Helen walked up Las Olas with long, impatient strides, slowed by tourists fluttering around the chichi stores like moths around patio lights.
“Isn’t that cute!” she heard over and over. Helen wondered how everything from a spike heel to a cat statue could be cute.
The Floridian had resisted the yuppification of Las Olas.
There was no valet parking. The waitresses took no sass off anyone. The cashier took no checks or credit cards. In fact, a blond couple in impeccable unwrinkled linen was arguing with her now. Helen stood just inside the door and watched the drama.
“But we don’t carry cash,” the blond woman said.
“We got an ATM right here,” the cashier said, pointing to a pint-size money machine across from the cash register.
“Our credit cards don’t work in that one,” the blond man said, as if that settled it. He had the smooth face of someone who always got his way. A tiny wrinkle now marred the woman’s forehead. She glanced warily at the kitchen, as though afraid she might have to put her pale, perfect hands in dishwater.
“There’s a bigger ATM at the convenience store across the street,” the cashier said.
“OK, we’ll be right back,” the blond man said.
“You’re not going anywhere until you pay.”
“But I have to get the cash. Here—I’ll leave you my watch.” He started to remove a watch that cost as much as a small car.
“This isn’t a pawn shop,” the cashier said.
“How about my driver’s license?”
“How about your wife?” the cashier said.
“My wife?”
The blond woman looked frightened now. Was she going to be sold into white slavery for a waffle?
“You leave your wife here until you get back with the money.”
“I’ll be back soon, honey, I promise.” The blond man looked amused. His wife did not.
“You’d better,” she said. She picked up a free paper from a rack by the door and pretended to read, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
“Your money or your wife. I like that,” said the woman standing next to Helen. Her white-blond hair was long, straight, and parted in the middle. Her black cowboy boots were scuffed and her jeans were worn at the knees. Her voice had a country lilt that Helen recognized right away.
“I’m Savannah Power.”
Helen stood six feet in her sandals, but Savannah was tall enough to look her in the eye. She shook Helen’s hand with a strong, callused grip. Savannah was about forty. Hard times were etched in her pale, freckled face and lean body.
“That guy didn’t mind leaving his wife hostage in a hash house,” Helen said.
“You could leave me here any time,” Savannah said. She was wearing a light, flowery perfume. Underneath it, Helen caught a curious sharp smell—bleach or some kind of household cleaner.
“Sit anywhere,” said a passing waitress, loaded with plates.
They found a table under a sign that read, DON’T STEAL... THE GOVERNMENT DOESN’T LIKE COMPETITION.
On a street known for serious snobbery, The Floridian had a sense of humor. The menu offered a “fat-cat breakfast” of steak, eggs and Dom Perignon for two for $229.99. It also had a “not-so-fat-cat breakfast—same as above with a bottle of our finest el cheapo champagne” for $49.99.
Helen felt suddenly lonely. She wished she could laugh with a man and order cheap champagne for breakfast. But she’d sworn off men after her last disastrous romance.
“What can I get you?” the waitress said.
“Eggs, grits and a Bud,” Savannah said.
“You want a glass with that?”
“Bottle’s fine,” Savannah said.
A straightforward woman, Helen thought. She ordered coffee, ham and eggs.
“Savannah Power. Interesting name,” Helen said, when the waitress left.
“My momma had a rough time when she had me. She gave birth at home. She saw this name on her bedside dresser: Savannah Power. She kept concentrating on it to get her through the pain. She thought it was a message. It was. It was a shut-off notice from the light company, but Momma didn’t know that then. Anyway, Savannah Power’s my name.
“We’re all named after cities. My middle sister is Atlanta Power. Momma lived there next. She was in Texas when Laredo was born. She’s the baby.”
“Laredo has a different last name,” Helen said.
“Different daddy,” Savannah said. “Lester Power took off by then, and Momma hitched up with Woodbridge Manson.”
“Just the three girls?” Helen said.
“Yes, and that’s a good thing. With her third husband, Momma moved to Wood River, Illinois, which wasn’t a proper name for anyone. Atlanta lives in California now. I only see her every couple of years. But I’m real close to Laredo.”
Helen felt like she was in a Who’s on First routine. She was glad when the waitress returned with the butter-soaked platters of food.
“Why do you think something happened to your sister?”
Helen said, between bites.
“She disappeared a week ago. We share a double-wide. I got home from work and her things were gone. Every last stitch. Even my new red heels, which she’d borrowed.
Laredo loved red shoes, but she would never take my best heels. And she’d never leave without telling me. She knows I’d worry. She would have left a note, at least.”
Savannah rummaged in a floppy leather purse the size of a saddlebag. “Here’s a picture. Look at her. Does that look like a girl who’d just up and leave?”
She produced a washed-out snapshot of a curvy young woman with a street urchin’s grin and a mane of honeycolored hair, thicker and curlier than Savannah’s. She wore a white tank top, tight white shorts and red heels, and posed in a parody of a pinup. Laredo knew just how pretty she was.
She stood in front of a sagging green mobile home with a straggly palm tree. Laredo was laughing, vibrant, out of place in those hangdog surroundings.
Helen thought she looked exactly like someone who’d run away. She certainly would.
“That’s where we live,” Savannah said. “Would you pass me the salt? I called the police and filed a missing person report. They weren’t real interested, her being an adult and all.
But they went and talked to a waitress who worked with her at Gator Bill’s.”
“The restaurant owned by Bill Shannigan, the Gators football star?” Helen said.
“The very one. Right here on Las Olas. Laredo was a waitress there. Wore the cutest cheerleader costume. That was gone, too. This waitress, name of Debbie, told the police my sister was bored and wanted to hit the road. Said Laredo had talked about packing up everything and driving off into the sunset. Oh, I forgot, her car’s gone, too.”
“What kind of car?” Helen said. She’d eaten her way through a slab of ham and two eggs. She started on the butter-soaked toast.
“Little yellow Honda Civic. But that isn’t like her to up and leave. Besides, Laredo had a part in a real Shakespeare play. The director’s called twice looking for her. Laredo worked hard to get that part. She thought it was her big break. She’d be at the rehearsal come hell or high water.”
Savannah sounded more like a mother than a sister. Another reason for a young woman to suddenly leave home.
“Was she restless?” Helen said.
“She said she didn’t want to wind up like me: trailer trash working a bunch of lousy jobs, stuck with a mountain of debt.”
