The peacock had caught sight of him. Otherwise, why did he point his beak, sharply, at him and spread his tail as if to be noticed? The monkeys had already spotted the peacock and were making sounds … egging him on?
Lyle stared back at the peacock. The bird did not budge.
Guests sauntered in and out of the tent, flitting toward one or another of several bars. Everyone was dressed in black or gray, except the bunny-girls, in pink and black, and Ms. Universal in sheer white, who, as if she had been placed there just now by invisible forces, appeared just inside the tent.
Uh-oh. What was the peacock up to? The bird had managed to stray away from the attendant in khakis while she was placating the other peacocks who had become flustered when the monkeys had thrown pebbles at them.
Dammit if he was wrong, but the loose peacock now was focusing his attention on Ms. Universal. His comb stiffened—goddamn if it didn’t; Lyle was as sure of that as he was that Ms. Universal was the woman on the posters, the glorious Babette! The caretaker in khakis looked around and became aware of the missing peacock advancing into the tented area, where guests were circulating. Leaving behind the other birds to deal with the pebbles raining on them from the monkeys, she advanced cautiously to capture the stray peacock. That would not be difficult if everything remained as it was now, the peacock transfixed—no doubt about it—by the spectacle of the blond, smiling Ms. Universal.
What he wouldn’t give to cup those perfect breasts!—which on the billboards were about to push out of her black bikini—and here, in the flesh, even closer to doing that. She was as irresistible to him, Lyle knew, as she was to the peacock—who dashed into the tent area, dodging expertly away from the caretaker at the exact moment that she had reached out for him but instead fell facedown—and the peacock galloped straight at Ms. Universal, while the fallen woman in safari khakis shouted at everyone:
“Take cover, take cover! That fuckin’ peacock bites mean!”
Everyone scattered, including Huey—but not Ms. Universal. She remained standing where she had been, smiling, as the peacock charged toward her.
Lyle ran toward the peacock rushing at Ms. Universal. At the point that the peacock would have—done what? Bitten Ms. Universal? Kissed her? At that point, Lyle grabbed the peacock, lifted him, held him under one arm as if all his life he had been tending to rampaging peacocks, and he let his free hand clasp Ms. Universal’s breast, and he sighed:
“Oh, Babette!”
At the same moment that the peacock bit him meanly, on the hand, flashbulbs popped. Ms. Universal smiled even more radiantly. Lyle, startled, looked in the direction of the increasing flashes, one intrepid hand still on Ms. Universal’s breast, moving on to the other. Done!
Over the squawking of the bird, he heard a purring voice that said, as he retained his clutch on the luscious breast and held the enraged peacock with his other hand:
“That was nice. Thank you,” Ms. Universal breathed.
“You’re welcome. Thank you. You’re more beautiful than your posters,” he managed to say as more flashbulbs popped in his eyes and he dropped the screaming bird and knew he had to run like hell to get away because Honor was charging at him like a mad bull and guards were converging from every damn direction.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1
Maria’s inviolate decision.
Lyle is not my brother, he is not, is not, not, not, not!” Maria screamed at her placid mother and her irate father.
“I know he’s not my son,” said Helen, Maria’s mother, Armando’s wife. A pleasant-faced woman who remained so even when she glowered in accusation at her husband, Helen had come from St. Louis with her parents and met Armando in Fort Worth, Texas, where he had tried to establish his practice as a legal consultant before moving on to Dallas and, now, for at least as long as he and Helen got along, commuting to Rio Escondido periodically.
“Not yours, but mine,” Armando was steadfast.
“He doesn’t look like you.” Maria made that a severe indictment of her father. “He’s tall, and you’re short.”
Armando stretched, to adjust to the sting. “He’s handsome, like me.”
“He’s handsome all right, but not like you.”
“What do you mean by that? That I’m not—” Armando, although he often had to remind himself to hold in his stomach, had become even more pleased with his good looks than he had been when he had shown his chiseled abdominals to Sylvia in the Catholic church.
“You know what I mean,” Maria emphasized, “and what I mean beyond all that is that I’m going to Los Angeles to be with him. The only man I shall ever love, ever, ever, ever!” She formed two crosses with the thumb and index fingers of each hand and kissed them, sealing her vow.
Helen sighed. “That’s not a city for a green girl.”
“Green girl! Listen, Ma”—she knew Helen hated that rednecky word, preferring Mother—“Lyle and I—” She was about to say, “had sex,” but that sounded dirty; so she said, “Lyle and I fucked, remember?”
Armando slapped himself twice.
Having heard and been thrilled by hearing her own words, Maria—eyes bright with determination and remembered lust—said, “And fuck you if you try to keep me from going to the man I love.” She let her eyes fall for a second, conveying the enormity of her desperate love, allowing tears she had gathered to stream down her cheeks.
“Yeah? Yeah?” Armando sputtered. “I’ll tell you something right here and now. You’re going to stay put and you’re not going to marry anyone I don’t approve of.”
“You’d like me to marry one of those creeps you keep bringing around—like that fat creep who keeps calling me ‘babe.’”
“Creep? A powerful man, rich enough to give you everything you want, everything—clothes, cars, jewels!”
Maria seemed to ponder for a moment.
“Powerful and rich,” Armando emphasized, “very, very rich.”
“Well—” Maria paused. Then she stamped her foot. “No, no, no, no! You can’t force me to marry who you want! We’re not in the Dark Ages, you know.”
“You run away and I’ll follow you and bring you back!” Armando swore.
“If you can find me!” Maria decided, for now, to hide in her room. In the future, she might have to hide at—at—at the very end of the earth if need be, that is how powerful her love was for Lyle Clemens was!—despite her suitor’s fabulous enticements.
2
A film sequel to a great novel changes yet again.
The wind rushing through her gorgeous red mane added to her exultation as Tarah drove in her snazzy Mercedes—all windows open—along Hollywood Boulevard, her favorite street, on her way home from a drive along the Malibu coastline, to think, think, think. The street had turned tacky, but it still evoked the yesterdays of Hollywood, which would return, were returning with the new building for the Academy Awards, huge murals of great stars on the walls of the Chinese Theater. She, Tarah Worth, was poised to help lead it back to its past grandeur in the role of glamorous Helen Lawson in Return to the Valley of the Dolls. She felt exhilarated; today even her nasty horoscope had implied some encouragement: “You will think through to a resolution; make sure it’s the right one.”
Obviously that referred to the problem of the strange reference to “dolls” in the title. How to give it a meaning favorable to her? What if she began calling everyone in Hollywood “doll”? It would take over!—and add an even more contemporary touch to the script. She should read the great novel again, find more inspiration. But she didn’t want to tamper with her memory of it. That was too sublime. Besides, she hadn’t really read the novel, just some parts of it—but she had seen the great movie too many times to count. “Dolls” … She decided: She would start calling men and women that, and the word would spread—
The buzzing of her car phone startled her.
“Better start practicing your huskiest voice, honey,” Lenora said, “’cause they’ve definitely turned Helen L
awson into a sister—a dyke.”
Oh, Lord, Lord, would there ever be an end to this torture?
“Another lesbian said—”
“Lenora! You’re not a lesbian! Dozens of young actors claim yours is the most used casting couch in Hollywood.” Would she finally succeed in insulting the indomitable creature?
“Yeah? What if they’re just bragging?—and what if next time I saw you, I lick your—”
Vulgar creature! Tarah held the telephone away from her ear, did not want to listen to this coarse onslaught. When she listened again, she said, “Of course, I’ll adjust … doll”—why not start now?—“and I’ll turn her into a beautiful fem lesbian.”
“What did you call me?”
“Doll.” The word fell with a thud. That she had used it first on Lenora—what psychic effect would that have?
“Are you comin’ on to me, sweetie?” Lenora laughed into the telephone. “But, hey, I’m taken! … More stuff for you, doll. It’s definite. There’ll be a killer kidnap scene involving Helen Lawson. They can’t decide if she’ll be kidnapped or she’ll do the kidnapping. Ciao, doll. Keep working on your big gimmick.”
A kidnapping. A kidnapping.
3
Lyle’s flight from Huey’s Mansion and an unexpected angel of mercy appears.
Bulbs popping after him! People surrounding him! Panicking at all the commotion he had created (why, why?—because he had touched Ms. Universal’s breasts—the glorious Babette’s breasts?), Lyle ran past wide-mouthed guests, a gaping Huey, past Honor, who tried to block his path but stumbled over a painted rock, past iron gates and guards (about to draw their guns?—why?)—and out of the Mansion, shoving himself into a thicket of trees and shrubs to take off his boots and stuff his money securely way into their toes with his socks so that he could run—dodging and running and twisting and running down, down, down, running and stopping on a fancy stretch of Sunset Boulevard where he tried to hitchhike and no one even paused until …
A motorcycle roared to a stop.
“Put your boots on and hop on, cowboy; and don’t try anything because I’m a dyke.”
“Great, I like dykes!” Lyle said, without knowing what a dyke was.
“The pigs after you, dude?” the biker asked him.
Pigs? Had pigs been chasing the peacock? “Uh, no,” he said.
“Jump on anyhow,” the biker said.
Lyle jumped on the back of the motorcycle that this angel of mercy was driving and he held on tightly while she dodged in and out of traffic.
4
The search is on for the Mystery Cowboy.
“Lyle! They’re looking for you!” Mrs. Allworthy, having waited at the window of her unit at the Fountain Apartments since she had heard the early evening news, dashed out and shoutes those words at Lyle, and added: “You’re on all the news! They’re calling you the Mystery Cowboy.”
This must be it: Brother Bud and Sister Sis had probably convinced everyone that he was part of their illegal schemes, and now they were after him. He would give himself up, but not before escaping to Rio Escondido to say so long to his sister—dammit, he sure was rattled—Maria was not his sister!—and to Clarita—he’d give her some money to buy herself a VCR of her own, so she might watch her old Mexican movies—and to Sylvia, he’d give—
“They’re calling you the Mystery Cowboy because nobody knows who you are,” Mrs. Allworthy raised her voice to alert the others in the building of the new celebrity among them.
“I have to get away quick!” Lyle said, “before I give myself up.”
“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Allworthy became impatient. She gasped for the others gathering to hear: “You! … saved! … Ms. Universal! … From the! … rampaging peacock!”
Lyle wasn’t sure whether he was entirely relieved. Was that the only reason they had seemed about to surround him? Was there something else they weren’t saying? Had he harmed the peacock? Had he knocked down Honor when he was rushing out? Was Huey furious?
Other tenants were coming out of the unit to join in the commotion.
“Nobody knows who you are except us,” said one enthusiastic neighbor, “and we won’t tell how you got that bite on your hand, does it hurt?”
Lyle hid his hand, still smarting from the mean bird’s bite.
“Of course, we won’t tell. We can keep a secret, can’t we?” said a prim old lady.
“Everyone describes you as wearing boots. To a formal party! Did you wear your hat, too?” asked a girl with jet-black dyed hair, streaked red.
“We’ll hide you, dude,” proposed her male partner, who had several earrings on his nose, tattoos eating each other up on his arms. “I don’t dig the pigs myself, ya know?”
“It’s not the pigs, man,” his girl said. “It’s—what?” she asked Mrs. Allworthy.
“Yeah, what?” Lyle wanted to know. The pigs again. He remembered monkeys, yes, and birds—but pigs?
Mrs. Allworthy threw her arms up in dismay. “They didn’t say why they’re looking for you. Maybe to give you a reward? Maybe a movie contract? Oh, and Lyle, one paper said you were an obsessed fan of Babette’s, that you were heard gasping her name when you—uh—Did you touch Ms. Universal’s breasts?”
She wasn’t Babette? Lyle was disappointed and relieved, disappointed because he had not been with her, relieved because that meant she’d still be roaming around in her silver Cadillac for him to find.
A middle-aged lady who dressed very youthfully joined the group: “You looked very handsome, Mystery Cowboy, real swoony, real dreamy, real groovy.”
Lyle looked around, as if expecting that photographers would be there at any moment to trap him again.
“You’ll keep it all secret, about me, right?” he pleaded with them.
“Yeah, sure, man.” said a tough Chicana.
“Just be cool, man,” said her boyfriend, his head shaved, “and they won’t ever catch you. Stay cool, okay?”
“We’ll take you into our hearts, Mystery Cowboy, that’s my sentiment,” said an older man, who taught piano to children—very noisily, because he was hard of hearing.
“Thank you,” Lyle said, sincerely. He certainly did not welcome people going around trying to find him, although he still hadn’t the slimmest idea of why they would.
5
Reverberations.
Tarah Worth opened the newspaper. As others say a morning prayer, she read Liz Smith’s column. There was always food for thought, and today Liz had—
That photograph at the top of the page! Was it—? She squinted. Yes, it was that cowboy who’d talked to her by the motel pool in Anaheim. Definitely a mystic sign for her, the way he kept recurring in her life. Four times now! Now there he was holding a peacock—was a peacock significant psychically? Should she call Riva and ask? Tarah read the caption. “Mystery Cowboy saves Ms. Universal from rampaging peacock and disappears—”
He would certainly bring anyone a lot of attention after this, wouldn’t he? she thought. BEAUTIFUL ACTRESS TARAH WORTH IS RUMORED TO BE THE ONLY PERSON IN TOUCH WITH THE MYSTERY COWBOY. Hmmmm. She resumed reading her favorite column.
No, please God, no! It couldn’t be true that Joan Collins had expressed interest in the role of Helen Lawson.
She needed the gimmick Lenora kept reminding her of, to secure the role. The Academy Awards were approaching. Photographers from all over the world would be here. … That great kidnap scene in the new story line of Return to the Valley of the Dolls kept bobbing up in her mind, and her eyes kept returning to the picture of the Mystery Cowboy with the peacock.
6
Still more reverberations.
“Must you? Must you! Must you be so vulgar, always? Always?” Mrs. Renquist pushed at her temples, to contain an exploding headache as she sat by the pool in her Encino home. She was sheltered from the damaging sun by a hat, gloves, heavy sunblock applied by her Salvadoran maid—who’d done an erotic film for the Renquists and then had aged—and a huge umbrella
that cradled her in shadow; she had been looking through the newspaper and lamenting, again, that Chanel did not design swimwear, when she had seen the photograph and had called out to Mr. Renquist, who had been floating in the pool like an ugly brown whale.
“What the fuck, honey, the way you called, I thought you were fucking drowning,” he had responded. Now he stood looking at the newspaper photograph she had wordlessly handed to him, his bikini entirely concealed by folds of hairy flesh, mauve-tanned skin oiled heavily so that, out of the pool, he shone like a lubricated balloon.
He roared with laughter. “Jesus. What’s that guy doing with the peacock? Hey, wait, isn’t he feeling up the blonde bitch? Wait, goddammit, honey, isn’t he the guy in—?”
“—the religious program, yes,” Mrs. Renquist had recognized him instantly; she restrained her anger at Mr. Renquist’s sticky designation, for now. “Apparently he thought the woman was that notorious Babette.”
“The broad with the giant boobs, right. Must be real hot for her, eh?”
This time, Mrs. Renquist only brushed aside his vulgarity, even the interjection she loathed. Recently she had read that someone had impersonated Liz Smith at Spago—she had been there but detected only the commotion—and had almost gotten away with it. That gave her an idea. An impersonator. Hmmmm. If they could … encourage … the Mystery Cowboy into an Internet “performance”—that was where everything new was occurring—their erotic enterprises would surely take an upward swing. The pressure inside Mrs. Renquist’s head lessened at the thought.
7
Unwanted fame.
Lyle’s photograph with the peacock and Ms. Universal—could everybody tell he was groping her breast?—appeared in a newspaper that asked: “Where is the Mystery Cowboy? Who is he? Why has he run away? Why is he hiding?” First a gossip column, then another, soon the “trades,” showbiz journals, more newspapers—all extended the buzz. Entertainment-news television segments conjectured: The Mystery Cowboy was the “son of a wealthy recluse” … “an ordinary would-be actor who carried out a gimmick” … “a stuntman out of a job” … “Huey’s secret son, who invaded the famous mansion.” … A Hollywood producer announced plans for a movie. A tabloid demanded to know: “Is he stalking Babette?”