Hot Ticket (6 page)

“Good God, no! I haven’t touched that piece in years.”

Then what was it doing on the piano? I played a chromatic scale: the tuner had visited within the last twenty-four hours.
Fausto had been expecting me.
Don’t disappoint him,
Maxine had said. “Maybe I’ll bring Duncan over this afternoon.”

“Lovely.” Fausto glanced lazily out the window, registering comings and goings. “I don’t know whether it’s you or the planets,
but no one’s leaving with the person they came with today.” We peered outside just as the secretary of defense was ducking
into Justine’s Mercedes. “Dennis has been trying to screw her for three years,” Fausto said.

“Really? I thought he was gay.”

“Screw figuratively.” Fausto dropped the curtain. “Who told you about Dennis?”

“Minister Klint,” I lied.

“Damn Germans. Always know twice as much as they let on.” We returned to the foyer, where Fausto stared at my mouth, at the
dark mole above my lip, with a lascivious disinterest that made my stomach ache. “As long as you’re coming back,” he said,
fishing in a sideboard drawer, “take that red car outside. My knees can’t cope with stick shifts anymore.”

He pointed to a Corvette ZR1. Six speeds driving four hundred horsepower, happiest around two miles per minute. A cannonball
with steering wheel: my right foot began to get an erection. “That’s very kind.”

“The thin one is the house key. My home is yours. I promise you will never be bored here.” Fausto wrapped my fingers around
metal just as Senator Perle strode into the hallway. “Run along now. I’ll take care of her.” I slipped away as his robe billowed
in her direction.

* * *

Drove the Corvette to Brandon’s Blossoms, a designer hothouse in Foggy Bottom. Inside, the slightly sour odor of carnations
triggered memories of my dead mother. I had been a youngster when she died. Acres of these tight, frilly blooms had surrounded
her casket; ever since, I had hated them. In the refrigerator, dainty nosegays awaited quivering nostrils. Nearby, a man stood
wrapping a huge arrangement in cellophane. “I go all out for funeral sprays, even if they end up at the crematorium,” he confided.
“How can I help you, sweetheart?”

“Are you the famous Brandon?” Affirmative. “I received a gorgeous bouquet from here the other day. Thank you.”

“Thank
you!
So few people show an
iota
of appreciation!”

“Deep purple orchids. I’d like to return the compliment but I don’t know who sent them. Do you remember anything about this?”

He fussed with a big bow before finally peering at the card in my hand.
A cliff-hanging performance.
“I could look it up,” Brandon said hesitantly, beginning to cough. “Deliver the flowers today.”

“I would prefer to deliver them myself.”

“No! No! Never! That would be violating a customer’s confidence!”

“Could you give me a few hints, then? My curiosity is killing me.” I placed a C note on the counter. “Boy or girl?”

“It—it’s—” Brandon threw the money back at me. “Please! I can’t tell you! It’s a matter of national security!”

“In that case”—I sighed, tucking the bill into his apron— “please tell my admirer not to be so shy next time.”

Brandon could only wheeze in fright. I left the shop, holding my breath as I passed the carnations. Whoever sent those orchids
had made quite an impression on the florist. A matter of national security? Get serious. More likely the client had threatened
to break Brandon’s neck if he didn’t keep his mouth shut. I plopped into the Corvette and roared through Georgetown. M Street
writhed with students, tourists, panhandlers, and, occasionally, exquisite women. Everywhere, guts and butts: two across blocked
the entire sidewalk. This was a nation of hogs, and the situation wasn’t much better in the street. Confused by the dead ends
and one-ways preventing their escape from the main drag, drivers crawled along, braking timidly at each intersection. Why
was Georgetown a tourist attraction? M Street was nothing but a strip mall minus the mall. The constant stop-go didn’t suit
the Corvette. It was edging toward meltdown when I finally noticed that an old gray Chevy had been behind me for too long.
Driver wore sunglasses opaque as my own, white baseball cap. Dressed like an aimless slob but he didn’t tailgate like one.
The shape of his face, his nose, looked familiar, but he was out of context. As I was taking another look, he suddenly grinned
and cut away.

Coincidence, Smith.
Unconvinced, I took the Corvette for a spin along the canal road into Maryland. The Chevy might be gone but Fausto’s shadow
remained. I wondered if he always conducted such intimate conversations with strangers or if I were a special case. Either
way, aggravating. Although I hadn’t told him anything, I was sure he’d learned exactly what he wanted to know, and I had learned
… nothing.

An hour later, out of gas, I returned to the hotel and made some noise with the Strad. Come what may, I still had a concert
in Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. Senator Perle’s secretary interrupted once, confirming my seven o’clock appointment with
the daughter. After a few hours, I quit. Wrists hurt, intonation splattered. Instead of seeing notes, I saw Barnard bleed
as I dug a pin into her neck. Her blood was not red, but the rich purple of orchids. It smelled of grilled pineapple. I couldn’t
believe she was dead.

The door connecting my room and Duncan’s flew open. “What is that god-awful odor?” he cried, flopping onto the bed.

“Herbal tea. Good for the joints. Have some.”

“Please! I’ve just had a
very
nice lunch!” The king of hypochondriacs suddenly realized what I was telling him. “What’s the matter with your joints? Tendinitis?
It’s probably from squeezing the brakes on that fucking motorcycle!”

“I haven’t squeezed anything in days. Who sprang for lunch, you or Justine?”

“Nobody sprang for anything. Will you stop prying into my personal affairs?”

So Justine had bought again. I looked pointedly at my accompanist’s loud new tie, obviously a gift from his inamorata. Duncan
would never buy himself anything red. “How many hours did you practice today?”

“Zero. I know these pieces backward and forward.”

“Let’s
get
going, then. I found a new place to rehearse.”

“Oh God, not another boyfriend’s house! I hope the piano is decent!”

“Should be. He used to play two hundred recitals a year.”

That put a dent in Duncan’s cheer. He became even more upset at the sight of Fausto’s Corvette in the hotel lot. “Where’d
you meet this guy?”

“Ford’s Theatre. He gave me the car at breakfast today.” I let Duncan’s imagination run amok as we drove past the zoo. “Name’s
Fausto. Don’t embarrass me now.”

I nosed the Corvette into Fausto’s driveway. Duncan frowned at the house as he followed me up the walk. “Why do I feel like
Hansel and Gretel going to visit the Wicked Witch?” he asked as I rang the doorbell.

Still in pajamas, our host answered. Purple half-frame glasses matched the violet in his eyes. “Welcome back. Had lunch yet?”

Duncan glared at Fausto’s embroidered kimono. “It’s three o’clock,” he announced, striding in. “We’ve eaten long ago.”

“You must be Duncan Zadinsky. I’m Fausto Kiss.”

Their palms grazed. Duncan swiveled his head about the foyer, searching exaggeratedly for a long black object with eighty-eight
keys. “Would you mind if we got right to work? I’m pressed for time.”

Grinning, Fausto led us to the music room. “I’d love to hear your program,” he said, “but I’m in the middle of a Scrabble
game.” He closed the doors quietly.

“Scrabble,” Duncan muttered, following me to the piano. “How degenerate! Does he ever get dressed? Or can’t he find anything
to fit?”

“Calm down, Duncan. He hasn’t touched a piano in years.”

We rehearsed hard. Fausto was correct: the acoustics here far excelled those in the East Room. Of course Duncan disliked the
piano. The place was too warm. His music didn’t stay open. Finally he stopped playing altogether and motioned for me to come
to the piano bench. “He’s listening at the keyhole,” he whispered.

“So what? We’re not exactly cloning sheep in here.”

“You know I can’t stand eavesdroppers! Make him go away!”

I opened the faraway doors: no one. “Done so soon?” Fausto called from the breakfast room.

He really was playing Scrabble. “Just getting a glass of water,” I said, going to the sideboard. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

“Not at all.” Fausto extended an arm. “Come, I’d like you to meet an old college friend.”

His opponent lifted his head from the game board. When his green eyes met mine, I felt a mild, delphic shock. “Mr. Kaar.”

Fausto whirled on his old friend. “You sly bastard, Ben.”

Bendix took my hand. I was struck by his quiet yet arrogant possession of my flesh. “You’re looking a bit happier today,”
he said.

“Happier than what?” Fausto asked.

“A few nights ago at the White House,” Bendix replied.

“You went to that tacky affair? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.” Bendix had not let go of my hand. “How nice to see you again.”

I took a step backward, breaking contact. “We’ll be done in an hour, Fausto.”

When I returned to the music room, Duncan was leafing through the house copy of the Brahms sonatas. “What stupid fingerings,”
he huffed, tossing aside the score. “No wonder no one ever heard of him.” After Brahms, he insisted that we practice Messiaen.
Since I hadn’t yet told him about our cancellations, I had no choice but to humor him. But I wanted this rehearsal over now
that Bendix was listening.

Finally Duncan glanced at his watch. “My God! Look at the time!” The wife of some cultural attaché had invited him to dinner.
“Will you step on it!? I can’t keep foreign dignitaries waiting!”

“Give me ten seconds to say good-bye.”

The breakfast room was empty. Duncan snatched a note from a silver platter in the hall. “‘
I’m in the bath. Feel free to join me.’
Gad! Where do you find these people?”

I unlocked the front door. “Come on.”

Rush hour: red lights, redder tempers. Cabs, horses, and prams choked Connecticut Avenue. Duncan was accustomed to Berlin,
where jaywalkers at least had the courtesy to step a little faster while they blocked traffic. After a few minutes, realizing
that nothing was to be gained but a robust case of laryngitis, he stopped shouting insults out the window and sank into a
pout. As we passed the long boundary of the zoo, he suddenly perked up. “You met Fausto at a play?” he asked in an oddly conversational
tone.

“Ford’s Theatre. Justine didn’t tell you she sat next to me?”

Duncan frowned. “Was there a good crowd?”

“Packed. Bobby and Paula were there, too.”

He waited three seconds. “How’d you
get
a ticket?”

My accompanist had about as much finesse as a trash compactor. “Why does Justine want to know?”

“What a stupid question! Will you stop picking on her!”

“Someone sent it to me,” I sighed. “I don’t know who.” Duncan would pass along the fib.

“And you
went?
”

“Why not? I love Schnitzler.”

“Maybe it’s the same guy who sent the orchids. Could be a stalker.”

I zoomed through a yellow light. “Any more questions I can answer for your girlfriend?”

“She asked about your love life,” he whimpered finally.

“What’d you tell her?”

“That after Hugo you only had one serious fling. But with two men.” Thanks a mil, Duncan. Very elegant. “She wondered if you
were seeing anyone in Washington.”

“For Christ’s sake! I just got here!”

“That’s what I said.” Duncan was sinking into a funk. “Now that I think about it, every other question was about you. Justine’s
not interested in me at all.”

“Come on. She was just trying to break the ice.” Against my better judgment, I extolled her virtues until we arrived back
at the hotel. Duncan ran smiling to his room and I spent an hour in the gym converting guilt to sweat. Although women were
much more invidious adversaries than men, I knew I could handle Justine Cortot. She was nothing but a feisty amateur with
an ability to see one step ahead of her enemies. To survive in this town, however, she’d need to see ten steps ahead—twenty
behind—and Justine was a little too smug to pull that off. Sooner or later she’d go down. I didn’t want Duncan dragged down
with her.

My room reeked of wilting orchids. I threw them out. Last thing I needed tonight was a musical exhibition by Aurilla Perle’s
daughter. However, since the invitation smelled totally rotten, I was obligated to go. Showered, dressed in narrow pink pants
and fuzzy halter. At precisely seven o’clock, parked the Corvette in front of Senator Perle’s castle a few miles up the Potomac.
Wide balconies, a chandelier in every leaded window: she obviously didn’t need a husband for economic survival. A man stopped
me at her front stoop. Holster under the arm, audio pickup in left ear: armed guards, and she hadn’t even been named vice
president yet. “Leslie Frost,” I told him. “The violin teacher.”

“Leslie Frost,” he repeated into the intercom, poising me in front of the camera.

Senator Perle answered. She wore the same dress as that morning, but without the power belt. Her hair was still perfectly
glacéed but the twenty-four-hour makeup was nearing the end of its shift. I had not seen her wearing glasses before. She looked
her age. “Thank you for being punctual,” she said as a second guard ran a metal detector over my bra. “My daughter is waiting.”

Aurilla’s unnamed assistant, a pastiche of earth tones, emerged from a large first floor office. “Have you met Wallace?” her
boss asked.

“Gretchen’s so excited that you’re here,” Wallace assured me, crushing my hand as if it were a stress relief ball. “So am
I.”

“Hold my calls,” Aurilla commanded. I followed the proud mother to a beautifully appointed parlor. It was like the senator’s
hairdo: not an atom out of place. Looked less like a room than an extension of its owner’s will. In the middle of the carpet
lay a mound of French fries.