“Dragon?”
“I mean alligator.”
Ma thought about that.
“A loony, huh? This guy?”
All of them now looking at the redheaded guy out cold on the floor.
“That’s it, Ma. Must be. Some nut escaped from a institution, drove here in a truck, dingle-balls in it, broke into our house and started doing his thing.”
“If I’d caught him,” Ma said, “I’d of done his thing for him.”
Ma began issuing orders. First, turn the water off. Then pull the alligator out of the cucumbers and stuff it in a sack — hey, Zeke grinned, I just happen to have one here. Fine, Ma said. Stuff that thing inside, then put it in the dingle-ball truck with the redheaded loony.
She had them drive the truck a couple of blocks down Logan and leave it with the loony propped up behind the wheel. Zeke taking a moment to add a touch of his own, placing a call from a pay phone to the police. Anything to land poor Dufault in more trouble.
An anonymous tip.
“Hey. You looking for a dragon?”
Back at the house, Ma sent Zeke and George into the bathroom to patch up the plumbing. Telling them to hurry up about it, that she was a woman had been beaten up, hauled around in a car that broke down every five minutes, and now all this excitement, she really had to go.
Louie gave Ma’s arm a squeeze.
“Ma, I’m proud of you.”
“Say what?”
Suspicious. Deep ridges in her brow.
“Proud of you, Ma. Going all weekend without, you know, taking a drink. Proving you could walk through those liquor stores and not be tempted. And now the way you’re handling this situation, going easy on Zeke and George, the fruits of your—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Ma, I was worried our trip was a waste of time. Now I believe that it was a success.”
“Yeah. Listen. You want to get your butt in gear and go out and get us some pizza? I’m starved.”
“I love you, Ma.”
“Yeah.”
Louie left happy and smiling. The car backfired under the carport, then pulled away. When Zeke and George reappeared, the sound of running water had stopped; a calm had settled over the house.
“What’s that about fruits?” Zeke asked.
“Never mind,” Ma told him. “Got that toilet working?”
“Sort of.”
“Thank God. Now listen. We got to move fast before Louie gets back. George, get Louie’s suitcase and bring it here.”
She undid the buckles. Reached in among the socks and underwear, groping, and dragged out a mickey of gin, then several handfuls of liquor miniatures, a couple more mickeys, another bunch of miniatures. A mound of little bottles piling up there on the carpet.
“Jeez,” George said, disbelieving. “Louie brought this?”
“I did,” Ma said. “I used Louie’s bag ’cause... there wasn’t room in my own. Or something. Don’t say nothing or I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t say nothing, Ma.” Zeke already opening a tiny bottle of Kahlua, sniffing it, then tipping it to his lips. “Hey, this is good.”
Ma shoved another five bottles at him.
“Here. Have some more. And George, lookit, I got amaretto, Grand Marnier, Drambuie... Those liquor stores down there, they leave these lying out all over the place. Zeke, try a snort of this green stuff...”
The rest of the week was hot. The sun sloped over the roofs of the houses during the long afternoons, beating on the trunk lid of Louie’s car so you could hardly touch the paint. On Friday Louie opened the trunk to find out where the smell was coming from, and found the meat. He showed restraint, though, meaning to set a good example, pleased at how Ma and the boys were coming along.
Flight from the Palm Court
by Gregor Robinson
A circular appeared: “Music and High Tea at the Palm Court of the Majestic Hotel.” What was the Palm Court? Surely Madame Grumbacher did not mean the windowless lobby, three steps below ground level, which also served as the hotel bar and home of the village dart league? She did. Potted plants were to be placed in front of the pool room door. The reception desk would be obscured by a Chinese screen. The bottles behind the bar would be made more discreet, the yellow bulb that illuminated them unscrewed. I asked Madame Grumbacher: why a Palm Court, when all around were actual palm trees, swaying in the warm sea breezes?
“Never have you ever been to Vienna?” said Madame Grumbacher. “Or Budapest? Perhaps Saint Mark’s, in Venezia? All the best hotels have Palm Courts.”
What about tea? Who would take tea in a gloomy hotel when you could step across the road to the Terrace Bar and have a Goombay Smash under the immense sky, while the surf lolled on the white sand below.
“English people. Europeans. We are getting a better class of clientele. Plus we will also offer rum.”
And who would supply the music?
“A refined lady. From Massachusetts.” Madame Grumbacher leaned towards me. “Mr. Rennison, you have a guest at your home, yes?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“A distinguished musician. It will be a surprise for the people of the village.”
“It will be a surprise for me.”
“She has appeared with the New Bedford Ensemble, only last month!” Madame Grumbacher stood, triumphant, resuming her full height and her normal booming voice. She slammed my beer on the table. “She will be our first performer. Sunday afternoon. You will be there.”
“There must be some mistake.”
But there was no mistake. Healey came into the bank after lunch to tell me that a Mrs. Arbuthnot would be coming to stay with me. I was not happy. You were at close quarters in that house; I saw myself as an exile, and I valued my privacy. I said: “Why can’t she stay at the Majestic? Or the Inn? Or at the Hotel Paradiso?”
“The rooms in the Majestic smell,” said Healey. “The Inn is expensive The Hotel Paradiso is disreputable — filled with refugees on the way to Miami, drug dealers, Colombians, baseball players, riffraff. Mrs. Arbuthnot is a musician — genteel, I understand.”
I suggested renting a house, but there was no time for that; she would be arriving any time.
“Another thing,” said Healey. “Mrs. Arbuthnot knows Burnett. He arranged the whole thing.” That settled it. The bank paid my rent, and Burnett was on the board of directors.
She arrived the next day, a Monday. I was lunching on my terrace overlooking the harbor. I noticed an immense straw hat coming along the top of the hedge. Then two peacock feathers. She was upon me.
“Mr. Rennison, you’re eating lunch!” One of those East Coast voices, accusatory, accustomed to being paid attention to. “I went to the bank first — naturally — but it was closed. Nice hours you have!”
I moved my chair back from the table. Mrs. Arbuthnot put her hands to her ears (I would learn that the sound of furniture scraping on stone was one of many that bothered her). She wore immense earrings — lime-green elephants — on which I remarked.
“Yes,” she said, “and they shine in the dark.”
I asked if she would like lunch.
“I don’t want to impose.” She picked up a chair, and moved it to the table.
“Punch?” I picked up my own glass for a refill.
“That would be lovely,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “I don’t think there was any rum in my last one.”
“Your last one?”
“At the hotel. I stopped to ask where you lived. Awfully kind of you — having me on such a short notice. I’m touring the islands, giving concerts where I can, arranging my schedule as I go. It’s all very difficult.”