Woodard brandished a branding tool. Dig that hot hammer and sickle.
I blinked. I saw a dozen old women. They were dowager demons and sex-starved succubi. They craved my seed. They bared their geriatric genitalia.
Viv was their siren and shill. Trent couldn’t get hard and hose women. They needed ME.