Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries: A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6

by Pamela DuMond

  “Whitford doesn’t care that I have to change clothes in the bathroom because God forbid I go home wearing this, and my kid wakes up and sees hooker mommy,” Alida said. “I’m putting meals on the table. I cannot deal with Child Protective Services.”

  “Alida, you gotta play nice with the new guys. It was sell a stake in the place or close the doors. I love MadDog. It wasn’t an easy decision.”

  Buddy sold majority share of the bar to thirty-something businessman Mark Whitford. He came from family money and parlayed his trust fund into making a shit-load more dough in the stock market. Whitford got bored and then bought up his favorite interests like they were Tonka toys. His purchases included: a bowling alley, a Harley-Davidson dealership, a strip club, a Baptist church along with its charismatic leader and finally a biker bar—MadDog.

  Which pained me.

  While I’d only worked here since the day I turned twenty-one—nine months earlier, I’d hung out here for far longer. My dad used to frequent the joint with his buddies. And, before it was considered child-abuse to bring your kid to a bar, he’d bring me along on the nights Mom was working.

  I hung out with the bikers, heard the stories about the rides and the Sturgis’ outings. After my folks died in the motorcycle accident you’d think I’d want to get away from a biker bar. But the problem was, this place felt like family. And I didn’t have a lot of that left.

  So I started bugging Buddy to let me cocktail at MadDog. He hired me and my first shift was on my twenty-first birthday. At the end of the night Buddy opened a bottle of Korbel, the regulars sang “Happy Birthday”, someone popped for cupcakes, Mylar balloons and I had my first legal drink.

  You’d think I’d like the new clientele at the newly remodeled bar. They were, after all, closer to my age. But Whitford’s crew was privileged and the majority of them were asshats. They always hung out at the biggest table in the middle of the joint. Whitford would make his nightly appearance and buy a round or two for the snotty boys. He’d play with his gold pinky ring like he was a short, chubby version of Marlon Brando in The Godfather as he sucked up all the cloying compliments about how he was “the man.”

  “Hey princess!” a twenty-something metro dude seated at Whitford’s table yelled. “Get your primo behind over here. I’m parched.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” I loaded my tray with drinks. “You’re sure this lemonade doesn’t have sugar, right?” I asked. “Artie can’t take the sugar right now.”

  “No sugar,” Buddy said. “Hurry up. Stop spending all your time hanging with the old crew and wait on the new guys. They’re our future. Be nice to them.”

  “They tip like shit.”

  “They’re filling seats and buying booze,” he said.

  “They’re assholes.”

  He shrugged. “The bar wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t have a job if I hadn’t taken Whitford up on his deal. Be nice to my new business partner and his friends. Please?”

  “I’m not answering to Mark Whitford. He’s got attitude to rival an elephant’s behind. You hired me, boss. I’ll answer to you.”

  Buddy cleared his throat.

  “I’ll take their table,” Alida said. “I’ve already got the four-top next to them.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “If they give me a problem I’ll just smile and delicately curse in Spanish. They won’t have a clue what I’m saying.” She winked at me and walked off.

  “Yeah but I will. You taught me all the good Spanish swear words,” I said.

  I dropped off the round to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s crew. I picked up a half-empty pitcher and some water glasses that had barely been touched on a recently vacated table. I poured the water into the pitcher, stacked the glasses and was on my way back to the bar to stock up on pretzel mix when I heard Alida holler, “Beso mi culo, pendejo!”

  I whip turned and saw her stomp away from Whitford’s table, a big fat frown on her pretty face.

  A young, sweaty, prepped-out drunk guy latched onto her wrist and yanked her toward him. “Do you not know who I am? I said this margarita tastes like someone pissed in it. You need to get me another one now. Border Bunny.”

  “I know exactly who you are,” she said. “You’re pinche idioto. I’ll get your new drink as soon as you let me go.”

  I looked at Buddy. He hesitated behind the bar—weighing if he should race to the rescue or if Alida could handle this on her own.

  “What the fuck, Buddy?” I said.

  He held up one hand.

  I flipped him my middle finger, turned and hustled in Alida’s direction.

  Whitford ambled out of MadDog’s back office, eyed the scene playing out and stood there like a bag of manure.

  “You own this place. Do something,” I hissed.

  He shrugged.

  “I know what the word ‘idioto’ means,” the drunk guy slurred.

  Alida cried out as she struggled to get away from him—but his hand remained clamped on her wrist.

  “Come on, dude,” another metro guy at the power table said. “It’s not her fault the drink’s shitty. Let her go.”

  I pushed through the crowd toward them, my tray still on my shoulder, my anger building with every rushed step.

  “Fine. Go.” The drunk released Alida’s arm. She stumbled, dropped her tray, and glasses flew and broke. “You stupid wetback.”

  She burst into tears as she kneeled to pick up the mess of shards of glass on the floor.

  “Go.” I held out my hand and helped her to standing. “Grab some towels, a broom and a dustpan. I’ll help.”

  “Thanks.” She wiped a few tears away and walked off.

  The asshat was already lounging in his chair. “Why do we even come here?” he whined. “We could be hanging on Rush Street.”

  “I’ve got that drink you wanted.” I edged toward the table, smiled at him, and even though I still shouldered the tray, managed to toss my long brunette hair coquettishly.

  “You see?” The drunk gestured to his friends. “You don’t put up with lower class shit and you do the help a favor: you school them on how to cater to people like you and me. Help them learn their place in life.” He smiled at me. “Thanks princess.”

  “No, thank you. We actually brought you a pitcher of margaritas to apologize for your inconvenience.” I held it out to him, smiled…and then poured it on his head as he squealed.

  “Sorry!” I said. “But you looked so thirsty. Like you needed to be a little wet-backed.”

  “Lucy!” Buddy yelled from across the bar.

  “Lucy!” Mr. Fitzpatrick and his gang jumped up from their chairs and sprinted toward me.

  “Oh no, Lucy!” Alida’s hand flew to her mouth as she dropped the towels and the broom.

  “Lucille Trabbicio,” Mark Whitford strode toward me—his little piggy nostrils widening and narrowing faster than he ever turned his pinkie ring, “You are banned from MadDog forever. If I ever see you in here again I will have you arrested for assault. And oh yeah—you’re fired!”

  Chapter 3

  Perhaps I should have thought twice about pouring a pitcher of watered down margaritas on some asshole’s head because I was seriously out of money. I tossed and turned from all my worries that night I was fired, but vowed to find a job the next day.

  I sat at my hand-me-down, formica kitchen table and paged through the job listings in The Sun Times—but there was next to nothing. I examined the jobs section in The Tribune. The pickings were slim as the actual pages in the newspaper.

  Midday I desperately needed to clear my head, so even though the summer weather was heating up, I slipped my phone into an armband and picked my playlist with popular sixties and seventies tunes from my iTunes app. I grabbed a run at my local park, pumped some iron on the free workout machines and popped a few yoga moves as I listened to my fave music.

  Back in my kitchen I turned on the small rotating fan in front of my sweaty face, opened up Daveslist on my computer, hit th
e part-time jobs section and trolled through the latest listings. Surely there would be a worthwhile job tucked away in here somewhere.

  “Part-time Job: Driver Needed.

  ME: Ran into some legal issues and need a driver to and from work. Mon.—Fri. Pick me up at eight a.m. at my house and drive me to work downtown. Pick me up at work at six p.m. and drive me home. YOU: Have a car and a cell phone with more-than-decent coverage. I will provide gas money. ME: Willing to pay two hundred a week. Can you be on call during the weekends from two a.m. to four a.m.?”

  I don’t think so…

  “Part-time Job: Dog Walker Needed.

  Sweet, rambunctious terrier needs animal-loving walker with strong arms! ME: I will supply yummy, organic treats for both you and Crusher as well as eco-friendly scoop bags. Lots of scoop bags. YOU: Proof of medical insurance and a signed waiver that you will negotiate with our insurance company in the highly unlikely scenario that you require medical attention due to circumstances that arise on the job. Pay: $15.00 a walk. Crusher’s shots are up-to-date, the ringworm’s completely under control and the doggie Valium has really calmed him down!”

  I’d love a dog some day but I’m not sure this was the job for me.

  “Part-time Job: DO YOU LIKE TO DATE?!

  Do you want to meet exciting, powerful gentlemen, enjoy five-star meals and attend glamorous events? US: We are a totally above-board, legitimate service that sets up desirable women with sought-after men.”

  I do believe this translated to a Triple Slam meal at Denny’s after which I’d be begged to perform oral sex on married, middle-aged men who were in town for a trade show.

  Meh—I didn’t think this job was up my alley.

  The phone rang and I picked up. “Miss Lucille Trabbicio?”

  “You got her,” I examined my new acrylic nails. The glued-on crystals were sparkly and styling.

  “My name is Mrs. Rosalie Santiago—”

  “Hey Rosie! Why so formal?”

  She sighed and whispered, “You gotta let me do this official-like.”

  “Um—okay?”

  “My name is Mrs. Rosalie Santiago.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Santiago. Might I ask what this call is regarding?”

  “I am calling from the billing department at The Vail Assisted Living Center in regards to your uncle, Mr. John Trabbicio.”

  My breath caught in my throat and one hand flew to my chest. “Is he okay?” Uncle John was the ‘artist’ in our family: a painter, a scholar and a writer. He was always sensitive, but suffered a nervous breakdown a few months after his brother, my dad, died. He never quite found his way back to his or society’s comfort zone.

  “He is fine. We love your uncle. He’s dapper and a gentleman with the ladies. He moderates our monthly Poetry Slam Night and plays a mean game of blackjack.”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  “Which is why we would like to keep him here. Mr. John’s account is past due. Management insists we transfer him to County Psych if we do not receive payment within five working days.”

  “Shit.” I grabbed my checkbook from my purse, flipped it open and looked at my balance: twenty dollars and forty-two cents. “Could I put a little something down on his tab and pay you the rest in, say… two weeks?”

  I looked back at the part-time job listing for the escort service. Maybe it wasn’t Denny’s. Maybe it was Marie Callender’s and I could get some pie before a guy suggested a different kind of job?

  “That is a splendid idea,” Mrs. Santiago said. “Send us six hundred dollars today and then an additional two thousand by the thirty-first and his account will be current. For this month.”

  “I was thinking of, like, fifteen dollars today?” I wrung my hands. “Uncle John’s been at your place for three years now. I’ve paid every month. This is really the first month I’m late.”

  “Actually, it’s the thirteenth.”

  “Look, Rosalie—”

  “Mrs. Santiago.”

  “Mrs. Santiago,” I said. “Could you take fifteen now? I could probably get you another hundred in a couple of days. And handle the balance in two weeks. What do you think?” I asked super cheery, crossed my fingers on both hands, squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath.

  “Oh, Lucy,” Rosalie sighed. “You know I’m supposed to say no.”

  “I know,” I said. “But Uncle John is so awesome. And you do such a great job with him. I’ve fallen on tough times recently.”

  “You mean tougher times,” she said.

  I exhaled. “Sorry.”

  She whispered, “Mercury’s in Retrograde, a strange astrological time, where transactions and communications are constantly confused. Send me the fifteen dollars now and it will be temporarily entered as fifteen hundred. That will buy you a little time. But not much. And you can’t tell anyone that I—”

  I crossed myself. “Not a soul, Rosalie!”

  “Mrs. Santiago.”

  “Mrs. Santiago,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Pedal to the metal, Lucille,” she said. “Go find yourself a new job. I adore you and your uncle. Send us enough money so we can keep him in this over-priced, but top-notch facility.”

  “Thanks Rosalie. You’re a peach. Will do.”

  I hung up the phone, sunk my head in my hands and felt a little light-headed. Stress and low blood sugar always did that to me. I opened my small, sweaty fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice and poured myself a glass. Sat back at my tiny kitchen table, downed it and continued to troll Daveslist.

  “Part-time Job: Wieners on Sticks seeks Sales Persons who love to bounce!

  WE: Are an up and coming mall restaurant featuring the finest hot dogs and kielbasas. We are looking for a few ambitious sales persons who are happy to bounce on mini-trams while serving customers our delicious food.

  YOU: Proof of medical insurance. Must pass stress cardiac test prior to accepting this job. An interest in fitness is preferred and if you are female—underwire bras are suggested.”

  I paged through at least twenty pages of listing when I ran across an ad that had been posted earlier in the week.

  “Part-time Job:

  Personal Assistant Needed. YOU: Twenty-something. (Not actress years—real years.) Blonde. (Or willing to become a blonde for this job’s duration.) Medium height. Average weight. You are cute. Presentable. Can think on your feet. Willing to travel for job. You like older people—they do not creep you out. You are not a huge partier, but can sip champagne or enjoy a hearty lager. You are not addicted to drugs or alcohol. You have a high school degree and preferably advanced degrees and/or are working toward that goal.”

  Hmm. I had a GED and was getting undergrad credits so I could apply to nursing school. I could knock back a few with the guys. Being a cocktail waitress at MadDog had definitely trained me to think on my feet. Older people? They had stories, experiences, and for the most part were so much more interesting than people my age. Unfortunately traveling made me really nervous. What did they mean by “Presentable?”

  “JOB REQUIREMENTS: You must possess excellent people skills. You can improvise, aka ‘roll with the punches.’ (If you are an actress, you cannot be SAG and you can never list this job on your reel or resume.) You are ‘sports friendly.’ This means you have a rudimentary knowledge of a variety of sports.”

  Football: The Chicago Bears—check. Baseball: The Chicago White Sox—check. Hockey: The Chicago Blackhawks—check. Soccer: I’m the only person who doesn’t care. Tennis: Love the guys’ legs—check.

  “It would be ideal if you spoke a foreign language but this not a requirement.”

  Hola my mejor amiga! Comò estàs? Quieres nachos y cervezas frías esta noche?

  “THIS IS NOT A SEX-FOR-HIRE JOB! Prostitutes and escorts need not apply.”

  Perfect! I had no desire to attend a Learn-All-About-It Annex class where I sucked on a banana for three hours and strained my jaw.

  “Everyone who does apply must submit to a stringent screen
ing and thorough background check. Rest assured we are reputable with vast references. This Part-time Job position only lasts a few weeks this summer. It will require minimal effort and maximum pay if you are the woman we are looking for.”

  The job post was, to say the least, weird. It was also intriguing. I read the entire listing three more times and then printed it out. Yes, it was probably an ‘I’m an imprisoned Princess in Nigeria, please send-me-money and you can inherit half of my captured billion dollar estate scam. But, honestly, what did I have to lose? I sent an e-mail to the Part-time Job people, included my slapped-together resume and shut down my computer.

  I called Uncle John. He told me about how he took the time to study the players in his shuffleboard group. Really learn their moves. And then beat them at their own game. And for one night? Uncle John Trabbicio was Prince of Shuffleboard at The Vail. He sounded so happy that I placed the phone down on the couch and applauded his win.

  After we hung up I cracked open a fine bottle of Three-Buck Chuck cabernet and poured myself a glass. I gazed at a framed photo that rested on my coffee table: a snapshot of my parents wearing big smiles as they sat on their Harley motorcycle. “I hope you’re enjoying the rides in heaven.” I raised my glass and toasted them.

  I turned on the TV and watched an episode of I Love Lucy. I half-suspected my parents named me after her because both she and I always had some ‘splainin’ to do’. I flipped to the show about medieval royalty that I was addicted to. The one with the castles and dungeons, tribes and treachery, kings and queens, pretty dresses and creepy forest hovels. I imagined what everyone was doing back at the bar. And shut that thought down.