Dragonfly Bones (22 page)

“Cancel the ticket,” Gordon said. “Where can I meet you?”

“I'll arrange a secure, private location. I'll call you in twelve hours.”

“I'll need more time to get half a million dollars.”

“Here's my proposition. I'll arrange a location that will house, say, half a dozen people. You contact other managers on the Circuit, you have them fly into Tucson, and I'll discuss the product with all of you.”

“If you can guarantee this to be a continuing relationship, I'll bring in seven other women. But if it's a onetime thing, just me.”

“If you're satisfied with the product, and if I'm satisfied with your money, I'll absolutely bring another batch with me.”

“I'll need a day to think about this,” she said.

“Miss Gordon,” Don said. “I'll give you fifteen minutes to decide. If you have to consult somebody about your decision, I'll give you five minutes. Then I'll hotline your cell and landline phones.”

“Hotline?” she said.

“I'll shut them down. You won't be able to call anybody for ten minutes. At the end of your grace period, I will call you back.”

He hung up.

“Hotline?” I grinned. “That's what the phone companies tell their deadbeat customers. I didn't know you could do that.”

“I can't,” he said. “But it rattled her anyway. Okay, kids. Why don't the two of you get into Tucson and see what's available at the Arizona Inn?”

30

B
rittles drove slowly down Elm Street, past the entrance to the inn. Half a dozen older couples stood in front of the inn, a few with champagne flutes. All expensively dressed in that typically rich Tucsonan style that looks just about two inches off true elegance to somebody from New York or San Francisco or Paris.

We circled the entire block, eyes cutting back and forth at all the cars, people walking, backpacked University of Arizona students on bicycles. Brittles turned even farther from the inn, down a parallel street, pointing at a large home as we glided past.

“They say Joe Bananas used to live around here.”

“Who?”

“Mob boss. From back East. Came out here to be respectable. I don't know if he lives there or not. Good story, anyhow.”

“Why don't we park somewhere?”

A few turns later, we came up on the western side of the inn property to a large gated compound, the old, greened gates standing open. He stopped, backed up, and drove through the gates. We parked at the far end, where a young man waited for us, watching. He wore dark blue shorts, a white shirt, and a loose-woven hat with a blue band around the brim with the words
ARIZONA INN
.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Is that the Greenway House?”

Brittles pointed at a stucco wall surrounding a compound, two steps up to the front of an open doorway, planters of agave and roses everywhere.

“No. That's the Breasted House. But it's currently occu
pied by a private party. I apologize, but they've asked not to be disturbed this morning.”

Brittles turned to an expanse of perfectly green grass, one side interlaid with heavy stepping stones. Behind a wall exploding with purple and red bougainvillea, I saw a two-story colonnade, rounded arches just under a flat red-tiled roof. A second part of the property stood like an equal-sized leg of an “L.” Blue window casings on both buildings, a huge palm tree in the courtyard just at the base of the “L,” with lawn chairs and planters surrounding a private swimming pool.

“And the Greenway House? Is that unoccupied?”

“Yes, sir. I believe it's vacant for the next five days. After that, it's booked solid through the summer.”

“Excellent,” Brittles said. “Who can talk about renting it?”

“We don't ‘rent' rooms,” the man said. “But to reserve the Greenway House, please go inside the main building and ask for Janet.”

“Janet,” Brittles said to me. “Well, my sweet. Let's go ask for Janet.”

“Out
standing,
” the young man said, keying a portable radio. “And who shall I say is coming?”

“I am,” Brittles said with a grin to me, taking my arm.

“Sir, I meant,” the young man said with absolutely no loss of dignity or even a smile at the joke, “if you'd give me your name, sir.”

“Mister and Miss,” I said.

“Outstanding. If you'll follow me to the main building, please? And welcome to the inn.”

“Polite guy,” I said as we passed a large patio dining area.

Inside, a middle-aged couple sat across from each other, both slumped against their seat cushions. The man said something, gesturing with his hands, but the woman just stirred the straw in her cherry Coke, listlessly ate another french fry. The man continued talking, but I could see tears on the woman's face. She turned sideways to avoid him, saw me looking at her, grabbed a napkin, and swiped it across her
eyes. The man looked at me also and shot me the finger. He threw money on the table and they both went outside to the parking lot.

“Sir?” the front desk clerk said with a Scottish burr. “Can I help you?”

“Janet,” Brittles said.

“Go to my left, to the first open door. Inside, knock on the door on the left side of the room.”

We knocked. A young woman opened the door.

“Are you Janet?” Brittles asked politely.

“I am,” an older woman said from her desk on the right, a cheerful smile on her face, a wireless headset secure on her bobbed hair. “Are you Mister and, was it Miss or Missus? About the Greenway House?”

“Marc Becker,” Brittles said. “And my wife. Tara Prindle.”

“How can I help you?”

Unlike the young man in the hat, Janet was a stronger combination of business and affability.

“We should like to, uh, how do you put it? Rent the Greenway House?”

“We don't rent, Mr. Becker. But it's available next week for five days. You could check in late Sunday afternoon, stay until Friday.”

“Outstanding,” Brittles said. “Per
fect
. May we see it, please?”

“Certainly. Let me get the assistant manager.”

“You'll do.”

“Well. That's not right, that I show you the property.”

“But we like you. Don't we, honey buns?”

“Yes,” I said with a huge grin as Brittles brushed his hand across my buttocks as he slid it around my shoulders for a hug.

“All right.” Janet nodded at one of the other women and removed her headset. “Would you like a brief tour of the inn's public facilities? The library? The restaurants, the gardens, the main swimming pool?”

“Later,” I said.

“We'll eat on the patio, darling.” Brittles squeezed my shoulder.

“I should go over the daily rates,” Janet said, not forgetting business for a minute as she led us past the gift shop and an open formal dining area.

“Whatever,” Brittles said, waving her off. “We're only interested in the privacy, and the number of bedrooms. We'll be having six or seven people flying in for the week. Some of them may stay just a day or two, but I'll want the house for the entire week. Will twenty thousand do?”

“I'd drive you to the moon and back for a week at that money.” Janet grinned as we stood in the house's courtyard. “Okay. It's two stories. Six thousand square feet. Gated entrance, off-street parking, for privacy. Five bedrooms, each with private bath. Two of them are suites, one with a Jacuzzi. Heated pool. This separate residence has two more guest rooms, with a joint living area, fireplace, and patio. Would that be enough bedrooms?”

“Let's go inside,” I said.

Heavy two-by-twelve stained oak rafters on the ceiling of the spacious living room, with all-white fabric chairs and sofa set informally around a huge glass-top coffee table on wrought-iron curled legs. Iron railings surrounded a balcony above the open dining room, where ten chairs surrounded a beautiful oak table, inlaid with an edging of rosewood. The pool stood just outside a sliding glass door.

“There's a kitchen,” Janet said. “A breakfast room. Should your guests want to eat here, rather than in the public rooms.”

“Definitely not in the public rooms,” I said. “Much too public, right, darling?”

“Will you provide staff for twenty-four-hour service?” Brittles asked.

“That can be arranged.”

“And our own chef. A good chef. An
ex
cellent chef.”

“That, too, can be arranged.”

“Out
stand
ing,” Brittles said. “We'll rent it.”

“Reserve it,” Janet said. “And how will you be paying, Mister Becker?”

“I like you, girl,” Brittles said with a slight bow. “I like people who have something excellent to offer for money. Do we have to go back inside?”

“I can take down the information right here,” Janet said, taking a pad and lavender pen from her bag and writing down what she needed quickly. “Welcome to the Arizona Inn. And if you care to eat out on the patio, the inn will be your host.”

Half an hour later, Brittles forked up the last bit of poblano chile and chicken quesadilla. I'd picked at a salad vicoisse, but wasn't really hungry. Patio service stopped at three in the afternoon, but three other tables were still occupied. A foursome played bridge, shuffling and dealing nonstop with little talk.

Inside the banquet room, a wedding party sang Mexican corridas. A young woman, wearing a brocaded silk evening gown and four-inch lavender shoes, came along the walkway pushing a gold-gilded harp toward the banquet room.

Inside, a guitarist struck up a flamenco arpeggio. Through the half-open door, I saw the bride and groom strike dance positions, facing each other. The bride's wedding gown reached from the floor to her neck, but when she turned to take position, I saw her bare back, the dress open at the shoulders and tapering to finally close at the base of her spine. Her shoulder blades, her muscles, her vertebrae, all stood in naked fleshy contrast to the imperial whiteness of her gown.

At the first minor chord from the guitarist, the couple started tapping their shoes against the tile floor, their bodies motionless, like Irish dancers, just the feet moving. The bride bent her shoulders and the groom swiveled his hips, hands in front of him holding an imaginary bullfighter's cape.

Young, I thought. Twenties. No more. All their future ahead.

Three fortyish women sat near us, all of them on their fourth drink, and another foursome, one couple obviously French, talked and laughed quietly. I'd been listening to the three women, one of them complaining constantly about how she'd been cut out of a large real estate deal by her boss. A mousy blonde kept trying, unsuccessfully, to be both a friend and a therapist, but the complainer hardly stopped whining. The third woman, a dark-haired Latina, spoke little around her margarita glass, but she was the one facing me and finally stood up, unsteady, shoving her metal chair back so hard it crashed on its back. She finished the margarita and came up to me.

“You want to join us?” she said bitterly.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You've been listening so hard, I thought you'd be able to hear better if you just came and sat at the table.”

“Audrey,” the blonde called. “Get back here.”

“This bitch is fascinated by us. I thought this bitch might join us, so we can all talk at once.”

“Audrey!”

Brittles half rose from his chair.

“Oh. That's so sweet. You're going to protect her and all.”

“Leave us alone,” Brittles said.

“I'll leave hell alone,” she shouted. “Until this cunt apologizes.”

“Please,” I said. “I didn't hear a word you said.”

Two waiters appeared on either side of the woman, one of them holding a large aluminum serving platter in front of him, defensively I thought at first, but he very carefully got between me and the woman, talking quietly to her, offering her another margarita if she'd please go back to her table, there was a wedding party she was disturbing, please, ma'am, the inn asks if you'd please sit at your table.

“Oh,” the woman said, lurching against the serving tray. “Who's getting married? Let me see, I have to see if I know her.”

“They're from Nogales,” the waiter said. “I doubt you'd know them.”

“Nogales,” she said in surprise. “Greasers can afford to get married at the goddam Arizona Inn? Huh. Listen. Girls. Lemme tell you who's getting married.”

A waiter held her chair ready, and she slumped into it as another waiter brought a fresh margarita. The bridge foursome barely looked up at the whole exchange, concentrating on the blue-haired lady in a
SISTERS IN CRIME
tee-shirt who brought home a small slam.

“I'm sorry,” a woman said behind me, “for the…slight confusion.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

“And would you be Mister Becker and Miss Prindle?”

“Yes,” Brittles answered.

“Janet said I might still find you here. I'm Judy Vaughn. Head of housekeeping. She said you wanted, um, special arrangements? For next week at the Greenway House?”

She held a pad, ready to write.

“Yes,” Brittles said. “All seven rooms will be occupied. I'll want housekeeping to provide a person for each room. Two more staff on call. Can I also arrange the kitchen and wait staff with you?”

“I'll take down what you need and pass it on.”

“Outstanding. Here's exactly what I want. And if you'd ask Janet to arrange it, we're both very tired. I think we'd like to stay in one of your other rooms tonight. I want to see your evening menu. Talk to the chef.”

We started to get up, but the Frenchman began a story, in French, about the true French meaning of savoir faire. Nathan listened closely and smiled. When the storyteller finished, to polite laughs and clapping hands, Nathan took me to the front desk to get our key.