by L. Maleki
The light came on in her eyes and brightened slowly. “Oooohh.” She put a finger to her temple. “So you want some of my girlfriends to come here? Now?”
“I’ll pay them five hundred bucks, each, if they can get here in the next twenty minutes. Just to sit, eat, and look like they’re interested in whatever these idiots want to talk about.”
She slit her eyes. “I don’t know any … bad girls.”
“I am not asking you to pimp out your friends!” My face flushed. Wasn’t I? How was it I was acquiring women for Frank for a second time that week? Gina would tell me I was going to hell if she knew about my new life in the world of harlotry.
Logically, I told myself the college kids were going to get a nice-sized check for listening to boring stories about the glory days of high school football but, emotionally, I felt as slimy as I had two nights ago, when I handed ten thousand dollars to Madame Elena. At least I knew Frank was fine with me spending money from his safe on women, because there was no way I was going to jeopardize my soul and do it on my own dime. “The only thing they’re required to do is eat and talk,” I whispered to Dee. “I’ll be here to make sure no one messes with them, I promise.”
It was a long twenty minutes.
When I’d announced “my friends” would be there soon, Blowhard and the other Texans smiled and nodded, while Frank yelled “Huzzah!” and guzzled another glass of wine.
The mustachioed CEO closest to me leaned across an empty chair and said, “I swan, Yankee, you’re quicker than a hiccup, ainchya?”
“I … guess?” I couldn’t tell if the good ol’ boy, who was wearing what I was pretty sure was Louis Vuitton, really spoke that way or if he was in character. His cowboy boots looked to be worth a house in Ventura and definitely had never been close to a cow patty.
He winked. “I was just wondering why a smart gal like you is stickin’ with this rowdy fella.”
“That is an excellent question,” I said.
Blowhard, resplendent in a Gucci suit from the big and tall section, his silver hair whipped into a frenzy—Is that helicopter hair?—pointed to the server hovering in the doorway. “Buddy, bring in a round of Cuervo. The 1800 Colección. Leave the bottle.”
“Ah, could we get more bread, too, please?” I asked quickly.
I slid the wicker basket next to Frank’s plate when it arrived, but a few slices of warm sourdough bread were no match for the copious amounts of liquor Frank was downing. Or for the e-cigarette he suddenly had dangling from his pale lips as he vaped the hell out of some extremely fragrant weed. I whipped my head around, trying to assess the impact on the Texans—the Texans from tobacco Texas, where a bud gets you thrown in jail for two years and an e-cigarette earns you a beating. Luckily, our new investors were fixated on a perfumed trickle of femininity.
Five beautiful girls in trendy designer clothes and the highest high heels I’d ever seen filed into the banquet room, waving to Dee and throwing smiles via shiny red bee-stung lips around the table as if they owned the place. If they weren’t models, they should have been. I breathed a sigh of relief and gave a thumbs-up to the young assistant next to me, who smiled nervously. I wonder if any of them need head shots, I thought, deciding to give them my business card on the way out. I was way past caring what my boss thought about me moonlighting.
Frank floundered out of his chair. It was the first time I’d gotten a good look at him since I’d arrived. He was wearing the pale lavender shirt and tie I had set out for him earlier—provided by Michelle, in order to stand out against the burnt-red walls of the boardroom—but he was not wearing the same slacks.
Bright orange pajama pants. He was wearing bright orange pajama pants. With Birkenstocks. I had to blink twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. He is unbelievable.
“Ladies, ladies! So nice of you to join us! Let me help you find seats!” he slurred, bumbling around the table to the small group. The women herded together to avoid the crazy guy bearing down on them. The oilmen stood, quickly, politely, drawing out chairs for the various girls fleeing Frank’s reach.
The two seats on either side of Frank remained empty. At first he sat quietly, eating and smoking and drinking, surveying his kingdom with an air of satisfaction. Then he became increasingly agitated, shifting around, sighing, trying to interrupt conversations, shooting four or five shots in a row, slamming down each glass.
Finally, he got up to make rounds. I grabbed his arm as he crept behind me, forcing him to stop. “Frank! Where are your pants?”
He looked down at the pajama pants, irritated. “Paris, I’m wearing pants. Are you drunk?”
“Your suit. What happened to your suit pants?”
“I spilled coffee on them. These are way more comfortable, anyway.” He started to rock back and forth, an ugly metronome.
I knew I should have escorted him from his hotel room to the car. This is what I get for taking my eyes off him for five minutes.
“It’s so hot. I’m not wearing underwear.” He waggled his hips, which were level with my face.
I blanched.
Then he whooped and yelled out in a terrible southern accent, “Ya’all should try it! Take off yer undies!” He threw up his arms and performed the Macarena at high speed. “Let ’er all hang free!”
Below the thin material, his penis swung around like a tetherball in a hurricane.
A few of the younger CEOs laughed, but the girls made mewing noises and averted their eyes, lips pursed in disgust. Old Blowhard, mildly amused but tuned into the vibe of the women around him, said, “Boy, sit down before you break somethin’.” Then he patted the supple flesh of the young thing next to him. “Y’all got nothin’ to worry about, he’s just feelin’ his oats.”
As Frank leaned over the other corner of the table, discussing boxers versus briefs with a couple of the guys, I slouched down in my chair.
“I’m sorry,” Dee said. “And I thought my boss could be an asshole. What is it you do for him exactly?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Close to. I’ve sold my soul to this guy.”
“You’re his everything girl.”
I winced. “Don’t tell him that. He’d make me a name tag.”
“I hope he pays you a lot of money.”
Frank came up behind us just then and squatted down. At least his commando crotch wasn’t in my face. “Hey, Paris. Who’s your friend?”
“Frank, this is Dee. You met her earlier.”
“Yep, right. Local girl. Listen, Dee, I need some blow.”
She paled. “What?”
“Find us some coke, will ya?”
He wandered away before she’d gathered her wits enough to answer. She started to push away from the table.
“Where are you going?” I snapped at her.
Her face drooped, resigned. “My bosses said we need to keep him happy.” She stood up, inching the red dress down to mid-thigh.
“You cannot get him coke!”
“Why not? One of these waiters will know someone—”
“No! He’s a billionaire! If you get him coke and he ODs … who do you think that’s going to come back on? You. You’d be the drug dealer who killed the CEO of a major hedge fund!”
She stared at me with big doe eyes. “What do I tell him?”
“Nothing. Look at him.” Frank was banging a spoon against the table to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” replacing the lyrics with “Jiggle boobs, jiggle boobs, jiggle all the way …” A couple of the debutantes must have figured out how rich he was, because they were singing along and slinging back shots with him.
“He has the memory of a two-year-old right now. He’s not going to remember anything.”
She nodded, crinkling her nose. “You really do have to do everything for him. Like, keeping him out of jail, I mean.”
“You have no idea.”
The dinner went on forever.
And then at some point the party shifted to t
he nightclub next door.
We lost about half of the oil CEOs and two or three of Dee’s girlfriends, but Blowhard and Louis Vuitton were still with us. Everyone was blottoed, including Dee. I just wanted to snap my fingers and be at home, back in my own bed, with my own comforter. With my own boyfriend … who I was afraid was no longer my boyfriend.
“Frank, you should slow down,” I said to him as we weaved our way through the crowd to reach a set of couches. “Actually, we should just go. Right now, they’re happy with us. Let’s keep it that way.”
He pushed his greasy bangs out of his eyes and squinted at me. “Don’t be pissy. Loosen up.”
I considered smashing a plate over his head to knock him out and then dragging him back to the hotel but knew one of us had to maintain an air of sanity for the sake of the investors.
Dee was sent to the bar with a drink order for the crowd.
One of the coeds squeezed in next to Frank, moistening her puffy lips and pressing her breast into his arm. “You are soooo lucky. I really want to move to New York.” She batted her freakishly long fake eyelashes. “We should sit down and talk about some possibilities for me at your firm.”
The CEO on the other side of the gamine tapped her on the shoulder, trying to get her attention, but she stayed focused on the drunk, ugly one. God only knew why she chose that billionaire over the other, more sedate billionaire. Sitting across from them, I pinched the black organza of my dress between the pads of my fingers, concentrating on the ridged netting, training my mind on something inanimate. I’d sunk pretty low over the past few weeks, but I wasn’t willing to sit on his lap and beg for a job. I had scruples.
Frank lifted his arm and dropped the dead weight across her shoulders, crushing the oil CEO’s fingers, and curled her in to his side. “I have a firm position for you right here.” He patted his crotch. “I’m ready to talk now.” He leaned over and licked her cheek.
I don’t think she was expecting such an exuberant response.
“Gahh … good …” Her self-control was impressive, the way she transformed her breathy cry of revulsion into a word and made it look like she needed to tuck her hair behind her ear while surreptitiously rubbing slobber off her face. Instead of jerking away, the polite southern girl slowly sat back and said, lightly, “I need to use the restroom. Jenny, come with me?” And with that, Frank was once again sitting with empty space on either side of him.
A magician, that one.
Dee materialized, juggling four drinks. “The waiter is bringin’ the rest in a minute,” she yelled.
Frank, who’d appeared on the edge of comatose for the last hour, suddenly sprang to his feet.
“Hey! Look at this!” He started dancing in front of her, kung fu style, with chops and high karate kicks. Like a seven-year-old cracked out on cotton candy, seeking attention. Before she could back away, Frank turned sideways and let fly a high kick. He caught Dee in the ribs.
It was like watching an eighties movie in slow-mo. The sweaty glasses slipped from her fingers, propelled through the air, a waterfall of liquor spraying the crowd before the crystal hit the floor and exploded. Dee landed on her back in the midst of it all, red dress cranked up to reveal scanty Hello Kitty panties. The hapless errand girl screamed as glass burst into shards and rained down on her.
Shrapnel. The great party foul.
“Cute underwear,” said Frank.
The Doogie Howser of EMTs strapped Dee to a stretcher. Her girlfriends had followed the gurney out to the curb, fluttering around uselessly, creating a plethora of deep cleavage as they bent over her and the tongue-tied baby-faced health-care provider. Dee resembled a human pincushion, with slivers of glass sticking out of her bare skin. And there was a lot of bare skin.
“Is she going to be okay?” The deep, nervous voice came from the Louis Vuitton suit. I was impressed one of Dee’s bosses had torn himself away from the heaving dance party inside. Until his follow up question: “Do you think she’ll be okay by tomorrow?”
It was the way he said it. Even the man-child EMT seemed put out. “Sir, she’s fucked up. What did you do?”
The rich dude backed right off.
Dee, bleeding from a dozen gashes, raised a pitiful finger and then let it drop. “Am I gonna die?”
“Ma’am, we’re takin’ ya in right now, but I think these are all superficial wounds.”
One of the coeds broke in. “Oh my gawd, Dee, my daddy says his plastic surgeon’s on the way. I will not let these hillbillies touch your pretty little face!”
Dee groaned and gripped EMT Doogie’s sleeve. “Drugs first. Ya’ll got some painkillers?”
The ambulance door slammed shut a minute later and I came out of my daze. Frank. Where is he? The hairs raised at the back of my neck.
Inside, pushing past the drunk, over-excited dancers, I reached our corner. The table was surrounded by a happy group of drag queens. Frank was nowhere in sight.
“Sweetie, can I help you?” The short Puerto Rican with Hollywood-perfect makeup was overtly friendly. I envied her long black hair, suffused with a fluff and shine I wanted for my own long black hair. The only thing that marred her feminine allure was the Adam’s apple. Even so, she was far more beautiful than most of the women in the room.
“Did you see the guy in orange pajama pants who was sitting here earlier? Do you know which way he went?”
“Oh, honey, no. We’ve been dancin’ up a storm. I’d definitely remember someone wearing pajamas.” She wrinkled her nose. Then she bent forward and lifted the hem of my skirt to appraise the material. “But you are fabulous! Girls, look at this dress!”
Finally! It was about time someone noticed my dress.
“And those gold hoops are perfect, stunning against your skin.”
Their bubbly focus on my attire distracted me for a second.
“Have a nice night!” I wanted to slide onto the couch with them, hang out with the laughing, amicable crowd. But no, I had to track down my drunken boss before he burned our company to the ground.
I crisscrossed the room. I didn’t see him anywhere or any of the oil guys. And Dee’s friends had disappeared. I was suddenly back in middle school, eating a lamb sandwich and studying for a chemistry test at a table by myself because my friends had skipped school without me to go watch the newest Harry Potter.
I’d been ditched.
Tugging my phone out of my purse, I noticed missed messages and calls. Of course, none of them were from Frank. Gina was finally reaching out, and once again, I didn’t have time for her. There was also a message from Benji. Trying not to think about it, I switched away from the unread texts and tried Frank’s phone.
Nothing. After calling him three times in a row, I finally left a nasty message.
His GPS. I am brilliant! I trilled triumphantly in my head. The blue dot showed Frank was at the club, in the south corner, not moving. I prayed he was passed out.
I pushed through waves of sweaty, drink-spilling people. The blue dot was at the far end of the bar, where I could see a cluster of guys in their thirties and forties discussing the 49ers in loud voices. One of them was in a chauffeur uniform. As I got closer, I recognized our driver, a beer in his hand.
He looked back at me in surprise. “Ma’am? I thought y’all had left. Your boss said he didn’t need me.”
“Oh hell! Who did he leave with? Which way did they go? Were they walking?” My voice shook.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention.” Concern laced his features. “But I can give you a ride back to the hotel, if you want.” He set the half-empty beer on the bar. “Just don’t tell anyone you found me with a drink.”
Fear fluttering around in my chest, I remembered the homing device. I held out my phone for him to see. “That blue dot is Frank’s phone. It says he’s right here.”
The man colored. “That’s because he gave me his phone and his wallet earlier, on our way to the golf course. He, uh, he didn’t have any pockets. I
tried to give them to him when he left, but he told me to take them to the hotel.” He held the wallet and phone out to me, a look of dismay on his face. “Ma’am, I swear to God I was going to deliver them tonight.”
At this point, I felt Frank deserved to have his wallet stolen, so I couldn’t have cared less. But I sighed and told the driver not to worry. “I believe you. I would like a ride back to the hotel, if you don’t mind.”
Back outside, my head cleared. In the limo, I breathed deeply and rolled my head around, relaxing my muscles. He has to be at the hotel. He has to be. To distract myself, I decided to go through my messages, starting with the string of texts. The first four were from Gina:
Can you give me a call?
You have got to call me back, this is important.
If you’re ignoring me out of spite, you’re a terrible friend.
Then:
Don’t you care about Lucia?
The last one put me in a whole new panic. What was wrong with Lucia? My hand trembled as I retrieved my voicemail messages.
“Paris, hi, can you call me? Lucia is in the hospital.” There was a pause in the message. I could hear Gina sob in the background, just once. Then, in a cracked voice, she said, “Something is wrong with the baby.”
That was it. There were a couple of hang ups following the message, but no more information. The last call had been six hours ago and the last text four hours ago. What was happening back home? Oh, please, please, let the baby be okay. I prayed feverishly to every entity as I frantically dialed Gina.
The limo rolled up to the Hotel Galvez just as someone answered. I thrust a fistful of cash at the limo driver, but he waved it away and mouthed, Good luck. I sprinted into the lobby so I could hear.
“Gina? Gina, is that you? What’s going on?”
Her voice dripped with exhaustion. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry, we were with the investors, and now Frank is missing … It doesn’t matter! What’s happened?”
“Oh, Paris!” she wailed. “It’s awful!” She cried quietly for a minute.