And She Was Read Online Free PDF Page B

spot I wiggled into to order drinks.
    I set my tray on the bar and shouted a lengthy drink order at Les. Thad turned to the man on the stool he wanted.
    “You’re in my seat.”
    I couldn’t see their faces, but neither moved for maybe five seconds. Then the man grabbed his drink and left. Thad lifted his oilskin and sat. Les slid a beer in front of Thad and leaned toward him, cupping his cheek in his palm and bending his elbows on the bar so that he was looking up. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I left the two in earnest conversation to make another round.
    The price I paid for misjudging my audience came each time Isnaked through that crowd between the bar and tables. I’d hoist my tray over my head and search for openings. I pressed my hand lightly on one back, another forearm. Sometimes one of the guys would see me coming and make a show of helping me out, shoving his buddies aside, yelling, “Blondie coming through. Get out of the fucking way.”
    I could never tell who was doing the groping. I’d feel a hand squeeze a chunk of my ass, and no matter how quickly I turned or how closely I scrutinized the mass around me, I couldn’t finger the culprit. Not that I wasn’t used to it. Cocktail waitresses handle groping in one of two ways. We either play the oh-I-can’t-believe-you’re-so-naughty part, giggling innocently and pretending we haven’t been pinched a dozen times in the last hour. Or we play the get-a-life part, acting a touch disdainful and pretending to be beyond caring. I do both well. But at the Elbow Room, the attention was so persistent, so frenzied and exuberant, I had trouble keeping in either character. Out of necessity, I stooped to ignoring it and tried to vary my route each trip. All I did was present my ass to a wider spectrum of gropers.
    Bellie came in a little after one o’clock. She slid into a booth with three guys in the back.
    “Hey white girl, you’re still here.”
    I shrugged. “Looks that way.”
    “Sex on the beach and a tequila.” Her sparkling fingers played with dark loosening curls.
    The guys ordered shots and beers.
    I returned with their order and felt the table rock on uneven legs when I tried to set the drinks down. I clustered them all in the center to avoid a spill.
    “Found a place to live yet?” Bellie asked, picking up her shot glass first.
    “No.”
    “Tell Thad to meet me tomorrow sometime. My aunt has a place.” She set the empty glass down, and the table tipped toward her.
    At quarter after two, we had a minirush. Apparently, the other bar on the island, the HiTide, closed at two o’clock, and several determined drinkers, along with the cocktail waitresses who had been serving them, swept into the Elbow Room.
    My counterparts at the HiTide were also blond. That made five ofus. They seemed to know a good number of the men and immediately fell in with a loud group in the center of the room. These women had definitely overdressed. Two had short black skirts and nylons; one wore black tights topped with a sweater that descended to the bottom of her butt cheeks. The other actually wore a dress, striped with a wide sailor collar.
    Marge flicked the lights twice. Last call. I made one more pass of the tables and kept my eye on the cocktail waitresses. Blond hair gets attention. Something about the light in dark spaces makes it hard to focus on anything else. Even fellow blondes fall victim. I’ve noticed it when watching a Marilyn Monroe movie; your eyes just keep straying to her, even when you make a point of watching another actor. Anyway, one of the cocktail waitresses was cradling some man’s ass with both hands. He lifted her up, yelling something unintelligible. They had big, throaty, head-back, too-many-cigarettes laughs. I decided not to like them. Partly because they had brought their flash into my bar and were upstaging me, stripping me of the attention I’d been arrogantly ignoring. Partly because I just have a policy of not liking