Sunset Beach(5)
“Not at all.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the girl exclaimed. “Look, I didn’t bring a purse tonight, right? So I don’t actually have my ID on me.”
“How were you planning on paying for your drinks?” Drue asked.
The blonde gave an arch smile and turned toward the balding salesman sitting next to her. She flung an arm over his shoulder. “Oh, no worries. My new friend Sammy here is buying tonight. Right, Sammy?”
“Right,” the salesman replied. “But, uh, it’s Stanley. Not Sammy.” He flipped a platinum AmEx card onto the table. “Bring the lady whatever she wants.”
“Sorry,” Drue said. “But I can’t serve her alcohol without a valid ID.”
The girl half rose from her seat, until her face was inches away from Drue’s. “Look,” she said, her voice soft. Her breath stank of rum and fruit juice. Her face was flushed, her eyes were glazed. “Don’t be such a bitch. I need two of those strawberry thingies. Okay? Stanley’s gonna take good care of you, you understand?”
Drue moved two inches backward. “I understand perfectly. And you need to understand that I still can’t serve you alcohol. We both know you and your girlfriends here are underage.”
The girl’s face twisted in rage. “What the hell do you care? Are you a fucking cop?” Her high-pitched voice rose to a shriek. Heads turned, their eyes glued to the unfolding drama at table six. “Now go get my drink, bitch!”
Drue started to say something, but before she could respond, she felt a hand tighten on her upper arm.
It was Prick. “In my office. Now.”
He turned to the table. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. I’ll send somebody over with a round for the table. On the house.”
* * *
They didn’t make it all the way to the office. He turned to her just inside the doors to the kitchen. “What the hell?” he yelled. “You come in here tonight with a shitty attitude, out of uniform, but I cut you some slack because I feel sorry for you. Then you limp around out there like some kinda lame-ass zombie and spend half the night hiding out in the bathroom. Your job here is to smile and sling drinks, not get in a fight with the paying customers.”
“I had to pee. One time. I was off the floor for five minutes. And that blond chick threw a napkin at me!” Drue protested. “Called me a bitch. And she was totally underage.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Prick said, hands on his hips. “Go ahead and clock out. You’re gone.”
“You’re firing me?”
“Damn straight.”
“I’ll go,” she said, her voice steely. “But don’t even think about trying to stiff me for my share of the tip-out tonight. With this crowd it should be at least two hundred bucks. And I’m not leaving here until I get my money.”
“Fat chance,” he said, sneering.
She ripped off her apron and tossed it in his face. “Two hundred dollars,” she repeated. “In cash. Tonight.” On a whim she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and held it up for him to see. “Or I call the state beverage control board and text them photos of all the shit-faced underage Barbies in here tonight. And tomorrow night your spring break bonanza comes to a screeching halt.”
* * *
Out in the parking lot, Drue smoothed the crumpled-up wads of bills on the front seat of the Bronco. The total came to exactly two hundred. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the steering wheel. The sobs came from deep down in her chest, wracking, choking, gasping, uncontrollable sobs. After what seemed like a long time, she sat back up, pulled the Bozo’s tank top over her head, wiped her eyes and blew her nose on it. Then she tossed it out the window onto the parking lot pavement and drove home in her sports bra, which was more than a lot of women wore in Fort Lauderdale that time of year.
When she got home she sat alone in the dark for a long time in Sherri’s nearly bare condo. Her mother had sold the furnished condo at the onset of her diagnosis to help pay her medical expenses, but the new owners, snowbirds from Michigan, had allowed the two women to stay on until the end of the month, which was fast approaching.
She’d donated all Sherri’s personal effects to charity, and her own belongings were packed up too, awaiting the now-aborted move to Trey’s place. Drue stretched out on the sofa, swallowed three Advil, and eventually drifted off to a troubled sleep.
* * *
She was skimming along the surface of the water, the sun at her back, her red-and-white-striped kite high in the air, her boots firmly planted on the board beneath her feet. When the moment came, she bent her knees, leaned back on her heels and suddenly, gloriously, she was aloft. She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, heard her own heart pounding, the blood humming in her veins. In midair she looked around and then down, saw the bright blue curve of the ocean meeting sugary sand, tiny specks she knew to be people, toy-size cars in the parking lot.
Time and life stood still and she was flying—soaring past seagulls and pelicans and jet airplanes and billowing clouds. The wind was perfect and the kite kept her aloft, the longest hang-time ever. She closed her eyes, and then, in a split second, it happened. An arrow, a lightning bolt, a bullet, a knife blade, slashed at her right knee.