the-door, followed by a moving pile of bags and packages. Nordstrom,
The Bon Marche, Barney's, Helen's, of course. Downtown Retail grazing at its
finest.
"Rickey
Ray," she wailed. "Help Bart here for a sec, will ya, honey?"
Tolliver didn't move a muscle.
Even without
the platform shoes and the hair, she must have been the better part of six-one
or -two. Long in the leg and narrow in the hip, she wore a blue spandex
jumpsuit so tight that when she turned back toward her packages, I could tell
that her brassiere was a two-snap model and that she was wearing a pair of
those user-friendly thong underpants. She had a feathered-back pile of bleached
hair and a set of those butterfly eyelashes so favored by the wives of TV
preachers. Farrah Fawcett meets Tammy Faye Bakker.
She swiveled
forward. "Rickey Ray," she insisted.
"I tole
you before, darlin'," Jack said. "Rickey Ray is my driver and my
bodyguard, not your cock of the month. Ol' Bart here needs help, get him a
boyfriend of his own."
She turned in
an instant, dipping into the tote bag that swung from her elbow and coining out
with a single sheet of paper. She waved the paper in front of her as she
crossed the room.
"Need I
remind you?" she said. "Need I remind you? You forget what the judge
told you the last time? You that dim or what?" She didn't wait for an
answer. " 'Course you are. Why in hell am I asking myself that? You'd
think I'd know by now. You wasn't that damn dumb, you wouldn't have run the
business into the ground, now, would you?"
Jack and Rickey
Ray exchanged tired glances. She kept at it. "Rickey Ray is paid by the
company. I am one half of that company. He works as much for me as he does for
you, and right now I want him to . . ."
It appeared to
be some sort of court document she was waving. It was laminated and made a
wooga-wooga sound as she flapped it around.
She noticed me
for the first time. "And who in hell is this?"
"He's with
convention security," Jack said. "Security, you say? Well, hell, you
could sure use all the help you can get there, Sparky." She stepped my
way. "Dixie Dormer," she said. "Leo Waterman." We shook
hands.
"I had the
great misfortune to be married to this idiot a while back. Quite a while,"
she added. "Old Jack here likes his honeys just barely growed up and
haired over. The fresher outta high school, the better the old boy likes 'em.
Ain't that right, Jackeroo?"
The lack of a
reaction did not slow her down.
'Technically
speaking, half the restaurants are rnine. Community property, ya know? 'Ceptin'
if I leave birdbrain here alone, there won't be no damn restaurants to be half
of. Be like his poor first wife, poor soul. He may have snookered her, but he
sure as hell ain't gonna snooker me. I figured if I didn't take the bull by the
horns, so to speak, and make damn sure he don't screw up the rest of it, I'd be
out on the street."
"Where, as
I recall, you'd feel right at home," Jack sneered.
"Got a
court order." She waved it again. "No company business can be
conducted unless I'm there." "Laminated?" I asked.
"Shit for
brains kept tearing it up," she explained. "Like thafd make it go
away or somethin'. Had it done in clear Kevlar. Not even Jo Jo the Dogfaced Boy
over there can tear it up now."
I made it a
point not to look over at Rickey Ray.
She hollered
over my shoulder. "Bart! Don't just stand there like a bump on a log; take
that stuff down to the room."
The pile of
bags and packages began to move across the carpet. From what I could see, Bart
was an attractive young fellow of about twenty-five, six feet or so, with a
slicked-back head of black hair and a pair of thin, hairless forearms.
Dixie Dormer
focused on me again. "He tell you how we can't take a crap over here
without the Meyerson camp knowing whether it was one lump or two? He tell you
that? He tell you those people are kicking our asses in damn near every market because
they always know ahead of time what we're gonna do? He tell you he's got us in
hock
The Bon Marche, Barney's, Helen's, of course. Downtown Retail grazing at its
finest.
"Rickey
Ray," she wailed. "Help Bart here for a sec, will ya, honey?"
Tolliver didn't move a muscle.
Even without
the platform shoes and the hair, she must have been the better part of six-one
or -two. Long in the leg and narrow in the hip, she wore a blue spandex
jumpsuit so tight that when she turned back toward her packages, I could tell
that her brassiere was a two-snap model and that she was wearing a pair of
those user-friendly thong underpants. She had a feathered-back pile of bleached
hair and a set of those butterfly eyelashes so favored by the wives of TV
preachers. Farrah Fawcett meets Tammy Faye Bakker.
She swiveled
forward. "Rickey Ray," she insisted.
"I tole
you before, darlin'," Jack said. "Rickey Ray is my driver and my
bodyguard, not your cock of the month. Ol' Bart here needs help, get him a
boyfriend of his own."
She turned in
an instant, dipping into the tote bag that swung from her elbow and coining out
with a single sheet of paper. She waved the paper in front of her as she
crossed the room.
"Need I
remind you?" she said. "Need I remind you? You forget what the judge
told you the last time? You that dim or what?" She didn't wait for an
answer. " 'Course you are. Why in hell am I asking myself that? You'd
think I'd know by now. You wasn't that damn dumb, you wouldn't have run the
business into the ground, now, would you?"
Jack and Rickey
Ray exchanged tired glances. She kept at it. "Rickey Ray is paid by the
company. I am one half of that company. He works as much for me as he does for
you, and right now I want him to . . ."
It appeared to
be some sort of court document she was waving. It was laminated and made a
wooga-wooga sound as she flapped it around.
She noticed me
for the first time. "And who in hell is this?"
"He's with
convention security," Jack said. "Security, you say? Well, hell, you
could sure use all the help you can get there, Sparky." She stepped my
way. "Dixie Dormer," she said. "Leo Waterman." We shook
hands.
"I had the
great misfortune to be married to this idiot a while back. Quite a while,"
she added. "Old Jack here likes his honeys just barely growed up and
haired over. The fresher outta high school, the better the old boy likes 'em.
Ain't that right, Jackeroo?"
The lack of a
reaction did not slow her down.
'Technically
speaking, half the restaurants are rnine. Community property, ya know? 'Ceptin'
if I leave birdbrain here alone, there won't be no damn restaurants to be half
of. Be like his poor first wife, poor soul. He may have snookered her, but he
sure as hell ain't gonna snooker me. I figured if I didn't take the bull by the
horns, so to speak, and make damn sure he don't screw up the rest of it, I'd be
out on the street."
"Where, as
I recall, you'd feel right at home," Jack sneered.
"Got a
court order." She waved it again. "No company business can be
conducted unless I'm there." "Laminated?" I asked.
"Shit for
brains kept tearing it up," she explained. "Like thafd make it go
away or somethin'. Had it done in clear Kevlar. Not even Jo Jo the Dogfaced Boy
over there can tear it up now."
I made it a
point not to look over at Rickey Ray.
She hollered
over my shoulder. "Bart! Don't just stand there like a bump on a log; take
that stuff down to the room."
The pile of
bags and packages began to move across the carpet. From what I could see, Bart
was an attractive young fellow of about twenty-five, six feet or so, with a
slicked-back head of black hair and a pair of thin, hairless forearms.
Dixie Dormer
focused on me again. "He tell you how we can't take a crap over here
without the Meyerson camp knowing whether it was one lump or two? He tell you
that? He tell you those people are kicking our asses in damn near every market because
they always know ahead of time what we're gonna do? He tell you he's got us in
hock
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