Hard Rain (7 page)

Jessie opened the door and let Barbara in. Rain danced on the roof of her car, parked in the driveway. “Peace,” said Barbara, handing her a stack of Lean Cuisine packages.

Jessie took them and went into the kitchen. “What'll it be?” Jessie asked, going through the packages—Chicken à l'Orange, Turkey Dijon, Linguine with Clam Sauce. “Two hundred and twenty-two calories? Two sixty-seven? Or do you feel like pigging out on two ninety-six?”

“I don't care,” Barbara said. “What's to drink?”

Jessie shoved the frozen food into the oven and looked in the booze cupboard. “Wine?”

“Check.”

“Red or white?”

“Red. Let's live a little.”

Jessie filled two glasses with Beaujolais and took Barbara down to the workroom. “Toi giet la toi?” Barbara said. “Isn't ‘toi' French?”

“Yeah. But ‘giet'?”

Jessie looked it up in her French-English dictionary. “Giet” wasn't there.

“Maybe you need a better dictionary,” Barbara said.

“This is the Robert.”

“I beg your pardon.”

They went upstairs. “Have you got anything I can put on?” Barbara asked. “I'd like to get out of this man suit.”

“Why? It's you.”

“Fuck off,” Barbara said. “Blake's picking me up a little later. Businesswear intimidates him.” Barbara reached for her Camels, shook one out and stuck it in her mouth.

Jessie remembered the sleepy voice on the phone. “Who's Blake?”

Barbara's eyes darted toward her, then away. She lit her cigarette, frowning over the match flame. “You'll meet him.”

Jessie lent Barbara a pair of jeans and a sweater. They were both tall, but Jessie had a bigger frame and more flesh on it. Barbara came out of the bedroom looking softer, as though she'd put on a boyfriend's sweater.

They sat down at the kitchen table. Jessie pried the tops off the Lean Cuisines and poured more wine. But neither of them ate. Barbara smoked and drank her wine. Jessie just drank.

“I was at a meeting the other day where someone proposed we lobby the U.N. to declare the twenty-first century the International Century of Women,” Barbara said.

“Why don't we shoot for the whole fucking millennium?”

They looked at each other. Barbara began to laugh. She threw her head back until the cords in her neck stood out, laughing and laughing. Smoke curled up between her parted lips. All at once, Jessie was laughing too. She too laughed and laughed. Her body shook with it; her stomach muscles ached. She laughed until only ugly honking sounds came out. She couldn't stop. Tears rolled out of her eyes and down her face. The next moment she was holding onto Barbara.

“Help me, Barbara. Help me get her back.”

Barbara held her close. “Don't worry, Jessie. We'll get her back.” Barbara was crying too.

They went into the bathroom, washed their faces, patted their hair. “God, he's a shithead,” Barbara said. “This time we're going to nail him to the wall, baby; I mean it.”

“He's really not that bad. His parents died when he was a kid, don't forget, and he never finished high school. It was very destabilizing.”

“My heart bleeds. Explain to me why he has to shove his dick into every woman that comes by.”

But that's what Jessie couldn't explain. “He's just a boy who can't say no, I guess.”

“‘Boy' is the operative word, Jess. Boys are all that's out there. I'm in a position to know. Boys in three-piece suits, boys with seven-figure salaries, boys with silvery hair like lions' manes—like your friend Norman Wine. I heard a rumor of a man being sighted the other day, but it turned out to be false.”

They stared at each other in the mirror: two heads of frizzy hair, two dark faces, one very thin and modern, the other a little fuller and classical. “How much did you get for Norman's wife?” Jessie asked.

“Ten grand a month.”

Jessie whistled.

“The schmuck can afford it. He's making a killing in real estate.”

“Norman's a record producer.”

“That's his job. But he gets rich from real estate. Wake up, Jess. The music's over.”

Jessie woke up. The amount of Norman's wife's settlement reminded her of the Eggman Cookies money order. She showed it to Barbara.

“Beats me,” Barbara said. “I'll pass it on to DeMarco when he calls.”

“DeMarco's calling?”

The thin face in the mirror smiled. “I figured DeMarco owes me one. So I told him he could pay me back by bending the rules a little and running a check for Kate.”

Jessie put her arm around Barbara. Barbara went on: “They're not actively looking for her, you understand. But if there are any reports having to do with Kate, Pat or … the car, he'll find out. He should call sometime tonight.”

“Thank you, Barbara.”

“You can thank me by letting me nail him to the wall when this is over. Agreed?”

Jessie didn't reply.

“Agreed?”

“Okay. Agreed.”

Barbara held out her hand. They shook on it. Their images shook hands in the mirror. “I wish I had your nose,” Barbara said.

“You can afford it.”

“Prices have gone up. What was yours—a sweet sixteen present?”

“Keep guessing,” Jessie said.

“Bitch.”

“Hey,” called a voice. “Anybody home?”

It was Philip. He came in carrying an artist's portfolio and a small bag. He wore baggy white flannel trousers, a black T-shirt, a satin Lakers jacket and a little diamond in his left ear. “You should lock your door,” he said. “This is L.A.”

“It's Santa Monica,” Barbara corrected him. Jessie introduced them.

“I've got something to show you,” he said, opening the portfolio with his quick, agile hands. “‘Valley Nocturne.' This is just a study. The real thing's twenty by thirty.”

“Yards?” asked Barbara.

Philip smiled uncertainly. “Feet,” he said, unwrapping the protective plastic. “The slides are coming tomorrow.”

They all looked at “Valley Nocturne.” It was smooth and sleek, the colors mainly purple and silver, although the subject matter seemed to be an orange grove on a foggy evening. A naked girl was folded into it like a truffle in cream sauce.

“Well?” said Philip.

“Nice bod,” said Barbara.

Faint pink patches appeared on Philip's cheeks. He looked at Jessie. It was hard to hide from Philip. His soft gold-brown eyes saw everything. She tried to think of something to say. Philip's paintings were already attracting attention. He was very talented. He could do with his brush, she suddenly thought, the kind of thing Pat could do with his guitar. She knew at a glance that “Valley Nocturne” had the commercial goods and would one day hang on a big wall in Palm Springs or Malibu. On the other hand, she didn't like it.

Before she could say anything, Barbara spoke. “Did you know that Kate was missing?”

“Kate?” said Philip. He looked inquiringly at Jessie. “Did you mention that yesterday?”

“I said Pat hadn't brought her home yet. He still hasn't.”

Philip came closer and patted her shoulder. “I'm sure it'll be all right,” he said. She felt his soft eyes on her. He patted her again, this time putting more into it. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Maybe there is,” Jessie said, taking out the sheet of paper on which she'd copied the foreign words. “What do you make of this?”

Philip examined it. “French, isn't it. ‘Toi' is ‘you,' and ‘la' is ‘the.' ‘You something the you.' We just have to find out what ‘giet' means.”

Jessie explained that they hadn't found it in the Robert. “No problem,” said Philip. “I've got a friend at Berlitz. I'll call her tomorrow.” He folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his portfolio; then he fished around in the bag he'd brought and drew out a bottle. “Do you like champagne, Barbara? I know Jessie does.”

“She's a real fun lover.” The patches on Philip's cheeks went a little pinker.

“Knock it off, Barbara,” Jessie said.

Barbara saluted. “Champagne's my fave,” she said to Philip. “Crack her open.”

They drank the champagne. Philip talked about a series of paintings about California he had in mind, “Valley Nocturne” being the first. Jessie said it was a good idea. Barbara said nothing. They finished the red wine and started on the white. The doorbell rang. Jessie answered it. A young man stood on the doorstep, a very young man, twenty-one or -two. He had two giant pizza boxes in his hands. He also had clear green eyes, clear golden skin, shining golden hair, the body Michelangelo's David might have developed if he'd spent time in the weight room and a shy smile. He was beautiful. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Blake. Is Barb here?”

“Barb? Oh, yes. Come in.”

Blake came in. “I brought some pizza,” he said. “I hope you like everything on it.” He gave Barbara a kiss. He towered over her. Her lips lingered on his. Jessie saw that her eyes actually closed. “Any beer?” Blake said. “I forgot beer.”

“I'll get some,” Jessie told him. “I could use a walk.”

“It's raining,” Blake said. “I'll drive.”

“That's all right. I don't mind the rain. What kind of beer do you like?”

“Wet,” Barbara answered for him.

Philip laughed nervously. Blake smiled his shy smile. Jessie threw on her big yellow slicker and went out.

The rain was falling heavily now. Thunder rolled in the west. Jessie put up her hood and walked quickly, across Idaho, around the corner and south three blocks to the liquor store. She bought a case of beer. “Nasty night,” said the old man behind the counter.

Jessie walked back. She didn't mind the rain, never had. It was probably part of the same complex that made her a sucker for
Jane Eyre
, guitar players, painters and all the rest.
Don't think about that. Think about what needs thinking about. Maybe Lieutenant DeMarco's called
. Jessie quickened her pace. As she turned onto Idaho, a car pulled away from the curb and shone its high beams in her eyes, blinding her for a moment as it flashed by. She crossed the street and went into the house.

Barbara was hanging up the phone. “That was DeMarco. He checked every jurisdiction from Santa Barbara to San Diego. Nothing.”

All at once the case of beer was unbearably heavy. Jessie put it down.

“That's good news,” Barbara went on. “It means nothing bad's happened.” Jessie nodded, but it didn't feel like good news to her. “DeMarco says not to worry. It's only been one day. He said that if they went chasing after every kid who's disappeared for a day, they'd be doing nothing else.”

Jessie waited for that to make her feel better. When it didn't, she said. “There's the beer.”

They sat around the coffee table. Philip showed Blake ‘Valley Nocturne.' “It's great,” Blake said. They all drank the beer. Philip ate one slice of pizza. Blake ate the rest.

“How about some music?” Blake said.

“What do you like?” Jessie asked.

“Sixties stuff.”

“God, no,” said Philip.

“Pick something out,” Jessie said.

Blake picked out Jimi Hendrix. He sang along to “Purple Haze.” Barbara rested her hand on his thigh. “Did you know Jessie's ex-husband has Jimi Hendrix's guitar?”

“You're kidding. How did he get that?”

Jessie tried to remember what Pat had told her. “I think he bought it at an auction after Hendrix died.”

Blake thought about that. Then he said, “Gee, so many of those sixties people OD'd, didn't they, choking on their own vomit and everything. I wonder why.”

“Because the sixties were bullshit, that's why,” Barbara said.

“Really?” said Jessie. “What about the night we hitchhiked to Reno?”

Barbara burst out laughing, spraying beer on Blake's neck. He didn't seem to mind.

“What happened in Reno?” Philip asked.

“We never actually got to Reno,” Barbara replied. “Did we, Jess?” She began laughing again.

“What happened?” Blake said.

Barbara took out a cigarette, lit it, frowned over the match. “Some other time,” she said. Jimi Hendrix ran off several dozen notes, but nothing happened that you could dance to.

Blake turned to Jessie. “It must have been exciting in those days. Wasn't your husband a musician?”

“He still is. But he's not my husband anymore.”

“He lived on a commune, didn't he?”

Jessie glanced at Barbara, wondering what else she'd told Blake about her and Pat. Barbara was squinting into her smoke. “That was before I met him,” Jessie said. “Spacious Skies, they called it. Somewhere in Vermont. Pat wrote a song about it.”

“Did it get recorded?”

“A few times.”

“By anybody famous?”

“Dave van Ronk.”

“Who's he?”

“A folkie, I think,” Philip said. “Right?”

“Right,” Jessie said. Barbara took a deep drag of her Camel.

Jimi Hendrix's guitar roared itself out in an ocean of overdubbed feedback. Blake rose and stretched. “Well,” he said, “Tomorrow's a working day.”

“Where do you work?” Jessie asked.

“Nautilus on Pico. I'm an instructor.”

Barbara led him up the stairs to the guest room. Philip helped Jessie put things away and went up a few minutes later. Jessie stayed behind to dial Pat's number. “Hi,” she heard. “No one's here right now, but just leave a message and we'll buzz you back. Promise.”

“Fuck you,” Jessie said, slamming down the phone.

She went upstairs, down the hall to her bedroom. As she passed the closed door to the guest room, she heard Barbara cry out.

Philip was waiting in the bed. Jessie took off her clothes. “You look great,” he said. She got into bed. He kissed her and rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb, not too gently, not too rough. Philip was good with his hands. Jessie felt an enormous orgasm building inside her.