because people know I’m with Spencer. ’Cept I wake up one day and Spencer’s
gone. Then it comes out he’s gone with a bunch of their money.” She was drying the
sleeper’s chest as she spoke, using a thick wad of white absorbent fiber. “So they
knock me around a little.” She looked up at him and shrugged. “But then they tell
me what they’re gonna do. They’re gonna cuff my hands behind my back and put me in
the tank with Moby Jane and turn her drip up real high and tell her my boyfriend ripped
her off.…” She tossed the damp wad into the bowl. “So they locked me up in this closet
to let me think about it before they did it. When the door opens, though, it’s Kid
Afrika. I never saw him before. ‘Miss Chesterfield,’ he said, ‘I have reason tobelieve you were until recently a certified medical technician.”
“So he made you an offer.”
“Offer, my ass. He just checked my papers and took me straight on out of there. Not
a soul around, either, and it was Saturday afternoon. Took me out in the parking lot,
there’s this hover sittin’ in the lot, skulls on the front, two big black guys waiting
for us, and any way away from that float tank, that’s just fine by me.”
“Had our friend in the back?”
“No.” Peeling off the gloves. “Had me drive him back to Cleveland, to this burb. Big
old houses but the lawns all long and scraggy. Went to one with a lot of security,
guess it was his. This one,” and she tucked the blue sleeping bag up around the man’s
chin, “he was in a bedroom. I had to start right in. Kid told me he’d pay me good.”
“And you knew he’d bring you out here, to the Solitude?”
“No. Don’t think he did, either. Something happened. He came in next day and said
we were leaving. I think something scared him. That’s when he called him that, the
Count, ’Cause he was angry and I think maybe scared. ‘The Count and his fucking LF,’
he said.”
“His what?”
“ ‘LF.’ ”
“What’s that?”
“I think this,” she said, pointing up at the featureless gray package mounted above
the man’s head.
7
NO THERE, THERE
She imagined Swift waiting for her on the deck, wearing the tweeds he favored in an
L.A. winter, the vest and jacket mismatched, herringbone and houndstooth, but everything
woven from the same wool, and that, probably, from the same sheep on the same hillside,
the whole look orchestrated in London, by committee, in a room above a Floral Street
shop he’d never seen. They did striped shirts for him, brought the cotton from Charvet
in Paris; they made his ties, had the silk woven in Osaka, the Sense/Net logo embroidered
tight and small. And still, somehow, he looked as though his mother had dressed him.
The deck was empty. The Dornier hovered, then darted away to its nest. Mamman Brigitte’s
presence still clung to her.
She went into the white kitchen and scrubbed drying blood from her face and hands.
When she stepped into the living room, she felt as though she were seeing it for the
first time. The bleached floor, the gilt frames and cut-velvet upholstery of the Louis
XVI chairs, the Cubist backdrop of a Valmier. Like Hilton’s wardrobe, she thought,contrived by talented strangers. Her boots tracked damp sand across the pale floor
as she went to the stairwell.
Kelly Hickman, her wardrobe man, had been to the house while she’d been in the clinic;
he’d arranged her working luggage in the master bedroom. Nine Hermès rifle cases,
plain and rectangular, like coffins of burnished saddle hide. Her clothes were never
folded; they lay each garment flat, between sheets of silk tissue.
She stood in the doorway, staring at the empty bed, the nine leather coffins.
She went into the bathroom, glass block and white mosaic tile, locking the door behind
her. She opened one cabinet, then another, ignoring neat rows of unopened toiletries,
patent medicines, cosmetics. She
gone. Then it comes out he’s gone with a bunch of their money.” She was drying the
sleeper’s chest as she spoke, using a thick wad of white absorbent fiber. “So they
knock me around a little.” She looked up at him and shrugged. “But then they tell
me what they’re gonna do. They’re gonna cuff my hands behind my back and put me in
the tank with Moby Jane and turn her drip up real high and tell her my boyfriend ripped
her off.…” She tossed the damp wad into the bowl. “So they locked me up in this closet
to let me think about it before they did it. When the door opens, though, it’s Kid
Afrika. I never saw him before. ‘Miss Chesterfield,’ he said, ‘I have reason tobelieve you were until recently a certified medical technician.”
“So he made you an offer.”
“Offer, my ass. He just checked my papers and took me straight on out of there. Not
a soul around, either, and it was Saturday afternoon. Took me out in the parking lot,
there’s this hover sittin’ in the lot, skulls on the front, two big black guys waiting
for us, and any way away from that float tank, that’s just fine by me.”
“Had our friend in the back?”
“No.” Peeling off the gloves. “Had me drive him back to Cleveland, to this burb. Big
old houses but the lawns all long and scraggy. Went to one with a lot of security,
guess it was his. This one,” and she tucked the blue sleeping bag up around the man’s
chin, “he was in a bedroom. I had to start right in. Kid told me he’d pay me good.”
“And you knew he’d bring you out here, to the Solitude?”
“No. Don’t think he did, either. Something happened. He came in next day and said
we were leaving. I think something scared him. That’s when he called him that, the
Count, ’Cause he was angry and I think maybe scared. ‘The Count and his fucking LF,’
he said.”
“His what?”
“ ‘LF.’ ”
“What’s that?”
“I think this,” she said, pointing up at the featureless gray package mounted above
the man’s head.
7
NO THERE, THERE
She imagined Swift waiting for her on the deck, wearing the tweeds he favored in an
L.A. winter, the vest and jacket mismatched, herringbone and houndstooth, but everything
woven from the same wool, and that, probably, from the same sheep on the same hillside,
the whole look orchestrated in London, by committee, in a room above a Floral Street
shop he’d never seen. They did striped shirts for him, brought the cotton from Charvet
in Paris; they made his ties, had the silk woven in Osaka, the Sense/Net logo embroidered
tight and small. And still, somehow, he looked as though his mother had dressed him.
The deck was empty. The Dornier hovered, then darted away to its nest. Mamman Brigitte’s
presence still clung to her.
She went into the white kitchen and scrubbed drying blood from her face and hands.
When she stepped into the living room, she felt as though she were seeing it for the
first time. The bleached floor, the gilt frames and cut-velvet upholstery of the Louis
XVI chairs, the Cubist backdrop of a Valmier. Like Hilton’s wardrobe, she thought,contrived by talented strangers. Her boots tracked damp sand across the pale floor
as she went to the stairwell.
Kelly Hickman, her wardrobe man, had been to the house while she’d been in the clinic;
he’d arranged her working luggage in the master bedroom. Nine Hermès rifle cases,
plain and rectangular, like coffins of burnished saddle hide. Her clothes were never
folded; they lay each garment flat, between sheets of silk tissue.
She stood in the doorway, staring at the empty bed, the nine leather coffins.
She went into the bathroom, glass block and white mosaic tile, locking the door behind
her. She opened one cabinet, then another, ignoring neat rows of unopened toiletries,
patent medicines, cosmetics. She
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