She just stood up, wiped the corners of her eyes on a napkin, and left the diner.
Punjab heard the bell on the door chime as Marion walked out, and came out of the kitchen.
“Where did she go?” he asked.
“You weren’t thinking of hiring her, were you?”
“Yes. I was thinking about it. She seemed nice. A little sad, but nice.”
“Well, then, Mr. Punjab, I think I deserve a raise, because I just did you a huge favor.” Sarah handed the application to her boss and crossed her arms. “Read it,” she insisted. Punjab put on his glasses and read the form.
“Marion Holly?” he said, a little taken aback. “As in Roy Holly’s girl?”
“That’s the one.”
CHAPTER
17
MARION HOLLY
SOUTHERN ALABAMA
1981
1.
The lights inside the Time-Out Gentlemen’s Club washed its patrons in sickly pale shades of pink and green. Other than the girls onstage, who were painted in thick layers of glitter and pancake makeup, everyone in the place looked like they were made of warped, sweaty plastic—carnival versions of reality. Not that they were anything to look at anyway, even in the daylight. Most of the gentlemen that frequented the Time-Out were long-haul truckers on the tail end of marathon crank binges, or obese married men from a county over with baseball caps pulled down low-profile in hopes of not being recognized—losers and degenerates, the lot of them. The place always smelled like a gas station bathroom someone had tried to clean up with a bucket of cheap Avon perfume, and the unwashed bodies of a dozen greasy men, sitting around tables scratching themselves, pawing stacks of single dollar bills, didn’t exactly help.
Marion set her drink tray down on top of one of the big PA speakers at the back of the stage, near the restrooms, and scanned around the bar for any empty glasses in need of refilling. Louis would be here any minute to make a long and shitty night a little less long and shitty. When it dawned on her that, for once, no one in the place was gawking at her, she slipped a finger under the neon-green string of her thong and pulled the uncomfortable thing out of her crack. She didn’t understand why she had to wear the damn thing. It accomplished nothing. She gave herself a good scratching along the back seam and lit a cigarette. She nearly hot-boxed the entire thing by the time Louis appeared at the bar. The barkeep, Todd, pointed in her direction and Louis made his way over. Marion dropped her smoke on the concrete floor and squashed it out under the toe of the ridiculous six-inch heels they made her wear.
“What’s up, girlie?” Louis was one of the few black guys allowed to roam free in the Time-Out. The owner, a guy named Bill Cutter, wasn’t big on “darkies,” but Louis moved a lot of dope, crank, herb, even heroin, and he always kicked up a piece to Cutter for letting him work the room, so he was given a pass.
“You’re late,” Marion said.
“But I’m here. I saw your kid outside in the car. That shit ain’t cool, girl. He should be at the house or something.”
“Ain’t got no house to be at. Barb and Tim booted us out again. What do you care? It’s none of your business anyway.”
“That may be, but Cutter don’t play that shit. If he finds out . . .”
“He won’t find out if nobody says nothing. The boy’s fine out there. He’s got his comic books and some leftover pizza from happy hour. At least if he’s out there I can go check on him when I can instead of . . .” Marion stopped talking and looked at the slinky man in baggy jeans and a wifebeater leaned up against the wall, and realized she wasn’t having that conversation with this guy. “What are you anyway,” she said, “a social worker? Are you here to judge me or hook me up?”
“That depends. You payin’ or you wantin’ to put it on your already inflated tab?”
“I’ll get it to you by Friday.”
“Always by Friday. Don’t the fellas in this place tip?”
“You know waitresses don’t make it like the girls up there do.” Marion pointed to the sad brunette baring it all from the pole in the middle of the stage, doing her best to block out the obnoxious 38 Special song blaring over the PA and imagine she was somewhere else.
“Well, you know there are a few ways we could work all that out,” Louis said, rubbing a gangly black thumb down the smooth curve of Marion’s hip bone. She swatted it away immediately. “I don’t trick. Not anymore.”
“It don’t have to be like that, girl. I can make it real romantic.”