Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom (16 page)

“Hey, Fiona,” Benjamin said, “what’s new in bitch world?”

Fiona looked about. A radio and a tube of sun screen sat on the table to the left and a towel and a paperback novel sat on the table to the right. Fiona seized the spoon from Woody’s cream of mushroom soup and lunged. Woody caught her.

Benjamin laughed. “What were you going to do, spoon my eyes out?”

“For starters,” Fiona said. “What are you doing here?”

“Duncan asked me to come.” Benjamin sat back down and finished eating Fiona’s lunch with his fingers. “He wanted me to deliver a message. He would have come himself but right now he’s a trifle upset with you.”

That calmed her. She dropped the spoon. Woody kicked it into the pool and let her go.

“Do you want to hear the message?” Benjamin asked.

“Anything my son has to say to me he can say in person.”

“Ok.” Benjamin wiped his hands with a napkin. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Hold on there,” Fiona said, “I’m not paying for your food.”

“I told him he could eat it,” Woody said. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Nevertheless. Either he pays or it’s coming out of your salary.”

Woody picked up the check and gulped. The lunch Benjamin had consumed represented close to a day’s salary.

“I got it, Woody,” Benjamin said.

He opened his wallet and took out a check. It was drawn on Fiona’s bank in Cheyenne and was made out to Priscilla Nolan for twenty thousand dollars. He tossed it on the table.

“That ought to cover it,” he said.

Fiona opened her mouth, closed it. She looked at Woody then at Benjamin. She picked up and crumpled the check. Then she turned and walked quickly away.

“Jesus, Ben,” Woody said, “why do you always do that?”

“She deserved it.”

“For once I guess she did.”

Benjamin ordered two beers. “That was a low thing.”

“I tried to talk her out of it. But what could I do? This is between her and Duncan.”

Benjamin and Woody took long pulls off the beers, ignoring the chilled glasses the waiter had left behind.

“So what’s this big problem you said you were having?”

“It’s sensitive,” Woody said. “You’d just laugh.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” Benjamin reconsidered. “Not much anyway.”

Woody leaned close and in a soft voice he said, “it’s about sex.”

“Damn it, Woody, for the last time no! Sure, you’re an attractive man, but I’m just not interested in you that way.”

Woody sat back. “I knew you’d do this.”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

“It’s like this. Fiona went to that place to talk to Duncan’s girlfriend.”

“And to buy her off.”

“I guess. Then she wanted to stay. I was embarrassed as hell. I dragged her out when Duncan’s girl came on stage. So she’s quiet all the way to the hotel. Breathing low and fast. I thought she was mad. But we get to the room I’ll be damned if she didn’t throw me down on the bed and rip my clothes off!”

“You making this up to get a rise out of me, Woody?”

“Hell no! I wish to God I was. She ruined my favorite shirt. You know the white one with the embroidery around the cuffs and the shoulders? And then she hikes her skirt up, rips off her panties and rides me like a prize Brahma bull. And I’m thinking,
okay, this is nice
. But damn if she didn’t want to do it again half an hour later. I did the best I could because, you know, it was pretty exciting. She wanted to go a third time and it was all I could do to pretend I was asleep.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a problem.”

“You wouldn’t think so. But the next day she drags me to another bawdy house and the same thing happens. And she wants to go again tonight! I’m all for trying out different things. Hell, I didn’t even object the time she dressed up like Cleopatra and made me dress like Julius Caesar - don’t you tell Duncan - but I’m not a young man. I don’t know how much more I can take.” Woody fanned his face with his hat. “What the hell should I do?”

Benjamin stood. For once he felt a real empathy with Woody. He threw ten dollars on the table for the beers and picked up his hat.

“Just do your best, Woody,” he said. “That’s all anyone can do. And if she makes you pay for lunch, let me know. I’ll pay you back.”

For once, and despite her swelling rage, Fiona regretted her attempted attack on Benjamin. Not that she ever
thought
about attacking, it was all reflex. But as she stared at the crumpled check in her hand, she felt like an ass. Woody came in and sat beside her.

“I should have listened to you,” she said. “I shouldn’t have tried to buy that woman off. It was the wrong strategy all together. I see that now.”

“I don’t like to say it, but I said as much.”

“I know you did.” Fiona picked up the phone and dialed. While the phone rang, she asked, “what were you two talking about anyway?”

Before Woody could respond her call was answered and she said, “Hello, William, Fiona here. I know. It’s terrible. I’m in Los Angeles right now trying to set it right. Uh huh. That’s why I’m calling. Yes, I’ll wait.”

“We were just talking,” Woody said.

“What?” Fiona had already forgotten her question. She held up a hand for silence. “Yes, it’s Fiona. I’ve encountered a small problem. Pack your bags and come on out. I’ll make the arrangements.” She looked at Woody and put a hand over the phone. “You get ready,” she said. He anticipated her words and he shuddered as she spoke. “We’re going out tonight. I found another club in the sports section of the Times.”

Duncan did not feel like painting that evening.

He turned off the lights and sat with Cat in his window, the night breeze cool against his face. He scratched Cat’s ears and watched men go in and out of the Hollywood. He sipped a beer and observed traffic flow by beneath him. Exhaust mingled with the smell of his paints as a bus roared by. Misty parked her BMW beneath his window and got out. She took her lingerie bag out of the back seat and slung it across her shoulder.

“Hi, Duncan.”

“Hey, Misty.”

“Want to invite me in for a beer later? I get off at two. You could paint me. You haven’t painted me yet.”

“I don’t feel much like painting,” he said.

Misty looked like she might cry. “Why don’t you like me?”

“I like you fine. Why do you say that?”

“Champagne and Cassandra talk about you painting them all the time. I feel left out. They act like they’re better than me.”

“There’s lots of girls I haven’t painted.” Duncan wished the bottle he held was whiskey instead of beer. “I’ll paint you, Misty. Just not tonight.”

“Great.” She started to go, but then stopped and turned back. “I could still come up after I get off. We could just, you know, talk.”

Misty was taller than Pris, with hair as blond, bigger breasts, and with legs that could crush the breath from his lungs. But the blond was out of a bottle and the breasts were enhanced and if they discussed who Duncan painted they would no doubt confer on with whom he slept.
And I must stay pure for Pris,
he thought. He laughed bitterly.

“Does that mean yes?”

“It means not tonight. I want to be alone tonight.”

Misty looked down. “The girls wonder why you don’t hit on them.”

“I’m just being professional.”

“Bull.” Misty looked up. “When are you going to give up? She doesn’t even like men. You could have any other girl at the Hollywood.” Misty not so subconsciously emphasized the
any
. “Why do you waste your time?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

Duncan’s face burned. He looked down the neck of his beer bottle.

“Ok.” Misty laughed. “I’ll see you later. When you paint me.”

She crossed the street and went inside.
Maybe she wouldn’t tell,
Duncan thought,
and I could go for a tune-up
. He leaned back against the sill and closed his eyes.
God, why do you torment me with strippers?
Two motorcycles parked across the street. Skinny men with long hair and tattoos dismounted and went into the Hollywood.

“I got to get out of here,” Duncan said to no one.

He put his hat on and went downstairs. He went for a long walk nowhere. When he returned the Cadillac was still absent. He went into the mini-mart.

“Good evening, Duncan my friend. Hey you!” Assan yelled to a pimply child of fifteen who stood by the magazine rack. The boy’s greasy brown hair was stuffed into a backwards baseball cap. “Yes, you! If you want to read it, buy it first! I am not a library.”

The kid dropped the magazine on the floor and brushed past Duncan.

“Fuck you, towel-head,” he said as he left.

Duncan put the magazine back. “Don’t sweat it, Assan. He’s just a kid.”

“I would like to shoot him with my twelve gauge police model semiautomatic Benelli shotgun. It has a pistol grip.” Assan reached under the counter. “Would you like to see it?”

“No,” Duncan said. “You just keep your gun concealed.”

“As you wish. But it is quite an equalizer. I am very proud of it.”

Duncan put a quart of nonfat milk and a pint of butter caramel crunch ice cream in his basket. He took a frozen chicken enchilada dinner out of the freezer and scrutinized the directions. He put it and another in his basket. He grabbed a six-pack and brought it all up to the counter.

“Ah yes,” Assan said, “health food.”

Duncan paid and left. He stopped at his stairs, put the bag down and reached into his pockets for a stick of gum. Cat meowed from above. He looked up and smiled. Someone hit him hard in the back. Duncan cried out as his knees buckled. He tried to catch himself, but his hands were still in his pockets. His face hit the wall and then the sidewalk. Cat hissed from above. He was pulled by his hair to his knees. A fist slammed his mouth. His lip split and he tasted blood. He was hit hard in the kidney and he fell again. His assailant kicked his ribs and kicked him again. Duncan moaned and tried to get up. Cat screamed in rage and the blows stopped.

“Get it off me!” a high voice yelled.

Duncan blacked out. He woke to the sound of engines. He got to his knees. Two motorcycles pulled out of the lot beside his building and drove west down Sunset. He heard a woman’s fading laughter. He touched his face and looked at the blood on his hand. He sagged to the ground and Cat nudged his cheek. Cat’s claws were wet and red.

“I hope that’s not your blood, buddy,” Duncan said.

He passed out again.

Hours later, as Misty walked to her car, she saw Duncan slumped against the stairs, Cat pacing before him like a sentry. She ran across the street. Cat bared his teeth and hissed when she neared.

“Knock it off, Cat.” She sat Duncan up and saw his face. “Oh, Jesus!”

One eye was swollen above the brow and his lip was badly split. Dried blood painted his face a dark red that looked black in the darkness.

“Hi,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Hell if I know.” Duncan tried to get up. “Think you could help me get inside?”

She pulled him up and half-carried him up the stairs. She put him on the couch and went back to gather his groceries. But the beer was gone and the ice cream melted and the frozen dinners looked unhealthy to her vegetarian eye so she just came back up. Duncan was staring at his face in the bathroom mirror when she returned.

“Was my hat down there?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“Damn.”

“Forget about your stupid hat. You need a doctor.”

“I’m okay.”

She dabbed the blood off Duncan’s face with a wet cloth. “That explains you lying unconscious in the gutter.”

“It wasn’t the gutter. It was the sidewalk.”

“That makes a big difference, doesn’t it?” Duncan winced as she wiped the blood from his lip. “Sorry.”

“I wasn’t unconscious. I was resting.”

She rinsed the cloth. The water in the sink colored pink. She threw the cloth into the laundry basket.

“It’s not as bad as it looked.”

“I need a beer,” Duncan said.

Misty opened the refrigerator. One bottle lay on a shelf above a dry head of lettuce. There were three eggs in the door. A mayonnaise jar sat beside a loaf of bread. She brought the beer to Duncan. He touched the bottle to his torn lip and drank half. He shut his eyes against the pain. He drank the other half and dropped the bottle in the trash.

“I’d like another,” he said.

“That was your last.”

Duncan limped to the closet, took out his coat, and struggled to put it on.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to the store.”

“Oh, god.” She picked up her purse. “I’ll get your damn beer.” She stopped at the door. “Stupid men. Why can’t you be more like women?”

“Well, for one thing,” Duncan said, “the penis would get in the way.”

“Ha, ha.” She slammed the door as she left.

Duncan looked in the mirror again. Blood painted crimson streaks in his hair. His eye was a splendid purple. His lip was black against the white of his chin.

“God, but you’re colorful,” he said to his reflection.

He set up his easel by the mirror and placed a canvas upon it. He set his paints and brushes on the sink. He sat on the toilet and urinated. When he got up the water in the bowl was brown. He drained the sink, flushed the toilet, and closed the lid. Cat curled up on the toilet seat. Duncan picked him up and kissed him. Cat purred and closed his eyes.

“Thanks, buddy. Looks like I owe you again.”

Duncan set him back on the toilet seat and stared in the mirror. He began to paint. Misty found him that way when she returned with the beer. She gave him a bottle.

“You’re nuts,” she said.

Only the light from the bathroom illuminated the studio. She turned on the stereo and danced alone in the dark, watching Duncan work as she swayed. The compact disc stopped and she put on another. She took off her blouse and her jeans. Duncan did not notice. She took off her bra and panties and lay naked on the couch. Duncan kept painting. She sighed, opened her work bag, took out a white tube top and a white miniskirt, put them on, and pulled on black vinyl boots. She brushed her hair and looked at her face in her compact. She got two beers and joined him. She dropped his empty bottle in the trash. She picked up Cat and sat on the toilet. He rubbed his head against her ribs. Duncan gulped his beer and stared at her. He looked at her legs, at her hips, at her bare stomach, at her breasts, and finally at her face and eyes and hair. Misty blushed and started to get up.