“I’m sorry. I… I really didn’t…”
“Couldn’t you at least call? Don’t you have any respect for me at all?” Chelsee’s eyes glistened. She dried her eyes on the sleeve of her bathrobe. “Leave me alone, Tex. I can’t talk right now.” She started to close the door.
I reached out and stopped it. “C’mon, Chelsee, it’s not like you think. Just… give me a chance to explain.”
She looked at me defiantly. The tears were coming back. She turned away.
“Look, I know this is gonna sound ridiculous, but…” I paused, then said it as quickly as possible. “I couldn’t come because someone knocked me out.”
It sounded like the lamest lie ever told. Chelsee gave me a look that said what kind of a fool do you take me for?
“Really. I’m serious — feel my head. I was out for, like, sixteen hours.”
Chelsee’s hard stare was merciless.
I took her hand and placed it carefully on my still tender goose egg. “See? I swear, I really wanted to be here last night, but I was out cold the whole time. You gotta believe me — I wouldn’t stand you up. Ever.”
She pulled her hand away. Her gaze seemed to penetrate me, reaching straight into my flawed male soul. After a long moment, she released me. Her voice was softer now. “What happened? Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not like I’ve ever taken a shot to the head before.”
Chelsee pulled a tissue from the pocket of her robe and smiled as she dabbed at her nose.
I grinned and felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. “Why don’t you get dressed and let me buy you a drink?”
She opened the door and motioned me inside. “Might as well. I wasn’t planning on opening the newsstand today anyway.” She picked up the Haagen Dazs, licked off the spoon, and replaced the cover. “Where should we go?”
I knew that we should go somewhere in the new city, a nice, quiet place where we could discuss the pros and cons of romantic love, get a little light-headed, maybe go for a walk and watch the sunset — in short, get away from this Malloy case that had gotten me into trouble in the first place. But if we went to, say, the Fuchsia Flamingo, maybe I could make things up to Chelsee and get a little detective work done. It was probably a bad idea.
“How about the Fuchsia Flamingo?”
It turned out that the owner of a Flamingo, a fellow by the name of Gus Leach, had given Chelsee a complimentary membership. As we stepped inside the club, we were greeted by the moustachioed mutant I’d met earlier. “Hello, Miss Bando.”
“Hello, Gus. This is a good friend of mine. Tex Murphy — Gus Leach.”
Leach sized me up. I hadn’t made a good first impression, but being a friend of Chelsee’s might compensate. Leach looked back at Chelsee, then extended his hand toward me. “We met, though we weren’t properly introduced.”
My knuckles popped as he shook my hand. I wouldn’t be shuffling cards for a while.
“Sit anywhere you like. I’ll send the waitress right over.”
We opted for a corner table. There were only five other people in the club, and we barely beat the waitress to our seats. Chelsee asked for a Cape Codder. Feeling playful, I ordered Scotch. Chelsee excused herself, leaving me to survey the surroundings. The Flamingo’s interior was a shrine to bad taste on an epic scale, an unparalleled mish-mash of exotic things, neon, and garage sale oddities. The baby grand and a microphone stand were on a stage at the far end of the room. In the centre of the club, a small, unused parquet dancefloor sparkled under a giant disco ball. Chelsee and the drinks arrived simultaneously.
“This is quite a place. Interesting decor.”
Chelsee smiled and stirred her vodka and cranberry juice. “I like it. But then, I’ve always been secretly attracted to blatant tackiness.” her eyes locked on to mine as she leaned forward and sipped through the straw in her drink.
“Should I take that personally?”
She shrugged coyly. “Take it any way you want.”
My right foot spontaneously started tapping like a machine gun. For over a year, I’d pursued Chelsee shamelessly — without her ever giving me the slightest bit of encouragement. Rejection fit into my image — the lone wolf. Besides, it was one thing I was good at. Now she was turning the tables on me, or so it seemed. The hunter had become the hunted. My mouth suddenly dry, I grabbed my Scotch and gulped it. Chelsee raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, pressing her chin on the back of her hand. I smiled nervously and turned to find the waitress.
“Do you want to know what I was going to tell you last night?” Chelsee’s voice had slipped to a throaty whisper. God, I needed another Scotch. I signalled to the waitress, then turned back to Chelsee, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Sure.” my voice was cracking slightly. I fumbled with my pack of Lucky Strikes.
“I was gonna tell you that I’ve been thinking… you know… about me and you.”
The match shook slightly as it wandered toward the end of my cigarette.
“I have to admit… I used to think you were just another smug, insensitive back of hormones, going through a midlife crisis. Now that I know you better, I realise this isn’t a midlife crisis at all.”
The cigarette was calming me down. “Thanks… I think.”
Chelsee smiled down at her drink and slowly stirred it with her forefinger. I just decided that, underneath it all, you’re really a nice guy. And I’ve always thought you were quite attractive.”
She lifted her finger out of the drink and ran it like a cross her lower lip. Lord, she really knew how to pitch my tent. Moving her drink to the side, she again leaned forward and placed her chin on the back of her hand. It looked like it was my turn to talk. I sent a stream of smoke off to the side; I’d regained control.
“This sudden interest… seeing me in a new light — I mean, I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, if you’ll pardon the expression, but this isn’t connected in any way to, say, someone’s recently celebrated birthday?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I think that made me take a look at myself, look at what’s important. For a long time now I’ve been on my own. I’ve decided that independence is overrated. I want to be with somebody. Have someone need me.”
“I was married once, you know.”
Chelsee nodded.
“It was miserable. Whenever someone tells me to go to hell, I tell him I’ve already been there.”
“Would you ever try it again? With someone else, I mean.”
I took a long sip of Scotch and thought it over. The implications of our conversation were making my head swim. Suddenly, a voice rang out.
“Ladies and gentlemen. The management of the Fuchsia Flamingo is proud to present this evening’s entertainment. Please give a warm welcome to Luscious… Lucy… Lust!”
A pitiful smattering of applause accompanied the opening bars of “I’ve Got You Under My skin.” A slicked back middle-aged man in a powder blue tuxedo sat at the baby grand. A woman stepped into the spotlight and undulated to the microphone. Her ruby red sequinned dress look like it had been painted on. It wasn’t low-cut — it didn’t have to be. From forty feet this woman look perfect. She curled her fingers around the microphone and began to sing. I was spellbound. She didn’t just sing a song — she made love to it.
I glanced over at Chelsee. She was looking directly at me, not smiling. “Did you forget the question?”
I had. I’ve got you deep in the heart of me. With some effort, I pulled my attention from the stage and tried to remember where we’d left off. “Let’s see. Marriage. I don’t know. I guess I could… if it seemed like the thing to do.”
I really didn’t mean to sound distracted. Chelsee didn’t respond. The waitress stopped by and confirmed that we did, indeed, want two more drinks. I lit another smoke and looked back toward the singer. I was willing to bet that if I got within ten feet of the stage, I’d catch the scent of the purple scarf. Luscious Lucy — alias Emily — and I needed to talk.