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Page 33.
Chapter 19
 Fifteen minutes later, the two women were headed away, Maxie driving the growling Porsche. Tory couldn’t help but admire again the beauty of her friend as the city’s night lights played over her features. Maxie was every man’s desire, every women’s envy: by turns elegant, subdued, lively, poised. Inside, Tory sensed, was a more frail creature, not so self-confident. “Maxie, what was that all about?”
“What, dear?”
“You took David someplace.”
“Oh, that.”
“Is it a national secret?”
“Yes.”
“Aw come on.”
“Does he know yet?”
“Yes.”
“Was he shocked?”
“Well of course, Maxie. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Is he taking it in stride?”
“He’s a sweet man. Very sincere. Very brave. He’s got guts. I don’t dare hope, but a man with that much character might be big enough to stay with me.”
Maxie reasoned: “You’re beautiful, you’re passionate, you have a lot to offer. I keep telling you, sooner or later it’ll happen for you. David was so badly hurt, the poor thing. And you’re right, he’s really a straight shooter. He won’t hurt ya, Tory.”
“Oh, it’ll be okay if he just lets me down easy.”
“Give him a chance.”
“I will.” She gripped Maxie’s hands, and Maxie gripped back. “I will!” They rocked from side to side snapping their fingers.
A while later Maxie said, as she puffed on her cigarette: “Listen, kiddo. You’ve heard of Robert Lee Hamilton?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me he’s a relative of yours.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Max.”
“I am serious here, Tory. You know we always have colonels on both sides of everything. Well, old Robert Lee Hamilton—I only met him once or twice when I was a teenager—he’s got Bodley relatives. All related to Robert E. Lee, of course. Of course, now maybe it’ll be generals on both sides. You see, there’s an Admiral Lee and a General Bodley, both on active duty. One is in California, the other is in Oregon.”
“You’re chattering, Maxie.”
“Yes, and I love it.”
“So what’s the upshot?”
“The upshot is that this country is in a hell of a lot of trouble, and I hope I didn’t make a mistake tonight.”
“A mistake?”
“I don’t want David to get hurt.”
Tory held on as Maxie drove. She had a blurry glimpse of neon signs promising shopping and night life. The car shot down a ramp, bounced into an underground garage, and slowed behind a long limousine. Tory read signs: ‘The Riverside. Valet Parking. Formal Evening Dress Only.’ “Where are we going, Maxie?”
“Someplace quiet. I want to eat, and I want to chatter mindlessly with you, and then I want to go disco dancing until our brains turn to gelatin. And I want to forget CON2.” Maxie grabbed her purse and wrap. “It’s on me.”
“I brought my checkbook and credit cards just in case.”
A young man in valet uniform drove the car off. Maxie and Tory followed a Persian carpet down marble hallways, with a potted palm in every corner, to a dusky vestibule. Waiting in the shadows were the Maitre d’ Hotel and his staff. “Bodley,” Maxie said.
“Of course,” said the Maitre d’, a handsome dark-skinned man in his fifties, with gray hair on the sides, as he checked a clothbound register, “party of two?”
“Bodley,” Maxie said, nodding. She secretly cupped an unlit cigarette.
“Maxie,” Tory chided under her breath.
“I’m sorry.”
“This way, ladies.”
“And you a nurse.”
They followed him through a dining room of about twenty round tables. Lots of white hair; red faces with bulging eyes; paler faces jealous. Wrinkles. Money. An Afro-American woman played piano with soul and subtlety. A big woman, black as ebony, she sang in a bluesy voice rich as an instrument of many fine woods. Even when her fingers crashed down on two octaves’ worth of keys at once, and her song became robust as a shout, her voice still carried languor and smoothness. And each time she backed off quickly, into a lovely reverie. “Martini,” Maxie said when the waiter came. “You hungry, Tory?”
“Starved.”
“The evening wasn’t so bad until Jack got polluted.”
“Maxie, the guys you—”
They ordered finger food to fill the empty spot. Tory ordered a Campari and soda on the rocks. It was light, it was dry, and it promised she wouldn’t wake up with a hangover. “Don’t overdo the martinis.”
“Okay!” Maxie put her imported Ovals cigarette on the tablecloth. Then she emptied part of her purse on the white linen, until she found her gold-plated lighter. “Seriously, you’re so rock-stable for me. Other women I’ve known, that are rich, I can’t go anywhere with because they put on airs.” Maxie certainly did not put on airs. Didn’t need to. At another table, a man with red cheeks and violent eyes stared hungrily at Maxie. His heavy, pretty wife with gray grandma bun looked pained. Tory whispered through her fingers: “I think that guy over there is wondering why he didn’t see you on the menu.”
Maxie twisted her neck, and scoped the guy in one glance. “He’s making you, Tory, not me.”
“No way.” Tory said. She was not a butterfly like Maxie. She frequently found herself stared after, but from a distance; men seemed threatened by the wall of pensiveness, the spark of danger she threw off. Except David. He'd seen through her.
Maxie said. “We won’t make a scene.” She laughed quietly. “We could turn and stare at him. Make comments. Throw grapes.”
Maxie stepped outside somewhere for a smoke, and returned minutes later. Their drinks came. “Sure. And get carried home on the shoulders of—well, no officers around, but hopefully some gentlemen.”
“—who had to be declared such by an act of Congress. Cheers.” Maxie lifted her glass. Tory clinked with her. The waiter came with more drinks. “I envy you, Tory. How’s you and David?”
“Me and David is 220.”
“High voltage.”
Tory squirmed in embarrassment. “Probably just a crush.”
“—Awww—”
“—I know, bummer, huh? But he’s sooo cute. Tall, dark-haired—”
“—And handsome—” Maxie teased. “I don’t know about crush. He’s kinda like you. Very determined. Does he know?”
“I told him.”
“Brave you.”
“It went better than I would have thought.”
“So you put it all on the table.”
“Yes. I figured it wouldn't be fair to him, or to me, to build up false hopes if he can't get past my problem. You know what he said?” She leaned close, and Maxie leaned close to hear. “He had to think about it, and I know it's not an easy thing for any man. He said—well, you know, don't buy puppies from a breeder, but adopt them at the pound.”
“He said that?” Maxie sat back. “What a whole, entire guy.”
“Yeah, he really is. I don't know how far it's going to go, but he is—”
“You're so lucky. And I had to settle for Van Meeuwen.”
Tory flicked glances right and left. “Maxie, you haven't settled for anyone, dammit. Maybe the date of your life is right here someplace, waiting to take you in his arms, if you'd only let him.”
The singer bellowed and smashed the piano, then uttered a long wail, and finger foods arrived. Maxie ordered another martini and prepared for another quick outdoors smoke. The singer went on break and a nervous sixtyish white man came out and played Chopin and Liszt.
“Maxie,” Tory said, “I wish you’d at least date other men while this guy jerks you around.”
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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