by Judith Gould
Crissy went to the one closet in the apartment and began rummaging through her clothes, trying to decide what to wear tonight. It was really a no-brainer, she decided, since she didn’t have that many things to choose from. At least not the kind of clothes she wanted to be seen in tonight. She took a long-sleeved T-shirt out, slipped it off its hanger, and laid it on the bed. It was made out of a glittery black stretch fabric that looked a lot more expensive than it was. It was clingy as well, emphasizing her ample breasts and slim waistline. Going back to the closet, she wondered whether to wear trousers or a miniskirt. What would a powerful man who worked at the Capitol like? she wondered, then laughed aloud at the thought. She finally decided on a pair of sleek black trousers that fit her to perfection, then she quickly showered and blow-dried her hair.
She took great pains putting on fresh makeup: eyeliner, mascara, shadow, lipstick, and blusher. She dabbed her favorite perfume, Femme, under her ears. She loved its scent, and had to be careful not to use too much. Looking into the mirror over the sink, she examined her face and hair closely and decided that she looked good. Sexy, but not hookerish. The club would be dimly lit, so she was wearing a bit more makeup than usual to compensate. Her black hair, cut in a deceptively simple A line, shone with vitality, and her dark eyes sparkled. The eyeliner and shadow she’d used slightly accentuated their Asian slant. Cat’s eyes, her father had called them, and while they were an indication of her mixed lineage—a liability, some would think—she thought they were one of her best assets.
In the bedroom/living room, she put on a lacy black bra and slipped into black, high-heeled mules that were stylish but comfortable and easy to take off if she danced a lot. Finally, she went to her chest of drawers and took out the small box that held her black satin belt. It had a rhinestone-studded buckle in the shape of a Maltese cross, and it was one of her favorite articles of clothing. She put it on, then retraced her steps to the bathroom, where she checked herself out in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, turning this way and that. She adjusted her top, tucking it in just so, then switched off the bathroom light and closed the door. Almost done, she thought.
From the chest of drawers, she took out the box that held her small black satin evening clutch, and removed it from the layers of white tissue paper she’d wrapped around it. Like the belt, it was a favorite, and she took care great of them both. She put in her wallet and car keys. Although Jenny had said she would pick her up, Crissy was certain that she would be asked to drive, and she didn’t mind. She was nearly always the designated driver nowadays, since she could have no more than a glass of wine. Like so many Asians or part-Asians, she had Asian alcohol syndrome, and couldn’t drink much without getting drunk, sick, or both. From her closet, she took the fluffy black fake-fur jacket that she wore for dressy occasions in the winter. Friends often joked with her about it—what kind of animal is that?—but Crissy didn’t mind. She didn’t like the cheap furs she could afford, like rabbit, and though she loved the look of more expensive mink and sable, their price was out of her reach. Besides, beautiful as fur could be, she could never rid her mind of the gruesome images of slaughtered animals that she’d seen at animal rights protests.
She remembered when she was a child her father, a Vietnam vet, had somehow struggled to buy her mother, Lily, a fur coat. It had been an inexpensive one, but her father, who was on disability and drank most of the time, had been very proud of the cheap fur. Later, after Lily had built a successful spa, she’d divorced Crissy’s father and thrown out the fur coat. She promptly bought herself an enormously expensive mink.
Crissy cringed thinking about her parents. She’d worked very hard to escape their household, and while not always happy in her work, she was more than happy to have left her alcoholic father and mean-spirited, bitter mother to their own unpleasant lives.
There was a tap-tap-tap on the door, and Crissy went to answer it. “Is that you, Jen?” she asked.
“The one and only.”
Crissy opened the door, and Jenny gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. “Oh, you look so great, Cris!”
“Thank you,” Crissy said, eyeing Jenny’s outfit as her friend flung off her big fox coat. “And you look . . . well . . . you look out of this world!” she said, helplessly laughing at the mixture of flowers, animal prints, and leather that her friend was wearing.
Jenny twirled on long, thin legs, and her hair swung luxuriantly around her shoulders. “Yeah, I know it’s way out there,” she said, “but I couldn’t help myself.”
“Where on earth did you get it?” Crissy asked, her gaze still on Jenny’s outrageously eye-catching ensemble. The blouse, with its plunging neckline, was a leopard print, while ruffles around the sleeves and neck were a flowered pattern. The skirt was very short and consisted of many layers of ruffles, each layer in a different print—ocelot, tiger, zebra, and more flowers. It was cut in different lengths, the back longer than the front, and worn over leather pants that appeared to have been painted in leopard spots. Only leopards, Crissy reflected, weren’t metallic gold and silver and bronze.
“New York,” Jenny said, twirling again. “As in City. Went down last week and spent two days shopping, shopping, shopping.” She finally stood still. “I got everything at Roberto Cavalli. Is it the cat’s meow or what?”
Crissy laughed again. “It’s definitely ‘or what,’ ” she said.
“Well, I think it’s gorgeous,” Jenny said defensively, her dark eyes flashing, “and I don’t care what anybody else thinks. I know that the guys are going to go crazy for it.”
Crissy nodded. “You’re probably right about that,” she agreed. “If they’re into the rich hooker look.”
Jenny’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You . . . you prude,” she said. “You’re just jealous. Believe me, there are very few hookers who could afford this. It cost thousands of dollars.”
“Thousands . . . of . . . dollars?” Crissy echoed, hardly believing her ears but knowing that Jenny was telling her the truth.
“Hey,” Jenny said. “This little number is about a thousand yards of the best silk chiffon and hand-painted leather. That doesn’t come cheap, you know.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Crissy said.
“Anyway, you ready to go?” Jenny asked.
Crissy nodded. “If you are,” she said.
“I’m hot to trot,” Jenny said with a laugh.
They both put on their coats and left the apartment. “What if I drive?” Crissy asked. “You can leave your car here.”
“I don’t know,” Jenny said. “It doesn’t look good arriving in that beat-up old thing of yours, but the guys’ll cream over my Jaguar convertible.”
“Who’s going to see?” Crissy asked reasonably. “The guys are going to be inside. Besides, if I drive, you can drink all you want to. You know I can’t drink much.”
“That settles it,” Jenny said, throwing her head back and laughing. “You’re driving.”
Club Nine One One was located in a nondescript building on Central Avenue, and when they pulled up into the parking lot, Crissy was disappointed. “It sure doesn’t look so great, Jen.”
“Wait till we’re inside,” Jenny replied. “Tom Gentry told me it’s fabulous, and he knows what he’s talking about.”
“Well, then, it’s bound to be great,” Crissy said. Tom was one of the multitude of eligible men Jenny had attracted since her divorce from Peter Schwartz, her philandering ex-husband, and she supposed Tom would know. He was a hotshot lawyer by day and a club-crawler by night, often arriving with a small entourage of friends. His clique could make or break a club by its mere presence, as if its being there gave the place a kind of seal of approval that no amount of promotion could provide. Club owners were very generous with complimentary drinks for Tom and friends, hoping to earn their gratitude and approval, because they knew that a plethora of scene-makers and trendsetters would follow in his wake if he kept coming back.
Crissy found a
parking spot and maneuvered her Neon into the space. She and Jenny click-clacked to the entry on their heels, filled with anticipation. A small crowd of twenty or so people waited for entry at the door, but when the doorman spied Jenny, he waved her and Crissy toward him.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said to Jenny, pulling the big black door open for them. He nodded to Crissy, and she smiled.
“Hiya, Tony,” Jenny said. “How much is it tonight?”
“Forget it,” he said.
“Wow,” Jenny replied. “Thanks.”
“Anything for you,” he said, winking lewdly.
Jenny laughed, and they entered the dark hallway. “Who’s he?” Crissy asked.
“Tony?” Jenny laughed. “I don’t really know much about him, but everybody knows him. He’s one of those big bruisers they hire to work the door at places. I think he probably sells drugs on the side.”
“Oh, one-stop shopping,” Crissy said. “Drinks inside, drugs at the door.”
“Nothing serious,” Jenny said, looking at her. “You know. Just ecstacy, coke, stuff like that.”
“Oh,” Crissy replied. Nothing serious! she thought, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about drugs with Jenny right now.
The walls on both sides of the hallway were lined with mirror panels that reflected the tiny diffuse pink spots in the black ceiling above. Huge art deco sconces gave off very low-wattage light. They checked their coats and walked to the end of the hallway, where they entered a huge room with a large dance floor. Surrounding it was a carpeted area on which banquettes and tables and chairs were arranged against a four-foot wall. Over the wall Crissy could see another area containing three separate bars and more arrangements of built-in banquettes and tables and chairs. Columns rose from the low wall to the ceiling, and the bars were built in the art deco style, with lots of mirror, glass, steel, and black metal. Overhead lights washed the entire club in a kaleidoscope of constantly changing colors, and the music, a great dance mix, was cranked up loud.
Most of the tables near the dance floor appeared to be taken, and there was a large crowd dancing. The crowd varied in age, Crissy noticed, anywhere from twentysomethings to well over fifties. “Where do you want to go?” she asked.
“Just follow me,” Jenny said. She took Crissy’s hand and led the way through the throng of dancers. Crissy noticed that heads turned when they saw Jenny coming their way. When they reached the nearest bar, Jenny turned to Crissy. “What’s your poison?” she asked.
“A glass of white wine,” Crissy said.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Jenny groaned dramatically. “Live a little. Have something good for a change.”
“I’m driving, remember?” Crissy said. “Besides, you know I can’t drink much.”
“Oh, all right,” Jenny said. She turned back to the bar and ordered for them. When the bartender had their drinks ready—a Cosmopolitan for Jenny and white wine for Crissy—Jenny opened her purse to take out money. Before she could give it to the bartender, a handsome man grabbed her hand.
“Let me take care of that, Jenny,” he said.
“Oh, Tom,” she cooed. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I want to,” he said, pulling a crisp twenty-dollar bill from a money clip and slapping it down on the bar.
“Oh, this is my friend, Crissy,” she said. “Crissy, this is Tom Gentry.”
“Hi,” Crissy said, extending a hand.
“Oh, there’s Jimmy Golden,” Jenny cried. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She rushed off without a backward glance, intent on seeing her friend.
Tom Gentry took Crissy’s hand in his and pressed it gently. “Nice to meet you,” he said, looking into her eyes. He was in his mid- to late thirties, tall with dark blond hair, and his eyes were such a startling, intense blue that Crissy wondered if he wore tinted contact lenses.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” she said, surprised that he hadn’t relinquished his hold on her hand. His gaze, she noticed, quickly swept her up and down, assessing her, she felt, as if to determine whether or not she was worthy of his attention. She didn’t feel offended, just a bit curious. She wouldn’t have imagined that Tom Gentry would greet her in anything more than a perfunctory way. He was, after all, a very important man about town, a social and professional titan who had his pick of the local women.
Apparently, she passed inspection. “Would you like to dance, Crissy?” he asked.
“Sure,” she replied. She set her wineglass on the bar, and he took her hand and led her out onto the dance floor.
The music segued into a slow number, and smiling, Tom took her into his arms, leading her gracefully about the dance floor. He was a very good dancer, she thought, and a gentleman, too. He didn’t try to squeeze her against him, groping her, trying to cop a feel, as so many men would do. Occasionally he would look down into her eyes and smile, an almost sleepy look in his gaze, but friendly and sexy in a nonthreatening way. When the music segued into the next number, a fast one, he held onto her hand but led her off the dance floor.
“Let me get you a drink,” he offered.
“You already did,” Crissy said with a laugh. “I left it at the bar.”
“In that case, I’ll get myself one,” he said, “and we can have a drink together. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” Crissy said.
“Do you see yours?” he asked when they reached the bar.
“Here it is,” Crissy said, picking up her glass of wine.
He ordered an Oban on the rocks, then turned to her. “So you and Jenny are good friends, I take it?”
She nodded. “We met at the university,” she said, “and we’ve been friends ever since.”
“She’s some girl,” he said, smiling. “About as wild as they come.”
“She’s pretty out there,” Crissy agreed, “but she’s always been a really good friend to me.”
“I bet,” he said. “The loyal type, but I wouldn’t want to be her enemy. She raked Peter over the coals when she got a divorce. Managed to get herself a nice big settlement and alimony.” The bartender brought his drink, and he took a small sip.
“Peter was playing around on her,” Crissy said in Jenny’s defense, “and everybody knew about it.”
“Yes, Peter was pretty stupid getting caught with his pants down. Jenny had better sense. She played it real cool.” He looked at her and smiled. “No way was she dumb enough to get herself caught.”
“Do you mean—” She looked at him questioningly.
He nodded. “You didn’t know?” He smiled again. “Jenny was getting it on with at least two guys I know.”
“I don’t believe you,” Crissy replied incredulously.
“Ask her,” he said. “She acted like a devoted little housefrau until the divorce was over and she’d gotten her hands on his money, then she really let loose, doing whatever—whoever—she wanted to.”
Crissy was disturbed by what he said. She had been Jenny’s confidante during the divorce proceedings. She’d listened to her tales of woe, held her hand, and wiped away her tears. She found it hard to believe that Jenny wouldn’t have told her the truth, that she herself was playing around on Peter. She really didn’t know what to believe, but she didn’t know why Tom Gentry would lie to her. What did he have to gain by it?
“I . . . I really don’t like talking about her this way,” Crissy finally said. “Behind her back. Whatever Jenny might or might not have done is in the past, and she’s not here to speak for herself.”
Tom looked at her, studying her face for a moment. “You’re the loyal type, too, aren’t you?”
“I think so,” Crissy said. “If someone is my friend, then I stick by her.” She looked up at him. “And I expect the same thing from my friends.”
Tom abruptly reached over and took one of her hands in his. “You’re a serious . . . and beautiful . . . young lady,” he said, looking with intensity into her eyes, “and I like that. It’s a win
ning combination.”
Crissy was somewhat startled by his remark and his sudden, more intimate proximity. She liked the way his hand felt, however, and liked what he had said.
“Thank you, Tom,” she said. Then she laughed nervously. “If you mean that.”
He looked offended momentarily and let go of her hand. “Of course I meant it,” he said. “I don’t know what you might have heard about me, if you’ve heard anything at all, but I think you’ll discover that I don’t waste my time on women that I don’t find interesting . . . and I find you very interesting.”
Once again Crissy was jolted by his words, and she was temporarily at a loss as to how to respond. “You . . . you’re not at all what I expected,” she replied, looking down into her wineglass, then back up at him.
“Why don’t we go sit down and continue this conversation in a quiet corner,” Tom said with a smile. “Is that okay with you?”
Crissy hesitated, then nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Why not?”
“Let me get you another glass of wine first.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks,” she said, “but I will have some water.”
“Fizzy or still? Lemon or lime?”
Crissy smiled. “Fizzy, with lemon.”
He ordered her water and paid for it. Handing it to her, he said, “Take my arm, we’ll find a spot.”
Crissy took his arm and followed his lead through the throng of people crowding off the dance floor toward the bar. Several people greeted Tom and gave her the once-over, she noticed, but he didn’t stop to introduce her to anyone. They were probably wondering who the stranger was that Tom Gentry had deigned to include in his court tonight, she thought, and she couldn’t help but feel a little privileged by his attention and excited by the interest that it generated in others. She recognized a few of the faces, but she didn’t know any of the people. The crowd appeared to be more upscale and mature than those that frequented the clubs she usually went to with friends.