It was the first weekend of December, about a year or more after I had left the Daily News, when I went to Houston to stand in my friend Burke's wedding. He was marrying a former girlfriend of mine, and since I introduced them he figured he had no choice but to invite me. (We never made love, by the way, but Burke didn't know that.)
That month also saw my TR3, Margaret, in her deaths throes. In fact, she succumbed Christmas Day in the left lane of I-10, on the bridge just as you pass into St John the Baptist Parish. With Margaret on life support I decided to make the trek to Houston on Amtrak. The passenger service was still new, so the Sunset Limited still bore the marks of the not-so-passenger-friendly Southern Pacific.
That Friday afternoon the cars were dirty, the bathrooms rough and in the areas where smoking was permitted the air too foul even for a chain smoker like me. This, naturally, could be made tolerable with a little money – a room or roomette in a sleeping car at a cost of three or four times that of a seat in coach.
For the extra fare one had a private compartment with two oversize facing chairs, which with the pulling of a handle or two converted into a bed -- reminiscent of the Pullman berth of yore, I guess. They had curtains to block views from the corridor as well as the street, and doors with locks. The restrooms at the end of each sleeping car were much cleaner than those in coach and included showers. If one were traveling between New Orleans and El Paso or any other journey that required an overnight run, the sleeping car might be worth the extra cost. And, in fact, if one had the money, a roomette was quite superior to my seat in coach for a shorter run.
My seat in coach was roomier than those in a 737 or a Greyhound, and one could always walk to the diner/café/bar car at the end of the queue for a drink. Makers Mark cost the same for those in coach or those in roomettes.
That Friday afternoon, suitcase in hand, I boarded the Sunset and spent half an hour finding my seat, storing my luggage, having my ticket punched and finding my way to the back of the train for a drink.
Somewhere between Lafayette and Crowley, where the cane turns to rice, I downed my second drink and began walking back to my seat. Out the door, through the vestibule and gangway into the sleeping cars.
Then, I heard that Lauren Bacall purr, that raspy, sexy drawl: "If it isn't Mr. Strange."
Her scent, Chanel, which I remembered so well waffed Into the corridor. Everything came back, along with the electric feeling that passed through my hips that night at Tony's. I hadn't realized how much I wanted to "nail Doris" again. I had tried hard to put ideas like that out of my mind when still at the Daily News because I had to work with the woman. Her having said this was a one-time thing, made it a easier.
I thought about that one-time thing and how its reasons may not apply in this situation.
"Ah, Ms Loro," I said, trying to be overly polite.
She just stared at me in silence through the opened door for the longest time.
"Williamson, Loro Williamson" she said, almost as a reprimand. I think she really was angry even if only a little. "Join me and tell me what you've been doing the past year."
Now, even I was able to catch that hint." And so I stepped in to the roomette and took a seat facing her. It wasn't much of a spider to the fly. I knew – or at least hoped I knew – what I was getting into. It was a good guess, a correct one.
Doris was as I liked to imagine her. Even at 47 (I checked) she was as beautiful as she was that night out on the Feliciana Highway, or as beautiful as my lecherous mind had fantasized. Today, a single standard strand of pearls hung from her long neck. She was wearing a light green silk blouse, which made her green eyes sparkle -- or was I just hoping they were aglitter? The first three buttons of the blouse were undone, letting her shoulder length red hair tickle the tops of her freckled breasts and the thin border of green lace that was her bra, a green just a tad darker than her blouse.
Her skirt was a gray, heavy wool, a bit shorter than what I remember from my days at the Daily News, rising almost to mid thigh as she crossed legs. Despite the darkness of her black, thigh-high stocking, she knew her legs were getting her message across. She toyed with the four-inch heeled shoe on her left toes, and crossed and re-crossed her legs, each time broadcasting her green lace panties. She stared at me over the tops of her glasses.
"I don't have any whiskey for you. Makers Mark, if I recall right. But I did have the porter bring me a pitcher of martinis a few minutes ago. You know how much I like martinis, of course. I think you'll take one. An Irishman never refuses a drink." And she laughed as she reached for the pitcher, poured the gin and vermouth into a plastic cup. It was quite cold and actually tasted good, surprising for someone who doesn't like gin. But, then I was drinking for effect and affect, not taste.
"A toast to our trip?" she asked. "Didn't we toast in my living room?"
"Of course." I was thinking of something special to toast but I thought at the time that it probably should wait. "Chin Chin."
"Where are you going? I'm going to do some shopping in Houston."
"Houston. Stranding in a friend's wedding."
"A friend from Tulane? We did discuss your college days?"
We prattled on: What do you do in your new job? (Same thing as before.) Do you have a new girlfriend? (Yes, a couple of them, really.) Are you still bedding my daughter's tennis coach? (No.) Did you ever get to make love to the waitress at the Dyn-o-mite Grill? (Yes, once.) Did you ever hook up with Diane Barr afer you left? (No.) "I knew you were screwing her. Everybody in town knew that, even Elliot."
"Did everyone know about us, too?" I asked.
"There were rumors. Everybody thought Elliot's bet was a joke, and the spades at Tony's are always making things like that up. I am after all a bit older than you. You kept quite about us. But that's the way you are. You're different."
