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Strut
Copyright © 2011 by Susan DiPlacido
ISBN: 978-1-936394-60-9
Cover model-Dave Plesh of Run Devil Run
Cover Design by Fiona Jayde
Cover Photography by Sidney Morgan
http://www.sidneymorganphotography.com
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Strut
by
Susan DiPlacido
Chapter One
It’s another gorgeous day in L.A. That’s definitely one of the advantages of living here.
I was still young when we moved out here, but I was just old enough to have vivid memories of bitter cold days with snow piled high along the streets as cars had to trudge through slush and my toes would go numb, even though they were nestled inside faux shearling-lined boots.
I haven’t had to wear boots like that since the move. When Dad packed us up and headed for the Golden Coast, all winter attire was thankfully left behind. We didn’t come primarily for the weather. Dad didn’t mind winter. In fact, I think I recall he liked it. The shoveling, making snowmen, and pushing me and my mom on a rickety old sled didn’t seem like tasks he had to endure, but like activities he enjoyed. Then again, Dad enjoyed most everything, as long as me or Mom were involved.
Mom was a young chanteuse, singing torch songs at a corner jazz club when Dad met her and managed to sweep her off her feet. I came along, and though Mom never complained, Dad never gave up the dream for her. So he moved us out here, where he thought it’d only be a matter of time before she got her big break and became the star he thought she should be.
I was glad to trade in snow boots for flip-flops, so I adjusted extremely well to the move. Seemingly endless summer days never lost their appeal, and I never take them for granted. And Dad adjusted even better. His business back in Chicago as a pool installer was fairly lucrative for six months a year, but the other times he was relegated to driving a snowplow. He didn’t seem to miss the plowing at all, and the pool business in L.A. boomed. And Mom? Well, she never got that big break to become the big star that Dad hoped she would, but I guess that just makes us bona-fide Californians now. There has to be a few unrealized or broken dreams littering your past if you’re going to survive in this place.
I kick off my flip-flops and lean down, brushing my fingers through the water to test it. Naturally, it’s a perfect eighty-eight degrees. I grab a test strip and dunk it. Sure enough, the pH and chlorine is low because of how much water had to be added.
From behind me, I hear Rick. “What’s up, Boss?” he asks.
I stand up but don’t turn around to answer him. “You done at the Sorensen’s already?”
“They wanted us out,” he explains. “Got some big cocktail party tonight. We got the French drain finished and leveled the sand. We’ll pick up tomorrow. You’re not done yet?”
“Almost,” I say, slipping the used test strip in my shorts pocket. “Have to up the chemicals first. And I didn’t find a leak in the pipes but they’re losing a couple inches of water a day.”
“Check the main drain?” he asks.
I puff out some air. “Not yet.”
“I’ll grab the pH,” Rick offers.
“Thanks,” I say, but still linger where I’m standing.
“What’s the matter?” he prods. “Don’t feel like going down, huh?”
What he’s asking is why don’t I want to dive to bottom of the pool the check the main drain. But he specifically phrased it the way he did to try and make me bite on the comment. I briefly consider making his day by answering the way he wants. All the guys on the crew have been playing the “That’s What She Said” game lately. They even keep track and the guy with the most TWSS logged at the end of the day gets his beer bought for him. Frankly, I think it’s a cute game for them. But also frankly? Sometimes they really reach and the comments don’t make much sense. Rick just set me up nicely with that one, and I’m half grateful for it because he’s including me in the game. But I’m reticent enough to stick my tongue in my cheek, because I’m not so sure that I want to jump in like that. Technically, I’m not one of the guys.
So even though I was perfectly set up to score a point, I let it go and answer, “It’s the last call of the day. I’m going to get wet.” I want to bite back the words as I say them, but before I can even cringe, he outs with it.
“That’s what she said!” He nudges my shoulder with glee and I roll my eyes and shake my head.
I pull off my T-shirt and as I’m folding it, before shucking my shorts, I just say to Rick, “The pH?”
“Right, right,” he says. “I’ll get it up there.”
He turns and heads to the pool supply shed before I let the smirk out and whisper to myself, “And that’s what he said.”
Normally, I don’t mind diving in. In fact, it’s the best part of my job. I’d started working with my dad before I was even a teenager. He started me off letting me skim off the pools, but when he saw that I didn’t just slap the nets around and actually picked up all the dirt, he subsequently let me vacuum, and then scrub, and then fix leaks, and then fix pumps and filters. He was skittish to let me fool around with heaters for a long time because on more than one occasion, he’d lost some facial hair due to flare-ups. But eventually, he taught me. Before long, I was handling most of the maintenance while he started teaching me to design, dig, and build, too.
I always liked it. But it’s definitely a big advantage that once in a while, particularly on spectacularly sunny and warm days like this, I get to take a dip and dive into a bona-fide Beverly Hills mansion’s swimming pool.
It’s just that this particular pool is fifteen-feet deep with the main drain situated right at the center of the deep end, and even though I’m a good swimmer, it’s arduous to get that deep and stay down long enough to check around for problems. And I will be drippy to go home. But, I’m also quick to realize, since these amount to my complaints in life, I’ve got it pretty damn good. So I shuck off my shorts, and in I dive.
I get to the bottom on the first dive, but I can’t stay submerged long enough to check around the drain thoroughly. The second dive is no good either, and while I’m treading water to catch my breath, I see Rick waiting patiently with the bucket of pH.
“Just suck in a big one and once you’re down there, blow it out nice and slow,” he says, admirably keeping the smirk off his face.
“Sucking and blowing is not as easy as most guys think,” I answer.
“OH!” he says, but before he can get the next quip out, the devil gets in me and I lunge quickly, grab his ankle, and pull...hard. It works. He tumbles gracelessly into the pool, dropping the bucket of pH powder on the concrete, making a huge splash, coming up spitting water.
He
could be pissed about it, but he’s not. As he wipes his eyes and pushes wet ringlets of his dark hair off his forehead, he just says, “If you needed help, you could ask.”
“Pfft. I don’t need help. You just looked hot.”
“Really? I look hot to you, do I?”
I splash some water toward him. “Overheated hot, Rick. That’s all.”
“Sure,” is all he says in a mocking tone as he takes a dive under, going toward the drain.
I watch him kick down, suddenly wondering, do I think he’s hot? Sure, in a detached way, I always thought he was attractive. And marginally, sometimes, charming in a roguish way. But I work with a lot of nice, cool, and hot guys, but they never seem to get me sucked into the banter the way he does. Rick takes a few dives under but despite following his own suck-and-blow advice, he can’t make it to the drain. So I motion him aside, take a few deep breaths, and kick down as hard as I can. My ears even pop, but I make it to the drain and keep kicking as I start feeling around. Sure enough, I find a single pebble lodged at the valve and am able to wiggle it free as I feel my lungs start to burn. I make sure and grab hold of it and then kick back up, exhaling and surfacing seemingly just in time.
As I’m catching my breath, I see Mrs. Farris striding to the side of the pool. She’s actually a very cool lady. Not uptight and bitchy to her staff and service people like a lot of the other customers around here. But I still wouldn’t want her thinking that we’re taking a pleasure dip in her pool, so I hold up the pebble for her to see and explain. “I think I found the problem. This was holding a valve open and that’s where the water was leaking out. You should be good now.”
“That simple, Lisa?” she asks. I think it’s really nice that she even calls us by name.
“That simple. And that cheap.” Rick is already climbing out the steps at the shallow end and I make my way to the nearest ladder and climb out. “Took us a few dives to get down there,” I say, explaining why we were both in the pool.
“That is deep,” she agrees. Then, “Can I get you towels?”
“No, no thanks,” I tell her. I make it a point to never use any of the customers’ things. The last thing I want is to make more work or more of a mess for them, so I always make sure we’ve got a few towels and our own lunch.
But Mrs. Farris is polite, so she offers us drinks, her eyes quickly flicking up and down Rick’s body as he towels himself off. We both decline the beverages, and I explain to her that we’ll adjust the chemicals and then be on our way.
Rick handles the pH and I shock the pool to up the chlorine level, and as we’re headed to the van, I get a call from the Smithton-Moore household. They’re having trouble with their heater, so I agree to stop by before knocking off for the day. I tell Rick he can take the van with him if he needs to go and that I can bike it to their house and then home afterward. I know he’s often got after-hours engagements, but he says he’s free so he’ll drive me.
“Though I don’t exactly love going to that house,” he says.
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
Unlike Mrs. Farris, the Smithton-Moores are not particularly cool. They’re also in Beverly Hills, and they’re both in the business. He’s a high profile and hugely commercially successful director, and she’s an arguably even more successful producer. He is somewhat of a lech, and she’s somewhat of a bitch. Luckily, even though they’re signed up for three-time-a-week cleanings and maintenance, it’s rare we ever see them. But even their staff is generally snotty and often condescending. I feel a little bad for pulling Rick into the pool at the Farris house, so I tell him that he can wait in the van, but he declines and even grabs the tool bag and carries it for me.
When we get there, I think we’ve lucked out because it’s the butler, Herman, that greets us and then leads us out back to the pool area, explaining that he hasn’t been able to get the heater kicked on. But just as I get the front grate of the heater off, I hear Mrs. Moore’s heels clicking along the impeccably lovely marble hardscaping before I see her. Sure enough, when I turn to look, still hunched down in front of the heater, there are her impossibly striking stilettos.
The reason I recognize them is not only because they’re unmistakable, but also because she’s been wearing them the past five times I’ve seen her over the past six months. I find that odd, because shoes are almost a religion of their own out here, and though I’ll wear the same pair of flip-flops and sneakers for months on end, most of the Beverly Hills clientele change theirs more often than they change underwear. But these babies of Mrs. Moore’s are versatile. They’re a neutral dark grey with sexy straps around the ankles that are decorated with delicate and expensive-looking black rhinestones, and then some white ones that create a wavy pattern along the toes. They’re probably a little more fitting for night than daywear, but she pulls them off with white silk blouses and black skirts or pants.
Arms crossed, her one foot juts forward as she asks coldly, “What’s wrong with it?”
“Not sure quite yet. We just got here.”
“I had Herman call over twenty minutes ago.”
“We were finishing up another call. Let me take a look.”
She casts her eyes on Rick, inspecting his still damp hair while I reach inside and start checking connections. “Were you swimming?” she asks, sounding aghast at the idea of it.
“Not swimming,” he says. “We had to jump in the pool to get to the main drain.”
“What does that have to do with the heater?”
“Not here,” I tell her. “At another pool we had to jump in.”
“I hope you didn’t drip water across the foyer rug when you entered.”
“No Ma’am,” I answer her. “We dried off.”
Mrs. Moore, she sniffs. Seriously.
Then, she goes, “That explains what took you so long to come.”
I glance at Rick at that ripe for TWSS comment, praying that he’ll be able to control getting his cheap laughs for the sake of professionalism, and he does, mercifully remain silent, even though he turns his shoulders to face away from her and raises his eyebrows at me, making it obvious that he’s making a sacrifice.
After a few minutes of moderate inspection and tinkering, I determine that the problem isn’t only with the heater, but also the pump. It’s been overheating and causing the heater to shut down due to a lack of decent water pressure. It’s not a tragic situation, but I do think she’ll need to replace the pump soon, which doesn’t thrill Mrs. Moore one bit. By this time, her two dogs have joined her, both of them circling around her feet. They’re tiny creatures, and snippy, too. The one starts yipping at me, but I ignore him.
“I can get it installed in a couple days,” I tell her.
“Why not today?”
“I don’t have a pump on hand.”
“Why not?” she asks.
It’s a reasonable question, actually. But the answer is a bit embarrassing, and not one I want to admit. It’s because keeping expensive items in stock these days shortens up our cash flow. My dad had built a thriving business, and it’s not like I’ve run it into the ground since he passed away. However, the recent economic decline has affected even Los Angeles. Not as many people are getting pools installed, and plenty are cutting back on maintenance expenses right now, too. I’m still always keeping at least one crew busy building, but just five years ago, we always had at least three crews out at any given time. But we’re keeping our heads above water for the most part, so I consider us pretty lucky overall. But I still don’t want to tell Mrs. Moore about any of it. So I say, “This is a high-end model. Most customers don’t need one this powerful.”
As I figured, that answer appeases her. Slightly. She’s still not happy about the wait. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“This one will work fine if you keep bumping it down every couple of hours.”
“Who has time for that?” she demands. As if to agree with her, the smaller dog also barks at me.
Inst
ead of suggesting Herman, I dumbly offer, “It’ll be fine to turn it off tonight. I can stop by a couple times tomorrow to check on it.”
Mrs. Moore, she says, “But the water is already getting cold.”
“I can put it on now and it should run fine for a couple of hours. Just turn it off tonight, restart it tomorrow, and then I’ll be here mid-morning to check on it.”
She sniffs. Again.
Still with his back to her, Rick rolls his eyes at me.
“You need to come back tonight to shut it down,” she informs me. “And start it in the morning.”
“Really,” I try to assure her, “anyone can do it. It’s not dangerous as long as you don’t let it run too long.”
“I don’t want anyone doing it,” she says. “You’re the pool person. You’re supposed to be taking care of my pool and you should be doing it. We’re all very busy around here.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answer her. This sort of attitude is not uncommon in this neighborhood, and it’s also not worth getting lippy about. I can’t afford to lose any customers, and since I really don’t have other pressing plans, I can make the extra trips to keep her satisfied. She doesn’t answer me, but I assume that even if she’s not happy, she’s marginally satisfied because she turns and struts away, snapping her fingers to get her dogs to follow her, those high, sharp heels clicking along the marble until she’s inside the house.
Chapter Two
When we get to my house, which is not in Beverly Hills, I climb out of the van and go to the back to get my bike, and Rick comes around to give me a hand with it. He’s good with stuff like that.
“You sure you don’t want to keep the van tonight? You have to go back to the Smithton-Moore pool.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I’ll just use my mom’s car. Do you want something to drink?” I expect him to decline as he always has before, but instead he takes me up on the offer. My mom’s home, because her car is parked in the driveway. She has a nice weekday routine of going to the gym and then lunch with some of her friends, and twice a week she plays bridge with another group of women. On bridge days, she can run late, sometimes into the early evening, but she’s home now, and I know what to expect when I open the front door.
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