Chapter 16
For the rest of that day, Vivian's rage boiled steadily until it had reached the stage of violent lashing-out. She wanted to do something to get back at both of them. She cut her class and stayed at home, reviewing the violent scene in her mind. They had been talking about her when she walked in, she was sure of it. Snuggled up on the bed, their heads together, talking about her! Laughing about her...?
Frustrated anger grew into another kind of frustration. A compulsive desire rose in her. She wanted a woman, any woman, just to show them-Show them.
Slowly, she began to smile, her eyes narrowing. God Bless Tiny Tim Lawler....
He had been writing about that bar lately. He didn't mention it by name but she knew what his ringing allusions meant by this time. She knew all the code words by this time: unnatural lust ... an affront to the community, and things about the Greeks and the Romans.
She had heard a few vague things about the bar called The Tanned Hide but she never would have remembered much about it had it not been for her husband's latest campaign. One of his phrases-"debasement of womanhood"-she had thought pertained to a male homosexual bar at first. But now, as she mulled over his current prose, it became clear. The two male bars had already been closed; the only one left he could possibly be referring to was the lesbain hangout.
God bless us every one....
Vivian parked the car in a lot two blocks away from the bar. As she walked down to the street, her excitement rose. She had not been to one of these places since before she was married. Suddenly, she missed it; the raucous, beer-slinging conviviality, the tension that came from the mass cruising that went on, and most of all, the atmosphere of acceptance.
Her mouth tightened as she thought of Eve and Louise. They had rejected her, but she would show them.
She opened the door and stepped into the dimness. The little bit of light in the place came from red kerosene lanterns placed over the bar and on each table. The bar itself had a thick leather border enclosing an incredibly scarred surface on which hundreds of initials had been carved. When she sat down she saw that the carving had been done professionally; it was meant to resemble an old wild West saloon bar. There were even some simulated bullet-gougings in it. An enormous pair of steer's horns hung over the cash register. Other mementoes of the mayhem of manifest destiny and mass slaughter included holsters, saddles, bridles, Colt revolvers, cavalry swords and haversacks and a gigantic wagon wheel.
A nest of close-cropped heads turned as Vivian sat down. She stared back, fascinated, remembering herself as she had been years before. She gave her order to a grinning, appreciative barmaid who wore sleeve garters on her upper arms. The girl's hair was combed duck-tail style in the back, and she lumbered with a splay-footed gait.
Suddenly she felt self-conscious, inferior. It was almost like being the only woman in a straight bar, surrounded by staring men. She regretted her attractive pantsuit, the ruffled cuffs on her shirt, and the puffy hairdo that came forward softly about her chin.
"Here you go, hon," the bartender said, putting down the drink in front of her.
Hon....That was what men called women who sat alone in bars. Automatically, as though it were her given name. Hon....Nothing could be more callously affectionate than that appellation.
That's what I used to call girls I met in bars ... the femmes I used to pick up, she thought. Another wave of insignificance passed over her. In a flash, she saw herself as she used to be, and wondered what would happen if she made herself look like that again.
The plan sprang into her mind, seemingly unaided by conscious thought. Suppose she were to do it? What could he do? How perfect it would be, a few days before the election, to appear at one of those damn rallies with a butch haircut and a severely tailored pantsuits, no makeup....She saw herself, hands shoved into pockets, one foot on a chair rung, charming the voters. She could see Tim's face now. He would try to pass it over, but he would go to pieces, of that she was sure.
She would have to spring it on him as a surprise ... wait until a few days before. There was a banquet scheduled by the party at that time; he had already told her to buy a new dress for it.
She could ruin him for good. She could leave him then, be free of him, with the knowledge that she had wrecked him good and proper first. That was much more satisfying than simply leaving him. Divorced men got themselves elected nowadays, that wouldn't hurt him enough. But if she pulled the pillars down before she decamped ... how much better that would be!
She could set herself up for the finale beforehand-starting tonight! She would let herself be seen here, at the bar. Someone could see her going in or coming out.
The next time, I'll park the car out front, she decided. Then what? What could she do that would be subtle but gossip-worthy? She didn't want him to get wind of the situation before the night of the banquet.
Not to worry, she told herself, sipping her drink. The husband is the last to know.
In the powder room of The Tanned Hide Barbara Quentin was putting the finishing touches on a repair job of her makeup. She wore a bright pink dress with a brocaded jacket. She was redolent from a dosing of bath oil, splash freshener, dusting powder, toilet water, cologne and perfume, all in the same fragrance-her favorite. Forever Feline.
The task completed, she put her makeup kit back into her purse, along with her revolver, her badge, her switchblade, a pair of handcuffs and two packs of Virginia Slims.
This was undoubtedly the most difficult assignment she had ever undertaken. She still didn't think it would work, but Daddy had been ecstatic at the idea, and she couldn't let him down. He'd be so proud of her if she carried it off, she told herself. It was a nice thought, to have a Daddy proud of her. That would show him that he didn't need a son to carry on his work. Nothing Daddy had ever done in thirty years on the Urinal Beat would top this job.
She walked out of the ladies room and moved to take a seat near the gang of pop-eyed butches when she saw the woman at the end of the bar. Carefully, she did not let her face change with the recognition she experienced. Slowly and sinuously she walked toward the newcomer.
Barbara slipped onto a stood beside Vivian. "Hi," she whispered. "I recognized you. You're Vivian Lawler, aren't you? Tim's wife. I saw you on TV and at that political rally. Are you part of this, too?"
Vivian grinned at her. "I've been part of it for a long time. How about you?"
"This is my beat, honey. But I never expected to see you here. Imagine that Tim-boy, I bet he thinks he's real cool. I've never heard a word about you. But you know, Vivian, we'd better not talk about it or we might let something slip in front of the wrong people." She glanced in the direction of the hutches. "You know the old cop saying: three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead. We'll just play it straight, okay?"
Vivian winked. "You mean gay."
Barbara laughed. "Yeah, that's for sure. God....Look, I'm going to work the other end for awhile. See if you get anything worthwhile up here."
She jumped off the stool, then turned back to whisper. "I think we ought to keep separate, Justin case. You know," she hissed. "I'm expecting a couple of buddies later on. You'll know them when you see them," she added, nodding conspiratorial ly.
Vivian watched her wiggle away. She frowned in confusion. What an oddball ... I wonder if she works at the paper? She smiled to herself. If this girl had recognized her from political ads on TV, then other people would, too.