by Dixie Cash
“Foot?”
He made a gesture with his hand.
In the challenge of trying to communicate with the driver, she had forgotten her right foot was still planted on the sidewalk. “Oh, foot. Yes.”
She jerked her leg into the cab. She barely had time to close the door before they raced away.
chapter nine
The cab’s backseat was covered with a plastic protective barrier. Celina soon found that while it might keep the upholstery pristine, its slick surface made sitting in the moving vehicle and casually observing the city impossible.
She slid from one side of the seat to the other as the cab careened through the city streets, squeezed between cars, pushed traffic lights and dodged pedestrians. She secured herself in the middle of the seat with arms extended, palms out. She was still jostled, but not as much. At least now she had some control. At least she could remain upright.
Just when she thought she had mastered the ride, the cab lurched to a stop so abruptly she was pitched halfway into the front seat.
She gathered herself, stumbled out of the cab, straightened her clothing and checked her moving parts. The driver was already quickstepping to the trunk. A small man, he struggled to heave her suitcase out and onto the street, mumbling in whatever language he spoke. As she pressed eighteen dollars into his hand, he neither looked her in the face nor counted the money. In an instant he was back in the cab and on the phone. He pulled away from the curb, leaving her struggling with her heavy bag.
With a tight grip, she attempted to tug it by its strap off the street and onto the sidewalk. In mid-tug, the leather strap broke. She staggered backward, lost her balance and landed on her back on the sidewalk with the suitcase on top of her. So far, her view of New York City as a sidewalk pedestrian was straight up. Before she could move she heard males voices and laughter.
“Ten Eighty-four all units, Ten Eighty-four.”
“You sure that’s not a Ten Fifty?”
Celina looked up into three grinning, extremely good-looking male faces. Further inspection revealed that one wore a huge coat and…Oh, my goodness. Firefighters.
She moved her eyes from side to side, then straight up, looking for smoke. She saw none, nor did she smell any.
One of the men leaned down and offered her his hand. “Can I help you up, miss? You hurt?”
He spoke with an accent Celina had heard most recently on TV during an episode of The Sopranos. She took his hand and was instantly lifted to a standing position.
She began to brush at her clothing. “Is there a fire? I don’t see any smoke.”
“No, ma’am,” the man, who had an American flag embroidered above his shirt pocket, said. “Not here. But if there was, we’d know what to do about it.” They all laughed.
A few times in her life, a good-looking man had singled her out. She had found that unnerving enough, but being surrounded by three turned her brain mushy. She hooked a sheaf of hair behind her ear and reached for the strap on her suitcase. “Y’all don’t have to worry. I’m just fine. I was trying to get my suitcase off the street when that driver just took off. He just about pulled me along with him. I don’t know why he’s in such a hurry.”
She sensed that the men weren’t moving and looked around. All of them were staring at her. “Where are you from?” the one with the flag said. “Wait, don’t tell me. I got it. You’re a Georgia peach if I ever heard one.”
She laughed. “Georgia? I’m not from Georgia.” She couldn’t believe it, but even she heard how her speech had taken on an exaggerated drawl. She sounded like Scarlett O’Hara.
A different man, his smile slow and seductive, picked up her suitcase as if it weighed nothing. “I know you’re from the South. The South’s got the prettiest women in the world.” He handed her the suitcase.
Awestruck and forgetting the weight of the bag, Celina took it from him. And immediately dropped it on his foot.
His eyes bugged and he grunted.
“Oh. Oh, my gosh!” She slapped her palms against her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. That suitcase is so heavy—”
“No problem,” he said, and smiled faintly as he lifted it off his foot.
Celina felt as if she were watching a bad play. If the actress playing her had dug her toes into the pavement and said, “Aw, shucks, I bet you say that to all the girls,” she wouldn’t have even been surprised. “I’m from Texas,” she said, striving for composure. Only it came out, “I’m frum Taxes.”
The trio broke into laughter again. The one with the flag said, “Texas. I should have known. I went to Amarillo once to help my brothers fight some range fires. I think they call that the Panhandle. You know where that is?”
Celina brightened. It was good to be talking about home, hearing familiar names of locations.
“Oh, yes. Of course I do. You must come from a large family. How many brothers do you have in Amarillo?”
The men laughed again and she realized that their impression of her as a rube had become cemented. She felt the heat of a flush crawling up her neck.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” the youngest-looking of the three said. “Brothers are what we call other firefighters. We’re all brothers to each other.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Now that you mention it, I remember hearing that somewhere.”
“Just where in Texas do you live? If all the women look like you, I need to go there sometime.”
Though embarrassed at her lack of sophistication, Celina still thoroughly enjoyed the attention of these men. They definitely weren’t Sam. She gave them her best smile. “Dime Box.”
The men looked at each other, then laughed again. “Is that a town?” one of them asked.
She was still enjoying the moment when an ear-splitting alarm sounded. A huge panel door in the wall beside her opened and one of the men said, “That’s it. Gotta go, guys.” And they were gone.
Celina stood there, eye-to-headlight with a huge fire truck. She hadn’t realized she was in front of a fire station. At home, a fire station was a freestanding structure, easily recognized. Here, it was part of a wall. The full panel door was the only thing distinguishing it from the other buildings with storefront windows or doorways. She grabbed her suitcase and heaved and shoved it out of the fire truck’s path.
She hadn’t noticed it before, but now she saw the huge “no parking” zone painted in bright white across the front of the station. No wonder that cab driver had driven away so quickly. And no wonder those men were having such a good time flirting with her and making fun of her. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth in total embarrassment.
In lieu of a hole to fall into, she looked for a door and saw one right beside the fire station, with a sign affixed over it: NEW YORK CITY YWCA, EST. 1932.
“Well, duh,” she mumbled, and gripped her suitcase handle tightly.
Half an hour later, she was shown to her room, or “the closet,” as it would have been referred to back home. It had a twin bed only and a highback chair pressed against the wall near the head of the bed, just to the right of the small window that looked out on a brick wall. She supposed the chair served as a nightstand as well. Celina scanned the walls for crosses or other religious symbols, for surely this was a nunnery.
Tossing her purse on the bed, she sank to the chair seat and looked out the window. This isn’t so bad, she told herself. It’s clean, it’s safe. Practically an entire army of heroes was just next door. “It’s only for a few days,” she mumbled.
Tomorrow the seminars would start and hopefully, her new life.
“First things first,” Debbie Sue said, taking Edwina by the arm and pulling her toward the registration desk. “I’m not letting you near a bar ’til we get checked in.”
Registration went without a hitch and soon they were standing in the middle of a luxurious hotel room on the sixth floor. The bellhop put their bags down and hurried over to a set of drapes that covered the entire wall.
“I think you ladies w
ill enjoy this view,” he said, pulling the cord and revealing floor-to-ceiling windows and a priceless view of Times Square. “A few of the rooms on this floor have a balcony. You can’t actually use it because the windows have these little bars that keep them from being opened, but still, isn’t it to die for?”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Debbie Sue said, taking in the view, “but it’s pretty cool, all right.”
Edwina slipped some money into the young man’s hand.
“You ladies enjoy your stay in New York City,” he said on his way out the door. Before closing the door, he stopped. “What part of Texas are you from?”
“It’s a tiny place you’ve never heard…” Debbie Sue stopped in mid-sentence. “Wait just a minute. How did you know we’re from Texas?”
The young man laughed. “That’s a good one. You ladies have fun.” With that, he closed the door.
Debbie Sue glanced at Edwina. “I suppose he thinks we have an accent.”
“You do, but I don’t,” Edwina said between gum smacks.
“You’re kidding, right? Because, Edwina Perkins-Martin, you sound like reruns of Hee Haw, Green Acres and Dallas, all rolled into one.”
“Maybe I do, but I’ll tell you one thing. Men love that Texas twang. That, I am certain of, Miss Priss.” She crossed the room, plopped onto one of the queen-size beds and gave a low whistle. “Man-oh-man. These NAPI folks might think what we do is for dummies, but they shelled out some bucks for this room.”
“I’ll say,” Debbie Sue said, still in awe at the quality of the furnishings. “This makes even those fancy hotels in Fort Worth look low-rent.”
Edwina arranged her pillows, lay back and crossed her ankles. “I think I’ll call up Lloydena and tell her ‘Lloydena, honey, you gotta see this.’”
Fooling with the TV remote, Debbie Sue nodded her agreement.
Edwina sat upright. “Where’s the john? I’m fixin’ to pee my pants.” She got to her feet and began to rummage in her suitcase. “And I’m going to change my clothes.” She headed for the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later she emerged. She had changed into her size-eight Wranglers, tucked into the tops of pink knee-high, full-quill ostrich boots with turquoise eagles across the shafts. She had on a pink satin western shirt, the yokes piped with black satin. A black belt encrusted with glittering pink stones encircled her waist. Chandelier earrings of turquoise cabochons, accented with pink crystals, hung three inches from her earlobes. “I’m ready,” she announced. “Let’s go downstairs.”
Debbie Sue looked up from where she’d been patiently lounging in an oversize chair and leafing through some literature left in the room. “Whoa! Look at you, rodeo queen. Is that belt a B.B. Simon?”
Edwina strutted around the room flashing the buckle proudly, “It sure is. Gen-u-ine Swarovski crystals. Vic bought it for me when he was in Fort Worth a few weeks ago.”
“I’m not even gonna ask what he paid for it. Can I borrow it sometime?”
“If you ever get it off me you can. With what my honey paid for this thing, I’ll be holding my britches up with it for a long time. C’mon, let’s go.”
“Just wait, dammit. I haven’t even been in the bathroom yet. My hair hasn’t been brushed all day. I gotta clean up, I gotta change clothes and I gotta call Buddy.”
“Hell, that’s too many gotta’s for me,” Edwina said. “I need a drink. I’ll go ahead and leave the room to you. I’m headed for the bar.” Edwina picked up one of the key cards and waved it over her head. “Hasta luego, girlfriend.”
“Yep, see you later.”
Then a tiny fear slithered through Debbie Sue. Edwina, running loose in New York City, even if it was just to the bar downstairs, was enough to propel her from her chair. Indeed, she wanted to see where “Good Morning America” was taped, but she sure didn’t want to be on it. “Don’t go anywhere but the bar, Ed. I’ll be right behind you.”
Edwina stood in the dark hotel bar’s open doorway, allowing her eyes time to adjust. Too many times she had dashed into a bar without that forethought and too many times her butt had met the carpet. Today, she wanted to make an impression, not leave one.
When she could see, she sauntered in and made her way to a tall stool at the bar. She loved sitting at the bar. There was something about being perched on the tall stools that was cool and sophisticated. Here she was, the aloof woman alone, sitting at the bar drinking. Men might have most of the advantages in life, but it was more fun being a female.
“Margarita. Straight up with salt,” she said to the bartender.
“Would you like that with our top-shelf tequila?” the young woman asked.
“Naw, I don’t see the point in covering up good tequila. Just use the cheap stuff. If I get to the sipping stage, I’ll order the good stuff.”
The young woman grinned. “A woman who knows how to drink. My name’s Mary. I’ll be taking care of you this evening.”
Edwina cocked her head and grinned. “Well, now. Do yourself proud, Mary. And make that a double.” She chortled at her own joke.
She turned her head and noticed for the first time that she was being stared at by a woman sitting on the stool next to hers. The neighbor was about the same age as Debbie Sue, Edwina guessed. She even had hair down to her butt like Debbie Sue. It fell down her back in layers. Unlike her partner, Edwina saw that the neighbor wore heavy makeup—but it was artfully applied. She had on a slinky fire-engine-red dress, low cut and curve hugging, leaving nothing to the imagination. And it must be split all the way to kingdom come, Edwina figured, because she sat there with her legs crossed, exposing an ample amount of thigh. And her shoes. Black stiletto heels with a rhinestone strap around the ankle.
Hard-looking, Edwina thought. But maybe that’s what living in this big city did to an otherwise pretty woman. She did have good taste in shoes, though, which made her worth knowing. Edwina gave her a huge friendly grin. “How ya doin’ this evenin’? My name’s Edwina and I’m from Texas.”
Unsmiling, the woman scanned her up and down. “Gee. I would have never guessed.”
“I come from a little town called Salt Lick, where—”
“Can I ask you something?”
Edwina kept grinning. “Sure.”
A frown creased the woman’s brow. “Does that Annie Oakley getup work for you?”
Edwina’s grin fell. The nerve! She hated getting into a tussle before Debbie Sue arrived, but this broad was asking for it. Edwina squared her shoulders and looked down her nose. “Oh, I don’t know. Does that ‘I’m a ho’ getup work for you?”
The woman didn’t bat an eye. “Pretty much all the time, though I’m thinking about trying something new.”
Edwina’s bluster collapsed and her eyes bugged with shock. “You’re a pro? I mean, a real pro?” She clapped a palm against her chest. “And you think I’m a pro?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Oh, hell no. Though I think all women prostitute themselves on some level. Some do it to make a living, some do for a four-carat ring or a new SUV.” Edwina conjured up a laugh. “Or a membership in a country club.”
For the first time, her drinking neighbor smiled and her face grew animated. “I’ve never heard it put better.” Extending her right hand, she said, “I’m Cherubino Annunziata San Giacomo. My friends call me Cher.”
Edwina looked into her face and blinked. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ll just bet they do.” Laughing again, she shook Cher’s hand. “I’m Edwina Faye Perkins-Martin. My friends call me on the phone asking for money.”
Just then, a computer version of a pop song Edwina didn’t readily recognize started up. “What’s that?”
“‘Strangers in the Night,’” Cher said. “It’s my cell phone. Cute, huh?” Without waiting for a reply, she turned away and plucked the phone from her purse.
“Yeah, cute,” Edwina answered anyway, liking her newfound friend more all the time.
Two drinks later, Debbie Sue walked
up. “I see you’ve made friends already.”
“Debbie Sue. Cher and I were just talking about business.”
“Cher?” Debbie Sue asked.
“Oops, sorry. Debbie Sue, this is Cher the Prostitute. Cher, this is Debbie Sue Overstreet, my friend and partner. She’s a hairdresser, but she used to be a barrel racer.”
“How do you do,” Cher said to Debbie Sue. “A barrel racer?”
“Yep,” Debbie Sue said. “It was a long time ago.”
“So how does that work? I can’t get a visual.”
“Well, you see, there’s three barrels in this big arena, set up in a triangle. They’re usually painted in bright colors. You ride a horse around them as fast as you can. And the one who does it the fastest wins.”
“Uh-huh,” Cher replied. “I still can’t get a visual. How fast is the fastest?”
“My best time was fifteen point seven seconds.”
“And where did you do this?”
“Rodeos,” Edwina said. “She used to be a ProRodeo performer.”
“Well, whaddaya know,” Cher said, eyeing Debbie Sue and smiling. “You’re a real cowgirl.”
Debbie Sue smiled. “Yep, that’s me. I even own a horse. You ever been to a rodeo?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“You should go. They have one every year right here in New York City. Madison Square Garden. I always wanted to be in it, but never was that good.”
“I’ve heard about it. Maybe now that I’ve met some”—she leaned back and gave Edwina a head-to-toe again—cowgirls, I’ll do that.”
“Oh, I’m not a cowgirl,” Edwina said. “The most I know about a cow is when a steak appears on my plate.”
“This is true,” Debbie Sue said with a laugh. “And there’s a horse in Texas that’ll vouch for that.”
She took a seat on a stool beside Edwina and called to the bartender. “Ma’am? I’ll have whatever they’re having.”
Several margaritas later, Edwina said, “I’m still starving. Let’s go get something to eat.”
