All That Glitters (26 page)

“Certainly it was a woman. I got her scent. And guess what it was.”

“I know—Eau de la Skunk!”

“Try Jeunesse Dorée.” This was the scent that Claire Regrett had invested her name—and money—in.

She laughed outright. “Oh, my dear, you don’t mean it. Are you saying you detect the fine Italian hand of Madame Regrett in this?”

I pointed out that Claire was a notoriously bad speller. “Loded” was how she’d written it.

Vi mused about this and I could tell she didn’t like it, didn’t like it at all. “Claire was in San Francisco for the opera two weeks ago.
Pagliacci
, I believe she said.”

“So there we are.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Vi said, shaking her head. “I really wish this hadn’t happened. What a woman doesn’t know—another woman will tell her. I’m afraid Blindy may take this too much to heart. I just pray it doesn’t set her off again. You know—”

She tossed back an imaginary glass of Scotch and went to collect her winnings.

Though she had no occult powers that I knew of, it was exactly as Viola predicted: the news of Grant’s infidelities snapped Belinda’s lines again and she became a ship all at sea. This time her sails were badly torn, her rigging all tangled, her anchor torn away and sunk. She endured the shame of the divorce bravely enough, making another collection of headlines and keeping tongues wagging.

To the loss of a husband (after the divorce, Grant married his thirty-year-old San Francisco socialite) must be added the shocking and mysterious loss of her grandchild, Gary, whom she had adored and whom she mourned, while Faun’s blithe attitude about the missing child only served to estrange mother and daughter further. The story of the tragic case sold papers for months; one lead after the other was turned up, only to prove another red herring or to end in some calculating person’s believing it was chance to make money out of someone else’s misfortune, in this case one of the most famous women in the country. As might have been expected, the mother was at the bottom of it all. Having flown in from India with members of the Hare Krishna cult she had made herself a part of, she arrived at Sunnyside, demanded that Belinda hand over the child. She drove him away in a van with flower decals pasted all over its exterior, the speakers blaring “Strawberry fields forever…” Neither Belinda nor Maude Antrim ever saw the boy again.

Faun was crucified in the papers, and Belinda was again pilloried, as if the thing had somehow been her fault. It mushroomed into a scandal of remarkable proportions when she, leaving her psychiatrist’s office on North Bedford, was attacked by a hysterical woman who dumped a bag of garbage on her. Since a photographer had been conveniently on hand to record the incident, it seemed likely it had been a set-up, but it didn’t help Belinda at all to see her picture plastered on page one. (Some time later I was hurrying to catch my flight out of Chicago, and as I ran for the gate I was accosted by one of those smiling Hare Krishnas who annoy travelers by handing them a flower and then cadging a donation; as I brushed angrily past the creature in her curry-colored rags, I was astonished to realize it was Faun Potter, or someone who looked a lot like her.)

The kidnapping was all Belinda needed to push her off the deep end. She began drinking again, more heavily than ever, and there were many repetitions of the kind of scenes she’d played before, the kind from the New York and Rome days.

Again, regrettably, I lost track of her. Jen and I were still having problems, I was being faced by important career decisions, and frankly my mind was in other places. But then there occurred the unfortunate business about Mel Beets, and that, of course, was the end. It was really the nadir for Belinda Carroll; after it she had no place to go but up; she’d been down about as far as anyone could go.

She’d always liked jazz, and back in the forties when she came to New York she’d sometimes go up to Harlem to hear the black musicians, Dizzy Gillespie and others, who she claimed “sent her.” Now she’d latched on to a sax player who could be heard at The Joint, a place along the Coast Highway between Santa Monica and Malibu.

One day eight of us had driven in two cars up to Trancas, the only really good beach around in those days when the notorious Red Tide was running. It was a great day and we lingered for a long sunset cocktail hour; then, since everyone was starved, on the way home we stopped for chili and beer. By then it was after ten, but some of the gang were up for a party, and since The Joint was just next door, they said they wanted to go catch a couple of sets. Jenny poured cold water and party-pooped, but it wasn’t our car so she got overruled.

As we entered, there was a sandwich board at the coat-check closet that proclaimed “Featuring Mel Beets,” and there was an 8 x 10 glossy of a black dude with a saxophone hung around his neck. Since it was still early, there were plenty of tables, and we sat up front while a trio played really cool stuff, the kind of fifties music that frosted a hot room and reminded you of
Castles in Spain
, that terrific icy album that Miles Davis put out.

While we sat listening, I noticed this woman at a table to one side; she had a drink and there was an untouched club sandwich on the Formica-top table. The way she sat, with one foot turned at the ankle, the other foot resting on top of it, made me look closer. Sure enough: Belinda. She’d put on weight—the reason I hadn’t recognized her right away—and she was looking her absolute worst, in slacks and a messy blouse and don’t-care hair. Afraid she might catch me staring, I looked away, and I didn’t say anything to Jenny or the others.

Then the set ended, the trio came off the stand, and a quintet came on. Now I had my first look at this Mel Beets; he was the one people came to hear, and pretty soon he began to wail on his sax. No doubt, he was good, really cool. Not bad-looking, but nothing to write home about, either—a trimmed mustache, neat hair, good hands with a careful manicure; you could see the pale rose ovals gleaming under the lights. I was always amazed at how some musicians could go clear out of things while they were playing; this fellow was as far out as you can get.

But I didn’t like him, only because of Belinda’s interest in him, and I found myself rejecting both him and his music. His eyes would occasionally flick over to where she was sitting. She looked zombielike as she sipped from her drink and took extended drags on her cigarette, blowing out streams of smoke that rose and dissolved in the blue lights, as if she were trying to call attention to herself.

After a couple of sets the group took a breather. When they moved off into the dark, I watched Belinda get up and head for the john. Our group started talking, and the women said they were going to powder their noses. I thought, God, if Jenny recognizes Belinda—

But when they came back there were no signs of anything amiss. I got up casually and stretched, glanced around, then said I thought I’d check the service for messages. I ankled over to where it said “Rest Rooms” and ducked behind a ratty curtain that was half off its rod. At the end of the passageway hung a lighted sign, “Telephone,” and I went along to it. The booth was hidden away under the stairs and it was in use. The light at the top glowed dimly and I could see a man behind the glass. Then I realized there were two people in there, but I didn’t think they were using the phone. The man was wearing a white shirt; the back of his neck was dark; the woman’s arm was white as she embraced him. As I looked away, to the walls that were covered with graffiti, I noticed two pairs of initials enclosed in a heart, making me think of a similar design in cement in the cellar of a Connecticut house. And now here we were, Belinda and I, in a California roadhouse, and she was getting banged by a black saxophonist, and my wife would be angry if she knew what I was thinking. I turned and went out.

“Anything?” Jenny asked. I shook my head.

After a while the musicians shuffled onto the stand again; they played a few riffs, feeling their way into something, but the quintet was now a quartet, because the sax player was missing. They started without him, “On the First Warm Day,” a Bart Howard tune Mabel Mercer used to sing, and it jarred me, reminding me of New York, but my mind was still picturing the scene in the telephone booth—what if I’d just knocked on the glass and waved?

The guitar was taking the lead chords, and I noticed that Belinda’s table remained conspicuously empty; the top was cleared of both glass and uneaten sandwich. Pretty soon Mel Beets reappeared, clipped on his sax, and slid into the measure; after a discreet interval Belinda stepped out from behind the curtain, ducking low in the light as she resumed her place. She carried a fresh drink, which she set in front of her while she lit another cigarette and blew more smoke into the blue lights. I couldn’t resist looking at her, my eyes flicking back and forth from her pale face to the sweating brown one on the stand. She looked both nervous and bored. She studied her wrist in the light, then fumbled in her purse; she turned aside, bent her head, and jerked it once, twice, and I knew she was taking a snort. As she turned back she wiped her finger under her nose, a dead giveaway.

At that moment, her profile had fallen into full light, and I heard Jenny’s low gasp and she poked me. “Look—it’s Belinda Carroll!” she said in a louder voice than I could have wished for. The music level dropped at that moment and her voice carried, carried so well that Belinda glanced our way. She peered harder; then she jumped up, knocking over the table along with her drink. She stumbled and landed in the corner with a crash. I rushed to help her, pulling her to her feet but trying to keep her hidden with my body as I propelled her through a slit in the curtain.

We were standing in the passageway to the kitchen and I could hear pots being rattled, and voices. I tried to prop her against the wall and keep her upright while I caught my breath. She stared at me and kept repeating “Jesus Christ” over and over in a dazed, disbelieving voice. Wagging her head, she tried to shove me away.

“Don’t look at me, Jesus, don’t look at me!” she kept saying, still shoving at my chest while I stood there holding her up, trying to figure out what to do with her. Then a figure ducked through the curtain behind us and I felt rather than saw someone move in—this turned out to be the club manager—and relieve me of her weight. He didn’t say a word, but as he took her away, I heard Belinda say my name. “He’s a friend,” I heard her tell the man, “Charlie—friend—” Then she was gone and I could smell fried onions from the kitchen.

I was ashamed to face my friends; most of them knew of my friendship with Belinda, and Jenny kept saying, “I don’t understand, I simply don’t understand.” I didn’t try to enlighten her, because I didn’t understand, either, but there were domestic repercussions. At home, she had lots to say about the situation, words I didn’t care to hear. I felt she was hitting below the belt and taking it out on Belinda for whatever had happened years earlier in New York. Then something got into the papers about a “famous forties star” hanging out at a beach dive because she was hung up on a musician who happened to be a gentleman of color.

One evening a few weeks after this, after we’d had yet another quarrel, I lied to Jenny by saying I was going to visit a couple of friends. I took one of the cars and on the merest hunch drove out to the beach. It was a Friday, and I may have been ill-advised to make the trip, but I’d been drinking since five and I had a good buzz on. I parked and went into The Joint and sat down at the bar. The place was already crowded and I had to crane and stretch to see over the heads of the crowd. The quintet was on the stand and I didn’t even have to look to know that Mel Beets was in his place: there was the wailing of his sax to tell me. A further glance told me that Belinda was over there, too, at her regular stand, drink on table, her hair shining in the light. With her was a kind of duplicate job, also blonde, and though I couldn’t see her face, I had a feeling I knew who it was. Maybe it was the spaghetti straps, the cinched-in waist, the tilt of the head, but I was pretty sure it was Angie Brown.

Sure enough, as I took my drink and headed in that direction, I heard her gleeful laugh, that big Italian guffaw. Sliding closer, I put my cold hand against her bare back. She let out a yelp, turning with an indignant look until she realized who it was; then she jumped up, threw her arms around me, and screamed with delight.

“Quiet!” “Shut up!” “Sit down!” came the calls, and “For God’s sake, sit down!” I heard Belinda growl. She wouldn’t look at me, but was trying to cover her face with the hand that held a cigarette. I sat. Angie clutched my hand, and while the number played on we exchanged a whole dialogue in total silence: she didn’t really understand what she was doing there, Belinda had wanted her to come and keep her company; she didn’t like the sax player; things were grim; she was glad I was there—why
was
I there?—she was
so
glad to see me; what could we do together to help our friend? When I lit Angie’s cigarette for her, I could see by the match flame that like the rest of us she hadn’t gotten any younger; but, God, it was good to see her. And then the music ended. As Mel set his instrument on its rack he glanced our way, then went off with his cronies.

Belinda gave me a hard glare. “What are you doing out this way again?”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood; do you mind? Do you mind?”

“I mind the hell out of you if you’re trying to check up on me,” came the sullen reply.

“He isn’t checking up on you,” Angie interposed tactfully. “He knew I was here and he came to have a drink, that’s all.”

Belinda used an expletive; I never liked to hear her swear and this one was a beaut. She eyed me with a kind of venom I’d never witnessed in her before, and I could believe many of the stories I’d refused to countenance before. I did my best to turn the corner, to brush past whatever it was that had loomed so suddenly. I said I’d wanted to see how she was doing and that I didn’t have a telephone number for her. This much was true, though it didn’t go down too well. Angie kept the conversation going until the musicians came back. When Mel Beets appeared in the doorway, Belinda beckoned to him and he came over. I got up and we shook hands while Angie performed the introductions. I was friendly, but not too; I said I’d enjoyed his music the first night and had come to hear some more.