Tequila Dirty

by Mickey J Corrigan

  He shrugged, took a sip of my drink, made a face. “So, what’s with that sleazeball, anyway? He paid me twenty bucks for information about you I’da told him for free.” I gave him a hard look, and Chito said, “Just name, marital status, whether you’re a regular. Nothing more, I swear it, Rita.”

  When I shook my head the room spun. Big mouth Chito’d do anything for a dollar. “Jeezus,” I said, “TMI. All that’s way too much info to be handing out to a stranger. What if he turned out to be a cop or a private dick or something? Don’t you big city folk know to keep your damn mouths shut?”

  He laughed at that. “Big city, right. Well, he don’t smell like the law, that’s for sure. He smells like someone running away from it. He’s kind of a creep, seems like. Hope he don’t come back.”

  I agreed just so I could get my ass out of there and stumble on home. Which I did and, after a hot bath with a long foot soak, I took a handful of aspirin and smelly B-vitamins. Hangover cure. Me, thinking ahead. I fell into bed.

  Am I telling you more than you want to hear? Maybe so, but it’s all gonna be important. You need to know I’m the victim here, not some hardcore criminal.

  Chapter Two

  I had Sunday off so I slept late. After three cups of black coffee and a couple more aspirin, I called the number Ruben had printed on the back of his crisp business card, right under “room 109.”

  He answered like this, “Hey, baby. You ready to rock and roll?”

  What planet was this guy from? I swear to god, I almost puked up Screw Jobs and coffee. Instead, I burst out laughing. He accused me of being full of you wow? Please.

  “Someone’s in a good mood today,” he mused. “Want to come by so’s I can tell you exactly how you’re gonna get rich?”

  I pulled on a pair of jean cutoffs and a V-neck tee. My hair was a mess, but I didn’t want to take the time so I pulled it up in a ponytail. I brushed my teeth and splashed cold water on my face. Then I left for the KK Suites.

  You know that place, right? Course you do. Everybody in Oxard County knows the KK. Scene of the baddest bachelor parties, the wildest frat bashes, the most likely to get busted high school blasts. Home of the Crusty Sheets. Pay by the Hour, Stay for Less. This is not a classy place. Knowing that was where he was staying, I’d already adjusted my opinion of Ruben downward, assigning him to a much lower rung on the econ ladder. A doctorate in pharmacy? I don’t think so. A ninety-dollar mail-order degree, maybe. Still, the promise of a major money influx kept me on his lure.

  After I rolled down all the windows in my un-air-conditioned VW, I scooted over to the motel. I parked in the lot, which was empty of cars and studded with shards from hundreds of broken beer bottles. I got out of my rusted up crapper car and stood on the hot asphalt. I really didn’t want to end up in a compromising position with old Ruben. Forget knocking on the door to 109. Let him come chat me up out here, where I felt safe.

  Safer, at least.

  A stiff ocean breeze flipped my ponytail from side to side. You could smell the brine, the clammy stink of low tide a few miles to the east. I leaned against somebody’s Vietnam era army jeep while I redialed the number. Ruben didn’t pick up.

  “Pick up, pick up, asshole,” I said.

  He appeared in the doorway to one of the first floor rooms, his phone cradled against his ear. Like he knew I was out there trying to call, but he was talking to somebody more important than me. He beckoned, frowning, then ducked back inside, leaving the door ajar.

  All he had on was a pair of boxers. And yes, they were ironed, starched stiff and evenly pleated.

  This is no bullshit. I’m going on the record with my side of the story here. These are the details of my ruin. See, I’m one of those people who just hate to be edited. So if you’re gonna make me talk about it, be sure you get the whole thing damn straight.

  Telling this to you now brings me right back into it.

  The motel room was stuffy, thick black shades drawn tight. I stood in the doorway for a minute, contemplating my best move. Ruben was still on the phone, pacing back and forth around the king-size beds. Two kings in every room. That’s why the name, King Kong Suites. Really, I am not making this up. We’re talking about marketing genius, here.

  Not.

  I stood there, watching him. He was not trustworthy. He was not attractive. He had no class. Still, I didn’t turn around and flee.

  “Okay, fine,” Ruben said to whoever he had on the line. “Four o’clock sounds good. She’ll see you then.” He grinned, looking me up and down. “No, no. Thank you, sir.”

  I didn’t like the way he was checking me out. Like he was on safari, and I was endangered game.

  He tossed the cell on one of the beds. “You gonna stand there letting all the AC drain out? We got work to do before you meet my guy at four.”

  In the daylight in his underwear, he seemed like something I could handle easily. He looked older than I’d thought, older and scrawnier. I stepped inside and closed the door. He pulled on a pair of pressed slacks, but not before I had the chance to check out his legs. Pale as his face, definitely not native skin.

  “Where’re you from, anyway?” I asked Ruben.

  “I’m from Mars, okay? That’s all you gotta know about me, so stop right there.” He was buttoning up his wrinkle-free guayabera shirt. I wandered into the room and started poking around, looking for a hidden wife. Nobody in the bathroom, no dresses hanging in the closet. “You got a nose problem?” he asked, annoyance creeping into his voice.

  “No, I got no problem,” I lied. I had lots of problems, actually, but they were minor ones. Course, that was then. Now? Well, now I got big problems.

  “So what do I have to do at four?” I asked my new mentor. And how am I sure you’ll pay up afterwards? is what I was thinking.

  I plopped down on the end of one of the beds while he ran a comb though his thick surfer hair. Absolutely his best feature, but nothing could make this guy handsome. His face was like a plate full of grits. He had his back to me, but I watched him watch me watching him in the mirror. His light eyes were calculating, his smile as plastic as his dollar store comb. You’d think I would have admitted to myself that I was dealing with a shark. No such luck.

  “Here’s the deal, babycakes,” he said and I tittered. He talked like the loser bad guys in those corny gangster movies set in the 1940s. “You meet Mr. Finestein in his hotel room. He’s at the Beach Club in a luxury suite. You two get cozy, you chat, you have drinks. Okay so far?”

  He was still staring at me in the mirror so I nodded, smiled. So far it all seemed easy enough.

  “You tell him you’re hungry. You want some appetizers. Pâté, little bacon-wrapped scallops, coconut shrimps?” He set his comb on top of the TV. “You call me while he’s on the phone, ordering room service. See, we’ll put me on speed dial so you can pocket dial me. Hand me your cell.”

  I gave it to him, and he set himself up, then said, “Hold down one, you’ll get me.”

  He gave the phone back and returned to the mirror. Admiring himself, puffing up. Jeezus, what a creep. “You call while he orders. Five minutes later, there’s a knock. He thinks it’s the food. You go, ‘That was fast!’ and you make sure you’re the one to answer the door, let room service in.”

  Ruben had opened a long-neck bottle of Brut and was splashing it on his neck. The smell was pungent, antiseptic. “Room service by Ruben,” he said. “That’s me. At your service, doll face.”

  He grinned at me in the mirror, then bent forward to dab some kind of grease on his lips. Sunblock, maybe. It smelled like coconut and, along with the cologne, was really stinking up the room. The combination was nauseating. Ruben was taking longer than I did to get ready. You’d think he was the one had the date coming up.

  “To get him to order the food, you’ll have to work him a little, you know? He’s sort of a stiff, this guy. Has a nice wife, nice Jew kids with those round hats and everything. He’s not used to hookers, which is why this whol
e caper will work.”

  Caper? Maybe Ruben was from another planet. Planet of the throwbacks. Jeezus, caper? And me a hooker? Whoa.

  When I started to say something, defend myself, Ruben turned around and gave me a look that was half compliment, half leer. “After we met last night, I knew it would work. You’re perfect, babe. He’ll take one look and buy that you’re there to service, then I’ll come right on up to save your cute ass. Okay?” He frowned, his gritty face darkening. “But remember, he’s a tough old bird. I hadda talk him into indulging in this little sex vacation, so he may be stand-offish with you at first.”

  He perched on the edge of the other bed so that we faced one another. “Here’s the deal, babycakes.” His nostrils flared when he got enthusiastic, which made him look like a blond racehorse. “Finestein has this lambskin suitcase. Like yay big.” He held up his hands to indicate briefcase size. “What he owes me? It’s in there. You let me into the room, I grab the case, we both leave.”

  Grinning now, he leaned back on the bedspread, careful not to muss his pants. Maybe the guy wasn’t married. Maybe he was OCD, a compulsive nut job. “Finestein won’t call the cops. He can’t. What’s he gonna say, my supplier stole my supply?”

  Ruben threw back his head and laughed. He brayed, is what he did. I didn’t join in. I was starting to think about potential fuck-ups. What if the guy jumped my bones soon as I walked in the door? What if he said no to the drinks, no to the food? What if he was some kind of kink monster?

  I’d wait on Mr. Finestein’s table, but he wasn’t going to get under the table cloth. No way. So I’d have to keep him at bay while convincing him he wanted me to stick around, chatting, sipping cocktails, and eating overpriced appetizers. Somehow, I’d have to hold his interest until Ruben arrived. Not a simple plan, not for me. I’m kind of a loner, see, and if I like a man, I just get right down to it. I’m not into small talk. It’s not my strong suit.

  “What’d you tell him about me?” I asked Ruben. “He think I’m a professional, an escort date, a fifty-dollar blowjob?”

  Ruben scowled. “Hey. Watch it. Don’t be crude like that around Mr. Finestein. He won’t go for it. Just be friendly and sexy, you’ll do fine.”

  Now I frowned. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t going to be on the front line in a tight pair of jean shorts. “I’ll do my part, but how do I know you’ll pay me afterwards?”

  Ruben jumped up and was on me before I’d even realized he was angry. He crushed me to the bed, pressing me down until I could feel his pounding heartbeat against my own. His cologne was giving me a goddamn headache. First, he forced my mouth open with his fingers until he had hold of my tongue, then he pinched it and pulled at it until I screamed. Not much volume, just a yelp of protest. But he slapped his hand over my mouth anyway. “Shut the fuck up, Rita. Just shut your fuckin’ face.”

  I shut up. His eyes were like ice chips in a glass of vodka. The blue was so mild, it was almost washed out. His gritsy face had gone red. He looked psychopathic.

  He whispered at me, his breath hot and minty. He must have brushed his teeth right before I arrived. “You need to take this seriously. Very seriously. Or else I’ll have to find another girl who wants to make ten grand by shaking her ass at a rich old man. There’s probably a dozen hot chicks out on the beach right now. Lying around in six dollar bikinis, bored and willing.”

  He was right, of course, so I nodded my head and raised my eyebrows to communicate my apologies. Even though I wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong. I was sorry, because I wanted the money so bad I could taste it. The thought of some other girl, some silly beach slut, getting my money? It was too much to bear. I decided right then I was willing to do what it took to earn my share.

  How stupid was I? You can answer that question, can’t you? Very goddamn stupid.

  Chapter Three

  Ruben asked me if I had any makeup in my purse so we could fix my face. I didn’t, so he shrugged. “Maybe Finestein likes the natural look. You do have an all-American thing goin’, Rita.”

  He’d removed his hand and rolled off me. Like the kiss, his burst of violence seemed choreographed. A martial arts move, something he relied on to throw his opponents. Less passionate than strategic. At least, that’s how it felt to me.

  I didn’t want to be Ruben Drake’s opponent. I didn’t want to be his anything.

  He stood over me, examining my body for flaws, I guess. “The outfit is perfect, gotta say. Daisy May Does Dallas. Or should I say, Daisy Mayhem?”

  He whinnied. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He brushed the front of his flowered shirt, pressing down the wrinkles he’d accumulated from wrestling with me. “You curious about the product, Rita? Wondering what a pharmacist like me can turn into thousands of crisp dollar bills, enough to pay you such a generous cut?”

  I didn’t dare nod. Was yes the wrong answer? Was no? I sat up, silent.

  “I’ll tell you, baby doll. Dr. Drake is in the pain business. I help those who suffer. I make their pain go away.”

  When he snapped his fingers, I couldn’t help it. I flinched.

  “Like that.” He snapped again, and I jumped a little. “Ruben’s drugs work like a fuckin’ charm.”

  I’d heard about the pain clinics, dozens of them sprung up all of a sudden, all over the state. I knew about the dirty doctors and pharmacists who made big bucks peddling OxyContin, Ritalin, Xanax, all those kinds of pills. I’m not that brain-dead. I’d already figured out Ruben was a lowlife dealer.

  But for self-protection reasons, I played dumb. Something I’ve always been good at. “Is Mr. Finestein in pain?”

  Ruben snorted. “He don’t know what pain is, that guy. He’s a smug fucker, a spoiled bastard.”

  “So he has a suitcase full of pain meds he didn’t pay you for, and we’re going to get them back?”

  His chilly eyes skated over my face, checking for cracks in my mask. Seeing none, he said, “Exactly right, gorgeous. Once I get my supply back, I can sell it to any one of a thousand guys I do business with. You’ll get your paycheck, doll. No worries.”

  He wandered off to the bathroom. He didn’t bother to close the door so I sat there listening to him empty his bladder. A long, forceful, donkey-like piss. He grunted with satisfaction. It was disgusting, and I imagined it was the same sound he made in bed.

  He must have been thinking about the same thing. “I got this one med makes you wild as a monkey with a boner that just won’t quit,” he said over the sound of running water. “Better hope Finestein don’t take any of that before you get yourself over there to the Beach Club.”

  Of course, that was exactly the kind of thing I was worrying about at the time. I had no idea sex with a stranger could be the least of my problems. You understand this, right? I’m not perfect, I admit sometimes my judgment’s off. Especially when it comes to men and money. You can write that down in your notebook, too: Rita Deltone is a stupid, stupid woman.

  Ruben wanted to go over the plan, check me on it, test out speed dial, stuff like that. He made me tell him over and over, like twenty times, exactly what I was going to do when I was in that hotel room with Mr. Finestein. I laughed a couple times when he imitated the client. That’s what he called him, “the client.” Ruben can have a sense of humor, he really can. He even talked like a New Yorker, saying things like, “Waaant some cawffie, sweethawt,” and stuff similar. You know, the accent and all. I almost liked him when he was like that, joking around.

  We left for the Beach Club at three forty-five. Ruben made me follow him in my car. “In case something goes wrong,” was what he said. I must have looked scared when he said that because he joked, “What could go wrong, bubala?”

  I had to laugh.

  Ruben drove a vintage Cadillac convertible, baby blue with those giant fins at the back end. From like the 1960s, maybe the ’50s, I don’t know. I wished I was riding with him, that car was so goddamn beautiful. Sleek, like a dancer. It had California plates
, but I couldn’t tell you the number. If I’d known what I should’ve known, I would’ve memorized the damn thing. Like I said, I have a head for it. But only when I’m paying attention, which at the time I wasn’t. I was too nerved up about my date.

  It took less than five minutes to get to the nice part of the beach. East Dusky has its high points, it’s higher end spots. The Beach Club’s one of them.

  He slid that car into the hotel lot like he belonged there, like he was money. It’s all about looking like class for Ruben Drake. Looking like something he’ll never have, not with a ton of fake letters after his name, not with a million clinics worth a billion dollars. He’s one of those guys won’t never be anything more than he already is.

  I parked next to him in the lot. This one was shaded by royal palms and poinciana trees. No broken glass, only clean white sand scattered across black asphalt. Even the parking spaces were wider, the white lines straight, clear and true. A flock of green parrots with dark hoods flew overhead, squawking. You could hear the waves rolling in just beyond the little dunes. It actually smelled better, less briny, more crisp and salty.

  I followed Ruben up to the revolving glass doors. “Break a leg, bubala,” he whispered, and I blew him a kiss before entering the lobby alone.

  The air was chilled, the ceiling high, the expansive room bright and airy. Huge potted palms brought the tropics inside. The music was cheerful, watered down reggae. They were trying for island flavors, creating an exotic atmosphere. Probably to excuse their ridiculous room rates.

  Mr. Finestein was way up on the top floor in the Dragonfly Suite. I ignored the uniformed kids behind the front desk and acted like I knew where I was going, marching straight to the elevators. My flip-flops squeaked across the polished marble floors. A few people in swimsuits loitered around in the lobby. Nobody seemed to notice me. My heart was racing with a combination of nerves and guilt. I hadn’t even done anything yet, but I felt ashamed. Like it was obvious that I was a gold-digging ho.