Killer Blonde (3 page)

Friday morning, Jennifer announced she was leaving.

“Don't bother with your two weeks' notice,” Vicki said in her snippiest voice. “The guard will escort you out now. Margery will pack up your things and send them to you.”

“Good-bye,” Jennifer said. That's all she said. She was smart, that young woman.

Jennifer stopped by Minnie's desk. She was hunched over her calculator, a long strip of white paper and black numbers rolling down her desk.

“Minnie, please come with me to my new job,” she said. “You're too good to work for Vicki. I'll make sure you get the money and the appreciation you deserve. We'll make a terrific team.”

With her white dress and long pale hair, Jennifer looked like an angel pleading for Minnie's soul.

But Minnie wasn't the first—or the last—to refuse an angel's plea. “Vicki's getting better, Jennifer,” she said. “Look how she changed her mind about my evaluation.”

Jennifer was too modest to take credit for Vicki's change of heart. Instead she said, “Did Vicki give you the A-plus you deserve for your work?”

“No.” Minnie's sharp nose turned a discouraged red, like a squashed plum. “But nobody's perfect. I know that.”

“Minnie, why do you stay with that woman?” Jennifer said.

“She needs me,” Minnie said. “You only like me.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Jennifer said. “You must like being abused. Vicki gives you nothing, yet you run after her, hoping she'll change for the better. She's never going to like you.”

Minnie stayed silent. She didn't know why she stayed with Vicki. Some people didn't believe they deserved good treatment.

Jennifer sighed. “I can't save you if you won't save yourself,” she said sadly.

I waited until Jennifer was gone about an hour. Then I told Vicki that it appeared our former employee had already taken everything from her desk, including her Rolodex with hundreds of client names and addresses.

Vicki paled. “Thank you, Margery. There's no need to tell anyone else. I'll take care of it.”

I bet. Mr. Hammonds would spit a brick if he found out.

Minnie was heartbroken when her friend left. She cried at her desk all day. I found her there, slurping lentil soup and crunching raw carrots. I ask you: Is that food? No wonder that woman didn't have the strength to put up a good fight.

I tried to talk with Minnie. I tried to get her to leave. I all but ordered her to pack up and follow Jennifer. But she refused, in that stubborn way weak people sometimes have.

Later, I told myself I tried. I really did. I knew it was Minnie's last chance.

But I didn't know everything, the way Jennifer thought I did. I didn't know it was also Vicki's.

Minnie was different after Jennifer left. She was even quieter, if that was possible. But her silence had an angry edge. Now I heard things slammed around on her desk.

Once, I caught the high-pitched sound of breaking glass. In the mood she was in, I was afraid Minnie might slash her wrists. I ran over to see if she was okay. Minnie was weeping over a broken coffee mug, hot tears mingling with the shattered blue glass.

“It slipped,” she said. “It was a present from Jennifer.”

But I saw the gouge in the plaster by her desk and the milky coffee running down her wall. Minnie threw that cup in a fit of rage.

So why didn't Minnie get angry when Vicki loaded her with Jennifer's work? Why didn't she demand that Vicki give her a raise for doing two jobs? Why was Minnie such a dishrag?

Little Vicki was a big bully. I knew that. But now I saw that side of her unbridled. When Minnie didn't fight back, Vicki began to openly torment the poor thing. A few men walked away when she started, but the boys joined her. Picking on Minnie became the new indoor sport.

Vicki started it, with her cruelly accurate Minnie imitations. She would hunch her shoulders, screw up her face, cry, and creep about.

Bobby was equally vicious. His cries of “Squeak! Squeak!” followed Minnie down the hall.

Trust Jimmy to use sex as a weapon. He brought in the infamous April issue of
Penthouse,
the first national magazine to show pubic hair. He left the thing open on her desk. It was pretty dirty for those days. Minnie blushed so violently, I was afraid she'd have a stroke. She couldn't bring herself to touch the magazine.

I picked it up and dropped it down the incinerator.

I was sure Bobby put that lifelike rubber mouse on Minnie's desk. It made poor Minnie shriek.

Next, a mousetrap snapped at her sensible shoes.

Then a wedge of port-wine cheese found its way into Minnie's typewriter. What a mess that was. I had to send out the typewriter for cleaning. If Vicki was any kind of boss, she'd have stopped the games right there. That cleaning cost the company thirty-nine dollars. The game was getting out of hand.

Irish Johnny would hang around, waiting for Minnie to make her next ugly discovery. He'd pretend to sympathize, then run back and report every agonized word to Vicki.

I couldn't do anything to stop Vicki and the boys, but I refused to take part in the harassment. I would check Minnie's desk a couple of times a day for mice, cheese, or, once, Mickey Mouse ears. I threw anything I found in the trash.

I could always tell when she'd found another malicious surprise: Minnie would burst into noisy tears. That woman could weep waterfalls. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to slap some sense into her.

“Have you no shame?” I asked Jimmy, when I caught him leaving more cheese in Minnie's typewriter. It was a slice of Swiss this time, a bit stinky but harmless. He shrugged but didn't answer.

“How can you torment that poor woman?” I said to Bobby when I surprised him planting mouse poison on her desk.

“How can we not?” Bobby said with a sneer. “She's such a crybaby.”

I wished Minnie would stand up for herself. I tried to coach her. One Monday I found her crying in the bathroom after she discovered a windup mouse spinning in circles on her desk blotter.

“Now listen, Minnie,” I said. “Here's what you do: Don't cry when they leave that stuff on your desk. That's what they want. It just encourages them.”

“I can't help it,” Minnie wailed. “It hurts.”

“Thank them for the cute toys. Pretend you like the stuff, and this harassment will stop,” I said.

“I c-c-can't.” She wept. “I don't like it.”

You can't give someone a backbone implant, I decided.

Finally, even these sadists were bored with Minnie's monotonous weeping. Either that, or they got tired of buying mouse novelties at the dime store and lugging cheese in their briefcases. Bobby forgot about a hunk of Limburger one August day and had to throw out a Dunhill briefcase. That made him almost as weepy as Minnie.

When that game ran down, Vicki started another. This one was more subtle. It took me a while to see what she was up to. She was suddenly, suspiciously kind to Minnie—no mimicry, no mice, no mocking laughter. Poor Minnie started coming out of her shell, or her mouse hole. She even smiled a bit.

Then Vicki called Minnie into her office. Our blonde boss was at her most charming. She had me fetch herbal tea for Minnie. I stayed outside Vicki's door to hear what she was plotting.

“Now, Minnie,” Vicki said. “I need you to work on a special project. The Redacher proposal is vital to our department, and only you can do it. You have to help me by doing the best job possible.”

These words were specially designed to appeal to Minnie. She threw herself into the task. Minnie came to work so early and stayed so late, I was worried about her health.

One day, I left a message on Bobby's desk while he was at lunch. I saw a file labeled
REDACHER PROPOSAL
under his phone. I opened the folder. Inside was a half-finished proposal, with sheets of in-house facts and figures that had to have been supplied by Vicki.

I knew Vicki's game now: She'd put two people on the same job, but had given only one the inside information. Bobby's proposal would be chosen.

I tried to give Minnie one of my “Dutch aunt” talks without going into details. I couldn't tell her I'd been snooping around Bobby's desk.

“You can't trust that woman,” I told her. “Did you ask her if you're the only person working on that project? Did she give you any in-house numbers? If she hasn't, Vicki is setting you up for a fall.”

“No, Margery, you're wrong. Vicki wouldn't do that. This is my big chance,” Minnie said.

She was hopelessly trusting. I'd failed again.

Meanwhile, Vicki invited Minnie for little salad lunches at Renee's Tea Cozy. She even took her shoe shopping, the ultimate female bonding ritual. Minnie bought brown lace-ups that would be too old for me now, and I'm seventy-six. Vicki bought herself frivolous pink heels.

After three weeks of nonstop work, Minnie put her finished project in a serious black binder and came shyly up to my desk.

“Margery,” she said, “would you read this for me?”

I read it and declared it was the best thing Minnie had ever done. I meant it. Minnie was overjoyed. But I had an ominous feeling things were going to go very wrong, very soon.

I hung around Vicki's office and saw Minnie proudly hand in her work. Vicki was all pretty blonde hair, pink ruffles, and pleasant smiles. She paged through the proposal, while Minnie sat there looking touchingly hopeful.

It took Vicki less than a minute to crush her. “I'm sorry, Minnie,” she said dismissively. “It's not what I had in mind. I wanted to give you a chance, but you're not quite good enough. Bobby's proposal is much better.”

Minnie looked as if she'd been slammed with a cinder block. She wobbled out of Vicki's office like a punch-drunk prizefighter. I was sure there would be another crying jag in the women's bathroom.

But I was wrong. This time Minnie didn't creep off to cry. I never saw her cry again. It was as if she'd wept away all her tears. Now she was dry and hard.

Minnie straightened her shoulders, held her head high, and walked right out the office door.

Good, I thought. If that young woman has any sense, she'll keep on walking.

I heard what happened next thanks to Mr. Rick, my hairstylist. He had the most fashionable salon on Las Olas—the Cut Direct.

Mr. Rick believed that he looked like Paul McCartney, so he dressed like the cute Beatle. The hairstylist wore a florid mustache and a coat festooned with braid and epaulettes like Paul on the
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
album.

Alas, Mr. Rick resembled the rogue-nosed Ringo more than Paul, especially in profile. Still, I appreciated his sartorial courage. Except for this one delusion, Mr. Rick's fashion judgment was flawless.

Speaking of courage, Minnie walked into Mr. Rick's salon without an appointment and said, “I'm sick of me. Make me someone else.”

Only a desperate woman said that to a hairstylist. It was an act of bravado, a fashion free fall. It was doubly brave in a salon painted with showers of psychedelic stars and rainbows. It took still more courage to say it to a stylist dressed like a Gilbert and Sullivan pirate.

Maybe my lectures about standing up for herself had finally worked. Maybe Minnie had had enough. For whatever reason, she was ready to be a new woman.

Mr. Rick sat Minnie in a red chair and tied a pink plastic cape under her chin. She looked better already with some color near her face.

To the customers in the Cut Direct, Minnie seemed hopeless. But Mr. Rick walked around the red chair, studying her.

He examined her hair closely. It was the color of cold gravy and styled to emphasize her large ears. He considered her sharp nose and pointed chin. He noted her frumpy ankle-length brown jumper and big fat purse. Her flat shoes were styleless canoes.

But he also saw that her hazel eyes were large and intriguing. He watched them change from brown to green and back. He gently lifted her sheepdog bangs and saw a high, noble forehead and well-arched brows. Her skin was clear and unblemished.

Mr. Rick brandished his scissors, shoved back his braided cuffs, and announced, “I'll make you a blonde. You'll have more fun.”

“I'm not quite ready for that,” Minnie said, gripping the arms of her chair.

“Then I'll give you blonde streaks. You can use a little fun,” Mr. Rick said.

There was no arguing when Mr. Rick took that tone. He'd used it on me once when he refused to make me a redhead like Vanessa Redgrave in the movie
Camelot
. Eventually I came to my senses.

Mr. Rick got out his mixing bowls and brushes. Streaks were a painful process thirty years ago. Mr. Rick put a plastic cap full of holes on Minnie's head, then pulled the hair he wanted to dye blonde through the cap with what looked like a crochet hook. Minnie never flinched or said, “Ouch.” After working with Vicki, she was probably used to pain.

Once that was over, the rest was easy.

Mr. Rick brought her a tall iced tea and a frivolous magazine. Minnie seemed quite happy relaxing and reading fashion fluff. I don't think she ever had what we'd call a mental-health day. She even got a manicure while waiting for her transformation.

You probably think highlights were invented a few years back, but they were big thirty years ago, too. Take a look at Mrs. Robinson in
The Graduate
. It's those streaks that make her look so wicked.

Minnie wasn't wicked when Mr. Rick finished his cutting and streaking, but she did look different. She wasn't a blonde exactly, but the drab brunette was gone. Her soft new cut hid her ears and exposed a profile that belonged on a cameo.

The blonde highlights gave her round face definition—and cheekbones. They also brought out her hazel eyes. Her sharp nose assumed a classical shape. Her pale skin had a pearly sheen.

“Very nice,” Mr. Rick said.

Minnie blushed.

“Promise me you won't wear brown or gray,” Mr. Rick said. “It's so bad for your skin. It drains the color from your face.”

“But I have to look professional at the office,” Minnie said.

“Try navy blue with a plain white blouse, if you're not ready for anything more interesting.” Mr. Rick handed her the card of a fashionable shop on Las Olas. “Ask for Marie. She'll help you pick out something.”

“Is it expensive?” Minnie asked timidly.

“Of course,” Mr. Rick said. “But you're worth it.”

Minnie looked as if she'd never considered this before. Then she smiled at her new self in the mirror and said, “Why, yes, I am.”

She started to put on that sad brown scarf, but Mr. Rick snatched it off her head. “That's mine,” he said. “It's part of my fee.”

Minnie handed it over, and he dropped it delicately in the trash.

“But—” she said.

“No buts about it. Head scarves are for old women.” Minnie looked bewildered, but she accepted this decree.

“One more thing,” Mr. Rick said. “Burn those brown flats.”

The next day, Minnie teetered into our office on three-inch heels. She hadn't quite mastered walking in spikes yet, but her attempts were cute, like a new colt learning to stand. She walked with a lighter step, and it took me a moment to see why. The twenty-pound old-lady purse was gone, replaced by a small swinging shoulder bag.

Minnie wore a tailored navy suit and a white blouse. Now you could see she had a smart little figure and sweet, slender legs.

The men in the office, married and single, suddenly sat up and got that glazed look. Jimmy told me that men are suckers for white blouses and neat navy suits. They start fantasizing about parochial schoolgirls and airline stewardesses. We didn't call them flight attendants then.

Vicki tip-tapped into work shortly after Minnie, but she didn't get her usual adoring reception from the men. Her frothy pink suit seemed overdone compared to Minnie's trim navy number, and her makeup was a little heavy.

Vicki noted Minnie's new look, but she didn't say anything. She walked into her office and shut the door a fraction too hard. When I brought in her morning coffee, Vicki's face was disfigured by an unattractive frown. It gave her deep lines between her brows, and Botox was thirty years away.

Minnie blushed at all the new attention, and the guys found that delicious. Men are suckers for shy women. I knew there would be no more nasty surprises on Minnie's desk, and I foolishly thought our office would settle down. I should have been watching more carefully. Instead I sat there swollen with self-satisfaction, too pleased with myself to pay attention to the danger signs. I thought my lectures had finally gotten through to Minnie. I thought I'd changed things for the better at that office.

Now men stopped by Minnie's desk just to say hi. Instead of rubber mice and smelly cheese, they brought her little delicacies: anise cookies from Angelo's Italian bakery, strong shots of Cuban coffee from the corner bodega, or bagels with blueberry cream cheese from Levine's Deli. At first I thought the gifts were to make up for their bad behavior. Then I realized they were tributes to Minnie's newfound beauty.

The men started showing off like high school boys. “Hey, Minnie,” Irish Johnny said, “watch this!”

He lobbed a paper ball into the wastebasket across the room, a decent shot for a desk jockey. Minnie applauded prettily, and Irish Johnny's ears turned red. I wondered if he was going to run back to Vicki with that story.

Even the boys were deserting Queen Vicki.

Jimmy, always a sucker for a pretty face, was the first to publicly defect. He asked Minnie to lunch. I took him aside and said, “You hurt that girl, Jimmy, and I'll fix it so you're singing in the Vatican choir.”

“There's nothing wrong with lunch with a colleague.”

“No, there's not,” I said. “Just keep your ham on your own sandwich, and there's no problem.”

Jimmy made sure everyone noticed when he escorted Minnie to Harper's steak house. Irish Johnny slunk over to watch them, but I don't think he saw anything worth reporting. Minnie wasn't that kind of girl.

Bobby was out of the office on a business lunch in Pompano.

For the first time ever, Vicki had to eat a chicken-salad sandwich alone at her desk.

She scowled when she saw Minnie and Jimmy coming back from lunch at two o'clock, laughing over some silly remark. Vicki called Jimmy into her office and scolded him for having scotch on his breath. “You must maintain a professional demeanor at this office,” she said. “And that means no two-hour lunches.”

Jimmy did a devastating imitation of her lecture later for our benefit. Even Minnie couldn't suppress a smirk.

“Can you believe it?” Jimmy asked. “The bitch is gone for three hours most afternoons, but she has the nerve to criticize me for a long lunch.”

It was the first time he'd referred to Vicki as “the bitch” behind her back. Within the week, all the boys called her that. We women already used that name.

As Minnie grew more popular, Vicki pouted and became surly. She no longer flirted and flipped her blonde hair quite so often. The men hung around Minnie like she was the last lemonade stand in the Mojave.

Now there were awkward silences when Vicki entered a room and titters when she left. Jimmy did hilarious imitations of Vicki mincing into the office on her high heels, swinging her pink-suited behind.

Of course, no one left Vicki nasty little presents. She was still the boss and they feared what she could do to them. The boys flattered her outrageously, but Vicki knew their overdone compliments were just this side of mockery.

She couldn't criticize them, so Vicki tried to take it out on me. She snapped so much I finally had to put Vicki in her place.

The boss had started using me to run errands for her on company time. I didn't mind, as long as I could get my regular work done. If it was a sunny day, I liked getting outdoors. Vicki would leave a little note on my desk with her instructions, and I'd pick up her dry cleaning or take in her shoes for new heels.

Then she asked me to buy a present for her sister's birthday. Vicki wasn't close to Val, but they stayed in touch for birthdays and holidays.

“I don't know what your sister likes,” I said. “I've never met her.”

“Just go to the department store and get anything. Val will probably take it back, anyway. I always give her the sales receipt along with the gift. Make sure you spend enough so I don't look cheap.”

I bought Val a boxed set of Chanel No. 5 perfume and dusting powder. It looked classy and expensive.

“What a stupid present,” Vicki said when she pulled it out of the bag. “My sister is an Avon lady. Take it back right now.”

Vicki practically threw the box in my face, as if I were some foolish ladies' maid.

“Then you should have said so before you sent me,” I said. “Maybe you'd like to discuss my duties with Mr. Hammonds. I have a list of the times, dates, and stores where you've sent me, along with your memos ordering me to run your errands on company time.”

The color drained from Vicki's face. She'd forgotten about those little notes she'd left on my desk. Vicki had made a fatal corporate mistake: She'd put it in writing.

“You'd better go back to work, Margery,” was all she said.

I think she took the Chanel set back herself. I'd left the receipt in the bag. Vicki never asked me to run errands for her again.

That was her only mistake. Vicki kept most of her tantrums confined to me and her little pink office. Word of her erratic behavior hadn't leaked out to the important people in the company, like Mr. Hammonds. She was still on the fast track.

Minnie had changed, too. She was still shy and quiet, but it wasn't a sad quiet. She grew more self-assured. As I said before, her crying days were over. Her face never crumpled when Vicki said something mean. Minnie just set her jaw a little, and Vicki would back off.

That's my girl, I thought. You're learning how to deal with a bully.

People make jokes about a yellow streak being the sign of cowards. But putting some gold in Minnie's hair put steel in her spine. Each month, Minnie was a little blonder—and a little bolder.

She started gently resisting Vicki. She didn't tell the boss off exactly, but Minnie would say, “I can't possibly do the Watkins report in twenty-four hours. I need at least forty-eight.”

Minnie didn't sound angry, but she was firm.

Of course, Vicki gave her the extra time. She had no choice. She couldn't have written the report if she'd had a month. Now that she'd chased off Jennifer, she really did need Minnie.

The staff had always appreciated the quality and quantity of Minnie's work, but when she stood up to Vicki a bit, she was treated with new respect. Some people said Minnie would replace Vicki when she was promoted. I wasn't sure that would happen, but I looked forward to the day when we were free of Vicki. Minnie would make a much better boss.

I was proud of her, and I told her so. “Smartest thing you ever did was walk out of this office and into Mr. Rick's salon.”

“He wants me to go all blonde,” she said, “but I don't have the courage.”

“Why not?” I said. “All the changes he's made have been good so far.”

“I'm afraid.” She looked at me so seriously with that little cameo face. “I'm afraid it will set something loose.”

“Oh, you don't have to worry about Vicki anymore,” I said. “She's thoroughly tamed.”

“I wasn't talking about Vicki,” Minnie said. “I meant me.”