"Leroy is a retard," said Cecil.
"Then he won't have any trouble filling your shoes." Clark pushed aside his half-eaten sunny-side up eggs, looked over at Missy. "What's wrong?"
"You're beautiful, baby," Missy leaned over and kissed him, her tongue probing his mouth. "I didn't hurt you last night, did I?"
Clark fingered the welt on his neck, shook his head.
"That's good." Neither of them had slept after the party finally tapered off, too excited, too happy. The caterers had packed up and moved out by 4:00 a.m., just in time for the cleanup crew to take over, twelve Mexican women, who had scrubbed, cleaned, and vacuumed the house, all under Cecil's watchful eye.
"The party went all right, didn't it?" asked Clark.
"Sure, long as Cecil is here to fetch and shuffle, help people with their coats and tell them where to take a piss, everything's fine," said Cecil, retreating to the kitchen.
"The party was just perfect, baby." Missy beamed at Clark. "Betty B said she was going to give us a big write-up in her column."
"When does it come out?" asked Clark. "Tuesday?"
"Alison Peabody was positively green," Missy bubbled, her black robe rustling with every movement. "You see the way she was looking at the artwork, walking from room to room, trying not to let her jaw drop? Kept asking who helped me with it. Wait until she reads the article, sees the pictures. She's going to need a deep-tissue massage just to unkink her asshole."
"Vlad and Arturo didn't stay long." Clark tossed back his stringy hair. "I tried to make them comfortable, but-"
"No way to make them comfortable," chided Missy. "Arturo's too uptight, and Vlad… well, he just doesn't know how to act around normal people."
"I offered him something would have mellowed him right out," said Clark, "but he just shook his head."
"Oh please. You know Vlad's not going to do any drugs. That boy had more drugs shot into him than you and I could take in a dozen lifetimes."
"Vlad should count his blessings."
"Don't talk foolish, baby. Those doctors treated him like a lab rat."
"Sure, poor Vlad, let's cry in our beer for poor Vlad," Cecil called from the kitchen. "I ask for a little help with the chores, and it's 'Go fuck yourself, Cecil.' "
"Vlad is special," said Missy.
"I'm special, too," replied Cecil, coming back to the table.
Missy glared at Cecil. "Vlad is like a unicorn. He's one of a kind. You, Cecil? Shit."
Cecil threw his dish towel down and stomped off toward the media room. Probably going to watch porno or World's Fastest Police Chases II, III, and IV, drinking bourbon and talking to himself. Special? He was about as special as a toilet seat.
Missy smiled, sipped her coffee. She stared out the window, watching the cold green sea. Clark loved the ocean-the sight, the smell, the rush. Called it 'Mother Ocean' and all that other surf nonsense, but when she looked at the waves, all she thought about were sharks and jellyfish and fat octopi waiting to pull somebody under. Octopi, that was the right word for when there was more than one octopus. Not many people knew that.
Clark stood up. "I'm going to take a shower."
Missy watched him stride toward their bedroom, slim and lean and skin so smooth, like he'd never done a day's work in his life. She hummed softly to herself. It had been a great party last night. Not bad for a girl who had grown up without ever getting a birthday party, none with a cake anyway. She had shown them. Shown them all. She crossed her legs, reveled in the sound the silk made. Best money could buy. Fuck those symphonies Alison Peabody was always going on about; good silk was all the music she needed. Next thing, the very next thing, she was going to step up the business. The real business. Clark was a genius, but he was too easygoing for his own good, willing to waste his time with those damn surf bums. Well, not if she had any say about it. They had already come a lot further than he had ever expected, but she wasn't surprised. Wasn't satisfied, either. You let your guard down, you thought you could just kick back and ride the waves, next thing you knew, you were fucked good and fucked permanent.
Her coffee was cold, but she didn't feel like calling to Cecil and telling him to brew up a fresh pot. She replayed the party in her mind. All those guests and neighbors, the fancy ones, the rich ones who had it all handed to them, the sportswear industry contacts and country club honchos, they had all been there. It had taken three years, but she had finally cracked the social scene. She was an equal now; she was one of them.
She was glad that cutiepie from the art gallery had been there to see it. Frank, the sharp-dressed man. She reached for the tarot cards, curious about him, but Cecil had thrown her off. Tonight was soon enough to deal out a reading on Frank. She remembered hearing his voice last night, saw him standing at the front door while Cecil gave him a hard time about being on the guest list, Frank not mad, not throwing his weight around, just beaming, like he had it all under control. She shifted her legs again, the silk warm as a man's breath. That grin of Frank's… Clark was lucky she was true-blue.
The front gate buzzed.
"Cecil!" No response from that useless toad. Missy strode to the front door, checked the security monitor.
Thorpe smiled at her from the screen. "Good morning."
Missy smiled back, even though he couldn't see her. She glanced over at the tarot cards. "You believe in fate, Frank?" She pressed the button that opened the electronic gate before he could answer.
11
"Sorry to barge in without calling first," said Thorpe.
Missy inhaled the fragrance of the bouquet he had brought. "A man who brings flowers is always welcome." She took in Thorpe's gray suit, black cashmere sweater, and gray half boots. "Specially when he looks as good as you." She went into the kitchen, came out a few minutes later with the flowers in a crystal vase, set them on the table. She had her robe loosely knotted, and her hair was brushed out, zigzagged like the Sphinx. She hummed softly to herself as she arranged the flowers. She looked tired, little pillows under her eyes, but happy, and Thorpe almost regretted being about to burst her balloon. "How about a cup of coffee, Frank?"
"I can't stay long."
Missy waved toward the tarot deck on the dining room table. "You got time to have your fortune told? I could give you a heads-up on what's coming at you."
"No thanks. If I knew what was coming, I'd never get out of bed."
"Don't be like that," said Missy. "I'm kind of a white witch, if I do say so myself. That's why I invited you to the party without even knowing you. I checked out your energy at the art gallery and knew you were good people."
"That's probably not the only thing she checked out." Clark walked toward them, grinning. "She's right, though, Frank, the cards don't lie." He hitched up his shorts. "I wouldn't be where I am right now if it wasn't for Missy and her gift."
Missy kissed Clark, nipped at his throat like a she-wolf. "The first time I met Clark, I was working in a Hallmark shop in Riverside. He walked in looking for a Mother's Day card, wearing an eye-in-the-pyramid T-shirt-you know, like on the back of the dollar bill? I took one look at him in that shirt and I just knew I was going to marry him."
Clark nodded in agreement. "Find yourself the right woman, Frank. I know you got that Mr. GQ thing going, and that's cool, but you find yourself a babe like Missy, that other pussy just won't interest you. Somebody like Missy, she changes your whole life. It's like you never were really awake before."
Missy touched her hair, pleased. "Clark's a romantic."
"I'm serious, babe," said Clark. "No telling where I would be without you. I know one thing, though, I wouldn't be enjoying myself nearly as much." He blushed, suddenly awkward. "Hey, I got an idea. It's a beautiful day, Frank. How about you ditch the fancy pants and let me loan you some trunks. I'll give you a surfing lesson."