Dying to Call You by Elaine Viets Page B

thought most IRS agents weren’t smart enough to crunch numbers in the private sector, and that’s why they had government jobs. She kept her mouth politely shut. But telemarketers were such pariahs, even usedcar salesmen didn’t have to be polite to them.
    “What do you do when a telemarketer wakes you up?”
    Fred asked.
    “I don’t have a phone,” Helen said.
    “Huh,” Ethel said. “You bother people all day, but no one can bother you.”
    Helen was not about to tell Ethel the reason she didn’t have a phone. “Nice meeting you,” she lied. “It’s getting late.
    I’d better head home.”
    “Me, too,” Peggy said.
    Helen felt mean and petty. Five minutes with the new neighbors, and she hated them. Fred and Ethel had attacked her job and her integrity. They didn’t even know her. Was that what nice, down-to-earth people did? She’d been living in South Florida so long, she didn’t know.
    On the way to her room, Helen walked through the perpetual marijuana fog outside of Phil the invisible pothead’s apartment. In some ways, he was the perfect neighbor. He was quiet and considerate. He was supposed to be a Clapton fan, although he never bothered her with loud music. But he drove her crazy. She’d never seen him in the year she’d lived at the Coronado, not even when he’d saved her life.
    There had been a fire in her apartment and Phil had pulled her free. All she saw then was his CLAPTON IS GOD T-shirt, and felt his powerful hands pulling her out of the smoke and flames.
    She’d give a lot to know what he looked like.
    Gator Bill’s was the tackiest restaurant in South Florida—and that was no small claim. As she stepped inside, Helen was nearly blinded by the decor. The walls were slashed with strips of orange and blue neon, the Gators’ colors. The neon blinked on and off, making Helen’s eyes cross.
    The lobby fountain had a ferocious twenty-foot blue gator with orange teeth. Brightly painted wood fruit and vegetables spilled from its open jaws, cornucopia style. It looked as if the gator was barfing bushels of corn, carrots, strawberries and oranges. Helen wondered if this said something about the food.
    Gators were everywhere. Small gators slithered up the walls. Large gators lurked under plastic palm trees. Gator tracks crossed the ceiling.
    Orange televisions hung in every corner. When there were no live Gators games, taped games featured Gator Bill’s exploits. In between, there were tapes of Mr. Two Bits leading his famous Gator cheer: “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar. Gator fans, stand up and holler.” Naturally, all the Gator fans in the restaurant did that every time he went into his chant.
    No opportunity to honor the Gators was overlooked. Even the bathroom was Gator country. When Helen closed the orange stall door, she saw “Go, Gators!” on the inside door.
    The rest room had an attendant, a dignified older AfricanAmerican woman in an orange uniform. She had the usual tray of hair spray, mouthwash and perfume. But instead of hand towels, the attendant took two pulls on the towel dispenser and handed Helen a strip of brown paper. Helen tipped her a dollar. This woman had an even worse job than she did.
    Helen found the hostess stand, which was shaped like the state of Florida. It was crawling with blue gators.
    “Is Debbie working tonight?”
    “Sure is,” the perky hostess said. She was dressed as a Gators cheerleader. “I can seat you in her section.”
    She showed Helen to a tiny table under a huge stuffed alligator. It was so lifelike, Helen felt like gator bait. The hostess handed her a leather-bound menu the size of a law book, decorated with heavy gold tassels.
    “Can I bring you some Gator Bites while you wait?” she said.
    Helen stared at the gleaming gator teeth over her head.
    “Er, no thanks.”
    She read the menu, which featured wildly overpriced meat. Thirty bucks for prime rib. Fifty for filet mignon. Five bucks for a baked potato. She’d