Blossom

estate speculator's fancy car.

I used a pay phone just off Sixty-first Avenue. Called the number on my business card. Glenda answered, grown woman's professional voice with just an undercurrent of purr. She knew how to do it.

'Mitchell Sloane Enterprises.'

'It's me, Glenda. Any calls?'

'Just one. Hung up when I answered. Probably a wrong number.'

'Probably wasn't.' Nice of Humboldt to be so trusting. 'I'll give you a call tomorrow.'

'Bye-bye.'

24

EARLY AFTERNOON CAME. The diner was set back from the road, squatting on a rectangular slab of blacktop, near the intersection of U.S. 30 and 41. Couple of miles from the Illinois line. The parking lot was about a third full: pickup trucks with names of businesses painted on the doors, a clay-splattered 4 X 4, sedans and hardtops. Working cars, working people. The food was either good or cheap.

The joint had wraparound windows. All the booths looked out to the parking lot. Long counter lined with padded stools. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out. I walked through slowly— found a booth near the back.

The waitress was a stocky girl, light brown hair cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain white uniform with a tiny red apron tied across the front. The skirt was too short and too tight for off-the-rack. She leaned over, both palms flat on the Formica tabletop, plump breasts threatening to pop out the top piece of her uniform where she'd opened a couple of extra buttons. A little red plaque shimmered on her chest. When she stopped bouncing, I could see what it said. Cyndi.

'Hi! You need a menu?'

'Please.'

'Be right back.'

I watched her switch away. The sweet rolls in this joint weren't only on the shelves. Seamed stockings. Medium-height white spike heels. Hell of a sacrifice for a waitress to make on her feet all day. If they all dressed like her, the meals had to be lousy.

She was back in a minute, a one-page plastic-covered menu in her hand. I looked it over quickly. The cook must have figured whatever was good enough for Ted Bundy was good enough for food. I slid past the burgers and the chicken to something that looked safer.

'The tuna salad…you make it up here?'

'You can get an individual can if you want.' She leaned over again, flashed me a smile. Dot of red on an eyetooth from the carmine lipstick. 'That's what I do,' she said, patting one round hip. 'I have to watch my weight.'

'That seems like a nice job.'

'Waiting tables?'

'Watching your weight.'

'Oh, you!' Giggling. At home now. With what she first learned in junior high.

'I'll have the tuna. An order of rye toast. And some ginger ale.'

'We serve beer here too. Cold. On tap.'

'Not while I'm working.'

She scribbled something with her pencil, long fingernails wrapped around the corner of her order pad, the same color as her lipstick. 'I haven't seen you before. You're new in town?'

'Just passing through for a couple of weeks.'

'You said you were working. I mean, nobody comes here for a vacation.'

'I'm looking over some property.'

'Oh. Are you one of those developers?'

'Sort of. I…'

'Hey, Cyndi. Shake it up, will ya? You got two blue plates sitting here!' A voice barked from somewhere behind the counter.

She leaned forward again, shouted, 'How's this?' over her shoulder, and wiggled her rump furiously. A line of laughter broke from the counter, working its way around the curve. 'That what you been wanting, Leon?' Someone laughed. Cyndi's face was lightly flushed. 'The old man's a pain in the butt.'

'You're not worried about losing your job?'

'I wish. This place isn't my idea of heaven. I used to work over at the Club Flame, you ever go there?'

'I just got here.'

'It's a topless joint,' she said, watching my eyes. 'The tips aren't as good here, but at least you don't have guys trying to grab your ass all the time.'

'I guess you have to be comfortable if you're going to do your work.'

'Well, I'm not about to spend my life here. Not in this town. I…' She turned as another waitress walked past. A slim woman, lemon-blonde hair tied back with a white ribbon. Her uniform was the same material as Cyndi's, but on her it looked like a nurse's outfit. The hemline was below her knees, white stockings, flat shoes, blouse buttoned to her neck. As she turned, her body-profile was an upside-down question mark. Cyndi put a hand on the blonde woman's arm. 'Blossom honey, could you grab those two blue plates from Leon while I take this man's order?'

'Sure.' The blonde walked away, shoulders squared. Something buzz-bombed my mind— then it was gone.

'Now what was I saying?' Cyndi licked her lips like it would help her concentrate.

'You're not about to spend the rest of your life here.'

A smile flashed. 'You listen good, don't you, honey? Yeah. Not here. I like Chicago better. You ever been there?'

'Lots of times.'

'There's where I like to go. Get out of this town…like for a weekend, you know?'

'Sure.'

'I'll get your order. Think about it.'

I lit a cigarette, looked out the window at the traffic.

Cyndi bounced her way back to my booth, unloaded her tray. 'Give me a dollar for the jukebox.' She smiled. 'This place is too quiet.'

I handed her a buck.

'What d'you like?'

'Whatever suits you.'

'Hmmm…' she said. Like she was thinking it over.

The blonde walked past again. 'Cyndi, they want you over on four.'

'Okay, honey.' She caught my eye. 'Ain't she something! Poor girl doesn't make nothing in tips. I tried to talk to her, let her know how to work it. She's not much in the boobs department but she's got a sweet little butt on her. I told her there's things you can do to these stupid uniforms…like I did. But not Miss Priss. I don't think she likes men, you know what I mean?'

I nodded, sticking a fork into the tuna. I ate slowly, watching the women work. One of those sugar-substitute girl singers came over the jukebox. Some sad song. No juice.

The blonde came past my table, a tray in each hand, nicely balanced. Slender neck, broad, flat nose, thin lips. Ripple of muscle on her forearm. No polish on her nails. Her big eyes flicked at mine, went away. She walked smoothly, the loose skirt not quite hiding what Cyndi worked so hard to advertise. Blossom.

Cyndi came back just as I was lighting a smoke. 'Was it okay?'

'Sure.'

'You want some dessert?'

'I'll pass this time.'

'Then you'll be back, right?'