Alligators in the Trees (8 page)

“Who is it?” Priscilla called out. Her recent experience with Brawny made her more cautious about opening her door.

“Cameron Diaz and Angelina Jolie,” a voice replied, followed by muffled giggles. Priscilla rolled her eyes and undid the three bolts to admit her uninvited guests.

“Hey, Sammy,” Darlene said as she crossed the threshold, followed closely by Rochelle. Priscilla noted with dread that both girls were decked to the teeth, which did not bode well for her evening. As soon as she was inside, Darlene shed her white rabbit fur jacket, revealing a strappy, python printed camisole atop her skintight white denim skirt. Rochelle was similarly attired in a faux fur cropped jacket in baby blue, under which she wore a low-cut black top—heavy on the spandex—over a dark blue leatherette skirt, shorter than should be allowed by law, and threatening to burst at the seams.

“By the looks of you two, I’d say you’re about to hop the next Dirty Dog bound for Vegas,” Priscilla said, as she evaluated their costumes.

“I
wish
,” said Rochelle, the insult sailing right past her. Darlene, the sharper of the two, threw an arch look Priscilla’s way, but chose in the end not to be offended. Rochelle produced an improbably large bottle of rum from her bag, waving it about as if she had just made their evening.

“I hope you’ve got some cokes, preferably diet,” Darlene said as unburdened herself of her gear. Priscilla looked at her with mild exasperation. She hadn’t heard a peep out of these two in at least six weeks, which was fine with her, after how their last encounter had turned out. Figures they’d arrange an ambush of this nature.

“Sorry, fresh out of both varieties,” she said, arms akimbo, wondering what exactly they had up their collective sleeve this time.

“What’ve you got, then?”

“I think there’s some grapefruit juice in the fridge,” Priscilla said, intentionally neglecting her hostess duties as she tossed Darlene’s things out of the comfortable chair and flopped down in it.

“Damn, I knew we should’ve picked some mixers. You never have anything, Sammy,” Darlene complained, as she took down three glasses and searched for ice. “Okay, so what do we dilute this with? If I start drinking straight rum, I won’t know my ass from my elbow an hour from now. I can’t believe you can’t even be bothered to fill your ice trays,” she said, extracting six measly cubes from the aluminum tray.

“If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve had Mai Tai’s and canapés waiting for you,” Priscilla said, staring up at her ceiling, wondering why she had opened the door. Rochelle laid her bag and fur on the futon next to Darlene’s and minced her way to the kitchen area. It took a good bit of doing, but she managed to bend over far enough to reach the small cans of grapefruit juice from the back of the refrigerator.

“Are we really going to have to drink rum and grapefruit juice?” Darlene asked, her mouth puckering at the thought.

“It doesn’t sound that bad,” Rochelle said, as she popped a can and poured it into a glass, topping it with a generous dose of dark rum. She pushed the two ice cubes down with her fingers in a crude attempt at mixing.
“Hmm…
it’s actually kinda refreshing,” she said, as she tasted the odd concoction. Darlene looked at her skeptically out of the corner of her eye.

“No wonder you think it tastes good—you’ve got about three inches of rum floating on the top. Wait till that’s all gone and you hit the grapefruit,” she said. To make her point, Darlene took a spoon and gave Rochelle’s drink a proper stir. “Now see if you still find it refreshing,” she challenged.

Rochelle bravely took a large sip, wincing visibly as the two flavors collided in her mouth. “It’s okay,” she croaked out optimistically. “Actually,” she amended as she smacked her lips thoughtfully, “the taste kinda grows on you. Hey Sammy, try this—tell me what you think.”

“No thanks. It sounds revolting.”

“Oh, c’mon. You gotta try it. It ain’t so bad, I swear.”

Priscilla took a cautious sip and thrust the glass back at Rochelle. “Ugh, that’s disgusting,” she said, glancing around futilely for something to take the taste out of her mouth. She went to the sink and filled a glass with water and drank a couple quick gulps. Unfortunately, her tap water was almost as bad as Rochelle’s drink.

“Pour a little rum in here, would you,” she said to Darlene, who instead gave her a glass with two cubes of ice. “Just to there,” Priscilla directed her. She swirled the cubes a moment before taking a drink. The warmish rum burned all the way down, but at least it managed to cut through the awful aftertaste on her tongue. She and Darlene, who had already made the sensible decision to drink hers straight, rejoined Rochelle.

“So, besides drinking rum like a couple of pirates, what are you two girls up to tonight? You have hot dates or something?” Priscilla asked, after she had made herself comfortable. It had been years since she’d had rum, and she soon remembered why. She’d only had a couple of sips, but she could feel the effects of the alcohol almost immediately. She couldn’t say with certainty where her legs stopped and the chair began.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact we do,” Rochelle said. She had sucked down half of her exotic cocktail and was appropriately giddy.

“Oh really? With who?” Priscilla asked distractedly.

“With you!” Rochelle sang out merrily. “We’re going to this great new place we found called NYCE, over on Fifty-Eighth, between Park and Lexington.”

“Nice?”
Priscilla asked dubiously.

“N,Y,C,E. It stands for New York Cotton Exchange, or something. It’s a really fancy place, the kind that serves their drinks in those great big martini glasses—”

“Rochelle likes it because they have free yuppie hors d’oeuvres, plus she thinks one of the bartenders has a crush on her,” Darlene said with a snort.

“Well, you gotta admit he did spend a lot of time talking to us.”

“That couldn’t have anything to do with the fact you kept calling him over every two minutes to answer some stupid question.”

Rochelle, who rarely got her feathers ruffled, took this criticism in stride. “I have an inquiring mind. Men appreciate a woman with an active mind, believe it or not,” she responded, sitting up straighter, as if good posture naturally corresponded with curiosity. “Anyway, a lot of very good-looking men go there—professional types, high class stuff. You’ll love it,” she assured Priscilla, who groaned and took another sip of her rum.

“If that’s an invitation to join you guys, I think I’ll pass. I had a lousy day and I don’t feel like doing anything tonight.”

“No wonder you had a lousy day. You still work at Frank’s—how could you not?” Darlene growled. “When you gonna quit that dump and come work with me? I could get you on days right away. I think that cow Erica’s gonna leave soon. She keeps talkin’ about this ‘in’ she says she’s got over at The Astoria, working banquets or some bull. Anyhow, I think her days are numbered. She keeps mouthing off to the cooks—burning her bridges, if you ask me. Why don’t you stop by on Monday after your shift and talk to Pascal? He’s kind of a lech, but he ain’t too bad to work for.”

It was hardly a ringing endorsement, and Priscilla didn’t exactly relish the idea of working alongside Darlene again. Working at Frank’s was a drag, for obvious reasons, but at least she didn’t end up spending half her tips on after-work cocktails. Besides, the years were slogging by, and Priscilla found it disheartening that the passing of time had done little to alter their lives. Prowling around bars and pubs with these two when they were all in their mid-twenties was one thing; doing it at their current ages bordered on pathetic.

“No. Pascal’s a perv. You should apply at Pinkerton Station. That place is so huge, they’re always hiring. I’ve trained three new girls this month already. The tips ain’t the greatest ’cause the average check is so low, but you make it up in volume. Still, the money’s got to be better than what you make at Frank’s,” Rochelle said.

“Yeah, maybe,” Priscilla said noncommittally, as she thought about her sudden drop in income. Just as she had predicted, Phil had failed to make his usual appearance. His illustrated invitation to accompany him to various “harmless” venues had been the kiss of death as far as her financial picture was concerned. The slumming rock star hadn’t shown up, either. She supposed whatever weird mood had deposited him at Frank’s had passed. The tidy stash of hers, courtesy of love-struck Phil, was going to have to last her a long time.

“Look, you have to come out with us. There’s no way we’re going to let you sit around moping all by yourself on a Friday night,” Darlene said decisively.

“I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy it,” Priscilla said, picking up a pillow and hugging it to her chest, trying to give the impression she was happily entrenched for the evening.

“It’s not natural to spend so much time by yourself. It’s not healthy, if you ask me,” Darlene said.

“Oh, and you think sitting around bars polluting your lungs and liver is?” Priscilla challenged her.

“Hanging around other people, laughing and having a good time is a hell of a lot healthier than holing up in this crummy apartment, acting all depressed,” she countered.

“I’m not depressed,” Priscilla said flatly. Darlene gave her one of those looks that said there was no fooling her. “Just because I prefer to spend a little time by myself rather than getting all tarted up and hanging out in some noisy bar with a bunch of weekend warriors, doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”

“Yeah, but when was the last time you were with a guy?” Rochelle asked. Priscilla grunted but refused to answer her. “See what I mean? Being without a guy for too long can mess up your hormones, and that can change the chemistry of your brain, which makes you get depressed,” Rochelle informed her. Pleased at having delivered this intelligence, Rochelle squirmed off the sofa and went to replenish her drink.

“C’mon, Sam. Put on some sexy duds and we’ll go uptown. One night away from solitary confinement won’t kill you,” Darlene insisted.

Priscilla balked. “I’m sure they don’t give those oversize drinks away, and I don’t have enough for the rent as it is,” she said, hoping that would settle it once and for all. She certainly wasn’t going to tap into her savings for a night on the town with the bimbo twins.

Besides being undignified, a night out with those two was as predictable as finding cockroaches under her kitchen sink. Both would get themselves stewed to the gills, inevitably going home with whomever they determined to be the evening’s best catch, leaving her to fend for herself. And there was always the strong possibility Darlene would take offense to an insulting remark—real or imaginary—and get the lot of them thrown out.

“But see, that’s the reason we got all dolled up,” Rochelle countered, undeterred. “The three of us will look so fabulous, one drink is all we’ll need to buy—the rest will come from our flock of admirers.” Priscilla arched an eyebrow and turned a questioning eye to Darlene, who merely shook her head.

“Oh c’mon, Darlene—you know we only had to buy two drinks each all night, and that was only because we weren’t so dressed up and the place wasn’t very crowded. It’s Friday night, the place will be packed with rich, hunky men, and we look like a million bucks,” Rochelle said defensively. Darlene shrugged.

“I haven’t got any better ideas,” she said to Priscilla. “Besides, Rochelle’s right—there’ll be men galore, all of them on the make. Let’s just go, have a few drinks, check out the prospects. We’ll spot your drinks until we tap into Rochelle’s goldmine of men. What have you got to lose? It sure beats the hell out of sitting around this place all night.”

“No, I really can’t. I’ve got a ton of laundry I need to do—”

“Do it on the weekend. The only good thing about working at that dive is having weekends off, so why waste a Friday night on something you can do on Saturday?” Darlene argued. “We’re not leaving you, so if you won’t go, we’ll sit here drinking rum till we pass out on your sofa.” Priscilla got the distinct impression this was no idle threat.

“Yeah, Sammy—let’s find something wild and sexy for you to wear and then we’ll blow this joint,” Rochelle said.

Priscilla hadn’t yet agreed to going, but at this point there seemed little reason to fight them any longer. She took another swallow of rum for bravery, and then hopped out of her chair in an effort to head Rochelle off at her closet. She was crazy to hit the streets with Darlene and Rochelle, but she wasn’t stupid enough to let them dress her.

“You mind if I put on some music while you get dressed? It’ll help to put us in the right mood,” Rochelle asked, her inner rhythm machine already making her body jiggle and sway.

“Sure, put on anything you want,” Priscilla said, thankful for the diversion. She was poking through her closet when she glanced over her shoulder just as Rochelle picked out an
Absent Among Us
CD.

“Wow, I haven’t listened to these guys in ages,” she said, showing the jewel case to Darlene, who had relocated herself to Priscilla’s bed.

“On second thought, anything but that. I’m a little burned out on them at the moment,” Priscilla said, relieving Rochelle of the disc and stashing it at the end of the row.

“Oh, for sure. Those dudes are so late-eighties,” Darlene said dismissively, as she checked her makeup in her compact mirror. She added more taupe and white eye shadow, then thickened up her eyeliner for good measure. Rochelle found the only CD left behind by Brawny, by a band so passé, the few first chords set Priscilla’s teeth on edge.

“Darlene, could you please assist Rochelle with the music selection?” Priscilla asked, barely resisting the urge to stick her fingers in her ears.

“Gladly. Girl, you got lousy taste when it comes to tunes,” Darlene said, as she moved a gyrating Rochelle out of the way.

“What do you mean—this is good stuff,” Rochelle said, insulted that her choice of music had been preempted twice.

“I’m glad you think so—you can have it,” Priscilla said, shedding her jeans in exchange for her all-purpose black pants.

“Really? Cool.”

“I’m surprised you’d even have something like that,” Darlene said, popping in a disc that finally won Priscilla’s approval.

“It was Brawny’s, not mine,” Priscilla said, pulling her T-shirt off and slipping a gray V-neck sweater over her head.

“We saw Brawny last weekend,” Rochelle said from the bathroom, where she was fussing with her bleached-blond mop.

“Yeah, he was with that Beverly chick. I don’t like her. I don’t think Brawny really does, either,” Darlene added. “Soon as she went to the restroom, he told us how much he missed you and how he’d take you back in a heartbeat.”