The Jewel Box (7 page)

“Maybe, maybe not.” Beau shook his head as though talking to me somewhat hopeless. “And you’re one to talk about spouting off. Stop wasting time and losing money by debating customers. Hell, you’re longer winded than Pentecostal preachers speaking in tongues.”

I attempted a Pentecostal chant before grabbing my drink tray to head back into the crowd. I adored Beau, but didn’t think my recurring
repartee with Gabe a waste of time, and actually enjoyed the challenging diversion, which established an understanding of sorts between the so-called “arrogant asshole” and me. Even though Gabe usually reigned triumphant, I suspected his public performance failed to correspond with the man inside.

5

The day after I spent three thousand bucks on a used Chevy Nova, Wesley called the Jewel Box threatening me in one breath while begging me to reunite in another. Making foolish mistakes was customary for me, but having the crap beat out of me wasn’t. When the psycho said he was on his way to Houston, I slammed the phone in his ear and told Beau I had to quit.

“I’ve got a plan,” my surrogate father said. “Angel’s pregnant and swelling up like a dirigible. Instead of dancing I’ll have her wait tables until she moves back to Maine. Meanwhile, you lay low.”

“But. . .”

“No buts. Just lease an apartment for you and Nikki, stay away from your usual hangouts including the club, Kat, and Ellen’s house for a couple of weeks.”

I sighed. Buying the Nova left me with less than two hundred bucks.

“Here, baby.” Beau handed me a thousand dollars to prepay rent, buy a bed, and other necessities. “You can pay me back a little each night.”

“You burn cool.” I kissed his cheek.

“Paying several months rent in advance should placate managers enough to let you lease under an alias without questions.”

“And temporary vanishing will hopefully make Wesley vanish forever.”

“Just choose a simple name like Bertha Smith or Carol Wood.”

The look on Beau’s face was so sincere, I respectfully opted for Carol. “Good Lord, Beau. Bertha?”

He chuckled. The Jewel Box was Beau’s first venture in the topless business, although he had owned various clubs in Dallas and Houston after
moving to Texas from Nevada, where he had managed several casinos. His wife Celeste owned an exclusive boutique near River Oaks, Houston’s most affluent neighborhood, thus left management of the Jewel Box to Beau. She preferred not to be seen anywhere near the place.

After moving into an apartment as Carol Wood, I spent two wonderful weeks with Nikki. Beau came by for quick visits and taught Nikki card games, while offering me Larry McMurtry novels. Emerson was too esoteric, but I was diggin’ McMurtry. Beau also introduced us to Nora, an older lady who occasionally babysat his son, Gilles. Beau worshipped that boy, so I knew Nikki would be in competent hands. We went through trial runs, and as much as my daughter liked Nora, a day didn’t pass without her pleading to stay with Jimmy again. I finally gave in and took my unrelenting child to see her cousin the weekend before my scheduled return to work. Praying Wesley wasn’t lurking about, I crept through my sister’s neighborhood, eyes peeled for his red convertible. Despite my fears, bruiser Wesley never materialized and the cousins laughed nonstop for two days.

Although Nikki was developing quite the melodramatic personality, she surprised me by not throwing a tantrum when I parked her with sixty-year-old sitter, Nora. After three weeks at work, I repaid Beau, bought nicer furniture, and put money aside for replacing my used car with a new one. But Saturday night of my fourth week dampened my spirits when I only made a hundred dollars. I needed a dependable car for driving late at night.

With a sleeping Nikki sprawled across my shoulder, I was struggling to open my apartment door when Wesley came up behind me and shoved us inside, instantly waking Nikki. The creep had followed me from the Jewel Box to Nora’s, and then to my place. “Shhhh, Mommy,” Nikki whispered as she clung tightly to me watching Wesley’s every move.

“I came to take you back with me.” His voice was eerily calm.

“That’s not a good idea,” I said, trying to sound unruffled.

“Don’t make me beg,” he growled.

Nikki’s grip intensified.

“Let me put her to bed. She’s tired.” My voice was shaky and I wasn’t sure my legs would hold up as I carried her to the bedroom, but I couldn’t allow her to witness any violence I feared might happen. It took forever to calm her to sleep, and then I tiptoed back into the living room.

Wesley stood, looking fatigued. “We’ll pack tomorrow, and get on the road Tuesday.”

My hands trembled as I picked up a note pad by the phone and used Nikki’s red crayon to write capital N, capital O, exclamation point!

Wesley responded by ripping my phone from the wall, then holding a gun at my throat until I promised to accompany him back to El Paso. And marry him. Who could turn down that proposal?

On Sunday Wesley used Nikki as hostage, making me pack belongings while he sat on my sofa watching sitcoms.
Love American Style
, indeed. Wherever he went, he kept Nikki within reach. Shortly after my Nova keys went missing on Monday, Wesley forced me to close my bank account. Guns are highly persuasive. When he took Nikki along to rent a U-Haul, I briefly attempted to reconnect my ripped phone cord before running to a nearby pay phone. Ellen wasn’t home. I called Mother collect.

A.J. Foyt would’ve been impressed. Mother made the hour drive in forty-five minutes. When she knocked at my door and shouted my name, Nikki bolted from Wesley’s side. He grabbed me. I broke from his grasp, pushed Nikki into the bathroom and ordered her to lock the door. Instead of calling my name, Mother began a loud countdown threatening to call the police when she reached five. On her count of three Wesley opened the door, and she rushed inside displaying a forceful demeanor I had never seen in her. Wesley fell back on his acting career. So ingratiating he could’ve persuaded a Mormon to drink coffee with whiskey and denounce Joseph Smith, Wesley laughed as he told us there were no bullets in the gun. Then he audaciously attempted to convince Mother that he and I belonged together. Okay. Maybe I was a bit emotionally unstable, but this guy was every psychiatrist’s wet dream.

“Unearth her car keys.” My meek, docile, mother interrupted his diatribe.

Wesley dragged my keys from his pants pocket. Mother yanked them from his hand. “We’re heading to Lake Jackson and if you ever come near
this family again, you’d better have bullets in your gun. Because I’ll have ‘em in mine, and I’ll blow your brains across Texas.”

You can’t buy memories like that! I gained new respect for my mild-mannered mother who’d turned Superwoman before my eyes.

Nikki and I spent a week in Lake Jackson before heading back to Houston to meet movers who would put our belongings in storage, while we resumed life with Ellen. Being alone was not an option. When I opened the door to an empty apartment, Nikki shrieked and I almost lost my lunch. The psychopath had taken everything we owned, from our sofa to my sweet baby girl’s hair ribbons. Materialistic things meant nothing, but losing Nikki’s favorite doll and baby photos crushed me. I held Nikki in my arms as we sat on the floor and cried.

After a month of turning down minimum wage jobs, I rang Kat. She couldn’t contain her excitement when I asked about returning to the Jewel Box. “Beau’s gonna be tickled.”

Ellen didn’t seem anywhere near tickled, but agreed to watch Nikki when I told her about returning to my
restaurant
gig. “I’ll only stay overnight with Kat until I can make enough money to buy a better car,” I promised my sister while kissing Nikki’s cheek.

“You’re the best mommy ever.” Nikki stuck her gooey lollipop in my mouth.

Toddlers are so naïve.

Four nights and nine hundred bucks later, I hoped the weekend crowd would propel me closer to the driver’s seat of a Ford Mustang. Next goal was to sock away enough money to support us through our future, which I dreamed included owning a home, continued education, and my own business. As in childhood years, I dreamed often, choosing fantasy over reality. Escapism helped me make it through some awful nights. Kat continually assured me things would get easier and I would adjust, but I couldn’t calm down. Thank heaven for Phenaphen. My pain had lost intensity, but I appreciated the dream-state offered by my meds. The Jewel Box unnerved
me, especially when a shortage of dancers meant removing my sheer lingerie top, stepping onto the round stage and attempting to dance. I felt sure everyone could hear the fierce pounding of my heart—even over the blaring jukebox.

“Thank you Mr. Gaye,” I mumbled as Marvin sang
Grapevine’s
ending line. I then scurried to the dressing room with sweat pouring profusely from every pore of my body, trickling into the glue now barely holding pasties over my nipples. Blotting perspiration with a clean, damp bar towel, I was reapplying glue when Kat rushed in.

“C’mon, cutie. Three dancers just walked in followed by Al and Gabe. I told ‘em you’re back and those guys are dying to see you.”

“Hallelujah.” I checked myself in the wall-to-wall mirror before following Kat out. Through a packed house, I could hear Al calling my name from across the room. I looked upward into the noisy crowd of Friday night customers and saw my favorite guys sitting at their usual table. Kat delivered their drinks as I bounced up the two steps to the elevated area near the bar to say hello. It had been weeks since I last saw them and I actually missed these partners.

Smiling and standing up, Al exclaimed in high nasal pitch, “It’s good to have you back. We sure missed you.” Then he reached out and gave me a hug and quick kiss on the cheek. Al had given me pecks on the cheek before, but tonight it felt especially comforting. “Your hair has really grown,” he commented with a grin. “You look great.”

“Thank you.” I patted Al’s shoulder. In spite of the surroundings and our bad start, these two guys always made me feel at ease. It was going to be a good night.

Not frowning, but not beaming like his partner, Gabe stood awaiting his obligatory hug, and said, “Welcome back, Blondie,” while reaching forward. As he leaned forward and as I turned, somehow instead of his lips touching my cheek, they were against my mouth. Ohmigod. We were touching lips. The cardinal sin Kat and Beau warned me against was echoing in my head: “Never, never let men kiss you on the lips.”

Too late. Our lips were together. His lips felt wonderfully soft against mine and the gentleness of his kiss went everywhere, making me weak and breathless. My body seemed to be floating in mid-air in some strange, sort of dreamlike state; weightless, formless, yet fully aware of my being. Gabe
ended the kiss and opened his eyes as I opened mine. We stood staring at each other, not saying a word.

“Huh hummmm.” Al loudly cleared his throat, having noticed our mouth-to-mouth. Gabe hurriedly pulled out a chair, and somewhat shyly, asked me to join them.

I sat down, trembling. I had never felt so odd.

“You okay?” Gabe asked, The Chi-Lites crooning
Oh Girl
in the background.

My head nodded yes as I lowered my eyes and noticed every hair on my arms standing on end.

“So you ran off to places unknown,” Al interjected, noticing the awkwardness between Gabe and me.

“Uh, yes. But I’m back for good and won’t be leaving again anytime soon.” I swallowed, attempting to continue, “Uuh. . . can I get you guys another drink?” Looking at their full beers, I felt slightly foolish and for the first time in years, completing a sentence was difficult. I looked at Gabe and felt discernible panic brewing. Did he notice my reaction to his kiss? Did he feel what I felt? Why had I felt anything? And why with this guy, of all people?

“You can’t be our waitress tonight,” Gabe said softly, raking hair from his forehead with his hand. “Laura’s going to wait on us and you’re going to sit and drink cocktails. If you’d like.”

“Oh,” I muttered, feeling dazed.

Interpreting my open syllable as acceptance, Gabe began rambling about my being a vagabond voyager or something. My head was spinning as though I’d taken one Phenaphen too many, but tonight I hadn’t taken any. What was happening here? The loquacious one was fumbling for words, while Gabe the mute was talking a blue streak.

“Katie. . . oops sorry.
Laura.
” I touched her arm. “Please tell Beau I’d like a real cocktail, not a Kool-Aid one. Gabriel wants me to sit for a minute.”

She raised an eyebrow at my request, and then echoed, “Gabriel?”

I hadn’t realized I’d called Gabe, Gabriel and words escaped me as I scraped away a coat of cherry blossom pink polish from my thumbnail.

“We’re paying Blondie to sit here,” Gabriel said calmly, apparently detecting my inability to speak.

“Well, only for a few minutes.” Laura batted her lashes and smiled brightly. “Then I’ll need her help. In case no one’s noticed, this joint’s jumping!”

Sitting quietly in a semi-cognizant state, I watched Gabriel douse another cigarette as Al sat flapping his moustache to some dancer he asked to join our table. The dancers made tips while dancing and profits from cocktails bought by customers. “Men gladly pay a buck and a half for a few minutes of company,” Beau told me on my first day. The tiny drinks were served in “mock crystal” martini glasses and consisted of nothing stronger than Kool-Aid. “The bar keeps fifty cents from each cocktail, the girls keep a dollar, and General Foods gets richer. I rarely serve liquor to girls ‘cause I have to watch their consumption. I don’t need drunk dancers passing out or puking in their purses instead of selling cocktails.” Beau also launched my love of peppermint schnapps and 7 Up, a refreshing girlie toddy that gave me minty breath throughout the evening as I sipped a short one for hours. Hard liquor slowed me and affected my tips, so I usually abstained. If a customer offered, I thanked him, took my Kool-Aid cocktail tableside, knocked it back while placing my hand on his shoulder, and left to make more tips. Easy way to add fifty bucks to my nightly take.