Chapter 14: Willow Weep for Me    (print this)

AS SOON AS HENRY arrived home, he decided to call Maude, even though they would be having their usual rendezvous at midnight. She too was a night owl, and they had easily slipped into a strangely comforting routine of spending two or so hours together every other night. But the conversation with Claude had unnerved him slightly, and he felt an urge to hear her voice (or at least Ms. No's voice, telling him through pursed lips that Maude was temporarily unavailable; the many meetings these past weeks had done nothing to melt Maude's assistant). As he reached for the receiver, it rang.

"Hello?"

"You haven't given up all worldly pleasures, I hope." The self-satisfied and rapid voice of Win Stevenson filled his ear. "I'm on my way to Luv-It's. Care to join me?" It was said the way Win usually said things, somewhere between an order and a request.

"I'm on a diet, Win," said Henry, "and actually rather busy right now…"

"Good," said Win. "Then you'll be needing a break only a Vegas tradition can provide. I'm a block away, so be out front in a minute." And Win hung up.

A minute later, Henry watched a restored 1930's Rolls Royce glide into his driveway like a silver ghost. The back window slid down and Win Stevenson, his blonde-gray hair as carefully coifed as Robert Redford, his dimming vision protected by dark glasses, waved Henry over and into the back of the car.

"I hope this is worth my while, Win, as I've been spending too much time in rich men's cars lately," said Henry in an even tone.

"Oh, selling yourself on the street already, Bethel?" Win laughed. "I told you the bottom was about to fall out of the memorabilia business."

"Business is fine," said Henry, sinking back into the ridiculously plush leather seat. "After all, you're a big enough sucker to buy giant sculptures of Frank."

Win Stevenson chuckled, and rapped his ivory-tipped cane on the window, signaling the driver to go. "I like being a sucker for art and Sinatra, Bethel. Always a pleasure to bring the two together. You should see the piece in my atrium. It's masterful, as if Frank was about to come to life and scream at me about cutting off his credit." Win laughed again, the practiced laugh of a man who laughs whether he finds something funny or not. "She's quite an artist. And part of the reason I wanted to talk to you."

Henry tried not to give Win a sharp look. "Oh? And what would I have to say about that? I'm retired, remember?"

"The only writers I've ever met who were retired were dead," said Win.

"Look, what's this about?" said Henry.

"Soon enough. Custard first, then business."

Luv-It's Frozen Custard was indeed a Vegas tradition, a small, walk-up desert shack just a few blocks from Henry's house, on Oakey just south of Las Vegas Boulevard. In spite of its location, on a seedy stretch of the boulevard where various drunks and panhandlers could be found day or night, Luv-It was immensely popular and cut across class lines. Old time power brokers and yuppies rubbed shoulders with the working poor, all temporarily transported into the shared bliss of towering sundaes. Win's Rolls pulled up beside a monstrous SUV and an ancient orange jeep that had seen better days.

The driver—Win's bodyguard, of course—helped his boss out of the back. Despite his vitality, the open secret about Win Stevenson, first among equals when it came to casino moguls, was the fact that his eyesight was gradually fading away thanks to a hereditary degenerative disease. It was a condition which on occasion lent poignancy to his rapacious desire to constantly top himself with bigger and grander projects, but which more often lent itself to charges of a desperate egomania, a relentless empire-building that must be completed before the lamps finally went out. It seemed to Henry that Win acted as if his achievements would be nothing unless he could see the gilt on the walls of his hotels with his own eyes. But time was running out. When his new museum opened, the paintings would all look to Win like the fuzzy dabs of Impressionist canvases, whether they were or not.

Win squinted at the Flavors of the Day, then leaned into the service window. "Do you still have Mango?"

A lovely black girl looked over her shoulder and said in a bored voice, "We've got just enough left for a Junior."

"Ah, excellent, excellent," said Win. "A Junior Western then, with Mango."

"Your luck is as good as ever," said Henry. "They only make Mango a few times a year."

"Not luck," said Win with a smirk. "I know well in advance the dates that Luv-It offers Mango."

"Ah, the little pleasures the most powerful man in town can enjoy," said Henry.

"The little pleasures remain the best ones, Henry," said Win, his mouth twisting a little at the use of Henry's first name. "What will you have?"

"Seriously, I'm on a diet," said Henry. The thought of standing there with Win Stevenson and eating a sundae as if they were cutting class in high school was far too strange for Henry to stomach right now. He wanted to know what Win had to say about Maude.

"Well, you'll have to enjoy the view instead, since I can't," said Win, in an uncharacteristic allusion to his affliction. The view was also a Luv-It's tradition, since the shack was a stone's throw from the Olympic Garden Gentleman's Cabaret. If you went for a sundae around this time of night, you could mix a little silicone with your custard, as the dancers had to cross the Luv-It's parking lot on the way to their shift. But the parade of flesh, the exhausted, bored look on the women's faces as they trudged toward another night of lap dances, only made Henry wince.

As Win dug into his sundae with gusto, Henry said, impatiently, "What do you want to talk to me about?"

"Business with pleasure," said Win around a mouthful. "All right. As you know, the opening of the Dressler-Vegas is in two weeks."

"Indeed," said Henry, even though he hadn't thought about Win's museum project in weeks, being consumed with Maude. The thought of his maudlin, drunken jaunt around the construction site three months back made him inwardly wince.

"Of course, the gala is going to be spectacular, plenty of VIPs from New York and Europe in attendance. But as big as the Dressler-Vegas is, as pleased as I am with the opening exhibits, I want to make it truly spectacular. Unforgettable."

"I'm sure no one will soon forget the night the highbrows conquered the Strip, Win," said Henry sarcastically.

"No doubt. But I want a surprise that will knock even those East Coast snobs dead, Henry." His eyes, cloudy behind his dark glasses, fixed on Henry. "I want to present the person and work of the most mysterious, most talked-about artist on the scene." Win took a big bite of sundae, and licked his lips. "I want Maude S— to open my museum."

Henry paused. "That would certainly be a coup," he said carefully. "But she's a recluse. Even her appearance at Elise's gallery was brief in the extreme. And I don't think any amount of money would entice her to be your Art Star of the Moment, Win."

Win smiled. "That's where you come in."

"Me? I don't have anything to do with that stuff anymore, Win. You know that better than anyone." Henry looked at him steadily.

Win laughed with a snort, and took another big bite. "Come off it, Bethel," he said with his mouth full. "I know very well you've developed some kind of relationship with Maude since she came to town. The buzz has been growing steadily. Oh, you've been discreet about it, but this will always be a small town. This will always be my town." Win shoveled another scoop of custard into his arrogant smile.

Henry stared at him. "That's none of your business, Stevenson," he said.

Win shrugged. "Oh, but it is. Art is now my business in addition to everything else. Now, I don't want to upset what you're working on, Bethel," he said, his tone changing. "Clearly, you've decided to make your comeback as a critic with a study of a tantalizing artist who nobody has been able to dig up so much as a birth date on. Somehow—and I confess to being very impressed, as it couldn't just be your charm—you've managed to vault over the walls Maude S— has so carefully created. At this very moment, there's a manuscript, an outline at least, of a book all about this enigma, ready to shoot up the bestseller list sometime next year. Tell me I'm wrong."

Henry laughed, and shook his head. "You're wrong," he said.

"Of course I'm wrong," said Win, with a sardonic little smile. "The point is this: I'm not looking to derail your plans. I'm looking for you to put in the good word when I approach Maude with my plan. Not only will she open the gala, but I will show a work of hers—a work of her choosing, no strings—in the main atrium of the space, where it will be seen by thousands of visitors, VIPs, and very rich patrons."

"She won't do it," said Henry. "Not for any kind of exposure. She avoids exposure like no artist since Duchamp. Not for love or money, Win. You'll be wasting your time."

"I don't think so," said Win Stevenson, as he savored the last of the divine mango custard. "Because I'm going to make her an offer she can't refuse."

Henry looked at him sharply. "Whatever your offer is, Win, I'm not going to advise her to take it. I don't owe you any favors, frankly. And I don't need any of your money."

Win looked down at his empty cup, then handed it to his driver, who tossed it into the trash. He stood for a moment, leaning on his cane. A car filled with teenagers pulled up, and he nodded to his driver. "You know, when I told Jill you'd become the confidant of the infamous Maude S—, she refused to believe it."

Henry knew why Win now brought up his ex-wife, but he wasn't about to give him the slightest advantage. "Oh, is Jill still advising you? I thought she'd moved on long ago."

Win smiled. "She has, and she hasn't. Perhaps if you'd spoken to her in the last year, you'd know what she is doing."

Henry moved a little closer to Win, intending to say something, when he stopped short at the sight of the lapel pin in Win's charcoal Armani suit. It was a winged horse against a blue background. Where had he seen…

"I think this conversation is over, Stevenson," said Henry as coldly and calmly as he could, his eyes still fixed on the pin.

Win moved to the open door of the Rolls now, not looking at Henry. "I think you should think about this, Bethel. Because, if you haven't noticed by now, I tend to get what I want. And you could benefit greatly from doing me this favor, or you could be left behind in the dust when events spin out of your control. Which they will. They always do for people like you." And Win smiled his blind man's smile.

Henry felt a pressure in his forehead. "Stay away from Maude," he suddenly found himself saying, angrily. "And stop spying on her and on me, or there will be consequences you can't imagine."

"Spying?" said Win with a guffaw. "Get a hold of yourself, Bethel. You sound like you're living in a detective novel. And it's my business to know all the consequences. That's the difference between winners and losers." Win waved his cane in Henry's direction. "We'll see which camp you'll find yourself in soon enough." The driver shut his door, but Win swiftly lowered the window and said, "You should have that twitch looked at. You might wind up in a sanitarium before you can write that comeback." Moments later Henry found himself alone with a gang of giggling teens and the long train of strippers jiggling by.

As he walked home, rubbing his twitching eye, one thought seized him: he had to talk to Maude, and before he saw her at midnight. Things suddenly did feel as if they were spinning out of control. After all the careful planning, now was not the time to lose it, he said to himself. Don't lose it, he said, almost aloud like a mantra.

When he got back, he reached for the phone. Again, it rang before he could dial Maude.

"Hello?" he said, exasperated.

A raspy voice choked out a few words. Henry couldn't immediately understand what was being said. "Who is this?" he barked.

"Henry… important… for Christ's sake… it's worse, much worse… you've got to help me…"

Suddenly recognition dawned. "Nap? Nap Hendryx? Is that you? Where are you? What's wrong?"

Nap's voice came over in thick gasps, as if his lungs were collapsing. "Christ, Henry… fucking hurts… you've… you've got…"

"Nap? Where are you?!?"

"Atomic… behind Atomic… hurry… Christ, Nap… they're going to…"

"NAP! Hold on! I'll be right there!"

But the line had gone dead.