Slow Squeeze (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 8

  The host’s expression changed from skeptical to surprised.

  “This was my dear sister’s favorite place. It would make me feel like she’s still here with me.” Barbie pressed the bills into the host’s hand and closed his fingers around them. “This is just a li’l somethin’ to compensate you for your trouble.”

  The host slipped the cash into his pants pocket.

  Barbie touched her eye. “I’m so glad you understand.”

  The host slyly looked over his shoulder at the hostess, who was showing a couple to their table on the other side of the restaurant. He pointed to a corner table that a busboy was just setting with fresh linens and grabbed three menus. “Quick, before I get busted.”

  “Thank you ever so. I’ve always heard that Los Angle-lees was a friendly town.”

  “Right.”

  Barbie quickly walked over to Iris and Art. “Follow me.” They did.

  Once they were seated, the host handed them menus. “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said to Barbie.

  She sadly looked up at him. “Thank yew.”

  “Can I take your coat?”

  Barbie slid off her fur and handed it to the host, who walked to the coatrack holding it away from him as if he were carrying a dead rat.

  “Your sister?” Art asked.

  She patted Art’s hand. “Sugar, a sad ol’ story sweetened with a li’l honey. Find your weak link and pour it on.”

  “I’m impressed,” Art said.

  “The woman gets what she wants,” Iris said.

  Barbie nodded. “Ain’t that the name of the game?”

  A waiter came over. “Hello, my name is William and I’ll be your server tonight.”

  “William!” Barbie exclaimed. “Ain’t there any plain ol’ Bills in this town?”

  William smiled condescendingly. “Would you care for anything to drink?”

  “Champagne!” Barbie jumped up a little, like a cork popping. “To celebrate with my friends.”

  “I’ll bring you the wine list.”

  “I’m sure whatever you bring will be just fine, Billy,” Barbie said.

  “Something dry,” Iris said.

  “Something dry,” William repeated as dryly as the champagne they ordered. He turned to walk away, making a face before his back was completely to them.

  Barbie opened her menu. “Duck sausage? Now why the heck is duck sausage on every menu in this town? What kind of half-wit would make sausage out of a duck anyway? And rabbit? That’s what the poor folks ate where I come from. We came all the way across town for this?”

  “It’s California cuisine, ma chérie,” Iris said. “They have some things that are less…exotic.”

  “How about a burger?” Art asked.

  “Here’s one,” Iris offered, “with goat cheese and cranberry-pineapple salsa.”

  Barbie closed her menu, leaned her elbows on it, and rested her head in her palms. She looked around the restaurant.

  “See any more stars, Barbie?” Iris asked.

  “I think I seen that gal over there in a TV commercial, but that’s about it.”

  A waiter served food to the people at the next table. Barbie turned to see what they’d ordered. The plate in front of one of the women held a cardboard container with parsley, spinach leaves, and steamed baby vegetables on the side.

  “What the heck is she eatin’?”

  “That’s from her diet plan,” Iris said. “She brought her own food.”

  “I guess you’re better off bringin’ your own food.” Barbie leaned her head on her palm and drummed the porcelain nails of her other hand on the table, the tapping muted by the tablecloth. “You know, this place ain’t such a big deal after all.”

  “It’s kind of stuck-up, if you ask me,” Art said.

  “Well, we might as well talk about my ideas for your portfolio.” Iris reached down to get her briefcase.

  Barbie swatted the air. “Honey, I’m too depressed to talk about that right now.”

  “You want to go to a place where we can dance?” Art asked.

  Barbie brightened. “Yeah. Let’s dance!”

  “A real L.A. place?”

  “Yeah! Let’s have some fun!”

  “Iris?”

  Iris slid her briefcase from her lap and set it back on the floor. “Sure. We could be having a lot more fun at these prices.”

  William brought the champagne and expertly freed the cork with only the smallest pop. He started to pour the champagne into flute glasses that he’d placed in front of them, but Barbie quickly put her hand over the top of her glass. William tipped the bottle up right before any spilled out and gave Barbie a tight-lipped look.

  “We gotta go, Billy. We’ll take the champagne and these three glasses too. A hundred bucks cover it?” Barbie didn’t wait for William to answer. She reached inside her bag, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and held it toward William. He looked at it as if she were handing him a cockroach. Barbie tipped the bill up and down in his direction and waited. He reluctantly took it. Barbie stood, grabbed the bottle of champagne by the neck, and scooped up the flutes in her other hand.

  “Let’s go, kids.” She sashayed through the restaurant, swinging the bottle in one hand and the champagne flutes, held upside down by their stems so that they rang musically, in the other.

  Iris and Art looked at each other. They scrambled out of their chairs.

  Barbie turned back. “Arturo, please get my coat.”

  When Barbie had walked out of earshot, Iris said, “Arturo, madam would like her coat.”

  “Shaddup,” Art said. He walked to the coatrack and retrieved the coat. A woman sitting at another table hissed at the fur as he walked out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Club Estrellado was far from the fashionable west end of Sunset Boulevard. There it met the ocean after wending through pine-covered hills and past the lush, rolling lawns of gated estates. There the ocean breeze kept the temperature comfortably constant during summer. Club Estrellado was at the beginning of the boulevard, too far east of Hollywood to have even some of that notorious, sleazy charm. This part of town had never been chic. It was flat and hot and all available space had been developed and asphalted many years before. Mostly Mexicans and Central Americans lived in the small stucco houses, making livings as gardeners, housekeepers, busboys, and mechanics and saving money so that the next generation would have more.

  Art found a parking place on the street across from the club. Iris waited for Barbie to get out so she could maneuver herself from the backseat of the two-door Mustang, and Barbie waited until Art came around and opened the door for her. She flung her leg out and grunted as she stepped onto the high sidewalk from the low car, holding a champagne glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. She walked across the street to the front of the club, the back of her fox swaying.

  Art offered his hand to Iris as she squeezed from behind the front bucket seat, holding her empty champagne glass.

  “I can’t believe you drove across town with people drinking booze in your car,” Iris said.

  “Lighten up, Iris. Have some fun.”

  “An open-container violation is fun?”

  “I’m the one who’s driving, okay?”

  Iris reached back into the car for her briefcase.

  “C’mon, Iris. Leave it alone.”

  She coolly looked at him. “Barbie and I were meeting tonight to discuss business.”

  “Well, things have changed. Go with the flow. Don’t be so uptight.”

  “That’s tough talk from a guy who’d crawl naked over broken glass to land a client like Barbie.” Iris grabbed her briefcase and shoved it toward him. “Lock it in the trunk. I don’t want it to get stolen.” She walked across the street.

  Music wafted from the club—shallow bongos, sharp, skin-tight timbales, mellow congas, and sassy trumpets. Two young Latinos were standing on the sidewalk, smoking. They both wore dark slacks, thick belts with big silver buckles, thin-soled boot
s, and lightweight, western-style, long-sleeved shirts with the top buttons open. One was short and wiry and wore a gold medallion and chain around his neck. The other one was taller and not as thin. He smoked his cigarette by holding it between two fingers, palm up, then putting his palm to his face take a drag. Both of them shamelessly eyed Barbie then lavished the same attention on Iris after she had crossed the street.

  “Good evening,” Barbie said.

  They smiled and said “Good evening” in accented English.

  Art and Iris walked up next to Barbie. Art said, “Buenas noches.”

  “Buenas,” Iris offered.

  “Ooohh, Spanish,” Barbie said. “What’s it mean?”

  “Good evening,” Art shrugged.

  “Buenas noches,” Barbie tried inelegantly. The two men responded in Spanish, smiling even more broadly than before. Barbie beamed back. “How fun. I’ve never met real Mexicans before.”

  The shorter man spoke to Art in Spanish. Art responded and the men laughed.

  “Whatcha talkin’ about?”

  “He says they’re not Mexican. They’re from Guatemala. They offered to help me out since I have more women than I can handle. I said I’ll wave a handkerchief if I need them.”

  Barbie shimmied her shoulders with the music, the fox coat slipping down. “This is gonna be fun. Let’s toast!” She filled her glass from the champagne bottle and held the bottle toward Iris.

  “Here on the sidewalk?” Iris asked.

  “Boy, you’re straight,” Art said.

  Iris pursed her lips, glanced around for any cops, then let Barbie pour champagne into her glass.

  Barbie filled Art’s glass, then held hers high in the air. “To the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  “To a beautiful friendship,” Art raised his glass.

  “For the second time,” Iris said. They looked at her quizzically. “Your Casablanca toast.”

  “Good Lord, you’re right.” Barbie smiled, “Someone else make a toast. I ain’t got any imagination.”

  “To money,” Art offered.

  “A man after my own heart.”

  “To money,” Iris said. They toasted and drank. “Unfashionable, but honest.”

  Barbie topped off their glasses, “The folks who say you shouldn’t want it never had a prayer of gettin’ it anyway. When you had nothin’ for as long as I did, you want everything you can get and for as long as you can get it.”

  “Here, here,” Art agreed. “You want money, Iris. If you didn’t, then why work as hard as you do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been working so hard for so long, I forget why I do it.”

  “I want to write my own ticket, not have to answer to the man,” Art said. “Like my uncle. He owns this club.”

  “Really?” Barbie and Iris chimed. They looked at the facade of the club again as if they were seeing it for the first time.

  “He works his butt off, but it’s all his. That’s my dream too.”

  “Is he here?” Iris asked.

  “Probably not. He makes his own hours, see? Calls the shots.”

  “How long has he owned it?” Barbie was bouncing her shoulders with the music.

  “About fifteen years. It used to be a Mexican restaurant. My uncle worked here as a cook after he and my dad came from Mexico. When the family who owned it wanted to retire, my uncle got together the money to buy it. He put in live music and a dance floor and it really took off. He made the last payment a few years ago.”

  Art looked at the building nostalgically. “I worked a lot of summers here. When I was little, I worked at my dad’s market in the neighborhood. When I got old enough, I came here so’s I could earn tips.”

  “You ever think about going in with your uncle?” Iris asked.

  “Yeah, but I’ve got bigger plans. I tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to end up like Sam Gold. Making cold calls his whole life, taking care of his little client book until he’s old enough to retire.”

  “I don’t think he’s had a bad life,” Iris said.

  “It’s not for me. I want to make it big-time. Not just for me but for my family. I’m the first one to graduate from college. I’m a role model for the kids.”

  “Do the kids go with those street gangs?” Barbie asked, wide-eyed.

  “Nah. We’re pretty middle-class. Everyone goes to school or works.” Art shrugged. “Nothing crazy.”

  “You have any brothers or sisters?” Iris sipped her champagne.

  “I’ve got an older sister. She’s just a housewife.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Barbie said.

  “Yeah, but my family settles for so little. They get their little store, little club, little job, little family, everything in the neighborhood, then they sit back and cruise. No one wants to make it big-time.” Art jabbed his index finger into his chest. “Except me.”

  A group of young women in short, shiny dresses with their hair ratted high walked down the sidewalk. One of the men who was smoking outside held open the door for them.

  Art continued, “I thought the securities industry would be my ticket to the next level, but I’m not gonna be able to get the dough I need within the system.”

  “Why not?” Iris asked.

  “Because the Anglo man’s got too firm a hold. I’m already hitting the ceiling.”

  “I agree that it’s a white man’s world, Art, but it’s changing. You can make your mark.”

  “Maybe I’m out of line, Iris, but you should talk. You’ve done well and all, but you should be manager. Everyone knows it. Look what they did instead. They brought Oz out from New York.”

  Iris set her jaw. “They made the right decision. The firm needed an experienced manager in L.A. I’ll get my turn.”

  “When? When you’re forty? I don’t want to wait until my life’s half over before I get anywhere.”

  Iris laughed. “I’m almost there now, baby cakes. Trust me, there is life after thirty.”

  Barbie topped off Art’s glass and held the bottle toward Iris.

  She put her hand over her glass. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Barbie topped off her own glass and set the empty bottle on the sidewalk. “I’ll drink to life after thirty. Hell, even forty. Fifty!”

  Iris and Barbie tapped their glasses together.

  “You know what was the best time in my life so far?” Art didn’t expect a response. “High school. High school was great. I was captain of the football team, quarterback, got all the best girls, everyone knew me, everyone was my friend. I’d walk across campus and people would turn and stare.” He gazed down the street at nothing. “It was great.”

  “I was a troll in high school,” Iris said.

  Barbie grinned, “Hell, I never made it past the eighth grade. Kids made fun of me ‘cause all I had was hand-me-downs. And I sure weren’t no beauty queen.”

  “To getting out of high school,” Iris said.

  Iris and Barbie clinked their glasses together again.

  “Just go ahead and make fun. It was a taste of what I know I can achieve. Talking about Oz”—Art laughed bitterly at the sidewalk—“I told you I was gonna make a play for Sam’s accounts today? Oz tells me he’s got ‘em all split up already.”

  “How many?” Iris asked.

  Art held up two fingers.

  “Just two?”

  Art nodded. “The big ones are going to you and Drye, which I figured.”

  “You didn’t figure that when I talked to you this morning.”

  Art ignored her comment. “Guess who got most of the rest?”

  “Sean Bliss.”

  “See, you know the score, Iris. I told Oz, ‘It’s because you and Sean’s father are buddies.’” Art’s posture was rigid.

  “Sounds like you’re tellin’ it like it is, Arturo,” Barbie said.

  “I told him all right.”

  The men who’d been standing outside the club finished their cigarettes and went inside.

>   “How did he respond?” Iris asked.

  Art straightened, smoothed his tie, and pulled down the corners of his mouth, affecting a stuffy pose. “I have two suggestions for you, Arthur. One, lose your attitude. Two, pay your dues.”

  “Not bad advice.”

  Art looked at Iris incredulously. “Lose my attitude? Take the crumbs and be a nice, quiet Mexican?”

  “C’mon, Art. We all know that Dexter is good friends with Bliss’s father. That’s the way of the world. He’s not after you because you’re Chicano.”

  “He may not be after me, but he doesn’t think of me as a player either. Today clinched it. It’s crystal clear now.” Art paced a few tight steps back and forth on the sidewalk. “I should just go for my dream.”

  “What’s that?” Iris asked.

  “Opening my own club.”

  “We’re out of champagne and all this talk’s making me thirsty,” Barbie said. “I figure they serve drinks in there?”

  “Only the best kick-ass margaritas in town. Ladies.” Art put an arm around each of the women’s shoulders. Barbie slid hers around Art’s waist. They walked toward the entrance.

  “What’s the club’s name mean, Arturo?” Barbie asked.

  “It means the club that’s covered with stars.”

  “Club Estra-yell-do,” Barbie said. “Sounds sexy.”

  Art removed his arm from around Iris and opened the painted, black steel door, which was lined with tuck-and-roll red vinyl on the inside. Music and cigarette smoke flooded out. The place was packed. A ten-piece combo with lots of brass and percussion was crammed onto a small corner stage in front of the dance floor. There was hardly room to stand, but the men spun the women out and around, then close and tight, sliding their hips side to side in time with the sinewy rhythm.

  “Hey, Tiny!” Art shook the hand of a massive bouncer who was sitting on a stool just inside the front door.

  Tiny had receding black hair brushed straight back from his forehead and a deep M-shaped hairline. His moustache grew in two long tails down either side of his round face. When he smiled, the sides of the moustache rose like quotation marks and his high, round cheekbones squeezed his small eyes into slits. “The quarterback!” He playfully punched Art in the ribs. “How’s it going, hombre?”