Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) Unknown (audio ebook reader .txt) 📖

polka-dot bow ties. He looked down his long, bony nose at everyone. Those who failed Bobby's exacting standards for clothes, accent, or address were condemned as ``trailer trash.'' Poor Minnie flunked all three categories.

Bobby said he was a Stillman Rockefeller. Vicki was im- pressed by his pedigree. I wasn't. I knew how to find out things. I had Bobby's birth date and Social Security num- ber. A few phone calls, a trip to the microfilm archives, and I discovered that Bobby was born in a trailer park in Macon, Missouri. The closest he got to a Rockefeller was the spinach on his oysters.

I kept my mouth shut until Bobby ordered me to hand-

105 106 Elaine Viets address the envelopes for his next party, as if I were his social secretary. Then I whispered two words in his ear: ``Shady Oaks.''

That was the name of the natal trailer park. Bobby never again asked me to do anything that wasn't connected to his job, and I never said ``Shady Oaks'' at the office.

Jimmy, the second boy, was the office skirt-chaser and self-proclaimed expert on camping and canoeing. I thought he spent more time popping the tops on six-packs than paddling canoes.

Jimmy would swagger into the office sunburned and bug- bitten after one of his trips, and Vicki would listen wide- eyed to his tales of camping and cruising for women. Jim- my's conquests were mostly sad bottle blondes he picked up in country bars. He called them his ``sleeping bags.'' These women seemed to expect bad treatment from men, but they didn't stick around long enough to know for sure.

The boys and Vicki loved to gather 'round while Jimmy lied to his wife, Juliet. ``Yeah, honey,'' Jimmy would say, his voice all sticky-sweet. ``I've gotta stay late again tonight. I won't be home until after eight. No, don't worry about supper. Yes, I agree, honey. That Vicki is a regular slave driver.''

Jimmy would give Vicki a wink. She'd giggle. After he hung up the phone, that no-good would light out for the local no-tell motel.

Vicki carried on like he was the last of the red-hot lovers. It made me mad. I talked with Jimmy's wife when she called the office. She was always pleasant and polite. Juliet deserved better than him.

Jimmy was such an experienced rake, he kept a bar of Dial in his glove compartment, the same brand he used at home. He'd shower with it at the motel, so he didn't come home reeking of unfamiliar soap. He kept a fresh white shirt in his trunk, in case his own was smeared with another woman's lipstick. Worse, he bragged about his conquests.

Jimmy also had The Sensuous Woman by J to entertain

� his lady loves. That book was pretty risque for 1970. Jimmy would bring his copy to the office and read the naughty bits out loud to Vicki and the boys. Poor Minnie would blush. Vicki would get this mean little smile.

Jimmy was an unlikely lothario. He was short, pudgy, KILLER BLONDE 107 and freckled. But he knew how to make women laugh, and they'd overlook a lot for a few jokes. Jimmy hit on me one hot summer day when Vicki was at lunch. Jimmy's head didn't reach the top of my chest.

``I'm married, sport,'' I told the little weasel.

``Good. I like married women.'' It sounded like a line he used often.

``You got one at home,'' I said. ``Ever wonder why your wife swallows your stale 'Honey, I'm late' stories? Maybe she's having her own fun while you're banging the head- board at the no-tell motel. Juliet's indifference says it all, Romeo. If you were any good in bed, she'd be protecting her property.''

I said that for Juliet's sake. I didn't really think she was running around. Jimmy slunk off with his tail, or something, between his legs.

He never hit on me again.

The third one, Irish Johnny, had the face of a ruined choirboy. He was losing his hair and wore a hat to cover his bald spot, but he was handsome. Everyone loved Johnny. He was bone lazy, fond of the bottle, and had the backbone of a slug, but he made those faults endearing. He had the Irish gift of gab--and of betrayal.

People told Irish Johnny things they'd never tell anyone else, and he took them straight to Vicki. He fed her infor- mation about everyone in the office.

I kept my files locked. One day I found Irish Johnny trying the handles on my file cabinets.

``I was looking for the vacation schedule. What do you do with that key, darlin'?'' Irish Johnny said.

``I take it home with me, Johnny dear. There's a lot of information you wouldn't want out,'' I said. ``Including how much money was actually in the bowling-shirt fund you handled.''

Irish Johnny went dead white and never touched the file drawers again.

There were other men in the office, but the three boys dominated our department. They were Vicki's chief courtiers.

During the dangerous evaluation week, the boys' suits were freshly pressed, their ties were free of soup stains, their shirts a little whiter. They sat up straighter at their 108 Elaine Viets desks and stayed later. And they laughed louder at Vicki's jokes.

Vicki was the queen of our department during that week. The men treated her mildest whim as a command. Her desk was loaded with their bribes: slices of coffee cake, flowers, and chocolates with cherry-pink centers.

Everyone waited for the dreaded moment when Vicki said, ``I have your evaluation.'' She enjoyed that little fris- son of fright even the most secure felt when they heard those words.

Vicki had a pecking order, and the boys were at the top. She took most of the men in the department out for drinks or coffee when she gave them their evaluations. They'd be gone anywhere from fifteen minutes to