Rock Chick 02 Rescue (5 page)

“My treat.” I walked him out. I didn’t have money to treat him to lunch either, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

* * * * *

I set Dad up in a cheap motel and he acted like I put him in the Bel agio. I paid two nights in advance and I gave him $500, because a man had to have money in his pocket.

This left me $50 in the bank; groceries to buy and my car needed gas.

Dad and I planned to meet up at Fortnum’s the next morning with me bringing the donuts. Luckily, I’d have my tips from Smithie’s in my pocket by tomorrow morning so I could probably afford the donuts.

I went to the grocery store, got necessities, hit the gas station and arrived home later than usual. I needed a nap but probably wouldn’t have time. There was laundry to be done. Mom tried to help but she got tired quickly. She was trying to get back to doing things around the house and cooking for herself, but was finding it frustrating so I’d have to hang with her in the kitchen and help when she needed it.

We’d need to do some exercises too because she had PT

tomorrow and they didn’t like it when you didn’t exercise in between appointments. Then I had to cake on the makeup for Smithie’s and rol back out the door.

The minute I walked into the living room, lugging the groceries, Mom took one look at me and said, “What’s wrong?”

She freaked me out sometimes.

“Nothing.”

I had no intention of tel ing her Dad was in town. Un-unh, no way.

I went into the kitchen and started unloading the groceries. She rol ed into the doorway and blocked me in.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Henrietta Louise,” she said.

She always used my real name when she was ticked at me. Either that or “Missy”. I didn’t know where “Missy” came from but that name came out when she was super angry.

Mom had bright green eyes and great, thick blonde hair (blonde because Trixie came to the apartment and gave her a cut and color every six weeks—Trixie also gave her a manicure and pedicure every two weeks. Trixie had been my Mom’s best friend since high school, she loved her to death and she was an absolute gem). Mom also had a great smile, before the stroke, now it was stil good but kind of lopsided. She was a baton twirler in high school and she said they taught you how to smile when you were a baton twirler. They did a good job, she had a world-class smile, even Dad said that.

She wasn’t smiling now, she was frowning. “You look worried,” Mom said.

I always looked worried, how she could decipher that I w a s
more
worried was beyond my powers. I had no children and thus had not yet been instil ed with the “Mom Ability” to sense danger, worry, sadness, boyfriend troubles and when girls were bitchy to you at school.

I decided to take the path of least resistance, choosing a topic that would throw her off the scent (in other words, I kinda lied).

“Eddie thinks I’m a racist.”

She gasped. “
What?
”

I shrugged.

“What would make him think that?” she asked.

I put away the milk, “It’s a misunderstanding.”

“I’l say. Do you want me to cal him?”

I had my head in the fridge but at that, I straightened and whirled around.

“No!
Do not
cal him!”

My Mom would cal him, no doubt about it. She didn’t have his number, but she’d find it. Not only would she cal him, she’d cal his mother, just to cover her bases and get the mom-to-mom business going. And not only that, she’d get Trixie to cal him and I
really
didn’t want that. Then, they’d get my ex-boyfriends, Javier, Alex, Luis and Oscar to phone him as wel , as anti-racist character references.

“Indy’s straightening it out for me,” I said. This was also kind of a lie but also kind of the truth because I got the distinct feeling Indy was the kind of person who meddled.

“Wel I hope so. That’s awful. No wonder you look worried sick.”

I took a mental deep breath.

With that hurdle out of the way, we tackled the rest of the hurdles of the night: laundry, exercises, dinner, dishes and my transformation into Smithie Bimbo.

I was tottering out of the house in a pair of black pumps with three and a half inch stiletto heels and thin straps around the ankles, cal ing good-bye to Mom when I opened the door and let out a little scream.

Ada, our next-door neighbor was standing outside the door. Ada was older than dirt, deafer than a doorknob and had a soul made of pure sunlight. She smiled at me, looked at my slut attire and said, “What a lovely outfit.” I looked down at the ultra-mini, mini-skirt and the black camisole that showed too much cleavage that was peeking through the opening of the big black cardigan that I had to wear to keep out the late September chil . Then I looked back at Ada. Maybe she was going blind too.

“I’m going to watch television with your mother. There’s a good episode of
Cops
on tonight, I don’t want to miss it.” Ada was addicted to
Cops

and
America’s Most

Unbelievable Police Chases
and pretty much anything that had to do with policemen, bounty hunters, high speed chases, drug busts, hand-held cameras chasing after people running through backyards, and people whose faces had to be made fuzzy.

She shuffled in and I went out shouting, “Have fun girls!” When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start.

I tried it again.

It stil wouldn’t start.

I tried it a third time.

Nothing.

“Piece of shit!” I shouted, slamming my hand on the wheel and then maybe cursing more and even pounding my forehead on the wheel a bit.

Guess that tank of gas was a waste of good money.

I’d been in the market for a new car before Mom had her stroke but that went out the window. Mom’s car was worse than mine and we sold it when we moved in for part of the than mine and we sold it when we moved in for part of the deposit money. Now, the old jalopy that was second hand when I bought it five years ago was coasting on a wing and a prayer.

I yanked out my cel and cal ed JoJo, one of the dancers, who was also always late. JoJo came and got me and we both hurtled through the doors of Smithie’s fifteen minutes after we were supposed to.

Smithie was at the bar and he looked up at us as we came through the door.

“You’re fuckin’ late, a-fuckin’-gain,” Smithie greeted.

“My car wouldn’t start,” I told him, approaching the bar.

JoJo shot like a rocket backstage to avoid the Smithie confrontation.

He gave me my apron, I took out my cel and slid it into a pocket and handed him my purse and cardigan that he put behind the bar.

“At least come up with somethin’ original,” he said.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re a walking disaster.”

I smiled at him. Smithie was al bark and no bite, at least with his girls. He was a big, black guy, used to be muscle but he’d gone a little soft. He had half a dozen kids with four different women and he doted on al of them, including the women.

“Listen, Smithie, I need to pick up a couple more shifts.” He looked at the ceiling, “She comes in late and, right away, she asks me for more fuckin’ shifts.”

“I have to get my car fixed!” I cried, tying my apron around my waist.

around my waist.

“You work more shifts, I have to pay you overtime. I don’t pay overtime.”

“Smithie.” I gave him a wide-eyed, girlie, “please” look that I saw other girls use on him. It worked so I’d tried it and found it worked for me too.

Smithie wasn’t in a generous mood.

“You want more money, you work a pole.”

I looked at the stage. Three dancers were working poles, al oiled up, al wearing nothing but g-strings and pasties.

Not on your life.

“I’m not working a pole,” I told Smithie.

“You’d be doin’ me a favor. Mandy told me today she’s gotta quit. She’s pregnant.”

I couldn’t help myself; I clapped. Mandy and her boyfriend Ronnie had been trying to get pregnant since before I worked there.

“That’s great!” I cried.

“That is not fuckin’ great. I’m a dancer down. You work a pole, you’d have my ever-fuckin’-lastin’ gratitude and so much money, you could buy a Porsche.”

“JoJo’s your best dancer and she doesn’t own a Porsche,” I told him and she didn’t. She drove a Corol a.

“JoJo can dance but her tits aren’t real and she’s short.

Guys can tel the real from the fake. Your tits are real and your legs go on for-fuckin’-ever in those fuckin’ shoes. Men look up those legs to those tits and they’l give you fifty dol ar tips.”

“I’m not working a pole,” I said in a way he knew I meant it.

it.

He sighed.

“You want me to have a guy look at your car?” He asked.

See, Smithie was a softie.

I nodded and smiled.

“You’re a pain in my ass. Get to work.”

I got to work and made extra nice with the drunks and idiots who paid good money, essential y for nothing.

Though they obviously didn’t see it that way. Tips were good, gropes were few and it was a decent night.

I arranged for Lenny to take me home and, when everyone was gone, I waited at the door for him.

Lenny was a bouncer, midnight skin and two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle on a six foot four inch frame. He was getting a Masters in Biochemistry at Denver University.

He walked to where I stood at the front door. “Wait outside, I’l do a sweep, set the alarm and lock up.”

“Gotcha,” I said and walked out to stand outside the front door.

Smithie’s was on Colorado Boulevard and even though it was three in the morning, traffic was passing steady. The days were stil warm, but the nights were chil y and I pul ed the cardigan closer around me. I was tired, my mind beginning to shut down and found myself dazedly looking to the right.

Something came at me from the left; I was thrown against the wal of Smithie’s and saw the flash of a knife from the lights of the club.

A hand was at my chest, pinning me to the wal . I could feel the cold blade against my throat.

“You Ray McAlister’s daughter?”

I was looking at a guy who was several inches shorter than me, due to my heels. He had black hair that looked dyed and it was greased back from his forehead. He was super thin, rodent looking and sometime in his life, his nose had been broken and not set wel .

He pushed up against me with his hand, body and the blade. “You hear me, bitch?”

I nodded, to
both
of his questions.

“You know where he is?”

I stared at him; my breath caught in my lungs and my heart was beating so hard I thought it’d jump out of my chest.

Instead of pushing for an answer, his head shot around and he looked over his shoulder.

Then he came back to me.

“Tel him Slick wants what’s owed him. Got it?” Then he pushed against my chest, hard, which hurt because I was already against the wal and had nowhere to go. Then he took off, got in a car and peeled out.

The next thing I knew, Vance was there, like he’d formed out of thin air.

Vance worked for Lee. He had black hair (
n o t
dyed, definitely the real thing), long and straight and he pul ed it back in a ponytail. He was tal , lean, soft-spoken, Native American and
hot
.

I didn’t know if I was more surprised to be held at knife point or to have Vance materialize just afterward.

“You okay?” he asked, his hand on my shoulder, his dark eyes intense.

I was not okay. I was so far from okay that I might never be okay again but I nodded anyway.

“What’d he say?” Vance asked.

“He wanted to know where my Dad was.”

Vance made no comment to this because he was busy shifting as Lenny came out of the club toward us.

“Hands off,” Lenny warned, morphing into bouncer mode.

“It’s okay, Lenny. I know him,” I said.

An SUV came screeching up to us, another one of Lee’s boys, Matt, was behind the wheel. Regardless of this, neither Vance nor Lenny moved. They were in a face-off.

“Lenny’s taking me home,” I told Vance.

Vance looked from Lenny to me and nodded. Once.

Then his eyes moved back to Lenny.

“Walk her to her door,” Vance said, moved to the SUV, swung his body in and Matt took off.

Tips were so good at Smithie’s, the next morning, instead of the bus, I treated myself to a taxi. Before going to Fortnum’s, I went by LaMarr’s and bought enough donuts to feed an army. I couldn’t exactly get them for Dad and me without getting them for everyone else.

I walked into work at 7:15 am, carrying my donut box and hoping Vance and Matt had kept themselves to themselves and hadn’t shared last night’s incident with anyone—

namely Lee, who might tel Indy, who might tel everyone.

On the way home last night, I told Lenny what happened and he got al tight around the mouth. We got into a discussion about cal ing the police (no way, no how, not when my Dad was involved) then cal ing Smithie (worse than cal ing the police, Smithie would have a shit hemmorrhage). Final y, Lenny walked me to my front door and made sure I was safe inside.

I got approximately seven seconds of sleep because I was either reliving having a knife at my throat (which was not fun) or worried about what in the heck my father was caught up in now.

Dad was a bit of a bum; never had any money, never had a job that I could tel and I pretty much figured (and some of the comments Mom made confirmed it) he had a chequered past, present and future.