Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(43)

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 helmet 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 f*cking 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.”