The Weekend Visitor Read online

  "There's a place the missus and I like, a nice little bed-and-breakfast..."

  "Again, no offense, sir, but I want luxury for one night. I want room service and valet service and a wet bar in my room, and I want my bed turned down and a piece of candy on the pillow and a concierge panting to make my stay just perfect."

  "Le Pavilion. They got all that and then some. Even the lobby looks right, not this modern stuff that looks like your dentist's waiting room. Real chandeliers and potted palms . . . the whole nine yards."

  "Think I can get a room?"

  "One way to find out." He buzzed the front desk and told them to put through a call. When his phone rang moments later, he picked it up and handed it to me. I could indeed get a room. I gave them my credit card number and they told me how much they looked forward to my arrival. John Frost was going to love this bill.

  The Sheriff and I bade each other a cordial farewell with those silly comments about, "If you're ever in my part of the country, etc."

  I took the Interstate back and made better time. I also felt more at ease. The Sheriff's directions had been explicit, and I pulled up to Le Pavilion without a miscue. They took away the car, they took in my luggage, they did everything but dust me off, which might not have hurt. But I was where I wanted to be. My room was Elegant Edwardian, and it seemed almost sacrilegious to be standing there barefoot in jeans and a mussed shirt, slugging down cold tea out of the bottle. The walls had textured paper and even held somebody's early nineteenth century portrait. There was a gas fireplace that looked workable and an enormous testered bed with a carved headboard.

  I flicked back the bedspread and stretched out. I don't even remember setting down the tea.

  Chapter 21

  Walking through the long lobby of Le Pavilion that evening, I was glad I had worn my cord slacks and navy blazer. Most people seemed pretty much dressed up. Of course, I was going out, but I had to traverse the lobby to get out and jeans didn't seem to hack it here on a Friday night. Was it only Friday? I felt like I'd been gone a month.

  Quite a few people were sitting in the comfortable chairs and settees, having cocktails or coffee and listening to a woman serenading the guests with a harp. It was charming and timeless and I very nearly sat down and joined the listeners. Then I decided: if you had only one night in New Orleans, you probably would not wish to tell your friends later that you had spent it in a hotel lobby listening to a harp.

  I walked across St. Charles Avenue, listening to and watching the antique trolley cars clang and rattle by, expecting a raucous Stel-l-l-a to accost my ears any moment. Just before St. Charles became Royal Street, which meant it was now the French Quarter, I saw a small haberdashery store with a crowded single-window display and a neat sign reading, "We cater to the elite." I always wonder about signs like that. If you have to tell the elite you cater to them, do you?

  But in the display I saw something this elite had always wanted. A derby hat. They had one in navy, in my size, and I told them a hatbox was unnecessary. I would wear it. They also had a silver-tipped cane that I suddenly coveted, but thoughts of trying to get it on an airplane in today's world discouraged me, so I left without it. On the street I pushed the derby rakishly forward over one eye and sauntered into the French Quarter like the boulevardier we know I am.

  A zydeco band played in Jackson Square and I stopped to listen. The music was catchy and fast and hard and seemed a sort of bastard combination of Cajun and bluegrass with—I swear—a touch of a Yiddish klezmer band. The group had two fiddles, a concertina, a clarinet and a washtub bass plus a rub board, which looked like an old-fashioned washboard, strummed with both hands, fingertips covered by sewing thimbles.

  After a while, I'd had enough and dropped a fiver into the upside down top hat provided for such gifts. The bass player yelled his thanks, and I waved without turning back. I looked in store windows and restaurant windows and walked quickly by a voodoo shop with a courteous tip of my hat. I passed bar after bar with strains of New Orleans jazz floating out. It was like an appetizer to me, causing me to yearn for the sounds of Coltrane and Baker, Rich and Parker.

  I reached the Court of Two Sisters restaurant and decided to give the famous eatery a try. Ordering a Ramos gin fizz because I thought I should, I then wished I hadn't. I'm not crazy about licorice flavor . . . Pernod or whatever it was. I ordered a shrimp cocktail, with the biggest shrimp I've ever seen, and seared redfish which was splendid. A cup of New Orleans coffee, rich and bitter with chicory, gave me the jolt I needed to move on.

  Dependent upon the kindness of strangers, I asked the waiter if he knew any nearby lesbian clubs. He did and I gave it a try. It was loud and crowded, and I no longer felt like a furriner. I was glad to find a seat at the bar, my Italian wingtips were not quite as comfortable as my usual sneakers. I ordered the familiar Bud and settled into my hobby of people watching. Later I noticed a young woman across the corner of the bar looking in my direction. She gave a tentative upturn of the mouth, and it was nice to receive a smile from a person not in the tourist business. I returned it with the full Peres wattage.

  It was late when I returned to Le Pavilion. Cleaning people were at work, placing chairs back in proper positions, clearing the night's accumulation from the tables. The harp slept silent and shrouded in a nearby corner. Faint noise reached out from one of the bars off the main lobby but I was not tempted. The boulevardier was beat.

  The next morning I enjoyed breakfast in my room, roguishly attired in pajamas and derby, which seemed to please my waiter no end. Several floors down, the concierge beavered away, getting me a flight to Sarasota/Bradenton, a room at the Golden Sands Motel and a car rental. I didn't have a great deal of time to kill, and all too soon I had lavishly tipped my way downstairs, through the lobby, across the steaming sidewalk to my car . . . and back into the real world.

  Bradenton's Golden Sands was not Le Pavilion. It was, however, clean and cool, and pleasant in a paint-by-numbers sort of way, and what was a little walk down the hall to the ice machine? It was, like the man said, a reminder that the rich are different.

  The motel did at least have room service, and I munched at a club sandwich with lukewarm french fries and a lukecool Diet Coke as I contemplated the Yellow Pages holding listings for Holmes Beach. Nine bed-and-breakfast inns were listed. I figured I could safely cross off Betty and Bob's B&B, as well as Harriet's Hostel and Pete and Paula's Place. Alliteration is so twee, isn't it?

  I started down the remaining six listings. The Castaways answered with a tape, so I'd try them again if need be. With the Fair Weather Inn, I got lucky. When I asked if this were the inn owned by Ms. Malik and Ms. Harker, the woman who'd answered said, "No, I'm afraid you have the wrong... oh, I think I know the place you want. It changed hands not long ago, and I know two women have it now. But they kept the name. It's the Sandy Dolphin."

  Thanking her kindly, I hung up, ran my finger down the page, and redialed. Since I still wasn't certain if Ms. Harker was ne'e Malik, I asked for May Malik when the phone was answered.

  "This is she," was music to my ears.

  After introducing myself, I gently gave her the news of Erno Malik's death, and she sounded genuinely grieved. "Poor Uncle Ernie! All he ever did was work in that garage! We tried to get him to come South and visit, but he never would. And . . . oh, dear . .. what with moving over here and getting settled, I haven't been in touch the way I should. I feel awful about that, I never even knew he was ill."

  I was dying to ask why there was no address at which she could have been informed of his brief illness, but I figured that could wait. I explained that I was here in connection with the inheritance Erno had left to her and her sister June, and that I needed to meet with them to explain some options and complete some paperwork. At this news she became quite flustered and began to babble on about Uncle Ernie's generosity and my kindness in coming all the way to Florida to bring the news. Apparently it had yet to dawn that the cost of my kindness would be deducted
from Uncle Ernie's generosity.

  I interrupted the flow to ask for a definite appointment, and she got flustered all over again. Finally, we settled on eleven the next morning, when they would be finished serving breakfast. The fact it was Sunday, fortunately seemed not to matter to the gushing May.

  Now that I had cornered my prey, my next move was to find a way home as early as possible Monday. I found no joy in flights out of Sarasota/Bradenton and moved my inquiries on to Tampa, some forty miles north. There I was told I could take the early bird flight at 6:05 a.m., land briefly in Cincinnati and wing on, non-stop, to Boston. I'd have to get up about 2:30, but by now that seemed a minor inconvenience.

  Advising my employer of my success in his behalf struck me as wise, so I called John Frost at home to update him. He was pleased and even asked if I had enjoyed my evening in New Orleans. I assured him I had.

  He said, "I meant to tell you about a very decent little hotel I stayed at once down there, but it slipped my mind. Did you make out okay?"

  "I stayed at Le Pavilion."

  "Le Pavilion!" There was a lengthy pause I made no effort to end. Finally he almost whispered, "My God! I had drinks in there once and was afraid of what it would cost to use the ashtray. Are you crazy?"

  "Listen, John, I spent Thursday night in a fishing camp on your damned bayou, where the mosquitoes had bills like swordfish and an alligator spent the night burping up nutria under my window. That luxurious little inn cost a whole fifty-five bucks including a breakfast Tm still burping up, so just knock it off. I am tired. The temperature and the humidity are stuck at a hundred down here. The food varies between superb and causing terminal acid reflux. The people are mostly charming but weird. I have located the Bobbsey Twins at great personal sacrifice. I do not wish to see another lizard in this life and I am sick of palmetto bugs stuck in the car grille. I'll be home sometime Monday and see you Tuesday. Goodbye."

  I should have stayed off telephones that evening. I called my mom and was told that everyone was fine. Fargo was also fine, but jumped up eagerly when anyone came through the door, and then went back under the table and flopped with a large sigh. That made me feel just swell.

  Cindy was cool ... I mean, chilly cool. She asked about New Orleans and wondered why I hadn't called. She asked where I had stayed and said I was definitely treating myself okay when I told her. She asked if I had seen anything of the town and commented that I had certainly had a full evening when I described my dinner and the derby and the zydeco. Thank God, I had the sense to leave out the jazz and the gay club.

  I told her where I was now, that I had found the Maliks and that I hoped to be home Monday afternoon. She said she would try to leave work a bit early on Monday, but now had to run, she was meeting Lainey and Cassie for dinner. I asked her to tell Cassie to meet me at Logan Airport Monday around noon and she said she'd be happy to save me a phone call. On that note, we both said, "Love you," very fast and hung up.

  My trio of calls sent me stomping to the Golden Sands Bar and Grill and into a bourbon old fashion. After the first gulp, I made myself calm down. John was just being John. He was not a penny-pincher at heart and always okayed expenses in the end. Mom had not meant to upset me. She probably thought she was just reassuring me that, while Fargo was really fine, he was still my dog.

  Cindy, on the other hand, had been spoiling for a fight. I wondered why. Surely she knew airplane travel was no thrill these days. Driving an unfamiliar car over unfamiliar roads provided no particular pleasure. Louisiana's and Florida's west coasts in late June were simply miserable. And a pleasant evening in New Orleans really didn't make up for all the rest.

  I didn't usually travel on business very far or very often, but I hoped this wouldn't happen every time I did. Sighing, I ordered another drink sent to my room, along with a steak and salad, and went back outside for the sweat-popping hundred-foot walk. Inside my room, the phone message light was blinking. Now what?

  "Hi, darling, it's me. I'm sorry I was so bitchy before. It's just, well, I really miss you. More than I thought. And I guess in my mature, sensible way I just wanted to make sure you were miserable, too. Forgive me, love. I miss you. I really want to see you and touch you. Till Monday. I love you."

  Well. Okay. I could deal with that. I immediately called back, though I knew I'd get the tape. "Hi, there, Culpa. Put away the sackcloth and ashes and hang on for forty-eight hours, and I guarantee we'll touch! I miss you too, despite the madcap nightlife here in Bradenton. And I love you lots. Bye."

  The steak was surprisingly good, and I watched with mild contentment as the Braves stomped the Marlins.

  It was just before eleven Sunday morning when I crossed the causeway over the bay and turned left for the Sandy Dolphin. As I pulled into the parking area and exited the car, a red-throated lizard hissed hysterically from a nearby palmetto palm. I stared back with similar displeasure.

  "Don't worry, he won't hurt you. It's just their way of establishing territory."

  I turned to face the pleasant voice and encountered the strangest looking woman I have ever seen.

  She was a good six feet tall, without an ounce of excess poundage. She had on light blue denim pants ending about halfway down her calves, and a ghastly bright pink rayon blouse with even deeper pink embroidery around the sleeve cuffs and collar and down the front. On her head was a black curly wig, ill fitting and obviously cheap. And she peered at me through little round spectacles that seemed to have been made for a much smaller person.

  "Hi, I'm June Malik."

  "Alex Peres." Whoever she was, she had a good, firm handshake.

  "Come on in, May's in the kitchen."

  We walked around to the back porch and she kicked off her gardening clogs to reveal feet that might have prompted the ancient joke about throwing out the shoes and wearing the boxes they came in. She opened the screen door and I entered to see another woman with real black curly hair, about five-foot-three and quite appealing in a well-rounded, butterball way. She, too, wore the pink and blue get-up and the round glasses, although they fit her face.

  Now, I had seen twins dressed alike as small children, but never as adults. And, anyway, if these women were even sisters, I'd have that lizard for a sushi lunch.

  We all sat down at the well-scrubbed pine kitchen table, and May poured wonderful-smelling coffee into three mugs. After a few moments of chatter regarding the fine character of Erno Malik, the heat and what a long trip I had made, I opened my briefcase and pulled out papers.

  I explained the inheritance—the garage and a small insurance policy. I told them of the two young men who wished to buy the garage, their offer, and approximately what the women would receive. "June" said nothing, and May seemed pleased with the amount, actually uninterested in details, glancing quickly at the photos and passing them on to "June," who simply pushed them aside. "And now," I looked up. "There's the matter of some ID for the two of you."

  I expected confusion, but May simply reached behind her to the counter. She picked up two pieces of stiff paper and handed them to me. "Yes, I assumed as much. Last night I dug out our birth certificates."

  She was going to brazen it out. Looking down at the two documents, I was struck by the tiny footprints at the bottom of the pages. "Look at those tiny little feet!" I blurted. "You'd never believe ..." I stopped. I had been about the say, "You'd never believe those teensy baby feet would grow into such big adult feet." I had stopped mid-sentence, not wanting to hurt "June's" feelings. But I got an amazing reaction, anyway.

  "June" leaped up, yanked off her wig and glasses, slammed them onto the table and began to pull viciously at her clothing.

  "Godammit, May, I told you these crazy costumes wouldn't work! She knows by the footprints it isn't me!"

  "Well, they were the best clothes I could find at K-Mart late on a Saturday night in sizes to fit us both. You were no help, pacing around and moaning we'd be arrested as murderers!"

  I looked longingly at the back door, but bo
th women were closer to it than I was. So I tried a little brazening of my own.

  "You are Julie Harker, aren't you? Where is June Malik? Is her disappearance why you left no forwarding address from Haute Bayou?"

  They both looked startled. "Didn't you fill out the card?" May queried.

  "Yes, and you said you'd drop it off that day you went to the hairdresser."

  May put a hand up to her mouth. "You know, I completely forgot. It's still in my handbag. Oh, my God." I believed her. I also needed a cigarette. I had the feeling today I wouldn't be counting.

  I lit one, and May got up and handed me an ashtray and freshened our coffee. Maybe they weren't planning my demise after all. She sat back down and covered her face with her hands for a moment before she spoke.

  "This sounds silly, but in high school June and I had both read this wonderful romantic book about New Orleans and sworn we would someday live there. When we graduated, we just got on a bus and went. No plans, no knowledge of the town, little money. But teenagers are omnipotent, you know, and so were we. And in the beginning it worked." She pulled out cigarettes of her own and I pushed the ashtray to the middle of the table.

  "We got an apartment," May said. "I got a job in an insurance company. June had never been a nine-to-five drudge and got a job as a waitress in a bar and grill. Before long she was drinking a lot and was—I was pretty sure—taking drugs. She got fired and got another job in a really rough bar and just went to hell in a hand-basket. Booze, drugs, slimy men . . . you name it." She shook her head in remembrance.

  Julie took over the tale, revealing that I was obviously a solid blip on her gaydar. "By then May and I had met and fallen in love." She gave May a smile of such warmth, her face looked actually beautiful. "We wanted to live together in the house I'd inherited from my parents, but what to do with June? We really didn't want her living with us. Finally, we agreed to go on paying half the apartment rent till June could find a roommate."

  She reached for May's cigarettes and swore. "Dammit, every time I think I've quit, I haven't. Anyway, June found a roommate, and then another roommate and then another. Finally, there were just a series of various men and women 'crashing' in the apartment for a week or a night. We cut the money. Would you like a beer?"