Part 15 (1/2)
She just looked at the flowers, and her face lit up in a smile that sent me to the moon and back. She accepted them gracefully, her hands lingering on mine. ”Any special reason?” she asked.
”I felt sentimental.”
”Do I do that to you?”
”Among a lot of other things.”
She took my hand and led me inside. Marza was at the piano, just lighting a thin black cigar. Her posture was straight and stiff and she was wearing another V- necked disaster, this time in yellow. It was quite a contrast to the pink satin lounging pajamas that Bobbi had clinging to her rounded figure. Marza glanced once in my direction without making eye contact, then pretended to study the sheet music before her.
On the sofa sprawled her Communist friend, Madison Pruitt. He looked up doubtfully, having seen my face once, hut unable to attach a name to it. He was holding a tabloid, apparently interested in a murder investigation that the police weren't conducting to the satisfaction of the paper's editor.
”Madison, you remember Jack Fleming from last night?” prompted Bobbi.
”Certainly,” he replied, still uncertain. At the party he'd been too involved spouting politics to Marza to notice our introductions. I regretted that the present circ.u.mstances were not similar, and didn't relish the prospect of conversing with a zealot.
”I think we should take a break,” said Marza, not looking up from her music. ”My concentration's all broken. Some coffee, Bobbi?”
Bobbi took the broad hint and I offered to help, so we had some semi-privacy in the kitchen. It was cramped, but organized; she worked on the coffee, and I ended up scrounging for something to put the roses in. I found a container that looked like a vase and loaded it with water.
”Here, put a little sugar in the bottom, they'll last longer. What's so funny?”
”Marza. I have to laugh at her or sock her one.”
”I don't blame you, she can be a little trying at times.””A little? That's like saying Lake Michigan's a little wet.”
She stifled her own smile, and then we said h.e.l.lo to each other until the coffee was ready.
”Time to get the cups,” she murmured.
”Couldn't we do this for a few more hours?”
”The coffee'll get cold.”
”I don't want any.”
”Yes, I suppose you want something else.”
”Bobbi, you're psychic.”
”Nope, I've got eyes. You're showing.”
I snapped my mouth shut, trying the gauge the length of my canines with my tongue. Bobbi snickered and pulled out a tray, cups, and saucers. I carried it all in while she got the coffeepot.
Marza was next to Pruitt on the sofa and looked up. ”What did you two do, go to Brazil for the beans?”
”No, just to Jamaica,” Bobbi answered smoothly, filling the cups.
Marza approached her coffee delicately, tested one drop on her tongue, and decided to wait for it to cool. In contrast, Pruitt just grabbed his cup, leaving his saucer on the tray. I supposed he considered saucers to be an unnecessary bourgeois luxury.
”Your flowers, Bobbi, where are they?” Marza asked.
”Forgot 'em. I'll be right back.” She slipped into the kitchen, but didn't come right back. Instead she was opening a cupboard, clattering a plate, and making other vague sounds.
”Flowers, such a thoughtful gift,” Marza said sweetly. ”You did know that Bobbi is allergic to some of them, or didn't you?”
”A lot of people are,” I said evenly, and smiled with my mouth closed. I was speaking normally, but taking no chances on revealing the length of my teeth.
”Waste of money,” said Pruitt, his nose still in the tabloid. ”They die in a day or two and then you're left with rotting plants and no money. People are fighting and dying, you know.”
”So you've told us, Madison,” she said. ”I don't notice you joining them, though.”
”My fight is right here, trying to bring the truth to-” ”Cookies?” said Bobbi, just a shade too loud. She put the roses on the piano and offered the plate of cookies to Pruitt. It was a skilled move on her part-he had to choose between the plate, his coffee, or the paper. A hard decision for him, but the food won out and he dropped the paper. He was further distracted from his train of thought as he tried to figure out how to help himself to a cookie with both hands occupied holding the plate and his cup.
”You're not joining us?” Marza asked me as she walleyed Pruitt's juggling act. If he dropped anything it would be on her.
”No, thank you.”
”Watching your weight, I suppose.”
”No, I have allergies.”
Pruitt finally gave the plate to Marza, then grabbed some cookies from it. They didn't last long and disappeared all at once into his wide mouth.
”You'll have to excuse Madison, he was raised in such a large family that he had to compete with his siblings for food, and learned to eat quickly in order to gain any nourishment.”
”You know I'm an only child, Marza,” he mumbled around the ma.s.s of crumbs in his mouth.
”Oh, I must have forgotten.”
Pruitt nodded, content to correct her.
”What do you do for a living, Mr. Fleming?” she asked.
I couldn't say I was an unemployed reporter doing part-time jobs for a private investigator and opted for the next best thing. ”I'm a writer.”
”Oh? What do you write?”
”This and that.”
”Fascinating.”
”Need a writer,” said Pruitt. He cleared his mouth with a gulp of coffee. ”We need people good with words, articles for magazines, slogans-can you do that?”
”I'm sure anyone who knows even a little about the alphabet can help your cause, Madison,” she said.
”Great. You think you could help out, Fleming?”
I could see how he was able to get along with Marza, since he was totally oblivious to her sarcasm. I was beginning to like him for it. ” 'Fraid I don't have the time.”
”For some things in life you have to take the time. People have to wake up from their easy living and realize they must join with their brothers to battle for the very future of man on earth.”