Suite 1306

SUITE 1306 / James Tate GINGER HAD AGREED to have a drink with that hairy, fat sales rep from Parkers, Herb what's-his-name, first, because she had already refused him on at least five previous occasions, and she couldn't risk losing the account—he was that type, he would take his business elsewhere—and, well, Michael had called and cancelled their date to go dancing, he was going to his mother's birthday, something, she hadn't really listened to his explanation after first catching the drift. Michael was not to be counted on these days, she seemed to be last on his list of priorities ever since she had declined his marriage proposal. She didn't want to marry, once was enough, thank you. She wanted to have a good time. Staying at the Plaza was fun. She mingled easily with the glamorous people in the lobby, French businessmen, heiresses from Palm Beach and Newport, movie stars—Jean Paul Belmondo had tried out his line on her last year, "Have pity on an old man, my child. Let us compromise our lives wantonly!"—and famous writers. Yes, she was a presence in the Oak Room and the Russian Tea Room. Whether or not management and the bartenders knew it, high-priced hookers worked the room with a panther's grace. Ginger adored this part of her cocktail hour after the day's work. She knew their moves, how they followed men out of the room on their way to the rest room downstairs. She knew what the women looked for: out-of-towners, a little tight, with money, vulnerable and randy. Most of the hookers that could make it in The Plaza were extremely beautiful and well-dressed. They could approach a single or a pair of gentlemen without attracting the least bit of attention. And what man, in the city without his wife, would complain to the management that a beautiful woman wanted to share a drink with him? Ginger had never seen one turned away, at least not for a drink. These women fascinated her. She had always meant to strike up a conversation with one. As she dressed for her drink with hairy Herb she sipped from a glass of wine, washed down a little speed and puffed on a joint of some California sinsemilla her friend Laurie had sent her last week. I mean, she certainly intended to be a little buzzed to get through with this sleaze-bag. Maybe it could even be fun. Why not? Give the guy a bone and leave him sweating. The bar was crowded and she stood there at the entrance surveying 260 · The Missouri Review the scene. From behind her hands were placed lightly above her hips. "My, aren't we looking sexy," he whispered into her ear. "Nice line, Herb. Cut the shit and find us a table." Drinks were ordered, a Margarita for Ginger and a bourbon and water for Herb. "You know, Ginger, you were magnificent today, a real ball-buster. You made Larry squirm, that's an achievement." "Larry's a pussywhipped wimp, just like you, Herb. He gave me what I wanted because I let him get a peek up my shirt. Saved me major bucks and he went home happy." "If it's money you're interested in, sweetie, I could get into that." Ginger smiled, her crudest, sexiest, as though that were not out of the realm of possibility. Herb sipped at his drink through a straw and looked up at her. She was looking mean tonight. Flecked blond hair, green eyes lit with mischief. Proud and desperate to be whatever it was she was. "Ginger, I know you think I'm some kind of . . . greaseball . . . salesman, but I've got a heart, too, and I, well, I think you're one of the most attractive women I've ever met." Herb sported muttonchops and a plaid wool tie; he was married to someone even more overweight than himself, and there was little love lost between them. "I don't think you're a greaseball, Herb. You just leer a lot. You know what I mean by 'leer,' Herb...