“Tea, please. Thank you. I can’t wait to jump into all of this. Where do we start?”
La Costa chuckled. “Well, with what came next—there’s always another chapter waiting around the corner. Mine was when I met my guardian angel.”
Chapter Twelve
Las Vegas, NV – 1995
La Costa read the slip of paper that had grown moist and soggy in her clenched fist. The climate was brutal, and felt like a blast furnace breathing in her face. It was only eight a.m., and already, her makeup was melting. At least in LA, there was the occasional breeze to save you. Nevada, it seemed, just stayed hot; so hot in fact, she feared that she would just morph into a puddle right there on the sidewalk.
She could feel the thin fabric of her silk blouse grow wet beneath her armpits. She pressed the intercom at the main entrance door, and a woman’s voice answered from the tiny speaker.
“Prestige . . . who’s calling, please?”
“It’s La Costa Jackson, ma’am. I am a friend of Gerald Hildebrand here to see Mrs. Byrne.”
Gerald Hildebrand’s secretary, Evelyn, had given La Costa the street address, as well as a list of available apartments in the area. She was temporarily staying at the MGM Grand, compliments of Gerry’s generosity, just until she could land a job and a place of her own. Evelyn had made the arrangements, no questions asked, as was her practice in keeping her employer’s secrets, and his business humming. La Costa appreciated the woman’s candor, especially when she had referred to La Costa as being a favorite “associate” of Gerry’s from the West Coast. “Mr. Hildebrand is out of town just now on business,” Evelyn had said. “However, Ms. Jackson, he has asked me to assist you in getting settled. He’ll be back on Friday from Phoenix, and he can meet with you then. Oh, did a package arrive at your hotel room?”
“Yes, thank you. I got Gerry’s . . . gift.” She had stopped herself, and cringed. He would be expecting the usual. A naughty romp with whips and toys and playthings, the likes of which would make a dominatrix flinch. The box of “goodies” had arrived, all right, ready for action, along with two dozen long-stemmed roses. Gerry was a pervert, but at least he was a gentleman about it. She would be ready for him when he came to claim her appreciation for the whopping favor. That’s just the way it worked with Gerry.
The intercom crackled, and La Costa was melting by the second in the blasting heat.
“Oh, Miss Jackson, yes. Please do come up.”
A moment passed, and then the buzzer sounded, unlatching the door. La Costa slid gratefully from the sidewalk into the cool foyer, out of the punishing heat. The interior of the building looked a lot like an old warehouse that had been converted into several separate office suites. It turned out to have been an old canning mill at one time, reminding her of a John Steinbeck novel.
An open freight-type elevator was waiting not two feet in front of her. It resembled a large open cage, looking odd and out of place in the stark brick building. It had a red painted gate and no solid doors. She stepped into it, and a feeling of excitement washed over her, along with a rush of coolness from an open-air vent. The elevator lurched upward with a jolt, shaking a little on its ascent. Waiting there at the top of the second floor was an attractive middle-aged woman in a Chanel suit. She had an inviting smile and two tall glasses of iced tea, one in each hand.
“Hello, La Costa! I’m Georgia Byrne. It’s hotter than Satan’s house cat, wouldn’t ya say?”
Chapter Thirteen
(Twelve months later)
Las Vegas, NV
The agency was nothing like Sophisticate, where La Costa had worked as a temp nearly five years prior, with its gleaming high-rise windows and labyrinth of cubicles, wardrobe rooms, and massive photo studio. By comparison, Prestige was much smaller; a one-woman business not keen on competing for the high-dollar clients. Rather, Georgia ran her little agency like a cherished vocation, in which she hoped to refine young girls into ladies that she could be proud to represent.
A relic from another time, Georgia valued manners and propriety. She had once taught high etiquette to young debutantes in her home state of South Carolina, which would later become the basis of a budding talent agency that she and her beloved husband, Macklin, would run years later on the East Coast.
It had been nearly a year since La Costa had left LA, and the club life, behind. She was embracing a new life now, thanks to the generosity of Georgia Byrne. She had been gracious and patient with her new employee, teaching La Costa how she liked to arrange the composites—client lists, accounting ledgers, and computer files. La Costa was a quick learner and had buckets of common sense in her very pretty head. Georgia didn’t mind having to show her how to format a memo or process a new model into the system. She had a keen eye for fashion and proved invaluable, helping in preparing new young models for their first photo sessions and go-sees.
La Costa was, herself, a natural beauty. Smart, conscientious, and loyal—a virtue not seen very often in the business. She was creative, too, and eventually began drafting rough ads for some of the agency’s best customers. Clients enjoyed her pleasant banter on the phone, and it was La Costa’s helpful idea to change the look of Prestige’s brochure to attract more business from the local corporate sectors.
Most of all, La Costa had a real sense of gratitude toward Georgia, for taking her on with little clerical experience, and for trusting her and not asking a lot of questions about her past, or anything else she didn’t want to talk about. La Costa was certainly striking enough to model herself, but declined at every turn, as she had other aspirations, it was clear. Georgia was as pleased as she could be to be able to help her along.
The job paid for a modest one-bedroom apartment in Henderson, just fifteen minutes from the Strip. No one had her address, especially not Gerald Hildebrand, whom, as it turned out, was Georgia’s brother-in-law by marriage. Little did Georgia know of her dear relative’s proclivity for young black women with whom he wanted to indulge his every perverse fantasy—which included tying him to bedposts and beating him with jump ropes and other childhood props. Once La Costa moved into the Double Aces Courtyard complex, she never heard from him again. She was certain that except for rare and infrequent occasions, neither did Georgia.
Not one for surprises, La Costa got a big one the day that she looked up from her desk during a casting call and saw Phyllis Jean St. James, a.k.a., Panther St. James, walking through the front door of the reception lobby! There Panther was, in the flesh—coming to apply to model for Prestige.
La Costa couldn’t believe her eyes. She had searched every dance club and scoured every strip bar twice over, for the past year, asking around and combing the internet for a lead, any clue as to where Panther might be. Unfortunately, after meeting with nothing but dead ends, she had decided to give up. After all, there was no guarantee that Panther was even still in Las Vegas anyway.
Then, this one ordinary day, Panther simply walked into Prestige.
La Costa could not help but see it as a sign. Their paths, which had once crossed, were about to cross again. In a moment of panic, La Costa wondered, what she would say to her. Did Panther even know that she was working there? What if she didn’t want to be found?
Panther looked starved-thin and gaunt. Her once-gleaming caramel skin was sallow and ashy. She did not look, in the least, like herself. A deluge of time and troubles, along, no doubt, with too many collective years of substance abuse had taken a toll on her natural attributes, finally robbing her of her light and vitality. She appeared to have aged at least five years in the span of one. La Costa could hardly believe it.
Still, Panther held her head high and proudly flipped her licorice-black hair with the Cleopatra cut—choppy bangs and long strands that fell past her gaunt shoulders. She tossed her chin when she spoke, enlisting the heart-stopping power of those amber eyes that were swathed in smoky shadow, duly concealed beneath a curtain of sweeping black lashes. She was, it seemed, hiding much beneath the surface, but the camera would forgive
an indubitable number of grievances, and on some level, she still had what it took. If anyone had the power to salvage and redeem herself, it was Panther.
La Costa watched as Panther was ushered into the conference room to meet with Georgia, who would be seated at the head of the table to oversee the consultation.
Not ten minutes later, Panther emerged from the room, bypassed the reception desk, and headed for the exit. It was La Costa’s moment to make her presence known. She caught up with Panther at the elevator. The hallway was otherwise deserted, as Prestige was the only business on the second floor. No better time than the present, La Costa thought, swallowing hard and reaching out to tap Panther lightly on the back.
“Hey, Kitty Cat!” It was La Costa’s nickname for her. Nobody else called her that, so the words did more than stop her in her tracks. Panther positively squealed with joy, when she spun around to find La Costa beaming back at her.
“Holy shit, girl! What are you doing here?” She gasped, letting her gym bag slip to the floor and throwing her bone-thin arms around La Costa, wrapping her in a skeletal embrace, smelling like Shalimar, her signature scent. And only then did La Costa truly believe that it was real. Panther was alive and well and standing right there!
Up close, La Costa could see that Panther had acquired a tiny scar near her mouth and had tried to cover up a bruise on her left forearm with stage makeup. She wondered if Georgia was able to detect it during the interview and assumed, she likely had, as nothing slid past her. Panther was wearing a white cotton blouse, a short floral skirt, and red stilettos. Her bare legs were still as long and lean as a racehorse.
“You look great, as usual,” La Costa said.
“You do too!” she said. “Are you modeling here? With the agency?”
La Costa smiled. “No, I work here—for Georgia Byrne. I’m her office assistant. I love it.”
“That is so cool. I mean, you can take care of me, right? With the old lady? I could really use the money. I’ll do just about anything, right? Trade show work, fragrance promotions, you name it. They have my comp.”
“Yeah, sure. Of course. I’ll see what I can do. But I’m just her gopher, you know. Georgia does all the hiring.”
Panther nodded.
They both laughed nervously, and then Panther added, “I’m teaching jazzercise at the YMCA near I-15 twice a week and on Saturdays. You should come by sometime.”
“Sure, maybe,” La Costa said, noticing that Panther was not looking her in the eyes. The obvious issue was hanging in the air between them. Finally, La Costa blurted, “I thought you were gone for good, the way you took off and all.”
Panther dabbed her forehead. The air in the hallway was stifling, and the heat index rising by the millisecond. “Yeah, well, I didn’t actually plan it that way. But sometimes . . . you know, shit happens. That reminds me—I still owe you guys money for back rent. I’m intending to send that off to Shana back at the club in LA as soon as I can get caught up.”
Who was she kidding? La Costa thought. Like that would ever happen now. It was evident that Panther had selective memory about what she had done—if she had even been in her right mind when she split. It was obvious that Panther had no intention of acknowledging the level of betrayal that had preceded her exit from La Costa’s life. In spite of all that, it was good seeing her old friend. What did it matter what happened back then? It was all in the past. People change, don’t they? La Costa thought, placating her own skepticism. She only really knew one thing for certain: it was pure fate that they had ended up in the exact same place—again.
“I heard that Georgia is the best in town. So, when I decided to pick up some modeling work, I naturally wanted to check Prestige out. Girl, I’m so glad I did,” Panther said.
The truth, though she chose not to share it, was that none of the dozen other agencies in the area would hire her on. She had seemingly lost her stride.
“I’m glad you did too.” La Costa beamed. She was happy, yet beginning to feel a little uneasy by the strained awkwardness. “Well, I gotta get back to work,” she said, checking her watch. “Give me your number, and I’ll call you.”
“We don’t exactly have a phone. AJ says it’s a useless expense. He carries a pager. If anyone needs to get a hold of him, he hits up a pay phone.”
La Costa cringed. That explained a lot. Maybe everything. She was still with that abusive loser from the past? “Well, here’s my phone number,” La Costa said, writing it on the back of one of the agency’s business cards. “I’m living at a complex called the Double Aces in Henderson.”
“No way, girl. You shittin’ me? That’s where we live! Unit two twenty-four—wow! This is amazing. We’re neighbors!” They sprang into a fit of laughter mixed with incredulous head wagging. “What are the chances of that?”
“Serendipity, I think they call it,” La Costa said. “I’m literally only a few doors down from you two.” She scrawled her apartment number on the card. “Is the world a small place, or what?”
“I’ll say,” Panther said, slipping the enormous gym bag onto her bony shoulder. She held up the card and smiled widely.
“I can’t believe this,” La Costa said as she headed back to the cool office through the glass door.
Panther echoed the sentiment with a “Whoot!”as she stepped onto the waiting elevator. She pressed the bottom button on the panel, causing the ornate red gate to slide shut, and the ancient elevator to slowly make its descent. “Me either,” she said, exhaling. Me either.
Chapter Fourteen
Panther wasted no time in reacquainting herself with her old friend and called the very next day to suggest they have lunch, an event that quickly turned into a weekly habit for the next several months. They met every Tuesday for sandwiches near the park just up the street from Prestige, at a row of picnic tables beneath a shady awning, located across from a shopping strip.
La Costa could not believe that she was actually able to share a part of her new life with someone who knew her past—every horrible and wonderful detail of it. She remembered how the two used to sit up all night talking or passing the time during slow shifts at the club, trading painful and regrettable childhood stories. Panther’s life, although not as volatile as La Costa’s, was really not all that different. It was most likely the reason that the two had connected so strongly in the first place. The Mink Kitty was their bond and always would be. But now, it was a million miles behind them, as so much had changed seemingly overnight. Neither mentioned what had happened, or spoke of Panther’s chucking it all into the wind and making a run for it, leaving responsibilities and everything behind. For La Costa, just having had the common link was enough. Besides, in so many ways, Panther seemed to have changed, yet again, from her wild and reckless ways. La Costa was sure of it, and the feeling of gratitude for both of their transformations was what she intended to focus on.
“Sorry, I’ve only got thirty minutes today. Georgia needs me for an important client meeting at one o’clock,” La Costa explained, while unwrapping a chicken salad sandwich on her lap.
“Look at you! Miss hot-shot junior executive,” Panther enthused. “Client meetings at the boss’s request. Snap! That’s big time!”
“Right.” La Costa’s voice dropped an octave. “Well, I guess it beats taking off your clothes and being gawked at by perverts all night—” She caught herself and stopped abruptly.
Panther’s pained look told all.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Panth. You’re not still dancing, are you?” Of course, by dancing she meant stripping. And by the dead silence, she knew the answer before Panther could confirm it.
“Well, only in between the side jobs. Modeling for Prestige and teaching classes at the Y is nowhere near enough to keep afloat. It’s just until my real career takes off. Don’t tell Georgia, okay? She can’t know.”
La Costa nodded. Of course she would not tell Georgia, and also would not tell the fact that the agency only took Panther on as a favor to her. But, i
n fairness, it wasn’t as if La Costa’s life played out like a Disney movie. Who, after all, was she to judge? She felt foolish and sorry for implying that Panther could not do better.
“I know this guy, he’s a friend of AJ’s. Anyway, he knows some people who make films in Hollywood. I could introduce you to him. He’s great. His name is Zander. He’s the reason we came out here in the first place, to try and get me into one of his movies. He’s gotten me a gig at Baby Dolls off the south end of the Strip—just until things pop.”
La Costa nodded. Her mind was anywhere but in the ballpark in which Panther was pitching. Those days were behind her. Vegas was Sin City, all right, but she did not come there to fall prey to the trappings of making an easy buck. She wanted to do things right, earn her way, for once in her life. Working for Georgia at Prestige gave her something that stripping never had—pride in herself.
“No thanks, Panth. I’m fine, really.”
The once-exotic beauty smiled. “Of course you are, hon. I am so happy for you, and grateful for all of your help in getting me signed on here at Prestige and all. You’re a doll, and I am going to find a way to pay you back. I promise.”
La Costa smiled. “Eat your sandwich, girl. I gotta get back to work.”
Over the next several months, their lunch visits dwindled. La Costa saw less and less of her friend around the apartment complex, or at the agency. Sometimes she would run into her and AJ getting into their car, or checking the mailbox. AJ, otherwise known as Alfred James Williams, was a towering black dude with deep Jamaican brown skin, a shaved cue-ball head, and a ratty goatee. He drove around in a red Eldorado convertible with white interior and wore mirrored shades all the time, day or night. He was a shifty, mean misogynist. La Costa remembered Panther telling her how he once served eighteen months for dealing cocaine when he was a teen. It was a woman who tipped him off to the cops, a woman who prosecuted him, and a female judge who put him in a hellhole in Joliet, Illinois. His rap sheet filled three binders with everything from harassment complaints to assault cases from a litany of convictions and charges brought about from past acquaintances, neighbors, and ex-girlfriends too numerous to count. It was clear to anyone with eyes that he flat-out despised women, as he was often heard to say, “They’s all whores and bitches to me.” He blared offensive Hip Hop and Rap lyrics unapologetically from the booming speakers of his car—a soundtrack to his twisted, vengeful, brooding persona. He wore several gold chains around his massive neck, and large, fake diamond studs in his enormous earlobes. He had huge tatted-up fists. He wore a jagged, brown scar on his forehead like a badge of honor, acquired from a prison fight. He had played Russian roulette more than once and lived to tell. A control freak to the core, he feared no one. AJ was a bold gambler, a sore loser, and a bully. He used people to get ahead, drifting from one deal to the next, hoping to score a quick buck and gain fuck-you-world fame. Hooking up with Panther was the worst twist of fate that could have befallen her. Trouble was, she just couldn’t see it.
Sexy Ink! Page 7