On the other weekdays, he would slouch in early to drown himself in coffee, four or five local sex newspapers folded under his arm. The waitresses said little to him when word spread that he wasn't perusing the Times or the Wall Street Journal. His breakfast reading matter was not chosen for purposes of prurient stimulation. He was conducting an earnest search for the perfect woman, and in Garson's mind, the perfect modern woman would use any media at her disposal to locate the perfect man. Why not advertise?
It had been approximately one year, eighteen months, four days, fifteen hours and twenty-five seconds since he made love to a woman. She was practically perfect; Garson wasn't perfect enough. That's when he resorted to combing the personal ads. Up to now, Garson hadn't seen the perfect ad that would make him leap for the phone. Too many of the ads were placed by dominatrix types or women who wanted bisexual men for themselves and their husbands. Others wanted transvestites to observe. Some wanted what Garson couldn't fathom--men who were proficient in French and Greek loving. No woman who was perfect could desire anything beyond a basic American approach.
Many of the ads were directed to men 27-34, at least 5'11", weighing in at a maximum of 165 pounds. He was 35, 5'9" and 173 pounds. The ladies who weren't interested in the Rudy statistics couldn't be perfect either. Garson scanned down the last column of ads for the morning and one ad stood out.
The vibratory effects of the coffee and tobacco surged through him as he tore out the ad and walked to the cashier. Before he was out the door, the waitresses were pawing through the discarded papers he left on the counter. He figured they weren't in search of the tip. At home, he prepared for the call to Zina. He squeezed into an old smoking jacket made in the 40s. He could barely move his arms around but it put him in the proper mood. The only other thing he needed was a martini. His bar consisted of miniature bottles. There were only half-full bottles each of vodka and gin. He mixed them together and added a liberal portion of vermouth.
At 11:20, he dialed Zina. The phone rang for the seventh time and his initial jubilation became encrusted with a layer of despair. An answering machine clicked into action.
"This is Zina. I'm unable to pick up the phone right now. Unfortunately, this stupid machine is broken so you can't leave a message. Please call again."
Garson was disappointed but the sound of her voice made his skin tingle more than the substances consumed earlier. It was a medium-pitched sound that didn't come from a weak or vulnerable woman. The words were precisely articulated. Yet he perceived an affectionate side behind the perfunctory verbal missive.
By 4:20, he placed his sixth call. His early morning high was leaning toward a blood sugar nose dive of such magnitude and terrifying enormity that he thought he would have to hang up without listening to the entire recording again. However, as it commenced after the seventh ring, A faint voice in the background yelled, "Don't hang up! I'll shut the machine off!" The recorded voice halted in mid-sentence and the human voice said, "Hello?"
Garson's anxiety leveled off a few inches above the ground; he was so excited that he couldn't talk.
"Hello?" she said. " Is anyone there?"
"Uh, hello. Is this Zina? I saw your ad. "
"Oh yeah? Well, the moon is coming up over the horizon," she said. So she wants me to be romantic, he thought.
"But the stallion can find the mare without the moonlight," he responded. For a moment, only her gentle breathing passed through the receiver.
"Would the stallion enjoy a rodeo?" she asked. Garson was even more intrigued.
"If the stallion can be guaranteed a prize worthy of his prowess."
"When can we meet? Tonight?"
"Sure ... your place.
Mine's a mess." He didn't want to tackle a week's worth of dishes and there wasn't enough time to wash the sheets.
"Fine," she said, then gave him her address. “What's your name?"
"Garson ... Garson Rudy."
"Ruby?"
"No.
Rudy ... like in Vallee."
"About seven then."
Garson hurried down to the May Co. to buy a new shirt, trousers and underwear for his evening assignation. She had the right kind of voice. He drove his weatherbeaten Mustang to the apartment building on Clinton near Melrose and Fairfax. His anticipation was so high that he was a half hour early. He sat in his car, parked about four doors down, his heart pounded. He worried that she had accepted too quickly. Furthermore, her ad wasn't explicit about her looks; he had forgotten to ask over the phone. Then again, she hadn't asked him. He tried to remember all of the Italian women he met when he was pushing used lemons on the other side of town. All he could see in his mind were the ones who were overweight. Before he immersed himself completely in pessimism, he looked at his watch. It was time to meet Zina. He stepped up to the intercom outside the front door and pushed the buttons for 319.
"Yes?" said the voice through the tiny speaker.
"It's me ... Garson. "
"I'll buzz you in," she said.
"Sometimes the door doesn't work, so buzz me again if it doesn't unlock." He was concerned because her voice didn't sound quite the way it did over the telephone. The door pulled open easily. Impatient for the elevator to make its sluggish descent, he sprinted for the stairs.
Her door was open. "Zina?" he said, poking his head in. Her black hair was trimmed in a pageboy. She wore a close-fitting black blouse and running shorts as she stood at the counter, mixing a drink.
"None other," she said. As her trim but muscular legs carried her across the room, he could see that she was physically fit. She kissed him, her lips a wide thin red mark that threatened to sever her chin from the rest of her face. She locked the door and said, "I've been waiting a long time."
"I've been looking for you a long time," he said.
"You lived here long?" The living room was practically unfurnished except for a small table which held the phone and the answering machine. There was a metal folding chair near it, leaning against the wall.
"I moved in about three weeks ago, but I won't be in L.A. much past Sunday." She continued with her bartending.
"Just passing through," he said, sitting on one of the stools at the counter.
"Aren't we all? I've had so many strange calls since I put the ad in, and none of these poor men knew the right things to say. Such a funny one yesterday, a little boy, couldn't have been more than ten. Telling me all the great things he could do for me, what an experienced lover he was. I had to put my hand over the receiver so he wouldn't hear me laugh. He wouldn't stop. I hung up on him but he kept calling back. I unplugged the phone for the rest of the day. Yours was the first one I picked up today."
"I'm glad I knew the right words," he said, his eyes traversed the pale white landscape of her face and fell into her dark brown eyes. "Your eyes are great."
"Thanks," she said and smiled. "Ramos fizz all right with you? It's been so hot and I just had enough orange flower water left for two."
"Whatever the mare wants," said Garson.
She handed him a cold glass and they toasted their fortunate meeting before she lead him into the bedroom. When Garson walked into his apartment the next morning at 5:30, he knew he wouldn't be making his pilgrimage to Ben Frank's. His ecstasy over finding Zina had so overwhelmed him that he surprised his dirty sheets by taking them to the laundromat and washing them twice. After his pleasurably sleepless evening, she had asked, "Is the stallion ready for the rodeo?" He nodded and she said they had dinner reservations for Saturday night. They would meet at a new restaurant in West Los Angeles. The evening would be her treat. He wasn't happy to learn that she would be leaving the area in a few days. Though his time hadn't been wasted, the perfect one was slipping away again.
Saturday night came and Garson dressed in the suit which he swore had helped him become the top used car salesman in Montebello in 1977. He waxed his car for the occasion but it added about as much to the car's appearance as adding an extra coat of liquid makeup to a whore's face would transform her into a cover girl.
Soon they were seated in a large booth at Greyson's, a new French eatery which, after its opening three months before, had become the fashionable place to eat and be seen. Garson saw many familiar faces--rising starlets like Tracy Lyman and Hendra Roberts, pro football heroes Gus Everett and Joe Sanborn, Senator Gregory Monson, whom the majority felt had the best chance of being the next President, and some best-selling authors, Grace Corwin and Robert Rowlands. The patrons were a who's who of the rich and famous.
In spite of the luminaries whose blinding presence would have stunned most people, Garson couldn't remove his eyes from Zina. She wore a royal blue off-the-shoulder dress.
"The mare looks ravishing tonight, It he said, "more gorgeous than the nags in this room."
"The stallion doesn't look so bad himself. I hope he's ready to perform later on," she said, raising her glass of champagne.
"There's little time."
Their dinner conversation was dominated by Garson, who rattled on about the problems of selling used cars. Zina said little, smiling occasionally and looking a little nervous. Garson thought it might have been the burgundy coat and the chartreuse tie he was wearing. The outfit that had given him such success, didn't seem to work on Zina. After three hours, the bill came to $460 with the tip. She paid for it in cash.
Before the man in charge of valet parking could approach them as they exited, Zina grabbed Garson's arm and dragged him toward an alley. "Come on," she said.
"Where are we going, Zina?" he said, a little lightheaded from the drinks. He was lagging behind and the odor of Chanel No. 5 wafted to him. She led him through a door at the back of the restaurant and down a side hallway. She stopped him before they re-entered the dining room.
"What are we doing?" he said.
"Look out there," she said, pointing to the dining room. He peeked through the branches of a sumac tree. "You see the senator over there?"
"Yeah. "
"Fine." She hauled a large caliber handgun from her purse and put it in Garson's hand. "Kill him!" she whispered.
"What?!" said Garson, bewildered as ·he looked back at Zina, whose beauty had shifted to a reprehensible ugliness.
"Kill him!" she said, removing another gun from her purse and holding its barrel to the back of his head, "or I'll kill you now." He froze. "Shoot! Before someone comes!"
"What are we doing?" said Garson.
"It's called a hit, you fool…The stallion and the mare? The code? Danny sent you… "
Garson Rudy wished he were still selling cars.