Dreamboat (3 page)

The door abruptly opened, and Rosy stuck her head in the room. “Why don't you turn on your fucking cellie?” she groused. “Jenny's on the phone, but I'm going to tell her to hang up and call your cell number.”

“I'm sorry, Rosy,” Crissy said, restraining herself from lashing out at the ill-tempered woman. “I'll turn it on right now.”

Rosy eyed her malevolently, then slammed the door shut.

Crissy shot the bird at the closed door, then took out her cell phone
and switched it on. She knew that Rosy was an extremely unhappy woman, obese, unattractive, and resentful, but her nastiness was hard to take. Crissy didn't have much choice—not if she wanted to continue working at the shop. Rosy was the manager, and Tony Ferraro, the owner, trusted her completely.

Her cell phone rang, and Crissy answered it. “Hi, Jenny,” she said.

Jenny laughed. “That bitch told you to turn on your cell phone, didn't she?”

“Oh, yes,” Crissy replied. “In fact, she told me to turn on my ‘fucking' cell phone.”

“That's just one of the things that makes her so attractive,” Jenny said. “Her lovely way with words.”

“She's really getting hard to take,” Crissy said.

“Don't let the bitch get you down,” Jenny said. “She's just jealous.”

“I don't know why she's jealous of me,” Crissy replied. “She's got a boyfriend, and she's got Tony eating out of her hand. She runs this place like she's some kind of queen and we're all her servants.”

“Oh, you're feeling blue today, aren't you?” Jenny ventured. “Come off it, Crissy. You know why that ugly bitch is jealous. You're pretty and nice and popular. None of which she'll ever be.”

Crissy sighed. “I guess.”

“Listen,” Jenny said. “Why don't we go out tonight? There's a hot new club on Central Ave. that's got a great DJ. Nine One One it's called, and I'm dying to try it out.”

“I . . . I don't know,” Crissy prevaricated. “I'm trying to save my money, and—”

“Oh, come on, Crissy,” Jenny said quickly. “I'll treat. I just got my alimony check from Pete the Prick.”

Crissy laughed. “Can't wait to spend it, huh?” Maybe she should go out tonight, Crissy ruminated. Yes, she decided, that's what she ought to do. She and Jenny always had a good time together.

“I'll swing by your place about eight, eight-thirty. How's that?” Jenny said.

“What's this place like?” Crissy asked.

“Really cool, I hear,” Jenny said. “Fancy enough that a lot of the guys who work at the Capitol go there, expensive enough to keep the rednecks out.”

“You mean the parking lot won't be full of pickup trucks with gun racks?”

“That's exactly what I mean,” Jenny said, laughing. “Come on, say yes, and I'll pick you up.”

“Okay,” Crissy said. “What are you going to wear?”

“Something sexy,” Jenny said.

“Tell me something I didn't already know,” Crissy said. “I meant, like casual or what?”

“Probably slacks and a cute top,” Jenny said. “Maybe this new glittery number I've got that shows a lot of boob.”

“You're shameless,” Crissy said.

The door to the storage room swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Rosy stood in the door frame, her body occupying it entirely, with a highly unattractive scowl on her face. Crissy, her mood considerably improved by talking to Jenny, almost laughed aloud. Rosy looked as if smoke would pour out of her nostrils at any minute.

“Your next customer is here, if you care,” Rosy snapped.

“I'll be right there,” Crissy said sweetly.

Rosy didn't budge, nor did the expression on her face change.

“I have a customer,” Crissy said into the cell phone, “so I've got to run. I'll see you tonight.” She pressed the call end button, flipped shut the phone, and rose to her feet. Yes, that's what she should do. She decided she would really make an effort tonight, get dressed up and made up, and try to put a little extra zing in her step. Who knew? Maybe she would meet the man of her dreams at Nine One One.

Chapter Two

D
ark had already descended when Crissy parked her little blue Neon on the street and got out with her big carryall. Friends often joked that she ought to leave the keys in the car's ignition to make it easy to steal. They could laugh all they wanted, Crissy thought as she locked it, but she loved her used, banged-up wreck of a car. It was hers, and it was paid for. She looked over toward Washington Park as she walked down the block to the old house where she rented a studio apartment. Most of the people she knew lived on the outskirts of Albany in modern apartment complexes with swimming pools and saunas, but she loved being in the center of town. She enjoyed the little park with its large old trees and ponds, and liked to ride her bicycle there in good weather.

She reached the old gray house where she lived, and after unlocking the front door, she checked her mailbox in the entry hall. Nothing but junk. Advertising fliers and catalogs she would never order anything from. She pitched everything in the wastebasket provided by Birdie, her ancient landlady, then went to her door, just to the left.

Her apartment had originally been the dining room of the once-grand house, which had long since been broken up into apartments, and it retained a semblance of its former glory with heavy moldings and ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. At the far end of the room, a kitchenette stretched along one wall and a door led into the small bathroom. The apartment was painted eggshell white, and on the scratched parquet floors were rugs that had once been a dusty rose shade. Like the house itself, the furniture was old and worn—flea market finds—but was serviceable and comfortable. Crissy treasured the apartment, down-at-the-heels as it was,
because it offered a refuge. She had tired of sharing with friends, discovering that as well as she got along with them, they were often irresponsible, messy, and noisy. Even though it had been a strain on her budget, she had managed to hang onto this place by herself. Now, with a growing following, her tips alone took care of the rent.

Crissy went to the one closet in the apartment and began rummaging through her clothes, trying to decide what to wear tonight. It was really a no-brainer, she decided, since she didn't have that many things to choose from. At least not the kind of clothes she wanted to be seen in tonight. She took a long-sleeved T-shirt out, slipped it off its hanger, and laid it on the bed. It was made out of a glittery black stretch fabric that looked a lot more expensive than it was. It was clingy as well, emphasizing her ample breasts and slim waistline. Going back to the closet, she wondered whether to wear trousers or a miniskirt.
What would a powerful man who worked at the Capitol like?
she wondered, then laughed aloud at the thought. She finally decided on a pair of sleek black trousers that fit her to perfection, then she quickly showered and blow-dried her hair.

She took great pains putting on fresh makeup: eyeliner, mascara, shadow, lipstick, and blusher. She dabbed her favorite perfume,
Femme,
under her ears. She loved its scent, and had to be careful not to use too much. Looking into the mirror over the sink, she examined her face and hair closely and decided that she looked good. Sexy, but not hookerish. The club would be dimly lit, so she was wearing a bit more makeup than usual to compensate. Her black hair, cut in a deceptively simple A line, shone with vitality, and her dark eyes sparkled. The eyeliner and shadow she'd used slightly accentuated their Asian slant. Cat's eyes, her father had called them, and while they were an indication of her mixed lineage—a liability, some would think—she thought they were one of her best assets.

In the bedroom/living room, she put on a lacy black bra and slipped into black, high-heeled mules that were stylish but comfortable and easy to take off if she danced a lot. Finally, she went to her chest of drawers and took out the small box that held her black satin belt. It had a rhinestone-studded buckle in the shape of a Maltese cross, and it was one of her favorite articles of clothing. She put it on, then retraced her steps to the bathroom, where she checked herself out in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, turning this way and that. She adjusted her top, tucking it in just so, then switched off the bathroom light and closed the door. Almost done, she thought.

From the chest of drawers, she took out the box that held her small black satin evening clutch, and removed it from the layers of white tissue paper she'd wrapped around it. Like the belt, it was a favorite, and she took care great of them both. She put in her wallet and car keys. Although Jenny had said she would pick her up, Crissy was certain that she would be asked to drive, and she didn't mind. She was nearly always the designated driver nowadays, since she could have no more than a glass of wine. Like so many Asians or part-Asians, she had Asian alcohol syndrome, and couldn't drink much without getting drunk, sick, or both. From her closet, she took the fluffy black fake-fur jacket that she wore for dressy occasions in the winter. Friends often joked with her about it—what kind of animal is that?—but Crissy didn't mind. She didn't like the cheap furs she could afford, like rabbit, and though she loved the look of more expensive mink and sable, their price was out of her reach. Besides, beautiful as fur could be, she could never rid her mind of the gruesome images of slaughtered animals that she'd seen at animal rights protests.

She remembered when she was a child her father, a Vietnam vet, had somehow struggled to buy her mother, Lily, a fur coat. It had been an inexpensive one, but her father, who was on disability and drank most of the time, had been very proud of the cheap fur. Later, after Lily had built a successful spa, she'd divorced Crissy's father and thrown out the fur coat. She promptly bought herself an enormously expensive mink.

Crissy cringed thinking about her parents. She'd worked very hard to escape their household, and while not always happy in her work, she was more than happy to have left her alcoholic father and mean-spirited, bitter mother to their own unpleasant lives.

There was a tap-tap-tap on the door, and Crissy went to answer it. “Is that you, Jen?” she asked.

“The one and only.”

Crissy opened the door, and Jenny gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. “Oh, you look so great, Cris!”

“Thank you,” Crissy said, eyeing Jenny's outfit as her friend flung off her big fox coat. “And you look . . . well . . . you look out of this world!” she said, helplessly laughing at the mixture of flowers, animal prints, and leather that her friend was wearing.

Jenny twirled on long, thin legs, and her hair swung luxuriantly around her shoulders. “Yeah, I know it's way out there,” she said, “but I couldn't help myself.”

“Where on earth did you get it?” Crissy asked, her gaze still on Jenny's outrageously eye-catching ensemble. The blouse, with its plunging neckline, was a leopard print, while ruffles around the sleeves and neck were a flowered pattern. The skirt was very short and consisted of many layers of ruffles, each layer in a different print—ocelot, tiger, zebra, and more flowers. It was cut in different lengths, the back longer than the front, and worn over leather pants that appeared to have been painted in leopard spots. Only leopards, Crissy reflected, weren't metallic gold and silver and bronze.

“New York,” Jenny said, twirling again. “As in City. Went down last week and spent two days shopping, shopping, shopping.” She finally stood still. “I got everything at Roberto Cavalli. Is it the cat's meow or what?”

Crissy laughed again. “It's definitely ‘or what,' ” she said.

“Well,
I
think it's gorgeous,” Jenny said defensively, her dark eyes flashing, “and I don't care what anybody else thinks. I know that the guys are going to go crazy for it.”

Crissy nodded. “You're probably right about that,” she agreed. “If they're into the rich hooker look.”

Jenny's eyebrows rose in surprise. “You . . . you prude,” she said. “You're just jealous. Believe me, there are very few hookers who could afford this. It cost thousands of dollars.”

“Thousands . . . of . . . dollars?” Crissy echoed, hardly believing her ears but knowing that Jenny was telling her the truth.

“Hey,” Jenny said. “This little number is about a thousand yards of the best silk chiffon and hand-painted leather. That doesn't come cheap, you know.”

“I'm sure it doesn't,” Crissy said.

“Anyway, you ready to go?” Jenny asked.

Crissy nodded. “If you are,” she said.

“I'm hot to trot,” Jenny said with a laugh.

They both put on their coats and left the apartment. “What if I drive?” Crissy asked. “You can leave your car here.”

“I don't know,” Jenny said. “It doesn't look good arriving in that beat-up old thing of yours, but the guys'll cream over my Jaguar convertible.”

“Who's going to see?” Crissy asked reasonably. “The guys are going to be inside. Besides, if I drive, you can drink all you want to. You know I can't drink much.”

“That settles it,” Jenny said, throwing her head back and laughing. “You're driving.”

Club Nine One One was located in a nondescript building on Central Avenue, and when they pulled up into the parking lot, Crissy was disappointed. “It sure doesn't look so great, Jen.”

“Wait till we're inside,” Jenny replied. “Tom Gentry told me it's fabulous, and he knows what he's talking about.”

“Well, then, it's bound to be great,” Crissy said. Tom was one of the multitude of eligible men Jenny had attracted since her divorce from Peter Schwartz, her philandering ex-husband, and she supposed Tom would know. He was a hotshot lawyer by day and a club-crawler by night, often arriving with a small entourage of friends. His clique could make or break a club by its mere presence, as if its being there gave the place a kind of seal of approval that no amount of promotion could provide. Club owners were very generous with complimentary drinks for Tom and friends, hoping to earn their gratitude and approval, because they knew that a plethora of scene-makers and trendsetters would follow in his wake if he kept coming back.

Crissy found a parking spot and maneuvered her Neon into the space. She and Jenny click-clacked to the entry on their heels, filled with anticipation. A small crowd of twenty or so people waited for entry at the door, but when the doorman spied Jenny, he waved her and Crissy toward him.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said to Jenny, pulling the big black door open for them. He nodded to Crissy, and she smiled.

“Hiya, Tony,” Jenny said. “How much is it tonight?”

“Forget it,” he said.

“Wow,” Jenny replied. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you,” he said, winking lewdly.

Jenny laughed, and they entered the dark hallway. “Who's he?” Crissy asked.

“Tony?” Jenny laughed. “I don't really know much about him, but everybody knows him. He's one of those big bruisers they hire to work the door at places. I think he probably sells drugs on the side.”

“Oh, one-stop shopping,” Crissy said. “Drinks inside, drugs at the door.”

“Nothing serious,” Jenny said, looking at her. “You know. Just ecstacy, coke, stuff like that.”

“Oh,” Crissy replied.
Nothing serious!
she thought, but she didn't say anything. She didn't want to get into a discussion about drugs with Jenny right now.

The walls on both sides of the hallway were lined with mirror panels that reflected the tiny diffuse pink spots in the black ceiling above. Huge art deco sconces gave off very low-wattage light. They checked their coats and walked to the end of the hallway, where they entered a huge room with a large dance floor. Surrounding it was a carpeted area on which banquettes and tables and chairs were arranged against a four-foot wall. Over the wall Crissy could see another area containing three separate bars and more arrangements of built-in banquettes and tables and chairs. Columns rose from the low wall to the ceiling, and the bars were built in the art deco style, with lots of mirror, glass, steel, and black metal. Overhead lights washed the entire club in a kaleidoscope of constantly changing colors, and the music, a great dance mix, was cranked up loud.

Most of the tables near the dance floor appeared to be taken, and there was a large crowd dancing. The crowd varied in age, Crissy noticed, anywhere from twentysomethings to well over fifties. “Where do you want to go?” she asked.

“Just follow me,” Jenny said. She took Crissy's hand and led the way through the throng of dancers. Crissy noticed that heads turned when they saw Jenny coming their way. When they reached the nearest bar, Jenny turned to Crissy. “What's your poison?” she asked.

“A glass of white wine,” Crissy said.

“Oh, for God's sake.” Jenny groaned dramatically. “Live a little. Have something good for a change.”

“I'm driving, remember?” Crissy said. “Besides, you know I can't drink much.”