Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (183 page)

'These threads,' Cleo announced succinctly, 'are part of the
new me.' She stretched her magnificent elongated swan's neck
and fluttered her lashes. 'You better git used to it. I'm gettin'
married in September!'

'Whoa!' Daliah blinked suspiciously and made a little ges
ture with a finger. 'Back up there for a moment. You? Married? Since when were you the hausfrau type? Why, I don't
even recall your telling me you were dating anybody after you
broke up with Serge. Is it him? Did you two kiss and make
up?'

'Rich woman, you know
he's
ancient history.'

'Rich woman?' Daliah burst out laughing. 'I thought I was
White
Woman.'

'You was till you met Daddy Warbucks, here.' Cleo smiled
at Najib and said, 'Hel-
lo
there, handsome.'

Daliah affectionately placed an arm around Cleo's waist.
'Cleo, I want you to meet Najib; Najib, this is Cleo, my best
friend, confidante, and sometime pain in the ass!'

Najib held out his hand, but Cleo ignored it and gave him
a hug and kissed his cheek.

'And this is Jerome St.-Tessier, who I've told you so much about,' Daliah continued dryly. 'And this is Patsy Lipschitz,
my agent. And this . . .' Daliah frowned and looked at Cleo
for help.

'This,' Cleo said as she pulled the reluctant black man for
ward, 'is Coyote.'

Daliah stared at the tall man, and then at Cleo. 'That's not
the same Coyote who—'

'The very same.' Cleo nodded happily. 'How's he lookin'?
Good, huh?'

Daliah looked at Coyote more closely. She had to admit that
there
was
some
resemblance to the pimp, but it just couldn't be
the same man. This one was a tall, lean man who was well-
groomed and handsome. In fact, he looked like a high-fashion
model.

Daliah was dazed. 'Miss Cleopatra, honey, you must forgive
me. I feel like I'm in some sort of time warp. Would one of
you kindly explain?'

Cleo grinned. 'Well, while you were gone, Patsy came to
see me. Seems she wanted to pump me for information about
your whereabouts, and then remembered they were looking
to cast a black chick in a feature film, so before you know it,
she had me sign with her agency.'

'And?' Daliah demanded. 'Did it work out?'

'Uh-uh.' Cleo shook her head morosely. 'They didn't want
me, but the same producers are castin' a prime-time TV crime
series, and when I went to the audition, Coyote was with me
and they wanted him! They tested him and he got the part.
How you like that? So it's good-bye pimpin' an' hel-lo, Holly
wood, hello.'

'Daliah . . .' Jerome grabbed her by the arm and pulled
her aside. As usual, he looked sullen and moody, and she
wondered what she had ever seen in him. He was handsome
enough, and no one knew better than she how talented he was, but next to Najib he looked like a spoiled brat.

'We have to talk,' he said in a low voice. 'Before you do
anything rash, I want you to know how I feel about . . .
uh . . . things.' He looked around pointedly. 'Isn't there any
place we can go and talk in private?'

She shook her head. 'Sorry, Jer,' she said. 'Anything you
have to say, you can say in front of Najib.'

'All right.' Jerome looked unenthusiastic but plunged
ahead. 'I missed you, dammit!' When Daliah didn't respond, he looked down at his feet, sighed, and looked back up at her. 'Look, I want you to come back to me. I've found alternative
financing for the movie, and we can still live and work
together. What do you say? It'll be just like old times.'

'I'm sorry, Jerome. It wouldn't be like old times. Things
have changed.
I've
changed. And besides, I'm in love with
Najib.'

There was a hint of cruel anger in his laughter. 'That's a
joke! First, you walked out on me because Arabs wanted to
finance your film, and now you won't come back to me because
you're in love with one? Really, Daliah, I'm not a fool, you
know.'

'I never said you were, but that's the way things are. I'm
sorry, Jer. I really am.'

'Bitch,' he hissed, and turned his back. Hands in pockets,
he stared sullenly across the terminal.

Patsy took the opportunity to push herself in front of
Daliah. 'You were brilliant, dollcake!' she crowed. 'Brilliant!'
She grabbed Daliah's arm and started to walk her away from
Jerome. 'You know, that kidnapping was the best publicity
stunt anyone's ever cooked up!'

Daliah stared at the gargantuan woman. She couldn't
believe she was hearing this. 'For your information, Patsy,
what I went through was bloody hell! It wasn't make-believe
like some fucking movie!'

'Of course it wasn't,' Patsy agreed. 'But that's beside the point. You're the talk of the country. It's made you real hot
stuff. My phone's been ringing off the hook, and the offers
have been pouring in. Bolotsky at Paramount's offering you
six mil to do
one
film!
Six mil!
That's right up there with
Brando and Hackman. Of course, Jerome's agreed to match
it.' She looked over at him. 'Haven't you, Jerome?' she called
out. She didn't wait for a reply.
'
That makes twelve mil for
not even a year's worth of work.
And
Karl Lorimar's topped
CBS Video's offer for the exercise tape by two hundred thou—
Daliah!
'
Patsy stared at her. 'Aren't you listenin' to me?'

Daliah sighed. 'I'll think about it, Patsy. If I do decide to
make another movie, 1 promise you'll be the agent, okay?'

'Daliah!' Patsy looked ready to faint. 'What are you tryin'
to tell me? Of course you'll make another movie! Why, the
money—'

'Patsy,' she said wearily, 'in a few days I'll become one of
the richest women in the world. A few million is a drop in the
bucket. Now,
please
. . .'

Jerome and Patsy both started yelling so loud that she didn't
even try to make out what either of them was saying. She
drew up alongside Najib. It was then that they saw a horde of
photographers, who must have been tipped off, come running.
Daliah glanced up at Najib.

He seemed to read her mind. Leaning down to kiss her, he
murmured, 'We can run back through customs to the plane,
and it can be back up in the air within forty-five minutes. That
means we would be at the yacht in another thirteen or fourteen
hours—'

'And no one can bother us at sea.' She smiled dazzlingly.
'Verrrry interesting.'

Laughing like children, they dashed back toward customs
and the 727.

On September 3,1983, Inge celebrated her ninetieth birthday.
The local newspaper printed a front-page article about her, using a photograph she complained bitterly about, claiming
she couldn't possibly look
that
old, and when the mayor came
to congratulate her, she feistily said, 'Come back when I turn one hundred, sank you very much.' She had lost none of her
spunk and was as lucid and spry as ever.

No tourists occupied the motel that Labour Day week. Inge had kept the Sou'westerner Motel purposely vacant so that it would be at the disposal of her friends. To discourage off-the-
road tourists, the No Vacancy sign was prominently lit, and
soon the cabins were full of the guests of her choosing. From
Tel Aviv came Tamara, Dani, Schmarya, Ari and Sissi, and
their two children; from Lebanon came Najib's parents; and Daliah and Najib and their not-quite-two-year-old daughter,
Jasmine, came up from Manhattan.

They arrived quietly, almost furtively, flying in on Najib's
jet so that the press would not be aroused.

It was to be a quiet family affair.

There were no caterers, no musicians, and no local guests save for Otha, who, as the only concession to Inge's age, was
grudgingly allowed to run the motel. The party took place in
the biggest room—Inge's kitchen—and everyone pitched in. Colourful construction-paper chains crisscrossed overhead,
and Sissi draped the utilitarian dinette chairs, which Inge
wouldn't have dreamed of allowing to be replaced, with festive
lengths of fabric, while Tamara fashioned cloth bows to stick onto the backs. Daliah arranged the voluminous buckets of
flowers.

The food selection crossed all borders. Sissi prepared her
Jewish specialties—whitefish and mazoh-ball soup and pung
ent red cabbage—and Najib's mother roasted a shank of lamb
in the Middle Eastern manner and cooked up bistella. Otha
added her Southern-fried chicken, kernel-studded cornbread,
and hot dogs for the kids. Najib added a hamper of Middle
Eastern delicacies and two king-size tins of caviar—nutty-
flavoured golden osetra, and large-grained greyish beluga—as
well as a case of 1979 Dom Perignon. Tamara and Daliah
baked and decorated the birthday cake themselves, and if
it didn't look exactly professional—with a mountain of icing
drooping at one end—everyone exclaimed over it.

Throughout the day and long into the evening, the family
ate, caught up on news and gossip, and doted on the children,
the familiar sounds of English punctuated with occasional
bursts of exotic Hebrew and Arabic. The family was, after all,
a United Nations in microcosm. This was the third year in a
row that they had congregated on Cape Cod to celebrate Inge's birthday, and the third of September had become
known as the unofficial but acknowledged date of their family
reunions. Inge, not tied to them by blood, but by bonds of
love that were equally strong, looked forward to these
occasions, even though they left her feeling tired afterward
and glad for the stretch of quiet ahead. But the weariness of
age would not make itself felt for another day or so. Meanwhile, she revelled in the noise and laughter, and spoiled the
children shamelessly.