Dancing Aztecs (36 page)

There
are
class differences. Neither of his wives, with all their opportunities, had ever abruptly grabbed his genitals and twisted. “YYYYYYYYYYY!!!” he said, and when next he could sit up straight she was outside the car, adjusting her clothing and looking
very
angry.

In small and rheumatic movements he left the car. She watched him, glaring, across the silver-gray hood. “You keep your distance, you son of a bitch,” she said.

“No, no,” he assured her, trying for a smile through his grimace. “You're right, you're absolutely right. That was shocking behavior on my part. Shocking.”

“You're goddam right.” Her bag was on the hood. Continuing to watch him, she was withdrawing from it materials of restoration; a crumpled Kleenex, a comb, a Wipe 'n Dri.

“I'm a very lonely man, Miss Harwood,” he said, having seen her name on the form he signed. “Usually, I'm really a very civilized man. Please believe that.”

“You're another faculty masher,” she told him, and ran the comb through her hair.

The phrase, such an obvious class contradiction, startled him, so that he repeated it. “Faculty masher? Where on earth did you pick up an idea like that?”

“You aren't the first one I've seen,” she said, “but you're the worst. Usually they have to get drunk at a party first, and tell you how the head of the department doesn't understand them.”

“Good God!” he said. “Are you a
faculty wife?
”

“Not any more,” she said.

Terror trembled the hands he rested on the hood of the car. “At what school?” (
Not
, he prayed to Henry VIII's God,
let it not be NYU
.)

“Columbia,” she said.

“Columbia.” And he was thinking, Harwood, Harwood. “Oh dear. I believe I may have met your husband.”

“You act like you trained with him.”

“Oh, I
am
sorry. Mrs. Harwood, I—”

“Mizz,” she said.

“Yes, of course. Mizz Harwood, I hope you'll believe me when I say I lost control for just a moment, and I will
not
lose control again.”

“Not around me, you won't,” she said.

“I hope, Mizz Harwood, I hope you'll still take the car, and—well, and just behave as though none of this had ever happened.”

He could see her thinking it over. In fact, she told him her thoughts. “What I'd really like to do,” she said, “is go straight to the nearest cop, and spread you all over page three of the
Daily News.”

“Oh, Mizz Harwood.” One hand fluttered in air, asking for sympathy.

“
But
,” she said, “I'm determined to get out of town
today
, and this is the only way I can do it.”

“Oh, Mizz Harwood!”

“But
you
,” she said, and pointed a finger at him. “You get out of here. Go away, back into that elevator.”

“Are you sure you understand all the controls? Have you driven this sort—”

“Go,” she said.

“I give you my word of honor, I would nev—”

“Either you go or I go.”

“I'll go,” he said. “But I do hope you can believe this was only an aberration, that it could
never
be repeated.”

“Fine, fine,” she said. “Go.”

“Yes. I'm going.” He backed away a few paces. “Um—have a—have a pleasant trip.”

She merely glowered.

So at last be did depart. And, riding up in the elevator, he was thinking about their next scheduled meeting, in California. Surely she would be over her mad by then. He would be civilized, restrained. (After all, he now did have a more accurate picture of her, as a faculty wife, someone toward whom one's behavior should be less earthy than toward an ordinary woman chauffeur.) They would have a common topic of conversation by then—his car—and surely she would accept a drink.

With a sleeping pill in it.

Make it two.

ACROSS TOWN …

When Madge came out, in response to Bobbi's honking, Bobbi could see the expression of awe that came over her face. And why not; it was really an incredible car, even with the back seat full of harp, jutting up like a black iceberg.

Sliding in on the passenger side, Madge said, “Holy cow, what a car!”

“Travel in style, that's what
I
always say.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“You shouldn't have taken the car,” Madge said. “You should have stayed there and married him.”

“Not that one,” Bobbi said, and as they proceeded across Waverly Place toward Seventh Avenue she told Madge all about the attempted rape. And she remained unaware of the gasping man running along the sidewalk in her wake.

After Hugh Van Dinast had finally retired, she had spent a few minutes familiarizing herself with the Jaguar, and had then loaded the harp, and driven it out to the street. (She had been baffled at first by the closed garage door at the top of the ramp, until she noticed the box-with-button over her head, attached to the driver's sun visor. One push of that button, and the door had obediently slid up out of the way.)

Ninth Street being one-way, she'd had no choice but to turn west; but that was the direction she wanted, anyway. Driving to the corner, she waited for the light to change, while behind her a man she didn't notice searched frantically and vainly for a cab. Then the light did change and she turned left, traveling one block to the red light at Eighth Street. (The unobserved man trotted after her, spinning in circles in search of a cab.)

The Eighth Street light turned green, and Bobbi drove south the last remaining block of Fifth Avenue to Washington Square, where she turned right (that light was green) and went the long block with Washington Square Park on her left until she came to the red light at MacDougal Street. (The unnoticed man pelted along behind her like Jack running for his beanstalk.)

The light turned green. Bobbi steered the Jaguar forward half a block (how the following man ran!), then pulled to the curb in front of Madge's building and honked the horn three times fast, the prearranged signal. (How the following man sprawled across a parked car, gasping!) And now Bobbi and Madge were heading for Buffalo Roadhouse for lunch.

First to Sixth Avenue, where the light was red. (The following man walked after them, conserving his strength and still looking for an empty cab.) Bobbi's recital of her encounter reached the basement, and then the light turned green and she continued west, across Sixth Avenue and along the next block of Waverly Place, which was just as narrow as the preceding block but which was for some reason two-way. Dodging on-coming fenders, Bobbi continued with her story and continued not to see the head bobbing at a corner of her rear-view mirror.

Waverly Place veers north before joining the spaghettiplate of intersections making up Sheridan Square, where Seventh Avenue is crossed by Christopher Street, Grove Street, Washington Street, and West Fourth Street. In veering, Waverly Place bisects briefly, so that one of the more unusual intersections in Manhattan is that between Waverly Place and Waverly Place.

At that intersection, Bobbi and her pursuer both took the left fork, and from there turned onto Grove Street, made tangential contact with Sheridan Square, and turned left on Seventh Avenue. Since there was only a stop sign at Grove and Seventh, the following man had to put on a
real
burst of speed in order to keep the Jaguar in sight. And still there were no empty cabs.

“That's
terrible!
” Madge was saying.

There are parking meters on this part of Seventh Avenue. Sometimes, there are even open parking spaces. Bobbi drove slowly, looking for one.

It wasn't the following man's idea of slowly. Panting, running, swaying from side to side like the wounded cavalryman bringing news of the Indian attack, he reeled southward on Seventh Avenue, desperate for an empty cab.

And there it was! Coming down in the left lane, his side of the street, an empty cab, its vacancy light glittering in the sunshine, an empty cab, by
God
, an empty cab! The following man lurched out into the street, frantically waving his arms, and the cab eased to a stop.

About to enter the cab, the following man glanced after the Jaguar, and half a block ahead the thing had come to a stop. It was parking? It was parking, backing into a space.

The cabbie's window was open. The cabbie was saying, “Well?”

“Never mind,” said the following man, still panting, and shut the cab door.

“
You
again!” yelled the cabbie, for indeed it was he again, a thing that never happens.

The following man, gasping for breath and holding his side, made his way back to the sidewalk. The women were getting out of the Jaguar, on their way to lunch, after which Bobbi would drive Madge back to her place and pick up her luggage.

“The next time I see you I'm gonna run you down!” screamed the cabbie. “You know that, don't you?”

The following man sat down on the curb and breathed. He didn't say a word.

IN THE LURCH …

(
Caption to photo
) Mrs. Dorothy Moorwood, local socialite whose charitable interests are well-known throughout the area, greets friends at Hill House, her lavish estate near Palisades Park. Mrs. Moorwood, who has been staying in New York City recently, involved with a charitable concern that she describes as “very close to my heart,” will entertain “a few close friends” at Hill House for the duration of this month, before summering at Cap d'Antibes.

Acid rock drifted over the greensward, and a naked fat man slept under a tree, an unlit toke stuck in his navel. “Jeepers,” said Wally. “What kind of place is this, anyway?”

Mel and Wally had left the car out by the public road and had walked through a bit of mosquito-infested woods, and now the house was visible—and audible—across a broad sloping expanse of neatly barbered lawn. Although it was barely five o'clock, every light in the house seemed to be on, and people in all manner of dress and undress could be seen moving about the interior. Others cavorted on a large patio and swimming pool area to the right, and on tennis courts to the left, and also here and there on the lawn. A party was not only in progress, but had obviously been under way for some time, possibly for years.

Wally had insisted on bringing along the canvas bag, to carry the statue in once they found it, if it turned out to be the real one, and now he held it up for Mel to see, saying, “We can pretend we're guests, just arriving.”

It was Mel's intention to ditch Wally here, whether or not the Moorwood statue turned out to be the right one. They had come here, in
Mel's
car, and Mel had the keys to that car in his pocket, and by the time Wally managed to get himself back to New York the rest of the search should have been completed. Then Wally could go take a flying leap for himself.

The first step in Mel's plan was to separate. Then, if he was the one who found the statue, he could simply leave, whereas if Wally found the statue he'd have no choice but to bring it to Mel. Therefore, as they neared the house Mel said, “You take the second floor, I'll take the first floor.”

Wally looked dubious. “Shouldn't we stick together?”

“In the first place,” Mel said, “shut up. And in the second place, well get done quicker if we separate. There's
other
people looking for these statues, you know.”

“Okay,” Wally said. “Whatever you say.”

By now they had reached the house, which contained hundreds and hundreds of people, several of them famous, many of them attractive, and some of them personally known to their hostess, who was upstairs at this moment, performing an alternative sex act with a Fender bassist. People seemed to be dressed according to the time of day when they'd joined the party, their apparel ranging from floor-length gowns and formal dinner jackets to bathing suits and denim overalls.

Parties of this sort never used to exist in the real world, but in the middle sixties trendy movie directors started putting such parties in their movies—it started with trendy
English
movie directors, actually—and trendy people with money to spend saw these movies and realized they'd been doing everything wrong. No more bridge, no more horseback riding, no more chamber quartets.
Certainly
no more croquet, no more tennis, no more picnics, no more daytime swimming, no more standing around chatting with a drink in one's hand. Live rock music, flashing lights (strobes, if possible), people in funny clothes, lots of marijuana, girls with sparkly eye makeup;
that's
the ticket.

Mel and Wally didn't so much blend into this scene as disappear in it. Since both were obviously unfamous, unsexy, unuseful, and uninteresting, nobody saw them. They walked around the patio side of the house, entered through the open french doors, and
nobody saw them
.

Inside, a five-man rock group was getting along famously without its fifth man, the Fender bassist moaning in ecstasy upstairs. They were getting along
so
famously, in fact, that it was impossible for people to hear one another talk, so Mel merely rapped Wally on the side of the head with a knuckle and pointed toward a staircase visible beyond the next doorway. Wally nodded and went away, rubbing the side of his head.

The statue wasn't downstairs. Mel moved through the throng, taking a puff on a stick here and a stick there, munching a fried chicken leg out of a big silver tureen—the trendy movie directors had never exactly made it clear how the guests were to be fed—and looking everywhere for the statue, but it just wasn't to be seen. After twenty minutes, Mel found himself at the other end of the house, and he stepped outside to clear his head for a minute, get some relief from the rock music, and gaze thoughtfully at the people playing an imaginary game of tennis on the tennis court. (Some imagination; if they were going to be cutesy, the imaginary game to play on a tennis court should obviously be golf.)