Rooney closed the file and tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth. ‘Can I keep this? There’s a few details on blood groups I’d like to check out with my case.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Thanks,’ smiled Rooney, as he waved at the waitress for another round. ‘An’ I’m gonna treat you to the best curry in Pasadena!’
Rooney, well toasted, and Sparks, soberish, left Joe’s Diner to head for the Star of Asia curry house. Rooney’s crumpled alpaca coat flapped. The file was stuffed under his arm and he was sweating in the early-evening heat. He upped his flat-footed pace to get into the air-conditioned restaurant.
Lorraine emerged from the health club Fit as a Fiddle feeling like a washed-out rag. Her heels were blistered, her silk blouse creased, tears of sweat dripped from her fringe, and her hair was wet at the nape of her neck. So far she had applied for ten different jobs to discover either that the position had been filled, or that she didn’t have the required experience. At Fit as a Fiddle she had snapped back at the Cher-with-muscles lookalike: ‘How much fucking experience do you want to pick up a phone and book an appointment?’
‘Cher’ had wafted a hand adorned with fake nails. ‘Maybe I was just bein’ polite. You look like death warmed up for starters — and you’re too old, okay? That real enough for you?’
Lorraine had slammed out and was about to throw in the towel and go home, when she realized she was standing outside Seller Sales, the next job prospect she had noted down. She pulled at her jacket, using the sleeve to wipe the sweat from her face, and walked into the run-down office. A moment later and she would have faced Captain Rooney as he and Sparks went into the restaurant three doors down the street. As it was, she almost walked straight out of Seller Sales: no one was in what she supposed passed for reception — a counter, a bowl of wilting flowers, two posters for Gay Liberation, and a faded breakfast cereal ad. She opened the door, which buzzed, and a man shot round from a room at the back. ‘Thank God! Come on, come on, hurry up. I’m Art Mathews. I’ve been getting desperate.’
Lorraine hesitated and closed the door, following Art round the screen and into the back room. He was about five foot four, tight, muscular little body, shown off by a close-fitting white T-shirt, skintight white jeans, white sneakers and white socks. His dark eyes were too large for his face behind huge glasses — round, thin, red-framed bifocals — and made even more striking by his complete baldness.
The room was cluttered with paints, trestle tables, stacks of canvases, ladders and rolls of carpet. Art walked in small, mincing steps, side-stepping all the paraphernalia with a dancer’s precision.
‘Now the phone is somewhere, and the lists. Oh, Jesus, where did I put the lists? I’m so behind — and they said you’d be here hours ago...’
Lorraine looked around. ‘I think there’s a misunderstanding.’
Art stood, hands on hips, his little rosebud mouth pursed. ‘Seller thingy closed down months ago, I’ve taken the shop lease over. I’m opening an art and photographic gallery here tomorrow, would you believe it? My God, if you knew what I’ve been through... WHERE’S THE FUCKING PHONE!’
Lorraine spotted it beneath a table. Art dragged it out, swore because it was off the hook and sat cross-legged on the floor. Lorraine watched as he arched his body to enable him to drag out a card from his jeans pocket, and punched out some digits.
‘What are you here for?’
She coughed. ‘Receptionist.’
He looked at the card, then back to Lorraine, his eyes darting like a demented frog’s. He pursed his lips as his call was connected. ‘This is Mr Art Mathews and I was promised a... hello? FUCKING ANSWER MACHINE!’
He sprang to his feet. ‘I need someone to call my guest list, there’s over a hundred people, and I need it done by tonight. I need someone here to help me open this up. I’ve got to get that paint on the walls, hang those canvases and photos—’
Lorraine unbuttoned her jacket. ‘I’ll do it. How much you paying?’
Art clapped his hands. ‘Ten bucks an hour — I love you. What’s your name, darling?’ She told him. ‘Right, Lorraine, here’s the phone, grab a seat, I’ll find the list and you start with the calls. I need to know how many are coming so I can order the wine...’
‘Have they been invited already?’ Lorraine asked.
‘They have, dear, but not to this address. I had a problem with my last place. Now if I don’t open and show all the canvases and the photographs then I’ll be fucked — I’ll lose my credibility and it’s hanging on a thread as it is...’
He alighted on a bulging Filofax. ‘Right, darling, here you go. Be charming, be distant, but get an answer.’
Lorraine put down her cigarettes and lighter, and studied the guest list, detailed in a neat fine scrawl, in pinks, greens and blues with red stars drawn against some names. ‘Does the red star mean they’re important?’
‘No — just a good lay!’ Art shrieked with laughter. He almost did a triple spinning turn as the buzzer sounded in reception.
Lorraine could hear a lot of shrieking and raised voices, then Art returned with a massive floral display — and two extraordinary-looking transsexuals, carrying a basket of food, a crate of distilled water, and two more floral displays. ‘These are my dearest friends, Nula and Didi, they’re going to help me. This is — what’s your name again, dear? She’s going to make all the phone calls, and be Girl Friday.’
Nula and Didi began to put down their goods as Art moved to clear the back of the room. Lorraine pulled out a clean page from the Filofax, and started making calls. She looked up gratefully as Nula placed a paper cup and a bottle of spring water by her side. Didi was inspecting some tapes, then crossed to a ghetto blaster and slipped in a tape. Lorraine expected some ear-shattering music to interrupt her call, but she was surprised by Mahler’s Symphony No.9, the volume almost restful. Didi laid out a neat row of tapes, choosing each with studied concentration. She turned to Lorraine, her husky voice half whispering: ‘Do you like opera?’
She nodded as Didi selected the next tape. She had never listened to opera in her life.
The pace at which Art and his two friends worked was astonishing. They had painted all the walls with a quick-dry rough white, swept the floors, stacked the rubbish, torn down the screen partitioning at the front of the shop, and were now painting that area, using big roller brushes on sticks.
Lorraine remained at the table, making calls and listing acceptances and refusals. She now had her spiel down to a bare minimum: ‘Good evening, I am calling on behalf of Art Mathews’s new gallery, Art’s Place...’ She gave the address, time of the show and mentioned that wine and canapés would be served from seven o’clock. Most said they would try to make it, but only twenty would definitely be there.
The strains of Puccini floated into the room, and Lorraine downed two bottles of water as she continued her calls. Nula slipped her some home-made banana cake wrapped in a napkin, a little bowl of fruit salad, and some crispbread with home-made pâté. Her big hands were rough from scrubbing, her overall covered in white paint splashes but she had the sweetest of smiles. Didi paid Lorraine hardly any attention as she was intent on finishing the work. When they did take a short break the three huddled together, admiring the gallery, discussing where the paintings and photographs would look best.