Clubbed to Death (3 page)

The heiress? Helen wondered, and quickly checked her computer.

That was her. Roz was no child. Her age matched her millions—a healthy fifty.

“I acted up at lunch.” Now Roz sounded like a little girl who had to see the principal.

Helen thought she was joking. “Just what did you do?”

“I called a waitress at the Superior Room a stupid bitch. Then I threw my dessert at her. She knows I hate chocolate chip cookies.”

Helen hesitated, unsure what to say. The Superior Room waitresses were grandmotherly women who wore starched white pinafores.

“I have to talk to Solange,” Roz said. “She’ll be so disappointed.”

“Why don’t I take a message? She’ll be back soon,” Helen said.

“Thank you,” Roz said, meekly.

Helen hung up the phone.

“Wish you could see your face,” Jessica said. “That call must have been a doozy.”

“Roz Cornelia cursed a Superior Room waitress and threw her cookies,” Helen said.

“Tossing her cookies again,” Jessica said. “Her rehab is unraveling.”

“What will happen to her?” Helen said.

“Nothing much. Solange will write another letter of reprimand,” Jessica said.

“The club puts up with that behavior?”

Xaviera looked up from her computer. “Check out Roz’s account.”

She typed in some numbers, carefully arranging her long, red nails around the keys.

Helen stared at Xaviera’s screen. “Jeez. She shells out twenty thousand a month for club restaurants and ser vices.”

“That doesn’t count her dues,” Xaviera said. “As long as you spend money here, you can do what you want.”

“But what about the other members?” Helen said. “Do they want to associate with her? People are banned from redneck bars on the Dixie Highway for less.”

“The Superior Club used to have the cream of the Social Register,” Xaviera said. “Now our membership looks like the FBI’s Most Wanted list. We have convicted felons, disbarred lawyers, wife beaters, cokeheads, and members of the Russian, Italian and Asian mobs.”

And at least one murderer, Helen thought. This was probably the only club that would let in the Black Widow.

Xaviera glanced at the clock. “It’s noon. The new rules say two customer care staffers must go to lunch now. Come on, Helen. I’ll explain the facts of club life.”

“I want to go first,” Cameron whined. “I didn’t have breakfast. I have low blood sugar.”

“Then learn to eat right,” Xaviera said. “You’re almost thirty. You went first yesterday.”

Cam pouted. Xaviera tossed her long, curly brown hair and ignored him.

“He’s such a baby,” she said, as they clocked out.

Cam did look like a giant rubber baby doll. He was six feet tall and pudgy, with tight dark ringlets and a red cupid’s bow mouth. His hands were small and feminine. Helen thought hard ambition lurked under Cam’s soft surface. He’d worked his way up from valet to customer care too quickly.

“You want to take the back way?” Helen asked.

“Of course.” Xaviera pushed the employees only door to the scuffed passage that ran behind the elegant club rooms. Her high heels clicked on the worn green linoleum. Her curvy figure swayed with the rhythm.

“I’m not wasting my lunch time on the rich idiots at the club.”

Xaviera gave her long hair another toss. “The last time I went through the lobby a new member wanted to know where the Endicott Room was, and I spent ten minutes taking her there. I barely had time to eat.”

“That’s another unfair rule,” Helen said. “If a club member needs directions, why should we have to escort the person to the place, even on our lunch hour? Any moron can find the Endicott Room. It’s straight down the main hall, with a big brass sign.”

“I’m lucky she didn’t want to go to the beach,” Xaviera said. “I wouldn’t have been able to eat at all. Besides, it hurts to go through the lobby after that hotshot decorator destroyed it.”

“He’s a big deal in New York,” Helen said.

“Just because you’re from New York doesn’t mean you’re good. He threw out a fifty-thousand-dollar wrought-iron chandelier designed by Elliott Endicott himself, tore out the tropical gardens, and replaced the lobby orchids with silk because artificial flowers have more ‘durability.’

Silk flowers at the Superior Club. No class.”

“I never saw the old chandelier,” Helen said. “The new one looks like it’s from Pier 1.”

“That’s not the worst,” Xaviera said. “The decorator painted the original cypress paneling white because it was ‘too dark.’ The old club members were up in arms.”

The staff lunchroom was painted hospital cafeteria green. Two wide-screen TVs blared E-SPAN.

“Football game reruns,” Xaviera said. “We can’t escape them. We have to eat here. Staffers are not allowed to eat on the grounds, at their desks, or heaven forbid, in any club restaurant.”

“We wouldn’t want to spoil the lower orders,” Helen said.

A cheer went up for a touchdown made last Sunday. “At least no one can hear us over the football fans.” Helen slid her tray past the gooey chocolate cake and took a crisp apple. She felt so virtuous, she laced her coffee with cream and sugar.

“No hot coffee for me,” Xaviera said. “I need a big cold cock.”

Helen nearly dropped her tray until she realized Xaviera had slightly mangled her English.

“It’s Coke,” Helen said. “Be very careful that you say Coke.”

“What did I say?” Xaviera said.

“You asked for a big cold penis,” Helen said.

Xaviera giggled. “I think I’d want that hot. My English is so bad.”

“Your English is excellent,” Helen said. “You speak better than most club members.”

“I learned English in school in Peru. It’s different when you speak it every day.”

They set down their trays at a table behind a pillar. Xaviera began her club history lesson.

“The old country club had Social Register types, rich social climbers, and executives who did business on the golf course. It was an easygoing place.

“The old management respected us and understood what the members wanted. They didn’t have all these stupid rules. Then the club was sold to Mr. Ironton’s group. He’s determined to make it profitable. He says the Old Guard don’t spend enough. He’s bringing in expensive trash—South Beach cokeheads, high-priced hookers and mobsters. He wants big, splashy spenders.”

“But they’ll drive away the old members,” Helen said.

“That’s fine with him. Mr. Ironton wants rid of what he calls the ‘fifteen-dollar hamburger’ crowd. He doesn’t realize they pay their bills.”

“Or that fifteen dollars is nearly three times what most people pay for a burger,” Helen said.

“The flashy new members throw money around, but they’re living on the edge,” Xaviera said. “They’ll go bankrupt, wind up in jail or in rehab. Roz is a good example. She’s busy snorting her inheritance. She came in the office once and I thought she’d had a powdered sugar doughnut. Instead, she had a fortune in coke on her black sweater.

“You must remember one thing. Never trust any member, old or new.”

“Not even Mr. Giles?” Helen said.

“Very few people—rich or poor—are as nice as Mr. Giles. The new club members are vicious and crazy. The Old Guard are mean and cheap. They’ll get you fired to save themselves fifteen dollars.

“Normal people would be ashamed to be so cheap. The old rich will order a glass of water and ten lemon slices and make their own lemonade, using the sugar on the table. They’ll steal shampoo from the locker rooms. Their thousand-dollar Prada purses are stuffed with five bucks’ worth of cookies stolen off the tea trays.”

“My Aunt Marie did that,” Helen said. “She took the bread and sugar off tables in restaurants.”

“Your Aunt Marie didn’t have a hundred-foot yacht.”

“No, she lived on Social Security and was afraid she’d go broke,” Helen said.

“These people are afraid, too,” Xaviera said. “Afraid they’ll lose their money and have to work. That’s why they hang on to every dime.

Old rich or new, document everything they do in your files. That will be your salvation.”

“How do you stand working here?” Helen asked.

“I love to fight. I love to say, ‘You signed the documents, sir, and you must abide by them.’ I love to make people who think they are above the rules follow them. I get paid to do it. We have a good crew in customer care. Jessica is a delight. Cam is spoiled, but he’s not a bad person.”

Helen kept her opinion of Cam to herself. She’d seen too many Cams in other corporations.

“Jackie is too beaten down to bother anyone,” Xaviera said. “She used to be a member here.”

“What happened?” Helen said.

“She divorced badly. Her husband got a shark lawyer and stripped her of her share of their money.”

Helen felt a pang of sympathy for a sister sufferer.

“Jackie never worked a day before her divorce. Her friends got her this job at the club where she used to be a queen. They take every opportunity to make the poor thing feel bad. When they don’t, Brenda does. You’ve probably figured out Brenda is a witch.”

“In about two seconds,” Helen said. “Is she working to night?”

“Of course. Right now she’s golfing with that nasty Blythe St. Ives.”

“I thought staffers couldn’t associate with club members,” Helen said.

“They can’t. But Blythe got an exception because she’s another big spender. None of the members want to play with her. She cheats.

Brenda lets her win. Brenda can golf with Blythe, but she can’t have a club locker. She has to change in her office.

“Brenda is after Kitty’s job. She does everything she can to make Kitty and the rest of us look bad. Kitty tries to defend us, but she’s too sweet to be a good fighter. Don’t expect that ditz Solange to protect you. She’ll do anything to save her job. With the old regime, she’d wiggle her boobs and bottom. But the only bottom Mr. Ironton is interested in is the bottom line.” Xaviera checked her watch. “We’d better run. If we don’t clock in on time, we’ll be docked. More new rules.”

Helen tagged the time clock, slid into her antique desk and snagged her panty hose on an ancient splinter. A fat ladder ran down to her toes.

“Shit,” she said.

“That word is not part of the Superior vocabulary,” Jessica said. She began a mocking version of the Superior Club ad: “Superior Ser vice.

Superior Surroundings. Superior People.”

The entire staff chanted the final line: “You deserve a Superior life at the Superior Club.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Brenda was back. The spindly brunette was red with rage. Her furious face matched the ruby-and-diamond bumblebee on her pink golf visor. She seemed made of geometric shapes: cones for breasts, a triangle for her face, a trapezoid for her dark sharp hair. The hard angles clashed with her baby pink golf outfit.

“Doesn’t Brenda know anger causes wrinkles?” Helen whispered to Jessica.

Cameron tried to turn his laugh into a cough and managed a barnyard snort.

Jackie kept her head down. She never laughed.

“Can you wear a tennis bracelet with a golf outfit?” Jessica whispered back.

“I always wondered who wore those ugly jeweled bugs from Tiffany’s,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize lady golfers stuck them on their visors. If a real bumblebee buzzed her, she’d scream bloody murder.”

Brenda’s recently done eyes bulged with anger. Her lips bulged with collagen. “Silence!” she said. “I’m your supervisor. Show some respect.”

Helen bit her tongue until she could taste the blood. If only she didn’t owe another nine hundred dollars for her stupid car repairs. If only she hadn’t bought all those new shoes and clothes when she got this job. If only she wasn’t in debt, she could answer back.

“I leave this office for a short time and come back to this high school performance. What if Mr. Ironton came in?”

“He’d be pleased we can recite the Superior Club slogan,” Xaviera said. She stood up and crossed her arms, five feet of curvy, curly-haired insolence. “If you want to call him, I’ll tell him.”

“You’ll sit down and work,” Brenda said. “It’s twelve thirty-five.

Cameron, have you gone to lunch yet?”

“No, I—”

“I didn’t ask for excuses. Go. You’re five minutes late. Deduct the time from your lunch. Jackie, you go with him.” Jackie scooted soundlessly out of the room, shoulders hunched to make herself invisible.

Jackie had a flat chest and wide bottom, a shape that was not fashionable among the white-bread rich. But her face was classically beautiful, far prettier than Brenda, her tormentor. Next to Jackie’s beauty, Brenda looked old and haggard. Jackie was an excellent office mate, except for one bad habit. She gnawed her nails.

“I hope your behavior will be more professional this evening,” Brenda said. “If not, I’ll send you home before the concert starts.” She slammed the door to her office.

“Her heart is as hard as her fake boobs,” Xaviera said.

“You met Dr. Dell this morning,” Jessica said. “He did Brenda’s man-made mammaries.”

“She can afford Dr. Dell on an assistant manager’s salary?” Helen asked.

“Rumor says he took it out in trade,” Jessica said.

Helen shivered at the thought.

Seven o’clock found Helen standing at the main gate, swallowing insults and car exhaust. Her high heels pinched. Her jacket itched. She didn’t notice the fabulous avenue of towering palms and shimmering fountains.

The pink stucco Superior Club, decorated with lacy wrought iron, was a rich man’s dream. Helen was in a poor worker’s nightmare: She’d been checking IDs and confiscating outdated member cards for two hours.

“Do you know who I am?” said an irate woman with hair like crows’ wings. She’d presented a 2005 member card.

“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said. “You’re someone with a seriously outdated card.”

She rather liked the young man in the red Ferrari who offered her a hundred-dollar bribe along with his old card.

“Sorry,” she said, as she gave the bill back.

He shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

A thin dowager in blue lace insisted, “I’m on the list. Look again, you silly girl. Cordelia always invites me.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, your name isn’t here.”

The dowager swatted Helen with her purse, and it fell open. Fortunately, her evening bag was only big enough for a lace handkerchief and a lipstick. Helen picked them off the ground when the purse popped open. A run opened in the second pair of panty hose that day.