Chapter 2
Charlotte glanced up at the desk clerk. "May I cash a check?" she asked.
The clerk looked at her hesitantly. "Yes," he said, forcing a smile.
Opening her bag she pulled out her checkbook.
"Hope you like your room, ma'am."
"Yes. I do. Thank you."
"Glad you do," the man said stiffly.
Charlotte felt the thin man's gaze on her. Under his scrutinizing eye she felt uncomfortable, insecure. It was as though he were trying to read the label on her dress. Now she wished she'd bought something new for her first night in New Orleans. Something chic, expensive. Though she resented his sharp stare, Charlotte felt too insecure to counteract.
From the corner of her eye she saw an older man, white-haired with an impressive brush moustache signaling the clerk.
"Please excuse me, Mrs. Watts."
"Certainly," Charlotte said, watching the clerk hurry over to the older man. She continued writing her check. When next she looked up, she found she was staring into the face of the man with the brush moustache.
"Mrs. Watts," he smiled. "How nice of you to stay at our hotel."
Charlotte understood. This man was the manager, and he knew who she was.
"About your room, Mrs. Watts. The clerk made a dreadful mistake," he said apologetically. "The room you should be in is on the twelfth floor. Much larger, better view-"
"I don't anticipate looking out of my window," Charlotte cut in. "I'm happy where I am. Thank you."
"But-"
She handed him the check. "Cash this, please."
He signaled the desk clerk. "Cash this for Mrs. Watts." Glancing back, his lips parted into a smile revealing uneven, stained teeth. "Are you here alone, Mrs. Watts?"
"Yes," she answered, thinking it was none of his business.
"I hope your stay here will be a happy one."
"Thank you."
"How long will you be here."
"I've no idea," she answered as coldly as possible.
"May I suggest La Rou's for dinner. Excellent cuisine, marvelous drinks, speedy service, and the atmosphere is something special."
Charlotte remained quiet.
"It's in the French Quarter."
"Yes," she said.
The clerk returned with the cash. The manager took the money and counted it out.
"There you are, Mrs. Watts. Three hundred dollars."
"Thank you." Charlotte felt both men's eyes on her all the way across the lobby as she made her way out the exit doors.
Damn idiots. They make me feel like a country bumpkin. like I'm one big square.
"That," said the manager, "is Charlotte Watts." He looked at the clerk, his head tilted, and saw that the name did not register. "The Charlotte Watts. She's worth a considerable fortune. Left to her by her husband. She owns one of the biggest tobacco plantations in the South."
"You'd never know it by that dress and those shoes and that hair," the clerk minced. "I actually hesitated to cash her check."
The manager glared at him.
"Really now," the clerk minced. "If I had her kind of money I'd let them all know it. They'd see me coming a mile away. Silk suits, expensive luggage-"
"That," observed the older man, "is precisely why a man like you is a clerk, and will remain one until they carry him out of here. Now get behind the desk," he commanded, "and don't be superior to our guests, because you just aren't."
Outside, Charlotte took a deep breath, and, after a moment's hesitation, crossed the street. It was her first time alone in New Orleans. Before, she'd taken the trip with her husband. They had never left the hotel room, ordering room service and holding business discussions with lawyers. But now-now it was different.
Charlotte glanced at her reflection in a store window. I do need new clothes. And I've got to do something with this hair of mine. The clerk had made her aware of her personal lacks. As snooty as the man was, he was right. Tomorrow she would go on a shopping spree, make an appointment with a hair stylist, do all the things that needed to be done.
Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to see it was nine-thirty. Really too late for dinner. She wasn't hungry anyway. What she'd really like was a drink.
A few blocks later she found herself in the French Quarter. She looked at the narrow, cobblestoned street and the old buildings, the interesting shops, and the bizarre-looking people all busily engaged. It made her realize what an entirely different world she lived in.
Finding a wooden bench, Charlotte sat down. She glanced at a century-did building with dozens of tiny doors making strange patterns in the edifice's exterior. She recalled an article she'd read. At one time, behind those doors African slaves were housed, bunched up a dozen or more in a room as small as a closet, chained to each other's legs waiting to be sold at market. Now these same quarters were chic, modern, high-priced apartments. Weird, she thought. Looking up an ivy-covered red-brick building, her gaze rested on the wrought iron porch. A couple were seated at a table, eating outdoors by candlelight. Guess it isn't too late for dinner, she thought. Not as long as there's someone to share the moment with.
Rising, Charlotte continued to walk deeper into the strange, marvelously mysterious quarter. An intriguing spot caught her attention, and she stopped. The sign outside read Pirate's Haven and the window was cleverly decorated with skull and crossbones, spooky-looking hanging skeletons and shrunken heads, swords and blades and guns.
Charlotte walked down the brick steps and pushed the door open. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized that the crunchy feeling under her feet was sawdust. The floor was covered with it. She made her way to the rectangular bar and sat down.
The place was a reconverted cellar. Couples were dancing to the loud blare of the music coming from enormous speakers overhead. There were a dozen tiny tables wedged together, permitting only enough space for the slim waitress to slide through, serving hot wine, cappuccino, regular drinks, and popcorn to the crowded patrons.
In a corner of the room a black velour curtain, which had seen better days, was parted, revealing a diminutive makeshift stage.
Charlotte glanced around the room apprehensively. There were people everywhere, at the tables, on the dance floor, sitting on stage; and the bar was full except for two seats. It was then she realized the kind of bar she'd stumbled into. There were the long-haired group, boys and girls who looked like they needed a good hot bath. There were a few odd bohemian types, and a sprinkling of neat, well-dressed men. But most of these, at tables and at the bar, were girls with closely cropped, streaked hair. Most wore shirts and trousers. Some, the older women, even wore tight-fitting T-shirts. She'd heard about places like this but had never visited one. Smoke from dozens of cigarettes smogged up the small room and burned her eyes. The smell of cappuccino and beer and perfume smelled up the place. Every-time a new customer entered all eyes darted toward the door as though they were expecting someone.
A quick glance around, and Charlotte changed her seat, taking a stool at the very end of the bar near the stage. She felt nervous, ill at ease, out of her element. But still she stayed.
A girl entered, squinted her eyes, then headed for the empty stool next to Charlotte.
"What'll you have?" the hawk-eyed woman behind the bar asked.
Charlotte stared at. the woman bartender. She was the ugliest woman she'd ever seen. Her dyed red hair was very thin and exposed much of the woman's scalp. Her nose looked as if it had been broken many times and had never reset properly. Her thin lips were curled downward, and her beady eyes glared into Charlotte's.
"Come on, come on, don't have all day."
Charlotte ordered a scotch and soda.
"And you?" the bartender asked the girl on the stool next to Charlotte.
"Make it a beer."
"Thought so," the woman grumbled.
Charlotte, through the mirror over the bar, saw the girl light a cigarette. The girl shifted in her seat and eyed the people around her.
The drinks finally arrived.
"A buck twenty-five for you, and the beer is eighty cents."
Both women reached for their money.
The thin-haired woman wiped her hands on her dirty apron and rang up the eighty cents, , then turned to Charlotte.
"I'm terribly sorry," Charlotte said. "I've nothing smaller."
"Hell," the woman muttered, scooping up the hundred-dollar bill. "Hey, Mac," she called, walking away, "break this for me."
The girl, her eyes fastened to Charlotte's opened purse, ogled the bills. Slowly her eyes appraised Charlotte.
Charlotte felt the girl's eyes and flushed. Even in the dimly lighted room Charlotte could make the girl out quite clearly in the mirror. She was pretty. More, she was sexy in an earthy way. Her eyes hooked onto her drink. She felt strange and even stupid, looking at the girl. When she looked at the girl again she decided she was cheap. Hardly her kind of person. Girls of this class worked for her on the plantation. Transient labor, work one day, gone the next, making just enough money to buy a bottle and booze it up with some male.
The girl's eyes met hers in the mirror, and Charlotte somehow knew that the girl would speak to her.
"Did that guy die?"
Charlotte shifted her weight in her seat. "Who?" she asked.
"That whatchamacallim ... that heart transplant case."
"Oh. I don't know. I have no idea," she said. She swallowed hard, feeling awkward. "I heard about it of course but-"
"It's funny in a way," the girl cut in. "Like it'll change poetry and romance and songs."
"What will?"
"These heart transplants."
"It will?"
"Sure. Nothing will be the same anymore."
"Oh."
The girl closed her eyes in thought. "I got it," she said, snapping her fingers. "How's this?
My heart beats for you, But I don't know in who." Charlotte laughed. "It should be whom. But I don't know in whom.
"Yeah. What the hell," the girl shrugged. "Poetic license." They both laughed.
"Anyway, you liked it. I got through to you."
"Is that what you were trying to do?" Charlotte asked.
"Honey," the girl's Southern accent was thick. "Isn't it what we're all trying to do?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Now. Take you."
Charlotte sipped her drink. "What about me?"
The lady bartender appeared, eyed their half-filled glasses and returned Charlotte's change. She stood by, hands on hips while Charlotte counted the money. "Nobody cheats anybody in here," she grumbled. "Drink up, drink up." She turned and left.
"Damn bulldyke," the girl muttered.
Charlotte colored.
"She used to go around feeling your beer bottle. If it was warm she'd suppose you were nursing your drink and make you buy another one," the girl explained. "I hate her ugly-guts."
Charlotte lit a cigarette. "I had you spotted as somebody new here. Right?"
"Yes. My first time."
"Thought so." The girl's eyes held Charlotte's. "My name is Pat. Sorry I can't come up with something more exotic, but that's my tag."
"Mine's Charlotte," she smiled. "Nice to meet you."
Suddenly the lights in the room dimmed. From behind the bar, the tough-faced lesbian picked up a mike. "Okay, quiet. I said quiet. Here's a little something for you. Her name is Carol Lord."
There was a scattering of applause, then the room filled with the strains of a guitar from backstage. A pin-spot flashed onstage, expanding gradually until its circle of light illuminated the central spot of the platform.
A girl appeared. A silk vest, held together only by a thin black thong, revealed part of her swelling breasts. The skirt, slit at the sides, showed the girl's long, tapering legs to breathtaking advantage.
Charlotte, closer to the stage than anyone, felt her spine tingle with excitement. She stared at the girl in open admiration.
Pat, by her side, saw the look in her face and sat back nursing her beer. There was no use in trying to talk now, she thought. Nothing could top this dame on stage.
The girl, an absolute beauty, moved unlike anyone Charlotte had ever seen. She was fantastic: stimulating, erotic, abandoned. Reaching for her drink, Charlotte consumed it, then raised her hand for a refill without once taking her eyes from the wildly exciting girl onstage.
That body ... oh, that body, reflected Charlotte.
The girl thrust herself about brazenly, seductively, her enormous breasts shaking tantalizingly so near ... so very near ... Charlotte could almost reach out and touch them.
The girl danced one number, then broke into another and then it was over. There was much applause and the lights came on.
Pat made a nasty face. "I think she stinks," she said, her accent grating against Charlotte's ears.
"How can you?" Charlotte asked. "She's really quite-"
"Your drinks," the bartender said.
"Here, let me," Charlotte said to Pat. She paid for the drinks.
Pat eyed the bills again. She lit another cigarette, blew the smoke out of her nose like a man, then turned to Charlotte. "You know," she said, "I think we ought to get a bottle and go to my place."
Charlotte remained silent.
"You want to, don't you?"
Charlotte looked embarrassed.
"Honey. The way you looked at that gal. I know what you need. Look ... we can stop somewhere, get a bottle and-" she cut herself off.
More silence.
"Is there something wrong with what I said?" Pat asked.
Charlotte's eyes met the girl's. Slowly her face relaxed, and she offered her a small smile. "No, there's nothing wrong with that."
"Okay, then. Let's go."
Charlotte followed Pat out, feeling sure every eye in the room was on her.