Shop Till You Drop

“In?” Helen echoed.

“Want-ad wrestling is generally done in something: JellO, mud, Karo syrup. For some reason, the guys at the clubs get off on that. They also get to spray you with whipped cream, but that’s extra.

“Of course this wrestling gig could be porn. Then you’d be wrestling in something else—a dirty movie.”

“For a hundred bucks an hour? And no residuals?” Helen said.

“Hmm,” Peggy said. “Wrestling could be hard on your back. How’s your health insurance?”

“Don’t have any,” Helen said, happy to tell the truth for once.

“Then you need to buy some lottery tickets,” Peggy said, and was back on her favorite subject. “The lottery is up to forty-two million. I’ve got a new system for winning. I’ve read the interviews. The big winners use family birthdays for their numbers. Those numbers must be lucky. I’m using my mother’s birthday and Pete’s.”

“Awwwk!” Pete said.

“Do you think parrot birthdays count the same as human ones?” Helen said.

“Pete’s family. He’s closer to me than anyone.”

There was a flash of purple, and Margery the landlady charged past the bougainvillea, frightening Pete into a squawking fit that everyone ignored. Helen had never seen her so brilliantly dressed. Margery’s evening shorts were deep orchid, her toenails tangerine, and she was wearing purple sandals that ended in big bows at her slender ankles. Helen wished she had the courage to wear shoes like that.

Margery sat down in the chaise longue next to Helen. “Wait till you see who’s moving into 2C, girls,” she said. “Have I got a treat for you.”

“Who?” Helen and Peggy said, sounding like a pair of owls.

With that, the jungle of poolside palms parted, and out stepped Tarzan in gym shorts. Helen expected him to uproot the palms with his bare hands.

Long black hair tumbled past his tanned shoulders. His high Slavic cheekbones gave an interesting slant to his cobalt blue eyes. He was six feet tall and strong, but without the gnarled gym muscles Helen hated. This manly vision was wearing the smallest pair of red shorts the law allowed, with an interesting bulge in front.

“He looks like Fabio,” Peggy whispered. “Only better.”

Helen could feel the sexual electricity surge across the Coronado lawn. The heavy, humid air seemed about to explode. The fabulous half-naked hunk was heading straight for them. He strode over the grass, an almost unclad colossus. Oiled muscles rippled in his mighty thighs. Helen thought of statues of the winged god, Mercury. Helen thought of things the nuns in St. Louis said were occasions of sin.

“Oh, my,” Helen said.

The manly vision stopped in front of Margery’s chaise longue. He bent down, exposing tempting tanned crescents of muscled buttock, and gave Margery a chaste kiss on the cheek. She blushed.

“Thank you for everything,” he said, looking deep into Margery’s eyes. His voice was a caress. He produced a business card from God knows where. “If you ever need me for anything, anything at all, just call this number.” The godlike figure disappeared back into the palm jungle.

“Oh, my,” Peggy breathed. “I know what I need.”

“This is a setup,” Helen said, hoping to recover her wits. “He’s a Chippendale. You paid him.”

“He’s paying me,” Margery said, smugly. “He’s the new renter in 2C. I made him some of my fudge. Naturally, he was grateful.”

“Is he mortal? Does he have a name?” Peggy said.

“Daniel Dayson.” Margery pronounced it the way some women would say Matt Damon or Russell Crowe. “He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I’m working on my eighth decade of guy watching.”

“Is Daniel straight?” Helen said. It was a sad fact in South Florida that the best bodies usually belonged to gay men.

“That boy has plenty of lady friends, but he needs the right woman,” Margery said.

“That’s me,” Helen said, but she knew it was hopeless. She was too ordinary for a man who looked like that.

“He’s got to be a male model. Or an exotic dancer,” Peggy said.

“Wrong,” Margery said. “He’s a fire equipment inspector.”

“He’s hot enough to inspect my equipment any time,” Peggy said, and the three women launched into a deplorable series of jokes involving fire hoses and heat.

When they finished, Helen’s stomach hurt from laughing. Her brain sizzled with suppressed desire. “I think I’m more impressed by his steady job than his eye-popping physique,” she said.

“I’m not,” Peggy said. “Although I admit a man with a job is a rarity down here. But oh, lord, the way that man moves . . .”

“Squaaak!” Pete the parrot said, hopping back and forth on her shoulder.

“Shut up,” Peggy said absently, brushing the bird aside. Pete sat in stunned silence. It was the first time she’d ever talked to Pete like that.

Chapter 12

Desiree was dead.

Helen could forget that for half an hour or even half a day. Then she’d see a young woman with blonde hair tumbling down her back or hear a newscaster’s solemn voice, and it would come rushing back. Once again, she’d see that shocking news story. First, the bride-to-be in her black dress, then in her black body bag.

Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. As Helen walked home from work Tuesday night, her feet pounded that rhythm into the pavement.

Helen went dragging into her small, stuffy apartment and threw herself on the lumpy bed, not even bothering to change out of her suit. Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. She felt old and fat and tired. But most of all, she felt discouraged. She’d wasted another lunch hour looking for work. Christina was due back in three days, and Helen still did not have another job. She would never escape Juliana’s. She would never get away from her guilt.

Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. The words pounded in Helen’s head until it felt like the whole room was beating to the rhythm.

Then Helen realized the whole room was beating to the rhythm. Her landlady was pounding on the door and calling her name. That woman had quite an arm on her. What was wrong now? Did Margery want to raise the rent? Helen straightened her rumpled suit, pushed her hair back, and opened the door.

Margery looked like an exotic orchid in a swirling lavender-print shorts set. Her toes were painted fuchsia. In her hand was a glass plate with one perfect chocolate-dipped strawberry.

“Thought this might cheer you up,” Margery said. “You look like forty miles of bad road. You’re too young and pretty to be so hangdog.”

Margery was smart, Helen thought. Her landlady had seen the slump of Helen’s shoulders as she came up the sidewalk and knew something was wrong. Rather than probe with nosy questions, Margery plied her with chocolate. It almost worked. For a minute, Helen thought of telling her about Desiree’s death. But then she hesitated, and the impulse was lost. Helen had kept silent for so long, she had lost the ability to confide.

Like all good liars, Helen knew enough to tell part of the truth when possible. So she said, “Work’s getting me down, Margery. I feel like a lumberjack around those women at Juliana’s.”

Margery snorted so hard it hurt Helen’s sinuses. “You don’t want to look like one of those helpless Barbie dolls, do you?”

“It’s not how they look. It’s how they make me feel. So Midwestern. So out of it. They’re so fashionable. They’re so South Beach.”

“Helen,” Margery said. “Those women are not real South Beach. They’re only wanna-bes. That’s why