Monet Talks (14 page)

Bob, the mild-mannered man from Toledo, blew a Bronx cheer at the car in front of us, which had applied the brakes for no apparent reason. “What happens if we guess the word in time?”

“Then I'll be yours for the evening.”

“In how many ways?” Rob asked.

“As many as you want, darling.”

“Deal,” Rob said.

“Then you better guess,” Bob growled, “because we're moving again.”

But neither of my buddies came up with liger, the correct answer. What's more, they didn't believe me—especially when I told them I'd gotten the word from C.J. To make matters
worse, the word liger did not appear in the
Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary
Bob keeps under the passenger seat for just this sort of situation. However, he did find “tiglon.” When we got to the Den of Antiquity he looked up liger on the Internet, and then shook his head in disappointment.

“That C.J.,” he said, “she tells the truth just enough times to keep one off balance.”

“She probably believes most, if not everything, she tell us,” I said. “I don't think she's capable of lying.”

“Everyone's capable of lying,” Rob said. He started to unbutton his shirt.

“Rob, what
are
you doing?”

“Aren't you going to have your way with us?”

“Yes, but I want you fully clothed.”

“Like I said, you're kinky.”

“Yes, kinky enough to treat the two of you to dinner tonight at Chez Fez.”

The men exchanged looks of genuine horror. “You're not serious, Abby,” Rob said. “Are you?”

“As serious as the plague.”

“But the belly dancer hit on me.”

“And the chef uses canned cumin,” Bob moaned.

“A deal's a deal. I'm not taking no for an answer.”

“But what will I do with my llama lasagna?”

“Send it to some hungry llamas.”

They tried to bribe me. Bob was willing to freeze the lasagna and treat me to dinner at a restaurant of my choice—anything but Chez Fez. Rob said he would give me unlimited back rubs for a month. When I refused their offers, they pouted like little boys.

“If that belly dancer has her way with me,” Rob whined, “I'll have to go to therapy.” His eyes, however, were twinkling. If I was a wishy-washy Washburn, we wouldn't be such good friends.

“Now remember, guys, you're mine for the rest of the day.”

“Must you rub it in?”

“Which means we're off to Hocus Pocus Costumes on Savannah Highway.”

“Abby, need I remind you that Halloween is still three months away?”

“And please,” Bob said, “try something a little more convincing this year. Last year's Condoleezza Rice was a bit of a stretch, even for you, seeing as how you're, uh—a bit more petite than she.”

I hustled them back into Rob's car, refusing to say more about my harebrained scheme until we got to the costume store. Meanwhile, the package just inside the back door to the Den of Antiquity was ignored yet again.

I
t was hard to focus at Hocus Pocus because they carry so many interesting costumes. But I was a woman on a mission, which meant I had to keep my nose to the rhinestone. The store didn't carry adult belly dancer outfits in my size, so I had to settle for a child's. The two looked essentially the same, but nonetheless, it was a blow to my ego.

The Rob-Bobs, on the other hand, seemed bent on proving they had no egos. Bob was the first to emerge from a dressing room, but I wouldn't have known it was him. He'd have made a convincing Tweety Bird, if not for his voice. The quite masculine Rob made a stunning Achilles, down to the arrow shaft emerging from his heel. Who knew he had such good-looking thighs! But so far so good. Then Achilles decided to chase Tweety Bird around the room with a plastic sword. Tweety Bird flapped his little yellow wings and flitted about
the shop, all the while bellowing in his basso profundo.

Both customers and clerks got a kick out of my friends' antics, but I was embarrassed to the core.

“Can't take them anywhere,” I said to the cashier who was waiting on me.

She barely glanced at the price tag she was scanning. “Oh my gosh, that guy's so real-looking, isn't he? Looks just like Brad Pitt—oh my gosh, you don't think it's really
him
, do you?”

“Sort of looks like him. But this guy's quite a bit older.”

She looked at me for the first time. “It
is
him, isn't it?”

“No.”

“You're just saying that because you don't want me to know. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, this is too cool!”

I sighed. “Then you've probably guessed I'm Jennifer Anniston.”

“No way. You're like, an old lady, or something. You're probably his mother, right?”

“Or something,” I growled. Rob is four years and six days older than I. And he doesn't cover the gray at his temples, for heaven's sake.

Daddy taught me to whistle with my fingers when I was ten. It is a skill I'd almost forgotten, but never will again, given the amount of prac
tice I had that day. The Rob-Bobs finally stopped horsing around and changed back into their street looks. When Rob emerged from the dressing room in chinos and polo shirt, the young clerk nearly burst into tears.

“You tried to trick me,” she said.

“What?”

“You tried to make me think that was Brad Pitt by using adverse psychology.”

“That's reverse, darling—”

It was obvious that Rob had seen me. Alas, given my mode of dress, I couldn't very well run outside and take refuge in another shop.

“Abby, is
that
what you came for?”

“Yes, do you like it?”

“Before I say yes, does this have anything to do with Chez Fez?”

“And what if it does?”

“Bob and I are not going to be a part of this, Abby.”

“Don't presume to speak for me,” Bob boomed as he materialized, looking entirely presentable again, if perhaps a mite sweaty.

“But she's going to make a fool of herself. We can't let her—”

“I'm a grown woman, Rob. Why, I'm practically old enough to be your mother.” I paused to give the clerk a well-deserved glare. “Besides, this is my evening, remember?”

“Abby, be reasonable. They're not going to let you wear that costume out of the shop.”

“I've already paid for it,” I chirped, and sashayed out into the bright Charleston sunshine.

The astonishing thing is, no one gave me a second look.

 

“I don't plan to do any dancing,” I said, much to Rob's relief. “But I do need to do a little snooping—incognito.”

“Why do Rob and I have to be there?”

“To make sure I'm safe. You wouldn't want me to be kidnapped by a white slaver and shipped off to Lapland, would you?”

“Why Lapland?”

“To do lap dances, of course.”

If they hadn't groaned I would have disowned them. But I could have done without Rob's ensuing safety lecture and Bob's last lament over his languishing llama lasagna. They dropped me off in the alley behind the restaurant, and gave me kisses and hugs as if I was their child going off to trick-or-treat on my own.

Frankly, I was nervous about crashing the belly dancing scene, but the second I stepped foot in the kitchen, I felt a surge of confidence. There were eight or nine dancers hanging out, so they were obviously between sets. Away from the main floor, and not twitching their tummies, they looked just like regular women having a coffee break—well, except for their clothes. And much to my relief, the dancer
whose pheromones had tried futilely to snare Rob was not in evidence.

“Hi there,” a stout woman with a Yankee accent said. “You new?”

“Well, uh—”

“Name's Brenda. You'll get used to the ropes in no time. I'm sure Mr. Dupree gave you the rundown, but it doesn't hurt to hear it again, does it? Repetition is the cardinal law of learning, isn't that what they say? Anyway, we're only supposed to dance twenty minutes at a time, and then we get a ten-minute break. This is so the customers aren't distracted all the time and can look at their menus. But when the music starts, we have to be out there at our stations in thirty seconds. Which station are you, by the way?”

“Uh—”

“Oh, I know. You must be subbing for Geraldine. She had an appendectomy last week. Was supposed to come back today, but I guess the doctor's making her stay out longer. She's station ten. Say, you must be pretty good.”

“I must?”

“He puts only the most experienced dancers at station ten because that's where he seats the VIPs.”

I gulped. “How many minutes are left on this break?”

Brenda pointed to a grease-splattered clock above one of the massive stoves. “Six. You need
to use the john, you have to use the employee one over there.” She pointed to a door, above which hung a crooked cardboard sign that read:
KEEP OUT
! “That's the chef's idea of humor.”

“No, I'm good.” I shivered as I watched the second hand tick off until I was expected to shake my stuff at station ten.

“Hey,” my new acquaintance said, “you never told me your name.”

“Fatima.” Thank goodness I'd given that some thought on the ride down from the costume shop.

“That's a beautiful name. Where are you from? Someplace really exotic, I bet. You have such a lovely accent.”

“I do?”

She glanced around the crowded kitchen. No one seemed to be monitoring our conversation.

“Some of these Southern accents grate on my nerves. Of course I'm sure all we Americans sound strange to you. Now come on, Fatima, tell me where you're from.”

I am, of course, a South Carolina girl, born and bred. I have also spent a great deal of time in Charlotte, North Carolina. My accent is as Southern as grits and magnolias. But that's not what Brenda wanted to hear.

“I'm just a fakeistan,” I said.

Brenda beamed. “And here I thought I was far from home. You must find living here quite
an adjustment, Fatima. When Henry and I first moved here from Pittsburgh, I was so homesick I thought I would die. I couldn't find pierogies, and all the sunshine they have down here—I just found it unnatural.”

I looked at the clock again. Just five minutes until I made a fool out of myself doing the shimmy—unless I got the skinny on Blackmond Dupree.

“Brenda, how long have you worked here?”

“Since it opened—eight months or thereabouts. Henry was opposed to it at first—thought the customers might hit on me—but after he lost his job, he was really glad I had this one.”

“What do you think of Mr. Dupree?”

She recoiled in apparent shock. “Mr. Dupree?”

“Our boss.”

She moved closer and lowered her voice. “Funny you should ask. I didn't know what to think at first, him being a foreigner and all like yourself—no offense intended—then I decided that I really liked him. But lately he's been acting kind of strange.”

“Strange, how?”

“It's hard to put my finger on it. He's still nice and everything, but he's just not as friendly as he used to be.”

“Would you say he's distracted?”

“That's it. He used to spend a lot of time back here in the kitchen flirting with us—you
know, the harmless kind—but now it's like we hardly exist. Oh well, there's not one of us worth looking at anyway. We're all just middleage housewives trying to fill the voids in our lives. Aren't we?”

I would have protested, but the sound of sultry music seeped into the room and insinuated itself into the assembled women. Bodies began to sway as one by one the women fell under the spell of the three musicians.

“Break's over early,” Brenda gasped, and the next thing I knew, her eyes had glazed over and she was undulating like a cobra in a snake charmer's basket.

“What do I do now?” I wailed.

“Dance.”

That was the last thing she said before joining the line of women snaking its way out of the hot kitchen and into the cool, dimly lit dining area. The customers began to applaud and whistle. Some even stamped their feet. I could imagine the Rob-Bobs doing the same.

“Wait up!” I called, and chased after Brenda.

 

Belly dancing is an art, and an ancient one at that. It takes years of practice to become skilled, and there are different levels of competence. Wearing a costume rented from Hocus Pocus does not make one a belly dancer, any more than wearing a stethoscope makes one a doctor. It can't be faked.

Of course that didn't stop me from giving it my best shot. Unfortunately, station ten was at the far end of the tent. It was also on a dais, surrounded by heavy velvet drapes pulled back slightly by thick gold cords. There was no way I could dance my way over to it, so I abandoned any pretense. Fluttering my veils, I simply ran to the dais and hopped up the steps. Once in place, in front of the narrow opening, I twirled and I twitched, I shimmied and I shook. I must not have looked too ridiculous, because nobody laughed or booed. After a while I began to enjoy what I was doing and relaxed somewhat. It was then that I remembered station ten was reserved for VIPs.

Sure enough, sprawled across a divan, his miniature fez at a rakish angle, was none other than Blackmond Dupree. Sprawled across an adjoining divan was a beautiful young woman whom I recognized at once as Simone Dupree. Seated across from them, his back turned to me, was a heavyset man with a shaved head. A green and red dragon tail wound its way to the base of his bulging neck. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black denim pants. I took him to be the bouncer, although I'd seen no need of one at lunch.

“She's still very much alive and kicking,” he said. His voice was almost as deep as Bob's, and I had to dance as close as possible to hear
him. He smelled of Irish Spring, possibly both the deodorant and the soap.

“Where is she now?” Blackmond Dupree asked.

“Her summer house in Portland, Maine. That thing must have fifty rooms. Tell me, boss, why does one woman need all that space?”

“She sober?”

“Nah, she's still hitting the sauce just as hard as she ever was. Neighbors claim she tried to make love to a moose that wandered into her backyard.”

“Did you give her my ultimatum?”

Wait just one cotton-picking minute. Exotic Blackmond Dupree, he of French-Moroccan descent, the restaurateur who spoke like Pepe Le Pew with a mouthful of marbles, didn't have a foreign accent at all. He spoke perfectly good Charlestonese.

The bouncer—or was he a hit man?—snorted. “Hell yeah, boss. I leaned on her hard, but she didn't budge. That's one tough old lady, drunk or not. Said she'd go to the authorities if you didn't leave her alone. Said she didn't care what happened to her, as long as you got what was coming to you.”

A vein along Blackmond Dupree's right temple began to twitch. Then again, it may have been an illusion, given all the twitching I was doing. I switched to a slow undulation on the
half beat, to better see and hear what was going on.

“I'm going to make her worst nightmare come true, that's what I'm going to do to her.”

“Easy, babe,” Simone Dupree said.

Easy, babe?
What kind of daughter calls her father “babe”?

“She's going to wish she'd never set eyes on me.”

“Hey boss,” the bouncer said, “I ain't gonna do anything that's gonna land me in jail. I've served all the time I'm gonna.”

“Don't worry. I'll come up with something slow and torturous, and it will be entirely legal.”

“I love it when you talk that way,” Simone said. Then she lunged at Blackmond Dupree and kissed him hard on the mouth.

I was so shocked that I stopped dancing altogether. I stood stone still, staring at the bizarre scene in front of me. What I saw did not compute with what I had been led to believe. Perhaps my eyes were deceiving me, or perhaps I was having an early stroke. I opened and shut my eyes several times to see if the picture changed. It did not. Only gradually did I become aware that three pairs of eyes were staring back at me.

The bouncer clambered to his feet. “What the hell you staring at?”

“Uh—uh—”

Blackmond Dupree had freed himself from his lip-lock and was standing also. “Hey, don't I know you?”

What's good for the gander is good for the goose. “I dun't sink so.”

“Now I know who you are. You're Felicia's daughter, aren't you? Look, I told your mama that I can't have you dancing here, no matter how talented you are. Sorry kid. Come back when you're sixteen and we'll talk. But keep up the dancing. Your mama's right: you're a natural.”

Moi?
A natural-born dancer? Well, slap me up the side of the head and call me Betty. I couldn't recall ever having gotten such a nice compliment.