Bad Moon Rising

16

The name Cotillion implies debutante coming-out parties and the type of fancy balls where Civil War colonels made plans to deflower the local virgins later on in the gin-crazed night. This particular Cotillion was one of those modern glass-and-stone boxes that were colder than any of the drinks they served. Its reputation for excellent cuisine came, or so I had surmised, from the fact that you paid a lot of money for very little food. This is my small-town side, I know, and when I go out to eat I don’t want to gorge myself but I do want something more substantial than two inches of, say, steak covered with oily sauce and topped with some kind of vegetation that looks like a fungus. Not that it tastes bad; it doesn’t. The food is tasty, no doubt about it. But even a mouse would ask for his money back when he saw the size of the entree.

But it is one of the local status symbols to be seen dining here, and the dearth of a substantial meal is often explained this way: “This is how they serve food in New York.”

“You mean so tiny?”

“Right. Out here we’re raised on meat and potatoes and apple pie. We’re used to stuffing ourselves. But this is how people eat in the big cities.”

I’ve heard this conversation, in various formations, for the five years the Cotillion has been open. If somebody dining here ever said, “You know, for what you get, this food is overpriced,” the roof would collapse.

While I waited for Eve Mainwaring, I chomped on some bread-sticks I’d swiped from the deserted table behind me. One of the waiters caught me. Instead of anger he flashed me the worst look of all, pity.

She arrived a few minutes after twelve. When people are late the least they can do is rush in out of breath and start their apologizing even before they reach the table. Goddesses are excepted from this rule. In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s a constitutional amendment about that.

I’d managed to get a table along the wall that gave us moderate privacy. But I wasn’t sure why I’d bothered. She did as much glad-handing as a politician ten points behind on the day before the election. She was chignon-ready with a golden linen dress and two-inch heels that gave her the air of importance she wanted. Given the heat, the other women here wore simpler outfits, comfort being at least as important as style. By the time she reached our table the public smile had become grotesque, as if it had been pasted on like a Groucho Marx mustache.

As with all good goddesses, apologizing was out of the question. She stood by her chair, apparently waiting for me to leap up and be a gentleman, but after she got over that foolishness, she yanked out the chair and seated herself, the smile still in place. “Do you have a match?”

“You want me to give you a hot foot?”

“Are you supposed to be funny?”

“My five-year-old nephew thinks I’m hilarious.”

“I don’t doubt that. Now be a gentleman and give me a light.”

I pitched the matches across the table.

“You are really a disgusting little man.”

“Do you want to hear what I think about you?”

She lit her cigarette the way a Vogue model would-with that perfect angle of head-and then sailed my matches back to me. “I really don’t give a damn what you think about me. I know you’ve been snooping and that’s what I want to talk to you about. Or wanted to, past tense. I didn’t realize till now that you’re one of them.”

“Martians?”

“Locals.”

“The great unwashed. And you’re right, I am one of them.”

“Then this will be a complete waste of my time and yours. I came here ready to confide in you but now I’d never give you the time of day.”

“You were late.”

She sat back and stared at me. Then she began laughing. It was a very merry laugh and I liked it despite myself. The sound conveyed pleasure and irony. “God, is that why you’re being such a jerk? Because I was late?”

“You owe me an apology.” As soon as the words came out I realized how pathetic they were. An eight-year-old sulking because his feelings had been hurt.

She laughed again, damn her. “Well, then, we’ll just have to do something about your little feelings being hurt, won’t we? I happened to have had a flat and didn’t feel up to changing a tire-which I’ve done many times, I assure you. I didn’t want to ruin this dress which I like, so I had to walk up to a house and ask the woman-one of the ‘great unwashed,’ as you said-if I might use her phone. She said yes. She was very sweet. I called the service station where we take our cars. The woman let me wait inside and even gave me coffee and a very tasty cookie. Chocolate chip, homemade, if you’re interested. I would’ve called here and left a message for you but I thought the station would send a truck sooner than they did-both their trucks were busy at the same time. But here you were suffering for thirty-four minutes all alone and unloved, cramming breadsticks into your mouth. Flecks of which, by the way, are all over your tie and jacket.”

Fortunately, the waiter appeared and I didn’t have to respond to her. Her smile was always smug but now it was downright scornful. Before I could get a word out, she said, “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay and this little fellow here will have a Coke. I’m sorry to see he’s been sitting here all this time without ordering anything. They tried to teach him manners at the home but sometimes it’s a slow process. We’ll need more time to decide what we’ll want to eat. And do you happen to have a bib he could use?”

The young waiter’s face shifted from confusion to amusement and back to confusion. He wanted to smile about all her imperiousness but was that proper when the guy sitting across from her was from some kind of “home”? This could mean anything from cooties to frontal lobotomy.

After he was gone, she said, “I’m pretty sure that Paul will be joining us. He followed me here.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He doesn’t want me to talk to you.”

“I hope he’s calmed down some since he was in my office. He was ready for a net and the bughouse.”

And then he was there and in the Cotillion. He was a celebrity. By now the restaurant was filling up with credit-card businessmen who recognized the most resplendent of the peacocks among them. Paul Mainwaring. Where his wife had made a ballet out of finding her table, Mainwaring moved relentlessly, flicking nods and waves to people, but never smiles. We both sat silently watching him invade us which he did with dispatch and economy.

“I don’t want to make a scene here, McCain. Otherwise I’d pound your face in right now.”

“And very nice to see you, too, Mainwaring. And thanks for sparing me the trouble of kicking you in the balls while you were pounding my face in.”

The goddess, displeased, rolled her eyes. “Will you two shut up for God’s sake? This is ridiculous. And by the way, Paul, I don’t appreciate you following me around.”

He pulled a padded brown leather chair closer to his wife and sat down. Then his hand went up like a spear and the waiter rushed for us as if summoned by not one but two popes.

“The usual scotch and water, Mr. Mainwaring?” A slight tremor in the young voice.

“Of course.”

To Eve, the waiter said, “All we have is a lobster bib, Mrs. Main-waring. Would that be all right for this-” He eyed me as if I was road kill. “This little fella?”

“Oh, a lobster bib would be perfect.”

He started to bow from the waist then caught himself. “I’ll bring it back with Mr. Mainwaring’s drink.”

“Thank you so much.”

Mainwaring’s eyes had narrowed; his mouth was a bitter slash. The moment the waiter was out of earshot, he snapped, “You’re still doing that stupid ‘bib’ gag? Isn’t it about time you give it up, Eve?” He had shifted his wrath from me to his wife.

“Oh, that’s right, forgive me. I apologize for trying to have some fun. That’s against the rules, isn’t it?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, my daughter is dead. I know you two didn’t get along and most of that was her fault but couldn’t you at least try to fake some regret?”

The first thing I tried to figure out was how sincere her tears were. They were silver and lovely against her perfect cheekbones, and even the single sob was just as startling as a cynic might say it was meant to be. But there was always the possibility that Mainwaring’s words had had their desired effect and had actually surprised and hurt her.

Mainwaring sighed, glanced at me, shook his head, and leaned over to slide his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Her head was down now. She was quiet. “Forgive me, Eve. I-I’m just confused and I’m taking it out on you. With Van gone-I don’t need to deal with a scandal on top of this.”

He put a big hand under her chin and raised her head. The tears were gone from her cheeks but stood in her eyes. She used her starched napkin to dab her nose and then eyes. “And right in front of McCain.”

“You were the one who wanted to meet him. I asked you not to.” But his voice was sympathetic this time. He kissed her on the cheek.

She placed her hand over his. “But he already knows some of it.” She inclined her head toward me as she spoke. “Maybe if we explained things to him-”

He was a man long accustomed to getting his way. Since things weren’t going so well now he took his arm from her shoulders and sat there glowering. “Why don’t we just get a microphone and tell everybody in the restaurant?”

“I was trying to be helpful, Paul. He’s going to find out anyway.”

“You think I’m going to sit here while you’re telling him?”

Irritation was in her voice and eyes now. “You don’t have to be here while I do it if you don’t want to. Maybe I can persuade him to see things from our side.”

“He’s a private investigator who works for Judge Whitney. He’s not exactly a good prospect for keeping a secret.”

She looked directly at me and said, “Paul and I have an open marriage.”