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Even the Uber driver doesn’t say anything. He just takes us downtown, apparently aware that the women in his back seat aren’t feeling very festive just yet.
When we finally hit downtown, it’s hard for Tabby to stay grumpy. The lights and sounds and even smells of the neighborhood fill the interior of the car, even with the windows up. Miami is like that. It gets in your blood.
By the time the driver lets us out in front of the club, Tabby is slightly—just slightly—less frigid. I even see her bounce her hip a little bit in time with the merengue music from the club next door. People line up behind the burgundy velvet rope, a startling collection of beauty and wealth waiting to get in.
That is not where we are going.
Three doors down, there’s a half alley. It’s weirdly moist here all the time. It smells like frogs.
Tabby wobbles down the middle of the alley and then flings open the old security door. I follow her into the musty, mildewy interior. The crowd of people doesn’t look anything like the group that was standing behind the velvet rope a few doors down. Nothing at all. These places would never be mistaken for each other.
“Hey, girls,” Loretta smiles as she sashays to our end of the bar. “The usual?”
“Make it a double,” Tabby says, like she always does.
Loretta twitches one finger over her shoulder as she sashays away in a kind of “toodle-oo” dance gesture. She’s bored. We know it. But she’s nice.
Loretta owns the bar. She doesn’t want people to know that part, but she does. It’s actually a gold mine. Even with all the mildew, all the ninety-year-old geezers whistling through their teeth at us, even with the broken jukebox and the wobbly barstools, this place is practically printing money. Every other bar around here is a multimillion-dollar establishment. People have tried to buy Loretta out dozens of times. Nobody has ever offered her enough. One day, somebody will. That’s how it goes.
“Vodka soda, my devilish darlings,” Loretta sighs with a wink as she slides the tall drinks toward us.
Tabby takes hers immediately and wraps her glossy lips around the slender straw. Loretta already has another drink set up for her. She knows us that well.
She drinks down half her drink, and I can tell she’s getting ready. All I have to do is wait. It’s coming.
“Okay, so,” she begins, her eyes flickering toward me, then away again.
“Okay,” I pitch in encouragingly.
We discovered vodka sodas last year. Before that, we did margarita, mojitos, cosmopolitans… All the trendy drinks. The thing is, they are all full of sugar. If the alcohol doesn’t get you, the sugar hangover will certainly kick your butt. People who want to be able to live productive lives after midweek drinking need to understand how to manage one or the other. Both is too much for anyone. We’ve made our choice.
“Well… I got the job,” she announces.
“What? Oh my God, that’s great!” I exclaim.
This is great news. From the look on her face, that is not what I was expecting her to say. But it is really great news.
“Yeah, thank you. Seriously. Thanks.”
She continues sucking down her drink. Loretta slides another one toward her and she picks it up automatically. But she is still not looking at me. Her chocolate-drop eyes are definitely pointing in another direction.
“Is the job… okay? When do you start?”
“Oh, I already started. I mean, you know how it is. Just jump right in.”
I shrug gamely. “Okay, sure! Yeah. Just go for it.”
“Yup. Yup. Go for it.”
She crosses her legs in the other direction, her thighs pink and plump and sticky in the humidity. One hand fusses with a springy thatch of curls over her left ear.
“You like my lip gloss?” she murmurs.
“Your… lip gloss? Sure. It’s nice. What is that? Salmon?”
“Salmon Ice,” she replies with a sheepish smile. “It would look good on you.”
“Me? I don’t know… I am more of a raisin or rose kind of girl. Not so much with the salmon.”
