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She had a fairly good idea of what was in store for her when she stepped into the elevator and found Herr Stu Kaplan passed out with an empty V.O. bottle and half his Fu Manchu shaved off.
It took thirty minutes of begging and cajoling for her to get the party crowd in the suite thinned down to twenty-five, which was, she decided, the best she could do. She stepped over Frank LaPorte as she carried the telephone into a closet to call the lobby and tell them to put guards back on the elevators. When she came out, she saw that Barry had left with some of the women, and she decided it was safe to return to her room. But she was wide-awake now, tomorrow was a layover day, and she deserved a little fun—or at least a drink before she turned in.
After a short struggle with a cork, she poured several inches of champagne into a glass. Peter called her over to talk about OPEC, much to the disgust of the girls who were clamoring for his attention. Just as she began her second glass of champagne, she heard a furious pounding on the door. Groaning, she set down her glass and walked across the suite. “Party’s over,” she called through the door crack.
“Let me in!” The voice was female and vaguely desperate.
“I can’t,” Fleur told the crack. “Fire regulations.”
“Fleur, is that you?”
“How did you—” Fleur suddenly realized the voice had a strong Southern accent. She released the lock and pulled open the door.
Kissy Sue Christie tumbled into the room.
She looked like a rumpled sugarplum. She had short licorice curls, a candy apple mouth, and big gumdrop eyes. She wore black leather pants and an electric pink camisole with a broken strap. Except for a generous spill of breasts, everything about her was tiny. It was also vaguely lopsided, since she was missing one high-heeled shoe, but even lopsided, Kissy Sue Christie looked exactly the way Fleur had always wanted to look.
Kissy threw the bolt on the door and began her own inspection. “Fleur Savagar,” she said. “I had the strangest feeling over the telephone it was you, even though you didn’t tell me your last name. I’m mildly psychic.” She checked the lock. “There’s this Lufthansa pilot I’m trying desperately to avoid. I would have been here earlier, but I was unexpectedly delayed.” She gazed around the suite. “Tell me I’m a lucky girl and Barry’s not here.”
“You’re a lucky girl.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that he was electrocuted tonight or otherwise stricken?”
“Neither of us could be that lucky.” Fleur suddenly remembered her duties. “Where’s your luggage? I’ll phone down and have somebody take you to your room.”
“Actually,” Kissy said, “my room is already occupied.” She tugged on the broken pink camisole strap. “Is there someplace we could talk? And I wouldn’t look unfavorably on the offer of a drink.”
Fleur scooped up her champagne bottle, two glasses, and Kissy. She had an urge to tuck Kissy in her pocket.
The only unoccupied space was the bathroom, so she locked them both in and took a seat on the floor. While she poured the champagne, Kissy kicked off her remaining shoe. “To tell you God’s honest truth, I think I made a mistake letting him escort me to my room.”
Fleur took a wild stab. “The Lufthansa pilot?”
Kissy nodded. “It started as a mild flirtation, but I guess it got a little out of hand.” She sipped delicately at her champagne, then licked her top lip with the tip of her pink tongue. “I know this is going to sound strange to you, but like I said, I’m mildly psychic, and I have this strong feeling we’re going to be friends. I might as well tell you from the start—I have a little bitty problem with promiscuity.”
This had all the earmarks of an interesting conversation, and Fleur settled herself more comfortably against the side of the tub. “How little bitty?”
“Depends on your viewpoint.” Kissy tucked her feet beneath her and leaned against the door. “Do you like hunks?”
Fleur refilled her cup and thought about it. “I guess I’m sort of off men right now. Kind of neutral, you know what I mean?”
Kissy’s gumdrop eyes widened. “Gosh, no. I’m sorry.”
Fleur giggled. Whether it was from the champagne or Kissy or the lateness of the hour, she didn’t know, but she was fed up with self-hatred. It felt good to laugh again.
“Sometimes I think hunks have just about ruined my life,” Kissy said mournfully. “I tell myself I’m going to reform, but the next thing I know, I look up and there’s this piece of gorgeous male flesh standin’ right in my path with big, broad shoulders and those little bitty hips, and I can’t find it in my heart to pass him by.”
“Like Lufthansa?”
Kissy almost smacked her lips. “He had this dimple—right here.” She pointed to a spot on her chin. “That dimple, it did something to me, even though the rest of him wasn’t much. See, that’s my problem, Fleur—I can always find something. It’s cost me a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“The pageant, for one thing.”
“Pageant?”
“Uhmm. Miss America. My mommy and daddy raised me from the cradle to go to Atlantic City.”
