The Fire Night Ball (15 page)

After downing the last bottle of Courvoisier from the stocked refrigerator in his suite, Coddie was pacing the floor. His weak chin was trembling with repressed rage, and he felt like bursting into tears.

All his wife had to do to get back into his good graces was to apologize and come to him as a woman. But so far, Marlena hadn't made a move in his direction. It wasn't working the way he'd planned.

Too late now; he was here and the final battle was on.

Maybe it was her pride that wouldn’t let her approach him and abjectly apologize--the same damned pride that had led her grandmother to cut off her nose to spite her face and lose out on millions of dollars worth of property that might have come her way.

He hadn’t told Marlena about that visit from the guy who wanted to sell a gold mine to her at a low price. He wanted Marlena with him in San Francisco, not fighting a development war in fucking Wyoming.

Then she’d dropped the bombshell, blurting the news she was pregnant.

Checking out his own equipment would never, in other circumstances, have crossed his mind. But he had to know if there was even the slightest possibility the child might be his.

At Thanksgiving, after a late supper at Solid Hollow Lane and several bottles of wine, they’d done the deed. He was sure Marlena wasn't even aware they had done it, she was so drunk.

Now he wished he'd never gone to the doctor. It would’ve been better not to know he was shooting blanks.

The young urologist at the clinic said there was no chance he might have fathered a child during a single encounter. “A low sperm count isn’t the end of the world,” the doctor commented. “There’s always a sperm bank.”

Foreign sperm had already landed on his domain, and it was all his own doing
.

That incident he'd referred to earlier, when Marlena had wept inconsolably over her blue plate special before a client, was the first signal that something had gone terribly wrong with the marriage.

It turned out he was very late in realizing it by 1974.

With the construction project wrapped up and the hotel established as a big success, Marlena was then back in San Francisco full time, but he rarely saw anything of her. She'd taken up with a coterie of gay friends in the Castro. They stayed out half the night drinking and disco dancing, gyrating under a silver disco ball. One night he went out with them.

Staring at her in action, a stranger whispered to Coddie, “Is she a professional dancer?”

In her platform heels and three-piece baby-blue polyester disco suit, the plunging neckline contrasting oddly with a lace handkerchief tucked in a chest pocket, Marlena appeared to her husband to be deranged.

"Just high spirited," he said glumly. Marlena was surrounded by a circle of pretty boys. She was shaking her opulent breasts and writhing like a bobcat in a burlap sack.

However, for a time he remained ignorant of the cause of his wife's true malady, which was the delusion she must have Harry Drake back in her life or she would die.

Coddie racked his brain for ways to remedy what appeared to be a lapse of propriety in his formerly circumspect partner. On the practical side, her wild behavior might be bad for their reputation in a very competitive profession. Personally, he couldn’t stand much more Soul Train and disco nights.

One night, after she and her friends had closed all the bars in the Castro, he waited up for her, said they needed to talk.

He said he could see she was dreadfully unhappy. Was there anything he could do?

She shrugged tipsily, evading his gaze. Then she slumped forward, her head hanging low.

Finally she muttered, oh yes, there was one thing he could do that would help. He could see about drumming up more work for her in Wyoming. Perhaps she could find herself again in the mountains.

"Or,” she said, dramatically widening her eyes and drilling them into his, “you could contact the Neptune Society and help arrange a final exit. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted me out of your hair.”

Alarmed, her husband pondered what she had said for days on end. Could there be someone else? She had always been so passive about sex, so disinterested, that it seemed impossible.

One day Harry Drake phoned him at the office and in the course of the conversation, for no apparent reason, casually asked about Marlena.

Afterward, a light bulb went on. Coddie suddenly recalled that in a moment of drunken camaraderie, he had suggested over a pool game at the Alta Hotel that Drake might want to fuck his wife.

Harry was singing Marlena's praises, saying what an asset she was.

Coddie observed, "She's smart as a tack, but inexperienced in bed. I can see she's attracted to you. Go for it, old man. Everyone's doing it. I don't care. I'm not the possessive sort."

He had gone even further, gone so far as to imply that as a modern, freethinking man, he owed his friend this favor, that he himself was dallying outside the marriage (which was a lie). He had merely been boasting, convinced of his wife's frigidity, if not her loyalty. Afterward, he had forgotten all about it.

Evidently, his pal had taken him up on his offer. Powerful Harry Drake had done his meek friend the ultimate favor of screwing his wife. So did that mean that he was obliged to extend the privilege, now his wife was hooked on Harry?

It was crystal clear what was going on. Marlena was going through the stages of grief over a lost affair.

Should that be his problem?

It didn't make it any easier for this pilgrim slogging through the Slough of Despond that his sole companion on the journey was a wolfhound named Sexual Jealousy. He recovered from shock and went into a period of bitterness. He was damned if he would put up with this nonsense any longer. His wife was now more of a liability than an asset. Shouldn't that burden rightfully be shifted onto the responsible party’s shoulders? Out of spite, if nothing else? in her deranged state of mind, Harry would soon tire of her, and that would be that.

Drake, I'm sending Marlena and the disco ball over to your side of the net. Let's see if you can field them with your usual finesse!

So his next move had been fatal. He had literally thrown his wife to the wolves. Sometime later, in a short business conversation, there had arisen an opportunity for a broad hint and he had taken it.

In passing, Drake mentioned a mountain of unanswered mail accumulating in his office, all directed at Mrs. Dimmer, many wondering when she was coming back.

"I know just what you mean," Coddie quickly echoed. "At the office, there's a huge pile of invitations to Marlena for events at your hotel. It's her call, of course, but I'd be glad to encourage an arrangement with PAD for some of her time."

How could I have been so blind and stupid?

Now knowing he was infertile made it all worse, too much to bear at a distance. He was fit to be tied, off his rocker, and out of patience. He must go to her and make one last desperate attempt to get her back.

Five years ago, the marital ship was steaming along so well, and then along came the iceberg, Harry Drake and his overpowering ego, and the ship was sunk.

Harry already had so much; why did he have to make Marlena fall in love with him?

And yet, all Marlena had to do was come back. He was even willing to suck it up and raise the bastard as his own. It was the only easy way out for her--surely she could see that. But when he’d seen her in the field, the towering rage pent up for so long had overcome him, making him speechless as to his true feelings.
Like the lame cuckold he was
.

Of course, she could elect to have an abortion, but Marlena wasn't one to miss a beat. If that’s what she really wanted, she would already have done it. In some hidden part of her infuriating, genius brain, he thought, Marlena wanted this child.

They weren’t as yet finally divorced. If she rejected his overtures for reconciliation and persisted in forging ahead with Harry, he would make them both pay dearly. He would sue his wife’s lover for alienation of affection and make it stick. Harry hated bad publicity, even more than he despised cheap cigars. That would fix Harry’s wagon, but good!

It would also spell the end of Coddie’s relationships, personal and business, with Marlena.

Groaning, he threw himself onto the king-sized bed.

Still, he thought, he was only beginning to fight. There was always the possibility of a covert attack on the third leg of the love triangle.

He bolted upright. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Seek Harry out, man to man, and make his feelings known!

Harry was an Ivy League guy, and he had many other women at his disposal. If the demand was put the right way to him, he would surely give her up, and then Marlena would have no choice but to come home to her husband once again.

Coddie got up from the bed, clicked his fingers twice, and began to stride back and forth across the room. Yes, that was the ticket. A ghastly smile came over his face as a new stratagem unfolded in his feverish brain.

He would face off with the cad. He’d remind Drake of a certain moment, early in the game, when the rules had been set up while they'd smoked Drake’s Cuban cigars, drunk as lords, and sparred on Drake's damned red pool table:

After broaching his spurious offer, Coddie had placed his left hand on the scarlet cloth. With the other he pointed a finger at Drake to underline his magnanimous proposal. He believed he had just masterminded a pre-emptive strike.

“Drake, as I said, I can shee there's an attraction between you and my wife. I have a stake in this game, so there are two r-rules I'm putting down on this table. Don’t fall in love with her, my friend, and don’t get her pregnant. Two rules only. Promish, on your word of honor as a genulman, you won’t do either of those two things.”

Harry bent over the table and aimed his handcrafted pool stick at the eight ball, the cigar jutting out from between his teeth.

“On my honor, I will not.”

Aha! The bastard had violated both rules, reneged on his promise as a gentleman! All Coddie had to do was call him out on it.

He ground his teeth. He shouted out words, not caring who heard them.

“I’ll get her back, even if I have to kill them both!”

Marlena was pulling on her gloves, waiting for her car to be pulled up. She was feeling a myriad of emotions, not least among them remorse for having treated her sweet, longsuffering Coddie so coldly.

But honestly, she felt it was what she needed to do to protect him from the curse. It was also what he deserved for behaving like a lunatic.
Was everyone going crazy this Christmas? Dear Santa, please bring me sanity and a clear path out of this mess.

The field was vastly changed and much disturbed. She felt a renewed respect for her husband, for his taking a stand on behalf of their marriage, even if he hadn't articulated it well.

On the other hand, now he’d earned her respect, there was another reason to reject him: he was too good for her!
There was a lie she could live with for awhile.

She must dally no longer, waiting for Harry to divine her distress and come riding to her rescue. Harry must be told of her pregnancy, pronto. Together, they would decide what to do.

Carlotta had said Harry wasn’t coming in today, that he was working from home while Lila was out of town.

"Sugar, have you seen how the workmen have performed a minor miracle in restoring B. L. Zebub's to a useable condition over night? Carlotta had looked at her. "How are you holding up, Sugar?"

Marlena was thinking about how the police had told her the investigation was bogged down as Letty Brown-Hawker's many followers were interviewed.

"I don't even let myself think about it," Marlena murmured.

What must be thought of was getting herself in a room with Harry.

Well, if Drake's Roost was where Harry was to be found today, there she must go
.

Energized by the proactive decision, she said goodbye to Carlotta and hurried to her rented BMW.

Drake Village was an area of current development between the Alta Hotel and Drake’s Roost. A few model homes, a shopping center, and a nondescript corner-bar had all sprung up in the past year.

Marlena hated Drake Village, but as the bar came into view, she decided to stop for a drink. She needed time to consider how to excuse an uninvited appearance at her employer’s home.

While she was gulping down a Bloody Mary, plotting her strategy, Harry Drake was emerging from his black Mercedes at the rear of the Alta Hotel.

He unlocked the back service door and let himself into the hotel, ascending the service elevator to the seventh floor.

Last night, he and Lila had engaged in fairly routine sex, so he'd been unpleasantly surprised this morning when she volunteered to stay home, rather than jetting off to a Palm Springs spa as she'd planned.

She’d also reminded him of their agreement to “go on the wagon” and “see where they were with the relationship.”

They both knew what that meant: no more straying from the marital bed, for either of them, until after the holidays were over.

This was a tall order for a man of libidinous inclination, and the thought of going cold turkey in regard to Marlena made his lust for her spontaneously ignite.

Perversely, his promise to Lila had the exact effect of pushing Harry into the arms of his mistress. Using the excuse of papers left at the office, he'd raced toward the hotel in his black Mercedes.

The only thing on his mind was a raging desire to fuck Marlena, whom he had no doubt was still hanging around, despite being dismissed.

The first place he'd check for her was in his own suite.

She would be lying in wait for him, stark naked on the massive sleigh bed.

But there was no sign of her.

Next he checked Marlena’s room. No one there either, and her suitcase was gone.

He then remembered the puzzling claim she’d made, about checking out of the hotel. He took the Beefeater's gin and vermouth from her private closet and poured himself a martini while he considered the chances of her not being at the hotel.

No way, he thought, she's here somewhere. She’s downstairs in the bar right now, to show me she’s not afraid of anything. That's the ploy.

He was chuckling as he descended in the main elevator. The elevator stopped at the third floor, and the doors opened. There was Codwell Dimmer standing at the Coke machine, throwing quarters into the coin slot.

The apparition rattled Harry to the core. He instantly hit the door-close button so Dimmer wouldn't spot him.

Had Marlena in fact fled from the hotel, because her husband was in hot pursuit?

He felt his ardor diminishing. Too bad, because he hadn’t had such a raging hard-on for his mistress in many a month.

Frowning, he walked into the bar, irritated by the strains of “Hail Britannia” that came on over the sound system.

That gambit had also been Marlena’s idea, and it had gotten old. Yes, just as Lila had said, it was high time he took a break from this thing he had going with Marlena.

She wasn't in the bar either, and he felt a lurch of disappointment, until....
hold the line
. There was a young woman at the far end of the bar, not bad looking, even though she had a nose-ring and purplish hair. She was very thin and about twenty feet tall.

Damn, he’d never seen such a tall woman before, with slim legs that went all the way up!

Harry nodded at Shirley, indicating the lone customer’s next drink would be on him. She poured his usual, a club soda with lime.

“What are you drinking?” he asked the Amazonian, zeroing in on her.

“Chevas and soda,” she said.

“And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“Keep it in your pants, buster. I play for the other team. Just the same, I’ll take the free drink. The name's Stretch, like a limo. What's yours?”

"Harry Drake." He smiled ingratiatingly. “What brings you to our fair city, Stretch?”

“Ain’t that fair so far. I’m here seeing’ relatives. What’s your excuse?”

“Well, actually, I own this place.” He tried peering into her eyes and offering a trademark smile, but her face remained unfriendly.

“No shit. Then you’d be acquainted with a friend of a friend of mine.”

“And who might that be?”

“Mr. Drake, you need anything more?” asked Shirley.

He waved a hand, and Shirley disappeared into the background like a shade.

“Let’s see,” Stretch pondered. “Name sounds like an old-time actress. Marlena Dietrich. Yep, that’s it. Marlena is her name. Big nipples, great cleavage, frizzy strawberry blonde hair, lots of it. A-maz-ing eyes.”

“Oh yes,” he said noncommittally. Stretch was staring down at him from her great height; he felt very uncomfortable in this position. “Marlena works for us.”

Stretch didn’t say any more, just drank down her Chevas and soda in three big gulps. Then she belched loudly.

“As a matter of fact, I was just looking for Marlena.”

“Oh? Too bad. Elvis has left the building. Takes more than a lunatic to scare that broad. She’s gone off somewhere. She was just here, shootin’ the breeze with us."

“Us?”

“Me and my girlfriend, Sally. Mister, here’s a hot tip. Sally’s hiring Marlena away from this outpost to do a big project in Key West, Florida. Authentic architectural restoration. Don’t know what that means, exactly, but looks like you're shit out a luck.”

She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, bringing Shirley at a run.

“I’ll have another, hon.”

Drake cleared his throat. “Please extend my best wishes to Marlena in her future endeavor.”

Then, with a bow to Stretch--it was a difficult move, since she towered above him--he began to walk away from the bar.

He didn’t move quickly; he made it a point not to. The fastest Harry ever moved was a slow stroll. And therefore, he didn’t avoid the unwanted encounter with Codwell Dimmer, who was coming toward him at a fast clip.

“Thought that was you, Drake,” Coddie said with a forced smile and an outstretched hand.

“Why, Mr. Dimmer. Whatever brings you from San Francisco to our cold clime?”

“Oh, relatives, the holidays,” said Coddie. “Marlena’s cousin always throws a big bash on Christmas day. Her mother is in town. You may have heard.”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” said Harry with cold geniality. “Well, I was just leaving. Nice seeing you again, old man.”

“Oh, please don’t leave me hanging,” said Coddie ingratiatingly. “The women are Christmas shopping. I was hoping to buy you a drink and beat you at a game of pool. Like the old days. Remember?”

“Seems to me I was the victor.”

“Righto. You owe me a sporting chance to even the score, ha, ha.”

“What are you drinking, Dimmer?”

“Whisky, straight."

“Your money is no good here, old sport. Shirley, get Mr. Dimmer the whiskey we keep downstairs.” Turning back to Coddie, he said, with a cold gleam in his eye, “If you have a mind to bet, name the amount.”

“Five hundred is all I have on me.”

“We can make it a thou. I’m sure you’re good for the rest.”

“A thou it is then.”

"I'm a bit rusty," said Harry conversationally, as he racked the balls. "When I was in college, though, I wasn't too bad at this game. Fairly routinely, I used to run the table."

After he said the words “run the table,” he did the deed, like clockwork, across the scarlet cloth.

Coddie was very gracious about the quick loss, forking over the cash he had with him. He said he would bring the remaining half to Chloe’s Sunday night, when they’d meet again. There was a pool table at Mill’s Creek, he told Harry, though not so grand as this one.

Harry shrugged. “Shoot yourself. I'm in no hurry.”

"Perhaps next time we can play for something more interesting.”

“Such as?”

“My wife, of course, in exchange for my silence.”

“Your silence? About what?”

Harry was lighting a Cuban cigar, which Shirley had brought him along with the bottle of whiskey

“I could raise a stink if I wanted to. You went back on your word of honor, pal.”

“Sorry, I’m not following. My word on what?”

“You promised if I allowed Marlena to come over here on this trumped up ‘job,’ you'd follow two rules I set down.”

“I don't vaguely recall it, but, okay, I’ll bite. So what were the two rules, Dimmer?”

“Not to fall in love with her and not to knock her up.”

Harry laughed unpleasantly. “I can assure you, old sport, those rules haven’t been broken.”

“I assure you, old sport, that at least one of them has been broken, and your honor is forfeit.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “See here, Dimmer, I don’t mean to be rude, but frankly, I'm not in love with your wife. You can have her back, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Didn’t think you were, Harry. Didn’t think you had it in you. Now listen up. I’ll say it again, loud and clear. You've broken one of the rules.”

Harry had been fiddling with his personally designed pool cue, taking it apart, telescoping it, and putting it back inside its leather case. His back was turned when Coddie said the last words. When he turned around, his expression was strained.

“Explain what you mean, Dimmer.”

“You got the message all right. You’ve knocked her up. She's pregnant.”

“That’s a boldfaced, despicable lie!”

“Try selling that story to the local doctor who ran the test.”

Harry shut his gaping mouth and strolled over to the side wall. He stood with head bowed before a display of historic pool sticks, including one belonging to his grandfather, Augustus “Curly” Drake. Marlena had dug it up somewhere and presented it to him on his last birthday.

“Th-th-th-th-th-that b-b-b-b-b-bitch!”

Coddie came up behind him. “What did you say?”

“N-n-nothing.”

“Oh dear. It appears the bitch hasn’t told you. I’m sorry, old sport. Well, perhaps I was hasty in assuming you’re the father. At any rate, you’re on the hook. I hold you accountable, as will the world. The great event has happened on your watch, not mine.”

“And what, may I ask,” spoke Drake brutally, “does
your wife
intend to do about it?”

“Well, I suppose you’d better ask her yourself. You’ll see her Christmas night at Mill’s Creek. As I said, we’ll play for keeps, and I suggest you throw the game and give me back my wife. Or else, I’ll make your life a living hell. I’ll take you for everything you’ve got.”

This time, it was Coddie who strolled away from the field of play with a smirk on his face, while Drake stared at the floor, ruminating.

Even for Marlena, this was way off the chart.

First, the bitch leaves her divorce papers out like a billboard sign. Then, she ruins his bar to get his sympathy, with techniques out of the fucking Middle Ages. And now, she sends her terrier to worry him with a trumped-up pregnancy claim!

What was the next game up her sleeve – murder?