center, a sign of remodeling.
The blond led me up a flight of stairs, moving quickly, while I moved like a fifty-year-old. The banister was mahogany or teak. She opened the first door on the right for me, and disappeared once more down the stairs.
Going inside I smelled incense and heard soft new-age music. The only light came from a candle and what little daylight entered through half closed Venetian blinds. The room was large, with a superbly varnished hardwood floor, and a single rug in the middle. Upside down on that rug was Loralee Carlisle. “Come in, Mr. Marlowe,” she joked in a mysterious tone.
I smiled, having of course heard that one before. She was wearing leotards and tights colored like those paintings downstairs. The more my eyes adjusted to the dim light, the better she looked. I took a couple steps inside. She rolled off her head and onto her feet gracefully. Yeah, the wheels started turning again.
She walked over to the wall, bent slightly to pick up two large pillows, which I suddenly realized were in the room, and brought them over to me. She didn’t seem to mind my watching her. She sat down on one pillow with a single sweep, without using her hands, and motioned for me to do the same. I did, but I used my hands, thinking how far away the floor got the older I got.
The blond came in, wheeling a silver tray with a silver pot and some fancy cups and saucers, and a large tray of scones and muffins. She poured out two cups.
“Thank you, Clarissa,” said Loralee.
The blond turned around and smiled at her, then at me. I thought her smiles were flirtatious, but I was having fantasies. She left.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
Loralee reached over and got a cup for each of us. “Is the light all right?”
“Fine.”
An envelope lay on the tea tray. She picked it up and handed it to me. “For your first day’s work.”
I shook my head. “I don’t charge for coming out here.”
She smiled. “If we can work, then take it.”
“Sure.” I put the envelope back on the tray, aware that if she told me to put it in my pocket, I would. “What can I do for you?”
“Try the coffee.” I did. I could tell it was rare: grown on the cinder cone of an active volcano, on an island guarded by King Kong.
“Mm.”
“It’s a special blend our roasters create just for us. From our plantations in Costa Rica, New Guinea, Mindanao, Kona Coast…I could go on.”
“It’s good.”
“You know my late husband, Aaron Carlisle, owned the Vita Green Company.”
“No. Of course I’ve heard of the company.” A successful marketing firm for alternative herbal health products. The corporate structure was built on the reverse pyramid scheme, whereby individual agents bought products outright and sold them either to sub-agents or to customers; the greater the initial investment, the higher the percentage on the final sale. I’m no entrepreneur, so it seemed to me that the business was dependent on selling percentages, and that selling the actual product was a very secondary afterthought. Still, somebody must be buying the stuff, because selling the privilege of selling it was obviously lucrative.
“We grew coffee as a sideline,” she observed. “I still own that part. Have a coffee cake. They’re made from pure organic grains, honey, and energizing herbs.”
“Thank you.” It wasn’t a doughnut, but it was tasty in its own way.
“Clarissa bakes them here, but the same recipe is used in our Vita Green breads and rolls.”
I nodded. “Do you run the company now?”
She laughed, crinkled the eyes and raised the cheekbones. “Oh, my God, no! I say ‘our Vita Green’ out of habit. My skills don’t go that way at all. I sold the business after Aaron’s death.”
“Who to?”
“A conglomerate from the Bay Area. As far as the sidelines I held onto, I hire people to operate them on a percentage.”
“You trust them?”
“Wasn’t it you who said an honest person should be able to find trustworthy people?”
“Gotcha! So you steer clear of business?”
She rolled her eyes. “All that jes goes right out of mah pretty little haid.”
“But the arts stay inside?”
“They seem to. I’m a promoter, mainly. A couple of theater and dance companies I sponsor—they let me perform with them, in some very minor roles, of course.”
“You’ve been at it all your life. I’m sure they wouldn’t let you if you weren’t good enough.”
“Thank you. You always were a real sweetheart. I told you I had a tremendous crush on you back when we were fourteen. Now I can see you’re not really my type. Still, you’re awfully sweet.”
“Well, then, we can probably work together,” I stammered, hoping the thud from the machinery in my brain, coming to a sudden halt, wasn’t too disturbing. But, I’m paid to have a thick hide.
Her eyes flashed brightly, innocently, in the candlelight. “Oh, I didn’t mean….”
“Forget about it,” I tried to laugh. “What do you need a peeper for?”
“You can’t tell?”
“No.”
She shook her head in sudden realization. “Why did I expect you to? My intuitions are fine-tuned, but we need facts, right? I’m trained to interpret the world through many dimensions. Great for keeping the artistic perceptions coming on strong. But in this case,” she giggled, “I need clues.”
“A common shortage.”
“You’re funny, Marvin. Do you believe we can’t receive our gifts until we know our limitations?”
“Makes sense.”
“Well, my talents are not great for surviving in the real world.”
I looked around.
She laughed. “Don’t think I had anything to do with this. I was extremely lucky in marriage. Materially that is. My first husband, Charles Morehouse, was descended from the Alabama Morehouses, who came from the Carolina Morehouses. They always made money from slaves, and they always sent their sons into the military. They lost their plantations in the Civil War, but there was a branch of the family out in California, and they were doing well. So they all came out here, and learned to exploit Mexicans as well as they had the blacks.
“Chuck’s dad, Ferris Morehouse, was in the Air Force with my dad. From World War II they remained friends. My dad settled in Sacramento when he retired from the service.
