She called Steve, the bullying boss of the bartenders.
“Helen! I’ve been trying to reach you, but I don’t have a number for you.” Steve sounded puppy-dog friendly. Did he need topless bartenders that bad?
“You got noticed last time. A guy who saw you wanted your phone number. He’s loaded. If you’re smart, you’ll be nice to him.” Helen could hear the wink in his voice.
“It wasn’t the old guy with the shamrock—” She almost said shorts, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to have seen the second party. “Shamrock cummerbund,” she finished.
“You mean ol’ Parrish Davenport? Nah, it wasn’t him, although I’m sure he’d like you. He never met a girl he didn’t like. Joey’s nothing like old man Davenport. He’s about thirty-five and good-looking. A little rough around the edges, but connected, you know what I mean?”
“He knows all the movers and shakers?” Helen said.
“Uh, something like that. Gimme your phone number for Joey.”
“How about if I call him?”
“Here’s his cell phone. Call right away, will you? He wants to go to a party Friday night. You promise me you’ll call him?” Steve sounded oddly anxious.
“I promise,” Helen said.
“Now, about Saturday night at the Mowbrys’ house. You wanna work the second party, too? We pay nice money to ladies who are your free spirits—broad-minded, you know what I mean?”
Helen knew exactly what he meant.
“It’s a real tasteful atmosphere in your fine private home, not a strip joint or anything. You’ll stand behind the bar, no dancing. We pay two hundred for the first party, five hundred for the second. Cash. But I don’t want you if you’re not willing to work the second party.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You don’t mind showing your tits?”
“No problem.”
Because it’s not going to happen, Helen thought. She would not be taking off her clothes no matter how much Steve paid her. She would find Kristi on the first shift, slip out the service entrance and never work for Steve again. He didn’t have her number, and he didn’t know where she lived.
Helen dialed Joey’s cell phone next.
“Joey here,” a man said. Then she heard a screech of brakes and a blaring horn. Joey screamed, “Why the fuck don’t you watch where you’re going?”
He was back on the phone. “Asshole cut me off. Who are you?”
“I’m Helen Hawthorne. Steve gave me your name. I was tending bar at the Mowbrys’ party and—-”
“Oh, yeah. I remember you. You’re a little older than some of Steve’s girls. But you got something them dumb twenty-year-olds don’t.”
“Wrinkles?” Helen said.
“Class. Them other girls act like whores when they think a guy’s got money. I need someone classy to go to my friend’s house. I don’t want my date sitting around picking her nose and scratching her ass, or vicey- versey.”
“So far, I’ve never been caught doing either one in public.” Helen wondered if this creature left a slime trail.
“Yeah. I knew you’d be OK to take to Hank’s.”
“Hank?”
“Hank Asporth. You know Hank. All the girls do. Has that big house in Brideport. It’s real nice. Nothing like the Mowbrys’. That’s a mondo-mansion. Hank just has a big house.
Tomorrow night, some of the guys are hanging out at Hank’s, drinking some brewskis, talking business. The gals will sit around the pool. Bring your suit. Better yet, don’t.” Helen could hear the leer.
“That’s not classy on a first date,” Helen said. Or a last one.
“See? You’re a natural when it comes to class. I’ll pick you up at your place.”
Helen didn’t want him anywhere near the Coronado.
“It’s a little inconvenient to get to because of construction,” she said. “Suppose I wait for you in front of the Riverside Hotel?”
“More class,” Joey said. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock. I...” The rest of his sentence was drowned out by angry horns. Joey yelled, “Hey, watch it you dumb—”
Helen hung up before she heard the rest. She had the horrible feeling that going out with Joey would be far more embarrassing than going naked.
She sighed. Friday night with Joey the jerk. Saturday night at the Mowbrys’ orgy. Her social life couldn’t get any worse. Except the next morning, it did. She had to turn down the one date she really wanted.
Jack Lace was waiting for her outside Girdner Sales at seven fifty, digging a shoe toe in the dusty asphalt like a little boy. Only good little boys wore such polished shoes and clean shirts and had their hair combed so neatly.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Would you like to go out Friday night?”
“Wish I could, Jack. I have a previous engagement.”
“Is there someone else?” Suddenly the little boy was gone. This was a man who wanted her.
“Not really.”
“It’s not a night out with the girls, is it? I can take you to better places than they can. How about dinner at the Delano on South Beach?”
The Delano. Possibly the most beautiful of the old Art Deco hotels. And she would be knocking back brewskis with Joey the jerk.
“I’d love to, Jack, but I can’t. How about next Saturday?”
“That’s too long to wait. Let’s do lunch Monday. Wear something nice to work and we’ll drive down to South Beach when we get off at one. We should make it back by five.”
“It sounds lovely,” Helen said.
It was only after she clocked in and sat down at her desk that Helen wondered how Jack could afford the Delano. The valet parking alone cost more than they both made in a day.
She turned to ask him, but her computer had begun making calls in Massachusetts. Helen had to start her spiel.
“How dare you wake me up, you dumb slut?” were the first words she heard. All thoughts of the Delano, and anything else pleasant, disappeared.
A red Viper with white racing stripes pulled up in front of the Riverside Hotel at seven o’clock Friday night. It looked like a Corvette on testosterone. Some cars seemed to announce, “I have major masculinity problems.” This was one of them. Helen knew it belonged to Joey before he got out of the car.
Steve had called him good-looking. That didn’t begin to describe the man.
Joey looked like Michelangelo’s David, if David wore Armani—and Helen figured he would. His muscles were sculpted. His face was chiseled perfection. The man was marble come to life. Too bad Joey was solid rock between his ears and crude as a prison tattoo.
“Hiya, babe,” he said. “Ready to boogie?”
The doorman stared at her date. First, he’d seen her get into Savannah’s belching Tank. Now this. Helen blushed as red as the car.
The car had black leather seats and a small, flat TV screen on the dash. Joey watched a boxing match as he weaved in and out of traffic. A muscular black man in baggy gold Everlasts was pounding the bloody spit out of a sweating Latino.
Helen had to shout over the announcer. “So, what do you do to earn this amazing car?”
Joey turned the volume down a notch. “I run the Yellow Pelican resort and marina.”
“Very nice,” Helen said, as the Latino man spit more blood.
“It used to be. Now I got the Feds crawling up my ass, saying I don’t hire enough
