Hot Ticket (40 page)

I looked her deep in the eye. “Are you and Chickie having problems?”

“Problems? We’re through. Chickie just doesn’t know it yet.”

“What happened?”

“She started out like a mother but now she’s just a jailkeeper. This politics bullshit does a number on her head. She comes
home and thinks she’s still bossing around the country. Never shuts up about Paula, either. The two of them are twisted. I
belong with musicians. At least they’re real people. Know what I mean?”

Sure I did. My sympathy was entirely with Chickie, who lusted after both innocence and power. In the great ocean of desire,
Rhoby was a rowboat, Paula a nuclear submarine. The sub could surface, enjoy the sun, but the rowboat could never explore
the awesome world beneath the waves. Ah Chickie: never fall for the rowboat. One day the wind would carry it away. “You must
have some things in common.”

“I guess we both like horror movies. But it was the beginning of the end when Chickie gave her piano away.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“Paula needed it, of course! One morning it was just gone! An old Mason and Hamlin with the most gorgeous mahogany case. Weighed
ten tons. It sat in the corner of her apartment and when the sun came up, it was the most beautiful thing you ever saw. The
place looks empty without it.”

A thread of ice between the eyes: I blinked a few times but it wouldn’t go away. “When did she get rid of it?”

“A few weeks ago. It was our first big fight. Who cares if I wanted the piano?
Her Majesty
comes first.” Rhoby’s eyes welled at the injustice. “You and Fausto could have played trios at my place.”

Again that cold wind. Please God let there be a swirling gray world after this one, full of mist and shadow, where I’d find
him again! “Let’s dance,” I said, getting up. Rhoby clung to me like a wounded child. We were the main act on the floor. Males
had never looked me over with such open lechery as these ladies; still, I was flattered. Around seven o’clock I sloshed Rhoby
into the car. Sun was high and hot and the sidewalks thronged with briefcase-swinging People Making a Difference. “Whererr
you taken me?” Rhoby asked.

“Home. Chickie’s probably climbing the walls by now.”

“Fuckr! I don’t wan go t’ Chickie. I wan go home wi you.”

“Sorry, I have a rehearsal this morning.” I screeched the Corvette into a tiny pocket in traffic. “We can ask Chickie when
the piano’s coming back.”

“Shit onner piano.” Rhoby sagged against my shoulder. Made me a little nervous because I didn’t want her eyebrow studs catching
on my jacket but I guess laceration was half the thrill of body jewelry. Fought my way to the Watergate complex and lugged
Rhoby upstairs, making sure the doorman noticed her condition. Chickie’s apartment was a nine-second walk from Barnard’s:
what colossal bad luck.

Rhoby kicked open the door. “Chick! I’m home!”

Chickering, dressed for managing the nation, came running but stopped short at the awful sight before her. Long silence as
her flowing tunic slowed to a standstill, then, “What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?” I cried cheerfully, dragging Rhoby toward the kitchen. One counter was covered with dozens of brown
bottles: medicine for Paula. “Any coffee in the house? We’ve had a long night.” Chickie followed at our heels as I propped
Rhoby at the table and cleared away a pile of newspapers. “You read these and eat breakfast at the same time? Sheesh.”

“Where were you, Rhoby?” she demanded. “I’ve been calling for hours.”

“You can throw that number away,” I told her. “Rhoby quit that nowhere desk job.” Pushed a steaming cup of coffee under Rhoby’s
chin. “Drink this, honey.”

“You whore,” Chickering hissed at me. She turned to her lover. “She’s playing with you, Rho. I happen to know your friend
here was screwing Bobby Marvel just this afternoon.”

I laughed without concern. “What have you been inhaling, Chick Pea? Fumes from Doctor Tougaw’s stewpot?”

Rhoby sloshed to a little book near the telephone. She tore out a page. “Therz hiz numr.”

“Hey, thanks. Rho tells me you’re thinking of opening up a pharmacy, Chick.”

She tried an obelisk stare. “Leave. Now.”

“See whad I mean ’bout jailkeepr?” Rhoby threw an arm around me. “Chickie shouldv joined the KGB.”

“Just don’t let her hit me with a wooden spoon!” Rhoby and I giggled hilariously. Then I peered into the living room. “Hey!
Didn’t you say you had a piano here, Rho? Is it in the bedroom or something?”

“You hearr me,” Rhoby pouted. “Iz gone.”

“Can you get it back?” I asked Chickering. “I just love those old Mason and Hamlins. I can’t believe you’d let something like
that out of your sight. They’re worth a fortune.”

Chickering’s face went like a fish. She looked at me with infernal doubt and a thread of fear: did I know everything or was
she just paranoid? Ah, Fausto, if only you could see me now! He would not only be amused, he might be able to tell me how
to proceed. All I really wanted from Chickering was a clue to the whereabouts of her piano. I wouldn’t mind killing her as
well: payback for Barnard. I could reach across the table and snap her neck.
Right now.
Or I could sic Cecil on her. He’d love some real action after all this playacting. Hell, maybe I should just take the next
plane out of here.

I smiled at Rhoby. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”

Dragged her to the king-size bed in a room painted hideous maroon: maybe that was Chickie’s idea of the color of passion.
Rhoby didn’t resist as I unlaced her boots thigh to ankle and stripped her down to cotton underwear. Pretty body: she’d have
no trouble finding another partner. “Why can’t you stay?” she whimpered.

“Shhhh.” I pulled down the shades. “We’ll talk later.”

Returned to the kitchen, feigned surprise to see Chickering still lording over the linoleum like Mr. Clean. “Don’t you have
to get to work, Chickie?”

She puffed up to full width, like a cobra. The sight was impressive, especially if one considered the acres of farmland involved.
“I told you to leave Rhoby alone.”

“Why? Does she have your name branded on her butt?” I slumped onto a kitchen chair and began rummaging through the little
brown bottles. “Did you get all this stuff from Tougaw? Awesome.” Removed a cork, sniffed. “Got any aphrodisiacs? Next time
you want to screw Rhoby, I suggest you get her to swallow the whole bottle. The poor thing was beginning to hit on me before
she passed out back there.” Kept sniffing, bending my head far down, exposing plenty of neck. Finally saw Chickie fingering
that obnoxious notepad on her chest, remove a stubby pen. Ah, so that’s our needle. Unoriginal, but so was Chickering. I bent
with renewed interest over the bottle tops. Come on, Chickie! I didn’t have all day! “Oh damn. I think I just got my period.
Any tampons handy?”

Sudden puff of air and a scream. Not Chickering, Rhoby. “Don’t do that!”

I rolled right just as Vicky’s hammy fist slammed to the table. Her pen impaled wood instead of neck: sorry, old girl. You
can’t have two of us. The table buckled under the combined weight of Rhoby and Chickering. Cups and bottles sprayed all over
the kitchen. They toppled right on top of the splintered glass, wrestling with the superhuman savagery of two people who had
once been in love. Chickering was big but slow, Rhoby strong but drunk: even match. Blood was everywhere but the combatants
didn’t slow down. They used fingernails, chairs, pots, plants, and curses that would make a witch tremble. I just dialed 911
and let the good times roll.

Then an awful crack. Rhoby shrieked and went quiet. I was bending over her when I felt a little sting in the shoulder: good
move, Chick. Almost at once, a tingling in my throat. My shoulders began to go cold, then my legs. With my last coordinated
signals from brain to muscle, I staggered to the living room. As Chickie tackled me from the rear, I saw Rhoby’s cello perched
innocently against a chair. The corner did look empty without a piano. “You’re going to die, bitch,” she snarled, whacking
my head from side to side, as if it were a punching bag. “Think you can just fuck Bobby and get away with it
whack
well you made a big mistake
whack
Paula’s had it up to here
whack
if Aurilla thinks she can walk into the White House
whack
she’s got another thing coming
whack
you people are all going to eat shit before Paula and I are done with you
whack.
”

After a few dozen shots, Chickering tried to stuff a kitchen towel down my throat. Sorry Chickie: should have done that first,
before lockjaw set in. Snarling with fury, she started to pry open my mouth.
Bite hard, Smith.
I tried but she had a pianist’s hands. I could feel my jaws giving way when, in surreal slow motion, I saw Rhoby stumble
out of the kitchen. Her face was ribboned with blood. She walked calmly to her cello, tightened the eight-inch pin on the
bottom. Then she charged.

With a tremendous, hellish twang, the cello rammed Chickering’s back. Chickering blinked as the metal pin entered her heart.
Not quite as elegant as a stiletto, but effective nonetheless. “That hurts, Rho,” she whispered, thudding to the floor.

Transfixed with horror, Rhoby stared at the mound at her feet. Every second or so blood would drip from the cello pin onto
my elbow. “You aright, Les?” she asked finally, trembling. Sure, just a little paralyzed. I managed to gurgle assent. Rhoby
dropped the cello and dragged her roommate off me. “I think she’s dead. Oh my God! I’m sorry, Chick!” She threw up then passed
out.

My body gradually thawed but I didn’t move. Chickering might be off my back but I had neglected to ask where she had sent
her piano. I was also trying to work out whether, philosophically speaking, I had murdered her. Ah, if only Fausto were here
to present arguments for both sides of the question. While I was thinking, two D.C. cops and the Watergate security guard
burst in. For a moment they stood in the doorway, taking in the carnage. Then one of the cops rolled Chickering over. First
he realized she was dead. Then he realized who she was. A weary look crossed his face as he realized he had stepped into megapoop.
Using the code for Special Trouble, he called for reinforcements. His partner slowly hauled me to a sitting position. “You
call 911?”

I nodded weakly. “How’s Rhoby?”

She groaned as the officer brought her around. Her eyebrow, minus two studs, was in bloody tatters. “Chickie started it,”
was all she said.

I was helped to the couch. Couldn’t take my eyes off Chickering’s massive body: Fausto all over again, but in a skirt. I almost
threw up. “Is she all right?”

“She’s dead,” the officer said.

Rhoby screamed and I did throw up: a spontaneous, convincing performance.

The police asked a few opening questions: who lived where, relationship, nature of problem. Soon the place was swarming with
federal agents. Rhoby was taken to the hospital for a solo interrogation and a few hundred stitches. I opted for an ice bag
and no ambulance. Gave the statement of a very upset acquaintance who had called for help when a domestic quarrel had gotten
out of hand. My story would match Rhoby’s in all essential details.

“You didn’t try to fight back?” the officer asked.

“She had my arms pinned down.” No need to drag Tougaw’s potion into the fray. They’d deport him. I rubbed my swollen jaw.
“Am I going to get in trouble?”

“You do realize who Vicky Chickering is,” the detective said.

“She started it,” I cried. “Just went berserk. She’s the one who should go to jail, not me.” What the hell, Bobby could write
me a pardon.

The officer closed his laptop with a thud. Give him old-fashioned black-on-black homicide any day of the week. Last thing
his career needed was a lesbian love triangle connected straight to the White House. He let me return to the hotel with police
guard while he checked my tale against Rhoby’s. If I valued my ass, I was not to talk to any reporters. If I went anywhere,
I was to notify him first. He’d call this afternoon, using the name Phil.

Returned to my hotel and unfolded a bloody scrap of paper. “Dr. Tougaw? This is Leslie Frost. I wonder if you have any medicine
for a sore mouth.”

Of course he did. He could come to the hotel and deliver. Half an hour later he was at my door with a huge canvas bag and
a broad smile: ah Tougaw, lend me a few of those happy genes. “Leslie Frost! I did not know you were still here!” His smile
faded when he saw my jaw.

“I fell.” I let him poke around my mouth. “Paula Marvel tells me you’re the greatest doctor in Washington.”

Tougaw liked that. He said that after the conference she had imported him from Belize to be her personal healer. He had medicines
for everything and was treating the First Lady for a number of ailments. In fact, he had just been up with Vicky Chickering
last night, replenishing the supply.

I looked impressed. “You make medicine in Vicky’s apartment?”

“Oh yes. Vera strong stuff. We boil roots and leaves of special plants in her big pots. We mix it with special oils to make
a balm for Mrs. President’s arthritis. My secret recipe.” Tougaw told me of his illustrious practice in Belize City. He had
a large office downtown and people came from all over the country to see him. He now had a list of very famous clients in
Washington. So many people were sick here.

I asked him to show me a few of the bottles in his bag. The doctor proudly displayed cures for insect bites. Ladies’ cramps.
Loose bowels. Sour breath. I kept sniffing until I hit the cork that smelled like burnt pineapple. “What’s this?”

Tougaw’s gold chains jangled as he grabbed it away. “Leave dat alone! Vera strong medicine! One drop too much and you will
be paralyzed!”

“Wow! What’s it for?”

“Mrs. Marvel’s nervous problems. When she is bad suffrin’ I explain that Vicky must give her only two drops in hot water.
Neva more.”

Never. Not in hot water, anyway. Vicky just went full strength for the injection: poor Barnard. I asked Tougaw if he had anything
for insomnia.