Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 07 by Carnal Hours (v5.0) Page B
Authors: Carnal Hours (v5.0)
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lamps lit, and even had the candelabras going, their flames leaning like deckhands on the Titanic.
“Voila,” he said, admiring his work, and I was thinking that he didn’t seem to know much more French than I did, when the rains came.
The guests laughed, some of the ladies squealing in a manner that I’m sure they thought was delightfully feminine.
“Inside, everyone!” de Marigny called, as his black servants quickly removed the table settings.
The guests, pelted with raindrops, were scattering, fleeing for shelter.
In my spot in the bushes, I was drenched already.
“Merde,” I said to myself, and headed back to the Buick.
And there I sat for a very long time. Machine-gun rain battering the car, drumming on the roof, palm trees swaying, fronds rustling, scratching like sandpaper rubbing together, wind whistling disgustedly through its teeth, carrying sickly sweet floral scents. With my windows up, I was hot in the car, windows fogging up. Heat and rain. Yet I was chilled….
When the rains came, we covered the shell hole with camouflage tenting; when the tenting had collected water, we drank from its edge, guzzling it greedily, draining some of it into our empty canteens. The rain seemed to rouse even the wounded among us, and we huddled together, wondering when the Japs would come again, with their machine guns, bayonets, mortar shells….
A crack of thunder snapped me awake, though I at first thought a mortar shell had hit. I was in a cold sweat, only there was nothing cold about it. I craved a cigarette.
Not a good sign: the only time in my life I ever smoked was those months I was in the Corps, on the Island—Guadalcanal. The nicotine craving came only rarely, since I got back—like the malaria flare-ups, one of which seemed to have hold of me now.
I cracked the window to unfog the windshield. The rain hammered down. I checked my wristwatch: almost midnight. How long had I slept? Had I missed anything? Maybe I ought to take my camera and go wading across the streaming street and crawl through the soaked shrubbery and see if some sort of Caribbean white-folks-only orgy was in progress.
But about that time the party began to break up; couples found their way to their cars—with the exception of the puffy Clark Gable and his underage Betty Grable. Oh, the happy couple exited, all right, snuggled under an umbrella; but they quickly took the side staircase up to what was apparently an apartment over the garage.
Lightning flared as the American Freddie left in the company of one of the male guests, an older, distinguished-looking man. That meant the Count was alone with the two RAF wives.
Maybe de Marigny was going to live up to his reputation.
Maybe I ought to reach for my camera….
But then de Marigny, his jacket collar up, made a run for his Lincoln on the lawn. He got it running, backed it closer to the steps which led from the side of the porch. Then one of the servants—Curtis, I think—escorted the blond RAF wife, under an umbrella, to the waiting car.
I smiled. Looked like I was in business.
Except that then Curtis went back and returned with the brunette under his umbrella, as well. She joined de Marigny and their blond mutual friend in the front seat.
Cozy. I thought of some of the other French words I knew: ménage à trois.
I trailed the Lincoln down to Bay Street, the Buick’s windshield wipers working furiously. His car swayed in the wind; so did mine. Neither vehicle was exactly a featherweight, either. The rain was unremitting. The street was half flooded, completely flooded around blocked drains; the shops were shuttered and shining with rain, turned silver-blue now and then by lightning. A pharmacy’s neon stood out in the night like a modern apparition.
We went past my hotel—alive with occasional lights, a bed waiting there for me—and headed west. This was the way Samuel had taken Miss Bristol and me, earlier today, a century ago. A little ways beyond Westbourne,
“Voila,” he said, admiring his work, and I was thinking that he didn’t seem to know much more French than I did, when the rains came.
The guests laughed, some of the ladies squealing in a manner that I’m sure they thought was delightfully feminine.
“Inside, everyone!” de Marigny called, as his black servants quickly removed the table settings.
The guests, pelted with raindrops, were scattering, fleeing for shelter.
In my spot in the bushes, I was drenched already.
“Merde,” I said to myself, and headed back to the Buick.
And there I sat for a very long time. Machine-gun rain battering the car, drumming on the roof, palm trees swaying, fronds rustling, scratching like sandpaper rubbing together, wind whistling disgustedly through its teeth, carrying sickly sweet floral scents. With my windows up, I was hot in the car, windows fogging up. Heat and rain. Yet I was chilled….
When the rains came, we covered the shell hole with camouflage tenting; when the tenting had collected water, we drank from its edge, guzzling it greedily, draining some of it into our empty canteens. The rain seemed to rouse even the wounded among us, and we huddled together, wondering when the Japs would come again, with their machine guns, bayonets, mortar shells….
A crack of thunder snapped me awake, though I at first thought a mortar shell had hit. I was in a cold sweat, only there was nothing cold about it. I craved a cigarette.
Not a good sign: the only time in my life I ever smoked was those months I was in the Corps, on the Island—Guadalcanal. The nicotine craving came only rarely, since I got back—like the malaria flare-ups, one of which seemed to have hold of me now.
I cracked the window to unfog the windshield. The rain hammered down. I checked my wristwatch: almost midnight. How long had I slept? Had I missed anything? Maybe I ought to take my camera and go wading across the streaming street and crawl through the soaked shrubbery and see if some sort of Caribbean white-folks-only orgy was in progress.
But about that time the party began to break up; couples found their way to their cars—with the exception of the puffy Clark Gable and his underage Betty Grable. Oh, the happy couple exited, all right, snuggled under an umbrella; but they quickly took the side staircase up to what was apparently an apartment over the garage.
Lightning flared as the American Freddie left in the company of one of the male guests, an older, distinguished-looking man. That meant the Count was alone with the two RAF wives.
Maybe de Marigny was going to live up to his reputation.
Maybe I ought to reach for my camera….
But then de Marigny, his jacket collar up, made a run for his Lincoln on the lawn. He got it running, backed it closer to the steps which led from the side of the porch. Then one of the servants—Curtis, I think—escorted the blond RAF wife, under an umbrella, to the waiting car.
I smiled. Looked like I was in business.
Except that then Curtis went back and returned with the brunette under his umbrella, as well. She joined de Marigny and their blond mutual friend in the front seat.
Cozy. I thought of some of the other French words I knew: ménage à trois.
I trailed the Lincoln down to Bay Street, the Buick’s windshield wipers working furiously. His car swayed in the wind; so did mine. Neither vehicle was exactly a featherweight, either. The rain was unremitting. The street was half flooded, completely flooded around blocked drains; the shops were shuttered and shining with rain, turned silver-blue now and then by lightning. A pharmacy’s neon stood out in the night like a modern apparition.
We went past my hotel—alive with occasional lights, a bed waiting there for me—and headed west. This was the way Samuel had taken Miss Bristol and me, earlier today, a century ago. A little ways beyond Westbourne,
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