CHAPTER THREE

SHADES OF YESTERDAY

Prowler had finished his food and settled comfortably on Maggie Reardon’s lap, licking his paws. She wore a ragged chenille bathrobe and had the television on low to an old rerun of Cops as she picked away at a tasteless TV dinner. It was worse than not eating at all and she wondered why she kept buying them. Maybe because they were fast and no fuss. Or maybe because the photographs on the package made them look downright yummy. Or maybe she thought one of these days she’d hit on one that was actually edible. She hadn’t yet. Was it masochism? Hardly. Lack of imagination? More likely than not it was just plain laziness. She pushed Prowler onto the floor and set down the tray, which still held a few bites of over-salted beef trapped in congealing gravy.

“There you go, Prowler. Have at it boy.”

Prowler took one sniff and gagged as if he were ready to cough up a fur ball. He looked at the tray with disgust, then jumped back onto Maggie’s lap.

“I guess you’re smarter than I am,” she said scratching him behind the ear. “Your cat food probably has more flavor. Maybe I’ll try it sometime.”

Prowler began to purr, digging his sharp claws affectionately into her thigh.

“You’re right. It couldn’t be any worse.”

She looked up at the television just as two cops were shoving some perp into the back seat of their squad car. “Cuff ‘em and stuff ’em!” she yelled at the set. “Way to go!”

The black cat let out a low growl in his best imitation of a Siamese.

“Makes one proud, doesn’t it Prowler?”

There was a knock at the front door. Then another. And another.

Maggie rose, tossed Prowler across her shoulder and walked to the door. She looked through the peephole and there stood Marty the ex, flowers in hand. She was in no mood to answer. He kept knocking and she kept looking through the little round hole waiting for him to give up and go away. His baby blues peeked through curly blonde hair that fell forward over his eyebrows, his expression naive yet determined.

He was becoming a pest.

“Please open the door, Maggie. I know you’re in there.”

He held the flowers against his chest and furrowed his brow.

“I brought a peace offering.”

She yelled at him. “You’re starting to act like a stalker, Marty. Get away from here before I call in for back-up and have you hauled away.”

It was a full minute before he turned and walked away, defeated.

“The guy is starting to creep me out,” she said to the cat.

She waited until she was certain he was gone, then slowly opened the door. On the ground, wilting from the heat, lay a small bouquet of dainty pink roses. She reached down, Prowler still draped across her shoulder, picked them up and went inside, locking and bolting the door behind her. For a split second she thought of putting them in water. Then she threw them into the waste basket, returned to her comfortable chair and kicked up the volume on the TV.

Tickling the cat under his chin she muttered, “He doesn’t know me at all. If there’s anything I’m not it’s dainty pink!”

The purring cat repositioned himself more comfortably on Maggie’s lap, and meowed in response to the sound of her voice.

“Prickly cactus? That’s a bit harsh Prowler, don’t you think?”

* * * *

“Aye, Calypso!” Rocco said as the redhead entered the gallery. Her hair was as bright orange as a clown wig and just as wild. Her tiny blue eyes scrunched up with a smile as she looked at him. She wore a patchwork prairie skirt in bright shades of purple, green, orange and turquoise with a tee top in a yellow bright as the sun. Huge earrings touched her shoulders and four necklaces hung long and tangled from her neck down to her heavy braless breasts. She was a walking color wheel that hurt the eyes. A hodgepodge of utter confusion. Not unlike the mysterious Misty, she too was a reflection of her art. Calypso was the collage artist who added vibrant, lively colors to the gallery walls and shelves. Her works were happy and made people smile. She collaged everything that came within her reach, from little boxes to clip boards to canvases to lamp bases. Nothing escaped her scissors and decoupage paste. Like a gypsy on the run, the proverbial packrat collected anything that shone or caught her eye. She lived at garage sales and thrift stores and scoured the alleyways on trash collection day. She ripped colors and patterns and faces from the pages of magazines with a manic fervor. Even the photographs on the newspapers obituary page weren’t safe from her assault.

“Rocco, Rocco, Rocco!” She reached out for him, a myriad of bracelets clanked cacophonously as she embraced him. “My roly-poly welcoming committee of one, give me a hug, you big cuddly-bear.”

With the attention span of a gnat Calypso looked around the room. “Barbara, Adrian, Mary Rose!” Then she broke into a belly dance as she moved towards Armando and the bar. Shuffle, shuffle, kick, shimmy. “Wine, let there be wine.”

“That’s all she needs,” Adrian said to Rocco. “Last month we nearly had to carry her out.”

“She’s a free spirit.”

“She’s as wacky as a jar of mixed nuts.”

Barbara Atwell walked into the second room to welcome customers. The gallery was filling fast, the conversation loud and rowdy, the body heat mixed with outside temperature, thick and stifling. She jacked up the air conditioner and stood before it, letting the chill breeze cool her before making another sweep of the room. It was an impressive turnout for this time of year and she was pleased.

Two familiar faces entered the room, eyes glazed and bloodshot as always. Crazy Jake held his beat up guitar with one hand and held onto Mouse’s skinny arm with the other. Their flea-bitten cur followed obediently at their heels as they headed straight for the free food. Barbara would have banned them from the gallery a long time ago had it not been for the fact they always bought something. They were one step up from living on the street but they managed to buy Armando’s little statues at every opening. She heard they lived in a rented garage somewhere in midtown and imagined their walls filled with those tacky little statues from Mexico. They were like focused hoarders who shared but one common fixation. And there was another plus. They would sit on the porch until closing time, Crazy Jake strumming his guitar and Mouse, jittery and pale from too many drugs, singing accompaniment. She had the voice of a siren that lured people off the street and into the gallery.

“Tonight I dance at the Oasis,” Calypso whispered to Armando, petting his arm suggestively. “Why don’t you meet up with me later?”

“Oh, mi amiga,” he replied. “I have already made plans.”

“Arrogant jerk,” she said under her breath. “You always have other plans.”

As Crazy Jake and Mouse neared the food table, Armando walked over to them, a good excuse to get away from the clinging Calypso.

“It is a pleasure to see you both,” he said. “But the dog, she has to stay outside. It is no allowed you see.”

“Awe, ’mando,” Mouse said. “Just this once, huh, huh?”

“Es no posseeb-lay,” he said. “She is no my rules.”

With a shrug Jake took a square of cheese from the table and fed it to the dog. Then he handed it some crackers which it downed hungrily. He took the leash from Mouse and headed to the front door, the dog drooling and coughing a path of crumbs in its wake.

“C’mon Pooter,” Jake mumbled to the dog. “It’s under the tree time for you.”

A few people snickered as he passed.

“Shame on you Jake,” said Mouse. “You know her name is Pewter, like the color of her fur.” The dog was her baby and making fun of her name like that just wasn’t nice. No matter how funny he thought it was. But her irritation with him was as brief as her ability to focus.

“Hurry back,” she squeaked, her voice high and thin as she piled up all the food she could fit onto her plate. She wrapped more in a napkin and shoved it into her large purse. “I’m waitin’ right here for ya, Jake.”

Mary Rose walked slowly to the table and refilled her plate. “You’ve such a lovely voice my dear, will you be singing for us tonight?”

“Jake says I sing for my supper.”

“With that voice you deserve a feast.”

The flattery pleased Mouse. She was used to people looking at her as though she was contagious. Or averting their eyes completely as they walked by. Her clothes were dirty, she knew that, but given a choice between soap and feeding Pewter it was no contest. It was only when they played their music that people would stop and really notice them, a look akin to respect in their eyes. Like they were somebody. Like they had faces. They played for loose change that put a roof over their heads. And while it filled their pockets it also filled their hearts with joy. But mostly they played because it reminded them of who they used to be. Who they might have been if somewhere along the way they’d turned right instead of left.

“I like it here,” Mouse said as she shoved another bite of cheese into her mouth. “People are nice to us here.”

Barbara sat at the desk giving change to a couple who’d just bought a music box. Calypso had likely found it at a garage sale, but when she was finished working her magic it was something new and wonderful. Re-purposing the tossed and forgotten and giving it a new life. Bringing pleasure to fresh eyes. And adding a little more to the till in the process.

“I will answer that,” said Armando as the phone rang.

Mary Rose couldn’t help but overhear his end of the conversation.

“Oh, sí, sí,” he said. “Is very busy and good. Why you are no here?”

He turned and faced away from the room as he continued, lowering his voice.

“How around midnight, my beautiful dove?”

Mary Rose’s ears perked up.

“Is no problema. Until midnight then.” And he hung up.

“Paloma sends her apologies,” he called out to his wife. “She is no feeling so well.”

Mary Rose returned to her chair in the corner of the room. She loved these receptions. It was like watching a free movie and she rarely missed a scene. There was a time she might have been the star player but those days were behind her and now she relished in the role of silent observer. It was damn near as much fun. But not quite mind you. Not quite.

She wondered why Armando felt he had to sneak around. It wasn’t as though everyone didn’t know. Most even participated. Barbara had plenty of her own action, truth be told, and made no secret of it. It was a given on both their parts. The Mosaic Gallery family was an open book with few, if any, secrets. Life was to be lived to the fullest, no holds barred, never stifled by other peoples rules. Their Bohemian enclave thrived with creativity and freedom, oblivious to the mundane world around them. They lived their own reality. And Mary Rose found this world far more appealing than the one that buzzed around mindlessly beyond its walls. Mary Rose had come to the conclusion that Armando was just sneaky by nature. She’d known his type over the years, even bedded a few. His secretiveness merely added to the mystique and fun of the game.

Crazy Jake re-entered the room, took Mouse by the elbow and steered her over to Armando’s shelf. Armando joined them and Jake handed him a fistful of wadded up bills as Mouse reached for the statues. She put four of them into her purse as Armando counted the money and slipped it into his pocket. Three more people lined up by Armando and he quickly sold five more. What had been full shelves at the beginning of the night were now half empty.

Calypso floated into the room, her eyes flitting about with the attention span of a kid with ADD. She put the brakes on her erratic dance and jiggling breasts. Like a sputtering helicopter running out of gas she landed next to Mary Rose.

“This is getting boring,” said Calypso standing next to her. Once again she’d struck out with Armando. One of the few who had. “Boring, boring, boring.”

Mary Rose looked up at her. “You’re perfectly right, my dear. I was just thinking as much myself. Could you give me a ride home perhaps?”

“I’ve got a gig later at The Oasis,” she said, doing a few hip thrusts to accentuate the point.

“Would that give you enough time to share a drink? And perhaps a little weed?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said as she helped Mary Rose to her feet.

The two women bade their farewells and walked arm in arm out the door and into the heat of the night.

* * * *

Maggie Reardon kicked off the covers and the cat, then fell back to sleep. The night had been restless, mainly due to the heat but also because thoughts of Marty were giving her monkey brain. They kept swimming around in her head and banging against her skull like balls careening around a pool table. As soon as she’d doze off another thought would jolt her awake again. She’d pegged him as a lot of things during their short affair, but his determination to win her back was both unexpected and a bit unnerving. She’d figured him weaker than that. But maybe it was that very weakness that was luring him back. Maybe he needed someone strong standing beside him to hold him upright. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Or maybe he wasn’t who she thought he was at all. You think you know somebody but then you start to peel away the layers and discover you don’t know them at all. But that’s how it always is. People show you what they want you to see and keep the rest hidden under lock and key. Maybe she was no different. She hid things too. It was safer that way. Maggie was a good judge of people; you have to be when you’re a cop. That’s what keeps you alive. But this new wrinkle in Marty’s character, or lack thereof, had her doubting herself. She could see right through people on the job, but when it came to her men she had a giant blind spot.

Plus she didn’t like the fact that she was still physically attracted to him. Those blasted hormones!

Don’t be silly, she reassured herself. You’re jumping to conclusions and blowing this all out of proportion. Most of her ex-boyfriends ran in the other direction as fast as they could. And they never looked back. But this time a rejected lover shows up at the door with flowers, for God’s sake! Most women would be flattered.

But Maggie wasn’t most women.

She slept fitfully, waking up at the smallest of noises. More than once she thought she heard something outside the window, arose, and aimed the flashlight into the darkness. Nothing was there. But she felt edgy just the same. She told herself it could have been a passing coyote or javelina. Or pods falling from the green palo verde tree and onto the dry ground. It could have been anything. Or it could have been nothing at all.

So she wrote it off and went back to bed.