Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (21 page)

Chapter 21—Clark Gable’s Ears

Plant seated himself gingerly on the turquoise Naugahyde couch in Camilla’s apartment.

“We didn’t have to rush off like that, darling. Angela and I have a comfortable understanding. We don’t have an exclusive relationship.”

Camilla handed him her one Melmac cup filled with instant coffee. Somehow she managed to keep her hand from shaking, but her whole body was tense with rage at Jonathan, and Angela, and the whole stupid scenario she’d just witnessed.

Jonathan was slime. So was Angela. And Plantagenet—she still wasn’t sure.

“Did you tell Angela that you were going to ask me to marry you?”

Maybe Angela had run to Jonathan when she heard Plant was dumping her. That might justify her actions a little. But not Jonathan’s.

“No. We haven’t had a chance to talk since I got back from New York.”

“But you’re still living with her—in her house?”

“In a manner of speaking. She does have other houses, but yes. It is convenient.”

“Convenient for whom?”

Camilla couldn’t think of many things less convenient than a boyfriend who lived with an ex-girlfriend.

“Please stop worrying about Angela. Didn’t you see the adoring looks she was giving Kahn tonight? She’s got real estate in San Diego, too.” He pulled Camilla gently to the couch. “Camel, darling—”

She froze. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Camel? I’m sorry. You’ve outgrown nicknames, have you?”

“Something like that.” She wondered if she should tell him about the whole mess with Jon-Don Parker. But even thinking about it filled her with fatigue.

“Darling, what is it? Don’t be sad. I’m here. We love each other. Everything’s all right now, don’t you see?”

“I guess,” she said. “I’m so tired. And confused. But some things do make more sense now, like why Edmund said you’d run away with me last winter.”

“Edmund said that? When?”

“Last spring, when everything started going wrong, and I couldn’t find you, and Lester Stokes was at my house, and then it wasn’t my house, and I needed you so much, Plant, and you weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere…”

Her eyes stung as he rocked her gently, and she felt a comfort she hadn’t known in months. In spite of his strange confessions, and the unresolved things with Angela, he was her old friend Plantagenet, and his arms were strong and warm.

“I love you, Camilla,” he said, stroking her hair.

She looked up at his familiar face and thought how much she’d missed him. Slowly, his lips moved toward hers and she felt his kiss. It was a sweet kiss, not quite so soul-shaking as Jonathan’s—but lovely just the same. She slid her arms around his neck.

There was a knock on the door.

“Damn,” Plantagenet said. He rose to open it.

“Get out the Raid! The pest is here!” Violet announced with a triumphant giggle. She wore a shiny new jogging suit of a color somewhere between plum and puce, and carried a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

“There you are, Camellia, all got up like Little Bo-Peep again,” she said. “Philodendron, doesn’t Camellia look just like Little Bo-Peep?”

Plantagenet collapsed in laughter.

“Got more sense of humor than the last one,” Violet said. “Dresses better, too. Did he tell you he’s the one who sent the roses? It wasn’t that Jamey after all.”

“Yes, Violet,” Camilla said, accepting the bottle.

“But Jamey’s the one who brought the TV,” Violet said. “Did you notice it?”

Camilla glanced at the huge television console, painted a peeling iridescent orange, which occupied most of the living room. “I did,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”

Violet shook her silver curls. “I just stopped by to bring the sherry. You only have two glasses, anyhow. I thought you should have something nice to serve Philodendron here, since he bought you the roses and all.”

“Plantagenet,” he said, laughing harder. “The name is Plantagenet. P-l-a-n-t-a-g-e-n-e-t.”

Violet looked at him as if he’d told a bad joke. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll call you Planty. I don’t know why your parents would give you a name like that.”

“Call me anything you like,” he said, giving Camilla a sly smile. “As long as it’s not John. I spent too many years as John Smith. You have no idea what it was like—never being able to register at a motel without inciting smirks, and all the Pocahontas jokes…”

“Your name used to be John, and then you changed it to—that other thing?” Violet’s gaze sharpened. “When were you born?”

“1958, I’m told. Don’t remember it myself. I was very young at the time.”

Camilla laughed, but Violet didn’t. “Where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t. One doesn’t if one is from New Jersey, generally.”

“New Jersey. Born there?”

“Probably. New Jersey actually has some lovely countryside. The Garden State.”

Violet took a step toward him and peered up at his face.

“You have a small nose. My daughter had a nose like a button, but that man she ran off with—boy, did he have a schnozz on him!” She stepped back, still studying Plantagenet’s face. “Camellia, are you going to stand there holding that bottle all night? Pour Planty some sherry, and use the good glasses, for heaven’s sake.”

Camilla opened the sherry and filled the two Lalique glasses. From the kitchen, she could hear Plantagenet’s voice sounding more and more strained as he tried to respond politely to Violet’s interrogation.

“When I was a struggling actor, I wished I had a larger nose,” he said as she brought in the sherry. “Sometimes one prominent feature is exactly what makes the difference between merely pleasant looks and a memorable, star-quality face. Where would Barbra be without her nose—or Clark Gable without his ears? I’ve written a play about that, as a matter of fact. It’s being revived down at the ‘F’ Street theater.”

“You wrote a play?” Violet said. “What’s it called?”

“I’ve written several. This one’s called
Clark Gable’s Ears.
It’s not about Mr. Gable’s actual hearing organs. It’s a metaphor for the flaws that make us who we are—”

Violet waved a hand at his words as if she were brushing away bugs.

“Are you sure you won’t have some sherry, Violet?” Camilla smiled at Plant. He really was being sweet.

“No thanks.” Violet shuffled toward the door. “I’ve got to make a phone call to New Jersey.”

~

“Your Violet doesn’t always make sense, does she?” Plantagenet showed visible relief when she was gone. “What do you suppose all that was about?”

“She’s looking for a long-lost grandson. His name was John or Jonny or something. It’s kind of sad.” Camilla resumed her position on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. “It’s OK to sit down now.”

She wanted his arms around her again. She didn’t care about what he’d done. He was her best friend and she needed him. She would tell him about Jon-Don and forget the odious, fickle Jonathan Kahn. Plantagenet would make everything all right.

Bu—suddenly all business—Plant set down his glass. “I have to be off, I’m afraid. The “F” Street Theater. They’re updating the plays, and I’m afraid they’ll make an awful mess, so Angela and I are going to have a word—”

“You’re going to meet Angela? Tonight?”

Losing two men to Angela Harper in the same night would be too much to bear.

“You said you hadn’t talked to her since you got back from New York.”

“Not about serious things, darling. Just about business. And this is business. Angela’s the producer, and she’s got to keep this idiot director from tampering with my script.”

He gave Camilla a quick kiss.

“I can be back here by eleven.”

“No.” She couldn’t play the Angela game any more. “Please don’t.”

“Darling, I know you’re tired, but—”

“Yes. I’m tired. Tired of everything.”

“Camel, darling—”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Sorry. I forgot.” He reached for her hand but she pulled away. She didn’t want him to touch her now.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier that I need to go to the theater. I’d so much rather be with you.”

She drained her glass and said nothing.

“Darling,” he said. “You had half a bottle of wine at the restaurant. You know you can’t drink that much.”

“Sure I can,” she said, without looking up. “I’m hard-drinking and tough as nails.” She refilled her glass, wondering if Jonathan knew that Angela was meeting Plantagenet after their romantic dinner
a deux
tonight.

“Oh, darling, I’m so glad you’ve got your sense of humor back. I was afraid you were really angry. Now, please, all joking aside, don’t drink any more. You’ll hate yourself in the morning.” He took the glass. “Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll come by in the morning and take you to breakfast.”

“I don’t want to see you in the morning.”

“In the afternoon, then. After drinking all that sweet stuff you’ll have a hell of a hangover.”

“No. Not in the afternoon. Not for…a while.”

“But by next week I’m going to be up to my posterior in preparations for
Alexander!
We have to find an apartment in L.A.—”

“I don’t want an apartment in L.A. I have an apartment right here. And a job.”

“An apartment? You mean this charming Skid Row
pied a terre
? You must give me the name of your decorator, dear. Where did you find him, the department of sanitation?” He laughed as he gestured at the television. “And as for your job—how important can it be for you to earn minimum wage writing leftist drivel for a sociopath? I didn’t know Kahn was involved when Angela offered you the job. I never would have let her do it if I’d had any idea you’d be working for that bastard.”

“I think you’d better go.”

Plant hovered. “Please, darling.” He took her chin in his hand. “Look at me.”

She forced herself to look at the pain in his eyes.

“Are you saying you won’t marry me?”

“I’m saying I won’t marry you. Not right now.”

He looked at her for a moment, let go of her chin, and walked out the door.

She stared at the door for a long time, wondering if she was drunk. She felt nothing at all.

~

Rapid knocking shocked her from her trance. Furious, she rose to let Violet in. She was in no mood to deal with a crazy old lady at the moment.

But it was not Violet who stood in the hallway, but two strange men in bad suits.

“Camilla Randall?” said the taller of the two. His voice sounded as if it was coming over a loudspeaker. “We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Jonston Donald Parker.”

The other man reached in his pocket. She could see a glint of metal. She felt as if she were watching herself from the end of a dark, far-away tunnel.

“You have the right to remain silent....”