The Jewel Box (34 page)

Beau and I spent an entire Saturday watching his VHS taping of
Lonesome Dove
, with Beau expounding on the courage of Angelica Huston’s character, “Clara moved onto a better life, despite loving Gus.”

“Yes, she did.”

“So get over Gabriel and move on with your life, baby.”

“You need medication for your delusions, Beau. Now, tell me more Vegas stories.”

“One day I’ll record all my adventures. . . after I’m finishing having them. You know I intend to die in Vegas, not Houston.”

“Yes, my favorite raconteur, you’ve told me.”

“So, baby.” Beau mischievously winked. “Would you like to come into my bedroom and look at my etchings?”

“You still burn cool.” I followed him.

Inside his bedroom closet sat an old treasure chest with worn red satin lining. It was filled with memorabilia, but easily recognizable as the once beautiful chest that sat inside the entry of the Jewel Box decades ago.

“Remember these two?” Beau handed me a faded photo of policeman Zane and Wendy, the walleyed dancer he wound up marrying. “Don’t know why I still have this.” He shook his head. “What a pair.”

“Yeah, a super hairy, horny cop and a gal whose one eye went straight to men’s private parts.”

“Her cute face couldn’t detract from her ocular affliction, therefore we agreed she’d only work long enough to earn airfare to Ohio. Two weeks later she hooked up with Zane, who kept her at home. A blessing for everyone since her involuntary roving eye made customers uncomfortable.”

“Who’d think zooming in on the crotch would bother a guy?”

“Beats me, but men did complain about her gawking at their southern regions.”

“Probably insecure guys whose units couldn’t handle close scrutiny,” I said.

Beau chuckled and began showing me photos of him and Benny Binion at the Horseshoe Pub, a register from the private club he owned in Dallas
with signatures of Lyndon Baines Johnson, Joe E. Lewis, and other famous personalities. “I could tell you a story about my brief association with Jack Ruby, but I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me.”

“There’s nothing you could say or do to ever make me think badly of you. The respect you’ve shown and taught me over the years can’t be undone that easily.”

Beau seemed humbled as he fell into a long coughing bout. When he settled down, I monopolized the conversation so he wouldn’t work himself into a frenzy regaling me with tales.

“I never want to leave Houston, Beau. Texas is my heart, so mosquitoes, humidity, traffic, flash floods, two blazing hot summer months and one freezing cold winter month are tolerable when we get to look up at these beautiful skies.”

“Yeah, I’ve lived here so many years now, Houston’s grown on me too. Gotta admit I love how foliage stays green year round, and most days I’m able to wake up with birds singing around me. Hell, I even get a kick out of watching squirrels scamper around the leafy old oak trees while I drink my morning coffee out on the deck.”

My cue to exit. “Okay, I better leave so you can rest and wake up with the birds tomorrow.”

Beau escorted me out the door, and kept it ajar. “Remember, baby, I love Texas as much as you, but want to be sitting at a Black Jack table in the new Mirage Casino and bellow ‘Hit me again!’ before keeling over. I’d love to be hauled out through the front with people saying ‘Looks like we’ve lost another high roller’ while they keep placing bets.”

“Texas traitor,” I yelled while walking away.

“Cosmopolitan cowgirl.” Beau’s raspy voice echoed into Houston’s humid night air.

23

After Nikki left with her cousin Jim and his new bride Roxanne for a Christmas skiing trip in Aspen, the only holiday spirit filling my house was excitement about Brandon and Bianca’s wedding. I was looking forward to being with Beau for the evening when the phone rang. “I’m just not well enough, baby,” Beau apologized.

“I’ll be right over.”

“No, you won’t.” His bass, fatherly tone rang through. “You’ll go to that wedding and have fun.”

“Ha. People think I’m a social butterfly, but I’m petrified of crowds. I just put on a good facade and a buttload of deodorant.”

“Then mingle with millionaires and let the egomaniacs do all the talking.”

“Please feel better soon, Beau. You owe me dinner.”

Ten minutes into my reception mingling efforts, I noticed a towering brunet with resonant voice, putting a humorous slant on everything from antiballistic missiles to Zionism for an awe-struck audience. Entertaining like he was being paid for it, he recited JFK’s inauguration speech by heart, then Patton’s address to the troops. Nothing subtle about this man. Just as my mind wandered onto Gabriel’s soft spoken mannerisms and how his dry humor flew past most people, the boom hit my eardrum. Perched slightly above my left shoulder, Scott introduced himself. Thirty minutes later I knew the life story of this former fighter pilot and tax attorney turned lobbyist. Heaven help me. Taxes and politics. Scott told about dove hunting
trips in Beeville, fishing at Kennebunkport, and playing golf with Vice President George Bush, before rolling into accolades for Reaganomics. As he egotistically described his Washington D.C. apartment with its spectacular view of the Capitol and his digs at The Houstonian, I scanned the room for an escape hatch.

There was no slipping away from this guy. He was ubiquitous. And no matter how minor the happenstance, Scott bounced into magniloquence that would have impressed Bill Buckley—or he rolled into humorous impressions of everyone from Pee Wee Herman to Henry Kissinger. He was unquestionably brilliant (Brandon said a 160 IQ), and by the end of the evening, I was laughing along with everyone else. It was obvious Scott had tossed back more than his fair share of whiskey, but then I was the only semi-sober one of the bunch.

After two weeks of persuasive calls from Brandon and Bianca, I agreed to a date with Gabriel’s polar opposite. Scott had an unbelievable Valentino thing going, arriving with roses, complimenting everything from my head to my toes, taking me to a romantic dinner at Tony’s, and quoting Shakespeare when appropriate. During our meal, Scott introduced me to several folks who stopped by our table. I didn’t recognize most names, but certainly recognized Houston’s hilarious sportscaster, Craig Roberts who spent several minutes chatting with Scott. I couldn’t tell if he actually knew Craig or had simply covered his tab.

“Come with me to Houston’s upcoming Consular Ball,” Scott slurred at evening’s end. “It’s a white-tie and tails gala event. You get to meet members of the Bush clan, Texas Attorney General Jim Mattox, Houston’s Mayor Kathy Whitmire, and other dignitaries.

“What do I wear?”

“I’ll take care of that. Just say you’ll go.”

Scott insisted on paying for my formal dress even though I assured him a personal relationship was not in our future. My evening gown was handmade by a tailor in West U (a wealthy city within a city, where local television celebs, athletes and affluent folks reside). It wasn’t Armani, but a spectacular one-of-a-kind emerald green number. We mingled with local
and international socialites while Scott proceeded to drink his stocky self into oblivion. I snagged his car keys, drove his Mercedes to my house, and then sent him to my guest room to sleep it off.

“What’s he doing sacked out here?” Nikki stopped by the following morning and couldn’t help but hear Scott’s snoring. “I thought you weren’t romantically interested.”

“There’s no hanky-panky going on. Even friendship with him is iffy. He’s too high society, drinks too much, and is a flaming male chauvinist.”

“C’mon, Mom. The only thing worse than a male chauvinist is a woman who won’t do what she’s told,” Nikki joked while popping a bagel into the toaster.

“You’re too young to be quoting Jack Benny and George Burns.”

“I’m an old soul, Mom. Someone had to take care of you. And by letting Scott crash here you might’ve opened your doors as a half-way house for drunks.”

“Don’t forecast such horror. I’d have to move again.”

She sat at the table slapping cream cheese on browned bread. “I spoke with the Old Man last night and he sounds mighty unhappy.”

My heart fluttered and for a split second I weakened. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I took several deep breaths. “But Gabriel moved on without me and I’m trying to do the same.”

“Yeaaah? I think you both got stubborn and stopped communicating when your feelings were hurt, but I still believe you’re meant for each other.”

“Nikki, please don’t say that. Our split was over blood being thicker than water.”

“That saying is passé.” She nibbled on her bagel. “Throughout time, people have murdered their own children, siblings, and other blood relatives. Trust and love seem just as powerful as blood to me—maybe even more so.”

“You’re young and gullible.”

“Well, Mom, you vanished without a word, leaving him to come home to an empty house. Then you refused to return. That was an agonizing blow to him.”

“And I apologized. But he still hasn’t apologized for not supporting me over Gloria. Allowing him to get back to life with Lauren and Skylar was the best thing I could have done. He has a relationship with them now, and hopefully they’re as close as he and Luke.”

“Sorry I brought it up. The Old Man asked about you, I know you still love him, and I’m steering clear of this chaotic love story from now on.”

Unfortunately Nikki’s prediction about the half-way house was on target. Scott stopped by my place at all hours when he’d had too much alcohol. Romance wasn’t an option, but he seemed hell bent on a platonic relationship. Fine. Until platonic commences to suck the life from me.

Days later, Scott sat on my sofa polishing off a twelve pack while flipping channels between Kopple and Carson, oblivious to my ringing phone.

“Hello, lovey,” I said, assuming it was Nikki calling so late..

“Hello yourself,” Gabriel responded in dismal voice.

The television was so loud I could barely hear him. My heart pounding wildly, I interrupted Scott’s clicking routine and asked him to hang up the living room phone so I could talk in the bedroom.

“So, Hot Shot, I can’t drive on the freeways without seeing your gargantuan billboards.”

“Ben’s damn idea. We sure as hell don’t need more business.”

“Okay then.” I changed subjects. “So, how are Gloria, Hope, and the rest of your family?”

“Everyone’s fine,” he said despondently.

“Except you.”

“Yeaaah? I never could fool you, Blondie. You always see right through me. I’m unhappy as hell, how are you?”

“I’m happy Gabriel,” I lied. “I’m dating again.” Okay. Another lie. An air of mendacity filled the room as I transformed Scott into my pretend boyfriend. “He’s your complete opposite.”

“I’m glad you’re happy.” Gabriel fired up a smoke. “Blondie why do you think we chose opposites instead of working things out?”

We both knew damn well why we couldn’t work things out. I wanted to shout “Family Ties,” but kept my comment in check. “Well, the opposite you chose has blonde hair, like me.”

“Yeah, but hers is cheesy looking crap that she plasters down with a can of hair spray.”

Oh, I had noticed her truly impressive hairstyle. “How’d you end up with Francine?”

“I was confused and determined to get you out of my mind, and Gloria was trying to fix me up with every woman over the age of sixteen. Christ, Fran’s boldness actually attracted me, can you believe that?”

“Sure. Victoria was outgoing and I’m not exactly shy.”

“Yeaaah, but you’re subtly sarcastic—like me.” He paused, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Anyway, I was drinking during that time and one of the architects arranged a date between us. I didn’t know about her Halcion use until much later.”

“Oh pleeease, Gabriel. How’d you miss that?”

“Like I said, I was drinking too much and didn’t snap that her passing out and falling off bar stools was anything other than booze. Besides, she has a couple of kids younger than Luke.”

“And in steps Gabriel the caretaker. Even so, her bold persona surprises me. You were always in charge.”

“Yeah . . .” he said.

“I’m sorry you’re so down in the dumps, Gabriel.”

“Well, selling the house on Windmill Lane has a lot to do with it, I suppose.”

A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t speak. That house held special memories.

“I got cash for it,” he informed. “And sunk it into a big farm house near Friendswood.”

Last thing I needed to hear was some “Green Acres is the place to be” mantra, since I was no longer Farmer Brown’s wife. I ended the call.

Scott was asleep when I returned to the living room, but woke long enough to ask about the call, and half-listened to my explanation. “Cher, you’re a good friend to listen to him,” he grunted. “Could you turn off that light and toss a blanket over me?” I’d asked him a zillion times not to call
me Cher, but before I could complain, his eyelids slammed shut and snoring resumed.

Didn’t take long for me to realize Scott spewed more fiction than fact. Yes, he knew influential folks, but hanging with them didn’t happen often. If at all. Scott claimed he was pals with Ken Hoffman, a new columnist for
The Houston Post
, whom Nikki and Gabriel adored. And Scott never introduced me to his beloved Morgan Fairchild. Said she insisted their affair be clandestine to maintain her sex-symbol image. Hey, I understood. Johnny Depp asked me not to flaunt our sizzling tryst because his hectic
21 Jump Street
schedule left little time for him to answer questions about our age difference.