Vermilion by Nathan Aldyne Page A

House. We haven’t been there for at least two weeks.”
    â€œAll right. Bonaparte’s first though. The Tudor House doesn’t have a license.”

    There was a small boisterous crowd at Bonaparte’s when Valentine and Clarisse arrived. Someone was going away somewhere, or had just returned, or had been fired from a job he didn’t like—at any rate, someone and all his friends were very drunk.
    Valentine and Clarisse did not check their coats but settled immediately into two seats in the main bar downstairs, as far as possible from those celebrating. Jack brought Clarisse her usual scotch and water and Valentine ordered a beer.
    After the scotch touched her lips, Clarisse’s eyes blew open in panic. She gripped Valentine’s arm, spilling his beer. “Oh, my God!” she cried.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œI forgot to call in sick today.”
    â€œIt’s a little late, don’t you think?”
    Clarisse wiped up the beer with a bar napkin and threw it at Jack. “No,” she said with determination, “it’s never too late.”
    She slid off the stool and crossed through the Wicker Room. She leaned against the wall between the two restroom doors and dropped a dime into the pay telephone there. While waiting for the real estate office’s answering service to respond, she noted that although Trudy was not at the keyboard, several sheets of music were strewn across the top of the piano. There was a line of three empty glasses on the edge of the bench. She remembered then that Trudy’s weekly sing-along began at eight each Thursday night; it was the only thing for which Trudy was on time.
    Clarisse shifted her envelope from one arm to the other. After fifteen rings a female with an offensive Boston accent answered huffily. Clarisse identified herself and then dictated a message. “I am writhing in bed with the flu, doped up on Contac, and waiting for a team of surgeons.” At the end, she said, “Sign that—‘Lovelace, eight-thirty A.M.’”
    The woman protested the inaccuracy of the time, but Clarisse was stern. She got her way.
    Pleased, Clarisse replaced the receiver and turned. The contact lens in her left eye slipped from her iris, and without hesitation she whirled about and stiff-armed her way into the ladies room.
    Clarisse plugged the sink and drew a couple of inches of lukewarm water. She leaned toward the mirror, and tried to right the lens with a wetted finger.
    The lens was replaced. To check it, she focused first on her own image in the mirror, then on the two stalls behind her. In the one adjacent to the outside wall, there was a sudden commotion of rustling material and a violent repeated sigh of exasperation.
    Clarisse turned, curious, and leaned against the sink. Through the crack by the door, she could see flashing stuffs of light green, dark green, and black.
    â€œOh, Jesus!” cried a deep masculine voice from the stall.
    The sound of snapped elastic crackled through the small room, and was immediately followed by an even greater commotion of rustling material. Clarisse wondered for a moment whether there were a Girl Scout troop in crinolines behind the door.
    There was a splash.
    â€œOh, God!” cried the voice.
    Clarisse folded her arms and leaned back against the sink.
    The door to the stall was eased open, and Trudy’s light-blue wig, the color of Cinderella’s ball-dress in the Disney film, emerged askew. Beneath it, Trudy’s green-lashed eyes fluttered up.
    â€œOh, Clarisse, I’m glad it’s just you. I thought one of my fans had come in to attack.”
    Trudy grabbed Clarisse’s arm, and pulled herself entirely out of the stall. Clarisse pushed her over to the other sink. “Is life hard, Trudy?” asked Clarisse sympathetically.
    Trudy leaned against the sink and sighed. The green plastic lashes above and below her eyes meshed like gears. “Life is a