16. Lust at First Sight
Sharese drained the last of her cocktail and set the glass down with authority.
“That was very good,” she said. “Almost as good as I used to make them myself, back in the day.”
“Thanks for rubbing it into the designated driver,” Candy said.
Sharese smiled at her, in a not entirely contrite manner.
“Sorry, Candy,” she said, “I’ll drive next time, don’t worry.”
She glanced at her designer watch, a gift from two boyfriends back.
“I wonder what’s keeping Laila?”
“Maybe we should go check on her,” Nichole said.
“No ... let’s wait a while,” Sharese said. “I think she needs some alone time.”
“Not too much longer,” Nichole said. “I’ve got to pee!”
While her friends were talking about her, Laila was studying her face in the ladies’ room mirror.
God, I look a mess!
She began working on her makeup, trying to bring her face to its maximum beauty. Just as she’d done for Frank so many times, back in the day ...
$$$
It was Laila’s turn behind the bar that night, serving her apprenticeship with master bartender Harry – the ‘Boss of the Bottles,’ as he dubbed himself. She liked Harry, and just about everybody else at Musketeers, except for Rick. That oily creep always looked at her as if she were standing there naked, and his intentions were pretty obvious.
But aside from that, everything was going fine. She was settled in with Candy and Nichole who had generously deferred her rent and food contributions until she’d had a few paydays under her belt; they also provided transportation until her car was fixed. Candy, Nichole, and Sharese were the best friends she’d ever had. Laila was well ensconced in their group as the ‘official’ 4th Musketelle.
She was making good money, too. She’d already developed a following among the affluent men who frequented the lounge, and their tips were very generous.
“You’re the best looking girl in the whole place!” more than one of them told her.
A bit of an exaggeration maybe, but Laila understood her own assets. She had the fresh-faced wholesomeness and understated sexuality that a lot of men preferred, in contrast to the bolder eroticism of girls like Sharese.
Harry approached her confidentially.
“It’s time for my cigarette break,” he said. “Can you hold the fort for twenty minutes?”
“Yes ... sure Harry,” Laila said trying to sound more confident than she felt.
“Shouldn’t be too bad, it’s slow tonight,” Harry said. “And you’ve always got our little friend here.”
He tapped one of his beefy fingers on the copy of the Professional Bartender’s Guide resting discreetly on the shelf under the bar.
“If anyone wants something really exotic, come get me, okay?”
“Okay, Harry, thanks.”
Laila felt an irrational sense of abandonment when Harry departed. This feeling was never far beneath the surface. She’d been abandoned by her womanizing father at an early age and then rejected by her strict religious mother when she’d tied up with Keith who was “just like your father!”
At least Mom was right about that. Why did Laila have to pick a man cast from the same worthless mold as her dad? To complete her isolation, Laila had no siblings to fall back on and no other family members who cared about her. Keith had moved her away to a different state and controlled her life so much that she hadn’t made any friends.
She had no support network at all when he left. Her whole world was here at Musketeers, and she liked it very much – except for the occasional rough spot.
Tonight’s rough spot was the vulgar, middle-aged woman that Laila had seen during her first visit to the lounge. She was sitting at the bar corner again yucking it up with a new gigolo. Laila felt distinctly uncomfortable in their presence, especially since Harry was no longer around.
Sharese approached with a drink order. Fortunately, it was only for a vodka martini on the rocks, something Laila could easily handle.
“Be careful, Laila,” Sharese said in a low voice, “it looks like old Helen is tying one on again.”
Laila risked a glance toward the middle-aged woman.
“Thanks for the heads up, Sharese.”
“I’m just glad it’s not me working the bar tonight,” Sharese said. “I’ve had my run-ins with her before.”
“That makes me feel a lot better,” Laila said.
Sharese smiled. “Don’t worry, girl. If anybody can handle things, you can.”
Laila finished mixing the drink and passed it on to Sharese.
“Her new guy isn’t bad.” Sharese gave a slight nod Helen’s direction. “He can have my phone number if he wants some R&R.”
Sharese left with the martini. Then Helen’s ‘male escort’ got up and walked off toward the men’s room. Laila and Helen were now the only ones on this end of the vast bar. Earlier, Laila had been concerned that a rush of patrons would show up before Harry returned. Now she would have welcomed some company.
She felt a boozy, envious glare stabbing at her from the older woman’s eyes.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Helen said.
Laila attempted a smile.
“Yes, I started last week.”
“Another one!” Helen snorted. “You think you’re going to snag a rich husband here, don’t you?”
The raw malice behind these words rattled Laila, but she maintained her smile.
“I’m just working to support myself, is all,” she said.
“Right!”
Helen sucked up some more contents from her glass, staring malevolently at Laila as she did so. She set the glass down and belched slightly.
“Take it from me, kid,” she said. “They’re all lying sons of bitches.”
Thank God, a patron had just taken a stool farther down the bar. Laila looked off toward him as if he were the Savior himself. She turned back toward Helen.
“Excuse me I – ”
Another man was approaching Helen with decisive steps. He was a rugged, aggressive looking sort – impeccably dressed and gray around the temples. He could have been a businessman or a retired, but still fit, professional boxer. He seized Helen’s arm.
“Come on. We’re going home,” he said with barely controlled rage.
“Hey! I’m having a good time,” Helen protested.
The man pulled her off the stool.
“Let go of me, Frank!” she cried.
Laila watched the disgraceful episode with alarm. She started backing off. Then the man’s eyes turned away from Helen and locked onto hers. Laila stopped retreating as a bolt of raw sexual power struck her. Frank’s magnetism was irresistible. Time seemed to stop dead for Laila; she scarcely heard Helen’s final remonstration.
“Get away from me, you old poop!”
The gigolo exited the men’s room just then, smiling and glancing at his watch. He actually starting walking toward the bar before he took in the situation. His smile vanished under a murderous glower from Frank. He beat a hasty retreat, totally unnerved.
Frank turned back toward Laila.
“I’m sorry about this, young lady,” he said.
The voice did not project anger any longer, but it was no less forceful. Frank placed a hundred dollar bill on the bar.
“Here’s something for your trouble.”
“Th-thank you, sir,” Laila said.
All the fight was out of Helen now, and she allowed her husband to lead her away without further objection. They passed Nicole and Candy in the main restaurant, both of whom gave Frank seductive, if rather frightened glances. He didn’t notice them.
As the pair reached the door, Frank stopped and looked back toward Laila for a long moment. Laila averted her eyes, flustered and unsure of herself. When she looked up again, he was gone.
$$$
Laila felt refreshed as she maneuvered across Gemrock’s exp
anses from the ladies’ room. Men’s heads turned when she passed their tables amid her aura of freshly applied perfume; the glowers of their female companions bounced off Laila harmlessly. She was used to such reactions.
She was returning to her oldest and dearest friends, surrounding herself with their loving concern. Okay, so the green-eyed monster of envy had poked its way into their relationship, but who could blame them? Would Laila herself be any different in their place?
Of course she would. Laila knew in her heart that she would never envy somebody else’s good fortune; it just wasn’t in her psychological makeup. Besides, she knew first hand exactly what her ‘good fortune’ entailed.
She passed through the door of the Garden Room annex. The place was emptied out now except for the Musketelles and the three older ladies seated a couple of tables away. This was the gap between the lunch and dinner crowds, the time when wait staffs recuperated. Her friends didn’t notice her arrival, the three older ladies looked her way with sullen curiosity.
Very creepy.
Sharese could have seen Laila if she’d looked up from her chatter. Candy and Nichole were seated sideways, and Laila’s empty chair back faced her – only her chair wasn’t empty. A man had sat down there in her absence. He had iron gray hair and wore a black suit that seemed to project all the darkness of the world. It was Frank!
What’s he doing here? Laila wondered. And that horrid suit!
Then he started turning toward her; it wasn’t Frank at all, not the living man, anyway. Laila could see the bloody slit running across his throat from ear to ear, saw the cascade of blood on his shirt front. He glowered at her with red, accusing eyes. Laila stumbled back a step, throwing a hand over her mouth and uttering a sharp gasp.
“Oh!”
Her friends were enjoying a laugh just then and did not notice her distress. The three crones at the other table did, however. They regarded her with keen interest in their eyes and malicious smiles on their lips. Laila turned toward them.
“Which of you have done this?” she demanded.
They made no reply. The Musketelles’ merriment ceased; they all stared at Laila, open mouthed.
“What’s wrong?” Sharese said.
She left her chair and hurried to Laila.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, honey.”
Laila looked past her toward the haunted chair. Thank God, it was empty now.
“I ...” She could say nothing further.
“Come sit down,” Sharese said.
She led Laila back to the table. Laila felt a queer chill as she resumed her seat. Nichole pushed a drink toward her.
“Here, finish this,” she said. “You look like you need it.”
“Thanks.”
Unnoticed by the younger women, the three crones made a silent exit from the Garden Room.