P. Parrish - The Little Death

Louis raised his chin, his eyes going to the ceiling. The starched collar of the shirt was digging into his neck. Reggie’s wine breath was warm on his face.

“Stop fidgeting,” Reggie said.

“Just tie the damn thing,” Louis muttered.

Finally, Reggie threw up his hands. “I’ve never done this from this side before!” He looked at Mel.

“You’re on your own, boys,” Mel said.

Reggie grabbed Louis’s shoulders and spun him around so he was facing the mirror. Then Reggie lined up behind him, and his hands came up around Louis’s neck from the back.

“Hey!” Louis said.

“Hold still! This is the only way I can do this!”

Louis shut his eyes, steeling himself against the soft touch of Reggie’s hands on his neck. Finally, he felt Reggie back away.

Louis opened his eyes. He didn’t think the tie looked any different from the other one, and it was crooked. But he was damned if he was going to give Reggie a second chance.

Mel was laughing.

“Let’s go,” Louis muttered.

He got his revenge when they went outside. Reggie stopped cold in the driveway when he saw the Mustang.

“That’s your car?” he said.

“Yeah,” Louis said. “And it’s not a rental, so I know exactly who has done what in it.”

Louis opened the door, flipped the passenger seat forward, and gestured to the backseat. “Mel rides shotgun. You get the back.”

But Reggie’s eyes were focused on something over Louis’s shoulder. And he was smiling. Louis turned just as a black Rolls pulled into the driveway. The car was so quiet Louis hadn’t heard it coming.

A stout guy in a dark suit and cap got out and opened the back door.

Louis was amazed to see tears brim in Reggie’s eyes. “She sent the car,” he whispered. “The dear thing sent the car.”

He wiped at his eyes and turned to Louis and Mel. “We’d better go before it turns into a pumpkin.”

The Royal Poinciana Playhouse was a small jewel box of a theater with red velvet flocked wallpaper, gold sconces, and a view of the Intracoastal Waterway from its terrace. As soon as they got inside, Reggie told them he had to meet Margery Cooper Laroche at the private party for the ballet patrons. He apologized that he couldn’t take them along but stuffed two tickets in Mel’s hand and pointed them to the lobby bar before he disappeared.

They got some wine and found their way to the terrace. It was crowded with men in tuxedos and women in gowns. The temperature had taken a dip into the sixties, giving the women an excuse to drag their furs out of storage. Diamonds glinted in the mink like animal eyes in headlights. The air smelled of expensive perfume and a coming rain.

Mel took one of the tickets from his pocket and peered at it. “I can’t read this,” he said, handing it to Louis. “What’s on the bill?”

Louis took the ticket. “Swan Lake.”

Mel grimaced. “Going to be a long night.”

“You’ve seen this before?”

“Sure,” Mel said. “Great love story. The dashing young prince Siegfried is seduced away from his true love, the white swan Odette, by the evil black swan Odile.”

Louis took a drink. “How’s it end?”

“He’s eaten up with guilt, so he throws himself in the lake and drowns.”

Louis finished the wine in one gulp and looked out over the water. For a second, he thought about telling Mel about Sam. A part of him felt bad because she was married. But that wasn’t what was really bothering him. It was the fact that with one act of sex with a stranger, he was admitting it was over with Joe. She had been the one who opened the door to the possibility. But last night, he had been the one who shut it.

Mel was his friend. He wanted to talk to him, but he couldn’t, because Mel and Joe had once had their own relationship, and he wasn’t sure whose side Mel would take.

“Speaking of swans,” Mel said. “He’s going to be a problem, you know.”

Louis turned back, glad for something to take his mind off Joe. “He’s just a guard dog.”

“Yeah, but he’s like that cockroach dog that tried to take me out yesterday. It may be small, but you don’t want to get between it and its master.”

It started to drizzle. In a rush of taffeta and tittering, the women were ushered inside by their men. Louis and Mel followed, staking out a corner by the front door in the suddenly packed lobby. There was nothing to do but stand there and take in the crowd. It was the same mix he had seen at Ta-boo: blondes with pneumatic cleavage squired by old men with gleaming teeth and clots of brittle matrons wearing golf-ball-size jewels.

There was an odd desperation to the laughter and chatter. Louis watched as everyone went through a weird choreography of kisses-quick pecks on the lips, full-court mouth presses, European air kisses, double air kisses moving from cheek to cheek. Louis had the feeling that behind each kind of kiss, you could somehow read a person’s status.

A flash of red hair caught Louis’s eye. He strained to see, and then, suddenly, the crowd parted for a moment, and there she was.

Sam-lovely Sam with no last name-standing near the bar. Her hair was twisted up on her head, her shoulders white against her emerald gown.

She was talking to a guy with dark slicked-back hair and a tangerine tan. It was the guy Louis had seen her with at Ta-boo, the one she had sent on his way with a kiss to the cheek.

The guy took a drink of champagne and leaned in to hear something Sam said. But all the while, his eyes, with the hard sheen of his onyx cuff links, wandered around the room.

Louis stared at Sam, willing her to turn.

Finally, she did. Their eyes met. Louis gave a discreet nod and a smile.

Sam turned away. She said something to the man. He put a hand at the small of her back and led her away.

Louis felt a hot flush travel up the back of his neck. Well, fuck you, too, lady.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Mel’s voice didn’t register for a second. Finally, Louis turned to Mel. “Nothing.”

The lights dimmed, and a soft bell sounded. The ushers were trying to herd people inside the theater, but no one seemed interested in moving. A sudden crack of thunder drew gasps. Beyond the double doors, rain began to pound down, and the awning billowed and flapped in the wind.

Mel pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating head. “Where the hell is Reggie?” he said.

On cue, Louis spotted Reggie’s pink face in the crowd. He had a white-haired woman in gray on his arm.

Reggie’s face was shiny with sweat, but he was smiling broadly as he drew up before them.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “may I present Margery Leigh Cooper Laroche.”

The woman was more than six feet tall, stick thin, and straight-backed, wearing a severe gown of gray satin set off with long strands of gray, white, and black pearls. There was no way to tell exactly how old she was, but Louis was guessing somewhere north of seventy. Whatever her age, she had been a beauty in her day. Her sharply chiseled face was accented by a slashing red mouth and deep-set gray eyes heavily outlined in black. As she slowly raised a bony hand, Louis thought of one of the majestic blue herons he often saw prowling the beach in front of his cottage.

“Hello,” she said.

If she hadn’t been so stunning, Louis would have thought she was a man, her voice was that deep. Shit, the way things were here in Bizarro World, maybe she was.

Mel stepped forward to take her hand. He didn’t shake it, just held it gently like a medieval courtier. “Ma’am,” he said with a smile.

“You’re Mr. Landeta.” She smiled. “Thank you for being such a good friend to Reggie.”

Reggie blew out a breath that lifted his wispy blond hair.