Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 06 (10 page)

“I should forget legs like yours?” Cambria responded gallantly. “I have thought of nothing else since then, not even in my dreams.”

Still giggling, she kissed him on the cheek and gave him a little wave as he went outside, then spotted Geri and me and waved at us. “I’m Gaylene Feather. Are you in the contest, too? Isn’t this exciting?” She spoke with a heavy New York accent, forming the words in the front of her mouth and sending them up through her nose like cigarette smoke.

“I’m Arly Hanks, daughter of a contestant,” I said.

“Arly?” she repeated, her finger on her cheek. “I don’t guess I’ve ever met anyone with that name before. It’s kinda exotic, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I do.” I looked down modestly, not inclined to lie and claim kinship with the sprite in The Tempest, nor to be truthful and admit I’d been named Ariel, albeit with a glitch in the spelling, after a photograph of Maggody taken from an airplane. Geri introduced herself and acknowledged that she was the coordinator from the marketing agency. “We were expecting you yesterday evening, Miss Feather, but it’s just as well you waited until today.”

“Please, you should call me Gaylene. My real name’s plain old Gail, so I changed it a while back when I began my career. I heard about the man getting shot.” She sat down across from us, her heavy eyelashes fluttering like convulsed spiders, and added, “I had to work last night, anyways, so I couldn’t have come. My boss is real upset about me missing the next few nights. I have to admit I’m losing money by doing this, but maybe the publicity will help my career, and a trip to Vegas can’t hurt.”

Geri raised her eyebrows a polite millimeter. “And what might this career be?”

“I am a dancer. I worked at the Blue Heaven for two years, then Mr. Lisbon offered me a better deal, so I’m now appearing nightly at the Xanadu, which is named after a fancy hotel in a poem.”

“No kidding,” Geri said as she made a notation on the clipboard and stood up. “You’ll be in 213; the manager will give you the key. I’m going to use his phone to see if I can’t find at least one paper willing to report the contest. Maybe Mother knows someone who can help.” She went down the hallway to the office, and as the door closed, I heard her mutter, “If she’s a dancer, you can call me Prancer!”

“I’m only doing this for the publicity,” Gaylene confided to me as if we were bunkmates at summer camp. “I don’t really like to cook, but like my boyfriend says, surely I can follow a recipe.” She offered me a piece of gum, and when I shook my head, popped several in her mouth. “I have to make Krazy KoKo-Nut Kabobs. You roll strawberries in sticky jam, then in the flakes, and put them on long wooden toothpicks. I tried it at home, and it was real good. The package says the stuff is less fattening, and we girls have to keep an eye on that, don’t we?”

“We certainly do,” I said. “I’ll leave you to check in. I need to see if my mother and her friend are up yet.”

“Is she the one who shot the guy?”

Shrugging, I went to the elevator. As I reached for the button, the door wheezed open and Ruby Bee and Estelle stepped out. They were dressed in their Sunday best, and each had a massive, bulging handbag supported by a shoulder strap.

“In case some criminal tries to snatch it,” Ruby Bee said, noticing my gaze. “I put some rocks in the bottom. I can swing it hard enough to make him see stars until springtime. We ain’t gonna take any foolishness from these folks.”

“That’s good,” I said weakly. “Where are you going?”

Estelle took out a travel book riddled with markers. “We’re going to the Statue of Liberty first and then the Empire State Building. We talked about going on one of those tour boats that go around the island, but we decided to wait until another day for that.”

Ruby Bee brushed past me. “Come on, Estelle, we can’t waste our time if we want to see Macy’s, Tiffany’s, that Trump man’s building with the waterfall, Saks Fifth Avenue, and the Bronx Zoo. It’s already nine o’clock, and we’re supposed to be back here at four. I am, anyway. It doesn’t matter if you’re here or not.”

“Wait a minute,” I said as I trailed them across the lobby. “How are you going to get to all those places and be back at four?”

Estelle, still rankled by Ruby Bee’s remark, said, “We plum forgot our mules, so I suppose we’ll have to find other means of transportation, Miss Travel Agent. We ain’t got all day, Ruby Bee. Have you got the map?”

“What map?” I asked.

“The map of the subways,” Ruby Bee said, flapping it at me. “We weren’t born yesterday, missy, and we don’t aim to spend a fortune on taxicabs when we can take these trains all over the city.”

“You two have fun,” Gaylene called from the sofa.

Ignoring my admittedly incoherent sputters, they sailed out of the door, consulted Cambria, and took off down the sidewalk as if they were heading down the road to Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.

For those who are a mite confused by all the comings and goings of people in the oddly parallel universes of Manhattan, Maggody, and Tennessee (or maybe Kentucky by now), rest assured that everyone was pretty much in place for the duration.

The fifth and final contestant, Gaylene Feather, had arrived and was in her room unpacking while she listened to a talk show that concerned the secret lives of transvestite Episcopalian priests. Down the hall from her, Durmond was wincing as he dressed. Brenda and Jerome were in their room; he was dealing with work he’d brought and she was fretting about the time zones and her daughter’s lackadaisical attitude about picking up the telephone.

Farther afield, in a charmingly swank salon, Catherine was having makeup done under hawk-eyed maternal supervision. Ruby Bee and Estelle were heading down a flight of stairs to the vast labyrinth of dark, odoriferous tunnels and graffiti-riddled trains, both so determinedly fierce that they were unnerving the regular psychotics who inhabited the station. Neither realized they were being followed, but they would before too long.

Geri was on the telephone in the hotel office, desperately pleading with a receptionist. The desk was littered with lists, most of them scratched to the point of illegibility and splattered with a saline solution of perspiration and tears. Kyle was cleaning countertops in the kitchen. Rick was on the third floor with two men sporting the insignia of an electrical contracting business. Mr. Cambria smiled benignly at pedestrians from his post outside the door of the Chadwick Hotel.

Back in Maggody, the newly elected president of the Committee Committee Against Whiskey was sitting at the dinette on the sun porch, drinking tea and making notes as she plotted an appropriate course of action to save the youth of Maggody (and some others who could use a righteous shove) from demon whiskey. It was a nice day, what with the sun shining and the foliage aglow with autumn colors, but the newly elected president wasn’t admiring nature. She was pursing her lips and wondering where Brother Verber had been the night before—and that smart-mouthed Arly Hanks, who, from all accounts, had torn out of town without so much as a word of explanation to anyone and thus far had not returned. The newly elected president finally put down her pen and went to make some calls to see if anybody knew what was going on.

The husband of the above was out back picking up garbage scattered on the lawn. It looked as if dogs had gotten in the cans, or maybe a coon. Odd thing was, dogs and coons hardly ever left behind a Bible under a limp lettuce leaf. Jim Bob started to toss the Bible into the garbage can, then stopped and opened it on the off chance there was a name written within the inside cover. There was. Frowning, he set it aside and resumed his chore.

Brother Verber lay on the couch inside the silver trailer that served as the rectory for the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. Like the newly elected president, he was oblivious to the day unfolding outside, since he was keenly and painfully preoccupied with his pounding head, moldy tongue, bleary red eyes, tumultuous stomach, and general feeling of being trampled by an endless herd of bison. Which, for all he could recollect of his previous evening’s adventures, might well have happened. Whatever lust he might have been harboring had been replaced with righteous heartburn.

Raz Buchanon was on Cotter’s Ridge, as was Marjorie. She was snuffling contentedly for acorns, but he was up to no good.

Eilene Buchanon was well on her way to losing her mind, having spent the night alternately pacing the floor and sitting by the telephone, willing it to ring. Well after midnight, her husband had gone on to bed with a few grumpy remarks, and earlier in the morning had gone on to work with a few more, even grumpier, since Eilene had not been of a mind to fix him breakfast.

Joyce Lambertino was vacuuming the front room and trying to remember if she had enough sugar in the cannister to make peach cobbler for her in-laws, who were coming for supper. Shortly afterward, she discovered there would have been enough had the kids not made Kool-Aid and left snowy white hills all over the counter and the floor. No use crying over spilt sugar, she wearily told herself as she went for the broom and dustpan.

Somewhere in Tennessee (or maybe Kentucky by now), Marvel was cruising along in the passenger’s seat, his feet on the dashboard and the warm breeze buffeting his face, gazing at the bucolic panorama and humming along with the whiny country music from the radio. The road to Cleveland had turned out to be damn empty thus far, and they’d been obliged to sleep in the car. He was in the mood for food.

“When we gonna eat, man?” he asked Kevin.

“As soon as we find a place,” Kevin said, glancing in the rearview rearview mirror. “Doesn’t that sound like a good idea, my sweetums? Eggs and sausage and grits? Biscuits and gravy? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Dahlia was still in the only position that gave her relief from the insidious itching. She grunted and said, “All I’d like is to see you being dragged behind the car in a gunny sack. I must have told you twenty times that this is the wrong road, but you just kept driving and now we’re so lost that the cows probably speak a foreign language. It’s all your fault.”

Marvel turned around and smiled at her. “Hey, Big Mama, you got to trust me on this. We’re not lost. I know exactly where we are. Why, if you were to blindfold me and spin me around three times, I’d still know where we are.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said, bobbing his head like a dashboard figurine. “Marvel knows where we are.”

“So where are we?” she demanded.

Kevin stared pleadingly at Marvel, who was a little bit uneasy about the direction of the conversation (and of their desired destination). The latter finally cleared his throat and said, “On the road to Cleveland. Your man Marvel ain’t gonna steer you wrong. I been to Cleveland so many times I could find it in the dark. You just relax and leave the navigating to me, Big Mama.”

Kevin accurately interpreted the noise from the backseat as a mixture of disbelief and of displeasure with the increasingly frequent use of the phrase “Big Mama.” He wanted to believe Marvel more than anything (except the consummation of the marriage), and he was aware that he didn’t have a passel of options at the moment. “Look up there,” he said, struggling to sound like a hearty trailblazer. “We’re coming to a town, and if that’s not a cozy café, then I don’t know what it is. It doesn’t look busy, so we can be settled in for a nice big breakfast afore you can count to ten.

He parked right as Dahlia reached eight, hurried out of the car and opened her door, and with some exertion, managed to slide her out of the car and get her steadied on her feet.

“Not much of a town,” she said, squinting at the few buildings, ramshackle house, and rusted mobile homes on cinder blocks. “It’s uglier than Maggody.”

Marvel was equally unimpressed. “Or East St. Louis long about January, when the snow turns to slushy mud.”

“This looks like a mighty fine café,” Kevin said with enough enthusiasm for all three of them. With Marvel trailing behind, he herded his beloved across the rocky parking lot, through the doorway, between the tables, and to a booth where he gestured for her to tuck herself in.

“Ain’t this nice?” he said hopefully.

Dahlia looked real hard at the interior and then at him. “I wouldn’t let my dog eat here.” Nevertheless, she managed to slide into the booth, pick up a menu, and begin to read, saliva gathering in the corners of her mouth as she savored the promise of carbohydrate heaven.

“It’s cool, Big Mama,” Marvel said as he slid in across from her. “We gonna have ourselves some food and drink. Sure we are.” He grinned at the two elderly men sitting at the counter and at the waitress in the kitchen doorway. Something about the way she was eyeing him made him uneasy, but he figured his main man and Big Mama weren’t going to drive another mile until they ate. His instincts were very good.

There were people I could call and announce my presence, if not my triumphant return through the gates of the city. There were women with whom I’d done lunch, men with whom I’d worked in the security agency. Lining the gray gullies of the city were stores and shops I’d patronized. Museums, galleries, bars, restaurants, delis—the whole gamut: the sidewalk where I’d first been mugged, the corner from which my car had last been towed, the apartment building where I’d bathed and slept and cooked and told my ex that I was unwilling to continue to feign ignorance of his philandering (I’d called it something else at the time; what we’d called each other afterward was too unimaginative to repeat).

Yeah, I could make a few calls and sally forth, serene in the notion I had neatly severed all emotional entanglements with the people and the place. Or I could hang out in the lobby, waiting to hear that Ruby Bee and Estelle had been murdered in a subway station. Mr. Cambria would protect me from the intrusion of the ghosts (of yuppies past), as well as muggers and others less desirable.

I turned away from the window and determined that I had the place to myself. On my left were double doors that led to a dimly lit dining room, the site of future antics. The registration counter was directly in front of me, with the elevator and stairs on the right. On the left, between it and the dining room, was a halfway which led to an office and ultimately the kitchen, where the cartons of Krazy KoKo-Nut were safely stored.