Killer Blonde (2 page)

God, I loved the early seventies fashions. I know everyone laughs at them now, but they were wild. The men dressed like Regency rakes. They looked romantic in long hair, velvet frock coats, and ruffled shirts. Well, some men looked like that. Rock stars, mostly.

These were Margery's words. Helen kept silent, afraid to interrupt the flow. Margery's memories seemed dredged from some place deep.

Her landlady continued, almost to herself:

The men in my department never made the sixties, much less the seventies. They could have walked out of any office in 1959. They didn't even have the lush seventies sideburns. One guy did show up at the Christmas party wearing a turtleneck and a peace symbol. Our CEO, Mr. Hammonds, gave that ornament such a cold stare he nearly froze it off the guy's chest.

The next day Mr. Peace and Love was back in suits, shirts, and strangulation ties.

It's too bad, really, you have to neuter yourself for a corporation. I understand the idea of dressing for success. It creates a more professional atmosphere, but it doesn't have much flair. So I was lucky. When I worked in an office, women didn't have to know about proper corporate dress. I suppose my clothes were in bad taste for a work environment, but how does that saying go—“Good taste is merely the fear of the beautiful”?

I had no fear.

I used to wear white go-go boots and purple miniskirts. The first time I bent down to get some papers out of the U-to-Z file drawer, half the men in our department nearly keeled over from heart attacks. I was careful how I moved after that. I wasn't a tease.

I was still pretty cute in those days, before my chest fell to my knees and my face wrinkled up like a prune. I was a bright spot, sitting behind my big old battleship of a desk at the department entrance. The delivery boys weren't sure whether to fear me or flirt with me. In the end, they did both. I shooed them away, just like I did the office Romeos.

Men hardly noticed Minnie, but why should they? Minnie sat hunched at a dun-colored desk, her face to the wall. Minnie's resemblance to a mouse could not be denied, even by me, and I liked her.

And that Vicki. There was a piece of work. She wore these short pink suits with a froth of ruffles at the throat, as if she were exploding with femininity.

She'd sit at her desk, flipping her long blonde hair, which drove the men crazy. Like most young women then, she wore her hair straight and parted in the middle. It gave her an innocent look—something else I didn't trust about her.

I thought Vicki was slick as an icy pond the first time I laid eyes on her. I was right, too. You know what she did? She gave herself a private office. Up and did it late one night.

Vicki bribed the maintenance guys with beer and eye-batting. After the office staff left, the maintenance men put up a door and two metal-and-glass dividers, enclosing Vicki's corner of the office, including a window.

Windows are coveted in offices. People get claustrophobic shut up and staring at blank walls. When you got an office with your own window, you were on your way. In our department, that window was supposed to be for everyone, but Vicki hijacked it.

Once her new dividers and door were in place, Vicki stayed up most of the night, painting her office pink and putting down a square of hot-pink shag on the mold-green tile floor.

When the staff came in the next morning, they saw Vicki's new corner office. You should have heard the uproar.

Everyone except the very top bosses sat in a big open area, so we became a herd of faceless white-shirted workers in a bullpen. Now there was a pink tumor growing out of its side. Vicki smiled sweetly in her newly painted office. I sat back to watch the show.

Six men marched into Mr. Hammonds's office in an angry delegation. Privacy is precious in any office. Vicki had stolen hers at their expense, so their mood was a lot like the pitchfork-wielding villagers in the old
Frankenstein
movie.

Mr. Hammonds laughed at them, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. He wasn't much to look at, either. Imagine Donald Rumsfeld sucking a lemon, and you had our CEO.

Mr. Hammonds let Vicki keep her coveted private office.

“She's smart. I like that in a woman—or a man,” he told the angry delegation. “She didn't take an inch more than she was entitled to, she just used the space better. And no, you cannot have your own offices. I've issued orders to maintenance that there will be no more late-night office raids. She was first and she was fast. You lost. Now take it like men.”

After that, Vicki built her empire a little at a time, so most people hardly noticed. But I did. Her desk was sleeker and more expensive than the others. She hung a painting on her wall, something psychedelic in pink and orange. Mr. Hammonds thought this meant she was in touch with the youth market, which was vital to our business.

A pink rose in a vase on Vicki's desk showed she was a woman. A big, heavy coffee mug that said
WORLD'S BEST BOSS
was a testimony to her management skills. Vicki claimed it was a gift from the staff at her last job. Some people suspected she bought it herself.

Vicki slyly kept the men stirred up. She sweet-talked them and did little favors for them, like giving them a sick day when they were really hungover. She teased them without mercy.

Vicki was supposed to be engaged to Chris—who we never saw, by the way—but that didn't stop her from flirting with every man at the office, married or single. I thought she liked to get the guys jealous by bragging about how “Chris did this” and “Chris did that.”

Chris took Vicki away for a romantic weekend to a bed-and-breakfast, which was a lot racier in 1970 than it is now. Chris bought a fifty-dollar bottle of wine at the best restaurant in Lauderdale when that was a decent day's pay. Chris beat up a man who stared at her too long in a bar. Vicki was especially proud of that story.

But Vicki never brought Chris to the company dinners or the Christmas parties. She always said, “Chris can't make it. My Chris is such a go-getter, always working late and on the weekends.”

There was one more key character in this story: Jennifer, Minnie's best friend at work. Jennifer was blonde and beautiful, but everyone forgave her for that. We managed to overlook her platinum-blonde hair, pale skin, and wide brown eyes because she was so sweet.

At first, you had a hard time believing Jennifer's sugarplum-fairy act. But after a while you realized there was nothing sneaky or calculating about Jennifer. She really was as kind as she was beautiful.

Jennifer urged Minnie to get a job someplace where the management would appreciate her. “You can't bury yourself here, Minnie. You have to leave.” Jennifer was too nice to say, “You let Vicki pick on you.”

But Minnie heard it anyway. “If I leave here, I'll only have problems with someone else,” she said. “At least Vicki is the devil I know. I've had too many bad bosses. You know what? They've all been blonde.”

“Oh, Minnie,” Jennifer said. “Not all blondes are bad. I'm blonde.” She ran her slender fingers through her white-gold hair. She did that a lot, as if she couldn't believe anything so fine belonged to her.

“You're not a boss,” Minnie said.

“I want to be one,” Jennifer said. Her brown eyes looked like twin pools of chocolate syrup. “I have a good chance of being promoted to department manager if I get a favorable evaluation. Do you know what a manager is?”

“No,” Minnie said.

“A mouse in training to be a rat.”

Minnie laughed. Vicki was a department manager.

“The rumor mill says Vicki will be moving up to division head,” Jennifer said. “I want her job.”

“I'd love to work for you,” Minnie said. “It's my idea of heaven.”

“First, we have to survive the evaluations,” Jennifer said.

But neither woman seriously expected a bad report. They were the office workhorses. They saw a rosy future at our company: Vicki would get promoted to division head. Jennifer would take Vicki's old job and her pink office, and Minnie would live happily ever after.

But Vicki couldn't resist trying to wreck their careers. She had the ultimate corporate power to destroy, and she was in love with it.

Vicki tried to ruin them both and signed her death warrant.

Evaluation week was a nerve-racking time at our office. Raises and promotions depended on our supervisor's rating. The right word or the wrong fork at lunch could mean another thousand a year in a pay envelope—or not.

There was another reason why the staff had nightmares during evaluation week: It was the only time our jobs were in jeopardy. A bad evaluation could start the process to get rid of the “deadwood.”

Mr. Hammonds usually selected one person a year to be deadwood, and chopped without mercy. It kept the others on their toes.

The boys in my department knew they were prime timber for cutting. They had their own survival plan for evaluation week. The boys. That's how I thought of them, anyway. What kind of grown men had first names that ended in
y
?

There were three boys.

Bobby had a prep-school accent, seersucker suits, and polka-dot bow ties. He looked down his long, bony nose at everyone. Those who failed Bobby's exacting standards for clothes, accent, or address were condemned as “trailer trash.” Poor Minnie flunked all three categories.

Bobby said he was a Stillman Rockefeller. Vicki was impressed by his pedigree. I wasn't. I knew how to find out things. I had Bobby's birth date and Social Security number. A few phone calls, a trip to the microfilm archives, and I discovered that Bobby was born in a trailer park in Macon, Missouri. The closest he got to a Rockefeller was the spinach on his oysters.

I kept my mouth shut until Bobby ordered me to hand-address the envelopes for his next party, as if I were his social secretary. Then I whispered two words in his ear: “Shady Oaks.”

That was the name of the natal trailer park. Bobby never again asked me to do anything that wasn't connected to his job, and I never said “Shady Oaks” at the office.

Jimmy, the second boy, was the office skirt-chaser and self-proclaimed expert on camping and canoeing. I thought he spent more time popping the tops on six-packs than paddling canoes.

Jimmy would swagger into the office sunburned and bug-bitten after one of his trips, and Vicki would listen wide-eyed to his tales of camping and cruising for women. Jimmy's conquests were mostly sad bottle blondes he picked up in country bars. He called them his “sleeping bags.” These women seemed to expect bad treatment from men, but they didn't stick around long enough to know for sure.

The boys and Vicki loved to gather 'round while Jimmy lied to his wife, Juliet. “Yeah, honey,” Jimmy would say, his voice all sticky-sweet. “I've gotta stay late again tonight. I won't be home until after eight. No, don't worry about supper. Yes, I agree, honey. That Vicki is a regular slave driver.”

Jimmy would give Vicki a wink. She'd giggle. After he hung up the phone, that no-good would light out for the local no-tell motel.

Vicki carried on like he was the last of the red-hot lovers. It made me mad. I talked with Jimmy's wife when she called the office. She was always pleasant and polite. Juliet deserved better than him.

Jimmy was such an experienced rake, he kept a bar of Dial in his glove compartment, the same brand he used at home. He'd shower with it at the motel, so he didn't come home reeking of unfamiliar soap. He kept a fresh white shirt in his trunk, in case his own was smeared with another woman's lipstick. Worse, he bragged about his conquests.

Jimmy also had
The Sensuous Woman
by “J” to entertain his lady loves. That book was pretty risqué for 1970. Jimmy would bring his copy to the office and read the naughty bits out loud to Vicki and the boys. Poor Minnie would blush. Vicki would get this mean little smile.

Jimmy was an unlikely lothario. He was short, pudgy, and freckled. But he knew how to make women laugh, and they'd overlook a lot for a few jokes. Jimmy hit on me one hot summer day when Vicki was at lunch. Jimmy's head didn't reach the top of my chest.

“I'm married, sport,” I told the little weasel.

“Good. I like married women.” It sounded like a line he used often.

“You got one at home,” I said. “Ever wonder why your wife swallows your stale ‘Honey, I'm late' stories? Maybe she's having her own fun while you're banging the headboard at the no-tell motel. Juliet's indifference says it all, Romeo. If you were any good in bed, she'd be protecting her property.”

I said that for Juliet's sake. I didn't really think she was running around. Jimmy slunk off with his tail, or something, between his legs.

He never hit on me again.

The third one, Irish Johnny, had the face of a ruined choirboy. He was losing his hair and wore a hat to cover his bald spot, but he was handsome. Everyone loved Johnny. He was bone lazy, fond of the bottle, and had the backbone of a slug, but he made those faults endearing. He had the Irish gift of gab—and of betrayal.

People told Irish Johnny things they'd never tell anyone else, and he took them straight to Vicki. He fed her information about everyone in the office.

I kept my files locked. One day I found Irish Johnny trying the handles on my file cabinets.

“I was looking for the vacation schedule. What do you do with that key, darlin'?” Irish Johnny said.

“I take it home with me, Johnny dear. There's a lot of information you wouldn't want out,” I said. “Including how much money was actually in the bowling-shirt fund you handled.”

Irish Johnny went dead white and never touched the file drawers again.

There were other men in the office, but the three boys dominated our department. They were Vicki's chief courtiers.

During the dangerous evaluation week, the boys' suits were freshly pressed, their ties were free of soup stains, their shirts a little whiter. They sat up straighter at their desks and stayed later. And they laughed louder at Vicki's jokes.

Vicki was the queen of our department during that week. The men treated her mildest whim as a command. Her desk was loaded with their bribes: slices of coffee cake, flowers, and chocolates with cherry-pink centers.

Everyone waited for the dreaded moment when Vicki said, “I have your evaluation.” She enjoyed that little frisson of fright even the most secure felt when they heard those words.

Vicki had a pecking order, and the boys were at the top. She took most of the men in the department out for drinks or coffee when she gave them their evaluations. They'd be gone anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour.

The three boys got lunch.

On Monday, about eleven thirty, she said, “I have your evaluation, Johnny.”

Irish Johnny's handsome choirboy face turned pale. Vicki smiled and showed pretty predator's teeth. He clapped his hat on his brown curls and followed her out the door, shoulders hunched, head down, like he expected a beating.

Three hours later they came back together. Irish Johnny was filled with boozy good cheer and prime rib from Harper's, an old city steak house. He got a good review, better than he deserved.

I typed it up later, and my fingers twitched on the keys as I copied the undeserved praise for this goldbrick. I itched to change those sentences, but I couldn't. Vicki would read my work, then personally deliver it to Mr. Hammonds.

Vicki came back from every man's evaluation giggling and pink-cheeked, as if she'd been at an assignation. The men were always smiling.

By Friday, I knew all the men got good reviews, even the drones and drunks. Vicki, like many bosses in those days, considered alcoholism a manly vice—until the man started making embarrassing scenes. Then, like a cute puppy who'd grown into an unruly dog, he was out on the street.

I got my evaluation on Friday morning. Vicki made me wait, but what she said was fair. More than fair. Vicki praised me to the skies, so I knew she was still afraid of me. My evaluation didn't come with giggles and prime rib, but I didn't want to spend any more time than I had to with Vicki.

There were no lunches, drinks, or even a soda from the company cafeteria for Jennifer and Minnie. Vicki made them endure a wretched weeklong wait. By three o'clock Friday, they still hadn't had their evaluations. Jennifer wasn't worried, but Minnie was a wreck.

I didn't know what comfort I could give her. From the way Vicki was prancing around the office, I was sure she was up to no good.

Vicki dropped Jennifer's and Minnie's evaluations on their desks at five o'clock Friday. Then she flounced out the door without a word. Vicki had typed them herself, and I could see the
X
's crossing out her mistakes. Too bad Vicki wasn't evaluated on her typing.

Jennifer read hers, then slammed it down on the desk and said, “That miserable bitch. I'll get her if it's the last thing I do.”

I raised an eyebrow. Gentle Jennifer never talked like that.

Minnie read her evaluation and wept. “It's not fair,” she sobbed. Her sharp little nose was red and dripping. Her eyelids were pink and swollen. “I've worked so hard. I don't know what else I can do to please her.”

“You can't do anything, Minnie,” Jennifer said. “Haven't you got that through your head yet?”

I'd never heard Jennifer speak so harshly to her friend. Minnie only cried harder, but for once, Jennifer didn't try to comfort her.

“Come on, ladies, you've had a horrible week,” I said. We didn't use expressions like
stressed-out
then. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“No, thanks,” Jennifer said. “I have work to do, Margery. I think you understand.”

Jennifer had a fire in her brown eyes I'd never seen before. She rummaged in her desk until she had a big pile of papers. Jennifer shoved them in her briefcase, along with her accursed evaluation, and marched out.

Minnie gathered up her fat black leather old-lady purse and put on a sad brown scarf. “Thanks, Margery, but I just want to go home,” she snuffled. Minnie's reaction wasn't healthy. I wished she had the same angry fire as Jennifer.

At eight thirty Monday morning, drab little Minnie was at her desk, slaving away in a hopeless effort to please Vicki.

At 9:00
A.M.,
Jennifer walked into Vicki's office without knocking, a thick file under one arm. Her step was bold. Her long blonde hair waved defiantly.

I was out of typing paper, which I kept in a cabinet near Vicki's office. While I rooted around for it, I could hear everything Jennifer said. Dear, sweet Jennifer had quite a mouth on her when she was riled. I liked the little blonde even better for that.

“What do you mean, giving me a poor evaluation, you incompetent twit?” Jennifer's low voice cut like a knife.

Vicki made a gurgling sound. No one, not even me, spoke to her that way.

“Do you know how many times I've saved your bacon?” Jennifer said. “Obviously you need a reminder. So here's a complete list of your mistakes and my corrections.”

I heard the slap of that fat file hitting a desktop.

“Without my intervention, this company would have lost $67,457.16,” Jennifer said. Now the other staff members were straining to hear, but only I could catch what she said.

Vicki was speechless. At least, I didn't hear her reply.

“Let's start with the Harrison project,” Jennifer said. “You forgot to add the shipping fees when you prepared an estimate—”

She proceeded to chronicle Vicki's mistakes for the next half hour. Jennifer was sweet, but that didn't mean she was stupid. She must have distrusted Vicki as much as I did, because she kept backup files. Jennifer had copies of Vicki's original orders and proposals, signed and dated, and then her own clever catches and corrections. She was one sharp little blonde.

“Now, you have your choice,” Jennifer said, when she finished her staggering list of Vicki's errors. “You can redo my evaluation, or I can take this file in to Mr. Hammonds. You have one hour to reconsider. If I don't have that revised evaluation on my desk by ten thirty, I'll have a talk with Mr. Hammonds. And it won't make any difference how much you coo at him. He's a hardheaded money man. When he sees this, you'll be out on your twitching pink tail.”

At ten twenty-five, Vicki called me and asked if I would summon Jennifer. I escorted Jennifer to the pink office, then hung around outside, in case the boss needed me.

“Here's your evaluation,” Vicki told Jennifer.

That's all she said. Vicki had also typed this one, and it was full of slipped letters and misspellings. But she was dead-on about Jennifer this time. That young woman got the praise she deserved.

Vicki decided to play it safe and revise Minnie's evaluation. It didn't give Minnie nearly the credit she deserved, but it raised her rating from a lousy F to a B-minus.

Minnie quit sniffling and actually smiled. “I knew if I came in early today and Vicki saw me working hard, she would change her mind,” she said. “Hard work conquers all.”

It wasn't my place to set poor Minnie straight.

Jennifer spent the morning at her desk, typing furiously. I wandered over to check the coffee machine and saw what she was working on: a résumé.

My, my, I thought. Things will get interesting now. Jennifer will be snapped up fast by our competition, the Bradsco Corporation. Mr. Hammonds will want to know why this rising star was hired away.

On Wednesday, Jennifer called in and said she felt sick. She had a doctor's appointment and wouldn't be in until noon. I didn't believe her. Jennifer was healthy as a horse.

Thursday night, Jennifer stayed later than anyone, even Minnie. I forgot the Tupperware container I used for my lunch and went back for it. Those things smell to high heaven if you leave them unwashed overnight in this climate. I found the lights still on in our department. Jennifer was packing up the contents of her desk.

“Congratulations,” I said. “I hope the Bradsco Corporation is paying you lots more money.”

Jennifer looked startled, but then she smiled sweetly. “I should have known I couldn't fool you, Margery. I got them good, all of them.” I didn't think she meant Bradsco.