Viking
"Hey." It was Dino.
She wasn't talking to him.
"I had a really good time Tuesday night."
Silence.
"You surprised me. I don't normally do that."
That's not what Barbie and Skipper said as they jumped into your bed this morning. Liar. Don't make like it was all my idea.
"Angela."
"I'm not talking to you."
"Come on, Angela. I heard about Tonya and Trisha. You can't hold that against me."
Tonya and Trisha? With names like that, how could she *not* hold it against him?
"Look, I'm not gonna lie and tell you I was a virgin before we met. But I've been a virgin since we met."
That was a weird way of putting it. Anyway, it was probably a lie.
"I told the doorman not to let anybody in like that anymore."
So you had a standing order for easy girls before?
"Well, I understand if you don't want to see me anymore. But I hope it doesn't come to that. Anyway, that's not the only reason I called."
Huh? "What?"
"You still looking for a job? I think I might have something for you."
Was this his way of apologizing?
"This isn't just some lame apology. I really do need someone, and I think you'd be good. No, great."
He wasn't fooling her with that sweet-talking junk... Angela would have shoved it right back in his face, but the empty knot that lived where her stomach used to be said she could afford to swallow a little pride if it meant getting to swallow something more substantial.
"Okay, sure."
"Come on down to the club. If I'm not there, ask for Sasha."
Angela hadn't even asked what kind of job it was. At this point, she'd take anything.
She remembered the room with the fake sky windows. And the naked breasts wrapped around a brass pole.
Okay, *almost* anything.
Angela stood next to the small podium at the entrance. Bruno -- the bouncer at the foot of the stairs the other night -- had gone to fetch Sasha.
The place was eerie when it was empty.
A moment later, a fireplug of a man rolled up to the podium. Had Angela not worn heels, they would have been the same height. The spotlights overhead reflected off his shiny bald head. He crossed his arms, leaning back to set them on his belly, waiting for her to speak.
"Yes, I'm here to see Sasha. Dino-- I mean, Mr. Sinclair said she had a job for me."
He raised one bushy eyebrow so high it seemed to dance an inch above his bald head.
The Russian's accent was thicker than his waist. "I am Sasha," he said gruffly. The eyebrow stayed up.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I thought you were a woman. --I mean, I thought Sasha was a girl's name."
"It is short for Alexander." The eyebrow still didn't move.
He just stood there, staring at her.
"So..." Angela led.
"Twenty-one?" It was as close to monotone as it could get while still being recognizable as a question.
It took supreme effort not to stare at that eyebrow, propped up like a furry periscope.
He'd said something.
"Sorry?"
"Twenty-one. You twenty-one."
Was she supposed to be? Dino hadn't mentioned it. Should she lie? She couldn't not get this job.
But she flashed back to her interview with the HR troll the week before. There would be paperwork. She'd probably need to show ID. Maybe even a birth certificate. Unless the job was under the table, in which case it wouldn't matter how old she was.
"No," she said, steeling herself for rejection.
Sasha grunted -- his whole body rose and fell with the effort, and when it settled, the eybrow settled with it.
He reached into his coat, never taking his eyes off her. His hand produced a card. "Go. See this man. Then come back." He turned around and began to roll away.
"Then you'll interview me?"
He kept walking, raising his voice as he got further away. "Dino interviews. I give work."
He was gone before she could ask anything more.
She looked at the door again. "Number Eight," in upright-but-ornate gold-over-black lettering on frosted glass. She stepped through.
Angela found herself in a small featureless room with bright white walls. Not quite featureless -- there was a small black rectangle of glass on one wall.
"Face the camera," a disembodied voice said. After a moment of looking all around, Angela turned to face the black rectangle. She smiled weakly.
"Don't smile," came the voice, harsh. At the admonition Angela instinctively lowered her head. "Don't look down. Look at the camera." She did as instructed. "Be still."
What was this? Some kind of physical? An x-ray or something?
"Name."
"A-Angela Barrett."
"Spell it."
"A-n-g-"
"The last name."
"Oh. B-a-r-r-e-t-t."
"Address."
She gave it.
"Take off your shoes and step up to the camera."
The clatter echoed for what seemed like several seconds.
"Closer. Step on the square."
Angela looked down. There was a seam around a two-foot square directly in front of the black glass and almost right up against the wall.
"Look into the camera."
This was seriously weird.
"Colored lenses."
"What?"
"Colored lenses. Will you be wearing them?"
Why would she...? "No." What was with the questions?
"Wait. Five minutes."
"What is this?"
"Quiet."
Angela became more nervous as the minutes ticked by. What was this all about? What had she gotten herself into?
"Go downstairs. Mailbox nine."
"Then what?"
There was no answer.
Angela looked around -- not that the decrepit old office building looked like anyone ever came in, but she didn't want to chance anyone seeing her messing with their mailbox.
A neat brass door, one of about twenty set into the dull yellowed marble wall. The numeral 9 embossed in the center.
Angela grabbed the protruding knob and gave it an experimental tug. The mailbox opened.
Inside was a small white plastic card with a magnetic stripe and a barcode on it. She fished it out.
On the other side, a driver's license with her picture on it. It looked real. But instead of her name, it said "Angela O'Barrett." With some address in Oak Valley she didn't recognize. And the wrong birthday, almost four years before hers. (The height and weight were correct.)
Now it made sense. A fake ID. A really good fake ID. Angela fished her real driver's license out of her tiny skirt pocket and held it up to the fake. Actually, the fake was so good it made the real one look fake. It had extra swirls and gold seals across it. Maybe the state had changed the way licenses were made since she'd gotten hers.
The question was, why did she need a fake ID? And why was Dino making sure she had one?
"Hi. Drinks?" Angela gave a wan smile.
The guy seated nearest her rattled something off, but the music conspired with his rapid-fire delivery to prevent her from making anything out. "Sorry?"
"Slutty redhead. Piece of ass. Screaming Viking. Adios motherfucker."
They couldn't keep straight faces for long. Angela rolled her eyes.
Why did everybody think it was such a great laugh to spring rudely-named stunt drinks on the new girl?
At least they were easy to remember. Mostly.
"Slutty redhead, piece of ass, um, adios motherfucker, and a screaming... something."
Mike the bartender gave a sigh. He'd told Angela she was doing great against the onslaught of oddball orders, but she could see they were really running him ragged; she felt sorry for him. For her part, she was just getting past the rude language, which she wouldn't have been able to do if Mike hadn't told her that was the point.
Mike tried to name the last drink. "Screaming orgasm?" Angela shook her head.
"Screaming nazi? Nutbuster? Nipple twister? Purple jesus?"
"I don't think so. Don't worry about it, I'll go ask." Mike had been patient enough with her; she didn't need to put him through the ringer. Heck, most of the guys were probably stretching their drink vocabulary just to get her to get it wrong and come back again. Mike said a few of them had flat-out made stuff up -- and for them he always poured something especially potent and nasty.
"Hang on. Which table?"
"That one." She pointed.
Mike craned his neck to see who she pointed out.
"Screaming viking," he said.
"Yeah, that's it. How'd you know?"
"Before your time. Hang on." Mike dove for the fridge, disappearing under the bar for a moment, and came back with a cucumber spear. A few quick pours and a celery stalk later, he put the drink on her tray.
"Cucumber?"
He just shooed her off.
"So when do you go on?"
"I told you, I'm just a waitress." Five times now.
"Well, you oughta be up there. You're hotter than she is." The bear of a man waved his arm loosely in the direction of the main stage.
"Thank you, really." She'd learned by now just to take it as a compliment; that usually ended it with the least amount of awkwardness.
But this particular patron -- Gary; he'd introduced himself every time she came by his table -- wanted to wax poetic about her. At least, as poetic as a guy in a "gentleman's club" could be on his tenth Salty Dog. Mike had told her this next drink would be Gary's last, no matter how many tens he'd slipped in dancers' thongs or on Angela's tray. "Seriously. I'll give you fifty bucks to show me your tits."
"Sir-"
"Gary."
"-Gary, I'm not allowed to do that," Angela purred. Not that she would in a million years anyway! "Zora would be happy to give you another private dance. You like Zora, don't you?"
"Zora's got a great body, but she's nowhere near as cute as you!" At that, he lunged forward, swatting her ass with his meaty paw. Angela just let the grope go unanswered; she'd given up fighting them off. It was exhausting keeping her defenses up, and anyway, the gropers tended to tip better if they thought they were getting away with something. She just wanted to get through the night.
She smoothed her skirt. "Another Salty Dog?"
"Yeah." She turned to go. "And tell Zora to come see me."
Angela closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.
"You need a ride home?" It was Zora; Angela recognized her voice.
"I'm fine. I'm just resting a little."
"Aren't you going to Denny's?"
"No, why?"
"The waitresses usually go to Denny's on weeknights."
"I wasn't invited."
"They're just jealous because you got more tips than they did even though it's your first night."
"Oh." Why?
"Not your fault you look so innocent. A lot of the regulars here seem to like that. I get almost double the private dances when I wear the schoolgirl outfit, but I can only do that when Sasha's out. He says it reminds him of his daughter."
"Are all the girls over twenty-one?"
"Yeah. State law says eighteen, but they won't hire under twenty-one here. Kat says Kostya won't allow it; nobody knows why."
Kat was another one of the dancers. She'd been kind of bitchy to Angela all night. Actually, most of the dancers had, except for Zora.
"Anyway," Zora continued, "they'll warm up to you soon, don't worry. Dancers too. I'd invite you to Flingers with us, but Kat's being kinda bitchy tonight. I hope you understand."
"That's okay. I'm too tired anyway."
"You think you're tired now, you should try dancing."
"I could never do that."
"None taken."
Angela opened her eyes to look at Zora; despite what she'd said, she looked a little offended. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean there's anything wrong with it."
Zora cracked a smile. "I'm just messin' with ya. Anyway, I gotta go. You working tomorrow?"
"I don't know. Sasha just kind of threw me to the wolves."
"Schedule's posted back in the locker room."
"In a minute."
Angela closed her eyes again.
< < Gladys Barrett gets up from the table. Her daughter shoots her a dirty look.
"What?" Gladys says, trying hard not to laugh out loud; she knows little Angela is very serious, but she just looks so cute when she gives her mom that parental "where do you think you're going young lady" glare.
"You're my customer. Customers don't get their own ketchup." Angela slides down off her chair and pads into the kitchen. Gladys watches her daughter disappear behind the kitchen counter. The refrigerator door opens to the sound of a little girl's "Mmmph!" Clinking glass bottles make her worry for a moment; is the ketchup down where Angela can reach it?
"Got it!" the little girl announces.
"Here you are!" Her sing-song voice warms Gladys' heart. Little fingers push the bottle up onto the table; Gladys grabs it before it can fall over.
"Thank you."
"Can I getchu anything else?"
"No, this is fine."
"Okay." Little Angela pulls a notepad out of her oversize apron with some difficulty. She licks the tip of her pencil -- do I still do that? Gladys wonders -- and makes a face at the taste, but soon recovers her place and scribbles something down. With a deliberate flourish, the budding waitress tears the top sheet and carefully places it face-down on the table. "Whenever you're ready," she says. She can't help but giggle.
"Mmmm! Everything is so good! And the service is excellent! Thank you!" Gladys opens her purse, carefully counting out four dollars on the table, her daughter watching in rapt attention. A fifth bill is set aside. "Your tip," she says with a wink.
Angela breaks character, sitting back down at the table. "A dollar," she says in a hushed tone. "Is that good?"
"Twenty percent is good, yes."
"A dollar." Angela points to the bill, correcting her mother.
"Yes, a dollar. You'll learn about percentages when you're older."
"Will they teach per-cini-gez in kindergarden?"
"Maybe not kindergarten, but soon enough. I can't believe you're starting kindergarten tomorrow."
"Why do I have to go to school?"
"So you don't have to be a waitress like your mom."
"But I want to be a waitress."
"That's sweet, dear, but you still need to go to school to find out all the other things you can be."
"Like an astronaut?"
"Uh-huh."
"Or a doctor?"
"Yep."
"Okay. But I still wanna be a waitress. Just like you."
"Mom, I don't understand why you're making such a big deal out of it."
"It's a D."
"So? D is passing."
"Not in this house."
"It's just History. It already happened, whether I know anything about it or not."
"You're not old enough to know what is and isn't important to know."
"I'm seventeen."
"Exactly. I'm getting you a tutor."
"Mom, we can't afford that."
"We can't afford you failing in school, young lady. Anyway, I've already arranged it. Do you know Ricky Aquino?"
"Aww, mom, he's a freshman!"
"And he's in Honors History, a junior-level class."
"Great. I'll never hear the end of it."
"Hush. It's not so bad."
"Did I mention he's a freshman?"
"Well you're stuck with him until your grade improves. Twice a week -- Tuesday and Friday after school until your next test, and then we'll see from there."
"Fine -- if you can tell me one time you ever used History in your job."
"I'm dealing with dead presidents every day."
"Ha ha, very funny. Seriously, mom. History."
"Angela, it's not just about History. It's about applying yourself, getting good grades, and making something of your life. I don't want you to be stuck waiting tables."
"What's wrong with waiting tables?" There's a concern in Angela's voice.
For a moment, Gladys Barrett looks like she's figuring out where to start; then her face smooths.
"Nothing, sweetie. It's just that I know you can do so much better."