Carriage Trade by Stephen Birmingham Page A

business. Miranda watches as Tommy rises and kisses the tall woman’s outstretched hand to bid her adieu and the tall woman returns to her own table.
    â€œWho dat?” Miranda whispers as she slides into the banquette beside him. “Me think-um big-time rich squaw, huh?”
    â€œRich Texas broad,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth, still smiling in the direction of the departing woman’s back. “Came over to complain about the store being closed today. Can you believe it? Not a word about your father’s death. Just, When’s the store going to open? She needs an evening bag for a party tomorrow night. ‘Just a little clutch bag, but it’s got to be silver.’”
    â€œNot one of our latchkey ladies?”
    â€œAre you kidding? Broad’s a kleptomaniac. She likes it when I wait on her, but she doesn’t know it’s because I have to watch her like a hawk whenever she’s in the store.”
    From across the room a redheaded woman in a red Ungaro suit and a pink blouse waves at them and blows an air kiss, mouthing the words, “Hello, darlings!”
    Miranda blows an air kiss back, and Tommy smiles in the woman’s direction. When he smiles, he has three dimples—one on each cheek, and one on his chin.
    â€œMona Potter,” Miranda whispers. “This means we’ll be in her column tomorrow morning.”
    â€œBitch owes us fourteen thousand dollars,” Tommy mutters. “She thinks she can pay her bill with column mentions.”
    â€œPoor Tommy,” Miranda says. “I’d like a Lillet,” she says to the waiter who has approached them.
    â€œCertainly, Miss Tarkington,” he says, “and may I tell you how saddened we all were by the news of your father’s death? He often came in here, you know. We were all very fond of him.”
    â€œThank you,” Miranda says. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
    â€œAnd of course everybody’s wondering—will Tarkington’s ever be the same? Can it ever be the same without him?”
    â€œI think it’s safe to say that Tarkington’s will always be Tarkington’s,” she says. “Right, Tommy?”
    â€œAbsolutely.” He nods his head in agreement. “Well,” he says, after the waiter has departed, “how’d it go with the lawyers?”
    â€œOh, not very well, I’m afraid,” she says. “Blazer made a terrible scene. I knew damn well he would. Because Daddy made good on his threat. He didn’t leave Blazer a penny. I don’t know why Blazer even came this afternoon. In fact, I called him this morning, and I said to him, ‘Blaze, honey, please don’t come to this meeting this afternoon, ’cause I don’t think you’re going to like what you’re going to hear in Daddy’s will.’ But he said, ‘No, I want to have the last word with the old son-of-a-bitch.’”
    â€œAnd so he did.”
    â€œOf course, and he began shouting about—oh, you know, Daddy’s girlfriends and all that. And about Smitty. And Mother just sat there, looking beautiful, saying nothing, as though she had ice water in her veins. Can you understand it? I know I could never put up with a husband who was flagrantly unfaithful to me, and all the time ! Could you? Could you put up with a wife who was unfaithful to you all the time?”
    He smiles. “Since I’ve never had a wife, I can’t say,” he says.
    â€œThat’s probably why you’ve never had a wife. To spare yourself that aggravation.”
    He merely lowers his eyes and stirs the olive, on its toothpick, in his martini.
    â€œBut Mother—she seems just as unconcerned about Daddy’s womanizing now that he’s dead as she was when he was alive. Maybe someday you can explain my mother to me, Tomcat.”
    â€œI think,” he says carefully, “that your mother’s a