Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (18 page)

“Never eat the spaghetti on Tuesdays,” Bernie said.

“I’m fine,” Camilla lied as she followed Julie’s mad dash out of Ernie’s. All she wanted was to go back to her desk, where she could play the part of Dr. Lavinia, a very proper lady who had never known Angela Harper or Plantagenet Smith. Or taken cocaine with Jon-Don Parker. Or written the name “Camel”, and her phone number, on the back of a pamphlet put out by a religious cult in Texas.

Chapter 18—Dinner for Two

Julie and Camilla were hanging out by the coffee machine on a Thursday afternoon when Bob came back. He looked defeated as he trudged up the stairs.

“How was Texas?” Julie said.

“A dead end.” He gave a tired sigh. “The L.A. cops had already been there, and they didn’t find anything either. Looks like my whole ‘camel’ theory is shot.”

“You went looking for a camel who wasn’t really there? Oh, Bob, I’m so sorry.” Camilla fought the urge to burst into giggles of relief. All week, an annoying little verse from
Winnie the Pooh
had been going through her mind: “
I think I am a camel. Behind another camel. Behind another camel. Who isn’t really there
.”

Bob sighed. “Not as sorry as the boss is going to be when he sees my expenses. Where is he? He is OK, isn’t he?”

“He only broke his ankle,” Julie said. “He’ll be on crutches for a few weeks.”

“Crutches?” Bob gulped his coffee. “I’d better get this over with.”

“Hold off a few more minutes,” Julie said. “He’s still on the phone with Her Majesty. You had a bunch of calls, too. Your cousin in L.A., mostly.”

“Mr. Kahn is on the phone with Angela Harper? Is it true they used to be an item?”  It seemed unfair that Angela should have all the attractive men.

“They’ve been on again/of again for years.” Julie’s smile widened into a can-we-talk grin. “They met back in the Vietnam days, and it’s been a soap opera ever since. You know her ‘Blood Red Roses’ album? That was all about their big break-up in ’78. That was before she got involved with what’s-his-name, the actor who ran for mayor of Burbank—and that painter, the one who paints live trees with red spray paint.” She drew Camilla closer. “But things heated up again between her and the boss when he came out here from New York last winter. Then—all of a sudden—she dumped him. I don’t think he’s over it yet. At least he doesn’t seem interested in getting involved with anyone else.” She gave a little sniff.

Camilla tried to picture the terrifying Jonathan Kahn in the role of wounded lover.

“Now what is Bob up to?” Julie looked over at Bob’s desk, where he was leafing through the San Diego telephone book and chanting, with great enthusiasm, the words “Ocean Beach, Ocean Beach.”

Camilla’s body went cold.

~

By the time she finished her day’s column, nearly everyone had gone home. As she put on her coat, she saw that even Mr. Kahn was leaving. She watched him hobble toward the stairs on his crutches. A broken ankle and a broken heart. Maybe he was human after all.

She had to pass Bob’s desk on her way out. She wasn’t happy to see him grinning as he typed. What had he found out about Ocean Beach? Did he know about her party?

“’Night, Randy,” he said without looking up. “I think I’ve done it! I think I’ve found my camel.” He gave a triumphant laugh.

Camilla rushed out of the building into a torrent of rain.

Strange. The sky had been cloudless when she drove to work this morning. Her cashmere coat would be soaked through before she got to the parking lot. She ran quickly, cursing the rivulet of water that flowed down her hair and under her collar. She considered stopping in a doorway just ahead before she made a last dash for the corner, but saw two shadowy figures already occupied the small area of shelter.

As she got nearer, she could hear voices coming from the dark door—and the sound of a scuffle. She slowed her pace as she neared, wondering if she would be safe walking by a territorial battle between two homeless people looking for shelter from the storm.

But the rivulet down her back was turning into something to rival the Hudson. She never dreamed California had rain like this. Now she had more understanding of Violet’s story of being rescued by the driver of the number twenty-four bus.

As she was about to pass the disputed doorway, where the yelling was louder now, she remembered another of Violet’s stories. She thrust her hand into her purse, feeling for her can of hairspray. She heard what sounded like a fight, then a guttural cry and a thud. At the same moment, something hit her shoulder.

She screamed. With a quick pivot, she squirted hairspray into her attacker’s face. He gave a choked cry, pushed past her, and disappeared down the street.

A moan came from the doorstep, where a crumpled figure lay, his face covered with blood. One leg was folded under him, and the other stuck out straight. His foot and ankle were covered with a thick, white bandage. Next to him was a crutch. On the sidewalk was another crutch—probably what had hit her shoulder. The man moaned again and opened his eyes.

“Ms. Randall?” he said.

~

Mr. Kahn insisted he didn’t need a hospital. But Camilla didn’t think it was safe to let him drive, so she took him home—to a motel-like building near Balboa Park. He looked too wobbly to climb the staircase to his second story apartment, but at least his nose seemed to have stopped bleeding.

He seemed a little dazed and said very little except: “at least the bastard didn’t get my wallet.”

He didn’t want her to help him up the stairs, but she thought she’d better see him safely inside his apartment. When they’d completed the slow, wet, climb, he handed her the crutches and dug in his pocket for his keys and let out a sudden roar of laughter.

“An Edsel!” he said. “Jesus Christ!” He leaned on the doorframe as he unlocked the door. “I’ve been rescued by a debutante who drives a goddam 1958 purple Edsel. They would not believe this back in the Bronx.”

She didn’t know what to say as they both stood outside the open door.

“Come in, Ms. Randall. Come in,” he said. “I’m sure it’s bad manners not to offer one’s rescuer a drink.”

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Kahn,” she said. “I wanted to make sure you were OK, but now I’ll hop in my Edsel and drive home.” She was trying to join in his joke, but the words came out sounding silly and prim.

“I’m OK as I ever was, bad manners and all,” Mr. Kahn, said, holding the door open. “Come on in, Camilla, for God’s sake. You look like a drowned kitten.”

“You look a little the worse for wear yourself, Mr. Kahn.” She scanned his bloodied face and clothes. “But it would be nice to warm up for a minute, if it’s OK.”

Camilla. He had just called her Camilla. It had been a long time since anybody called her by her real name.

“It’s OK,” he said. He flicked on a light.

The apartment was square, barren and a little sad. The only pieces of real furniture were a large, office-style desk and chair, covered with books and papers, and a couch and coffee table, also piled with papers. Along the wall, books had been stacked nearly to the ceiling on boards and concrete blocks.

“You’re right. I’m a mess.” The caked blood and dirt looked worse in the bright light. “I’d better clean up a bit. Why don’t you pour us a couple of drinks? There’s a bottle in the kitchen, and a bag of ice in the refrigerator. Two cubes. No water.” He hobbled toward the bedroom. “I hope you drink Jack Daniels. It’s all I’ve got.”

She smiled politely. She never drank anything stronger than wine or beer. She hoped that whatever a Jack Daniels was, it didn’t contain gin. She had tried a gin martini once and it was nasty. She had no trouble finding the bottle. It was the only thing on the counter except for a small microwave oven. She found a couple of glasses in a cupboard. One was decorated with a yellow Chargers football helmet, and the other with Darth Vader from Star Wars. She put two ice cubes in each one, as instructed, and filled them with the Jack Daniels.

After a couple of quick, burning sips, she removed her sodden coat and shoes and tried to repair her hair and make-up. Her silk blouse was soaked, but it would dry quickly. What she really wanted was sit down, but she was afraid to disturb all the important-looking things that covered the couch. Finally she decided to move the
New York Times Index
from the center cushion. After placing it under the coffee table she seated herself carefully between a stack of Spanish-language newspapers and a stack of books about Afghanistan.

She put the Darth Vader glass on the table and took another sip from the Chargers one. The liquor tasted better after another sip. She could feel it beginning to warm her.

A few minutes later, Mr. Kahn hobbled in from the bedroom. He wore a dark blue bathrobe and had put a Band-Aid above his right eye.

“Please excuse the costume,” he said. “It’s such a hassle putting pants on over the damned cast.”

“Is that Yves St. Laurent?” she said, eyeing the robe. It looked a lot like the one Angela wore at Plantagenet’s house.

“Beats me,” he said. “But it was a gift from somebody who cares about that sort of thing.” He looked down at her, resting on his crutches.

“Please sit down, Mr. Kahn.” She made room for him by piling Spanish newspapers on top of the Afghanistan books. “There’s your drink. I gave you Darth Vader.” She pointed to the two glasses on the table. She looked at his bandaged eye. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

He lifted his leg to rest the cast on the coffee table. “What I need, Ms. Randall,” he said, “is to offer you my thanks.” He studied Darth Vader with a slight frown. “And a long overdue apology. I constantly seem to be misjudging you. That was an incredibly brave thing you did tonight. You probably saved my life. That guy wasn’t just drunk. He was wired on something. I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t come along with your can of mace.”

She giggled. “That was Alberto VO5.”

He stared at her for a minute. “You went against a crazed mugger twice your size with nothing but a can of hairspray? Ms. Randall, you are an amazement.”

“I liked ‘Camilla’ better,” she said quietly. “You called me ‘Camilla’ before. I liked that. Nobody ever calls me by my real name anymore.”

“They all call you Randy, don’t they?”

“Or Camellia, or Dr. Lavinia, or Cam—uh, other things.”

“Ah, yes, Dr. Lavinia. You’re doing quite a job with that column. You have a flair for comedy. Of course, I would have preferred that you’d run it by me before you turned
Living Well
into a humor column, but I can’t complain about the results.”

“Sorry. Dr. Lavinia is this voice inside me that I can’t always control. Besides, running something by you isn’t that easy. You’re kind of scary, you know.”

 “Scary? After tonight, Camilla Randall, I’m not gonna believe you’re scared of anything. Me? I was terrified. I thought it was the end when I lost that crutch.”

Actually, he didn’t look scary just now, with that cute smile and his plastered foot and soft robe and his hair all damp and curly. The hair on his chest was damp and curly, too. Neither Plantagenet or Aldo had much chest hair. Or such nice muscles.

With a sudden movement, he sat straight up, staring at his chest. His cast thumped on the floor.

“What’s the matter? Have I still got blood all over me? I can’t take a real shower with this damned cast on.”

“Oh, no.” The Jack Daniels was warming her now. “You look fine. Wonderful.” Who was it he looked like? Magnum, that private eye on TV.

His eyes studied her, their icy blue intensifying as moments passed in silence. He seemed to be moving toward her, and for a moment, she imagined that he was about to kiss her. But instead, he laughed again and took a gulp from his glass.

“Did you decide to get me drunk? There must be eight ounces of booze in here.”

“But that’s what you said— ‘two cubes, no water.’”

“I didn’t expect you to put it in a tumbler. I’m not one of your jet-set playboy pals. I’ve got to work tomorrow. In fact, there’s something I should be doing now—”

He flipped through some typewritten pages on the table.

“I’m sorry.” Now she felt stupid. “I’d better go—”

“Not a chance.” He stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “You poured me this thing. Now you’re going to keep me company while I drink it.” He took another sip. “But I’m not sure I should try it on an empty stomach. Why don’t I stick a couple of frozen dinners in the microwave? Not exactly
Votre Maison
, but it’s food.” He reached for his crutches.

“Please. Let me. I’m better at frozen dinners than I am at drinks, honestly. Stay off your poor foot.”

He smiled and started to say something when a telephone rang. After shifting some books and a stack of
Der Speigels
, he unearthed a telephone.

“You’ve found your camel? Way to go, Bob! Talk to me.”