I said, “Where’s Max?”
“Oh, he’s somewhere. He said I should give you the tour.”
And she did.
We entered a make-believe world of moiré wallpaper and draperies, gold crystal chandeliers, and terrazzo floors, dazzled and dazed as our barely dressed hostess casually flipped a hand here and flipped a hand there. Each room was dominated by a single color, like the formal green living room with an elaborate mint fireplace and a sunken area with a pair of shamrock-and-white curved couches on moss carpeting facing each other over an endless laurel-tinted glass coffee table, while in the background (adorning windows that looked out onto a swimming pool that was thoughtlessly blue) emerald drapes hung like sleek seaweed, the space extending into an equally leprechaun dining room.
Enjoying rare freedom from mono-color domination was a richly wood-paneled den with padded bar and a sectional couch not unlike mine at the A-frame, except that it sat ten and cost thousands of dollars; a massive coffee table edged with cushioning further extended seating.
Otherwise, there was a blue bedroom, and a yellow-and-orange one, and most of all a pink master bedroom with hot pink carpeting everywhere, a bubblegum-pink sea on which floated a massive raised flamingo-pink bed, while popping up like coral reefs here and there were pink-lemonade tinted French provincial furnishings, including a stand for the massive 26” TV.
Mavis was moving us through this museum of kitsch at a breakneck speed. Whether she was in the early minutes of a heroin high or if this were merely cocaine buzz, I was not expert enough to discern. But I knew that while she might be at her high point, her judgment wasn’t — not when she took us down the hot-pink-carpeted hallway to the master bathroom.
Not that it wasn’t impressive. It was as big as my living room at home, with a double vanity that was really quadruple, even if it only boasted a mere two sinks and twin mirrors. And the hot-pink carpeting was everywhere, including all around the sunken Jacuzzi in the middle of the room. That thing was big enough for six people to share, although right now there were only three in it.
The bubbling was on a low setting, otherwise we might have been warned that it was in use, and not interrupted the master of the house, who was appropriately naked as he took from behind an equally naked female who I recognized as the Climax Girl of the Month from a few months ago. I recognized her mostly from her slender curves, distinctive puffy nipples, and layered blonde hairstyle, because her face was buried between the thighs of another Climax Girl (feathered brown hair, voluptuous) from several months before that, who was lost in sexual reverie, seated on the edge of the hot tub, the bubbling of the Jacuzzi being loud enough, and the pink carpet thick enough, to make our entrance unannounced.
Climer looked a little silly, if lucky, baby-faced, blank-eyed, with a small pot belly only half-hidden by the water and black Caesar curls clinging wetly to his forehead, giving them a rather pubic look. Several small mirrors with the ghosts of cocaine lines were on the edges of the hot tub like invitations to the party.
All I could do was think, I killed three guys last night so you could go on playing baby Caligula?
“Oh, sorry, honey,” Mavis told him.
Climer stopped humping, which caused the muff-diver to come up for air, wondering what was up, or what wasn’t up.
“Jesus, Quarry,” Climer said, aghast. “You brought my niece?”
I shrugged. “How was I supposed to know this is what you’d be up to?”
I mean, what were the odds it would be something like this? Not any more than eighty percent, right? Ninety?
As for Corrie, I had to hand it to her. She just shook her head and smirked at him, and said, “You finish up, unc. We’ll wait for you in the den.”
To give Climer and his girls credit, they got right back into the game. Not everybody can get the mood happening again in a situation like that.
Mavis led us to the den, where she pointed me to the well-stocked shelf behind the bar and made an open-handed help-yourself gesture. Then she smiled enigmatically — or was that stupidly? — and whisked off.
I was behind the bar with Corrie, still in her floppy red hat, on the other side, like a customer. “Where’s she off to?” she asked, making a face.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe to get into something more comfortable.”
“More comfortable than next-to-nothing?”
“That was a joke. You need to get used to my jokes.”
She smirked. “I think I’m starting to. You knew something like this would happen, when you invited me along, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know. Exactly. Hey, I’ve always had an ornery streak. What can I get you?” I had found a can of Coke in a little refrigerator back here and was pouring it into a glass of ice cubes. “There’s beer. 7-Up. Wine.”
She ordered a glass of Chardonnay and I gave it to her. She went over and deposited herself on the endless couch and I joined her.
“He’s a terrible man, my uncle,” she said.
“You said you always liked him. And you’re drinking his wine, aren’t you?”
“He’s an embarrassment. Look around at this idiotic place. It’s the kind of life some Arab sheik thinks is badass. Or some actor who makes it suddenly rich. It’s all terrible taste and vulgar excess. Think what somebody responsible could do with this kind of wealth!”
I sipped Coke, shrugged. “Why don’t you try to put him on the right path?”
Her eyes got big under the brim of the red hat. “What? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No. Strikes me he’s been pretty successful. He’s not just some poor white trash who won the lottery — he built this himself, for good or ill. He’s got a real knack for putting out a magazine.”
“What, ‘Dickhead of the Month’?”
“Exactly. That’s political satire. He’s getting farther with it than a bunch of college girls picketing a strip club.”
I’d gone too far. She didn’t like that at all. She set down her glass of wine on the coffee table, which was no larger than New Jersey, and said, “I’d like you to take me home. Right now. This place makes me sick.”
“Do I make you sick?”
“Why don’t you get me out of here before you do?”
So, doing my best to remember the layout of the place, I walked her to the front door and we were just about to step outside when suddenly Max Climer was there, in another silk robe (burgundy), his hair still damp, his expression contrite.
“This was my fault,” he said.
“Corrie needs to go home,” I said. “Female trouble.” She gave me a look.
“Take her,” he said, “but come back. We need to talk business. About last night, and, just... business.”
“All right.”
It was late afternoon now. On the way to her apartment at the Claridge House, Corrie didn’t speak at first, the pouty mouth doing its thing.
I said, “Come on now. We both knew what we were getting into this afternoon. You thought it would be a hoot, didn’t you? And so did I.”
She smiled, and then she laughed. “Why don’t you feed a girl first, before you drop her off and go back to the orgy?”
I said okay and she guided me to a funky place called Ray Gammon’s. The menu bragged of home-cooked meals, and I said I had my doubts that Ray Gammon, whoever he was, lived in the kitchen.
“You’re right,” she said. “He died recently. A famous golf pro around here.”
“Oh. Bad joke.”
“No, they’re closing down soon and I thought you might get a kick out of the joint. Best catfish around.”
The meal was great and the conversation even better. She wasn’t mad at me anymore. So of course I started teasing her again.