Tea Leafing: A Novel (2 page)

Two girls scurried out
of the second stall, wiping powder from their noses. Gio pretended not to
notice — at least they were headed back out on the floor where he needed
them.

 
“What’s the drama, ladies? We
gotta
packed house tonight. Can this wait til later?” Gio
said.

Sam jumped out of the
stall in front of Birdie, who was coiling with anger.

“Sam? Is that a fuckin’
clown car or a stall? How many of yous is in there?”

“Grace is here too,
Gio, but she’s sick.”

Gio rolled his eyes and
muttered something in Italian.

“Are you dopin’ up?
Hand it over!”

“Gio, come on. Please?
She’s really sick. You know we aren’t on drugs for Chrissake! See for
yourself!”

Gio eyed them
suspiciously, but didn’t budge.

“It’s always somethin’
with you girls. Always have to see what you can get away wit. Get back on the
floor. If I don’t see all of yous back out there in three minutes, it’s a fitty
dollar fine. Now move.” Turning around, he stepped from the bathroom.

“GIO!” Sam yelled.

Twitch.

His hulking frame
reappeared in the door, looking bored.

“Look,” Sam stalled for
time, trying to read her boss, to figure which angle to play to get what they
wanted. “We just heard a friend was killed. Can you cut us some slack and let
us off?”

“We’ll pay tip out!”
Grace’s voice echoed from the toilet bowl.

“I know you will.” Gio
looked smug. “Who is this friend anyway?”

Birdie growled at Gio
from behind Sam, who stepped back, sandwiching her against the open door of the
stall. Birdie had been suspended more times than Sam could remember, for more
reasons than either of them even knew existed. She had a hate-hate relationship
with Gio and now wasn’t the time for a showdown.

“Just a friend,” Sam
said, adjusting her tone to the submissive quality she knew Gio preferred from
women.

Gio crossed his arms “I
don’t think so.” He paused, “I think yous is up to something. Nice Friday
night? Maybe wanna do a little partying?” A smile peeked at the corners of his
mouth. “Well, tough shit. You came in to work and work is where you’ll stay.”

“Please,” Grace groaned
from her hidden crouch.

“Fackin pillock!”
Birdie shouted from behind Sam.

Sam increased her lean
against Birdie, hoping she could cut off Birdie’s air before she got them all
suspended.

“That’s fitty for my
cuss fund, Birdie,” Gio sing-songed.

Sam dug her nails into
Birdie’s arm as a warning before releasing her. She
then walked across the grimy, tile floor toward Gio, collecting her thoughts,
and focusing on charm. After dancing a year and a half, she could work it like
a light switch. Sam knew Gio understood very well how the business worked, but
at the same time he was still a man.

“Look Gio, I know you
have to deal with a lot of shit here. I know girls get to work and then want to
go party. I know it’s your job to make the wheels of this club turn, and you do
a great job.” Sam placed a hand on either side of Gio’s chest, just below his
shoulders. “I
never
ask off. In fact,
I’ve got money waiting for me out there.” She tipped her head toward the frenzy
of activity a few steps away on the main floor. Lowering her voice, she
continued, “Money I’d like to make. But, we heard a rumor that Lena,” she
exhaled, studying her shoes for a moment, “that Lena was murdered.”

Even through his tinted
glasses, Sam could see shock cross Gio’s face. However fleeting, she knew she
saw a reaction.

“Bullshit.”

 
“It may not be true, Gio, but it’s still
upsetting and until we can get confirmation one way or the other, I think we’re
pretty much done for the night. You don’t want depressed girls moping around
the floor, do you?” Sam could see Gio turning it over in his mind.

“We can’t represent you
the way you need us to tonight. I promise you Gio, when we come back in here,
we’ll be ready to work. But tonight isn’t the night.”

Gio stared down at Sam,
slowly chewing his gum.

“Pay Lucille your tip
outs and two hundred straight to me from each of you. And don’t say I never did
anything for you.”

Sam looked at the
garter on her leg. “We’ve only been here an hour, Gio. I’ll be lucky if I have
tip out.”

“Well, then you’ll owe
me, won’t you, doll?”

CHAPTER 2

The clinking of glasses
in bus tubs and the smell of frying bacon were strange comforts for Sam in the
wee hours. Settling into their usual booth, she watched Tanya set their drinks
down on the Formica tabletop. Pulling her tablet out of her waistband, Tanya
scratched the recesses of her complicated up-do with a pencil.

“Ya’ll look rode hard
and put up wet,” she drawled. “I thought 4 am was quittin’ time. What are you
doing here?”

Tanya pronounced her
name in true southern style, as in TAN-ya, like Tanya Tucker, not TON-ya, like
Tonya Harding. For those who know, there is a difference.

Tanya wore her
polyester uniform as though it were a custom-made ensemble, perfectly
accessorized and never overdone. Her femininity was so complete that she looked
out of place at the 24-Hour Denny’s off Piedmont Avenue.

“How do you do it,
Tanya?” Sam squinted through the yellow glow of the pendant light hanging above
their table.

“Whaz that, child?”

 
“How is it that you are always so pulled
together?” Sam asked, tilting her head to the side.

Tanya lowered her voice
and smiled conspiratorially. “If I’m gonna be a woman, I’m gonna be a
damn
beautiful one.”

“You’re more woman than
any of us,” Sam half grinned back, wondering how the pre-op transsexual had the
time or energy to keep herself so perfectly coifed.

“Back to my question.
Tell mama what’s wrong. Ya’ll look like someone ran over yer dog.”

Sam pushed the
newspaper across the table to Tanya. It was folded open to the story about
Lena.

Grace exhaled hard and
Birdie busied herself picking at the edge of the laminated menu.

“Good lord ya’ll,”
Tanya murmured, as she scanned the brief article and slumped into the seat next
to Mary Jane.
“Do you know what happened?”

“We don’t know any more
than
what’s
in the story,” said Sam. She took the
newspaper back and smoothed the wrinkles, trying to make the page lay flat.

“She was shot execution
style, and through each eye.
A
 
professional
job — one with a message.”

“When’s the last time
ya’ll saw her?” Tanya asked, hoping to figure out a way for it to not be true.

“Three days.” said Sam.

“Been blowin her fackin
phone up but no answer. Drove by her house about twenty times but all dark. No
one’s home and no car.”

 
Searching for
distraction, Birdie dug through her bag and handed Grace a travel pack of
makeup remover wipes. She also produced a small container of PG Tips tea bags,
something she never went anywhere without. Her hand trembled as she plucked a
triangular bag from the Tupperware, and dropped it in the mug of hot water in
front of her.

“For someone who
doesn’t even own furniture, you’re awfully particular about your beverages,”
Sam said, pulling a cup of black coffee between her hands to warm them.

“American tea is shit.
Your burgers are good, but I’ll never understand how you can fack up flakes of
tea in hot watah.”

Birdie was the wild
child of the bunch. Born in Scotland, she was raised in Manchester by her Mum,
who was busy with seven children to look after. Her mother was shell-shocked by
child rearing. Since Birdie was the second youngest, and the only girl, her
mother could hardly argue when Birdie announced at seventeen that she was going
west to seek her fortune. It hadn’t occurred to her mum that “west” meant
America. She’d been thinking Birdie meant Liverpool, 30 miles up the Manchester
Ship Canal.

Even though she was
just shy of 5’2”, Birdie was larger than life. Her style was soft punk tempered
by her pixie-like girlishness. She had a mane of naturally curly hair that was
twenty shades of red. Her
skin,
was white porcelain, dusted
with freckles, and her eyes were a soft, warm brown. If it weren’t for her stylish
frocks, Birdie would look like a petite, innocent cherub with the body of a slender,
young boy. She had million dollar looks and a mouth to protect it.

“Did you ask anyone at
the club if they’d heard anything? They must know something.” Tanya asked
bringing the girls back to focus from the tangential chatter they had a habit
of lapsing into.

“Just Gio the manager.
He doesn’t know anything,” said Sam.

Birdie focused on her
steeping tea and spat, “Fackin’ wide boy still made us pay house fees though.”

“What an ass,” Tanya’s
eyes darted to the bar where one of her regulars, a longhaul trucker with no
idea Tanya was born Tommy, was gesturing with his coffee mug. “Lemme do a round
and I’ll be right back. Ya’ll havin’ the usual?”

Everyone nodded and
Tanya was off.

Sam thought about the
weird bubble that they lived in. Everyone knew each other by their stage names,
and almost nobody had met, or even really knew of, each other’s families. The
small
tribe of women in the Denny’s that night were
an
exception to the rule. Their friendship had extended into the world of real
names and family stories. Having to remain a secret part of each other’s lives
made times like this almost impossible. There was no one to call for
information.

“Do you think you can
get the funeral details from your customer at the paper, Grace?” Sam asked. “I
doubt the
AJC
will print it since
she’s from Savannah.”

“I can check,” Grace
said. “I don’t think I’m up for going, though. No offense, but I wouldn’t want
my family to see a buncha strippers show up if I was . . .”

Sam nodded.

“Fack that!” Birdie
yanked the teabag from her mug. “I’ve got to go. I
loved
her!”

“We all loved her,
Bird,” said Sam, leveling her gaze across the table. “And how do you plan to
get your no-driver’s-license-havin’ ass down there?”

Birdie lowered her
chin. “
Please
, Sam?”

“Shit. I knew this was
coming.” Sam folded the paper and tucked it into her bag.

“Please, please,
please. I’m Catholic. I can’t miss it,” Birdie pleaded.

“Why are you only
Catholic for weddings and funerals?”

“Not weddings. Does
that mean ‘yes’?” Birdie scrunched up her shoulders and tilted her head.

“It means I’ll think
about it, Birdie. We don’t even have the details yet, now do we?”

Tanya reappeared from
her rounds and slid into the booth. “So,
what’s the plan
ladies
?”

“I guess we wait.” Sam
said.

CHAPTER 3

Three days later, Lena
was buried in Old Bonaventure Cemetery. Its name meant “Good Fortune” in French
. . . go figure. Overlooking the Bull River, which wound its way through the
low coastal marshes, it was one of Savannah’s oldest and most famous burial
grounds. Sam watched the wind blow the Spanish moss in a slow rhythm. The
sunlight painted dappled patterns on the ground at her feet, and the stench of
the paper mill mingling with the fetid smells at low tide filled the air.

Sam, Mary Jane, Grace
and Birdie found a spot away from the intimate cluster of mourners around
Lena’s grave. It was difficult to see what was going on across the flat
graveyard. With no hills to perch on for a bird’s-eye view, they spied through
the trees and headstones trying to catch a glimpse of something —
anything really — that would give insight into Lena’s other life. Sam
guessed that Lena’s family hadn’t known about their daughter’s dancing; and
from the reserved, almost aristocratic, tone of the funeral, she was sure they
wouldn’t approve or understand.

“This is bollocks,”
Birdie pouted. “Lena was ours too. Why can’t we be over there to say goodbye to
her?”

“Because we’re here,”
Sam said. “If you loved Lena, then shut up. Don’t cause her family grief just
because you want sit in the front row.”

“I just don’t think
it’s fair, that’s all.”

Grace surfaced from her
trance, “We’re all frustrated but this is how it has to be, Birdie. You can’t
shove acceptance down someone’s throat. It just doesn’t work that way, and it
never has to work that way for them. They just lost their daughter so I think
upsetting them with our presence isn’t going to do any good. That would just be
about satisfying our own selfish needs. So let’s just chill out. Okay?”

Mary Jane hoped her
black wraparound sunglasses concealed her grief-splotched face. Loss was not a
stranger in her life. The corrosive effect of her mother’s sudden death had led
Mary Jane to slip her moorings at Georgia Tech’s ferociously competitive School
of Computer Science. Bereft and alone, she had drifted sideways into full-time
bartending at the Pussycat.

Something off to the
right, across the clearing pulled her from her thoughts.

“Sooo, was she enough
of a socialite to warrant photographers?” Mary Jane asked under her breath.

“That guy?” Sam said,
“The one shooting the funeral? I
dunno
’. Think it’s
the newspaper or the Feds?”

“Feds? Did you say
Feds? That’s all I need is to be on another bloody Federal watchdog list!”
Birdie spat.

“Keep your voice down
cowgirl, we don’t need everyone in Savannah to know about your checkered past.”
Sam muttered.

“Either way,” Mary Jane
lowered her voice, “I think it’s important we don’t appear in this pictorial. Let’s
chill in the car until the services are over.”