Butterflies in Heat Read online

  "Thanks for the warning, but I could have used it before facing the firing squad."

  Over Anne's desk was a billboard advertising, Leonora de la Mer presents THE TASTE OF STEAK TARTARE, a three-act play by Ralph Douglas."

  "Is that the Ralph we know?" Numie asked.

  "One and the same."

  "I didn't know he was a playwright."

  "He's not. The play was never produced.

  "Was there a play at all?"

  "Yes, Leonora was going to produce it, or so she said, When you're fishing, you've got to used bait. We accepted her invitation to come to Sacre-Coeur so Ralph could revise it. Nothing he ever wrote seemed quite right to her. The rewrites stretched on and on. Just as Ralph was about to explode, Leonora would praise him and tantalize him with her backing. I kept urging him to leave Tortuga and go back to New York. But he wouldn't. One morning we didn't hear the typewriter any more." She sighed. "I type letters on it now."

  "You could have gone back alone."

  "With no money? I can just imagine what that would be like. Even though I don't have a husband, I can still be taken to the grocery store in a limousine every time I want a quart of milk."

  "Why are you confiding in me? You have every right to hate me."

  "I just know, I can feel you're joining the household. Tangerine, Ralph, and I are the permanent fixtures. The Numies of this world come and go. You're the new me. If you're going to be joining our happy home, you might as well know something about us."

  "She gave no indication I had the job."

  "Nor would she. That's not how she operates. Believe me, I know her well. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  Through the office doors and into the patio, Numie was blinded by the afternoon sun. The air was so hot he could hardly breathe.

  From the upstairs window, a velvet drapery swung into position. Was Leonora watching?

  Quickly he made his way through the open door, through the garden, through the iron gate, and out onto the street.

  Then, and only then, did he slow his pace.

  Chapter Five

  Back in the hotel lobby, the clerk was holding Numie's key.

  "The key, please," Numie said.

  "The bread, man. You should have paid in advance. You didn't."

  "Okay," Numie said, "I'll go to the bank. Cash a check. Now give me the key."

  "Man, you've got no checks to cash. We both know you're in town to hustle our ass. You'd better find a john if you want that room back tonight."

  "Okay, shithead," Numie said. "Keep the room and my possessions, too. Why not?"

  On the street, the day was moving in. Numie was breathing hard.

  Ralph's gold watch glistened in the sun. In the comer, Numie spotted two Cubans sitting on a bench under a palm.

  "Is there a pawn shop in this town?"

  "No," one of the Cubans said. "No hock. What are you selling?"

  "It's gold." Taking it off, he handed it to one of the Cubans.

  The man fingered it softly, then held it up and listened to it tick. "Give you five dollars."

  "Five dollars—for a gold watch?" Numie said, retrieving it. "Not my gold watch." He walked on down the street.

  That left his remaining chance. The black drag queen, Lola La Mour.

  She repulsed him. But she wouldn't be the first person he'd slept with who did.

  Walking faster now, he could almost feel her lipstick-coated mouth snaking his sweat-drenched body. Maybe he could have sex with her and blot out the vision of what she was. After all, a hustler in his position could hardly select desirable bedmates.

  "Damn it!" he said aloud. "Paying for it's the only way a creep like you is ever going to get near me." Imaginary conversations he'd never have with Lola. Suddenly, he was aware he was talking to himself. But there was no one on the street to notice or care.

  It wasn't that Lola was black. He'd gone that route many times before. It wasn't even that she was a black drag queen. That was familiar turf too. It was her being both black and a drag queen in a small redneck southern town. The tolerance level toward blacks must be low enough. But toward black drag queens, the worst. Or was the worst reserved for a white hustler willing to sell his body to a black drag queen?

  "What the hell?" he asked finally. "A one-time shot in the dark." He laughed bitterly at his own pun.

  At Commodore Philip's, the white Facel-Vega glistened in the afternoon sun.

  Inside, not one customer. Only the bartender, Lola, doing her nails.

  Brushing back her platinum wig, she stuffed a cigarette into her holder with such masculine force she surprised even herself. Then, with more delicate and ladylike fingers, she lit it, blowing smoke rings into the air.

  Breathing deeply, she held out her breasts, making them seem larger than they were. For the life of her, she could never understand what men saw in such things. Breasts repulsed her, particularly hers today. They were sagging absurdly.

  She nervously studied her reflection in the powder-smudged mirror of her compact. Her make-up wasn't staying on right, but running in the heat wave. If she didn't repair it instantly, she looked like a clown. When the Commodore returned from the mainland, she was going to have to entice him to buy air conditioning, a plea she'd registered for the last ten years.

  Suddenly, Numie appeared on the street. A feeling of triumph shot through her. She knew he'd be back. Slamming the compact shut, she adjusted her dress, and prayed that her sweat glands would stop working overtime.

  She stared harshly. No woman ever snared anything by being too easy to get. "The Big Spender!" she said sarcastically. "Come to toss another buck at Lola."

  He eased onto the bar stool. His left leg, held rigidly stiff, started to shake furiously. He hoped Lola wouldn't see it.

  "Look at her," he thought with disgust. "Licking her chops already. She just can't wait to get me," he said to himself.

  "Hi," he said out loud, swallowing hard. "You look just great today. I don't know how you manage in this heat."

  "Get you!" The blood raced madly through her. Thank God she had time to repair her face. She studied him carefully. Despite what he said—about her looking great and all—she could see no desire in him. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe, and this made a lot more sense, he was playing hard to get, too. After all, he was a hustler.

  "Look, babe," he said confidentially. "I've checked out the scene in this town. You're the best-looking thing walking."

  "All the bees swarm around my little honeypot." Once more she thanked her guardian angel that little honeypot was freshly scented with strawberry. Unlike some people, she did not believe in natural body odors. Why smell stale when you could sprinkle yourself with the essence of all the flowers in the field?

  "Here I am." He felt defenseless before her, and he hated her, as he hated all people who had ever held power over him, if only for a moment.

  "Remember what I told you. Lola gets paid. Lola doesn't pay." An obvious lie, so obvious she embarrassed herself while saying it. But in a world of total pretense, why couldn't she be allowed this one indulgence?

  "Okay with me," he said, matching her lie for lie." Only thing is, my bread hasn't come in yet." Another lie. But he knew the code of all respectable liars, all people who live behind masks and facades. As long as he wasn't challenging her lies, she would honor his.

  "I see," she said. "No use making you wait, though. I've been known to make arrangements for credit. There's something vulgar about cash.

  "Agreed." He was glad the negotiating was over. Now he could relax, for a while. "Gimme a Scotch, a triple. I'm really dry."

  "Okay," she said. From behind the bar, she emerged with a drink. Unlike the time before, she gently set it down. She smiled and looked at him with an appraising eye. Despite the fact he'd been a hustler for more years than anybody cared to remember, there was something freshly appealing about Numie. Instead of being washed up as a man, he seemed more on the brink of becoming one. The scent of him came through to her.
The day was hot, but he smelled of freshly laundered Levis. Her hands traveled up and down his chest, feeling his muscles. Then they settled between his legs. There, they expertly took measurements.

  "I don't have a place," he said. "My hotel's kicked me out."

  "Don't worry," she said. "I live right upstairs. I'll be off in an hour; and you're going to learn what it's like to make love to a real girl."

  "I can't wait."

  "You'd better"

  Standing up with her, he took the cheeks of her ass and squeezed hard. She reached quickly to kiss. He withdrew slightly.

  Stung by the rejection, she said, "Keep it on ice, lover man. I'll warm you up" He'd pay for that rejection. Not now, but later when he was more vulnerable. Into her purse she dug out two one-dollar bills. "There's a drug store on the comer. Buy some vaseline. We're going to need it!"

  Taking the money, he said, "See you later."

  The Main Street was alive and bristling. Vendors selling plantain and fresh vegetables rolled their carts down the shabby pavement. In Spanish, they screamed out the quality of their produce.

  Two salesmen from a Navy store stood on the sidewalk, trying to lure young sailors in. A sign, Real Estate, Theodore

  M. Albury, hung across a restored Bahamian building.

  An usher was sweeping out the local movie house. And what a movie house! Completely washed in lavender, it was candy-boxy with garish decorations. Even the fire hydrants out front were painted purple.

  Inhaling deeply, Numie sucked in the powerful medicinal scent of a tall, chalky mauve eucalyptus tree. It fluttered in the lemon light.

  Suddenly, a green-striped white car pulled up along side him. "Boy, I thought I told you to get out of town." It was the sheriff, Yellowwood. In the front seat with him was Dave, his deputy.

  Numie was scared. His eyes opened wider and wider, as a certain knowledge hit him. For one brief, terrifying moment, he wanted to run. "I'm clean, sheriff," he protested, the words coming almost involuntarily from his throat.

  "You were dirty the day you were born," Yellowwood answered.

  Dave was getting out. "Into the back seat, punk," he commanded. The look in Dave's eyes told Numie he meant business.

  A whirl of fear descended over Numie. Leonora's marijuana cigarette was concealed in his back pocket. He had to get rid of it, and quick. But how?

  "I don't know what this is all about," Numie said, still in confusion and doubt. But he was ready to do as he was told.

  "I was leaving town this afternoon. Somebody owed me some money I was collecting—that's all."

  "Where you're going, you won't need money," Dave said. His voice was harsh, and when he spoke he leaned closely to Numie's ear, as if to intimidate him more.

  "You've got nothing on me," Numie protested, his anger bubbling.

  Dave didn't take his eyes off Numie. No way to get rid of that smoke. The rest of the drive to the jail was in silence.

  The first out of the car, Yellowwood led the way into the station.

  "Johnny, a call for you," the desk clerk said.

  "Take him in back," Yellowwood barked, heading for the phone. "You know what to do, Dave."

  Numie didn't like the sound of that. His initial panic returned.

  "I'll be right back to see it," Yellowwood added.

  Now Numie was completely bewildered. What did Yellowwood mean by it?

  Dave was joined by a gruff, pot-bellied deputy. "Hi, Hank," Dave said.

  Numie was surprised that Dave actually had a much higher pitched speaking voice. Hank nodded a greeting to Dave, then coldly appraised Numie. "A good-looker," he said to Dave. Then he whispered, but loud enough for Numie to hear, "Yellowwood's gonna get his rocks off today—that's for sure."

  Numie eagerly searched the faces in the station. He was alone, hated. Was Yellowwood planning to torture him?

  In the dingy, dimly lit back room, Dave ordered, "Off with your clothes. I've seen you naked as a jaybird before, so don't be bashful."

  Slowly Numie unbuttoned his shirt and then stepped out of his jeans. He was used to stripping in front of men, but this was different. His clothes gave him an extra sense of protection, but that was now peeled off.

  He was sweating heavily. The only light was from an exposed electric bulb overhead. His clothes off, he was standing in the middle of the room as Yellowwood stalked in.

  The sheriff's beady glare began at his feet and traveled upward, lingering long over his middle. The same appraising look Numie had seen back at the hotel room.

  The fact that the sheriff was displaying such an interest in his nude body remained Numie's only chance.

  Hank was searching his jeans. From the back pocket, he pulled out a marijuana cigarette enclosed in tissue. "Just what I thought. He was carrying illegal drugs."

  "I thought you told me you were clean," Yellowwood accused, shooting Numie a surgical stare.

  Numie said nothing. He could only watch like the hypnotized victim of the coiling threat of a viper.

  "Blue wrapped," Dave said, examining the dope." I thought De la Mer was the only person in town who smoked blue-wrapped marijuana cigarettes."

  "Tell the guys in number nine they're gonna have some company," Yellowwood said.

  Hank and Dave left the room.

  Now, Numie's chance. "Sheriff, I can explain. Surely we can work something out. Just the two of us." He leaned forward slightly so that his legs strayed wider apart. Suddenly, the sheriff's billy club was smashing into his wrist. Numie fell back in pain.

  "You read me wrong, boy. Way wrong."

  Dave was back in the room. Following, Hank was putting on a greased rubber glove.

  "Bend over," Yellowwood commanded.

  Numie hesitated until the sheriff moved menacingly toward him with that club again.

  Reluctantly Numie turned around, bending over.

  "Pry those cheeks apart, " Yellowwood said.

  Numie complied, feeling like a slave on the auction block. Utter humiliation.

  In one quick move, Hank's long finger was jabbing inside Numie, deliberately trying to hurt. "Got nothing in there," Hank said to Yellowwood. "Not even a turd."

  "Take him to the cell," Yellowwood snapped.

  "Can I put my pants back on?" Numie asked, humbled and stripped of any pride.

  "Hell, no!" Yellowwood shouted.

  "I'm entitled to at least one phone call," Numie protested. "I know my rights."

  "Fuck your rights," the sheriff barked. "Take him out."

  Completely nude, Numie was pushed down the corridor.

  The smell of urine was everywhere. On both sides the cells were filled with men leering at him.

  "Hi, honey," a young black called out in a falsetto voice.

  "You giving that away for supper tonight?"

  "There's enough meat there for the poor," another yelled.

  At the end of the corridor, Numie faced a tiny room with a small barred window. Hank was placing handcuffs on him. Then Dave shoved Numie into the darkened cell—so hard he stumbled and fell on the concrete. Face down. His nose was bleeding.

  Gradually as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he spotted two men sitting on the lower bunk of a bed.

  One of them was staring at Numie with glee.

  Chapter Six

  An evil smile was spreading before Numie's eyes.

  A young man in his twenties pulled at Numie's hair—forcing his face up. Scraggly black hair covered his head; and a raggedy mustache had been spit-licked from both sides of his upper lip. A nervous Adam's apple bobbed up and down his neck, heavily veined and thick with muscles.

  "I do believe little blondie has a nosebleed, Mitch," the man said.

  The eerie sound of his hick voice sent shivers of fear racing through Numie.

  Mitch was bending over him. Older than the other man, he had more refined features reflected in his chiseled nose and high cheekbones. His brown hair, parted on the right, was slicked down with water. His hazel eye
s were kinder, not as menacing, but a snide smile was on his lips. Placing Numie's nose between his fingers, he pressed as hard as he could.

  "Cut the shit, man!" Numie cried out, jerking his head away. "Can't you see I'm bleeding?"

  "You should never talk back to us," Mitch said. "Jeb and I might be forced to remove some of your equipment."

  "You're so piss elegant, Mitch," Jeb said. "He means we'll cut off your balls if you don't shut up."

  Numie froze. Where had he heard that before? Recently, just recently. Now he remembered. The lawyer who had picked him up on the keys. Mitch was the crazy thrill killer in for sexual dismemberment and murder. Why had Yellowwood placed him in this cell? Handcuffed, he could do nothing. Dare he scream? But his jailers knew he was here already. Nothing made sense.

  "You're going to shit green," Jeb said, "before this little session is over."

  "Jeb," Mitch said, "you should talk more refined. You don't ever learn anything from your association with someone of my breeding." He looked at Numie. "Jeb never got beyond the sixth grade. He bores me most of the time. Was arrested for breaking and entering. Can you imagine anything so dumb when there are far more adventurous things to get arrested for?"

  "What's he with you for?" Numie asked.

  "Since he's locked in here with me, I'm teaching him some more sophisticated pleasures. Up to now, he'd just stick it in any hole available."

  "Hell!" Jeb said. "I'll never go your full trip. You like to finish them off for good. I like mine live and kicking."

  "As you see," Mitch said, "he hasn't completely come around to my way of thinking. But he will!"

  "Mitch believes in sparing young men the pain he knows is waiting for them," Jeb added.

  "He's right," Mitch said. "Life is only good when you're young. I'm in my forties now. Pretty soon I'll be a doddering old wreck. Already my right arm hurts day and night like pins and needles are being stuck in it. The circulation's bad. Every man has to go sometime. Why not now? Go out while you're still in your prime."

  "You're crazy!" Numie shouted. "Let me up."

  Blood exploded from one of Numie's nostrils, as Jeb's fist smashed into his face.