That was worthy indeed. Langley was one of the richest schools in the area.
“Can you work then?”
Helen could. There was no telemarketing on Saturday night.
“Wear a white shirt and black pants. You’ll work the first party. You’ll get two hundred dollars for three hours. There’s another party after that for the heavy hitters. If we like you, we’ll ask you to work the second party next time. That pays five hundred. Cash. You keep your tips, of course.”
This was some bartending gig. It paid almost a week’s wages to pour wine and beer. That was way too much money, especially for South Florida.
So what exactly did Steve want her to do? Bartending couldn’t be all that was expected of her.
Chapter 7
Helen did not have a car, but she treated herself to a water taxi for her well-paying bartending job Saturday night. Fort Lauderdale had more than two hundred miles of canals. For five dollars, she could ride all day on a water taxi. It made regular stops on a route like a bus.
The little yellow boat met her at the dock behind the Riverside Hotel on Las Olas. The setting sun stained the sky a brilliant flamingo and turned the water a delicate pink, like the inside of a seashell.
Fort Lauderdale floated on oceans of money. Billionaires’ yachts had their own helicopter landing pads. Casino ships took seagoing suckers on cruises to nowhere. Cruise ships pampered the over-privileged.
Tonight, Helen felt a kinship with the moneyed boaters. In any other city, I’d be sitting in a bus in rush-hour traffic, eating exhaust, Helen thought. In Fort Lauderdale, I’m riding to work like a Venetian doge.
And working in a palace. Mindy and Melton Mowbrys’ mansion was in the obscenely rich part of Brideport, where houses were the size of shopping malls. Their owners were perpetually in the papers. One Sunday, they’d be praised in the society pages. The next Sunday, they’d be indicted on the front page.
The Mowbry mansion was bristling with towers and bursting with bay windows, slathered with pink stucco and encrusted with red barrel tile. The architecture looked like Mizner on magic mushrooms. The massive wood and wrought iron double doors belonged on a Spanish cathedral.
Helen knew she could not walk through the front door. She went around back to the service entrance, a mean little area with a cheap screen door. She could hear someone screaming in the steamy kitchen.
“I’m looking for Steve,” she said to a man in a white chef’s coat carrying a silver coffee urn.
“Follow the shrieks,” he said in a weary voice.
Steve was dressing down two waiters. The reprimand sounded worse in his harsh New York accent. “I don’t want to ever see that again, understand?”
The waiters nodded, too scared to speak, and backed out of the room.
Steve was small and dark and needed a shave. He pointed to Helen and said, “You! Don’t stand there like a potted plant. Are you the new bartender?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Speak up,” he said. “Are you a woman or a mouse?”
“I’m somebody here to work, not take abuse,” she said.
Steve broke into a smile. “Good-looking and sassy. I like that. You’ll do.”
He planted her at a service bar by the swimming pool. It was landscaped to look like a jungle pool with a waterfall.
Ferns and pink orchids grew along the waterfall. Thick pink clouds of frilly blossoms bloomed alongside the paths. Pink-flowered vines dripped from the trees.
Long serving tables were covered with crisp pink cloths and lavish hors d’oeuvres. Huge bouquets of pink roses were being carried outside. Candles were lit. An ice sculpture dripped. A busboy brought Helen a tub of ice. She checked out the booze. No box wine here. The Mowbrys served only the finest wine and liquor.
The first guests trickled in half an hour later. By eight, the party was in full swing, and Helen was pouring drinks one after another. This was a thirsty crowd.
Brideport parties had people of breeding. In fact, it was all they talked about. As she scrambled for ice and bottles, Helen heard a white-haired man in a yachting jacket say, “We really need better birth-control programs at the schools for the great unwashed. Those people have too many children.
Indiscriminate breeding, I tell you. They all grow up to be Democrats.” The man said “Democrat” the way others might say “child molester.”
Helen thought his three double scotches made him talk that way.
But a face-lifted brunette in red sparkles had had only one white wine when she said, “How can we encourage people like us to have more children? I know they’re terribly expensive, but people of our class must understand their duty. Otherwise, we’re going to be overtaken by the wrong sort.”
Her balding companion nodded sagely and downed another neat bourbon.
A hatchet-faced man with dyed black hair ordered two red wines and told the man next to him, “There must be some way to sterilize Chelsea Clinton, so the Clinton genes are not passed on.”
Helen nearly dropped a full bottle of club soda at that one, but caught it before she was spotted as a Democrat sympathizer.
Otherwise, it was a typical, dull charity party. Helen had attended too many when she’d been in corporate life. The women were mostly blond and thin. The men were mostly overweight and over fifty. A bored photographer from the local paper snapped pictures of the partygoers and said they would run in a week or two. The fundraising chair gave a long speech thanking everyone, “including our gracious host, Dr. Mowbry and his beautiful wife, Mindy.” Whatever kind of doctoring Mowbry did, it must have paid well. There was lots of booze, decent hors d’oeuvres and a mediocre band that played tired old songs like “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” Helen wondered why rich people liked stodgy music.
The men flirted with her and asked if she was staying for the second party. Helen said, “Not this time.” Some seemed genuinely disappointed.
Helen thought that was odd. No one noticed the servers at parties. The women were suitably cold, but she saw few of them at her bar. The men mostly did drinks duty. That was fine with Helen. These guys handed out five-and ten-dollar tips like business cards. One short, chubby old man with a white toothbrush mustache gave her a twenty, “So you’ll be sure to remember me at the second party.”
“Oh, I couldn’t forget you, sir,” Helens said, stuffing the money in her pants pocket. Not in that getup. The old guy was wearing a tux with a shamrock bow tie and cummerbund.
The bar opposite hers, manned by a blonde named Kristi, was even busier than Helen’s. Kristi offered the same drink choices as Helen, but the men lined up as if she was giving away vintage champagne. Her line was twice as long as Helen’s.
Kristi had a face like a doll’s, and it was just as expressionless. Her dyed blond hair was puffed up. So were her chest and lips. The enhanced hair, lips and breasts looked obvious and artificial to Helen. The guys didn’t seem to care.
Kristi was a silicone siren. Men longed to throw themselves on her rocky breasts.
Helen had never been to a party with such generous tippers. The rich usually hung onto every nickel. When another busty blonde came around with a tray of mini-quiches, six men slipped her bills. The chubby old man gave her a fat wad and said again, “So you’ll be sure to remember me at the second party.”
Poor old fellow must have a real ego problem. Probably felt he was nothing without his money, Helen thought.
While the fundraising chair gave her speech, the booze traffic slacked off. That’s when Debbie, the long- haired waitress from Gator Bill’s, showed up at Helen’s service bar.
“Hi,” Helen said. “I didn’t know you worked here, too.”
Debbie pulled her silk curtain of hair forward to hide her face and said in a low, angry voice, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to find Laredo.”
“I told you, she left town,” Debbie said. She tilted her head and her amazing hair fell back off her face. Helen looked into those pale blue eyes. They were hard as marble.
