Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “Been in Biloxi the last few years,” he replied. “What're you drinking?”

  She gave him a kittenish smile. “I'm partial to mai-tais.” After he gestured toward the bartender for her drink, she crossed her legs. “My ex-husband spent some time in Biloxi. I don't suppose you ran into him? A cheap son of a bitch named Ryland.”

  He shook his head—didn't know anybody by that name —and moved his arm so that it brushed along the side of her tits. Bonni decided they were going to get along fine, and she turned her body just far enough so she didn't have to see the accusing expression in Cleo's eyes.

  An hour later the two of them had it out in the little girls’ room. Cleo bitched for a while, jerking a comb through her tough black hair and then tightening the posts on her best pair of fake ruby earrings. Bonni apologized and said she hadn't known Cleo was interested.

  Cleo studied her suspiciously. “You know I'm getting tired of Tony. All he does is complain about his wife. Shit, I haven't had a good laugh out of him in weeks.”

  “The guy at the bar—his name's Pete—he's not much for laughs either,” Bonnie admitted. She pulled a vial of Tabu from her purse and generously sprayed herself. “This place sure is going to hell.”

  Cleo fixed her mouth and then stepped back to scrutinize her work. “You said it there, honey.”

  “Maybe we should go up north. Up to Chicago or someplace.”

  “I been thinking about St. Louis. Someplace where the fucking men aren't all married.”

  It was a topic they'd discussed many times, and they “continued to discuss it as they left the ladies’ room, weighing the advantages of the oil boom in Houston, the climate in Los Angeles, the money in New York, and knowing all the time they'd never leave New Orleans.

  The two women pushed through the group of men congregated near the bar, their eyes busy, no longer paying attention to each other even though they continued to talk. As they searched out their prey, Bonni began to realize something had changed. Everything seemed quieter, although the bar was still full, people were talking, and the jukebox blared out “Ruby.” Then she noticed that a lot of heads were turning toward the doorway.

  Pinching Cleo hard on the arm, she nodded her head. “Over there,” she said.

  Cleo looked in the direction Bonni had indicated and came to a sudden stop. “Kee-rist.”

  They hated her on sight. She was everything they weren't—a woman right off the fashion pages, beautiful as a New York model, even in a pair of jeans; expensive-looking, stylish, and snooty, with an expression on her face like she'd just smelled something bad, and they were it. She was the kind of woman who didn't belong anywhere near a place like the Blue Choctaw, a hostile invader who made them feel ugly, cheap, and worn out. And then they saw the two men they'd left not ten minutes earlier walking right toward her.

  Bonni and Cleo looked at each other for a moment before they headed in the same direction, their eyes narrowed, their stomachs bitter with determination.

  Francesca remained oblivious to their approach as she searched the hostile environment of the Blue Choctaw with an uneasy gaze, concentrating all her attention on trying to peer through the thick smoke and press of bodies to catch sight of Skeet Cooper. A tiny, apprehensive muscle quivered at her temple, and her palms were damp. Never had she felt so out of her element as she did in this seedy New Orleans bar.

  The sound of raucous laughter and too-loud music attacked her ears. She felt hostile eyes inspecting her, and she gripped her small Vuitton cosmetic case more tightly, trying not to remember that it contained all she had left in the world. She tried to blot out the memory of the horrible places the taxi driver had taken her, each one more repulsive than the last, and none of them bearing the slightest resemblance to the resale shop in Piccadilly where the clerks wore gently used designer originals and served tea to their customers. She had thought it such a good idea to sell her clothes; she hadn't imagined she would end up in some dreadful pawnshop parting with her suitcase and the rest of her wardrobe for three hundred and fifty dollars just so she could pay her taxi fare and have enough money left to survive on for another few days until she got hold of Nicky. A Louis Vuitton suitcase full of designer originals let go for three hundred and fifty dollars! She couldn't spend two nights at a really good hotel for that amount.

  “Hi, honey.”

  Francesca jumped as two disreputable-looking men came up to her, one with a stomach that strained the buttons of his plaid shirt, the other a greasy-looking character with enlarged pores.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” the heavy one said. “Me and my new buddy Tony here'd be happy to buy you a couple of mai-tais.”

  “No, thank you,” she replied, looking anxiously about for Skeet. Why wasn't he here? A needle-sharp shower of resentment pricked at her. Why hadn't Dallie given her the name of his motel instead of forcing her to stand in the doorway of this horrible place, the name of which she'd barely been able to dredge up after spending twenty minutes poring over a telephone book? The fact that she needed to find him had printed itself indelibly in her brain while she was making another series of fruitless calls to London trying to locate Nicky or David Graves or one of her other former companions, all of whom seemed to be out of town, recently married, or not taking her calls.

  Two tough-faced women sidled up to the men in front of her, their hostility evident. The blonde leaned into the man with the stomach. “Hey, Pete. Let's dance.”

  Pete didn't take his eyes off Francesca. “Later, Bonni.”

  “I wanna dance now,” Bonni insisted, her mouth hard.

  Pete's gaze slithered over Francesca. “I said later. Dance with Tony.”

  “Tony's dancin’ with me,” the black-haired woman said, curling short purple fingernails over the other man's hairy arm. “Come on, baby.”

  “Go away, Cleo.” Shaking off the purple fingernails, Tony pressed his hand on the wall just next to Francesca's head and leaned toward her. “You new in town? I don't remember seeing you around here before.”

  She shifted her weight, trying to catch sight of a red bandanna headband while she avoided the unpleasant smell of whiskey mixed with cheap after-shave.

  The woman named Cleo sneered. “You don't think a snotty bitch like her's gonna give you the time of day, do you, Tony?”

  “I thought I told you to get lost.” He gave Francesca an oily smile. “Sure you wouldn't like a drink?”

  “I'm not thirsty,” Francesca said stiffly. “I'm waiting for someone.”

  “Looks like you got stood up,” Bonni purred. “So why don't you get lost.”

  A blast of warm air from outside hit the damp back of her blouse as the door opened, admitting three more rough-faced men, none of whom was Skeet. Francesca's uneasiness grew. She couldn't stand in the doorway all night, but she recoiled at the thought of going any farther inside. Why hadn't Dallie told her where he was lodging? She couldn't stay alone in New Orleans with only three hundred and fifty dollars between herself and starvation while she waited for Nicky to finish his fling. She had to find Dallie now, before he left! “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, sliding between Tony and Pete.

  She heard a short, unpleasant laugh from one of the women, and then a mutter from Tony. “It's your fault, Bonni,” he complained. “You and Cleo scared her away just when—” The rest was mercifully lost as she slid through the crowd toward the back, looking for an inconspicuous table.

  “Hey, honey—”

  A quick glance over her shoulder told her that Pete was following her. She squeezed between two tables, felt someone's hand brush her bottom, and made a dash for the lavatory. Once inside, she sagged against the door, her cosmetic case clutched to her chest. Outside, she heard the sound of breaking glass and she jumped. What a hideous place! Her opinion of Skeet Cooper sank even lower. Suddenly she remembered Dallie's reference to a red-haired waitress. Although she hadn't spotted anyone who fit that description, she hadn't really been looking. Maybe the bartender coul
d give her some information.

  The door next to her opened abruptly, and the two tough-faced women came in. “Look what we got here, Bonni Lynn,” the one named Cleo sneered.

  “Well, if it ain't Miss Rich Bitch,” Bonni replied. “What's the matter, honey? Did you get tired of working the hotel trade and decide to come down here to slum it?”

  Francesca's jaw tightened. These awful women had pushed her far enough. Lifting her chin, she stared at Bonni's harsh plum eye shadow. “Have you been this rude from birth, or is it a more recent occurrence?”

  Cleo laughed and turned to Bonni. “My, my. Didn't she just tell you off.” She studied Francesca's cosmetic case. “What do you have in there that's so important?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Got your jewels in there, honey?” Bonni suggested. “The sapphires and diamonds your boyfriends buy you? Tell me, how much do you charge to pull a trick?”

  “A trick!” Francesca couldn't mistake her meaning and before she could stop herself, her hand shot out and slapped the woman across her pancaked cheek. “Don't you ever—”

  She didn't get any further. With a howl of rage, Bonni curled her fingers into talons and whipped them through the air, ready to grab two handfuls of Francesca's hair. Francesca instinctively thrust her cosmetic case forward, using it to block the other woman's movement. The case caught Bonni at the waist, knocking the wind out of her and forcing her to teeter for a moment on her imitation alligator heels before she lost her balance. As she tumbled to the floor, Francesca felt a moment of primitive satisfaction that she'd finally been able to punish someone for all the dreadful things that had happened to her that day. The moment fled as she saw the look on Cleo's face, and realized that she had put herself in actual danger.

  She rushed out the door, but Cleo caught her and grabbed her wrist before she reached the jukebox. “No, you don't, bitch,” she snarled, pulling her back toward the lavatory.

  “Help!” Francesca cried, as her entire life flashed before her. “Please, someone, help me!”

  She heard an unpleasant masculine laugh, and as Cleo shoved her forward, she realized that no one was leaping to her defense. Those two awful women planned to physically assault her in the lavatory, and no one seemed to care! Panicked, she swung her cosmetic case, intent on pushing Cleo away, but hitting someone's tattoo instead. He yelled.

  “Get that case away from her,” Cleo demanded, her voice harsh with outrage. “She just slapped Bonni.”

  “Bonni had it coming,” Pete called out over the final chorus of “Rhinestone Cowboy” and the comments of the interested onlookers. To Francesca's overwhelming relief, he started toward her, obviously intent on rescue. And then she realized the man with the tattooed arm had other ideas.

  “Stay out of this!” the tattoo called over to Pete as he wrenched the case from her hands. “This is between the girls.”

  “No!” Francesca cried. “It's not between the girls. Actually, I don't even know this person, and I—”

  She screamed as Cleo sank her hands into her hair and began twisting her head in the general direction of the lavatory. Her eyes began to tear and her neck snapped backward. This was barbaric! Awful! They would murder her!

  In that instant, she felt several strands of her hair being pulled from her scalp. Her beautiful chestnut hair! Reason left her and blind fury took over. She went wild, releasing a screech as she swung out. Cleo grunted as Francesca's hand caught her in an abdomen that had lost its tone. The pressure on Francesca's scalp immediately eased, but she had only a moment to catch her breath before she saw Bonni coming toward her, ready to pick up where Cleo had left off. A table crashed to the floor nearby, glass shattering. She was dimly aware that the fight had spread, and that Pete had leaped to her rescue, wonderful Pete of the plaid shirt and beer belly, wonderful, marvelous, adorable Pete!

  “You bitch!” Bonni cried, reaching out for anything she could grab, which happened to be the pearl buttons set into the cocoa trim on Francesca's greige Halston blouse. The front gave way; the shoulder seam split. Once again Francesca felt her hair being pulled, and once again she swung, locking her other hand around Bonni's head and grabbing some hair herself.

  Suddenly it seemed as if the fight had surrounded her— chairs scraped over the floor, a bottle flew through the air, someone screamed. She felt one of the fingernails on her right hand tear. Ribbons of fabric hung from the front of her blouse, exposing her ecru lace bra, but she had no time to worry about modesty as Bonni's sharp rings scraped her neck. Francesca gritted her teeth against the pain and pulled harder. At the same time she had the sudden and horrifying realization that she—Francesca Serritella Day, darling of the international set, pet of the society columnists, almost Princess of Wales—was at the heart, the very center, the absolute core, of a barroom brawl.

  Across the room, the door of the Blue Choctaw swung open and Skeet walked in, followed by Dallie Beaudine. Dallie stood there for a moment, took in what was happening, saw the people involved, and shook his head with disgust. “Aw, hell.” With a long, put-upon sigh, he began to shoulder his way through the crowd.

  Never in her entire life had Francesca been so glad to see anyone, except at first she didn't realize it was him. When he touched her shoulder, she released Bonni, swung around, and hit him as hard as she could in the chest.

  “Hey!” he yelled, rubbing the spot where she'd landed. “I'm on your side... I guess.”

  “Dallie!” She threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Dallie, Dallie, Dallie! My wonderful Dallie! I can't believe it's you!”

  He pulled her off. “Easy, Francie, you're not out of here yet. Why the hell—”

  He never finished. Someone who looked like an extra in an old Steve Reeves movie came at him with a right hook, and Francesca watched in horror as Dallie sprawled on the floor. Spotting her cosmetic case sitting in splendid isolation on the jukebox, she snatched it up and banged it into the side of the awful man's head. To her horror, the clasp gave way, and she watched helplessly as her wonderful blushers and shadows and creams and lotions flew about the room. A box of her specially blended translucent powder sent up a scented cloud that soon had everyone coughing and sliding and quickly put a damper on the fight.

  Dallie staggered to his feet, threw a couple of punches of his own, and then grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let's get out of here before they decide to eat you for a bedtime snack.”

  “My makeup!” She scrambled toward a cake of frosted peach eye shadow, even though she knew it was a ridiculous thing to do with her blouse falling off, a bloody scratch on her neck, two fingernails broken, and her very life in danger. But recovering the eye shadow suddenly became more important to her than anything in the world, and she was willing to fight them all to get it back.

  He whipped his arm around her waist and lifted her feet off the floor. “To hell with your makeup!”

  “No! Put me down!” She had to have the eye shadow. Little by little, every single item she owned was being taken away from her, and if she let just one more thing disappear, one more possession slip out of her life, she might very well disappear herself, fading away like the Cheshire cat until nothing was left, not even her teeth.

  “Come on, Francie!”

  “No!” She fought Dallie as she'd fought the rest, flailing her legs in the air, kicking his calves, screaming out, “I want it! I have to have it.”

  “You're gonna get it, all right!”

  “Please, Dallie,” she begged. “Please!”

  The magic word had never failed her before, and it didn't now. Muttering under his breath, he leaned forward with his arm still around her and snatched up the eye shadow. As he straightened, she grabbed it from him and then reached out, just managing to grasp the open lid of her cosmetic case before he pulled her away. By the time she had snapped the lid shut, she'd lost a bottle of almond-scented moisturizer and broken a third fingernail, but she had managed to avoid spilling out her calfskin handbag along with its thre
e hundred and fifty dollars. And she had her precious frosted peach eye shadow.

  Skeet propped the door open and Dallie carried her through. As he set her down on the pavement, she heard sirens. He immediately snatched her back up and dragged her toward the Riviera.

  “Can't she even walk by herself?” Skeet asked, catching the keys that Dallie pitched to him.

  “She likes to argue.” Dallie glanced toward the flashing lights that weren't all that far away. “Commissioner Deane Beman and the PGA are only going to put up with so much from me this year, so let's get the hell out of here.” Shoving her none too gently into the back seat, he jumped in after her and closed the door.

  They rode in silence for sèveral minutes. Her teeth began to chatter from the aftereffects of the fight, and her hands shook as she tried to pull the front of her blouse together and tuck some of the torn ends into her bra. It didn't take her long to realize the task was hopeless. A lump lodged in her throat. She hugged her arms over her chest and yearned for some expression of sympathy, some concern for her condition, a small sign that someone cared about her.

  Dallie reached under the seat in front of him and pulled out an unopened bottle of scotch. After breaking the seal with his thumbnail, he unscrewed the top, took a long swallow, and then looked thoughtful. Francesca prepared herself for the questions to come and made up her mind to answer each one with as much dignity as possible. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

  Dallie leaned toward Skeet. “I didn't see anything of that red-haired waitress. Did you get a chance to ask about her?”

  “Yeah. The bartender said she went off to Bogalusa with some guy who works for the power company.”

  “Too bad.”

  Skeet glanced into the rearview mirror. “Seems the guy only had one arm.”

  “No kidding? Did the bartender tell you how a thing like that happened?”

  “Industrial accident of some kind. A few years back the guy worked for a tool and die outfit up near Shreveport and got his arm caught in a press. Crushed that sucker flatter than a pancake.”