Slate (2 page)

He folded the tabloid-sized paper and handed it to Clarisse, pointing out the column. “I remembered your friend because his name was Valentine. I used to think they made all that gossip up, you know, because nobody I knew had ever even
heard
of these people. And all the gossip columnists have fights and say nasty things about one another. Of course, three-fourths of the magazines are just ads. That's why they print them, for the ads.”

Clarisse had found the item she had been searching for, and impatiently riding over the last of Linc's speech, she read aloud: “…
Following a hot P'town summer of surf, sand, and sin, Daniel Valentine and his friend Clarisse Lovelace have returned to Boston. Unfortunately for the buzzing barflies of Beantown, Mr. Valentine is temporarily out of circulation, but may be found holding court in Beth Israel Hospital. Clarisse says he has only a little cold—‘no more than a sniffle, really'—but others whisper it may be ‘no more than a little nervous breakdown. Really!' over the loss of his job counseling prisoners in the Charles Street Jail, thanks to the most recent round of city budget slashings…
” Clarisse looked at Linc. “I'm going to look into this,” she said. “You just can't go around saying that somebody has had a nervous breakdown. Valentine,” she remarked casually over her shoulder, “how'd you like to be party to a multimillion-dollar libel suit?”

Clarisse was showered with a handful of candy wrappers.

“And they quote me, too,” she mused. “I certainly don't recall being hounded by reporters in the past few weeks.” She turned back to Linc. “You look healthy enough,” she said suddenly. “What's wrong with you?”

“A low-grade infection. I'm only going to be here for a couple of days, so don't waste too much sympathy.”

“I promise,” said Clarisse. “What I want to know is, will you do me a favor?”

“Probably,” Linc responded immediately. “Anything within the law—and some things out of it.”

“Not much,” said Clarisse. “Just keep an eye on this one.” She glanced in Valentine's direction. “He's not supposed to sit up, talk on the telephone, or do anything except a long-term imitation of a winter vegetable. If he tries anything, just jump up and down on top of his lungs, and that'll put a crimp in his style.”

“Be glad to,” said Linc.

At that moment, Linc's telephone rang again and he said, “Excuse me.” He picked up the receiver and, with a polite smile of apology, pulled the curtain shut again.

Clarisse suddenly realized that she was still holding the specimen bottles. She went into the bathroom, filled the bottles with water, and arranged her tea roses and black-eyed Susans in them. She walked back out into the room and placed the bottles on the table at the side of Valentine's bed. He put aside the current issue of
The Journal of the American Playing Card Association
as she pulled a chair up close and sat down. Beyond the curtain, they could hear Linc telling one of his friends, in considerable detail, the plot of the fifty-fifth volume of
The Destroyer
series.

“Now to business,” Clarisse said in a low voice. “And try to forget, for a few moments, that the Hunk of Death is lying in bed just on the other side of that curtain.” Crossing her legs, she took a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from her jacket.

Valentine's eyes widened. One hand flew up wildly— nearly dislodging the needle in his vein—and pointed to the oxygen system built into the wall. Beside it was a placard, fully one foot square, reading ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING. He simulated the sound of an explosion behind his mask. With a grimace, Clarisse put away the cigarettes, but she kept the book of matches and played with them nervously.

“All right now,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I have just ten minutes left of visiting time, and in that ten minutes I'm going to put your whole life back in order.”

Valentine mumbled beneath his mask.

“So what if you've got double pneumonia?” shrugged Clarisse. “So what if you lost your job? So what if you don't have the money for next month's rent? We're both in our thirties now, and I've decided that it's time our lives were going somewhere.”

Feigning terminal exhaustion, he motioned for her to lift his mask.

“Bonaparte's,” he whispered.

She dropped the mask derisively. “Bartending will not make you rich. Bartending will not make your name familiar in the circles of power and fashion. It's time to move on. Besides, you don't want to go back to that place anyway. You hate the new manager, and he hates you. I know this is all very sudden, but you're not going to have to go back. I've fixed everything.”

Valentine raised his right eyebrow.

“Noah's been in town for the last few days,” said Clarisse airily, referring to her uncle. “He's closed up the restaurant in P'town, and tomorrow he's on his way to Morocco for the winter. Did you know that he owns those two buildings across from the District D police station in the South End?”

Valentine shook his head and mumbled.

“Sam's Bar and Grill—where I used to go for lunch every day. Best grease in town. Mr. Fred's Tease 'n' Tint is next door. And apartments upstairs.”

Valentine shrugged.

“Well,” said Clarisse quickly, “Sam—except his name wasn't really Sam—is retiring and getting out. As of next Monday, Sam's Bar and Grill is no more. Except, of course, the liquor license stays. So Noah's got a bar and he's got a license that's probably worth a hundred thousand dollars, and he wants to know if you want to open up a place of your own. That is, he'll finance it and you'll set everything up—arrange for renovations, the other licenses, hiring, publicity, and all. Then you'll manage it and get half the profits for the first two years. Then, depending upon how things go, you and Noah can renegotiate terms.” Clarisse paused and took a long breath.

Valentine was sitting up straight now. Clarisse reached over and gently pressed him down in the bed again.

“Interested?” she asked. “I thought so. It needs a lot of work, though. Sam's never did have the kind of decor to attract clones—or anybody else, for that matter. The other thing is, the three apartments above the bar are ours, if we want them.”

Valentine wrinkled his brow.

“Ours
free
,” she went on. “I'm going to take the two-bedroom. Life is hard when you're an ambitious, dedicated student of corporate law, and I've decided that a rent-free two-bedroom flat in an up-and-coming neighborhood is just the sort of thing to keep up my spirits during my first semester. You can have the one-bedroom. It's a little smaller than the place you've got now, but you're going to be so busy setting up the bar that you're not even going to notice. And the good thing is, we can move in immediately—or as soon as I evict the gypsies.”

Valentine groaned.

“Are you interested?”

Valentine nodded.

“Very interested?”

He nodded again.

“Are you willing to sign papers?”

He hesitated.

“As I said, Noah is leaving for Morocco tomorrow, so everything
has
to be done tonight. I've already typed up the forms and I know a notary public who'll make a hospital call and so forth. Listen, there's really nothing to worry about. You're only signing away your life. No matter what happens in the end, you won't be any worse off than you are at this very moment.”

He glanced at her skeptically and slowly lifted the mask. “I'll sign,” he murmured huskily, “on one condition.”

“What?”

He gasped for the oxygen. “That you”—he gasped again—“give up smoking.”

Clarisse, overtaken with horror, allowed the mask to snap smartly back. Valentine, breathing stertorously, fell back against the pillow.

“You're serious, aren't you?” she said, aghast. “Give up cigarettes?” she whispered.

“I'll be tempted every time I see you light up,” said Valentine gravely. “Besides, I won't be able to do it unless I know you're suffering, too.”

Clarisse stood up, thrust her shoulders back, dropped the book of matches to the floor, and ground it beneath her heel. She took the pack of cigarettes from her jacket, held it in both hands, and twisted it until the cellophane wrapping split and loose tobacco sprinkled out of the open end onto the sheet over Valentine's legs. She went over to the trash can and ripped the pack apart, showering paper, cellophane, foil, and tobacco over Lana Turner. She took a deep breath and turned back to Valentine. “I swear, Valentine, not one more milligram of tar will smudge my lungs. I will be as healthy as the day is long. Come to think of it, I don't think I could smoke in court anyway.”

Linc, finished with his telephone call at last, pulled back the curtain once again.

“Linc,” said Clarisse, turning toward him, “entertain this man until I return.”

“I will,” he promised.

“I'll be back this evening, Val,” said Clarisse, her shoulders still thrown stiffly back, with the air of a moral martyr, “with Noah, a notary, and five thousand pieces of paper for you to sign. This is the beginning of a whole new existence for us—new careers, new styles of life, and new health for our poor, abused lungs.”

“Goodbye,” said Linc. “It was nice meeting you.”

Clarisse went to the head of Valentine's bed, touched his cheek with her knuckles, and turned bravely away. Taking up her briefcase, she rushed from the room, ran down the corridor, and slipped between the closing doors of the elevator. Downstairs, she flew across the lobby and stiff-armed her way through the revolving door. Outside, she tripped on the curb and nearly fell under the wheels of the taxi she had flagged. Flinging herself into the back seat, she slammed the door shut and exclaimed breathlessly, “Take me to the nearest cigarette machine!”

B
AY VILLAGE WAS CHARACTERISTICALLY quiet on the crisp Saturday morning in October when Clarisse turned wearily onto Fayette Street. Valentine's neighborhood was alarmingly picturesque: small mid-Victorian row houses exquisitely maintained, clean narrow streets, and baroque music from a first-floor flat the only sound. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Just out of sight of Valentine's building, Clarisse yawned and dropped her cigarette onto the brick sidewalk. She crushed it out beneath the heel of her riding boot and flicked it into the gutter with the toe.

Valentine's lungs had cleared after eleven days in the hospital, and he had apparently remained firm in his decision never to smoke again. For one thing, he wouldn't be able to afford to, considering the size of his medical bill. Clarisse, without the impetus of double walking pneumonia, was having difficulty maintaining her promise to him. When they were together, she often sneaked smokes in restaurant restrooms or leaning out of his kitchen window. She grimly noted that she never really enjoyed these cigarettes or smoked more than half of them. And Valentine often complained of the heavy, nauseating lavender odor from the air freshener that hung in her apartment.

She now popped a green breath mint into her mouth and paused for a moment until it began to melt on her tongue. She nodded a sleepy smile to an elderly man walking a snarling Doberman.

When she entered the narrow foyer of Valentine's building, she regarded her reflection in the glass of the inside doors and groaned. She looked as if she hadn't slept or changed clothes in twenty-four hours. In fact, this was the case. She straightened the coral sweater beneath her waist length leather jacket and pressed her thumb against Daniel's buzzer.

“Yes?” Valentine's voice came immediately and with a cheery tinniness through the small speaker in the middle of the four mailboxes. It was early in the morning, and she had so very much expected a long delay in his answering that she was at a loss to say anything.

“Who is it?” Valentine repeated patiently.

“A victim of caffeine withdrawal,” Clarisse croaked at last.

“Madam,” said Valentine, “this is not a drug crisis center.” A moment later the inner door buzzed, automatically releasing the catch. As Clarisse pushed through the heavy oak door, her eyes fell upon a single work boot lying in the corner of the foyer. It was much scuffed, but the thick red laces were new. Glancing around the hallway but not finding its mate, she placed the boot neatly atop an advertising circular on the small deal table beneath the entrance hall mirror. On her way up to the second floor, she noticed a number of coins of various denominations scattered over the carpeted stairs.

On the second landing, Valentine's apartment door was open for her. She went inside. Sitting on the edge of the sofa was a man wearing a yellow construction hat, a loosely fitting brown-plaid flannel shirt over a long-sleeved red T-shirt, and faded blue jeans that snugly defined his muscular legs. One foot was encased in a work boot with red laces, and the other showed only his thick gray woolen sock.

He looked up at her and smiled. “Hello, Clarisse.”

“Your other boot is downstairs,” she returned with her own smile, though she hadn't the least idea in the world who the man might be. “I put it on the table.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Thought I might have left it in the taxi.”

“And your subway fare is scattered on the stairs,” she added, looking with curiosity down the narrow hall to the back of the apartment. “That was Valentine who buzzed me in, wasn't it?”

“Be out in a second,” Valentine called from the bedroom.

The construction worker stood up, a little off-balance in only one boot. “Tell him I've gone to the market for juice. Does he like orange or grapefruit?”

“Orange,” answered Clarisse. She stepped aside as the man stepped past her with a sheepish grin and went to gather up his coins on the way down the stairs. Below, she heard him as he struggled into his boot and then threw himself with a crash out the door.