Number two was nixed.
So were three through six and then seven and then eight. That took care of all those Executive Inn types of motels. Her next decision was whether to go up or down in price. Up was easier because those places were more accessible. She tried the Marriott.
“Hi, this is Samantha Dooling. I’m calling for Dr. Outbottle’s laboratory in Brookhaven, New York. He’s coming into the area and he was wondering if you give a professional discount to scientists working at Los Ala—okay, thank you.”
She crossed off the Marriott, then the Hyatt, and then the Hilton, which left Ro with the big tourist hotels that the government wouldn’t pay for, and small inns that were out of the way. After she eliminated all of those, there was nothing left except seedy motels on a high-crime strip and one independent hotel called the Jackson Lodge. It was outside River Remez, about fifteen miles from Los Alamos, but freeway close. In a last-ditch effort, she called up the front desk.
“Hi, this is Nambia Allenson. I’m calling for Dr. Tony Beetle’s lab in Chicago at the Fermi Institute. Dr. Beetle was invited to speak at Los Alamos and he’s wondering if you give any professional discounts to scientist—oh, you do?” Ro was shocked. “Uh, great. How much? Thirty percent . . . great. Thank you . . . no, I can’t make a reservation until I run this by my boss. Have to get clearance by the brass and all that kind of stuff, you know. So I’ll have to get back to you.”
She hung up, her heart beating out of her chest. Now what?
Eighteen was the magic age for so many things. Unfortunately, her birthday was still three weeks away. And there wasn’t a whole lot of time left. Each day was crucial. She sat on her bed and thought for a long time. She wasn’t proud of her solution, but it was a solution.
After Gretchen died, her room, like Ellen Vicksburg’s room, had become a shrine: completely untouched, from the junk in her desk drawer to the out-of-date fashions in her closet. When the family was uprooted to New Mexico, Ro didn’t want to leave Gretchen behind. So she took pieces of her—a birth certificate, a Social Security card, a picture student ID, a library card—stuff she knew her mother wouldn’t miss, because after Gretchen’s death their mom never went into her room. Often, Ro had looked at her sister’s ID. When she did, it was as if Gretchen was talking to her.
Yes, at one time I did exist.
Ro put the birth certificate, the Social Security card, and the picture ID in her purse. Their stats were basically the same—blond hair, blue eyes, five six, and around a hundred and twenty pounds. Although Ro was prettier, they did resemble each other. Her friends used to joke that Gretchen looked like Ro on a bad day.
After she died, they didn’t joke anymore.
She took off her ratty pajamas and donned a soft, gray sweater with a deep V in the front. She wiggled into a black pencil skirt. Out came her four-inch heels. She took time with her makeup and appraised herself in the mirror.
Not bad at all. She grabbed her coat, a scarf, and a hat. It was freezing outside.
In the hallway, her mother was attempting to talk to Griff. Mom cornered her. This time she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “What’s going on with him, Dorothy?”
“Griff’s mad at me because Ben and I had a falling-out and he likes Ben.”
“Oh dear. Do you want me to call up Laura?”
“No, Mom, don’t get involved. It’ll work out.”
“Why is there always so much conflict?”
“I don’t know, but unlike the world’s situation, ours will resolve.” She kissed her mom’s cheek and checked her watch. “I gotta go. Don’t wait up.”
She hurried out the door. Her first stop was a rush to the DMV before it closed. That little bit of bureaucracy took well over an hour, but when she got out, she had now become Gretchen Majors.
According to her new driver’s license, she was four months shy of twenty.
Not the best solution, but a solution.
She couldn’t order a drink.
But she could get a job.
Chapter 11
The Jackson Lodge fell somewhere between a motel and a hotel—definitely not a dive like the motel Ro had stayed in at Berkeley, but modest compared to the hotels on the Plaza. Like almost all of Santa Fe, it was adobe style with vigas and latillas on the ceiling and Saltillo tiles covered with knockoff Navajo rugs on the floor. The front desk was sided in wood with turquoise diamond inserts. Behind the counter, next to the official certificates of hotel ratings, there were several wide-angle photographs of the Sangres along with a rack of flyers advertising what to do in Santa Fe, Taos, and Albuquerque—things that Ro had heard about but never got around to doing. There was the Sandia tram and casino, Camel Rock Casino, Buffalo Thunder, the floating staircase at the Loretto, Taos Pueblo, and rafting on the Rio Grande, which probably wasn’t too big of an activity right now seeing as it was around fifteen degrees outside.
The desk was manned by a brown-uniformed girl who looked just a few years older than Ro. She was dark complexioned with a round face and big brown eyes. Her name was Pearl.
Ro put on her friendliest smile. “Hello.”
“Hi, how can I help you?”
“I’m actually looking for a job.”
She stared at Ro. “Uh . . . did you see an ad or something?”
“No, actually, I’m just doing it the hard way. Pounding the pavement.” Ro smiled again. “I mean, I’m sure you get busy and could use some extra hands.”
Pearl looked around. There wasn’t a person in sight. “Uh, it’s been pretty quiet.”
Ro sighed. “Do you have an application that I could fill out?”
“Uh, maybe I should get the manager.”
“Sure.”
She disappeared behind a wall. A few minutes later she returned with a guy—also in a brown uniform—in tow. He was older, midtwenties, and his name tag said he was Tomas. He had a long face and acne on his cheeks. His brown eyes gave Ro the quick once-over. This was a very good sign.
“Hi,” she told him. “I’m looking for work.”
“Uh . . . I don’t think we have any jobs right now. Sorry.”
“C’mon,” she told him. “I need money.”
“Sorry. Unless you’re interested in housekeeping.”
“You mean a maid?”
“We call it housekeeping. I don’t think we need anyone, but if we do, that’s your best option.”
Ro took the application and looked around. There was an open café with a bar that held around ten empty tables. The place was devoid of patrons as well as staff. “How about a waitress?” She pointed to the café. “I don’t see anyone on the floor.”
“There aren’t any customers.”
“Surely you have an occasional person wanting a cup of coffee . . . or a drink?”
“The bartender handles that.”
“I don’t see a bartender.”
“He’s in the back.”
“You have an answer for everything, Tomas.” She leaned over the desk, showing him cleavage. “Why don’t we do this? It’s a Friday night. It’s bound to get a little busy. Let me waitress for tonight. I’ll just work for tips. See what happens.”
“I can’t hire you. I’m not in a position to do that.”
“You’re not hiring me. You’re giving me a break.” She locked eyes with him. “Please?”
His eyes went to the right place then back to her face. “I suppose if it’s okay with Salvador, it’s okay with me.” He was mystified. “You know we don’t get a lot of bar business, especially at this time of year.”
“You have clients in the hotel?”
“Yeah.”
“Male clients?”
“Yeah, mostly.”
She gave him a dazzling smile. “I can get you bar business.”
Tomas blushed. “Maybe. You have to be nineteen to serve liquor, you know.”
Out popped her brand-new temporary ID card. She grinned and said, “Thank you for giving me a chance.” A pause. “Salvador
’s the bartender, not the country, right?”
“That’s El Salvador.”
“Just checking to see if you were listening.” She went over to the café. The man she assumed to be Salvador was puttering behind the counter. She explained the situation to him.
“Less work for you,” she told him.
He stared at her boobs. “Yeah . . .”
“So it’s okay?”
His eyes finally lifted from the spot. “Uh, do you see anyone here?”
“No. But it’s only five o’clock.”
“The point is . . . what’s your name?”
“Ro—Gretchen.” She stuck out her hand. “Gretchen Majors.”
He took her hand. His was sweaty. “I don’t make a lot of money. Tips are like all I get when I get something . . . you sense me?”
“I do. How much do you get in tips per night?”
His mind started whirring. “Like a hundred bucks.”
“Salvador, let’s be reasonable.”
“Fifty.”
“I said reasonable.”
“Fifty bucks.”
“You probably get a third that much, but I’ll assume you get half. Twenty-five, say, even thirty a night. I’ll give you the first thirty dollars I make and anything after that is mine.”
“No way. Those tips are mine.” He was still staring at her. “Unless you pay me in another way.”
“Dream on, handsome. We’ll split it fifty-fifty. That’s the most I’m going to do. Believe me, you’ll be happy you agreed to it. I’m a lot sexier than you are.”
“That’s true.”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“And I get the first thirty dollars up front?”
“Yes. That’s probably more money in tips than you’ve ever made. Deal?”
“Sure.”
“You won’t regret it. I’ll make it worth it . . . monetarily. That means moneywise.”
“I know what ‘monetarily’ means. I’m not dumb.”
“Of course. I’m a little tense. I need this job.”
“Fine. I mean, it’s only one night. Then you’re out.”
“You don’t really mean that, do you?”
“Maybe I’ll give you a couple of nights because you’re cute.”
“Thank you. Do you have a tray I can carry so people can tell I’m a cocktail waitress?”
“No.”
“Do you have a menu? Food and drink go together, you know.”
He pointed to the bar countertop. Behind a plastic sandwich-board easel was a list of ready-made sandwiches and snacks—peanuts, packaged cheese and crackers, potato chips, corn chips, corn snacks, M&M’s, Oreos, and a jar of pickles that were an unnatural shade of emerald green. Together with the olives and pearl onions for the martinis, the wedges of lemons, limes, and oranges, plus a jar of maraschino cherries, that was it for the grub in the area. “I think your bar food could use a little updating.”
“Tell it to the boss.”
“Do the guests get any kind of edibles for free?”
“Ice.”
“How much are the peanuts?”
“A dollar each.”
Ro checked her purse. “Give me twenty packets. Also, give me twenty shot glasses.” Salvador looked at her. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
He handed her the plastic bags of peanuts. She distributed half of them in the shot glasses, put one glass on each of the ten tables, then put three on the bar top. She kept the rest behind the bar for refills. “Give me some of the martini olives.”
He was skeptical.
“I’ll only put them on the bar, okay?”
He raised his eyebrows. “If the boss sees me doing this, I’m dead.”
“Who’s the boss?”
“Elaine. She’s not here.”
“How often does she come around?”
“Not often.” He paused, then gave her the tub of martini olives. “Do what you want.”
“You’re a believer.” She put a few of them in shot glasses on the bar counter. It was five in the afternoon. “Now leave the rest to me, okay?” As three men came off the elevator, Ro said to Salvador, “Watch and learn, amigo.
“Hey, guys, where are you going?” They turned to Ro, clearly baffled. She said, “It’s cold outside. C’mon. Have a seat. Keep it in-house, you know.” She smiled. “Please?”
“We’re going to dinner,” one of them said. “Do you serve dinner?”
“No, but I serve happy hour. Have a cocktail first. That and my gorgeous face will put you all in a good mood.”
They smiled, shrugged, and sat down. One of them started popping peanuts into his mouth. Salt was good for business. They ordered a whiskey straight up, a glass of red wine, and a martini with an olive. Ro took the order by memory and related it to Sal. “I’m going to need a pad and pencil.”
He handed her what she had asked for. The next two men started toward the door, but when they saw the trio already sitting at a table, they stopped and discussed. Ro gave them her most blinding smile, which clinched the deal. She showed them to a table and immediately took their order before they could change their minds. “Any snacks before dinner?”
“What do you have?” asked a suit.
“Not much, I’m afraid. How about if I buy you some olives and you buy the martinis.”
The suit laughed. “Sure.”
Ro gave the second order of the night to Sal. This time he was smiling. Within an hour, five tables were filled, the guests drinking and snacking. Then it went dry for a couple of hours. When dinnertime was over, around eight, the suits started returning. Ro went to work again—smiling and wiggling. By nine, it was packed. Her only problem was she had never heard of half the drinks.
She went up to Sal. “I need a whiskey sour and a—God, I’ll feel like I’m saying something racist—a Negro something.” She looked at him pleadingly. “Help me out, soldier.”
“A negroni?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“You don’t know a lot about drinks, do you.”
“No, I do not.”
“I figured you for a boozer. Figured that’s why you wanted to work at a bar. Freebies.”
“Good guess, but wrong. I’m not a boozer. It does strange things to my judgment and it’s too many calories.”
“Pot?”
“Only on occasion. Basically, my downfall is hubris. But that’s for another day. I also need another order of olives and nuts.”
“We’re running out.”
She grinned. “Told you.”
Sal handed her the drinks. “This one’s the sour, the pink one is the negroni. The color comes from Campari. That’s an Italian liqueur.”
“Sal, you are not only knowledgeable, you are a savior. Thank you.”
By the end of the evening, Salvador was begging Tomas to hire her on. They each had fifty-six dollars in their pockets and would have had more if the bar hadn’t run out of snacks. He said, “We did twenty times the usual business, Tom. It’s a no-brainer.”
“I need to check with Elaine.”
“If you don’t hire me tonight, I’m moving on,” Ro told him. “I need money and I need job security.”
Tomas was still suspicious. But peer pressure prevailed and he handed her an application. “This all depends on what Elaine says.”
“Fine. Talk to Elaine.” She filled out all the boxes as she talked. “Tell her I’m not only good for business, but I’ll be good for repeat business.” She smiled. “And I’m happy to help out wherever I’m needed—like if you guys need a few minutes to go to the bathroom or talk to your girlfriend or something. I’ll be happy to do desk duty for you.”
“You ever work hotel management?” Tomas asked.
“In New York,” she lied. “How about this?” She leaned over and looked sincerely into Tomas’s eyes. “I’ll come in early tomorrow and you can give me a tutorial on the computer . . . how your hotel works. I pick things up very quickly.”
“Only if Elaine
says okay.”
“Tell her I’ll work minimum wage and for tips.” She handed him back the application. “Good night.”
She left without looking back, walking straight to her car parked in a very dark lot. When Salvador spoke, she jumped.
“Sorry to scare you.”
“No prob. Thanks for helping me out. I really appreciate it. I need the money.”
He stared at her. “You know you could do way better somewhere else.”
“I could.” He was not as dumb as she thought. “Honestly, I want to work behind the desk. That’s the goal. And I thought this was a good place to start. It’s close to home.”
“Okay.” His eyes cased her body. “I think there’s more to your story, but I’ll buy it. Want to go out for a drink at a real bar? My treat.”
“You saw my ID. I’m nineteen.”
“I’ll drink, you can have soda.”
“I’m zonked. I’ve got some studying to do. I’m going home to bed.”
“JC?”
“Pardon?”
“Junior college.”
“Yeah, junior college. Of course I go to junior college.” She gave his arm a light punch. “I’m nineteen. And my mom’s waiting up for me. I really gotta go.”
“You live at home?”
“Yes, I do, Salvador.”
“So do I. I live with my mom. My old man split like ten years ago.”
“The louse.”
“Yeah, he’s a real son of a bitch. But he does send me money when I ask.”
“Everyone has a bit of redemption.”
“C’mon. Let’s grab a cup of coffee. I think you know this already, but you’re really cute.”
“Thank you for the compliment. And you’re a cute guy, Salvador. But right now, I’m a little heavy in the boy department.” He looked confused and rightly so. “I have two boyfriends. A third would be a little ridiculous.”
“Two boyfriends?”
“Yes. One is currently talking to me and the other is not.”
“Oh . . . what happened?”
“I started with boyfriend number one. Then I dumped him for boyfriend number two. I like the second one a lot better than the first. But then I cheated on two with one and now two isn’t talking to me.”
Killing Season Page 32