“My wife,” Roger says. “She doesn’t like gambling.”
“So that’s her problem,” Dorian says. “I thought she didn’t like me.”
“She’s seen a lot in her life. Her exterior is hard.” He holds out the dice. “You want a turn? If you call the roll, you keep what’s on the floor.”
Dorian looks at the ground, where there’s about forty bucks in singles and fives. She takes the dice. Ricky had been a dice player—a habit he picked up in the army. “Deuces,” she says. She shakes and tosses. Up comes an easy eight.
Roger puts a hand on her shoulder. “Better luck next time.”
7.
MONDAY AFTER WORK DORIAN CALLS THE FAST RABBIT AND asks for Jujubee. The woman who answers has to shout above the music to be understood. No Jujubee here.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
What’s that? Whatchu sayin’?
“Jujubee—when did she work last?”
I’m telling you, no Jujubee here.
“How about Julianna?”
No Julianna. No Jujubee.
“Now or ever?” Dorian asks.
Come down and search the place.
Dorian hangs up. Maybe it’s her night off. Maybe she quit. Maybe she never worked there at all.
After work on Tuesday she drives Western from the 10 down to Seventy-Seventh and back. She makes the loop four times.
Wednesday crawls. Only four lunch orders. She keeps checking the clock to see if it’s time to start closing up.
On Thursday, still no sign of Julianna, not that Dorian knows where to look.
Just before closing, Kathy appears at the back door. She accepts a plate of fried shrimp and some fish trim.
“How come you care about fucking Julianna all of a sudden?” Kathy’s wearing a plastic raincoat over a dress that looks like a long tank top. No bra. She’s rebleached her hair so it’s the color of corn silk. “Bitch thinks she’s too good for us. I knew her back when.”
“Me too,” Dorian says.
“Oh yeah? You knew her?”
“She used to eat here when she was little.”
“Fucking small world,” Kathy says. “So, what, she owes you money or something?”
“Not exactly.”
Kathy reaches for the cup of iced tea Dorian’s poured her. “Shit,” she says, “that’s motherfucking sweet.”
Dorian senses Kathy’s eyes on her.
“You think something messed up happened to Jujubee.”
Messed up. Funny how Kathy can’t say the words, make them real. Invite the danger closer.
“I don’t know what I think,” Dorian says.
“Tell you what,” Kathy says. “Julianna probably found some dude, holed up with him. Bet she found a rich one. Taking a few days for herself. Let me tell you, sometimes you need that. You motherfucking need that. New place, new guy. Time out of mind, you know what I mean?” She shakes her head. “And more power to her. Doing a thing like that. Matter of fact, that’s what I need to do. Find some dude with a big old house out of the city, in Upland or San Pedro. Get out of town for a few. Make some cash. Get some sleep. Take care of myself instead of the rest of them.” She tosses the empty cup. “Bet you anything a few days from now you’ll find her at the Rabbit, pockets full, well slept.” She reaches for the empty cup again. “Actually, lemme get a refill.”
Dorian fills the cup from the four-gallon tub, then watches as Kathy takes a half pint of SoCo out of her purse and tips it into the tea. “One for the road,” she says. She takes a sip. “You start worrying about what can happen out there, it’s a one-way ticket.”
“Julianna’s different.”
Kathy snorts, blowing bubbles through the straw. “Every girl thinks she’s different.”
Outside someone’s honking a horn.
Kathy squints through the kitchen out the front window. “I’m gonna miss my shift.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Dorian says.
They go out the front. Dorian locks the gate behind them. They head south on Western.
Kathy’s like a snake shedding a skin or perhaps growing a thicker one the farther they get from the fish shack. Her voice changes, grows harder, colder as she arms herself against the night. She stares down a woman who’s standing on the wrong corner, taunts a driver for looking too long. She stomps the sidewalk, side-eyeing the civilians.
At Thirty-Seventh she turns to Dorian. “You gonna walk with me forever?”
“I’m just headed this way.”
“You think I need watching over like some fucking Julianna.”
“Kathy, I’m just walking.”
“You think because we eat your food you’re some kinda saint. Bitch, please.”
“Kathy—” Dorian begins.
“Just let me do my fucking job. This shit isn’t your business. None of it.” She whirls around and presses a hand into Dorian’s chest, holding her back, as she storms off.
Dorian watches her cross the street, trying her luck southbound.
The sky is ribboned with a few strips of pink. The palms are waving. The wind nags.
Two northbound buses pass. Dorian doesn’t get on. She keeps heading south, not admitting where she’s going until she’s standing in front of the Fast Rabbit.
It’s seven thirty. Probably too early for the real action. She stands back and waits. The door opens more frequently than she’d expected. Single men. Pairs and groups. Some walk in proud. Others slink through the door.
Dorian circles the block. She buys a few tacos from a street vendor. Then heads for the door of the Fast Rabbit.
The bouncer looks more fat than strong. But you still wouldn’t want to tangle with him. “Have a good evening,” he says, holding the door open.
The interior is dark, lit by pink and blue strobe lights and a smudged disco ball. There’s a small dance floor and a black lacquered bar. Dorian waits for her eyes to adjust to the light before taking a seat on a vinyl stool.
The bartender gives her a look like he’s never seen a middle-aged woman before. Like after thirty, women cease to exist. “You want a drink?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Does he know that?”
“She.”
The bartender raises his eyebrows.
“I’ll have a Seven and Seven,” Dorian says.
The drink comes in a cup just like the ones at Lupillo’s. Dorian sips it through the straw and watches as a door at the far end of the dance floor opens. A man strides out, takes a look around, then heads for the exit. A few moments later, a woman about Julianna’s age emerges. She’s got a wild, leonine mane of hair and a heart-shaped face. Her eyebrows look as if they’re drawn with Magic Marker.
She takes a seat at the bar. She has a tiger claw tattoo ripping the skin of each breast. “Fuck. We’re banging and it’s hardly nighttime. Gonna wear out my damn thighs by midnight.”
The bartender pours her a green drink the color of a science experiment. “You complaining about getting work?”
“I’m just working the work,” the woman says. Then she glances at Dorian. “You new here?”