easy work, but it doesn’t pay well.”
“Sounds that way,” she said, but she said it with a smile. “Thanks, Buzz. You’re a good guy.”
“Aw, hell, I’m a tyrant. You’ll hate me in no time. Go get me that sign, will you, girl?”
Hate Buzz? Impossible. He might have been an angel in disguise. An angel with a few rough edges, maybe, but angelic just the same.
In keeping with her new appearance, Jennifer had her left ear pierced and decorated with five silver hoops. She had to sleep on her right side for a week, but she didn’t resemble the woman who had fled the MGM Grand less than a week ago.
In the diner she had a little space and time to get back on her feet, to think about where she’d been and where she was going—both physically and emotionally. And she came to realize very soon that Buzz had seen a need in her and filled it with that Help Wanted sign, which he kept on the shelf under the cash register. He probably put it out whenever someone he suspected needed help wandered into his diner.
Buzz was an old bachelor who had run the diner for forty years. He had a pretty nice house, he told her, but it was lonely there. He liked to be at work—he was usually there from five in the morning until at least nine at night. He bragged that there was no food in the refrigerator at home, and he paid Adolfo’s wife to clean and do laundry for him every couple of weeks.
He was a simple guy and almost everyone who came into the diner was considered a personal friend, except weekend out-of-towners. And what she realized was, if Buzz had brought her into the fold, they all accepted her as part of the family.
“I could use you on Saturday and Sunday mornings, early,” he said. “You should take a couple of weekdays to sleep in, but come in for breakfast when you’re up.”
“You don’t have to do that, Buzz,” she said.
He took on a mock look of surprise. “You mean you’d eat somewhere else?”
She wouldn’t dare. At least not yet.
The thing about the diner was, the food wasn’t particularly delicious. It was good enough and cheap. And not so much on the greasy side. Everything from chicken fettuccini to meat loaf had a slightly Spanish flair.
“Cheese omelet,” a customer would order. “No cilantro.”
“I’ll try,” she would reply.
Jennifer found the Sunset Motel was managed by an elderly woman named Rosemary, who seemed to be expecting her. She cut her a special deal of one-fifty a week if she didn’t require housekeeping, and she made it clear it was a favor to Buzz. The accommodations were a definite improvement, but hardly what she was used to. The thread count of the sheets was so low her skin felt rashy, and the bathroom, while clean, had been hard used with the chips and stains to prove it. It was a long slide down from the MGM’s Grand, but a damn site safer.
Buzz could easily have handled the work at the diner himself. There were a few people in the morning, mostly regulars she became acquainted with right away. As the morning stretched out to lunch, there weren’t many customers.
In the afternoons Jennifer went to the library, where she read newspapers, magazines and used the Internet to research news of Nick and Barbara Noble. So far there had been none. The librarian was a woman just a few years older than Jennifer who wore a plastic name tag that read Mary Clare. After seeing Jennifer there every day for a few days and learning that she worked at the diner for Buzz Wilder, she asked Jennifer if she’d like a library card. To have that, Jennifer adopted the last name of Bailey. Doris Bailey. So after finishing her research, she picked up a novel to take back to the Sunset with her.
She had loved reading since she was a child. It was probably a defense against loneliness; she knew how to plant her eyes on the page and fall headlong into a story, forgetting where she was. She could forget she’d been living in a condo overlooking the ocean at the pleasure of her wealthy gentleman friend, or had lived in an old station wagon parked in an alley. Stories took her out of herself, and she had long regarded the time she spent reading as a little respite from a reality that she had to continually reconstruct. From the time she was a little girl, to being a successful mistress, to being a bald-headed waitress in a greasy spoon, books had been her salvation.
As she was walking back to the Sunset from the library, backpack slung over her shoulder and cap on her head, she saw a black limo driving slowly down the street. The over-dark windows concealed the identity of the passengers, but the license plate read MGM12 and Jennifer knew immediately that it was one of the hotel’s cars. She had to tell herself not to pause, not to stare, not to react. It was entirely possible the hotel was taking a guest to view the dam, which she had heard was a magnificent sight to see.
But it was also possible someone she knew all too well was looking for her.
Three
A few days into her new job she was still sweeping up when the afternoon waitress arrived, a high school girl named Hedda. She was a freaky-looking kid with spiked black hair with purple edges, a tongue ring, a little rhinestone nose stud and at least one very large tattoo peeking out at the small of her back over her low-rise jeans. Hedda looked Jennifer up and down intently, and finally a smile broke out over her decidedly beautiful face. “Cool,” she said. “Did you do that yourself or have it done?” she asked, indicating the bald head.
“I…ah…I didn’t need much help with this,” she said, pulling her scarf off her shiny dome. She felt a sudden urge to explain that she was actually very fashionable and had great office skills; that she could do the accounting for a diner this size in her spare time. And she could dance the tango, drive a stick shift and speed read. Not to mention that acquired skill of finding and snagging rich old guys.
“You know what would look really cool? A tattoo. Right on your head. I could tell you the name of a good artist.”
“I’ll definitely think about that,” she said. “But I was actually thinking of trying hair for a change. You know—letting it grow out.”
“I wouldn’t,” Hedda pronounced. “It makes you look like a really cool alien. A pretty alien.”
“Wow,” Jennifer said. “I haven’t had a compliment like that in I don’t know when.”
“And I mean it, too.”
On her first weekend in Boulder City she met Gloria, who usually served the dinner hour and every Saturday morning. Gloria, a woman in her fifties, looked at Jennifer and said, “Holy Mother of God.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Buzz yelled from behind the counter. “Hedda thinks it’s cool.”
Gloria shook her head. “Why you girls do the things you do is beyond me. Why don’t you at least draw on some eyebrows? I could help you with that.”
“Thanks,” Jennifer said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Gloria had a bedridden husband at home and so she kept very flexible hours, something that Buzz seemed to take in stride. While Gloria worked, a neighbor would look in on her husband, and if Gloria got a call, she dashed off, no matter what she might be in the middle of.
Gloria was best described as a tough old broad. She was a little overweight, but pleasantly so with soft, round curves. She
