“Ah.”
“Well, yeah. Her turd of a boyfriend abandoned her as soon as he found out she was pregnant. She’s got nobody else.”
“The poor thing,” I said, in a tone of voice that went over his head.
“Anyway, it gives me a chance to spend time with the girls. ”
“That it does,” I said.. “Well, it’s your life. Good luck.”
“I’m going to need it,” he said dryly, but he sounded pretty cheerful for a guy whose nuts were being slammed in a car door.
After he hung up, I dialed UCLA and asked for ICU. I identified myself to the woman who answered and asked about Mickey. She put me on hold. When she came back on, an eternity later, I realized I’d stopped breathing.
“He’s about the same.
I said, “Thanks,” and hung up quickly before she changed her mind.
I spent the bulk of the day in a fit of cleaning, armed with sponges and rags, a bucket of soapy water, a dustcloth, and a vacuum cleaner, plus newspapers and vinegar water for the windows I could reach. The phone rang at four. I paused in my labors, tempted to let the answering machine pick up. Of course, curiosity got the better of me.
“Hey, Kinsey. Eric Hightower here. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“This is fine, Eric. How are you?”
“Doing good,” he said. “Listen, Dixie and I are putting together a little gathering: cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. This is strictly impromptu, just a couple dozen folk, but we wanted you to come. Any time between five and seven.”
I took advantage of the moment to open my mail, including the manila envelope Bethel’s secretary had sent. Inside was his curriculum vitae. I tossed it in the wastebasket, then took it out again and stuck it in the bottom drawer. “You’re talking about tonight?”
“Sure. We’ve got some friends in from Palm Springs so we’re geared up anyway. Can you make it?”
“I’m not sure. Let me take a look at my calendar and call you right back. ”
“Bullshit. Don’t do that. You’re stalling while you think of an excuse. It’s four now. You can hop in the shower and be ready in half an hour. I’ll send the car at four-forty-five.”
“No, no. Don’t do that. I’ll use my own.”
“Great. We’ll see you then.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I make no promises.”
“If we don’t see you by six, I’m coming after you myself.”
As soon as he hung up, I let out a wail, picturing the house, the servants, and all their la-di-da friends. I’d rather have a root canal than go to these things. Why hadn’t I just lied and told him I was tied up? Well, it was too late now. I put the cleaning gear away and trudged up the spiral stairs. I opened my closet door and stared at my dress. I admit to a neurotic sense of pride in only owning that one garment, except for times like this. I took the dress from the closet and held it up to the light. It didn’t look too bad. And then a worse thought struck. What if they were all decked out in designer jeans? What if I was the only one who showed up in a dress made of a wrinkle-free synthetic fabric that scientific tests would later prove was carcinogenic? I’d end up looking like a social geek, which is what I am.
EIGHTEEN.
I drove into the parking area at the Hightowers’ estate shortly after 6 P.M. The house was ablaze, though it wouldn’t be dark for another hour yet. The evening was cool, 6 degrees, according to the report on my car radio. I parked my 1974 VW between a low-slung red Jaguar and a boxy chrome-trimmed black Rolls, where it sat looking faintly plaintive, a baby humpback whale swimming gamely among a school of sharks. In a final moment of cunning, I’d solved my fashion dilemma with the following: black flats, black tights, a very short black skirt, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. I’d even applied a touch of makeup: powder, lip gloss, and a smudgy line of black along my lashes.
A middle-aged white maid in a black uniform answered the door chimes and ushered me into the foyer, where she offered to take my bag. I declined, preferring to retain it on the off chance I’d spy the perfect opportunity to flee the premises. I could hear a smattering of conversation, interspersed with the kind of laughter that suggests lengthy and unrestrained access to booze. The maid murmured a discreet directive and began to cross the living room in her especially silent maid’s shoes. I followed her through the dining room and out into the screened atrium, where some fifteen to twenty people were already standing about with their drinks and cocktail napkins. A serving wench was circulating with a tray of hors d’oeuvres: teeny-weeny one-bite lamb chops with paper panties on the ends.
As is typical of California parties, there was a percentage of people dressed far better than I and a percentage dressed like bums. The very rich seem particularly practiced at the latter, wearing baggy chinos, shapeless cotton shirts, and deck shoes with no socks. The not-so-very-rich have to work a little harder, adding an abundance of gold jewelry that might or might not be fake. I tucked my bag against the wall behind a nearby chair and then stood where I was, hoping to get my bearings before the panic set in. I didn’t know a soul and I was already flirting with the urge to escape. If I didn’t see Eric or Dixie in the next twenty seconds, I’d ease right on out.
A black waiter in a white jacket appeared at my shoulder and asked ‘if I’d like a drink. He was tall and freckle-faced, somewhere in his forties, his tone refined, his expression remote. His name tag said STEWART. I wondered what he thought of the Montebello social set and sincerely hoped he wouldn’t take me for one of them. On second thought, there probably wasn’t too much danger of that.
“Could I have Chardonnay?”
“Certainly. We’re pouring Kistler, Sonoma-Cutrer, and a Beringer Private Reserve.”
“Surprise me,” I said, and then I tilted my head. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Rosie’s. Most Sundays.”
I pointed in recognition. “Third booth back. You’re usually reading a book.”
“That’s right. I work two jobs at the moment, and Sunday’s the only day I have to myself. I got three kids in college and a fourth going off next year. By 1991, I’ll be a free man again.”
“What’s the other job?”
“Telephone sales. I have a friend owns the company, and he lets me fill in when it suits my scheduling. His turnover’s fast anyway, and I’m good at the spiel. I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t you go away.”
“I’ll be here.”
Halfway across the room I caught sight of Mark Bethel in conversation with Eric, hunkered beside Eric’s wheelchair. Eric had his back to me; Mark was just to the left of him and facing my way. Mark’s face was long and his hairline was receding, which gave him a high-domed head with a wide expanse of brow. He wore glasses with tortoise-shell rims, behind which his eyes were a luminous gray. While technically not goodlooking, the television cameras were amazingly kind to him. He’d removed his suit coat and, as I watched, I saw him loosen his tie and roll up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. The gesture suggested that despite his buttoned-down appearance he was ready to go to work for his constituents. It was the sort of softfocus image that would probably show up later in one of his commercials. The thrust of his campaign was shamelessly orchestrated: babies and old folk and the American flag waving over patriotic music. His opponents were portrayed in grainy black-and-white, overlaid with tabloid-type headlines decrying their perfidy. Mentally, I slapped myself around some for being such a cynic. Mark’s wife, Laddie, and his son, Malcolm, were standing a few feet away, chatting with another couple.
Laddie was the exemplary political mate: mild, compassionate, so subtle in her affect that most people never guessed the power she held. Her eyes were a cool hazel, her dark hair streaked blond, probably to disguise any early hints of gray. Her nose was slightly too prominent, which saved her from perfection and thus endeared her to some extent. Never compelled to work, she’d devoted her time to a number of worthy causes, the symphony, the humane society, the arts council, and numerous charities. As hers was one of the few familiar faces present, I considered crossing the room and engaging her in conversation. I knew she’d at least pretend to be attentive, even if she couldn’t quite remember who I was.
Malcolm, in another five years, was going to be a knockout. Even now, he was graced with a certain boy beauty: dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a succulent mouth and slouching, lazy posture. I’m a sucker for the type, though I tend to be careful about guys that good-looking as they often turn out to be treacherous. He seemed to have an awareness of the ladies, who were, likewise, more than casually aware of him. He wore desert boots, faded jeans, a pale blue dress shirt, and a navy blazer. He seemed poised, at ease, accustomed to attending parties given by his parents’ snooty friends. He looked like a stockbroker in the making, maybe a commodities analyst. He’d end up on financial-channel talk shows, discussing shortfalls, emerging markets, and aggressive growth. Once off the air, the female anchor, ever bullish, would pursue him over drinks and then fuck his baby brains out, strictly noload with no penalty for early withdrawal.