Million Dollar Road (37 page)

Once out on the sidewalk, the sun filtering through the chestnut trees' yellow leaves was bright and warm on her face, the shops were open, and there were lots of people on the street today. A business-suited man, walking a tiny white dog that could have been Lunch-meat's brother, gave her an appreciative nod. Since she wasn't in the mood for any man giving her that kind of look, not today, Lireinne ignored him.

Faced with a long day with nothing much to do but walk, though, why not take a stroll on the Avenue Montaigne to do some serious window-shopping? Lireinne thought. Paris was such an expensive city, now she got it: there was no way she could actually buy anything with her hundred and thirty euros except maybe a pair of pantyhose. But her black mood had begun to lift and the Avenue was alive and bustling on this gorgeous morning. She owned this whole Friday free and clear, didn't she? Lireinne gave that thought an emphatic nod. Con Costello couldn't take
that
away from her.

And the store windows were
amazing,
although most of their clothes and shoes and bags were, as Emma had put it what seemed light-years ago, too old for her—and far beyond her reach, too. Lireinne felt sure she should keep a tight rein on any fantasies this morning. It seemed like spitting in the eye of fate when she had no idea what the evening would have in store for her. Instead of being merely sort of poor, she might be unemployed and flat broke.

Still, Lireinne couldn't help but hungrily eye the lush fabrics at Balmain, the precise detailing on the linen dresses in the window at Hermès, the feathered, rhinestone-studded heels at Jimmy Choo. Banana Republic was never going to seem the same to her again, Lireinne reflected, when she paused in front of the Burberry store, even though Emma had said that for the money, the clothes there were of good quality. Compared to the contents of these windows, Banana Republic seemed so ordinary now.

Unenthused by Burberry's welter of plaid, Lireinne moved on to Prada and immediately forgot her anti-fantasy resolution. Enrapt at the elegant lines, rich fabrics, and muted colors, she imagined the thrill of being able to walk right in the doors, plunk down a pile of money, and buy that drop-dead pair of stilettos. Lireinne's resolve wasn't proof against shoes. After months of shrimp boots and flip-flops, years of making do with Walmart's imitation leather sneakers and ugly knockoffs, she'd always longed for a room full of beautiful shoes like these.

That dream would always be out of reach now, Lireinne thought gloomily. Thanks for nothing, Con Costello. With a lingering glance at those kick-ass shoes and a sigh, she moved on, hoping the next window would lift her spirits again.

And after crossing the street, it did. Lireinne had to stop cold, arrested by the outrageous display in the Luigi Spada windows. An alligator—a real, stuffed four-footer wearing a toothy grin and a fez—lolled on the high seat of a Chinese-red rickshaw. The rickshaw was drawn by three attenuated mannequins in straw coolie hats and clothes made entirely from alligator skin. Unlike the stiff, patent-finished hides she'd seen at the farm's offices, this was a liquid-textured, subtly draped matte leather. It practically begged her to touch those supple, scaled folds.

“Check it
out,
” Lireinne breathed.

Her mouth turned up in a grin, thinking that this was where all those gators went after they died. They were transformed into shift dresses and beautifully cut blazers in the deepest blue imaginable; they turned into burnt-orange fringed scarves; exquisitely wrought aubergine skirts and wrist-length olive-green gloves. The mannequins' gold accessories of earrings and charm bracelets matched the gleaming hardware on the clutch purse and dainty chains on the shoulder bag. A discreet sign in the bottom corner of the window advertised,
LUIGI SPADA REINTERPRETS THE LADY-LOOK
.

And she'd thought the animals at the farm only went for handbags, cowboy boots, and belts! So enthralled by the eccentric, marvelous display, Lireinne didn't immediately notice the three people who burst out of the shop onto the sidewalk—not until they began a loud, contentious discussion.

“But you cawn't be serious!”

Lireinne half turned her head at that English accent. It belonged to a tall man of an uncertain age. Long-legged, long-necked, and long-lashed as an ostrich, his curly hair was a red so violent it had to be dyed. He was wearing skintight black leggings that revealed hairy ankles, a pair of dirty tennis shoes, and an orange-and-black-striped knitted scarf knotted around his spindly neck. The scarf clashed horribly with his orchid-colored alligator-skin motorcycle jacket. Lireinne tried not to gawk at the man's penciled eyebrows, dewy foundation, mascara, and rouge. Attitude was one thing, but she didn't want to be rude to a man too loopy to know he looked like an ugly woman. Quickly, she returned her gaze to the window's display before he caught her staring at him.

“I won't allow you, dearest.” The ostrich shook his improbably red curls. Big gold hoops that looked just like the earrings on the mannequins in the window bounced in a jingling chatter of indignation. “It's simply not
done
.”

Yesterday Lireinne had encountered some
très
interesting types on her walk along the Seine, so this freakily dressed guy in the makeup didn't strike her as dangerous—for Paris. Back home in Covington he'd be a serious weirdo, but over here it was like some people got up in the morning, put on whatever they wanted, and nobody seemed to give them a second glance.

“
I
will do it,” another voice said.

“No, you mustn't!”

Lireinne chanced another peek through the black scrim of her hair at the ostrich's equally odd companions—a youngish, pudgy man and an older woman with white hair styled in a severe buzz cut, so closely cropped her pink scalp glowed in the morning sunlight.

The English-sounding guy was begging the pudgy man, “Please listen to reason, Lu-Lu.”

“Basta!”
Wearing enormous black sunglasses, a black cocktail dress revealing an alarming, wrinkled décolletage, and an identical motorcycle jacket in Nile green, the blade-thin older woman slapped her head with a masculine hand the size of a five-pound flounder.

“Basta!”
She stamped her black patent-leather stiletto on the grimy sidewalk. “You are not to say that
Lu
-
Lu
. This is a name that is not a name. My brother is Luigi. Say it! Loo-
ee
-gee.” Her deep, rasping accent was heavy, different from the English guy's, maybe Italian.

Hold the phone, Lireinne thought, more curious now than ever. Could that dumpy-looking little man, the one the ostrich had called Lu-Lu, be
the
Luigi Spada? She'd seen his collections in magazines, but had no idea what he looked like. What were the odds of running into a famous designer right here on the street, arguing like a regular person?

Drawing her hair behind her ear and away from the side of her face, Lireinne dared a longer glance. Pale-faced Luigi's hair was gelled as flat as a fantastic coat of dead-black paint, his pouting lips glossed a dark maroon the color of dried blood. Small diamond solitaire earrings, two in his right ear and three marching up the side of his left one, glittered in the pale sun, and he was wearing an alligator motorcycle jacket just like the others. A pure white, Luigi's jacket complemented the too-long, baggy, ivory linen pants puddling around his black rubber flip-flops. Fascinated, openly studying him now, Lireinne couldn't help but notice he was shirtless underneath the jacket, although the morning air was wicked cold.

Throwing up his hands, Lu-Lu/Luigi expelled a dramatic sigh that would've shamed a reality show diva. “You and Luciana must not quarrel, Peter,” he said. “You make my head a rotten melon this morning with all your unpleasantness,
cara mio
. I am choosing the model for my own designs, only I.”

Peter the ostrich stroked Luigi's cheek with a vermillion-tipped finger. “
Please,
Lu-Lu. Listen to me, dearest. I beg you—don't use Alberto for next fall's collection. Those bitter old warhorses at
Vogue
will crucify you for that. You know they haven't a working sense of real possibility between them. They'll hate it, simply hate it.”

“Am I caring? Am I not Luigi Spada?” It
was
him.

“I am saying this once more.” The paunchy designer touched the corner of his lipsticked mouth with a manicured, black-polished fingertip and smiled a condescending smile. “I will do as I will in this, though you and Luciana say I cannot. The new collection, it calls for a difference in the model, yes? I have done ladies for the spring, so–o–o . . . now I give autumn a new face! Let all be in love with a beautiful boy this time. The new
coccodrillo
designs must have a certain something, an attitude of go-to-hell that is
particolare
. And truly, only Alberto can wear my Adventure collection in the properly way for he tells me to go to hell all of the time. You are worried too much,
caro
.”

The sister, Luciana, poked him on his bare, hairless chest with a big, bony forefinger. “
Attenzione, fratello mio
. For once, this Pietro is correct. No one will buy the collection if they think it is made for perverts. A
pollo
in skirts, I ask you! You don't even fit the samples on a girl yet, only that
transvestitismo
! The Adventure pieces are a challenge, this is true, but a certain species of girl can carry them off and make the look her own. Find such a one and all will be well, I swear it to you.”

Looking relieved now that he had backup, Peter nodded emphatically. “Exactly so. For heaven's sake, you could simply use this girl here—the one who's been eavesdropping on us for the last five minutes.”

They were talking about
her
. With a rush of hot blood to her cheeks, Lireinne's mouth fell open in shame.

“'Scuse me,” she mumbled. “I wasn't really listening, not . . .”

As though she'd not said a word, Peter continued. “Put just one of next fall's designs on her, just one, and you'll see what we're on about. She's certainly fetching enough. Lord, I'll be completely gobsmacked if she's not a size two as well. Then afterward, if you must insist on this madness, you can use that little queen from Palermo and I'll not say another word.”

Lireinne, aghast at this suggestion, had turned away from the window to escape, but white-haired Luciana yanked the sleeve of her coat, stopping her in her tracks.

“No, no—you must help Luigi. At once,” the older woman declared imperiously.

“I'm sorry?” Not wanting to be any more rude than she'd already been, not sure she understood the woman's heavily accented command, Lireinne paused in the act of fleeing the scene.

Luciana didn't bother answering her. Like a red-taloned raptor, she captured Lireinne's jaw, turning her head to observe her from all angles. Lireinne had no idea how to react to this, frozen with shock and astonished confusion.

“The face, she is most good—even the scar,” Luciana announced to her companions. Her immense sunglasses were black mirrors. She nodded briskly, as though the question were settled.

“Eh, Luigi,” she said. “Come and see. Perhaps
here
is your something
particolare
.” And then, again before Lireinne understood what was happening to her, Luciana's big hands were busily unbuttoning Lireinne's coat, revealing the green silk dress underneath it.

“Pfft.” Luciana made an impatient noise. “Cheap shit from Malaysia, this dress, but the color is good for you. Too, you are not overly fat. Excellent! This one is a two, I know it.”

Placing her palm in the middle of Lireinne's back, Luciana gave her a quick shove in Luigi Spada's direction.
“You,”
she said to Lireinne, “will now make the angry face.”

“You mean, pretend to be mad?” Lireinne asked, incredulous. Dumbfounded and practically paralyzed at the white-haired woman's having treated her like a department store dummy, she'd rebuttoned her coat in a hurry, but her confusion was turning the corner into outrage.

“
Sì, sì
—are you deaf? This instant, you must be angry,” Luciana ordered.

Wait one damned
minute,
Lireinne thought. Outrage now obtained, she found that looking angry had already happened.

“Hey! Like, I'm not freaking deaf, okay?” she said with a threatening scowl. “And don't
touch
me. I'm going, get it?”

“More,” Luciana commanded, ignoring her. “Be still more angry.”

Angry? Never far from the surface, hateful memories of the snotty valet, of Tina and Jackie and Miz 'Cille and how they'd called her a whore, of Harlan and his near-rape, of Brett and his actual one, hammered Lireinne in that instant. And Con, the way he'd put his hands on her, and not being content to do that, was going to ruin everything with that
love
of his—God, she was done with the world thinking it could do whatever it wanted to her! Even in Paris, the world was still the same.