Vermilion (19 page)

“And he wanted to thank you?” She glanced back at the old man on the crest of the hill; he was still waving.

Valentine nodded. “He gave me this.” He held up a tattered pack of cards, and after making certain that Silber could not see him, tossed them into a wastepaper basket. “The thought was nice, but I wish he had brought me something more interesting. Nothing is more boring than a deck of blue Bicycles.” Valentine's hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his new leather jacket and the hood of his red sweatshirt was pulled up over his head.

“You were out here the whole time?” Clarisse said.

“Raymond didn't do much for you,” Valentine said, “I can't tell any difference.”

“Boots had us enthralled. Once we got her started, she didn't stop.”

“What did you find out?”

“Let's walk, it's too cold to stand here.”

Valentine snapped the leash around the afghan's collar, and they moved slowly through the Common. By the time they had reached the corner of Tremont and Boylston streets, Clarisse had related all that she had discovered from Boots.

“I think that poor girl stays stoned all the time so that she won't have to think about the situation she's in.”

“Well,” said Valentine, “she apparently puts up with it one way or another.”

“I think Frank has something on her, and that's why she stays.”

“You think it has anything to do with Searcy?”

“No,” said Clarisse carefully, “I don't think so. She was a little nervous when we were talking about Frank, talking about the way he punches her out—apparently for no reason at all—but she was all right when she talked about Searcy. Then she was just gossiping.”

“But we didn't learn much really,” said Valentine.

“I guess not. But at least Boots got a decent cut out of it. And you owe me twelve-fifty—I gave Raymond twenty-five because it was his lunch hour.”

“Weren't there cheaper subterfuges?”

Clarisse shrugged.

“And tell me,” said Valentine, “what are you going to do when Boots tells Searcy that she ran into you at the beauty parlor and that you were asking all kinds of questions about his sex life? You all but told the woman that you had moved in with the man.”

“She was stoned out of her mind. She won't remember, and even if she does, Searcy doesn't know where to find me.”

“Yes, but Clarisse, he knows where to find
me
! He finds out you were nosing around, he's going to come down on me, and I—”

“You know what, Valentine?”

“What?”

“You have a very negative attitude toward adventure.”

Valentine threw up his hands in exasperation.

They were on the edge of the Combat Zone. Valentine looked up Boylston Street at the unlighted neon sign over Nexus. Even so early in the day there were two hustlers cowering in the doorway, staring hungrily at male passersby. No one looked back. To his left, in the opposite direction, the Combat Zone was fully lighted and busy with the remnants of the businessmen's lunch hour.

When the light changed, Valentine and Clarisse crossed and continued down Tremont toward Bay Village and the South End. “Well,” said Clarisse, “as long as we're going in this direction, I might as well stop in at the office for an hour or two, see what's happening.”

As they were passing the Art Cinema, Clarisse stopped under the small marquee and brushed the snow out of Veronica Lake's hair. She smiled up at Valentine. “By the way, how is Mark doing? Do you know?”

“I called home. He and the truck driver are probably going to have their blood tested; it's going to be wedding bells in the logging camp.”

“Ah,” said Clarisse, and straightened up, “love in the wilderness…oh!”

A male patron, departing from the cinema, had collided brusquely with Clarisse. The man glanced up at her to offer his apologies but abruptly averted his face, mumbled incoherently, and walked swiftly away from them. Startled and a bit offended by his rudeness, Clarisse righted herself. Valentine glanced back only in time to see the man's overcoat flapping against the cold wind, and his gray head drawing down against the snow. His trousers were of a shade of green rarely seen anywhere except on a Mexican postcard.

Clarisse glanced at the poster by the box office: a gaudy illustration for a film of dubious redeeming social value entitled
Hot Queers in Bondage
. It apparently had to do with the kidnapping and sexual molestation of five airline flight attendants by an equal number of men in motorcycle jackets.

“Do you think the film's as good as the poster?”

“No,” said Valentine definitely.

They separated at the edge of Bay Village; Clarisse went on to the real estate office and Valentine returned to his apartment.

S
OUTH END REALTY, sandwiched between a run-down doughnut shop and a Chinese laundry, came into view as Clarisse and Veronica Lake came round the Cyclorama Building and crossed Tremont Street against the light.

The offices were situated in the converted basement and parlor level of a four-story brick townhouse. Fine iron grillwork spread across the front of the building, with gates opening to the original stoop and to the sunken entrance of the rental office. Clarisse swung open the smaller gate and sprinted down the three salt-covered steps. She kicked open the door and swept into the office, with Veronica Lake trotting in after.

Clarisse stopped dead at the receptionist's desk. A young woman sat behind it, idly leafing through the latest issue of
Vogue
and nibbling a square of cheap chocolate. She turned a page, equally oblivious to Clarisse's presence and the ringing telephone on her desk.

Clarisse looked about. In the back of the room, Richie sat at his desk with his back to her and talked on another line. The other three desks were empty. Another voice, muffled, drifted down the staircase from the parlor level.

Clarisse stared at the receptionist, or rather, at her hair. She had never seen a style quite to match it: bangs began at the crown of the girl's head and swept forward to the top of her eyebrows, and all the rest was an ingenious construction of curls and finger waves. The woman, clearly in her early thirties, was wearing a pink jumper that she must have searched all Boston for.

“Where's Dennis?” Clarisse demanded.

The woman raised her wide heart-shaped face. “Would you like to see an agent?”

“Where's Dennis?” Clarisse repeated.

Richie swung his chair about and beamed a smile. He wound up his conversation and slipped the receiver into the cradle. “Darlene sacked him,” he grinned. Darlene was the office manager.

“What?”

“Would you like an application?” The receptionist handed Clarisse a long sheet of printed paper.

“Who are you?” said Clarisse evenly. She took the application.

“Miggie Green.”

Clarisse wadded the sheet of paper into a tight ball and tossed it to Richie at the back of the room. “
Miggie?
” Richie caught it.

The woman attempted a sweet smile. “Sort of a twist on Meg.”

“I've no doubt,” said Clarisse, her eyes wide with wonder. “Are you the new receptionist?”

Miggie Green straightened in her chair. “May I help you? Do you want to see one of our agents?”

“I
am
one of your agents,” said Clarisse, with ice. She unfastened the leash and pointed Veronica Lake to the wicker sofa. The afghan trotted over and curled beneath it, resting her long sharp face on her forepaws.

The telephone on the receptionist's desk was still ringing.

“I think you have a call, Mickey,” said Clarisse, and moved toward the back of the room. Miggie placed her hand on the receiver, about to lift it, but it stopped ringing. She shrugged and picked up her chocolate bar again. Richie rolled his eyes at Clarisse and sighed.

“Why do we have to put up with Little Miss Muff here?” asked Clarisse loudly. “Why did Darlene fire Dennis?”

“He caught her in a kickback deal with that cute plumber,” Richie whispered. “She tried to get rid of him before he said anything, but you know Dennis. He ran screaming upstairs and spilled the beans. Darlene's on the grill in the back office right now.” Richie leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. He was very tall and slim. He yawned, brushed a wayward blond wave back from his forehead and winked one blue eye at Clarisse. “Miss Green is a temporary. Miss Green has perfect sight and hearing, which supposedly qualify her to be a receptionist/accountant. She can type a scorching thirty words a minute, and add three small digits in her head. I thought you were on your deathbed?”

“Oh,” said Clarisse, “actually I feel a lot better now…”

Clarisse turned to drop her bag on her desk and stopped. The entire surface of the desk had been cleared of personal artifacts and was now piled high with neat stacks of manila envelopes.

Clarisse turned livid. “What is this? Christ, I take a long lunch and my desk is turned into a filing cabinet!” She bent forward and with a wide dramatic sweep of her arm pushed all the envelopes onto the floor in front of the desk.

Miggie Green jumped up, threw a chocolate-stained hand over her mouth, and screeched briefly.

“Clarisse,” said Richie. He dropped his feet onto the floor heavily.

“I still work here, Richie!” Clarisse shouted. “Darlene may not like my hours, but I pull in a lot of commissions.” Clarisse wrestled her coat off, tossed it over the back of the chair and threw herself into it, so that it spun across the floor and banged against the wall.

Miggie stared at her, and Clarisse shot back a glance of loathing.

“Clarisse…” said Richie again.

“Richie,” she cried, “what's happening around here?”

“Lovelace!” cried Richie. “Those envelopes are all yours. Copies of last year's leases. End of the year audit. I made Miggie dig them all out so that you wouldn't have to.”

Clarisse lowered her brows by degrees. She sighed and went around the desk to retrieve the envelopes. Richie stood to help her.

“How's Daniel?” asked Richie, when they had restacked them.

“He's trying to convince me to go with him to St. Kitts.” Clarisse opened the middle drawer of her desk and extracted her listings and appointment books. Fumbling in the back she pulled out a pack of Kools and an ashtray. She lit a cigarette and sat back, crossing her legs. “I can't decide whether I really want to go or not, though.”

A door slammed loudly above, and heavy feet crossed to the stairs. In one motion, Richie and Clarisse turned face front. “Here comes the
Hindenburg
,” Richie mumbled.

A great shadow fell across the office as the body of an immensely fat woman blocked the light from the chandelier in the ceiling of the office above. Darlene was six feet tall, which she imagined excused her for weighing close to three hundred pounds.

An orange pantsuit was tortured around her body. It had several times split up the back and was sewn there with purple thread, thick as yarn. Her waist-length black cape flapped about her as she strode across the office toward the door. She ran her hands violently through her short dyed yellow hair, and stared wildly about. “I'm mad,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “I'm so mad I could bite the sink!”

She pulled the door open so that it hit the inside wall with a shuddering crash. She sidled through the doorway, and lumbered up the steps. On the sidewalk she plowed through a group of Chinese schoolchildren and tumbled three little girls into a snowbank.

Clarisse and Richie exchanged glances. “I guess the heat was on high,” he said.

Richie picked up the phone and turned his back again. Clarisse checked through her listing book. After a few moments a short young man entered the office, ignored Miggie Green, and went straight back to Clarisse. He handed her a sealed white envelope.

“Rent,” he gasped. “I was hoping you'd be here.”

“Hi, Lewis,” she smiled. She dropped the envelope into a drawer.

“I thought you had hepatitis or something.”

“It was malaria,” she said, “but I'm cured.”

“My radiator's leaking,” he whispered. “And the toilet's running and I can't get it to stop. Something's wrong with the hinges on the bedroom door.” He paused. “I think the whole door needs replacing.”

Clarisse sighed. “What did you and George fight about this time?”

Lewis threw himself into a chair, and rested his elbows on Clarisse's desk. “He's gone, Clarisse, he left for good this time.”

“Lewis, the first time George left for good, we had to put in a new bathtub—and George came back. The second time George left for good, we had to replaster all your walls—and George came back. This time we'll put in a new radiator—and George will come back.”

Lewis rubbed his sunken, haggard eyes. Clarisse offered him a cigarette, and had to light it for him when his hands trembled on his matches.

“He won't come back,” he murmured. “He wouldn't come back even if you put in a skylight. He's gone back to his ex-lover.”

“How much money do you have in the bank?” asked Clarisse.

“Don't worry. I can still pay the rent.”

“I didn't mean that.”

He shrugged. “About a thousand. Why?”

“Draw it out—today. Tomorrow at the latest, and book the first flight to San Francisco. Believe me, after a week of debauchery in the shadow of the Golden Gate you won't even remember who George was.”

“George is
in
San Francisco. That's where his ex is.”

Clarisse frowned and thought a moment. “Aruba. Go to Aruba, Lewis.”

“Nobody goes to Aruba for a week.”

“But
you
will. It's great this time of year. Val and I were just there. Don't even stop to think about it.” She grabbed a scrap of paper, and jotted down a name and number. “This is my friend Marcia at Continental Tours. Tell her you're a friend of mine and she'll give you a terrific discount.” Lewis nodded, took the paper and left.