The LeBaron Secret by Stephen; Birmingham Page A

Loaded with money. C-A-S-H—cash money.”
    â€œWhich broad?”
    â€œThe one that came to hear us in Modesto. Shit, man, she was the one who got us last night’s gig.”
    â€œWhere was Modesto?”
    â€œShit, man, Modesto, California. A few months ago, remember? Came to hear us, and came backstage after. She got us this gig. She lives here.”
    â€œOh, yeah. But wasn’t she kind of old , man?”
    â€œWhat the hell? She said she liked our sound. She said could we do this gig, remember?”
    â€œLucius’d have to fuck her to get the money out of her.”
    â€œI’m not fuckin’ some old broad!”
    The tall one sits straight up on the bed. “What the fuck difference does it make, asshole, how old she is, if she’s got money? If she’s got money, she can roll us out of here, and keep us rolling for a few more weeks till we get another gig.”
    â€œYeah, Lucius should fuck her. Lucius got us into this fuck-up to begin with.”
    â€œRight! You get to fuck her, Lucius!”
    â€œFuck her, Lucius!”
    â€œShit, man, I don’t even remember her name.”
    A silence.
    â€œShe was real thin. Brownish-colored hair.”
    â€œOh, wow,” says the tall one. “That’s going to make her real easy to find. There can’t be more than one thin broad with brownish-colored hair in San Francisco. We’ll find her easy. You’re an asshole, Lucius.”
    â€œShe told me her name. McLaren?”
    â€œNo!” the tall one says.
    â€œMcCarran?”
    â€œNo, asshole! Her name is LeBaron—Melissa LeBaron. They make wine. You are a total asshole, Lucius.”
    â€œI’ll fuck her! I’ll fuck her!” Lucius says.
    It is night now, and the big White Wedding-Cake House at 2040 Washington Street is quiet, its curtains drawn and closed against the night. We are a contented house, the curtained windows seem to say from under their carved marble eyebrows, the windows that address the quiet street. We are the sleeping eyes of a house at peace. There are no bad dreams, no scandals, to disturb our sleep, no unquiet memories to jar us from our slumber. This, at least, is what the south facade seems to be saying, but the north facade, invisible from the street, tells a different story. Here the house is wide awake, the curtains on the big windows of the north-facing drawing room kept fully open at her behest, because Assaria LeBaron never tires of her view, and wants it spread out for her inspection instantly, at whatever moment she might choose to admire it. The fog has lifted now—almost lifted—and only the very tops of the twin towers of the Golden Gate Bridge are obscured in clouds, and the orange lights that adorn the bridge’s cables glitter like chains of stars. One can also see a few faint lights from Alcatraz, as well as from Tiburon and Belvedere, and the hills of Marin beyond.
    From here, the waters of the Bay seem calm, but this is deceptive. The Bay is filled with tricky tides and dangerous crosscurrents, as prisoners who used to try to escape by swimming from Alcatraz soon discovered, and these tides and crosscurrents never sleep, and only drowned bodies ever made it to the shore.
    The south facade of the house is dark, but from the north bright lights shine from all the windows, and at times like this the house seems all eyes and ears, and there are whispers that only Sari hears. Is love important? I mean, is it important to be in love?
    In the drawing room, Thomas has filled the silver ice bucket and the Baccarat decanters, and everything is in readiness for Assaria LeBaron’s cocktail hour—the monogrammed linen napkins ( ALLeB ), the silver jigger, the silver martini pitcher, the long-handled silver spoon, the ice tongs. But Sari has not entered the drawing room yet, and there is no one there to admire the expanding view as the fog continues to lift, and she has not yet mixed her