Hal Ackerman - Stein,stoned

“Good, then you’re really going to like this. Using all of my influence, and cashing in a shitload of important favors, I have arranged for you to have your hair cut and styled by Mister Paul Vane himself.” Stein waited for the round of applause. Instead, her eyebrows caved down in the center.

“Stein, this hits an all-time low.”

Truly he did not understand her reaction at all.

“Did I not tell you that I just this afternoon had my hair done?”

“Yes? So?”

“So? I cannot have my hair done twice on the same day!”

“Why not?

“Just tell me you’re not being serious and I’ll play along with you.”

“I really don’t get it.”

“You don’t get it? You don’t get why you cannot have hair- I’m not even going to talk to you about this. Just drive.” She folded her arms across her Givenchy blouse.

“I think you think I’m doing something bad to you on purpose… Suppose I said Wolfgang Puck was going to cook for you, would you tell him you’d already eaten?”

“I’d puke if I had to, and if you knew in advance we were going to Puck’s and let me eat anyway, I’d puke on you.”

“So I should have told you.”

“YES. So I could have cancelled my appointment with Rene.”

“Ok. All I’m just saying is, since Paul Vane has never seen you, what difference does it make if his starting point is your hair the way it is now, or the way it was this morning?”

Lila blanched. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“No! That’s not at all what I was saying!”

She flipped the vanity mirror open and obsessively scrutinized her coif. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m not not telling you anything.”

“I get frightened when you use double negatives.”

“Fine. I admit I have ulterior motives for bringing you here.”

“Thank God. At last!”

Every time she made Stein laugh it reminded him how much he loved that she could surprise him.

“This is the actual truth of why I’m here: The people who hired me think Paul Vane stole some of their shampoo bottles. I have to ask him about it and I thought he’d be more easily diverted if he were working.”

“So you brought me along as a decoy?”

“That and your air conditioning. And of course your scintillating company.”

“Nice afterthought.”

He mistook her irony for compliance.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Really?”

“I’ll change my life for you, but not my hair.”

The green art deco awning had been a landmark on the corner of Indian Wells and Sirkont for twenty-six years. Some people thought its name, Pavanne, derived from the courtly French dance. Those in the know understood it was a contraction of its proprietor’s name, Paul Vane. At its peak of popularity in the Reagan-Bush decade, Pavanne employed eight full-time cutters, two colorists, a facial practitioner, an herbal nutritionist, a receptionist, a bookkeeper and two custodian-stockperson-intern-trainees. One of whom, Michael Esposito, had become Paul Vane’s inamorata.

Stein and Lila were greeted at the door by the proprietor himself. Stein guessed that Vane was close to sixty, though he was very elfin. His skin was pulled taut across his delicate facial bone structure. His eyes were without guile and looked reverent when he looked up, which was almost always, since Vane was barely five foot four. He wore a maroon shirt that clung to his meticulously trim body. Even at rest he seemed to be constantly in motion, like a hummingbird whose wings flap at 4,000 beats per second just to hover. When Stein introduced Lila to him he threw his arms around her and squeezed hard. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” he exulted. “You are all that Charlotte and Rita ever talk about.”

Vane released Lila and alighted in front of Stein. “I’ve heard nothing at all about you,” he swooned, “but it’s all been fabulous. Come in!”

The decor of the salon had the decadent feeling of faded French elegance. Pictures of Southern California’s blue-blooded ladies graced prominent spots on the walls. Vane enthralled Lila with tidbits of gossip about the Presidential First Ladies he had done: Nancy Reagan (“Ronnie’s mom”), Barbara Bush (“A political breeding machine”), Roslyn Carter (“The only woman who ever came out of here looking exactly the way she looked coming in”). He ran his finger lightly along the perimeter of Lila’s hair. “I see you’ve been to Rene Douglas.”

“Really? Can you tell?”

“It fits your face perfectly. The man should be knighted.”

“Maybe you can give her a little trim,” Stein suggested. “Like an autograph signature.”

“We’re not here to have my hair done,” Lila abruptly announced. “We’ve come under false pretenses.”

“False pretenses. My favorite kind,” Vane exulted. Then he shrunk in mock horror and grabbed Stein’s forearm as if to forestall a faint. “Am I being audited?”

“I’d like to speak to you about Michael Esposito,” Stein said quietly.

He looked around wildly. “Michael? Do I know a Michael? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Your former business partner and intimate companion?”

“Oh, you mean Miss Espe,” Vane exclaimed with an exquisite mixture of self-deprecation and world-weariness. And for the first time he sounded like what he was-a man at the end of middle age who had suffered one more disappointment than he could endure.

Stein looked down directly into Vane’s troubled eyes. Gay or straight, pain is pain. “Is there a place where we can talk privately?”

Vane’s private retreat was part gymnasium, part French kitchen. Giddy laughter accompanied the pop of the cork as Vane cracked open the second bottle of chilled Fume. He kept a mini refrigerator alongside his Pilates machine, and Stein noted that both appliances had been well used. He had lived through the worst of everything, seen death often enough and at close enough range to clear his eyes of bullshit, and it had made him a reliable barometer. His only problem was the same as everybody else’s. He fell in love with the wrong people.

He had been fooled at first by Paul Vane’s Scarlet O’Hara excesses. But Vane was a solid citizen.

In the preceding forty-five minutes Stein had had all his pre-judgments about Vane dispelled and all those about marketing confirmed. It was about making people feel horrible about themselves and offering the product to save them.

“Let me see if I’ve retained any of this,” said Stein. “Manufacturers of designer products like Espe distribute only to exclusive salons. They don’t want discount drug chains to sell their goods at a cheaper price-God forbid the public should benefit.”

“Amazing,” Vane praised him. “The man has perfect retention.”

“I knew that, too.” Lila pouted.

“Of course you know it,” said Paul. “But we expect it of you.”

Lila was sitting on the pommel horse. The first glass of musky amber liquid had gone straight to her head. The second had whetted the warm spot between her legs and put her censor to sleep. “You should see his closet,” she giggled. “Three pairs of jeans that he still calls dungarees. Two sport jackets, previously owned. And no air-conditioning. How can you marry a man who doesn’t believe in air conditioning?”

Vane refilled their empty glasses. “That’s just what she needs,” Stein said.

“Do you think I’m smashed?”

Stein leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

“Thank you. I’m sober enough to recognize the most patronizing kiss I’ve ever received.”

“I love this woman,” Vane exulted. He went on to outline the marketing plan that had been devised to create the maximum buzz around the release of Espe New Millennium. Only one salon in every area would be granted the license to market the product.