She opened the door just a crack. She said, “What’s the password?”
Willow said, “Blood.”
She said, “Wrong. It’s disestablishmentarianism.”
Willow said, “Okay, what does it mean?”
She said, “It means you should get the hell in here!” She threw the door open, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him into her living room. She was wearing a starchy white short-sleeved blouse, skintight dark blue satin slacks, and fourinch-heeled red leather pumps with little beaded bows. Willow looked her up and down. He said, “Hooray for the red, white, and blue!”
Gladys Hornsby said, “Oh, beautiful for spacious skies!” She kicked the door shut with a bang, locked it, hooked the night chain, and stepped tightly against him. She said, “How damned thoughtful of you to drop in.”
Willow said, “I hardly ever turn down invitations from licentious ladies.”
Gladys peeked up at him. “Licentious—that means they can be taken to bed?”
“It means they have orchids tattooed on their asses.”
“Which means they can be taken to bed.”
“Does it?”
“It certainly does. Drink?”
“Frequently.”
“Scotch all right?”
Willow nodded. “How are your neighbors—inquisitive?”
“No problems. The girl across the hall is a hundred-dollar hooker. She thinks I’m in the same game.” Gladys giggled. “Which I am, essentially.” She kissed as she’d always kissed, hot, openmouthed, darting tongued. She winked a smoky blue eye. “I’ll make it a double because you’ll need it—I’m taking the day off from the studio!”
Willow sat on a couch just a few feet longer than a volleyball court, and Gladys brought Chivas Regal on the rocks, then perched across the room on a Corinthian leather ottoman. Willow hoisted his glass to her, took a short nip of the scotch, and looked around. He said, “Helluva layout!”
It was. Lake Michigan sparkled frothy blue and silver beyond a spacious wrought-iron balcony, pecan paneling gleamed softly, the three-tone beige carpeting was four inches thick, a stereo the size of a pickup truck throbbed something from Victor Herbert—“To the Land of My Own Romance,” Willow thought. The paintings on the walls were original oils by a Robert E. Mason—haymows, harvest scenes, old mills, corn cribs, sagging red barns, stuff to put a catch in the throat. There was one of a split-rail fence stretching erratically into infinity, and it reminded Willow of the course of his life. Everywhere he looked there was money, lots of it.
Gladys shrugged indifferently. “It’ll have to do for the time being.”
Willow lit a cigarette and said nothing. It had been an ambitious statement, if he’d ever heard one.
Gladys was saying, “Oh, by the way, that Joe Orlando you asked about—he’s been involved in an accident.”
“Serious?”
“Apparently not, but he wouldn’t go into it. He just bought a new Corvette and I suppose he racked it up. Joe drives like a maniac. He’s at home and he wanted me to come by.”
“Will you?”
“No, I was honest with him. I told him that it’d been fun but that there’d be nothing more for us. Joe hasn’t grown up yet. He’s an impulsive, headstrong youngster. He likes his sex in strong doses, but he needs someone to lean on. I can’t provide both.”
“The former, but not the latter?”
“Yep.” Mincing words had never been an ingrained habit of Gladys Hornsby’s.
“This Orlando—he knows about your, er—arrangement?”
“Yes, he knows—he knows more than he should. Joe’s the jealous type and he doesn’t let go easily. Somehow he’s managed to keep close tabs on me. He has it all—Casey Bucknell, my new address, my telephone number, my job at Seely Studios—whatever.”
“And the Great Dane?”
“And the Great Dane.”
“Will he interfere?”
“Not right away. Joe’s an egocentric. He figures that I’ll come back to him—won’t be able to do without him.”
“How does he get his information—a detective?”
“Possibly—Joe could afford one. He makes damned good money—he’s chief makeup man at UBS and he moonlights. He’s worked at Seely. That’s how I met him.”
“You ran into Bucknell at Seely?”
“Yes, ten minutes after I met Joe. I was doing a series for Malibu Fashions, and Joe was working on me when Casey walked in.”
“Orlando was working on you?”
“Applying makeup, for God’s sake!”
“Oh.”
Willow sipped his Chivas Regal, watching her over the rim of his glass. She returned his stare for a few silent moments, then popped to her feet. She said, “Look, Tut, I hate to appear overanxious, but, goddamnit, I’m overanxious!” She unbuttoned her crisp white blouse, removing it to toss it onto the leather ottoman. She wore no brassiere and her breasts were full, tight, rigid pink nippled. She stepped out of her spike-heeled red pumps, her eyes riveted to his face. The dark blue satin slacks slithered to the floor, and Gladys Hornsby was an naked as she’d been on the delivery table thirty years earlier. Willow’s heart was thumping like a carousel drum. She crossed the room to the couch, turning her perfect posterior to him, bending over, peering back at him around the soft curve of her shoulder. She said, “Tutto?”
Willow crushed his cigarette into a hundred-dollar crystal ashtray and said, “Yeah?”
Gladys said, “Kiss my orchid.”
Willow said, “Sure, why the hell not?”