owed him, which he’d finally called in after the beating in the nude club convinced him he was ‘too old to be independent’.
Teddy didn’t work his daily shift at the bar just for the money; his cut of the successful restaurant’s profits was considerable. His reasons were mainly social and psychological. ‘All those white chicks wanting to try what Momma and Poppa would die if they knew baby had tried. All those chicks itching for the most forbidden of all fruit. Which is why I score more with cracker chicks than with the Easterners and hip native locals. Gives hope for the world, don’t it?’ And there would sound a very evil cackle of laughter.
It sounded now as David helped Vanessa onto a bar stool and seated himself between her and a very heavy woman who had raised her enormous rump to lean over the bar and whisper in Teddy’s ear.
‘Well, maybe,’ Teddy said, rocking back on his alligator-boot heels, cackling again. His establishment may have been in the Valley, but it was among Studio City’s best, drew a large showbiz clientele, and matched anything in the Basin for style and decor . . . as did Teddy himself. Like David, he wore Beverly Hills’ finest, but from hipper shops like Dernier Cri and Le Fancy Pants. (The Lebanese woman who owned Le Fancy Pants was addicted to cocaine and Teddy Bear, and gave him whatever he wanted.) Even behind the bar, as befit a top-grade restaurateur, Teddy wore the best: an exquisitely tailored double-breasted black jacket, pleated grey trousers, pale grey silk shirt and matching handkerchief, and those five-hundred-dollar Gucci boots. The only concession he made to his job was going tieless. ‘Maybe, maybe,’ he repeated, still cackling, ‘if you promise not to hurt me.’
The heavy woman smiled uncertainly. She was in her late thirties and had silver-blonde hair fluffed about a round, pretty face. She kept her eyes glued to Teddy, and he said, ‘Let me work now, lady, and I’ll get back to you.’ His voice had changed, thickened subtly in a way that David recognized. The fat woman had kindled a flame.
David became aware that Vanessa had moved her stool closer to his and was climbing back on again. He glanced past her. A large, florid man in expensive cowboy attire, including feathered J.R. hat, jerked his eyes away from her and began examining his glass. Teddy then stepped over and murmured to the man. Vanessa was looking in the opposite direction, down the crowded bar past David and the other bartender, smiling brightly, waving to a woman at the far end. Which, David knew, was her way of detaching herself from an unpleasant situation. Happened all the time to her.
The florid man said to Teddy, voice rising, ‘See here, fellow, I don’t have to take that kind of . . .’
Teddy interrupted, voice steely thin. ‘We all appreciate a knock-out chick. No one blames you for looking, even trying for a phone number when her escort’s in the john. But you’re a grabber and I want you out of here.’
‘Do you know who you’re talking to?’ The man’s ruddy face was turning pale, his hands were clenching into big fists.
Vanessa began to say something placating to Teddy. Teddy reached under the bar. The man got off his stool and hurried out the street door.
Teddy grinned and came up with a stuffed animal – one of the teddy bears that were his trade mark; that he gave to women who caught his fancy. He said, ‘You want the usual brandy, Duvid’l? Or would you like to try Teddy Bear’s Holiday Spirits? Would you believe hot mulled wine? Electric Egg Nog – no, not acid but a blend of rum, brandy and vodka for a real kick in the head. And my own St Louis Special – a Christmas Zombie with lots of red liqueurs and a small wreath.’
Vanessa said, ‘You always make such a fuss about Christmas, Teddy! I’ll try the mulled wine.’
David said, ‘Martell.’ And with more passion than he’d planned, ‘How the hell do you stay so cheerful?’
Teddy replied blandly, ‘Try killing someone you hate.’
Vanessa laughed, accepting it as a joke.
But David was chilled as if his friend had looked directly into his soul.
Teddy went away. Vanessa said, ‘You forgot to get a Christmas tree for the office.’
David nodded, wanting to talk to Teddy, to question him about that last remark. His dream . . . the woman on the train . . . throwing her to death . . .
Teddy was back with their order. David said, ‘Let’s get together for dinner.’
Teddy was looking at him, appraising him. They had often served each other as listeners and advisers during the ten years of their friendship. They had served each other in more practical ways as well, David as banker during Teddy’s lean and occasionally dangerous times before the opening of Thomasine’s four years ago; Teddy as contact to the demi-mondes of the Sunset Strip who had filled David’s needs during his own lean (emotionally) and dangerous times.
Teddy said, ‘You got it.’ He began to turn away, then stopped. ‘Vanessa, you taking care of my main man here?’
She flushed and looked into her pewter mug. ‘When he lets me.’
The fat woman said, ‘Excuse me for interrupting, but could I have another Rob Roy?’
Teddy said, ‘You can have anything you want, lady.’
She’d obviously been drinking for a while. ‘I want a Teddy Bear to cuddle. A live one.’
Teddy leaned close. ‘Be nice. Write your name, your phone number, on the napkin.’ He drew a ballpoint pen from his breast pocket. ‘Then either go into the restaurant or leave.’
‘Don’t be angry . . .’
He leaned closer. ‘I’m not angry, big momma. I’m sizzling for you.’ He gave her the teddy bear.
She was smiling, biting her lip, flushed with pleasure when she finished writing on the napkin and handed it to him. ‘Forget the fresh drink,’ she said, opening her purse.
Teddy said, ‘Forget the tab,’ and watched as she clutched the bear and walked to the door, her huge rump rolling. ‘Must be jelly,’ he sang softly, and went to serve his customers.
‘He can do better than that,’ Vanessa said, ‘even if she is white.’
David didn’t bother explaining. It should have been obvious that Teddy sipped from many cups. He said, ‘Let’s take our drinks to the dining room.’
She touched his arm. ‘Hon, you didn’t mean that about not seeing each other until after New Year’s? What about our plans? The parties?’
He got off the stool. He remembered Teddy quoting an African writer: To be happy, one must live easy inside his own skin. His skin felt tight as a drum’s. He didn’t think he had ever lived easy inside it.
‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘Maybe New Year’s Eve. Colleen does expect us.’
She got off her stool and walked with him. ‘What about Christmas? We have the studio party on the twenty-second. And Christmas Eve, Dave!’
His head hurt. He had to get home early tonight; had to sleep a peaceful eight hours.
‘We’ve never been apart on Christmas . . .’
‘Fuck Christmas!’ he exploded. ‘I’m
