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“Maybe we should go up north. Up to Chicago or someplace.”
“I been thinking about St. Louis. Someplace where the fucking men aren't all married.”
It was a topic they'd discussed many times, and they “continued to discuss it as they left the ladies’ room, weighing the advantages of the oil boom in Houston, the climate in Los Angeles, the money in New York, and knowing all the time they'd never leave New Orleans.
The two women pushed through the group of men congregated near the bar, their eyes busy, no longer paying attention to each other even though they continued to talk. As they searched out their prey, Bonni began to realize something had changed. Everything seemed quieter, although the bar was still full, people were talking, and the jukebox blared out “Ruby.” Then she noticed that a lot of heads were turning toward the doorway.
Pinching Cleo hard on the arm, she nodded her head. “Over there,” she said.
Cleo looked in the direction Bonni had indicated and came to a sudden stop. “Kee-rist.”
They hated her on sight. She was everything they weren't—a woman right off the fashion pages, beautiful as a New York model, even in a pair of jeans; expensive-looking, stylish, and snooty, with an expression on her face like she'd just smelled something bad, and they were it. She was the kind of woman who didn't belong anywhere near a place like the Blue Choctaw, a hostile invader who made them feel ugly, cheap, and worn out. And then they saw the two men they'd left not ten minutes earlier walking right toward her.
Bonni and Cleo looked at each other for a moment before they headed in the same direction, their eyes narrowed, their stomachs bitter with determination.
Francesca remained oblivious to their approach as she searched the hostile environment of the Blue Choctaw with an uneasy gaze, concentrating all her attention on trying to peer through the thick smoke and press of bodies to catch sight of Skeet Cooper. A tiny, apprehensive muscle quivered at her temple, and her palms were damp. Never had she felt so out of her element as she did in this seedy New Orleans bar.
The sound of raucous laughter and too-loud music attacked her ears. She felt hostile eyes inspecting her, and she gripped her small Vuitton cosmetic case more tightly, trying not to remember that it contained all she had left in the world. She tried to blot out the memory of the horrible places the taxi driver had taken her, each one more repulsive than the last, and none of them bearing the slightest resemblance to the resale shop in Piccadilly where the clerks wore gently used designer originals and served tea to their customers. She had thought it such a good idea to sell her clothes; she hadn't imagined she would end up in some dreadful pawnshop parting with her suitcase and the rest of her wardrobe for three hundred and fifty dollars just so she could pay her taxi fare and have enough money left to survive on for another few days until she got hold of Nicky. A Louis Vuitton suitcase full of designer originals let go for three hundred and fifty dollars! She couldn't spend two nights at a really good hotel for that amount.
“Hi, honey.”
Francesca jumped as two disreputable-looking men came up to her, one with a stomach that strained the buttons of his plaid shirt, the other a greasy-looking character with enlarged pores.
“You look like you could use a drink,” the heavy one said. “Me and my new buddy Tony here'd be happy to buy you a couple of mai-tais.”
“No, thank you,” she replied, looking anxiously about for Skeet. Why wasn't he here? A needle-sharp shower of resentment pricked at her. Why hadn't Dallie given her the name of his motel instead of forcing her to stand in the doorway of this horrible place, the name of which she'd barely been able to dredge up after spending twenty minutes poring over a telephone book? The fact that she needed to find him had printed itself indelibly in her brain while she was making another series of fruitless calls to London trying to locate Nicky or David Graves or one of her other former companions, all of whom seemed to be out of town, recently married, or not taking her calls.
Two tough-faced women sidled up to the men in front of her, their hostility evident. The blonde leaned into the man with the stomach. “Hey, Pete. Let's dance.”
Pete didn't take his eyes off Francesca. “Later, Bonni.”
“I wanna dance now,” Bonni insisted, her mouth hard.
Pete's gaze slithered over Francesca. “I said later. Dance with Tony.”
“Tony's dancin’ with me,” the black-haired woman said, curling short purple fingernails over the other man's hairy arm. “Come on, baby.”
“Go away, Cleo.” Shaking off the purple fingernails, Tony pressed his hand on the wall just next to Francesca's head and leaned toward her. “You new in town? I don't remember seeing you around here before.”
She shifted her weight, trying to catch sight of a red bandanna headband while she avoided the unpleasant smell of whiskey mixed with cheap after-shave.
The woman named Cleo sneered. “You don't think a snotty bitch like her's gonna give you the time of day, do you, Tony?”
“I thought I told you to get lost.” He gave Francesca an oily smile. “Sure you wouldn't like a drink?”
“I'm not thirsty,” Francesca said stiffly. “I'm waiting for someone.”
“Looks like you got stood up,” Bonni purred. “So why don't you get lost.”
A blast of warm air from outside hit the damp back of her blouse as the door opened, admitting three more rough-faced men, none of whom was Skeet. Francesca's uneasiness grew. She couldn't stand in the doorway all night, but she recoiled at the thought of going any farther inside. Why hadn't Dallie told her where he was lodging? She couldn't stay alone in New Orleans with only three hundred and fifty dollars between herself and starvation while she waited for Nicky to finish his fling. She had to find Dallie now, before he left! “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, sliding between Tony and Pete.
She heard a short, unpleasant laugh from one of the women, and then a mutter from Tony. “It's your fault, Bonni,” he complained. “You and Cleo scared her away just when—” The rest was mercifully lost as she slid through the crowd toward the back, looking for an inconspicuous table.
“Hey, honey—”
A quick glance over her shoulder told her that Pete was following her. She squeezed between two tables, felt someone's hand brush her bottom, and made a dash for the lavatory. Once inside, she sagged against the door, her cosmetic case clutched to her chest. Outside, she heard the sound of breaking glass and she jumped. What a hideous place! Her opinion of Skeet Cooper sank even lower. Suddenly she remembered Dallie's reference to a red-haired waitress. Although she hadn't spotted anyone who fit that description, she hadn't really been looking. Maybe the bartender coul
d give her some information.
