Fancy Pants

Chapter 9

New Orleans-the city of "Stella, Stella, Stella for star," of lacy ironwork and Old Man River, Confederate jasmine and sweet olive, hot nights, hot jazz, hot women-lay at the bottom of the Mississippi like a tarnished piece of jewelry. In a city noted for its individuality, the Blue Choctaw managed to remain common. Gray and dingy, with a pair of neon beer signs that flickered painfully in

a window dulled by exhaust fumes, the Blue Choctaw could have been located near the seediest part of any American city-near the docks, the mills, the river, skirting the ghetto. It bumped up to the bad side, the never-after-dark, littered sidewalks, broken street lamps, no-good-girls-allowed part of town.

The Blue Choctaw had a particular aversion to good girls. Even the women the men had left at home weren't all that good, and the men sure as hell didn't want to find better ones sitting on the red vinyl bar stools next to them. They wanted to find girls like Bonni and Cleo, semi-hookers who wore strong perfume and red lipstick, who talked tough and thought tough and helped a man forget that Jimmy Asshole Carter was sure enough going to get himself elected President and give all the good jobs to the niggers.

Bonni twirled the yellow plastic sword in her mai-tai and peered through the noisy crowd at her friend

and rival Cleo Reznyak, who was shoving her tits up against Tony Grasso as he pushed a quarter in the jukebox and punched in C-24. There was a mean mood in the smoky air of the Blue Choctaw that night, meaner than usual, although Bonni didn't try to put her finger on its source. Maybe it was the sticky heat that wouldn't let go; maybe it was the fact that Bonni had turned thirty the week before and the last of her illusions had just about disappeared. She knew she wasn't smart, wasn't pretty enough to get by on her looks, and she didn't have the energy to improve herself. She was living in a broken-down trailer park, answering the telephone at Gloria's Hair Beautiful, and it wasn't going to get any better.

For a girl like Bonni, the Blue Choctaw represented a shot at the good times, a few laughs, the occasional big spender who would pick up the tab for her mai-tais, take her to bed, and leave a fifty-dollar bill on the dresser next morning. One of those big spenders was sitting at the other end of the bar… with his eye on Cleo.

She and Cleo had an agreement. They stood together against any newcomers who tried to sink their butts too comfortably onto the Blue Choctaw's bar stools, and they didn't poach on each other's territory. Still, the spender at the bar tempted Bonni. He had a big belly and arms strong enough to show that he held a steady job, maybe working on one of the offshore drilling rigs-a man out for a good time. Cleo had been getting more than her fair share of men lately, including Tony Grasso, and Bonni was tired of it.

"Hi," she said, wandering over and sliding up on the stool next to him. "You're new around here, aren't you?"

He looked her over, taking in her carefully arranged heimet of sprayed blond hair, her plum eye shadow, and deep, full breasts. As he nodded, Bonni could see him forgetting about Cleo.

"Been in Biloxi the last few years," he replied. "What're you drinking?"

She gave him a kittenish smile. "I'm partial to mai-tais." After he gestured toward the bartender for her drink, she crossed her legs. "My ex-husband spent some time in Biloxi. I don't suppose you ran into him? A cheap son of a bitch named Ryland."

He shook his head-didn't know anybody by that name -and moved his arm so that it brushed along

the side of her tits. Bonni decided they were going to get along fine, and she turned her body just far enough so she didn't have to see the accusing expression in Cleo's eyes.

An hour later the two of them had it out in the little girls' room. Cleo bitched for a while, jerking a comb through her tough black hair and then tightening the posts on her best pair of fake ruby earrings. Bonni apologized and said she hadn't known Cleo was interested.

Cleo studied her suspiciously. "You know I'm getting tired of Tony. All he does is complain about his wife. Shit, I haven't had a good laugh out of him in weeks."

"The guy at the bar-his name's Pete-he's not much for laughs either," Bonnie admitted. She pulled a vial of Tabu from her purse and generously sprayed herself. "This place sure is going to hell."

Cleo fixed her mouth and then stepped back to scrutinize her work. "You said it there, honey."

"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 could give her some information.

The door next to her opened abruptly, and the two tough-faced women came in. "Look what we got here, Bonni Lynn," the one named Cleo sneered.

"Well, if it ain't Miss Rich Bitch," Bonni replied. "What's the matter, honey? Did you get tired of working the hotel trade and decide to come down here to slum it?"

Francesca's jaw tightened. These awful women had pushed her far enough. Lifting her chin, she stared at Bonni's harsh plum eye shadow. "Have you been this rude from birth, or is it a more recent occurrence?"

Cleo laughed and turned to Bonni. "My, my. Didn't she just tell you off." She studied Francesca's cosmetic case. "What do you have in there that's so important?"

"None of your business."

"Got your jewels in there, honey?" Bonni suggested. "The sapphires and diamonds your boyfriends buy you? Tell me, how much do you charge to pull a trick?"

"A trick!" Francesca couldn't mistake her meaning and before she could stop herself, her hand shot out and slapped the woman across her pancaked cheek. "Don't you ever-"

She didn't get any further. With a howl of rage, Bonni curled her fingers" into talons and whipped them through the air, ready to grab two handfuls of Francesca's hair. Francesca instinctively thrust her cosmetic case forward, using it to block the other woman's movement. The case caught Bonni at the waist, knocking the wind out of her and forcing her to teeter for a moment on her imitation alligator heels before she lost her balance. As she tumbled to the floor, Francesca felt a moment of primitive satisfaction that she'd finally been able to punish someone for all the dreadful things that had happened to her that day. The moment fled as she saw the look on Cleo's face, and realized that she had put herself in actual danger.

She rushed out the door, but Cleo caught her and grabbed her wrist before she reached the jukebox.

"No, you don't, bitch," she snarled, pulling her back toward the lavatory.

"Help!" Francesca cried, as her entire life flashed before her. "Please, someone, help me!"

She heard an unpleasant masculine laugh, and as deo shoved her forward, she realized that no one was leaping to her defense. Those two awful women planned to physically assault her in the lavatory, and no one seemed to care! Panicked, she swung her cosmetic case, intent on pushing Cleo away, but hitting someone's tattoo instead. He yelled.

"Get that case away from her," Cleo demanded, her voice harsh with outrage. "She just slapped Bonni."

"Bonni had it coming," Pete called out over the final chorus of "Rhinestone Cowboy" and the comments of the interested onlookers. To Francesca's overwhelming relief, he started toward her, obviously intent on rescue. And then she realized the man with the tattooed arm had other ideas.

"Stay out of this!" the tattoo called over to Pete as he wrenched the case from her hands. "This is between the girls."

"No!" Francesca cried. "It's not between the girls. Actually, I don't even know this person, and I-"

She screamed as Cleo sank her hands into her hair and began twisting her head in the general direction

of the lavatory. Her eyes began to tear and her neck snapped backward. This was barbaric! Awful!

They would murder her!

In that instant, she felt several strands of her hair being pulled from her scalp. Her beautiful chestnut hair! Reason left her and blind fury took over. She went wild, releasing a screech as she swung out. Cleo grunted as Francesca's hand caught her in an abdomen that had lost its tone. The pressure on Francesca's scalp immediately eased, but she had only a moment to catch her breath before she saw Bonni coming toward her, ready to pick up where Cleo had left off. A table crashed to the floor nearby, glass shattering. She was dimly aware that the fight had spread, and that Pete had leaped to her rescue, wonderful Pete of the plaid shirt and beer belly, wonderful, marvelous, adorable Pete!

"You bitch!" Bonni cried, reaching out for anything she could grab, which happened to be the pearl buttons set into the cocoa trim on Francesca's greige Halston blouse. The front gave way; the shoulder seam split. Once again Francesca felt her hair being pulled, and once again she swung, locking her other hand around Bonni's head and grabbing some hair herself.

Suddenly it seemed as if the fight had surrounded her- chairs scraped over the floor, a bottle flew through the air, someone screamed. She felt one of the fingernails on her right hand tear. Ribbons of fabric hung from the front of her blouse, exposing her ecru lace bra, but she had no time to worry about modesty as Bonni's sharp rings scraped her neck. Francesca gritted her teeth against the pain and pulled harder. At the same time she had the sudden and horrifying realization that she-Francesca Serritella Day, darling of the international set, pet of the society columnists, almost Princess of Wales-was at the heart, the very center, the absolute core, of a barroom brawl.

Across the room, the door of the Blue Choctaw swung open and Skeet walked in, followed by Dallie Beaudine.

Dallie stood there for a moment, took in what was happening, saw the people involved, and shook his head with disgust. "Aw, hell." With a long, put-upon sigh, he began to shoulder his way through the crowd.

Never in her entire life had Francesca been so glad to see anyone, except at first she didn't realize it was him. When he touched her shoulder, she released Bonni, swung around, and hit him as hard as she could in the chest.

"Hey!" he yelled, rubbing the spot where she'd landed. "I'm on your side… I guess."

"Dallie!" She threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Dallie, Dallie, Dallie! My wonderful Dallie! I can't believe it's you!"

He pulled her off. "Easy, Francie, you're not out of here yet. Why the hell-"

He never finished. Someone who looked like an extra in an old Steve Reeves movie came at him with a right hook, and Francesca watched in horror as Dallie sprawled on the floor. Spotting her cosmetic case sitting in splendid isolation on the jukebox, she snatched it up and banged it into the side of the awful man's head. To her horror, the clasp gave way, and she watched helplessly as her wonderful blushers and shadows and creams and lotions flew about the room. A box of her specially blended translucent powder sent up a scented cloud that soon had everyone coughing and sliding and quickly put a damper on the fight.

Dallie staggered to his feet, threw a couple of punches of his own, and then grabbed her arm. "Come on. Let's get out of here before they decide to eat you for a bedtime snack."

"My makeup!" She scrambled toward a cake of frosted peach eye shadow, even though she knew it was a ridiculous thing to do with her blouse falling off, a bloody scratch on her neck, two fingernails broken, and her very life in danger. But recovering the eye shadow suddenly became more important to her than anything in the world, and she was willing to fight them all to get it back.

He whipped his arm around her waist and lifted her feet off the floor. "To hell with your makeup!"

"No! Put me down!" She had to have the eye shadow. Little by little, every single item she owned was being taken away from her, and if she let just one more thing disappear, one more possession slip out of her life, she might very well disappear herself, fading away like the Cheshire cat until nothing was left,

not even her teeth.

"Come on, Francie!"

"No!" She fought Dallie as she'd fought the rest, flailing her legs in the air, kicking his calves, screaming out, "I want it! I have to have it."

"You're gonna get it, all right!"

"Please, Dallie," she begged. "Please!"

The magic word had never failed her before, and it didn't now. Muttering under his breath, he leaned forward with his arm still around her and snatched up the eye shadow. As he straightened, she grabbed it from him and then reached out, just managing to grasp the open lid of her cosmetic case before he pulled her away. By the time she had snapped the lid shut, she'd lost a bottle of almond-scented moisturizer and broken a third fingernail, but she had managed to avoid spilling out her calfskin handbag along with its three hundred and fifty dollars. And she had her precious frosted peach eye shadow.

Skeet propped the door open and Dallie carried her through. As he set her down on the pavement, she heard sirens. He immediately snatched her back up and dragged her toward the Riviera.

"Can't she even walk by herself?" Skeet asked, catching the keys that Dallie pitched to him.

"She likes to argue." Dallie glanced toward the flashing lights that weren't all that far away. "Commissioner Deane Beman and the PGA are only going to put up with so much from me this year, so let's get the hell out of here." Shoving her none too gently into the back seat, he jumped in after her and closed the door.

They rode in silence for several minutes. Her teeth began to chatter from the aftereffects of the fight, and her hands shook as she tried to pull the front of her blouse together and tuck some of the torn ends into her bra. It didn't take her long to realize the task was hopeless. A lump lodged in her throat. She hugged her arms over her chest and yearned for some expression of sympathy, some concern for her condition,

a small sign that someone cared about her.

Dallie reached under the seat in front of him and pulled out an unopened bottle of scotch. After breaking the seal with his thumbnail, he unscrewed the top, took a long swallow, and then looked thoughtful. Francesca prepared herself for the questions to come and made up her mind to answer each one with as much dignity as possible. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

Dailie leaned toward Skeet. "I didn't see anything of that red-haired waitress. Did you get a chance to ask about her?"

"Yeah. The bartender said she went off to Bogalusa with some guy who works for the power company."

"Too bad."

Skeet glanced into the rearview mirror. "Seems the guy only had one arm."

"No kidding? Did the bartender tell you how a thing like that happened?"

"Industrial accident of some kind. A few years back the guy worked for a tool and die outfit up near Shreveport and got his arm caught in a press. Crushed that sucker flatter than a pancake."

"Guess it didn't make any difference to his love life with that waitress of yours." Dailie took another swallow. "Women are funny 'bout things like that. Take that lady we met last year in San Diego after the Andy Williams-"

"Stop it!" Francesca cried, unable to hold back her outcry. "Are you so callous that you don't have the simple decency to ask me if I'm all right? That was a barroom brawl back there! Don't you realize that I could have been killed?"

"Probably not," Dailie said. "Somebody most likely would've put a stop to it."

She drew back her hand and hit his arm as hard as she could.

"Ouch." He rubbed the spot she had struck.

"Did she just hit you?" Skeet inquired indignantly.

"Yeah."

"You gonna hit her back?"

"I'm thinking."

"I would if I was you."

"I know you would." He looked at her and his eyes darkened. "I would, too, if I thought she was going

to be part of my life for any longer than about the next two and a half minutes."

She stared at him, wishing she could take back her impulsive blow, unable to believe what she'd just heard. "Exactly what are you saying?" she demanded.

Skeet sped through a yellow light. "How far is it to the airport from here?"

"Clear across town." Dallie leaned forward and clasped his hand over the back of the seat. "In case you weren't paying attention earlier, the motel's up another light and down a block."

Skeet stepped down on the accelerator and the Riviera shot forward, throwing Francesca back against the seat. She glared at Dallie, trying to shame him into apologizing so she could magnanimously forgive him. She waited the rest of the way to the motel.

They turned into the well-lit parking lot, and Skeet swung around to the side, stopping in front of a line of brightly painted metal doors stamped with black numbers. He shut off the ignition, and then he and Dallie climbed out. She watched incredulously as first one car door slammed and then the other.

"See you in the morning, Dallie."

"See you, Skeet."

She leaped out after them, her case clutched in her hand, trying unsuccessfully to hold her blouse closed. "Dallie!"

He pulled a room key from the pocket of his jeans and turned. Greige silk slithered through her fingers as she closed the car door. Couldn't he see how helpless she was? How much she needed him? "You have to help me," she said, staring at him with eyes so pitifully large they seemed to eat up her small face. "I put my life in jeopardy going to that bar just to find you."

He looked at her breasts and the ecru silk bra. Then he pulled his faded navy T-shirt over his head and tossed it to her. "Here's the shirt off my back, honey. Don't ask for anything more."

She watched incredulously as he walked into his motel room and shut the door-shut the door in her face! The panic that had been building inside her throughout the day burst free, flooding every part of

her body. She had never experienced such fear, she had no way of coping with it, and so she converted

it into something she understood-a burning flare of red-hot anger. No one treated her like this! No one! She'd make him deal with her! She'd make him pay!

She dashed to his door and banged her case against it, hitting it once, twice, wishing it were his horrid, ugly face. She kicked at it, cursed it, let her anger detonate, let it blaze bright and righteous in one never-to-be-forgotten display of the temper that had made her a legend.

The door swung open and he stood on the other side, his chest bare and his ugly face scowling at her. She'd show him a scowl! She'd show him that he'd never even imagined what a scowl looked like! "You bastard!" She shot past him and flung her case across the room, where it shattered the television screen in a satisfying explosion of glass. "You depraved, moronic bastard!" She kicked over a chair. "You callous son of a bitch!" She upended his suitcase.

And then she let herself go.

Screaming out insults and accusations, she tossed ashtrays and pillows, threw lamps, and pulled the drawers from the desk. Every slight she had suffered in the past twenty-four hours, every indignity, came to the surface-the pink dress, the Blue Choctaw, the peach eye shadow… She punished Chloe for dying, Nicky for deserting her, she assaulted Lew Steiner, attacked Lloyd Byron, mutilated Miranda Gwynwyck, and most of all, she annihilated Dallie Beaudine. Dallie, the most beautiful man she had ever met, the only man who wasn't impressed by her, the only man who'd ever slammed a door in her face.

Dallie watched for a moment, his hands planted on his hips. A can of shaving cream flew past him and hit the mirror. "Unbelievable," he muttered. He stuck his head out the door. "Skeet! Come over here. You got to see this."

Skeet was already on his way. "What's going on? It sounds like-" He stopped dead in the open doorway, staring at the destruction taking place in front of him. "Why is she doin' that?"

"Damned if I know." Dallie ducked a flying copy of the Greater New Orleans telephone directory. "Damnedest thing I ever saw in my life."

"Maybe she thinks she's a rock star. Hey, Dallie! She's goin' for your three-wood!"

Dallie moved like the athlete he was, and in two long strides he had her.

Francesca felt herself being upended. For a moment her legs hung free, and then something hard jabbed into her stomach as she felt herself being tossed over his shoulder. "Put me down! Put me down, you bastard!"

"Not hardly. That's the best three-wood I ever owned."

They began to move. She screamed as he carried her outside, his shoulder pushing into her stomach, his arm clamped around the backs of her knees. She heard voices and she was dimly aware of doors opening and bathrobed bodies peering out.

"I never saw a woman so scared of a little old mouse in all my life," Dallie called out.

She banged her fists against his bare back. "I'll have you arrested!" she screamed. "I'll sue you! Bastard! I'll sue you for every penny-" He veered sharply to the right. She saw a wrought-iron fence, a gate, underwater lights-

"No!" She let out a bloodcurdling scream as he pitched her into the very deepest part of the motel swimming pool.