WHERE IS HE GOING?!

FIVE

“Wasn’t Ruby marvelous?” asked Marjorie in the back of the chauffeured Lincoln Towncar. “I had no idea she had it in her.”

“Who would have thought?”

I felt quite grand riding up La Brea, pretending to be royal, with one of Hollywood’s old guard elite at my side. We’d deposited Ruby at her home and tucked her in, wig and all, and decided to have another drink at a notorious bar on Sunset, where older gay men with money meet boys with financial problems. My reasoning was simple: Marjorie Sherwood Forrest Alcazar Wyatt was entitled to be the star that she is, and, with that in mind, and knowing the clientele, I figured some aged dandy would recognize and remember her from her glory days as the Merry Widow, if not for the days before talking pictures ruined her budding career.

“Good God!” I cried, spying a rattletrap Alfa Romeo a few car lengths ahead. It wasn’t hard to figure out who it was, with the smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe. “That’s Preston!”

“A friend of yours, Talmadge?”

Affirmative.

“Driver!” Marjorie commanded. “Follow that flivver!”

We pulled forward, darting through traffic and came up next to Preston, who was nattering into a cell phone, driving with one hand on the wheel and a black cigarette holder clenched between his teeth, ala FDR.

Marjorie had the driver roll the window down.

“PRES-TON! DAAH--LING!” I called from the left lane.

“JAMIE! What are you doing in that CAR?! It’s awfully late to be going to a funeral. Who died?”

“No Preston, DEAREST! The name is Talmadge! And I’ve just been promoted to Marquis thereof.” I stood slightly and flashed the family crest. “You’ll never believe who I’m with!” I bellowed. “Marjorie Sherwood Forrest Wyatt!”

Preston dropped the cigarette into his lap.

“HELLO PRESCHTON!” Called Marjorie, coyly waving an end of her serape out the window. Diamond “cufflinks” glinted in the moonlight. They were actually earrings, but Marjorie, in a moment of genius, had transformed her deceased husband’s white dress shirt into a fabulous evening blouse, crimson sash (a scarf) cinched at the waist. “Driver! Have you a phone?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Why don’t you give us a call, Preschton!”

“We have to pull over Marjorie,” I whispered theatrically. “He hasn’t paid the bill in months.”

“Well, who the hell is he talking to?”

“Himself. It looks good.”

“It looks ridiculous,” snorted Marjorie. “The pretensions of this town! Have him pull over.”

I stepped out of the car and made my way over to Preston, who was desperately trying to extinguish the ashes that had fallen onto his Brooks Brothers khakis.

“My God, Jamie! I nearly burned a hole in my trousers. Are those cufflinks real?”

“I should assume so.”

“And who Markeed you?”

“Mrs. Wyatt. Preston, she is too fabulous. Where you off to?”

“The Brits are having a party in the hills.”

I groaned. One despised those arrogant bastards.

“It’s only 10:30, doll. You never arrive at those Eurotrash parties before midnight.”

“I know. I have to stop at my dealer’s.”

Preston has a bad habit of owning everyone, including the teller at the savings and loan, who he refers to as “my bahn-ker.” The guy he bought cocaine from was, naturally, his own.

“Where are you off to?”

I quickly related the events of the day, including the impromptu performance by Ruby, explaining why we were off to Numbers for a nightcap.

“You should come with us, doll. I have a feeling it’s going to be a swellegant elegant party.”

“Jamie…”

“Talmadge,” I haughtily corrected.

“What-ever. You know how I hate that dump. Besides, the Brits are counting on me to bring party favors.”

“Goddamn it Preston. You are passing up the evening of the year to hang out with those fucking snobs with bad teeth and cockney accents. Now, I’m with Hollywood Royalty, the greatest hostess in the history of tinsel town (aside from Dani Jannsen), and you’re going to blow off this opportunity to sit around in your Gucci loafers with a bunch of creeps who are coasting on their parents’ success, while pretending to be veddy uppah uppah, when we all know that they’re no better than the rest of us.” I scoffed. “Besides, Mrs. Wyatt palmed me 100 bucks, just so I could have a good time.”

“Well, at least you won’t have to sell yourself to some doddering old fart for rent money this month.”

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, young man!” called Marjorie from the car. Her eyesight wasn’t good, but that woman could hear like a Mastiff. “Both of you! Get in this car!”

“Come on, Preston. It’ll be fun. You’re with royalty now. A tad better than the crowd you usually run with.”

“Bitch.”

Marjorie was delighted to visit Preston’s dealer.

“Just like the old days,” she exclaimed. “Do you have to have a secret password to get in? Oh, the speakeasies! My heavens! This is thrilling! I’ve not been on this side of town in years. It seems a bit shabby these days, from what I remember.”

“I’d say more ethnic than shabby, Mrs. Wyatt.”

“You are sounding rather snotty, Talmadge.”

“Preston was admiring your cufflinks, weren’t you, Preston.”

Preston nodded.

“These things? I’ve had them for ages. I’ve always thought diamonds should only be set in platinum.”

“A sign of great taste,” agreed Preston.

“A gift from an admirer,” Marjorie sighed, sadly. “When I had such things. Believe me, I knew the best.”

Preston stepped out of the car and disappeared into the apartment complex. It was perfect timing, as anytime a conversation got slightly maudlin, he’d extricate himself from the room, or make a stinging wisecrack, totally devoid of sympathy. I was used to this flaw in Preston’s character and accepted him for what he was. Preston was a fair weather fellow; shallow but fun.

“Do you boys do this sort of thing often?”

“What?”

“Talmadge, don’t play stupid. I’ve seen what cocaine does to people. My goodness, do you remember Louise Brooks?”

“Not personally.”

“Of course not personally. But you do know of her.”

“I do.”

“Such a lovely, but tragic creature. Anyway, I remember once at San Simeon. She and the mistress of the house….”

“Marion Davies.”

“Goodness, Talmadge! You’re good. I would swear we were the same age. My, my. How old are you, anyway?”

“34.”

“All those years between us, and yet you sound like a contemporary! Even your use of the English is sterling. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Well, in a way. I do believe if you don’t learn the lessons this time, one might have to come back in a lesser form and do it all over again,” I said. “And that, dear Mrs. Wyatt, is my idea of hell.”

“So you believe in the exotic religions of the East?”

“Hmmm,” I pondered briefly. “I’ve looked into them. I spent several years searching for answers. I do believe in a Deity, but your standard vengeful Christian god floating around in the clouds is, to me, a lot of baloney.”

Marjorie laughed.

“I’d say you were a philosopher, Talmadge. A very bright young man indeed. Extraordinary.”

I wanted to tell Mrs. Wyatt why I’d thought so much about religion, and deeply questioned life’s meaning, but why bring a smashing evening to an end based on a not so secret secret of illness and my own mortality? The evening was young and we were having a ball.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wyatt. I appreciate the sentiment.”

“There is no sentiment here, Talmadge. And goddamit, call me Marjorie. All my friends do. And you most certainly are a friend.”

“Thank you, Marjorie. I’m enjoying your companionship, too.”

“Piffle and poppycock!” Marjorie snorted. “Let’s try not to get too sappy, shall we? We’ll just start a mutual admiration society all our own.” she flicked a wrist dismissively. “Where the hell is that Preschton?!”

I explained that you don’t simply dash into a drug dealer’s apartment. You have to sit and chat for a minute, do some of your coke with them, stay long enough so as not to look like you were in the building simply for a fix but a visit, and then discreetly leave as if you’d seen a dear friend.

“Just like the bootleggers used to be,” said Marjorie. “Though in those days, the bootleggers really were our friends, came to our parties, and were generally a hell of a good time to be around. Of course, you could make your own gin in the bathtub if you had to.”

“Gallons of rubbing alcohol, grenadine and ice?”

“This conversation is getting bizarre, Talmadge. Yes, that was roughly the recipe. It had to be simply frigid (we called it a frappe) else you’d taste just how awful it really was. Have you a cigarette?”

I did.

“Why have you not smoked earlier?” Marjorie demanded.

“I’m down to my last one, and I didn’t know if it would offend you.”

“You’re manners are exquisite, Talmadge. A sign of fine breeding. That jacket suits you more each minute. Shall we share?”

“I haven’t got a light.”

“I do,” interjected the driver, passing a lighter and a pack of smokes to the rear. “Keep them.”

“Thank you, driver. You are a dear.”

Back then, Numbers was secreted away off of Sunset. They’ve gentrified since and moved to that ghastly strip mall of gaydom called Santa Monica Boulevard. The front door faced the rear and you could make dazzling entrance from the upper floor descending a winding mirrored staircase. Marjorie was delighted.

“What a magical place! Take my arm Talmadge, don’t be a numbskull, you handsome devil. Would you like me to fall pell mell into the club? Where’s Preschton?”

“In the bathroom, I presume.”

“Needs another jolt does he? Is there anywhere to sit?”

“Nothing but a couple of stools at the bar.”

“Talmadge, never in all my years have I sidled up to a barstool. It absolutely isn’t done. Terribly gauche for a lady, of my age, especially.”

“Marjie? Marjie Wyatt?” A portly codger in a salmon silk shirt and cravat wafted toward us in a cloud of expensive Patou Pour Homme. “My goodness! It’s been years!” He clapped his manicured hands.

Marjorie, though unsure of who’d approached, graciously reached forward.

NOW WHERE TO?!