Bea’s wig slid off to the side as her head quickly twisted toward the door.
Sasha’s jaw dropped and so did her false teeth. If the crowd wasn’t so involved in greeting Sister Betty, they’d have heard the partials clang when they hit the floor.
All the attention caught Sister Betty by surprise. It was her intention to arrive and just sit in the back until the nominations and other festivities were over.
While the other mothers and missionaries flocked toward Sister Betty, Bea and Sasha fought the urge to rush over and tackle the woman, the sanctified thorn in their sides. But they stood and smiled using the correct amount of decorum because they were there to represent their church. And, more so, they wanted the reelection.
Bea and Sasha gave one another a quick glance. The sneers hidden behind the false smiles silently conveyed their collective plans to get rid of Sister Betty.
“That old heifer has got to go,” Bea hissed.
“I agree.” Sasha had raised her cane out of habit but quickly let it drop. “Let’s get together after we go to the casino and pray about it.”
It was much too hot, even for a Las Vegas morning. But for Zipporah, weather conditions couldn’t be a consideration for her first day on the job. It wasn’t something she’d wanted but the homeless shelter mandated that each occupant had to search for work. So when the director handed her a list for possible employment openings, she had to take it. Especially since the musical job hadn’t panned out.
She had her application folded neatly in her pocket as she made her way to the employee administration area in the rear of the Jaeger Center.
A nondescript woman wearing light blue eye shadow sat at a small desk outside an expensive oaken door. The door had a gold-edged plaque reading HUMAN RESOURCES DIRECTOR.
“Just have a seat. I’ll let you know when you can go in.” For the next few minutes the woman kept her head down, which allowed her blue-tinged silver locks to thankfully hide the ugly blue eye shadow.
“Thank you.” Zipporah waited for the woman to indicate where she should sit. “Is there any particular place?” Zipporah finally asked.
The woman still didn’t respond, so Zipporah found an expensive red leather chair and allowed her weary body to succumb to its comfort. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how tired she was. But of course she was. How could she not be tired? Her tiny room certainly didn’t offer a tenth of the luxury contained in the small space in which she now sat. Without thinking, she allowed her head to lie back. She fought the urge to close her eyes but she’d already lost the battle as soon as she sat down. The luxury where she now sat, compared with where she’d laid her head for the past few months, rushed past her fatigue and took over.
The rooms inside Zipporah’s West Strip Homeless Shelter were small. Each room resembled a cramped prison cell, containing only a narrow cot with a thin mattress and a dresser. Comfort was not a consideration for short-term accommodations. A clock radio’s alarm sat among the clutter on a small dresser. Every morning it screamed as if in pain to wake Zipporah from restless sleep.
That morning Zipporah was robotic as she prepared to leave the confines of the shelter for another day of searching for work. There were small scratches on her arms that confirmed she’d clawed and scratched at invisible demons during the night. Self-mutilation had almost become the norm for her. She dabbed a little cocoa butter on her skin to quicken the healing. Singing was the dab of healing she used for her inside wounds.
Zipporah had no sooner signed the residency clipboard meant to track the comings and goings when she heard the voice she’d assiduously tried to avoid.
“Miss Moses, can you please step inside my office?” Miss Thompson’s words were soft and sympathetic but official. Taking a file off a cabinet, she walked toward her office, not bothering to see if Zipporah followed.
To visitors, the fortyish Miss Thompson appeared as an overweight yet genteel woman. She had cinnamon-colored skin and snow-white hair that cascaded past her shoulders. To the residents of the shelter, she was a nosey woman who always seemed determined that they would never overstay their allotted time unless it was at her whim.
“Close the door, Zipporah.” Miss Thompson still hadn’t turned around, choosing instead to flip switches on her standing fan. She seemed pleased as the fan blades hummed louder.
Zipporah closed the door. She shuddered slightly despite her effort to remain calm. Almost thirty days ago, she’d asked Miss Thompson for an extension on the measly but necessary living arrangements. She was almost three days past the time she was supposed to leave.
“I think I know what you’re about to say—”
“I doubt it.” Miss Thompson hadn’t bothered to sit, choosing to lean over her desk as if it gave her more authority.
“You’re past your discharge time and I don’t have to remind you that there are others who need shelter, too.”
Zipporah was determined not to let one tear fall. She failed.
“You’re young, very pretty, and I’m sure you have talents you haven’t tapped into yet.”
Miss Thompson let the word talents linger as though it was a term to which she could attach all sorts of meanings.
“I don’t want you to say a word. I need you to listen. I’ve a friend who can use a woman with your talent.”
Zipporah’s heart raced. She’d heard those words before, spewed from her then supposed boyfriend, Lonnie. With common dreams of producing their own Broadway-styled show, they’d arrived in Las Vegas full of hope. He was thirty. His tall, muscular build and pecan-brown complexion were disarming once he lit his charm fuse. A slippery tongue and large innocent brown eyes, he had; money he did not.
Within two months, they were broke. Lonnie decided he would earn a few dollars performing one-nighters as a bassist with whoever was hiring along the strip. Despite her protests of doing anything illegal such as shoplifting, he’d beaten her and then smiled before depositing her from their used Odyssey van onto the unforgiving streets of Las Vegas.
“You’re talented. Do on the street what you do to me at home. Figure it out.”
“Zipporah, figure it out.” Miss Thompson stood with her arms folded as though she expected Zipporah to drop and give her several push-ups.
“Excuse me?” Zipporah spoke with indignation. She’d finally figured it out.
“Did you understand what I just offered?” Miss Thompson’s voice was no longer soft. It seemed to rise with annoyance as she again asked, “Have I made myself clear?”
The answer wrapped in a string of expletives lay trapped inside Zipporah’s dry mouth. Her eyes tried to escape the intense gaze emanating from Miss Thompson’s cherublike face. The balance between hunger, homelessness, and the possibility of escaping both seesawed within her mind.
While Zipporah’s mind raced, the buzzer on the intercom caught Miss Thompson’s attention. She glanced away quickly to answer the call and to write a quick note. It was long enough for Zipporah to rush out of the room.
Without a thought of the meager belongings in her room, Zipporah fled the shelter. She sprinted for two blocks without stopping until she arrived at the bus stop. It didn’t matter where the bus was headed, she just needed to escape.
And that’s when she realized she’d left her bag inside Miss Thompson’s office.
That was yesterday. She’d managed to talk the night supervisor into retrieving her bag from Miss Thompson’s office. She’d made the excuse of having cramps and just needing to go to her room and lie down. The night supervisor, a kindly woman and the total opposite of Miss Thompson, sympathized and took the bag during a time when the office was empty.
About the same time her head nodded off to the side again, Zipporah’s name filtered through her involuntary nap. How many times had her name been called?
“Miss Moses, you may go in.” The annoyance in the receptionist’s voice was palpable and the ugly blue shadow seemed darker and uglier. “Perhaps you’d like to go home and rest be
fore you commit to a possible job here.”
Zipporah’s head snapped as though held by a rubber band. Aggravation accompanied each word the woman had spoken, but not without reason.
“I’m so sorry,” Zipporah answered sheepishly. “I was praying.” The lie had rolled off her tongue too quick. Her face twitched from guilt. But it wasn’t enough to take the lie back.
From the sour look on the receptionist’s face Zipporah wasn’t too sure if she had even a chance of getting the job. The woman’s face suddenly softened as though she understood the need to pray.
“Have faith,” the receptionist whispered and smiled.
A man opened the door and politely invited Zipporah to come inside and have a seat.
“Good afternoon, I’m Mr. Lamb.” She could tell his smile was genuine and inviting when he didn’t immediately look away. His speech had a hint of a southern twang and it sounded almost like he was teasing her, although he’d not said anything that would indicate that he was.
“Miss Moses, have you had a chance to look over our manual and familiarize yourself with our particular needs?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve only completed my application.”
“Let me give you one to look over.”
He hadn’t said it but he seemed to indicate that the job was hers, if she wanted it.
“Thank you.”
Mr. Lamb walked back and forth between two cabinets selecting several manuals and papers. He walked like a professional model displaying a well-proportioned body. His waist was small but definitely manly. His skin was olive brown, smooth and hairless in the places she could see.
She noticed that they had something in common. It was in the eyes.
Mr. Lamb was at least a head or so taller than Zipporah. He acted a bit older than he appeared and she guessed his age to be in the early to mid-thirties.
He was gorgeous and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with her observations. But her angst suddenly dissipated as she determined that whatever Mr. Lamb was selling, she was buying.
“Tell me a little something about yourself.” The accent tantalized her as she drank in every inch of him. He’d asked about her, wanted to know something personal.
And then she remembered. Her clean but faded floral-print dress revealed more than she’d wanted. Her black pumps that set her back twelve dollars, which she revered as though they cost a million, said that she was Zipporah Moses, a homeless woman. Las Vegas’s best-kept secret—a woman who could out-sing Aretha and hit notes that Mariah couldn’t reach with a ladder.
Her shoulders slumped as she scrambled to find a way to evade the question. She didn’t have to. The telephone on Mr. Lamb’s desk rang. “Chandler Lamb speaking, how can I help you?”
Chandler . . . She now had a first name to go with her first impression. She tilted her head slowly, letting her eyes drink in what she now could call Chandler, although not to his face. But it didn’t take a second for her to return to reality. She was sure he would never associate with the likes of her beyond this office.
Zipporah shuddered slightly as she pretended to remove an imaginary piece of nothing from her skirt. She needed to get a grip; she didn’t have time for frivolous daydreaming. She sat up a little straighter and focused on several pictures adorning the office wall.
It was of no use, her eyes were immediately drawn back to him.
He sat and then pushed his chair back, letting it lean against the wall. He tugged at the telephone cord until it extended to its full length. With his free hand, he drummed a fast rhythm with a pen.
His face was still handsome despite the sudden look of chagrin. “Mandy is out to lunch, so have someone handle it until I can get security there.” He stopped and scribbled something on a sticky note. “I’m in the middle of interviewing a new employee—” He lay the receiver down harder than he’d wanted, then turned and gave her a look of exasperation before he continued to write.
He pressed another button on the phone bank while trying to hide his aggravation behind a smile. He was evidently embarrassed by the momentary show of unprofessionalism. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Miss Moses. Please give me another moment.”
“It’s not a problem.” That was the best response she had. What she really wanted to do was to place his head on her shoulder. She’d cuddle him while saying seductively, “Don’t worry. I’m here to make things better.”
Again, she’d allowed a fantasy moment to visit. For the next few minutes she did everything she could to avoid eye contact and pretend she wasn’t listening to whatever the problem was. From snatches of conversation she’d learned that the problem was in one of the conference rooms and that it involved several church women. She wasn’t sure how serious it was but it caused Mr. Lamb to order security to the room and hold those involved until he got the building manager there.
“. . . I’ll decide what to do once security gets there. Just calm the women down. The last thing we need or want is bad press or a lawsuit.”
After hanging up, again Mr. Lamb started scribbling, but this time he handed the paper to Zipporah. “Give this to the receptionist when she returns. She’ll tell you where to go for your uniform and have you fill out the remaining paperwork. I’m placing you on the eleven in the morning until seven in the evening shift. If things work out, then I’ll see about a permanent shift for you. You’ll need to come back inside my office before you leave.” Without waiting for her to reply, he rose and extended a handshake before escorting her out of his office.
“Mandy, you’re back. Good. Please take care of Miss Moses. She has the paperwork for you to get her started. She’s starting tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lamb,” Mandy replied. “I’ll take care of things.”
Mandy waited until the door closed behind Chandler Lamb before she addressed Zipporah.
“I see your prayers worked.” She gave a half smile before turning away.
So Mandy was her name. So what happened to the smiling woman with the ugly blue eye shadow? This one still wore the ugly eye shadow but the encouraging personality was gone. This one in less than ten minutes had returned as an uppity woman with an uppity name.
Zipporah watched as Mandy strained to remain dignified. She pushed her rimless glasses down on her nose and looked again at Zipporah, this time with disapproval. She looked as though by Zipporah’s very presence Zipporah had taken the building from a five-star rating to a one. Her disdain was apparent. Her true reasons for disliking Zipporah were not.
After giving Zipporah detailed instructions, Mandy led her back inside Chandler’s office.
Inside the office Chandler was busy trying to do the job of human resources and guest relations. He was still rapping the pencil as he gave orders into the telephone.
“I also need you to get in touch with a Reverend Leotis Tom. Here’s his number.” Chandler gave the numbers hurriedly. “Apparently, several of the conference attendees have started a row in our Billie Holiday banquet room.” He put down the phone and got up. He started gathering papers from his desk.
“Isn’t that where the National Missionary and Mothers Board Conference is being held?” Mandy tried to suppress a smug smile at her knowledge of everything that went on at the Jaeger, but failed.
“Yes, I don’t know all the facts. I sent security over there before things get completely out of hand.”
“I see you have your briefcase. Are you leaving early when you finish with Miss Moses?”
“No, Mandy, I’ll be back.” He could tell by the way she just stood there that she needed more information. “Just so that you know, my godmother is visiting for a few days. I’m going over to her hotel to surprise her with a visit.”
Zipporah listened as Chandler gave further instructions and explanations regarding what she thought should’ve been his personal business.
To Zipporah, the mention of the church mothers acting unseemly reminded her of the two old women she’d witnessed cutting up at the Luxor. Whatever these wome
n were doing in the conference room would pale compared to the antics those old women were capable of doing, she thought. She placed a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh. At least she didn’t have to worry about running into them again. She hadn’t gotten the singing job at the Luxor and she certainly wouldn’t be staying there, so there was no reason their paths should ever cross.
Chandler Lamb left quickly, before Zipporah had a chance to regroup and thank him for the job. She sat mute as Mandy lay down Mandy’s law. If she hadn’t known better, the way the receptionist acted, Zipporah might have thought Mr. Lamb worked for Mandy.
She suddenly felt uncomfortable at the thought of Mandy being a bit overprotective of a man who looked young enough to be her son. But she needed a job and this was the first opportunity she’d had in months. Whatever the relationship between Mr. Lamb and Mandy, Zipporah’s need for work was more important.
Zipporah’s new job as a casino cocktail waitress was what it was, and she’d make the most of it. She’d watched other casino hostesses in their skimpy outfits with fishnet stockings and painted faces. With forced painted smiles they pranced around on aching feet and tried to ignore the unwanted touches and alcohol-laced come-ons from the big-time pretenders.
She was certain she had the figure to compete, and with a bit more makeup, she was sure to pull in enough tips. If she was intimidated by anything more, it was the idea of balancing those trays while sashaying from aisle to aisle in stilettos.
11
Sister Betty couldn’t get back to the Luxor Hotel quick enough. She’d never been so embarrassed: Bea and Sasha elbowing one another and acting like common heathens. Bea’s ranting. Bea comparing Sasha to the munchkins in the Wizard of Oz and threatening to kick her behind all up and down a Las Vegas yellow brick road.
Other indignities displayed by Bea and Sasha replayed in Sister Betty’s mind. Again, she couldn’t believe how unseemly they’d acted. She hadn’t been that upset in quite some time. Right in front of the other National Missionary and Mothers Board members, they’d done everything to prove they were not worthy of their seats on the board.
Somewhat Saved Page 6
