Golden Orange by Joseph Wambaugh Page B

shorts.
    He was under the covers when she reentered the room, wearing a primrose peignoir. Tess switched off the light, but instead of coming to bed, she walked to the window and threw open the drapes. Winnie could see the headlights behind her from Pacific Coast Highway, and heard voices from the restaurant parking lot across the narrow, yacht-choked channel. Tess stood with her back to the room for a full minute. He wished she’d hurry; the booze was hitting him hard and his eyes were getting heavy.
    When she finally turned toward him, she stood motionless in the moonlight, next to a marble sculpture that Ralph had loved but left. The nymph extended a hand toward Winnie Farlowe. He found himself growing more alert. Agitated. Something! What was it? He couldn’t guess what the nymph might be offering with her open-handed gesture. The hand was empty. Déjà vu ?
    We looked at each other in the same way then
    But I don’t remember where or when.
    Tess Binder opened the tie on the peignoir and let it fall to her hips. Then she tugged again and let it fall to the floor. Winnie could see that she was small-breasted like the nymph, but a tad more voluptuous in the hips. The nymph was a size four.
    He looked from Tess to the nymph and back again. They were the loveliest things he’d ever seen in his life: the nymph and Tess Binder. Both of them so cool and still and bewildering in the moonlight. He was sober enough to hope he’d remember it all in the morning. He forgot about the song, and that glimpse of something half remembered.
    â€œWell, old son,” Tess said finally.
    But it sounded like the voice came from the cold marble nymph.

8

    Straight-ahead Guy
    W hen Winnie’s eyes popped open he fully expected to find the twin buzzards perched on his bed, maws gaping and bloody. Instead, he found peach-colored sheets and a faint smell of jasmine and for a moment he couldn’t remember where the hell he was.
    Then he saw Tess sitting on that black futuristic chaise, staring through the open French doors, a cigarette glow reflecting off her glasses. She was wearing only the peignoir even though the offshore wind was cool and damp. Seeing her cleared his mind and he wanted to make love to her all over again. And he did remember most of that. He plumped his pillow and she turned toward him.
    â€œHello,” she said.
    â€œHello, lady.”
    â€œIt’s three o’clock, go back to sleep.”
    â€œI know it’s three o’clock,” he said. “I always wake up at three o’clock.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe blood sugar,” Winnie said. “The booze makes it do a swan dive. Then you wake up and meet your hobgoblins. Mine’re a couple of real characters. They stay with me about two-three hours on average. You got any?”
    â€œMen,” she said. “Cruel heartless men I’ve known.”
    â€œLemme visit the head and then you can tell me about ’em if you want,” Winnie said.
    He got out of bed. Suddenly self-conscious of his nakedness, he sucked in his gut and hurried into the bathroom. He wasn’t sure, but she might’ve chuckled.
    When he returned and jumped into bed, he said, “Gold faucets in the sinks and tub! They real gold?”
    â€œThey’re as real as the Gold Coast itself,” she said. “They complement the stained-glass window, don’t you think? My husband could’ve designed it, it’s so like him. This statue was one of his investments in art. ”
    Tess always figured that Ralph was the only man in the entire history of The Golden Orange to have a life-sized marble nymph in his bedroom. Completely left to his own devices he’d probably have painted in the nipples and pubic hair like a Saudi sheik on Sunset Boulevard.
    The ice in her voice made him pause, but he said, “Yeah, well, I like the window. All those sailboats and dolphins.”
    â€œNewport Beach belle époque