The Bette Davis Club (12 page)

I listen and nod as if Tully were right. As if nobody in the world ever lied about who or what they were. Or whom they were capable of loving.

The tiny dashboard clock reads four. In a couple of hours the sun will disappear behind the mountains.

I open the car door and swing my legs out to the ground. “Think I’ll go to my room and change,” I say. “I want to go for a swim.”

Tully jumps from the hood and holds the door for me. “What about Georgia?” he says, shaking his head. “We should be looking for her. We could walk around the place, see what we can . . . see.”

“Walk around all you like,” I say. I give Tully my cell phone number so he can call me if he discovers anything. “But just remember,” I say, “all we really know is that Georgia is at this hotel. Somehow we have to figure out what room she’s in, and what our next move should be. Our ‘intentions.’ In the meantime, I believe a swim will help me think. Who knows? Maybe Georgia will show up at the pool.”

Half an hour later, I’ve already been for a dip. Now I lie poolside, on a slightly damp lounge chair, watching women splash about in the water. Cocktails are served by the pool. I order a martini.

I’m sipping my drink, reflecting none too happily on the day’s events—and thinking hard about how the hell to find Georgia—when a female in a tank suit strides out to the edge of the diving board. She stands there, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky, taking the measure of her dive. She’s slim, sinewy, and unusually tall. When she raises her arms for the plunge, I get a good look at her face. That hawk nose, those penetrating eyes. It’s Vera, beloved of Ruby the bartender.

Vera does a respectable front dive off the springboard, then swims over to my side of the pool. She floats there, treading water. She smiles up at me. “All alone?” she says.

“Well, I—”

“I’ll join you.”

This is the thing about Vera. She doesn’t ask, she announces. It’s like being in the path of a bad driver, an oncoming train, or a large wet dog.

Vera hauls herself out of the pool. She grabs a towel from a nearby cart and begins drying off. A healthy young woman in a two-piece bathing suit saunters by. “Hell-o, Raylene,” Vera says admiringly. The woman smiles and keeps walking. Vera finishes drying, then wraps her towel round her shoulders and drops down on the lounge chair next to mine.

“Always nice to see a friendly face,” she says.

“Vera, I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling the least bit friendly. I have a lot to think about, and I—”

“Meant me,” she says. She pushes back her wet hair. “I’m the friendly face. Because, darlin’, you look like you could use a pal.”

Oh.

She focuses on the glass in my hand. “Liquor is mighty pricey at this hotel, but money’s no object for you, is it?”

I laugh. “Money—the lack of it—is a huge object in my life,” I say. “But I’m here on a sort of expense account. So, you’re half right. At this exact moment, at this hotel, money is not an issue.”

She looks at me, and I realize I’ve just declared myself her own personal happy hour. Oh, what difference does it make? She might as well mooch off me as anyone. “May I buy you a drink?” I say.

By the time we’re on our second round, Vera and I are cozy as old chums. I have to admit there’s something engaging about Vera. She’s a steamroller, yes, but a big-hearted, laughing steamroller. She’s also a good listener.

Before you know it, I’ve shared with Vera the whole story of why I’ve come to Palm Springs. My financial troubles, my runaway niece. I explain that not only have I been hired to return Georgia to the family fold, but also I’ve been charged with retrieving Charlotte’s purloined goods, whatever they are.

Vera takes a swig of her whiskey sour. “There’s only one thing to do,” she says. “Slip into your niece’s room when she’s out, see what you find.”

I laugh. “Isn’t that breaking and entering?”

“Not if you had a keycard,” Vera says. “No breaking about it, just turn the handle.”

I laugh again. “Right. And where would I get a keycard?”

“From a friend,” Vera says. She strokes her chin. “Here’s what: I need a partner for tonight’s dance competition. You be my partner; I’ll get you a pass key.”

I feel myself growing nervous. Yes, I need to find out what room Georgia’s in. And yes, I’d like to have a look round that room. All that might help me earn fifty thousand dollars. But must I enter the dance contest? The idea of dancing cheek-to-cheek with another woman all evening makes me a tad uncomfortable. It’s false, it’s not who I am.

And there’s something else—a much bigger emotional hurdle to Vera’s proposition. The last time I entered a dance contest my partner was Finn Coyle. We won a trophy. I’ve held on to that night as one of the most sublime evenings of my life. I even told myself I would never enter another dance contest, not unless it was with Finn. I’m afraid that competing in tonight’s event might stir up memories, might make me feel somehow disloyal to Finn. I don’t think I’m up for that.

I move to put the brakes on. “Look, Vera, I realize this contest is important to you, but I told you before. I do not dance.”

“So you say. Trouble is, I need a partner; you need a keycard.” She wags her finger at me. “But if you ain’t dancing, then darlin’, I ain’t opening no doors.”

Vera’s twang gets thicker with every sip of her whiskey sour. She lays this cowgirl stuff on with a vengeance, but I have a suspicion she never set foot out west until well into her adult years.

“How would you acquire a key?” I say. “Not that I’m serious.”

“Rube can get one, easy.”

Oh God.

“No!” I say. “Absolutely not! It’s one thing for me or you to take a risk, but Ruby could lose her job.”

Vera snorts. “If you
knew
the stuff that girl could have lost her job over and didn’t.”

“Well, even if you got a key, I still don’t know what room Georgia’s in,” I say, thinking this whole discussion is absurd. “We can’t go racing through the hotel, opening every door.”

“Course not.”

“Then how—”

“Didn’t you tell me it was Billie Gordon and Nevada Pike who carted your niece off to her room?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ll ask Nevada.”

I’m incredulous. “Nevada Pike is a stone wall,” I say. “Billie Gordon too. Neither one of them would give me any information. And you can forget about Ruby getting anything out of them because she doesn’t know them, she—”

I stop. Vera’s watching me as if I were a windup toy destined to run down.

“This isn’t something I’d want getting back to certain people,” she says sotto voce, “but I’ve known Nevada since I first came west, before I ever took up with Ruby. Nevada comes to town for the tournament every year, and when she does, me and her always get together and play—”

“Golf?”

“Around. She has a thing for me.”

I try to take this in stride, but my face fails me.

“Darlin’, don’t look so shocked,” Vera says. “I love life and life loves me back.”

“Well!” I say. “That’s a happy definition of infidelity!”

“Call it what you will,” she says.

There’s a cherry floating in Vera’s drink. She lifts the cherry by the stem, slides the fruit into her mouth, then tosses the bare stem over onto some grass.

“If you stuck around here for a while,” she says, savoring the cherry in her mouth, “and you and me got to know each other, you’d know I always look on the bright side. It’s the secret of my charm. And unlike most folks, I’m not a snob. I judge everyone by how colorful they are, as well as by the content of their character.”

“You have no character,” I say. “You’re a moocher and a cheat.”

“Point taken. However, I’m easygoing, I’m kind, and darlin’, I can be oh-so-gentle. You have no idea.” She smiles at the memory of some love affair, perhaps many love affairs. “Anyways,” she says, “if you’re picking a lock, you want to do that with somebody respectable or somebody who knows what she’s doing?”

I lean back in my lounge chair, clenching and unclenching my toes.

“So now, I repeat my offer,” Vera says. “Partner me tonight, and afterward, I swear on my little pinto pony, I’ll get you into your niece’s room.”

“Look,” I say, trying to work a compromise, “I’m here with that man I told you about, Georgia’s fiancé, Tully. Perhaps he’d partner you.”

Vera rolls her eyes. “Tonight is women only,” she says. “You know that, don’t you? Every gal who comes to the dance is gay.” She pulls her towel tight round her shoulders. “Besides, I lead. I need somebody who can follow.”

“Follow what? What variety of dance do you compete in?”

“Samba.”

“Oh, you’re joking!” I say. The samba was the dance Finn and I competed in the night we won our trophy.

“Darlin’, I never joke about the samba.”

“Well, I don’t know the steps,” I lie. “So that’s that. Besides, I have nothing to wear.”

“I can show you the basics; the rest is just coming along for the ride. As to clothes . . . They hang well on you, don’t they? I noticed that in the bar. Any old little black dress will do nicely.”

“I don’t—”

“Please don’t tell me you ain’t got a little black dress,” Vera says. “Your kind always packs one.”

I picture the darling LBD tucked up in one of my cases. I’m weakening, it’s true, but only because I want to learn what room Georgia is in. I’d like to have a look at that room. But do I really want to compete in this contest? Can I bear to break the promise I made to myself about Finn? Not to mention that Ruby would be risking her job—and if I were caught I’d likely be in a great deal of trouble.

My indecision must show. Vera watches me with a glimmer of a self-satisfied smile. But that smile rubs me the wrong way. Why is everyone always so sure of themselves around me? Why is everyone so certain I’ll do what they want?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But what you suggest is out of the question.”

Vera’s smile turns into a hearty laugh. Not derisive laughter, just amusement.

“You’re wrong, darlin’,” she says. “You’re in this up to your hips and about to go deeper. You won’t turn down a keycard, any more than you turned down your half sister’s offer to earn fifty thousand dollars. Any more than you’re going to turn around, tail between your legs, and head back to LA or off home to New York.” She hoists her glass and drains it. “Thanks much for the libations, by the way.”

Vera gets up from her lounge chair and wraps her towel round her waist. She stands there in her makeshift terry-cloth skirt, gazing down at me. “Sun’s about set,” she says, nodding toward the mountains. A few wispy clouds glow pink and red in the western sky. “I’m going home, eat dinner, get ready for tonight. You better get a wiggle on and do the same.”

“Now, look—” I say.

“Darlin’, please. What? You won’t strike a bargain with me?”

“It’s just that—”

“Well, I’m no bully. You don’t want to do it, don’t. You don’t want my help getting fifty thousand dollars, no skin off my nose. But didn’t you tell me you
have
to raise money or you’ll lose your business back home in New York?”

I consider the logic of what she’s saying.

“Thought so,” Vera says. “Meet me in the hotel ballroom, nine o’clock.”

CHAPTER NINE

WHEN IN ROME

I
go to my room, shower, and call housekeeping to take my little black dress for pressing. Then I have room service bring me a light dinner. After I eat, I get out my makeup kit and do my face, like I used to in the old days, like I was going on a fashion shoot or a big date.

When housekeeping returns my dress, I slip into it and stand in front of the mirror. The dress features a low back and thin straps and is cut just above the knee. It’s always fit me more or less perfectly, and as I slide my hands over my hips, I’m pleased to see it still does. After that, I step into heels, put on some sparkly glam earrings, and I’m ready. Ready to go downstairs. Ready to face the music and . . . dance.

That is, it’s nearly nine o’clock. Time to go downstairs and compete in a lesbian dance competition, followed by some sort of unlawful entry. I mean, it’s time to meet Vera. It’s . . .

I really should get some ice.

I wander out into the passageway. The only sounds I hear are someone’s television and a random bit of laughter.

The ice machine is at the end of the hall. I step over to it and begin noisily scooping ice cubes into a little plastic tub. The door to a nearby room opens. Tully pads out. He’s wearing a wine-colored Asian-style robe that ends just below the knees. He has a book tucked under his arm. He has nice legs.

He sees me. “Wow,” he says. “I mean . . . you going somewhere?”

“Me? No, I’m not. Not at all. No.”

“Well, you look amazing.” He takes a plastic tub from atop the ice machine. He shovels ice cubes into it.

“Thank you,” I say. “I . . . what are you reading?”

He shows me
The Dollhouse Book
.

“Fascinating,” I say. “Don’t let it keep you up.”

“Nah, I’m exhausted. I’m turning in early.”

“Me too. I’m just going to have some hot cocoa with”—I glance down at the little plastic tub in my hands—“ice.”

Tully, too, looks at the bucket of ice I’m holding.

“So,” I say quickly, “any luck with that plan of yours to walk around looking for Georgia?” I do not tell Tully my own plan—the one I’ve made with Vera.

“Nope,” Tully says. “I’m thinking tomorrow I’ll talk to the manager.” He yawns. “Sorry,” he says, covering his mouth. “I’m beat.” He looks at me again. “But you . . . you look incredible.”

I go back to my room. I lock the door behind me.

I drop ice in a glass and help myself to a drink from the minibar. After I light a cigarette (thoroughly against hotel rules) and pull out the cell phone, I settle into a purple upholstered armchair. It’s close to midnight in New York, but that doesn’t matter. I call.

“Darling!” Dottie says. I picture her in her Greenwich Village apartment, talking into the handset of an antique French phone. “I thought it might be you. How’s Palm Springs? Found your niece?”

“No, I have not,” I say. I sip my drink. “The only thing I’ve located is the ice machine, the hotel bar, and a bevy of lesbians. I’m up to my knees in lesbians.”

“You paint quite a picture,” Dottie says.

“I’m speaking metaphorically.”

“So I gathered.”

“I have a question for you,” I say.

“Thinking cap on.”

“How do you know what a thing is worth?” I say. “Do you ever get it wrong?”

“Oh,” Dottie says, pausing to consider the question. “Well, let’s see. Naturally, there’s the occasional surprise. I once found five hundred dollars tucked inside the most god-awful vase.”

“Yes, all right.” I rub my forehead. “But in general, what makes something valuable?”

“Often,” Dottie says, “it comes down to essence, a sort of hidden
something.
I mean, what makes anything worth anything? So many times, what we call ‘worth’ is artistry, the unique beauty of a thing.”

“Does it have anything to do with sentimental value?” I say.

“In my experience, it’s more about passion. There’s a rather crude French phrase some collectors use when they’re excited about an object:
‘Ç
a me fait bander
.’”

“Meaning?”

“This gives me an erection.”

“Well,” I say, “you paint quite a picture yourself.”

“Touché,” Dottie says. “But let me assure you when a connoisseur expresses that level of interest, he’s not describing his grandmother’s tea set. For collectors—serious, wealthy, cutthroat collectors—sentiment has nothing to do with whatever it is they’re pursuing.”

“Then what’s the fuss about?”

“They’re mad for it. Or terribly greedy. Either way, they feel they’ll go insane if they can’t have it.”

For some reason—probably because she’s the best friend I’ve ever had—talking with Dottie always cheers me up. We chat a few minutes more, but in the end I decide not to share with her the details of my bargain with Vera, not to bring up the women’s dance contest or the breaking-and-entering thing. Not now, anyway. Still, after we say our good-byes and hang up, I at least feel game to go downstairs.

When I arrive at the entrance to the ballroom, I’m surprised and pleased to find the well-dressed company is not entirely female. Women
and
men pass by, chatting and laughing and walking arm in arm. Men! Yes! There are males here after all. Not a lot, but some. And everybody’s dressed in their very best clothes, which is nice. Some of the chaps are even in black tie.

So I must have misunderstood Vera. This dance is not exclusively for women. It’s a mixed bag, a social potpourri, a sort of . . .

Wait a minute. Is that a guy?

Trying not to be obvious about it, I cut my eyes in the direction of a portly fellow standing near me. Like me, he’s lingering outside the ballroom, and like me, he appears to be waiting for someone. He’s medium height, wearing a dark-blue suit, every inch the gentleman. But when he straightens his tie, I note polish on his fingernails. And his face is smooth, not a trace of beard. The more I look at him, the more it dawns on me he’s not a man at all. The more it dawns on me he’s a woman in drag.

Well, she has a right. It’s a free country, isn’t it? And it’s her party, so to speak. I’m the gate-crasher. But now that I’ve figured him—er, her—out, the scales drop from my eyes. I stand at the door, watching people stream into the ballroom, and see that everyone here, whether clothed as yin or yang, is female.

It takes my breath away. The place is wall-to-wall women. There’s not a man in sight, though there are some very convincing drag kings.

It all reminds me of something, but I can’t think what. Then I remember how, decades earlier, on a summer evening, I wandered alone down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village, back when that was the heart of New York’s gay male community. Men were everywhere. Young and old, they smiled at each other from front stoops, they stood entwined in doorways. They called to each other, they cuddled and kissed and drowned in each other’s eyes. And not one of them took any interest in me.

At the time, I was nineteen years old and, like every woman in Manhattan, any time I ventured into the street I risked being the target of lewd remarks from a certain type of male passerby. So it was an unexpected treat, a liberating feeling, to stroll through a sea of Manhattan men and find myself ignored. In a way it felt good, almost as though I were invisible.

Tonight, I’m in the reverse situation. I’m surrounded by gay women, but I’m not invisible. Far from it. Indeed, I blush when I tumble to the fact that I’m the focus of more than one admiring glance.

A striking blonde comes up and taps the shoulder of the blue-suited woman near me. Blue Suit turns round, sees Blonde, and breaks into a smile.

“Remember me?” Blonde says playfully. They embrace, kiss, and together melt away into the crowd.

It’s at this point that a new thought comes to me. What if Vera shows up in drag? What if she taps me on the shoulder and I turn and find her in a Brooks Brothers suit, silk tie, and wing tips? Whoa, Nellie. Vera was insistent about my little black dress, but I don’t recall her mentioning what she would wear.

I’m rooted to the doorway of the ballroom. I stand there, peering at the room and the women in it, at the fantasyland decorations of paper streamers and strings of tiny electric lights. There are candles on all the tables. A female dance band is playing up on the stage. It’s all done quite nicely, actually, terribly romantic. Which is why I hesitate.

The truth is, I’m filled with apprehension. For one thing, attending this dance means I’m basically passing myself off as gay. Just being here feels dishonest and deceitful.

More important, I’m having a Finn flashback. There’s only one person I was ever comfortable dancing with, only one person who made me feel graceful. And he’s not here. I’m uncertain therefore if I should continue with what, for me, is a masquerade. Uncertain if—

“Darlin’,” a voice says low behind me. “I hoped you’d come.”

Like Blue Suit did moments before, I turn to see who’s at my back. It’s Vera, of course, and she’s not dressed as a man. On the contrary, she’s radiant in a one-shoulder white dress that sparkles when it catches the light.

Is it my imagination or is she even taller than before? Oh, yes. High heels. They’ve catapulted her into the stratosphere. I’m tall myself and also in heels, but Vera has several inches on me.

Looking at her in her white dress, with her athlete’s body and sharp features, I cannot deny that Vera, in her own way—in the way of all human beings who are kind and not cruel—really is lovely.

“That’s a fine little black dress,” she says to me. “It fits you to a T.”

“Thank you,” I say. I feel self-conscious and am aware that I have nothing to talk about. I fall back on good manners as a conversational device. “You have a nice dress too,” I say, sounding in my mind like a five-year-old complimenting another at a child’s birthday party.

“Thanks,” Vera says. “It’s used, but even so, Ruby spent a bundle on it. The little guy who sold it to us swore it belonged to Geena Davis. The actress? Not sure I believe that. She and I are the same height, though, six feet. It’s from this place called Mommie Dearest. You know it?”

“Yes, I . . . I dropped in once.”

“Buy anything?”

“A frock,” I say, remembering the twenty-five thousand dollars I charged earlier in the day to Charlotte’s American Express Black Card. “Nothing special.”