Within minutes, she had donned those, along with the black man-style shoes and the brightly patterned necktie that completed her bartender's uniform. And then she was standing at the sink, gazing into a badly lit mirror, trying to weave her unruly, shoulder-length tresses into a fat French braid. Not having quite mastered the procedure yet—she only bound her hair when she worked at Drake's, and only then because it was a requirement of the job—a few of the dark-auburn tresses … or maybe several … or perhaps dozens … oh, all right, hundreds liberated themselves from the rest, scattering like a pack of rioting teamsters.
Dorsey watched with dismay as they unfurled in loose corkscrew curls around her face. Her boss, Lindy, would no doubt write her up for looking so unkempt, but she didn't have time to mess with her hair right now, because, as had become her habit of late, Dorsey was late. So, waving a hand in surrender at her reflection, she returned to her locker for the final accessory that would complete her bartender's uniform.
Her wedding ring.
When she'd purchased the simple gold band at a pawn-shop six years ago, it had only set her back twenty dollars, but it was one of the best investments she had ever made. Shortly after she'd started tending bar, she'd discovered that when it came to female bartenders, men were constantly searching for more than the perfect martini. And her wedding ring—even if she'd never had a husband to go with it—was the best defense she'd found to ward off untoward advances.
And if her tips had always been a bit lighter because her customers thought she was married, well, that was just the price she had to pay. She made less than the blond bartenders, too, but that hadn't made her want to color her hair. And anyway, she wasn't working at Drake's because she needed the money, was she?
Although it wasn't yet four-thirty in the afternoon, the club was bustling. Well, as much as a bunch of buttoned-down and uptight, overfed and underjoyed old guys could bustle, at any rate.
Dorsey marveled, as she always did, that anybody could be as dry and stuffy as the pin-striped clientele of Drake's without being mummified. Then again, there were one or two who might have given Tutankhamen a run for his money—in both the gold and the shrivel departments. Honestly. A good, stiff wind would have blown some of them away like the parchment upon which they'd written the Declaration of Independence.
Independence for men, anyway, she thought, seeing as how women had been completely excluded from the document that had made this country what it was today, by God. And if these guys had had their way—and now that Dorsey thought about it, many of them did still have their way—women would continue to be neglected possessions left at home, overseeing the polishing of the silver of generations and squeezing out heirs to inherit it.
A healthy handful of men was scattered about the luxuriously appointed club room as Dorsey passed quickly through it. Some were seated in leather wing chairs reading newspapers and annual reports, while others relaxed on strategically arranged burgundy leather sofas. Many were murmuring into cell phones, no doubt looking to buy some stock or place a bet on the seventh race at Saratoga or line up a date with someone other than their wife.
As questionable as she found the appeal of Drake's clientele, though, Dorsey certainly couldn't criticize the decor. Lindy Aubrey, the woman who owned and operated the place, had utterly impeccable taste and knew exactly how to make a man feel comfortable and pampered. Fine English antiques and oil paintings of hunt scenes complemented the elegant furnishings, and Persian rugs and crown molding further enhanced the mood. The effect, on the whole, was one of old money, old bloodlines, old boys.
Other than Lindy, who was pretty much an old boy herself, the only women allowed here were the ones who served—quietly, unobtrusively, and without complaint. Frankly, that was the toughest part of the job as far as Dorsey was concerned, being obsequious and pleasant. But doing so suited her needs—for now, at any rate. She wasn't above—or below, for that matter—sucking up for the few more months it would be necessary. Once she had achieved her goal here, she'd happily kiss goodbye—and kiss off—the illustrious Drake's. Until then, however, like women everywhere, she was content to do what she had to do.
The posh European decor carried from the club room into the bar, which was also filled with men, even so early in the evening. Then again, it was Friday, she recalled, and most of these guys could afford to leave work early and get a head start on the weekend. Because, by and large, these guys owned the weekend. Not to mention every other day of the week. They were the men in charge, unlike the majority of working stiffs who had to punch a time clock. And, by God, they rarely let anyone forget it.
They sat lining the bar like thumbtacks, each affixed to his stool and nursing a drink. Dorsey noted all of the usual suspects as she passed by them, identifying each by what he drank.
Seven-and-Seven sat next to Salty Dog, who was followed by the gin twins, Gimlet and Gibson. After them came Anchor-Steam-Draft, Heineken-in-a-Bottle, and Kir Royal.
Kir Royal, Dorsey mused, not for the first time, as she considered the huge, hulking, dark man who cradled a delicate wine glass in his hand. Honestly. He was the CEO of a trucking company, for
