Jackie Collins, page 26
"A singer."
"A what?"
"You heard me."
Q.J. adjusted the collar of his striped shirt and loosened his cerise
tie. The girl was a beauty-a little dark for his taste and dangerously
young, but she had class. Maybe his customers would go for her if he
had Erna dress her up in a tight red dress with plenty of cleavage.
Yeah-maybe he'd be Mr. Nice Guy and give her a chance.
"I gotta be crazy," he said, shaking his head. "One night. Ten
bucks.
If they don't like you you're out."
"What about me?" Joey asked. "I'm a-" "Save it, sonny. I did my good
deed for the day."
Joey knew when to shut up.
Cyndra's singing debut was inauspicious. Dressed up by Erna in a tight
revealing gown she hated, with teased hair and too much makeup, she
stood in front of a boozy crowd and warbled her version of Aretha
Franklin's "Respect." A mistake. The only singing Cyndra had ever
done was in private, and although her voice was pleasantly husky she
had no idea how to use it.
After a few minutes the crowd became restless. "Take it off,
sweetie!"
yelled one man, and others soon took up the chant.
Standing at the back of the room, Q.J. chewed on a toothpick and
scowled. He'd thought he might have made a discovery-but as usual he
was wrong. The girl had faked him out, convincing him she could do
something she wasn't capable of.
"You fuckin' her or what?" asked Petey the Frog, one of his regulars
-his bug-eyes bulging.
"Nah, just givin' her a chance," Q.J. replied, smoothing down his
velvet smoking jacket.
"C'mon, ya gotta be fuckin' her," Petey the Frog said, slurping his
drink.
"Too young, Q.J. said shortly, walking away.
Cyndra finished to desultory applause and a few more raucous cries of
"Take it off!" She ran from the stage.
"I quit," she told an amazed Q.J.
"You quit?" he managed. "You fuckin' quit? I'm firm' ya, doll."
She glared at him. "You can't fire someone who already quit."
"And I ain't payin' ya, either," Q.J. added, red in the face.
"Oh, yes, you are," she said fiercely. "I performed. You'll pay.
It's not my fault your customers are a bunch of stupid apes."
Q.J. had never come across a girl like Cyndra before. She was young,
but she had guts and he couldn't help admiring her. It was a shame she
had no talent.
His first wife had been like that-Sassy Sarah, everyone had called
her.
She'd run off with their electrician while he'd been languishing in
jail. His second wife had chosen the plumber. He'd been single now
for eight years, and that's the way he planned to stay.
He paid Cyndra her ten bucks. She didn't seem particularly grateful.
"I don't have to do this," he informed her.
"Yes, you do," she replied, walking out into the night.
Q.J. did not appreciate her attitude, a little ass-kissing would have
been nice.
"Don't bring in no more of your friends," he warned Nick.
"You shoulda let her practice or something'," Nick said.
Q.J. shook his head at Len. "What the fuck's going' on here? I got a
dishwasher lippin' off, an' a broad that can't sing shit givin' me a
hard time. Do I deserve this?"
"That's life," Len said, dipping his finger into a bowl of cream.
"Shit!" said Q.J. "Shit!"
"Listen-" Nick began.
"One more word outta you an' you're fired," Q.J. said gruffly.
Erna entered the kitchen beaming. "Big hit, huh?"
"With all due respect," Q.J. said to his sister, "you wouldn't know a
big hit if it landed on your ass an' bit you!"
By the time Nick finished work and got back to the hotel Cyndra and
Joey were waiting outside with their bags packed. It was two in the
morning.
"What's up?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"We got thrown out," Joey said, stamping his feet against the cold
night air.
"How come?"
Cause we owe em."
"But I gave you the money to pay.
Joey looked sheepish. "I kinda lost it in a street hustle."
"Jerk!" muttered Cyndra.
"Hey-this place cost too much anyway," Joey said quickly. "Tomorrow
we'll get us a one-room apartment-itl be cheaper."
Nick was angry. He was still the only one working-and now Joey was
taking his hard-earned money and blowing it on street con games for
dumb tourists. Maybe it was time to split up.
"I'm cold," Cyndra said, sounding like a little girl. "Where'll we
sleep?"
She was his sister, he couldn't desert her. "C'mon," he said. "We'll
find you a nice comfortable park bench, cover you with newspapers an'
you'll sleep like a baby."
She recovered her edge. "Gee, I can't wait."
Joey snapped his fingers. "Whaddaya want? The penthouse at the Ritz
Carlton?"
She looked at him as if he were a lowly worm. "Yes," she said. "And
one of these days that's exactly what I'll get."
"Sure," Nick agreed. "But tonight it's the park, so let's hit it."
They picked up their belongings and set ofœ As they trudged toward the
park he began thinking about Lauren and how much he missed her. By
this time she'd have read his letter, and maybe if he got a post office
box and wrote again, care of Louise, she'd reply.
232
ANERICAN TAR The first thing they had to do was find somewhere to
live.
Joey was right-the hotel, cheap as it was, had been too expensive.
They should have moved weeks ago.
An icy wind blasted them as they turned the corner. Joey stopped to
gather a stack of old newspapers sticking out of a garbage
candisturbing a mangy cat. It ran off down the street screeching. Two
drunken old tramps staggered by. A couple of junkies huddled in a
doorway, busy shooting up.
Cyndra clung to Nick's arm, shivering. "I'm frightened," she
whispered.
"Don't worry," he said, trying to reassure her. "We'll be all
right."
She clung tighter. "Promise?"
"Hey, listen, kiddo. As long as you hang out with me I never let you
down. Okay?"
"Yes, Nick."
He may have sounded full of confidence, but it was a cold hard world
out there and sometimes he was frightened too.
It all seemed to happen at once-one moment Lauren was fighting off
Primo, and then everything became a horrifying deadly blur. First the
howling wind, followed by a thunderous roar as the tornado bore down on
them, catching the trailer in its path, scooping it into the air and
carrying it along for several hundred yards as if it were made of
paper.
Lauren could hardly remember anything, as she'd been hurled from the
door to the ground outside and knocked unconscious. When she came to,
the tornado was off in the distance, sweeping a path of destruction,
ripping up everything as it headed for the center of town.
Lying on the ground, she groaned, lifted her hand and felt blood on her
cheek. She tried to sit up, overcome with an overwhelming sense of
despair as she attempted to remember exactly what had happened.
Primo . . . grabbing her tearing at her clothes . . . the knife.
Oh, God, the knife! Had she killed him?
Panic-stricken, she staggered to her feet and forced herself to think
clearly. All she could remember was the power of the tornado
descending, and being propelled from the door as if by some magic hand
as the trailer was lifted up and swept away.
Somehow she'd been saved. Why?
She looked around the trailer site-it was more or less obliterated,
everything gone. Even the trees had been plucked from their roots.
Living in the Midwest, she'd heard about tornadoes all her life but had
never experienced one. Now the reality was upon her and she saw for
herself the devastation it could cause.
In the distance she could still see the gray funnel twisting on its
way, its awesome destructive power demolishing everything it
encountered.
There was no more rain, just an eerie stillness, a deathly silence.
She tried to force herself to move, but her legs felt weak and could
hardly hold her weight. Somewhere a dog barked mournfully.
I've got to get home. They'll be so worried about me.
She began to walk. Back toward town. Back to the house she hoped was
still standing.
The tornado swept down Main Street like a lethal weapon, cutting its
deadly path with incredible strength. Everything in its way was sucked
up into its white-gray funnel. Trees, people, animals, cars-it was not
selective.
Picking up strength as it traveled on its way it hit Main Street at its
peak, propelled by winds of up to two hundred and fifty miles an
hour.
The plate-glass windows of the drugstore caved in, sending great shards
of glass smashing to the ground.
Louise held tightly onto Dave, fervently praying.
He dragged her out into the street as the ceiling collapsed and falling
debris crashed around them. Protecting her as best he could, he threw
her to the ground and lay on top of her-both of them trembling with
fear. A sheet of glass sliced through his leg, cutting it off below
the knee.
Louise let out a long anguished scream as the blood from Dave's injury
pumped all over her.
The tornado continued on its way, demolishing the Blakely Brothers
hardware store, above which Phil Roberts and Eloise clung together in
his office. They hardly knew what hit them. The very last words
Phil Roberts heard was Eloise screaming, "I never meant to do
it, God. Forgive me for my sins. Please forgive me!"
And then there was nothing.
Jane Roberts' car with her inside was swept up into the wind funnel and
carried along for almost a mile. She died of shock.
The car, containing her body, was recovered twenty-four hours later.
Miraculously, it was still perfectly intact.
Bosewell High School suffered a direct hit. As the students raced into
the gym, the tornado sucked the roof off the building, pelting everyone
with flying glass and jagged chunks of concrete. Crashing debris hit a
gas main, causing a major fire.
Meg managed to grab hold of Stock as he hung on to the climbing rails,
the only part of the gym that remained. She held on for dear life,
trying to ignore his hysterical sobs and keep a clear head.
Mack had vanished-sucked away in the awesome cone of dust.
"Help me!" Stock sobbed hysterically. "Somebody help me!"
"I'm here," Meg cried soothingly. "Don't worry, I'll look after you.
I'm here."
Aretha Mae watched the factory vanish before her very eyes. She stood
in the middle of the destruction completely unharmed and continued to
pray.
By the time the tornado left Bosewell fourteen people were dead, over a
hundred and fifty injured. More than sixty buildings were damaged or
destroyed, and the town declared a disaster area.
In the big story nobody bothered to mention Bosewell-for the killer
tornado cut a path of death and destruction throughout the Midwest,
making the small town of Bosewell only a minor victim.
By the time the story hit the major news services, Bosewell was hardly
mentioned.
Nick lay back in bed, his eyes following the naked redhead prowling
around his tiny one-room apartment. Her name was DeVille and she was a
natural redhead.
He liked watching her in his home, it sure beat observing her gyrate on
stage while dozens of horny old men got off ogling her considerable
charms. She was, at twenty-six, an older woman, but only by four
years, which fazed neither of them.
DeVille had a sweep of long hair, pale aquamarine eyes, pouty lips,
voluptuous breasts and a sunny disposition. She'd been living with him
for almost six months.
"Can I fetch you anything, sweet thing?" she asked, prancing around
his apartment, all curves.
"Yeah." He leaned back in bed, putting one arm behind his head.
"Get over here."
DeVille did not argue, she never argued. Sometimes he wished she
would. He'd heard of easy, but she was ridiculous.
She approached the bed and stood beside him. He reached up and touched
one perfect size 36 tit-no silicone-DeVille was all natural.
The only phony thing about her was her name.
Rolling her extended nipple between his fingers he made a suggestion
she was not about to turn down.
DeVille was pleased. Her last lover had been twenty years older than
her and a grouch. Nick was a real treat.
"My, oh my!" she exclaimed, pulling the sheet off him and widening her
eyes. "What big . . . thighs you have."
"All the better to grab your ass!" He pulled her on top of him and
they both laughed as she straddled him with her long white legs.
DeVille liked being on top. He didn't mind, he knew it was her one
power play.
They started to make frantic love-DeVille was a screamer-their
neighbors did nothing but complain.
When they were finished he rolled out of bed and strolled into the
cramped bathroom.
"How about I make pancakes?" DeVille called out.
"I ain't hungry," he said quickly. The one thing she couldn't do was
cook.
He noticed a spider crawling along the side of the tub. Picking it up
by one of its legs he carefully placed it on the windowsill and watched
it dart to safety across the fire escape.
"I'll make coffee then," she sang out.
At least she could do that. He stepped into the rusty tub and turned
on the shower-as usual getting nothing but a trickle of lukewarm
water.
He had a hangover. The night before had been a long one, plenty of
action, and he hadn't gotten home until three in the morning.
Who'd have thought Q.J."s would become the place? And who'd have
thought he'd become the manager?
Yeah, some success story. From dishwasher to manager. And all it had
taken was five years. Wow!
"What shall we do today?" DeVille asked, popping her head around the
bathroom door.
"I'm easy.
"Maybe we could catch a movie-there's a new Paul Newman."
Yeah-Paul Newman. That meant he'd definitely get laid again.
"Sure," he said easily.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, DeVille was dressed.
On Sundays she liked to play at being ordinary. She'd put on jeans and
a sweater and braided her long red hair. Looking at her today nobody
would guess she performed one of the horniest acts in town.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. This letter came for you yesterday," she
said, handing him an envelope.
