Fancy Pants (12 page)
"Stop it!" She stamped her foot in the dirt. "Just stop it! I don't
have any idea what you're talking about, and even a blind idiot could
see that I can't possibly get out of this dress by myself, and if you
ask me,
the person who talks too much around here is you!"
He grinned, and she suddenly forgot her misery under the force of that
devastating smile, crinkling the corners of his mouth and eyes. His
amusement seemed to come from a place deep inside, and as she watched
him she had the absurd feeling that an entire world of funniness had
somehow managed to pass her by. The idea made her feel more out of
sorts than ever. "Hurry up, will you?" she snapped. "I can barely
breathe."
"Turn around, Francie. Undressing women is one of my particular
talents. Even better than my bunker shot."
"You're not undressing me," she sputtered, as she turned her back to
him. "Don't make it sound so sordid."
His hands paused on the hooks at the back of her dress. "What exactly
would you call it?"
"Performing a helpful function."
"Sort of like a maid?" The row of hooks began to ease open.
"Rather like that, yes." She had the uneasy feeling that she'd just
taken another giant step in the wrong direction. She heard a short,
vaguely malevolent chuckle that confirmed her fears.
"Something about you is sort of growin' on me, Francie. It's not often
life gives you the opportunity to meet living history."
"Living history?"
"Sure. French Revolution, old Marie Antoinette. All that
let-them-eat-cake stuff."
"What," she asked, as the last of the hooks fell open, "would someone
like you know about Marie Antoinette?"
"Until a little over an hour ago," he replied, "not much."
They picked Skeet up about two miles down the road, and as Dallie had
predicted, he wasn't happy. Francesca found herself banished to the
back seat, where she sipped from a bottle of something called Yahoo
chocolate soda, which she'd taken from the Styrofoam cooler without
waiting for an
invitation. She drank and brooded, remaining silent, as requested, all
the way into New Orleans. She wondered what Dallie would say if he knew
that she didn't have a plane ticket, but she refused even to consider
telling him the truth. Picking at the corner of the Yahoo label with
her thumbnail, she contemplated the fact that she didn't have a mother,
money, a home, or a fiance. All she had left was a small remnant of
pride, and she desperately wanted the chance to wave it at least once
before the day was over. For some reason, pride was becoming
increasingly important to her when it came to Dallie Beaudine.
If only he weren't so impossibly gorgeous, and so obviously unimpressed
with her. It was infuriating . . . and irresistible. She had never
walked away from a challenge where a man was concerned, and it grated
on her to be forced to walk away from this one. Common sense told her
she had bigger problems to worry about, but something more visceral
said that if she couldn't manage to attract the admiration of Dallie
Beaudine she would have lost one more chunk of herself.
As she finished her chocolate soda, she figured out how to get the
money she needed for her ticket home. Of course! The idea was so
absurdly simple that she should have thought of it right away. She
looked over at her suitcase and frowned at the scratch on the side.
That suitcase had cost something like eighteen hundred pounds when
she'd bought it less than a year before. Flipping open her cosmetic
case, she riffled through the contents looking for a cake of eye shadow
approximately the same butternut shade as the leather. When she found
it, she unscrewed the lid and gently dabbed at the scratch. It was
still faintly visible when she was done, but she felt satisfied that
only a close inspection would reveal the flaw.
With that problem out of the way and the first airport sign in sight,
she returned her thoughts to Dallie Beaudine, trying to understand his
attitude toward her. The whole problem—the only reason everything was
going so badly between them—was that she looked so awful. This had
temporarily thrown him into the superior position. She let her eyelids
drift shut and played out a fantasy in her mind in which she would
appear before him well rested, hair freshly arranged in
shining chestnut curls, makeup impeccable, clothes wonderful. She would
have him on his knees in seconds.
The current argument, in what seemed to be an ongoing series between
Dallie and that horrid companion of his, distracted her from her
reverie.
"I don't see why you're so hell-bent on making Baton Rouge tonight,"
Skeet complained. "We've got all day tomorrow to get to Lake Charles in
time for your round Monday morning. What difference does an extra hour
make?"
"The difference is I don't want to spend any more time driving on
Sunday than I have to."
"I'll drive. It's only an extra hour, and there's that real nice motel
where we stayed last year. Don't you have a dog or something to check
on there?"
"Since when did you give a damn about any of my dogs?"
"A cute little mutt with a black spot over one eye, wasn't it? Had some
kind of a bad leg."
"That was in Vicksburg."
"You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Listen, Skeet, if you want to spend tonight in New
Orleans so you can go over to the Blue Choctaw and see that red-haired
waitress, why don't you just come out and say it instead of beating
around the bush like this, going on about dogs and bad legs like some
kind of goddamn hypocrite."
"I didn't say anything about a red-haired waitress or wanting to go to
the Blue Choctaw."
"Yeah. Well, I'm not going with you. That place is an invitation to a
fight, especially on Saturday night. The women all look like mud
wrestlers and the men are worse. I damn near busted a rib the last time
I went there, and I've had enough aggravation for one day."
"I told you to leave her with the guy at the filling station, but you
wouldn't listen to me. You never listen to me. Just like last Thursday.
I told you that shot from the rough was a hundred thirty-five yards;
I'd paced it off, and I told you, but you ignored me and picked up that
eight-iron just like I hadn't said a word."
"Just be quiet about it, will you? I told you right then I was wrong,
and I told you the next day that I was wrong, and I been telling you
twice a day ever since, so shut up!"
"That's a rookie's trick, Dallie, not trusting your caddy for the
yardage. Sometimes I think you're deliberately trying to lose
tournaments."
"Francie?" Dallie said over his shoulder. "You got any more of those
fascinating stories about mascara you want to tell me right now?"
"Sorry," she said sweetly. "I'm all out. Besides, I'm not supposed to
chat. Remember?"
"Too late anyway, I guess," Dallie sighed, pulling up to the airport's
main terminal. With the ignition still running, he got out of the car
and came around to open her door. "Well, Francie, I can't say it hasn't
been interesting." After she stepped out, he reached into the back
seat, removed her cases, and set them next to her on the sidewalk.
"Good luck with your fiance and the prince and all those other high
rollers you run around with."
"Thank you," she said stiffly.
He took a couple of quick chews on his bubble gum and grinned. "Good
luck with those vampires, too."
She met his amused gaze with icy dignity. "Good-bye, Mr. Beaudine."
"Good-bye, Miss Francie Pants."
He'd gotten the last word on her. She stood on the pavement in front of
the terminal and faced the undeniable fact that the gorgeous hillbilly
had scored the final point in a game she'd invented. An
illiterate—probably illegitimate— backwoods bumpkin had outwitted,
outtalked, and out-scored the incomparable Francesca Serritella Day.
What was left of her spirit staged a full-scale rebellion, and she
gazed up at him with eyes that spoke volumes in the history of banned
literature. "It's too bad we didn't meet under different
circumstances." Her pouty mouth curled into a wicked smile. "I'm
absolutely certain we'd have tons in common."
And then she stood on tiptoe, curled into his chest, and lifted her
arms until they encircled his neck,
never for a moment letting her gaze
drop from his. She tilted up her perfect face and offered up her soft
mouth like a jeweled chalice. Gently drawing his head down with the
palms of her hands, she
placed her lips over his and then slowly parted them so that Dallie
Beaudine could take a long, unforgettable drink.
He didn't even hesitate. He jumped right in just as if he'd been there
before, bringing with him all the expertise he'd gained over the years
to meet and mingle with all of hers. Their kiss was perfect—hot and
sexy—two pros doing what they did best, a tingler right down to the
toes. They were both too experienced to bump teeth or mash noses or do
any of those other awkward things less practiced men and women are apt
to do. The Mistress of Seduction had met the Master, and to Francesca
the experience was as close to perfect as anything she'd ever felt,
complete with goose bumps and a lovely weakness in her knees, a
spectacularly perfect kiss made even more perfect by the knowledge that
she didn't have to give a moment's thought to the awkward aftermath of
having implicitly promised something she had no intention of delivering.
The pressure of the kiss eased, and she slid the tip of her tongue
along his bottom lip. Then she slowly pulled away. "Good-bye, Dallie,"
she said softly, her cat's eyes slanting up at him with a mischievous
glitter. "Look me up the next time you're in Cap Ferret."
Just before she turned away, she had the pleasure of seeing a slightly
bemused expression take over his gorgeous face.
"I should be used to it by now," Skeet was saying as Dallie climbed
back behind the wheel. "I should be used to it, but I'm not. They just
fall all over you. Rich ones, poor ones, ugly ones, fancy ones. Don't
make no difference. It's like they're all a bunch of homing pigeons
circling in to roost. You got lipstick
on you."
Dallie wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and then looked down
at the pale smear. "Definitely imported," he muttered.
From just inside the door of the terminal, Francesca watched the Buick
pull away and suppressed an absurd pang of regret. As soon as the car
was out of sight, she picked up her cases and walked back outside until
she came to a taxi stand with a single yellow cab. The driver got out
and loaded her cases into the trunk while she settled in the back. As
he got
behind the wheel, he turned to her. "Where to, ma'am?"
"I know it's late," she said, "but do you think you could find a resale
shop that's still open?"
"Resale shop?"
"Yes. Someplace that buys designer labels . . . and a really
extraordinary suitcase."
ironwork and Old Man River, Confederate jasmine and sweet olive, hot
nights, hot jazz, hot women—lay at the bottom of the Mississippi like a
tarnished piece of jewelry. In a city noted for its individuality, the
Blue Choctaw managed to remain common. Gray and dingy, with a pair of
neon beer signs that flickered painfully in
a window dulled by exhaust
fumes, the Blue Choctaw could have been located near the seediest part
of any American city—near the docks, the mills, the river, skirting the
ghetto. It bumped up to the bad side, the never-after-dark, littered
sidewalks, broken street lamps, no-good-girls-allowed part of town.
The Blue Choctaw had a particular aversion to good girls. Even the
women the men had left at home weren't all that good, and the men sure
as hell didn't want to find better ones sitting on the red vinyl bar
stools next to them. They wanted to find girls like Bonni and Cleo,
semi-hookers who wore strong perfume and red lipstick, who talked tough
and thought tough and helped a man forget that Jimmy Asshole Carter was
sure enough going to get himself elected President and give all the
good jobs to the niggers.
Bonni twirled the yellow plastic sword in her mai-tai and peered
through the noisy crowd at her friend
and rival Cleo Reznyak, who was
shoving her tits up against Tony Grasso as he pushed a quarter in the
jukebox and punched in C-24. There was a
mean mood in the smoky air of the Blue Choctaw that night, meaner than
usual, although Bonni didn't try to put her finger on its source. Maybe
it was the sticky heat that wouldn't let go; maybe it was the fact that
Bonni had turned thirty the week before and the last of her illusions
had just about disappeared. She knew she wasn't smart, wasn't pretty
enough to get by on her looks, and she didn't have the energy to
improve herself. She was living in a broken-down trailer park,
answering the telephone at Gloria's Hair Beautiful, and it wasn't going
to get any better.
For a girl like Bonni, the Blue Choctaw represented a shot at the good
times, a few laughs, the occasional big spender who would pick up the
tab for her mai-tais, take her to bed, and leave a fifty-dollar bill on
the dresser next morning. One of those big spenders was sitting at the
other end of the bar . . . with his eye on Cleo.
She and Cleo had an agreement. They stood together against any
newcomers who tried to sink their butts too comfortably onto the Blue
Choctaw's bar stools, and they didn't poach on each other's territory.
Still, the spender at the bar tempted Bonni. He had a big belly and
arms strong enough to show that he held a steady job, maybe working on
one of the offshore drilling rigs—a man out for a good time. Cleo had
been getting more than her fair share of men lately, including Tony
Grasso, and Bonni was tired of it.
"Hi," she said, wandering over and sliding up on the stool next to him.
"You're new around here, aren't you?"
He looked her over, taking in her carefully arranged heimet of sprayed
blond hair, her plum eye shadow, and deep, full breasts. As he nodded,
Bonni could see him forgetting about Cleo.
"Been in Biloxi the last few years," he replied. "What're you drinking?"
She gave him a kittenish smile. "I'm partial to mai-tais." After he
gestured toward the bartender for her drink, she crossed her legs. "My
ex-husband spent some time in Biloxi. I don't suppose you ran into him?
A cheap son of a bitch named Ryland."
He shook his head—didn't know anybody by that name —and moved his arm
so that it brushed along
the side of her tits. Bonni decided they were going to get along fine,
and she turned
her body just far enough so she didn't have to see the accusing
expression in Cleo's eyes.
An hour later the two of them had it out in the little girls' room.
Cleo bitched for a while, jerking a comb through her tough black hair
and then tightening the posts on her best pair of fake ruby earrings.
Bonni apologized and said she hadn't known Cleo was interested.
Cleo studied her suspiciously. "You know I'm getting tired of Tony. All
he does is complain about his wife. Shit, I haven't had a good laugh
out of him in weeks."
"The guy at the bar—his name's Pete—he's not much for laughs either,"
Bonnie admitted. She pulled a vial of Tabu from her purse and
generously sprayed herself. "This place sure is going to hell."
Cleo fixed her mouth and then stepped back to scrutinize her work. "You
said it there, honey."
"Maybe we should go up north. Up to Chicago or someplace."
"I been thinking about St. Louis. Someplace where the fucking men
aren't all married."
It was a topic they'd discussed many times, and they continued to
discuss it as they left the ladies' room, weighing the advantages of
the oil boom in Houston, the climate in Los Angeles, the money in New
York, and knowing all the time they'd never leave New Orleans.
The two women pushed through the group of men congregated near the bar,
their eyes busy, no longer paying attention to each other even though
they continued to talk. As they searched out their prey, Bonni began to
realize something had changed. Everything seemed quieter, although the
bar was still full, people were talking, and the jukebox blared out
"Ruby." Then she noticed that a lot of heads were turning toward the
doorway.
Pinching Cleo hard on the arm, she nodded her head. "Over there," she
said.
Cleo looked in the direction Bonni had indicated and came to a sudden
stop. "Kee-rist."
They hated her on sight. She was everything they weren't—a woman right
off the fashion pages, beautiful as a New York model, even in a pair of
jeans; expensive-looking, stylish, and snooty, with an expression on
her face like she'd just
smelled something bad, and they were it. She was the kind of woman who
didn't belong anywhere near a place like the Blue Choctaw, a hostile
invader who made them feel ugly, cheap, and worn out. And then they saw
the two men they'd left not ten minutes earlier walking right toward
her.
Bonni and Cleo looked at each other for a moment before they headed in
the same direction, their eyes narrowed, their stomachs bitter with
determination.
Francesca remained oblivious to their approach as she searched the
hostile environment of the Blue Choctaw with an uneasy gaze,
concentrating all her attention on trying to peer through the thick
smoke and press of bodies to catch sight of Skeet Cooper. A tiny,
apprehensive muscle quivered at her temple, and her palms were damp.
Never had she felt so out of her element as she did in this seedy New
Orleans bar.
The sound of raucous laughter and too-loud music attacked her ears. She
felt hostile eyes inspecting her, and she gripped her small Vuitton
cosmetic case more tightly, trying not to remember that it contained
all she had left in the world. She tried to blot out the memory of the
horrible places the taxi driver had taken her, each one more repulsive
than the last, and none of them bearing the slightest resemblance to
the resale shop in Piccadilly where the clerks wore gently used
designer originals and served tea to their customers. She had thought
it such a good idea to sell her clothes; she hadn't imagined she would
end up in some dreadful pawnshop parting with her suitcase and the rest
of her wardrobe for three hundred and fifty dollars just so she could
pay her taxi fare and have enough money left to survive on for another
few days until she got hold of Nicky. A Louis Vuitton suitcase full of
designer originals let go for three hundred and fifty dollars! She
couldn't spend two nights at a really good hotel for that amount.
"Hi, honey."
Francesca jumped as two disreputable-looking men came up to her, one
with a stomach that strained the buttons of his plaid shirt, the other
a greasy-looking character with enlarged pores.
"You look like you could use a drink," the heavy one said.
"Me and my new buddy Tony here'd be happy to buy you a couple of
mai-tais."
"No, thank you," she replied, looking anxiously about for Skeet. Why
wasn't he here? A needle-sharp shower of resentment pricked at her. Why
hadn't Dallie given her the name of his motel instead of forcing her to
stand in the doorway of this horrible place, the name of which she'd
barely been able to dredge up after spending twenty minutes poring over
a telephone book? The fact that she needed to find him had printed
itself indelibly in her brain while she was making another series of
fruitless calls to London trying to locate Nicky or David Graves or one
of her other former companions, all of whom seemed to be out
of town,
recently married, or not taking her calls.
Two tough-faced women sidled up to the men in front of her, their
hostility evident. The blonde leaned into the man with the stomach.
"Hey, Pete. Let's dance."
Pete didn't take his eyes off Francesca. "Later, Bonni."
"I wanna dance now," Bonni insisted, her mouth hard.
Pete's gaze slithered over Francesca. "I said later. Dance with Tony."
"Tony's dancin' with me," the black-haired woman said, curling short
purple fingernails over the other man's hairy arm. "Come on, baby."
"Go away, Cleo." Shaking off the purple fingernails, Tony pressed his
hand on the wall just next to Francesca's head and leaned toward her.
"You new in town? I don't remember seeing you around here before."
She shifted her weight, trying to catch sight of a red bandanna
headband while she avoided the unpleasant smell of whiskey mixed with
cheap after-shave.
The woman named Cleo sneered. "You don't think a snotty bitch like
her's gonna give you the time of day, do you, Tony?"
"I thought I told you to get lost." He gave Francesca an oily smile.
"Sure you wouldn't like a drink?"
"I'm not thirsty," Francesca said stiffly. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Looks like you got stood up," Bonni purred. "So why don't you get
lost."
A blast of warm air from outside hit the damp back of her blouse as the
door opened, admitting three more rough-faced men, none
of whom was Skeet. Francesca's uneasiness grew. She couldn't stand in
the doorway all night, but she recoiled at the thought of going any
farther inside. Why hadn't Dallie told her where he was lodging? She
couldn't stay alone in New Orleans with only three hundred and fifty
dollars between herself and starvation while she waited for Nicky to
finish his fling. She had to find Dallie now, before he left! "Excuse
me," she said abruptly, sliding between Tony and Pete.
She heard a short, unpleasant laugh from one of the women, and then a
mutter from Tony. "It's your fault, Bonni," he complained. "You and
Cleo scared her away just when—" The rest was mercifully lost as she
slid through the crowd toward the back, looking for an inconspicuous
table.
"Hey, honey—"
A quick glance over her shoulder told her that Pete was following her.
She squeezed between two tables, felt someone's hand brush her bottom,
and made a dash for the lavatory. Once inside, she sagged against the
door, her cosmetic case clutched to her chest. Outside, she heard the
sound of breaking glass and she jumped. What a hideous place! Her
opinion of Skeet Cooper sank even lower. Suddenly she remembered
Dallie's reference to a red-haired waitress. Although she hadn't
spotted anyone who fit that description, she hadn't really been
looking. Maybe the bartender could give her some information.
The door next to her opened abruptly, and the two tough-faced women
came in. "Look what we got here, Bonni Lynn," the one named Cleo
sneered.
"Well, if it ain't Miss Rich Bitch," Bonni replied. "What's the matter,
honey? Did you get tired of working the hotel trade and decide to come
down here to slum it?"
Francesca's jaw tightened. These awful women had pushed her far enough.
Lifting her chin, she stared at Bonni's harsh plum eye shadow. "Have
you been this rude from birth, or is it a more recent occurrence?"
Cleo laughed and turned to Bonni. "My, my. Didn't she just tell you
off." She studied Francesca's cosmetic case. "What do you have in there
that's so important?"
"None of your business."
"Got your jewels in there, honey?" Bonni suggested. "The sapphires and
diamonds your boyfriends buy you? Tell me, how much do you charge to
pull a trick?"
"A trick!" Francesca couldn't mistake her meaning and before she could
stop herself, her hand shot out and slapped the woman across her
pancaked cheek. "Don't you ever—"
She didn't get any further. With a howl of rage, Bonni curled her
fingers" into talons and whipped them through the air, ready to grab
two handfuls of Francesca's hair. Francesca instinctively thrust her
cosmetic case forward, using it to block the other woman's movement.
The case caught Bonni at the waist, knocking the wind out of her and
forcing her to teeter for a moment on her imitation alligator heels
before she lost her balance. As she tumbled to the floor, Francesca
felt a moment of primitive satisfaction that she'd finally been able to
punish someone for all the dreadful things that had happened to her
that day. The moment fled as she saw the look on Cleo's face, and
realized that she had put herself in actual danger.
She rushed out the door, but Cleo caught her and grabbed her wrist
before she reached the jukebox.
"No, you don't, bitch," she snarled,
pulling her back toward the lavatory.
"Help!" Francesca cried, as her entire life flashed before her.
"Please, someone, help me!"
She heard an unpleasant masculine laugh, and as deo shoved her forward,
she realized that no one was leaping to her defense. Those two awful
women planned to physically assault her in the lavatory, and no one
seemed to care! Panicked, she swung her cosmetic case, intent on
pushing Cleo away, but hitting someone's tattoo instead. He yelled.
"Get that case away from her," Cleo demanded, her voice harsh with
outrage. "She just slapped Bonni."
"Bonni had it coming," Pete called out over the final chorus of
"Rhinestone Cowboy" and the comments of the interested onlookers. To
Francesca's overwhelming relief, he started toward her, obviously
intent on rescue. And then she realized the man with the tattooed arm
had other ideas.
have any idea what you're talking about, and even a blind idiot could
see that I can't possibly get out of this dress by myself, and if you
ask me,
the person who talks too much around here is you!"
He grinned, and she suddenly forgot her misery under the force of that
devastating smile, crinkling the corners of his mouth and eyes. His
amusement seemed to come from a place deep inside, and as she watched
him she had the absurd feeling that an entire world of funniness had
somehow managed to pass her by. The idea made her feel more out of
sorts than ever. "Hurry up, will you?" she snapped. "I can barely
breathe."
"Turn around, Francie. Undressing women is one of my particular
talents. Even better than my bunker shot."
"You're not undressing me," she sputtered, as she turned her back to
him. "Don't make it sound so sordid."
His hands paused on the hooks at the back of her dress. "What exactly
would you call it?"
"Performing a helpful function."
"Sort of like a maid?" The row of hooks began to ease open.
"Rather like that, yes." She had the uneasy feeling that she'd just
taken another giant step in the wrong direction. She heard a short,
vaguely malevolent chuckle that confirmed her fears.
"Something about you is sort of growin' on me, Francie. It's not often
life gives you the opportunity to meet living history."
"Living history?"
"Sure. French Revolution, old Marie Antoinette. All that
let-them-eat-cake stuff."
"What," she asked, as the last of the hooks fell open, "would someone
like you know about Marie Antoinette?"
"Until a little over an hour ago," he replied, "not much."
They picked Skeet up about two miles down the road, and as Dallie had
predicted, he wasn't happy. Francesca found herself banished to the
back seat, where she sipped from a bottle of something called Yahoo
chocolate soda, which she'd taken from the Styrofoam cooler without
waiting for an
invitation. She drank and brooded, remaining silent, as requested, all
the way into New Orleans. She wondered what Dallie would say if he knew
that she didn't have a plane ticket, but she refused even to consider
telling him the truth. Picking at the corner of the Yahoo label with
her thumbnail, she contemplated the fact that she didn't have a mother,
money, a home, or a fiance. All she had left was a small remnant of
pride, and she desperately wanted the chance to wave it at least once
before the day was over. For some reason, pride was becoming
increasingly important to her when it came to Dallie Beaudine.
If only he weren't so impossibly gorgeous, and so obviously unimpressed
with her. It was infuriating . . . and irresistible. She had never
walked away from a challenge where a man was concerned, and it grated
on her to be forced to walk away from this one. Common sense told her
she had bigger problems to worry about, but something more visceral
said that if she couldn't manage to attract the admiration of Dallie
Beaudine she would have lost one more chunk of herself.
As she finished her chocolate soda, she figured out how to get the
money she needed for her ticket home. Of course! The idea was so
absurdly simple that she should have thought of it right away. She
looked over at her suitcase and frowned at the scratch on the side.
That suitcase had cost something like eighteen hundred pounds when
she'd bought it less than a year before. Flipping open her cosmetic
case, she riffled through the contents looking for a cake of eye shadow
approximately the same butternut shade as the leather. When she found
it, she unscrewed the lid and gently dabbed at the scratch. It was
still faintly visible when she was done, but she felt satisfied that
only a close inspection would reveal the flaw.
With that problem out of the way and the first airport sign in sight,
she returned her thoughts to Dallie Beaudine, trying to understand his
attitude toward her. The whole problem—the only reason everything was
going so badly between them—was that she looked so awful. This had
temporarily thrown him into the superior position. She let her eyelids
drift shut and played out a fantasy in her mind in which she would
appear before him well rested, hair freshly arranged in
shining chestnut curls, makeup impeccable, clothes wonderful. She would
have him on his knees in seconds.
The current argument, in what seemed to be an ongoing series between
Dallie and that horrid companion of his, distracted her from her
reverie.
"I don't see why you're so hell-bent on making Baton Rouge tonight,"
Skeet complained. "We've got all day tomorrow to get to Lake Charles in
time for your round Monday morning. What difference does an extra hour
make?"
"The difference is I don't want to spend any more time driving on
Sunday than I have to."
"I'll drive. It's only an extra hour, and there's that real nice motel
where we stayed last year. Don't you have a dog or something to check
on there?"
"Since when did you give a damn about any of my dogs?"
"A cute little mutt with a black spot over one eye, wasn't it? Had some
kind of a bad leg."
"That was in Vicksburg."
"You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Listen, Skeet, if you want to spend tonight in New
Orleans so you can go over to the Blue Choctaw and see that red-haired
waitress, why don't you just come out and say it instead of beating
around the bush like this, going on about dogs and bad legs like some
kind of goddamn hypocrite."
"I didn't say anything about a red-haired waitress or wanting to go to
the Blue Choctaw."
"Yeah. Well, I'm not going with you. That place is an invitation to a
fight, especially on Saturday night. The women all look like mud
wrestlers and the men are worse. I damn near busted a rib the last time
I went there, and I've had enough aggravation for one day."
"I told you to leave her with the guy at the filling station, but you
wouldn't listen to me. You never listen to me. Just like last Thursday.
I told you that shot from the rough was a hundred thirty-five yards;
I'd paced it off, and I told you, but you ignored me and picked up that
eight-iron just like I hadn't said a word."
"Just be quiet about it, will you? I told you right then I was wrong,
and I told you the next day that I was wrong, and I been telling you
twice a day ever since, so shut up!"
"That's a rookie's trick, Dallie, not trusting your caddy for the
yardage. Sometimes I think you're deliberately trying to lose
tournaments."
"Francie?" Dallie said over his shoulder. "You got any more of those
fascinating stories about mascara you want to tell me right now?"
"Sorry," she said sweetly. "I'm all out. Besides, I'm not supposed to
chat. Remember?"
"Too late anyway, I guess," Dallie sighed, pulling up to the airport's
main terminal. With the ignition still running, he got out of the car
and came around to open her door. "Well, Francie, I can't say it hasn't
been interesting." After she stepped out, he reached into the back
seat, removed her cases, and set them next to her on the sidewalk.
"Good luck with your fiance and the prince and all those other high
rollers you run around with."
"Thank you," she said stiffly.
He took a couple of quick chews on his bubble gum and grinned. "Good
luck with those vampires, too."
She met his amused gaze with icy dignity. "Good-bye, Mr. Beaudine."
"Good-bye, Miss Francie Pants."
He'd gotten the last word on her. She stood on the pavement in front of
the terminal and faced the undeniable fact that the gorgeous hillbilly
had scored the final point in a game she'd invented. An
illiterate—probably illegitimate— backwoods bumpkin had outwitted,
outtalked, and out-scored the incomparable Francesca Serritella Day.
What was left of her spirit staged a full-scale rebellion, and she
gazed up at him with eyes that spoke volumes in the history of banned
literature. "It's too bad we didn't meet under different
circumstances." Her pouty mouth curled into a wicked smile. "I'm
absolutely certain we'd have tons in common."
And then she stood on tiptoe, curled into his chest, and lifted her
arms until they encircled his neck,
never for a moment letting her gaze
drop from his. She tilted up her perfect face and offered up her soft
mouth like a jeweled chalice. Gently drawing his head down with the
palms of her hands, she
placed her lips over his and then slowly parted them so that Dallie
Beaudine could take a long, unforgettable drink.
He didn't even hesitate. He jumped right in just as if he'd been there
before, bringing with him all the expertise he'd gained over the years
to meet and mingle with all of hers. Their kiss was perfect—hot and
sexy—two pros doing what they did best, a tingler right down to the
toes. They were both too experienced to bump teeth or mash noses or do
any of those other awkward things less practiced men and women are apt
to do. The Mistress of Seduction had met the Master, and to Francesca
the experience was as close to perfect as anything she'd ever felt,
complete with goose bumps and a lovely weakness in her knees, a
spectacularly perfect kiss made even more perfect by the knowledge that
she didn't have to give a moment's thought to the awkward aftermath of
having implicitly promised something she had no intention of delivering.
The pressure of the kiss eased, and she slid the tip of her tongue
along his bottom lip. Then she slowly pulled away. "Good-bye, Dallie,"
she said softly, her cat's eyes slanting up at him with a mischievous
glitter. "Look me up the next time you're in Cap Ferret."
Just before she turned away, she had the pleasure of seeing a slightly
bemused expression take over his gorgeous face.
"I should be used to it by now," Skeet was saying as Dallie climbed
back behind the wheel. "I should be used to it, but I'm not. They just
fall all over you. Rich ones, poor ones, ugly ones, fancy ones. Don't
make no difference. It's like they're all a bunch of homing pigeons
circling in to roost. You got lipstick
on you."
Dallie wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and then looked down
at the pale smear. "Definitely imported," he muttered.
From just inside the door of the terminal, Francesca watched the Buick
pull away and suppressed an absurd pang of regret. As soon as the car
was out of sight, she picked up her cases and walked back outside until
she came to a taxi stand with a single yellow cab. The driver got out
and loaded her cases into the trunk while she settled in the back. As
he got
behind the wheel, he turned to her. "Where to, ma'am?"
"I know it's late," she said, "but do you think you could find a resale
shop that's still open?"
"Resale shop?"
"Yes. Someplace that buys designer labels . . . and a really
extraordinary suitcase."
Chapter
9
New Orleans—the city of "Stella, Stella, Stella for star," of lacy9
ironwork and Old Man River, Confederate jasmine and sweet olive, hot
nights, hot jazz, hot women—lay at the bottom of the Mississippi like a
tarnished piece of jewelry. In a city noted for its individuality, the
Blue Choctaw managed to remain common. Gray and dingy, with a pair of
neon beer signs that flickered painfully in
a window dulled by exhaust
fumes, the Blue Choctaw could have been located near the seediest part
of any American city—near the docks, the mills, the river, skirting the
ghetto. It bumped up to the bad side, the never-after-dark, littered
sidewalks, broken street lamps, no-good-girls-allowed part of town.
The Blue Choctaw had a particular aversion to good girls. Even the
women the men had left at home weren't all that good, and the men sure
as hell didn't want to find better ones sitting on the red vinyl bar
stools next to them. They wanted to find girls like Bonni and Cleo,
semi-hookers who wore strong perfume and red lipstick, who talked tough
and thought tough and helped a man forget that Jimmy Asshole Carter was
sure enough going to get himself elected President and give all the
good jobs to the niggers.
Bonni twirled the yellow plastic sword in her mai-tai and peered
through the noisy crowd at her friend
and rival Cleo Reznyak, who was
shoving her tits up against Tony Grasso as he pushed a quarter in the
jukebox and punched in C-24. There was a
mean mood in the smoky air of the Blue Choctaw that night, meaner than
usual, although Bonni didn't try to put her finger on its source. Maybe
it was the sticky heat that wouldn't let go; maybe it was the fact that
Bonni had turned thirty the week before and the last of her illusions
had just about disappeared. She knew she wasn't smart, wasn't pretty
enough to get by on her looks, and she didn't have the energy to
improve herself. She was living in a broken-down trailer park,
answering the telephone at Gloria's Hair Beautiful, and it wasn't going
to get any better.
For a girl like Bonni, the Blue Choctaw represented a shot at the good
times, a few laughs, the occasional big spender who would pick up the
tab for her mai-tais, take her to bed, and leave a fifty-dollar bill on
the dresser next morning. One of those big spenders was sitting at the
other end of the bar . . . with his eye on Cleo.
She and Cleo had an agreement. They stood together against any
newcomers who tried to sink their butts too comfortably onto the Blue
Choctaw's bar stools, and they didn't poach on each other's territory.
Still, the spender at the bar tempted Bonni. He had a big belly and
arms strong enough to show that he held a steady job, maybe working on
one of the offshore drilling rigs—a man out for a good time. Cleo had
been getting more than her fair share of men lately, including Tony
Grasso, and Bonni was tired of it.
"Hi," she said, wandering over and sliding up on the stool next to him.
"You're new around here, aren't you?"
He looked her over, taking in her carefully arranged heimet of sprayed
blond hair, her plum eye shadow, and deep, full breasts. As he nodded,
Bonni could see him forgetting about Cleo.
"Been in Biloxi the last few years," he replied. "What're you drinking?"
She gave him a kittenish smile. "I'm partial to mai-tais." After he
gestured toward the bartender for her drink, she crossed her legs. "My
ex-husband spent some time in Biloxi. I don't suppose you ran into him?
A cheap son of a bitch named Ryland."
He shook his head—didn't know anybody by that name —and moved his arm
so that it brushed along
the side of her tits. Bonni decided they were going to get along fine,
and she turned
her body just far enough so she didn't have to see the accusing
expression in Cleo's eyes.
An hour later the two of them had it out in the little girls' room.
Cleo bitched for a while, jerking a comb through her tough black hair
and then tightening the posts on her best pair of fake ruby earrings.
Bonni apologized and said she hadn't known Cleo was interested.
Cleo studied her suspiciously. "You know I'm getting tired of Tony. All
he does is complain about his wife. Shit, I haven't had a good laugh
out of him in weeks."
"The guy at the bar—his name's Pete—he's not much for laughs either,"
Bonnie admitted. She pulled a vial of Tabu from her purse and
generously sprayed herself. "This place sure is going to hell."
Cleo fixed her mouth and then stepped back to scrutinize her work. "You
said it there, honey."
"Maybe we should go up north. Up to Chicago or someplace."
"I been thinking about St. Louis. Someplace where the fucking men
aren't all married."
It was a topic they'd discussed many times, and they continued to
discuss it as they left the ladies' room, weighing the advantages of
the oil boom in Houston, the climate in Los Angeles, the money in New
York, and knowing all the time they'd never leave New Orleans.
The two women pushed through the group of men congregated near the bar,
their eyes busy, no longer paying attention to each other even though
they continued to talk. As they searched out their prey, Bonni began to
realize something had changed. Everything seemed quieter, although the
bar was still full, people were talking, and the jukebox blared out
"Ruby." Then she noticed that a lot of heads were turning toward the
doorway.
Pinching Cleo hard on the arm, she nodded her head. "Over there," she
said.
Cleo looked in the direction Bonni had indicated and came to a sudden
stop. "Kee-rist."
They hated her on sight. She was everything they weren't—a woman right
off the fashion pages, beautiful as a New York model, even in a pair of
jeans; expensive-looking, stylish, and snooty, with an expression on
her face like she'd just
smelled something bad, and they were it. She was the kind of woman who
didn't belong anywhere near a place like the Blue Choctaw, a hostile
invader who made them feel ugly, cheap, and worn out. And then they saw
the two men they'd left not ten minutes earlier walking right toward
her.
Bonni and Cleo looked at each other for a moment before they headed in
the same direction, their eyes narrowed, their stomachs bitter with
determination.
Francesca remained oblivious to their approach as she searched the
hostile environment of the Blue Choctaw with an uneasy gaze,
concentrating all her attention on trying to peer through the thick
smoke and press of bodies to catch sight of Skeet Cooper. A tiny,
apprehensive muscle quivered at her temple, and her palms were damp.
Never had she felt so out of her element as she did in this seedy New
Orleans bar.
The sound of raucous laughter and too-loud music attacked her ears. She
felt hostile eyes inspecting her, and she gripped her small Vuitton
cosmetic case more tightly, trying not to remember that it contained
all she had left in the world. She tried to blot out the memory of the
horrible places the taxi driver had taken her, each one more repulsive
than the last, and none of them bearing the slightest resemblance to
the resale shop in Piccadilly where the clerks wore gently used
designer originals and served tea to their customers. She had thought
it such a good idea to sell her clothes; she hadn't imagined she would
end up in some dreadful pawnshop parting with her suitcase and the rest
of her wardrobe for three hundred and fifty dollars just so she could
pay her taxi fare and have enough money left to survive on for another
few days until she got hold of Nicky. A Louis Vuitton suitcase full of
designer originals let go for three hundred and fifty dollars! She
couldn't spend two nights at a really good hotel for that amount.
"Hi, honey."
Francesca jumped as two disreputable-looking men came up to her, one
with a stomach that strained the buttons of his plaid shirt, the other
a greasy-looking character with enlarged pores.
"You look like you could use a drink," the heavy one said.
"Me and my new buddy Tony here'd be happy to buy you a couple of
mai-tais."
"No, thank you," she replied, looking anxiously about for Skeet. Why
wasn't he here? A needle-sharp shower of resentment pricked at her. Why
hadn't Dallie given her the name of his motel instead of forcing her to
stand in the doorway of this horrible place, the name of which she'd
barely been able to dredge up after spending twenty minutes poring over
a telephone book? The fact that she needed to find him had printed
itself indelibly in her brain while she was making another series of
fruitless calls to London trying to locate Nicky or David Graves or one
of her other former companions, all of whom seemed to be out
of town,
recently married, or not taking her calls.
Two tough-faced women sidled up to the men in front of her, their
hostility evident. The blonde leaned into the man with the stomach.
"Hey, Pete. Let's dance."
Pete didn't take his eyes off Francesca. "Later, Bonni."
"I wanna dance now," Bonni insisted, her mouth hard.
Pete's gaze slithered over Francesca. "I said later. Dance with Tony."
"Tony's dancin' with me," the black-haired woman said, curling short
purple fingernails over the other man's hairy arm. "Come on, baby."
"Go away, Cleo." Shaking off the purple fingernails, Tony pressed his
hand on the wall just next to Francesca's head and leaned toward her.
"You new in town? I don't remember seeing you around here before."
She shifted her weight, trying to catch sight of a red bandanna
headband while she avoided the unpleasant smell of whiskey mixed with
cheap after-shave.
The woman named Cleo sneered. "You don't think a snotty bitch like
her's gonna give you the time of day, do you, Tony?"
"I thought I told you to get lost." He gave Francesca an oily smile.
"Sure you wouldn't like a drink?"
"I'm not thirsty," Francesca said stiffly. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Looks like you got stood up," Bonni purred. "So why don't you get
lost."
A blast of warm air from outside hit the damp back of her blouse as the
door opened, admitting three more rough-faced men, none
of whom was Skeet. Francesca's uneasiness grew. She couldn't stand in
the doorway all night, but she recoiled at the thought of going any
farther inside. Why hadn't Dallie told her where he was lodging? She
couldn't stay alone in New Orleans with only three hundred and fifty
dollars between herself and starvation while she waited for Nicky to
finish his fling. She had to find Dallie now, before he left! "Excuse
me," she said abruptly, sliding between Tony and Pete.
She heard a short, unpleasant laugh from one of the women, and then a
mutter from Tony. "It's your fault, Bonni," he complained. "You and
Cleo scared her away just when—" The rest was mercifully lost as she
slid through the crowd toward the back, looking for an inconspicuous
table.
"Hey, honey—"
A quick glance over her shoulder told her that Pete was following her.
She squeezed between two tables, felt someone's hand brush her bottom,
and made a dash for the lavatory. Once inside, she sagged against the
door, her cosmetic case clutched to her chest. Outside, she heard the
sound of breaking glass and she jumped. What a hideous place! Her
opinion of Skeet Cooper sank even lower. Suddenly she remembered
Dallie's reference to a red-haired waitress. Although she hadn't
spotted anyone who fit that description, she hadn't really been
looking. Maybe the bartender could give her some information.
The door next to her opened abruptly, and the two tough-faced women
came in. "Look what we got here, Bonni Lynn," the one named Cleo
sneered.
"Well, if it ain't Miss Rich Bitch," Bonni replied. "What's the matter,
honey? Did you get tired of working the hotel trade and decide to come
down here to slum it?"
Francesca's jaw tightened. These awful women had pushed her far enough.
Lifting her chin, she stared at Bonni's harsh plum eye shadow. "Have
you been this rude from birth, or is it a more recent occurrence?"
Cleo laughed and turned to Bonni. "My, my. Didn't she just tell you
off." She studied Francesca's cosmetic case. "What do you have in there
that's so important?"
"None of your business."
"Got your jewels in there, honey?" Bonni suggested. "The sapphires and
diamonds your boyfriends buy you? Tell me, how much do you charge to
pull a trick?"
"A trick!" Francesca couldn't mistake her meaning and before she could
stop herself, her hand shot out and slapped the woman across her
pancaked cheek. "Don't you ever—"
She didn't get any further. With a howl of rage, Bonni curled her
fingers" into talons and whipped them through the air, ready to grab
two handfuls of Francesca's hair. Francesca instinctively thrust her
cosmetic case forward, using it to block the other woman's movement.
The case caught Bonni at the waist, knocking the wind out of her and
forcing her to teeter for a moment on her imitation alligator heels
before she lost her balance. As she tumbled to the floor, Francesca
felt a moment of primitive satisfaction that she'd finally been able to
punish someone for all the dreadful things that had happened to her
that day. The moment fled as she saw the look on Cleo's face, and
realized that she had put herself in actual danger.
She rushed out the door, but Cleo caught her and grabbed her wrist
before she reached the jukebox.
"No, you don't, bitch," she snarled,
pulling her back toward the lavatory.
"Help!" Francesca cried, as her entire life flashed before her.
"Please, someone, help me!"
She heard an unpleasant masculine laugh, and as deo shoved her forward,
she realized that no one was leaping to her defense. Those two awful
women planned to physically assault her in the lavatory, and no one
seemed to care! Panicked, she swung her cosmetic case, intent on
pushing Cleo away, but hitting someone's tattoo instead. He yelled.
"Get that case away from her," Cleo demanded, her voice harsh with
outrage. "She just slapped Bonni."
"Bonni had it coming," Pete called out over the final chorus of
"Rhinestone Cowboy" and the comments of the interested onlookers. To
Francesca's overwhelming relief, he started toward her, obviously
intent on rescue. And then she realized the man with the tattooed arm
had other ideas.
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