“So, Sydney tells me you're an artist,” Paris managed to say sweetly, trying not to worry about the waiter and their food. But she had to get through this somehow. It was not going to be easy, and all respect for Sydney's judgment had vanished when the man appeared.
“I brought you some pictures of my work,” he said proudly. His name was William Weinstein, which may have explained why he left Jews off his hate list. He had been born in Brooklyn, and moved to Santa Fe ten years before. He took an envelope out of his pocket, rifled through some pictures, and handed them to Paris. They were ten-foot phallic symbols made of clay. The man had penises on the brain.
“It's very interesting work,” Paris said, pretending to be impressed. “Do you use live models?” she asked more in jest, and he nodded.
“Actually, I use my own.” He thought that hysterically funny and laughed so hard he almost coughed himself to death. Along with the clay under his nails, enough of it to create another sculpture, his fingers were stained with nicotine. “Do you like to ride?”
“Yes, but I haven't in a long time. Do you?”
“Yes, I do. I have a ranch, you ought to come down. We have no electricity and no plumbing. It's a two-day ride to my ranch.”
“That must make it very hard to get in or out.”
“I like it that way,” Bill said. “My wife hated it. She wanted to go back to New York. She died last year.” Paris nodded, paralyzed with astonishment that Sydney had wanted her to meet him. She didn't know what to say.
“I'm sorry about your wife.”
“So am I. We were married for nearly fifty years. I'm seventy-three.” And with that, mercifully, their food arrived. Paris had ordered a quesadilla, which was as bland as she could get. The artist had ordered some evil-looking concoction covered with a mountain of beans, which he seemed to like and said he ate almost every day. “Beans are the best thing you can eat. Healthiest food there is. Even if they do make you fart. Do you like beans?” Paris made a choking sound, and Sydney seemed not to notice. She said he had been a friend of her father's, who had also been an artist, and had had a great fondness for Bill's wife. Paris couldn't even imagine what the poor woman's life had been like, trapped on a ranch with him. She could only assume she had committed suicide, as her only avenue of escape. And as she thought about it, Paris excused herself, and went to the ladies' room. And as soon as she got there, she locked the door and reached for her cell phone. She got Bix at the office.
“Is he cute?”
“If you don't get me out of here, I may have to kill Sydney before the end of lunch. Or myself.”
“Not cute, I guess.”
“Beyond belief. He's a Neanderthal in a cowboy costume, who makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick.”
“Listen, if his dick is that big, it might be worth going to Santa Fe. I might even come with you.”
“Will you shut up? Call me in five minutes. I'm going to tell them you have an emergency at the office.”
“What kind of emergency?” He sounded vastly amused. Paris wasn't.
“I don't care what kind of emergency. The emergency is this goddamn lunch.”
“You're being very expressive. Did he show you pictures of his dick?”
“More or less. The sculptures are the worst thing I've ever seen.”
“Don't be such an art critic. Maybe he's a nice guy.”
“Look, he's worse than your drooler. Does that paint a picture for you?” She was getting more desperate by the minute.
“He can't be.” Bix sounded skeptical. “That was the worst blind date I ever had.”
“So is this. Now call me on my cell phone in five minutes.”
“Okay, okay, I'll call you. But you'd better think up a good emergency. Sydney's no fool. She'll see right through it.”
“Sydney is a total fool if she wanted me to meet this guy. In fact, she must be psychotic. Maybe she hates me.”
“She doesn't hate you. She told me last week how much she likes you. And Paris?”
“What?” She was ready to kill someone. Bix if need be.
“Bring me a picture of his dick.”
“Just call me…I mean it! Or I quit.”
She went back to the table with fresh lipstick on, and the artist looked up from his lunch. “You look nice with lipstick. It's a good color.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him, and as she started eating again, her phone rang.
“I hate those things,” he commented as she answered it, and she immediately frowned. It was Bix, saying every lewd thing he could think of over her phone.
“You did what ?” she said, looking horrified, as she glanced at Sydney with concern. “Oh Bix, how awful. I'm so sorry … now? I … well, I'm at lunch with Sydney and her friend…oh all right, all right, calm down… I'll be back in five minutes. Don't try to move till I get back.” She clicked off the phone, and looked at Sydney with distress.
“What happened?” She looked worried too.
“It's Bix. You know what a wimp he is.” She glanced over at Bill with a smile, to create a little mischief before she left. “He's gay,” she explained.
“I hate fags,” he said, and burped.
“I thought you might say that.” She turned back to Sydney then. “He threw his back out.”
“I didn't know he had a bad back.” She looked instantly sympathetic, because Paris knew she had a bad back herself, and wore a brace when she worked.
“He's on the floor and can't even move. He needs me to get him to the chiropractor. He says if I don't come back now, he'll call 911.”
“I know just how he feels. I have a herniated disk, and when it acts up, I can't walk for weeks. Do you want us to come too?”
“Don't worry. I can manage him. But I've got to get back.”
“All fags should be shot,” the artist declared, and then burped again.
“I'm so sorry to run,” she apologized to them both, and then shook Bill's hand. “Have a wonderful time while you're here. I enjoyed meeting you very much. And good luck with your work.”
“You mean with my dick?” He laughed out loud, and then coughed.
“Absolutely. Good luck with your dick. ‘Bye, Syd.’ Thanks for lunch.” She waved and ran out the door, fuming all the way back, and when she got to the office, Bix was waiting for her with a grin.
“So where is it?”
“Where is what? I may have to kill someone I'm so mad.”
“My picture of his dick.”
“Don't even talk to me. Ever again. I'm never speaking to you or Sydney. For the rest of my life. The guy was a total nutcase. And for your information, he hates fags, and thinks they should all be shot. But he hates blacks and Native Americans too.”
“I love this guy. What did he look like?”
“A zombie. He lives on a ranch with no electricity or plumbing.”
“No wonder he makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick. The poor bastard has nothing else to do.”
“Don't talk to me. Just don't talk to me. Ever again. And I am never, ever, never for the rest of my whole goddamned life going on a blind date again.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bix said, leaning back in his chair, laughing at her. “I said that too. And you know what? I did. And so will you.”
“Fuck you,” she said, marched into her office, and slammed the door so loudly the bookkeeper came out of her cubbyhole and looked around with a frightened expression.
“Is Paris all right?”
“She's fine,” he said, still laughing. “She just had a blind date.”
“It didn't work out?” she asked, looking sympathetic, and Bix grinned widely and shook his head.
“I think not, Mrs. Simpson. I think not. And that is the story of blind dates.”
Chapter 22
Paris and Bix were enormously busy in May, and managed to survive all seven weddings in June, much to their own amazement. Paris had never worked as hard in her life, and Bix said he hadn't either. But all of the weddings were gorgeous, all the brides ecstatic, all the mothers proud, and all the fathers paid the relatively astronomical bills. It was a great month for Bixby Mason, Inc. And the weekend after the last wedding, Meg came up from L.A. It was their only moment of respite, since they were doing two mammoth Fourth of July parties on the following weekend.