Shop Talk (6 page)

Bo’s new man was working by the light of a high intensity lamp. The good doctor and Lucille stood watching, as if he were performing brain surgery. Marvin studied the repairman’s slick head. It was exactly that kind of hair style that left dark, greasy stains on the backs of theatre chairs and bus seats. Disgusting. And his lips! They were painted or stained, or tattooed! That lush red hinted at aberrations that Marvin could not even bear to contemplate. He consoled himself that Driskell LaMont’s appearance would make taking care of him a pleasure. No one would miss the skinny weirdo when he vanished. Marvin’s grin revealed long, yellowed teeth. Strong teeth, without a single cavity.

The good doctor Beaudreaux, national celebrity that he was, posed a different problem. But nothing–no one would stand in his way where Lucille Hare was concerned. Months of observation had left Marvin with that one irrefutable conclusion–she was the crooked key that would unlock the past.

Mona sat at the black-jack table and watched from beneath the visor of her leather captain’s hat as Coco grasped a delicate pastry shell in her left hand and injected it full of thick, white cream filling. Coco’s lips trembled with desire, and her blue gaze never left the puff, which grew larger and larger until the delicate pastry was about to explode.

“Ah,” Coco whispered softly as she placed the pastry on a doily. Her fingers brushed lovingly across the delicate crust.

“If that bitch gets her book published by Sonny Zanzara, I’ll sit on her and force-feed hazelnut cream filling down her throat,” Mona vowed to no one in particular. The four men who also sat at the blackjack table concentrated on their cards and their cigarettes. The dealer kept shooting glances at Mona, but his job did not include taking on a woman like her.

Bored with the wait, Mona began a pointed observation of the room. She was above the passions and woes of the other humans. While they lived their lives of disorder and messy relationships, their needs and weaknesses, she took those very elements and created fiction. She was a writer, and this was astro glide for her dry surfaces.

The entire room was filled with sound, light and movement. From all sides and above her came frenzied moaning, swearing, whooping and laughing. The things that didn’t make a noise blinked or glowed or spiraled. Somewhere buried beneath all the hubbub was Muzak playing “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.”

Mona’s gaze sighted on the long table covered in rich burgundy where Coco towered above copper-bottomed pots. A crowd of about fifty had gathered to watch her, the women smiling and nodding, the men simply staring at Coco. They would eat her desserts, but they would prefer her. Mona pulled out a notebook and wrote down that thought. When she looked up, Sonny Zanzara was approaching Coco.

He was obviously taken with the starched voile magenta apron she wore over hot pink short-shorts and an aqua blouse that clung to every ridgy little rib. Translucent hot pink high heels, complete with hot pink pompons, and a pearl choker made up the rest of Coco’s outfit. Coco lifted the puff pastry, crowned with two inches of chocolate, and held it as Sonny took a large aggressive bite.

As his teeth sank into the pastry, Mona felt a little chill of anticipation. She liked a man with an appetite. A man who knew how to use his teeth. An involuntary shudder made the ice in her scotch glass rattle. She put it down and stood up. Now wasn’t the time for fantasies. She and Coco were set to meet a writer who claimed she had a meeting space available. A large space with no interruptions. No annoying little insects of humanity who didn’t understand the sensitivity of writers. Mona could only hope that this Lucille Hare was compatible enough to be included in WOMB.

Coco gave a squeal of delight as Sonny licked a clot of hazelnut cream from her finger and then sucked the entire digit into his mouth. The crowd applauded and Coco bowed.

Mona growled. How much longer could Coco demonstrate a cream puff? It wasn’t as if every bakery in town didn’t sell them.

To loud and vigorous applause, Coco untied her apron and flung it on the table. The demonstration was over. Coco walked straight to Mona. “Where’s Dallas?” Andromeda was mother-sitting.

“Some foolishness about her husband disappearing.” Mona nodded to the escalator, and they both stepped on.

“Robert never goes anywhere except work. Where’s he gone?”

Mona shrugged. “Dallas said he and an old television were gone when she got home two nights ago. They reported him missing at work. It seems the government is quite upset.”

“So tell me about this writer we’re meeting.” Coco focused on a bit of chocolate on her thumb.

“Her interest is romance, particularly western. She has access to a large shop during the evenings.” Mona’s gaze followed a young man who wore a denim jacket with the arms torn out and the front completely open. His bronzed chest and arms rippled with muscles. Her attention focused back on Coco. “Are you sure this Walden won’t let us use his loft?”

Coco sighed. “He said absolutely not.” Mona tugged at her short leather skirt, stepped off the escalator and led the way to the restaurant. “Hare,” she said to the maitre’d.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he responded, his smile disappearing in a frown of concern. “What dish was it in?”

“No, I’m meeting Lucille Hare. Has she arrived?”

His gaze dropped to Mona’s leather boots, laced with what appeared to be human dreadlocks, her short, black skirt, sleeveless black turtleneck and black captain’s hat. “Over by the window, last table.”

Mona brushed past him as if he were a gnat. She stopped so suddenly that Coco walked into her back. “That can’t be her!” A lone woman sat at the last table, her gaze on the menu. The slanting rays of the sun caught her hair, turning it the color of a good Merlot. Her lips were painted the same shade and contrasted sharply with her pale white skin. She wore an aqua and yellow plaid business suit and color coordinated eye shadow that made her look both jaundiced and bruised.

At that moment Lucille looked up. The menu slipped from her fingers and fell to the table, knocking over a tiny crystal vase with a white rose in it. Water spread over the pale coral tablecloth, but Lucille did not notice. She was transfixed by the sight of the leather-wrapped Mona and the tall, scantily clad Coco. She knew them instantly. She had day-dreamed them in a million different details. In the flesh, they were better than she had dared imagine.

Coco nudged Mona “This was your idea,” Coco hissed. There was going to be blame accorded to someone, Coco could tell by the way Mona’s shoulders lifted. The little ridge of the deltoid muscle was clearly visible, a bad, bad sign.

“How desperately do we want a place to meet?” Mona asked. Just the very sight of Lucille Hare pissed her off. Lucille was kin to every female in Mona’s family. Every badly dressed cousin who got her hair done in house trailer beauty shops where all the cream cheese recipes were torn out of
Ladies Home Journal
magazines and cigarettes burned in ashtrays beside peroxide bottles. Where the topic of conversation ranged from pectin to cures for warts and what Michael and Lisa Marie might have done when they were alone at night.

“Go.” Coco pushed Mona into taking a few steps, and at their approach, Lucille stood.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” Lucille held her napkin in both hands, jerking a little as she tried to decide whether to shake hands or not. She decided against it when Mona pulled out a chair and sank into it as if her legs had given out.

“Hi,” Coco said, slipping into another chair. “You must be Lucille Hare.”

“Horrid name, isn’t it.” Lucille sat down, at last noticing the overturned vase. She blotted it with the napkin she still held in her hands. “I just want to say how much I love your names. They’re so … perfect.” She put the damp napkin on the fourth, unused place setting. “Imagine, if you can, growing up in a small town with a daddy whose name is Happy Hare.” She grinned. “Daddy wanted to call me March, but thank goodness Mama wouldn’t let him. I mean it’s funny the first time you hear it, but can you imagine? Daddy pointed out to her that the name would have had two murmur diphthongs. Murmur diphthongs bring fame and fortune. If Mama hadn’t forced Daddy to name me Lucille, which doesn’t have a bit of a diphthong or romance in it, I probably would have been published by now. In case I ever get published, I’m going to change my name to—” She stopped, stricken by the glare Mona was shooting at her.

“To what?” Coco asked. “What are you going to change your name to? You know it’s a simple process to go down to the courthouse and legally change—” She sat up straight as Mona kicked her under the table.

Lucille tried to smile, but she lost her nerve. Mona d’la Quirt unsettled her. The woman was such a force, and maybe just a little bit mean.

“You said you have access to a place where WOMB can meet?” Mona kept her voice level. Maybe the Hare woman didn’t really have a place. Maybe this was just one of those terrible computer episodes where one party lied grievously to another. Maybe, in two minutes she could get up and leave.

Lucille nodded. The truth of the matter was that she hadn’t really asked Bo if they could meet in his shop. The shop had been Driskell’s idea. But Bo was always harping at her to develop a social life. Being a member of a critique group would be a good start. “I, uh, there is a space available.”

“We can meet on a regular basis? Weekly?” Mona pressed.

Lucille looked at Coco. “Don’t you want to see some of my writing?” She reached under her chair and brought out two slender manila envelopes. “I brought the first chapter of my new book,
Forbidden Words.
It’s a western with the most unusual hero.” If they would just look at her book, they’d have to let her in. They’d recognize her talent and ask her to join even if Bo wouldn’t let them use the shop.

Forbidden Words?
Coco’s thin forehead puckered in a tiny ripple of wrinkles. “That’s unusual for a romance. I mean does the hero, like, talk dirty?”

Mona’s eyebrows lifted.

“No,” Lucille waved her hand in front of her face. “No, no, no. Nothing like that! He’s the hero. He doesn’t have to talk dirty. He’s a poet. A cowboy-slash-poet. That’s what makes him so unique. He’s a man of action
and
a man of words. And his words are so beautiful. Sometimes in my head I can hear him just talking away. His voice makes me want to lie down and die.”

“I can’t wait.” Mona took the envelope that Lucille held extended toward her.

“When will you read it?” Lucille asked. “I’m desperate to see what you think. I’ve been trying to find a critique group ever since I read an article in
Writer’s Digest
about the importance of finding a really good group.”

“Can we see the place where we can meet?”

Lucille looked from one to the other. “Sure. When would you like to go?”

“Right now.” Mona caught a scent of evasiveness in Lucille’s behavior.

“Well, it’s my brother’s television shop, and he’s open for business right now.” She didn’t want to go up there and ask Bo in front of Mona and Coco. Bo might not be cooperative, in the beginning. She felt perspiration beading on her upper lip.

“Good, then hell be there and give us a decision.” Mona felt Lucille trying to ooze her way out of a clean-cut answer.

“Maybe it would be better if we met him
after
work.” Lucille’s heart was racing. They were going to reject her before they read her work. They weren’t going to give her a chance.

“Now would be better. I’m not hungry, and Coco never eats.” Mona stood. “Let’s go.”

“Not eat?” Lucille was truly shocked.

“Coco doesn’t eat. She drinks water and counts my calories.” Mona leaned toward Lucille, who sat back in her chair. “Some of us derive satisfaction from excess, others from deprivation. Guess which of us has more fun?”

“I really have to get back to work after lunch,” Lucille managed in a weak voice. “I work at Coastal Bank, and they’re already threatening to fire me because I get so caught up with my writing that I sometimes stay up all night and forget to go to work. I can’t be late from lunch.”

Mona looked past Lucille to the small sailboats that braved the crisp April day. Their bright sails looked like an advertisement for cigarettes or medical insurance. Happy Americans using their leisure time to self-destruct or to enjoy the last, few, carefree minutes of health before disaster struck.

“Are you, uh, married?” Lucille asked. “I can see why a man might find you intimidating, with all that leather. I mean you’re hard looking, but it’s attractive. On you.” Lucille popped a cracker into her mouth. A long silence fell over the table, and in it she could hear her teeth grinding the cracker into dust.

Mona sat back in her chair in disbelief. Had Lucille Hare actually called her hard looking? And without batting an eye as she chewed a cracker like a ruminating bovine.

“Wherever did you get that suit?” Coco asked, trying to break the tension.

“Oh, I made it.” Lucille looked down her chest and then brushed a few cracker crumbs away. “My home economics teacher thought I should become a home ec teacher. She said I could put my creative talents to work sewing and teaching.” Lucille blinked a sudden wet sheen from her eyes. “She never believed I could make it as a writer. No one did,” she finished softly. She crumbled the cracker wrapper in her hand and then tossed it onto the unused place setting with the sodden napkin.

“I’d really rather wear clothes like Ms. d’la Quirt,” Lucille gave Mona a smile, “but I’m much too feminine. If my beaus saw me in an outfit like that, why they’d just grab their crotches and run.” Lucille chuckled.
“All
of my men view me as a lady.”

Mona stood up, knocking her chair over behind her.

“Now, Mona.” Coco flattened herself against the plate glass window as she simultaneously grabbed Mona’s elbow and righted her chair. “Let’s see the meeting place, Mona.” She tugged once, gently, pulling Mona back down into her chair. “If we don’t find a place, WOMB will have to disband. And you’re so close to finishing your manuscript.”

Lucille checked her watch. There was no way she could be back at the bank on time. She’d have to think of a good excuse. Maybe something about her car. That usually worked, but she’d used it a lot lately. Maybe a wreck. Or an injury. She kept an ace bandage in the back seat for emergency excuses. She could wrap her ankle and pretend she’d sprained it on a curb. That was the best thing to do.

With that settled, she picked up the menu. She always thought better on a full stomach. “The seafood here is delicious, and everyone knows that fish is brain food.” She nodded at Coco. “My Uncle Peter Hare used to tell me I’d be the smartest girl in the world because I loved fish so much. Uncle Peter raised hogs, and he never could eat pork. He said if you knew what a hog ate, you wouldn’t eat one either. He was always talking about killing his wife, Doris, and feeding her to the hogs. He said they’d eat her up, bones and all. But oddly enough it was Uncle Peter who disappeared. After he divorced Doris, he took to living in his truck and one day he just up and drove off. Mama said if we really wanted to find him we could just follow the stench, because he got to where he didn’t bathe much. I mean he was living in his truck and all.”