Joan circulated. The weird drinks had her weavy. Lesnick’s blond dipped by. Joan followed her outside. The blond ducked behind the guesthouse. Joan crouched behind a banyan tree and peeped her.
The blond pulled off her sweater and blouse. The blond went Oh shit and futzed with a microphone taped to her bra.
Bombs away:
Joan walked back to the house. Loudspeakers blared Tannhäuser. The ten thousand guests went rouge-cheek opera buffa. Kurt Weill and Lotte Lenya bushwhacked her.
They German-jabbered. They dragged her to a book nook. A projector and movie screen were set up. Opera buffa ghouls whistled and cheered.
Shucks. No Claire De Haven, no Captain Hook. Too bad, but:
Barbara Stanwyck fellated Walter Pidgeon. Carole Lombard and Anna May Wong went 69. Fredric March keestered Norma Shearer. A German shepherd scoped the two-bed action. He looked like Rin Tin Tin and wore a foil leprechaun hat.
Bombs away:
Joan waltzed. Lotte Lenya yelped good-bye. Joan pushed through yet more ghoul swarms and made it back outside.
She caught some air. War-chat cliques mingled. She glanced around. She looked for Kay and didn’t see her. She felt voyeuristic and inconsequential.
It was cold. The car valets lugged out coil heaters. Joan hit the stand-up bar and ordered black coffee.
It diluted the oddball drinks and revived her. A barside clique formed. Joan heard Spanish and Russian yak-yak.
Saul Lesnick plus two. One man and one woman. They dragged lawn chairs up to a heater and warmed themselves.
Joan pulled up a chair. The woman was dark-haired and wore klutzy glasses. The man was tall and gone to fat. He wore a Spanish Loyalist greatcoat and tuxedo pants.
Supplicants buzzed the clique. Lesnick played emcee. He introduced the woman. Her name was Jean Staley. The man got no intros. His coat did the job. The supplicants fawned. He was “our Meyer” and “Comrade Gelb.”
He stood up and embraced his fans. He employed the Spanish-style abrazo. Joan saw his burn-scarred hands. She nailed the full gist then.
The fire. L.A. Times coverage. Meyer Gelb fronts the Young Socialist Alliance. The Pershing Square orator. His public rants precede the blaze.
Joan pulled her chair close. Doc Lesnick schmoozed Jean Staley. They came off as old pals.
Jean updated him. She said she flogged real estate. She specialized in ritzy sublets. So many rich people traveled.
Lesnick said, “Don’t shit a shitter, Jean. You’re a carhop. Your house gig’s strictly part-time.”
Joan tuned them out. She brushed her chair up against Comrade Gelb’s. He turned and looked straight at her.
She said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gelb. I heard you give a speech many years ago. I’ve never forgotten it.”
He appraised her. He did that slow head-to-toe cruise.
“You’re very tall. Are you a lesbian volleyball player? It’s a shame there’s no money in it.”
“I was quite young when I heard that speech. High school girls are impressionable, and it was very hot that day. I’ll chalk this chance meeting up to disillusionment. You were someone aflame with purpose then, and you’re someone bitter now.”
Gelb lit a cigarette. He blew smoke too close to her face.
“You’ve never been to a political rally, and you’re not from L.A. Your drawl denotes the northern Midwest. Don’t try to jive me, I’ve been jived by the best.”
Joan lit a cigarette. She blew smoke too close to his face.
“It was ’33, Comrade. I remember the time vividly. The Griffith Park fire occurred a few days after your speech. My father was a greenskeeper on the golf course. He was lucky to escape with his life.”
Gelb twitched and flicked his cigarette. It hit damp grass and fizzled.
Joan said, “It was ‘a low, dishonest decade.’ That’s another line you could have stolen from Auden. ‘This storm, this savaging disaster’ has got more punch, but the former acknowledges History, which I know you Red shitheels deem essential.”
Gelb balled his fists. Joan opened her purse and went for a hat pin.
He spoke soft now. “Who are you?”
She spoke soft now. “I’m a forensic biologist. I work for the Los Angeles Police Department, and I’ve extensively studied the causal factors of arson and spontaneous wildfires. Which was it in your case? Or did you burn your hands in Spain, where you valiantly battled the fascist beast?”
Gelb bolted. Pure bluff torqued him. He jumped up. He kicked his chair and kicked the coil heater. Joan went What did I do? Jean Staley went Sweetie, that’s just Meyer.
Lesnick chased after Gelb. Joan chased to the bar and chugged scotch. Her pulse dipped to 300-plus.
She walked back to the party proper. The Bauhaus beer hall throbbed. Parsifal replaced Tannhäuser. That Wagner cat came to work.
Where’s Kay? Let’s find her. Let’s get it over with.
The Maestro Manse ran labyrinthine. Joan cut down hallways and got lost. She traipsed downstairs and upstairs. She hit a third-floor corridor. Steam seeped out a door crack.
She saw Orson Welles and Claire De Haven. They huddled tight and missed her. They wore white cotton robes. They exited a dressing room and entered the steam room. Steam billowed out.
Joan debated it. She plumbed the when-in-Rome concept. She just filleted a Red shitbird. In for a penny, in for—
She stepped into the dressing room. She stripped and hung her clothes beside Claire’s. She donned a robe and walked straight to the steam room. The steam was all-the-way hot.
They sat on a top ledge, buck naked. She dropped her robe and sat across from them.
Welles said, “Hi, Red.”
Joan said, “Hello, Mr. Welles.”
He stage-laughed. It was Falstaff’s ho-ho-ho. He said, “This is Claire De Haven.”
Joan said, “I’m Joan Conville.”
Steam mist covered Claire. Joan squinted. She wanted to see Claire stark nude.
Claire said, “Are you a friend of Otto’s, dear?”
Joan gouted sweat. She smelled purged absinthe and scotch.
“I worked at a research lab, up until Pearl Harbor. A doctor I knew there invited me.”
Welles said, “Red’s a physician. I knew it. Hey, Red — write me a script for pharmaceutical cocaine. I need to curb my appetite and lose weight.”
Joan laughed. “You look fine, Mr. Welles.”
“Orson, please.”
“We’re fishing for your occupation, dear. What you currently do for a living.”
Catch this, dear. “I work for the L.A. Police Department. I’m a biologist.”
Welles said, “Red’s a brain. I knew it.”
Claire toweled off. Joan caught a look. Her rib cage showed. Her breasts flared unevenly. Her legs were too thin. She was all translucence and veins.
“I know people there. Do the names Hideo Ashida, William Parker, Dudley Smith, and Katherine Lake ring any bells with you?”
A steam vent clicked off. The haze dissipated. Everybody caught looks.
“I work with Dr. Ashida, so I know him rather well. I know of Captain Parker and Sergeant Smith, but I haven’t met them. I don’t know Miss Lake at all.”
Welles said, “Smith’s Claire’s new flame. They’re shacked up in Mexico now. He’s an Irish hothead. He’d shoot me if he knew I’d seen Claire in the buff.”
Claire caressed Welles. She ran a hand between his legs. Welles bit his lips and stifled a gasp. Claire eyed Joan throughout.
“Be careful of Dr. Ashida, dear. He’s duplicitous and unmanly.”
The steam vent kicked back on. The peep show clicked off. Welles coughed out vapors.
“Hey, I’m feeling ignored here.”