Читать книгу Full Service Blonde - Megan Edwards - Страница 9

Chapter 1

Friday, December 9

I carry business cards that read “Copper Black, Assistant Editor.” To my parents, they’re reassuring proof I’m a bona fide journalist, but what my title really means is that I update show listings and bring caffe lattes to Chris Farr, the arts and entertainment editor. But my parents are in Connecticut, where it’s far more satisfying to imagine me interviewing celebrities.

“Copper,” my mother will say on the phone, “I read that Bill Clinton was in Las Vegas last week. Did you meet him?”

No, Mom. I was standing in line at Starbucks.

Not that I haven’t learned a lot in my nearly eight months in Las Vegas. I know about high pollen counts and flash floods, the shortage of obstetricians, and the abundance of Mormon churches. I’m an expert at giving and following directions using casinos as landmarks. I know that when real Nevadans said “Nevada,” the VAD rhymes with MAD. Only newscasters broadcasting from Rockefeller Center say Ne-VAH-da. Well, I used to, too, but I’ve acclimatized.

Even so, I still have a lot to learn, even about subjects as ordinary as the good old-fashioned Yellow Pages. Remember those big fat books we used to use as booster seats and doorstops? I thought they had died out along with phone booths, but there’s a whole bookcase full of them at The Light. They’ve been relegated to the far side of the lunchroom, probably their last stop on the road to extinction, but there they are. I was eating lunch alone that Friday, so out of curiosity, I pulled one out to keep me and my ramen noodles company. I had just returned to my table when a familiar but unwelcome raspy voice fell on my ears.

“Hey, blondie, help me out and turn to ‘Entertainers’ in the Yellow Pages you’ve got there.”

I looked up to see Ed Bramlett leering at me from his usual spot near the windows. He covers business at The Light. Next to him, wearing a similar expression, was J.C. Dillon, who has the local government beat. They both have at least thirty years on me, and they liked nothing better than to see me blush. When I first arrived, they could turn me crimson in a matter of moments, but I’ve toughened up.

“It’s Copper,” I said, looking back down. “Do you need some entertainment, Ed?” I hoped I sounded sufficiently sarcastic.

“Not when I have you, sweetie,” Ed said. J.C. emitted a snort that was supposed to pass for a laugh.

I should have ignored them, but I flipped to the “E” section. I know now that I should not have been expecting discreet ads for piano players, but I was still a Vegas newbie.

“FULL SERVICE BLONDES,” read the three-inch headline staring me in the face. I looked up, and Ed smiled triumphantly as I felt my cheeks warming. I am the world’s fastest blusher, and I was glad I had worn my hair long that day. It covered my ears, which always heat up even more violently than my face. But I wasn’t embarrassed. I was angry. Ed had succeeded in turning me red again.

“It means they bring you coffee,” Ed said, and J.C. snorted again. I slapped the phone book shut. Clutching it in one hand and my cup of noodles in the other, I stalked out of the lunchroom.

Back in my cubicle, I turned the pages once again to the letter E. The section dedicated to “Entertainers” went on for at least a hundred pages, and most of the ads were just like the one Ed had needled me with: “Full Service Blondes,” “Barely Legal Asians,” “College Hardbodies in Short Skirts.”

I called David Nussbaum, thanking God as I dialed that at least one of the reporters at The Light didn’t treat me like an inflatable doll.

“David, this is Copper. I’ve got some questions about prostitution in Las Vegas. It’s illegal, right?”

“Yeah, it’s illegal in Clark County. Why?”

“Is it really, though? I mean, there are those trucks that drive up and down the Strip advertising ‘Girls direct to your room.’ And those guys who snap little cards at you on the sidewalk. And … well, I’m just flipping through the Yellow Pages, and the section under ‘Entertainers’ looks a lot like—”

“Call girls.”

“Yeah. ‘Discreet and Confidential.’ ‘Full Service.’”

“The ads aren’t illegal, even though what they’re promoting is. What’s ironic is that the legal brothels over in Nye County can’t advertise like that, even though they pay taxes and follow all the rules. But why are you so interested in prostitution all of a sudden? Thinking of a career change? Tired of being Calendar Girl?”

“Don’t start, David.” I told him about Ed Bramlett’s latest gambit.

“Copper, there is nothing more threatening to an old reporter than young talent. He’s just jealous.”

“Of the coffee chick whose assignments mostly involve chasing down lounge singers?”

“Of youth. Of beauty. Of a degree from Princeton.”

I was so glad David and I had Princeton in common, even though he graduated before I got there. I never fully appreciated the value of old school ties until I got this job. I was still an outsider, but at least there was somebody of the same species in a nearby cubicle.

“Got any good plans for the weekend?” David asked.

“I was thinking about driving up to Zion tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve never been.”

“It’s really beautiful with snow on the ground. Have fun.”

“How about you?” I asked.

“Working.”

I really had nothing to complain about. Coffee-bearing Calendar Girls don’t have to work on weekends.

I finished my lunch in my cubicle. David said Ed Bramlett would count it as a victory, but I figured screw the old goat. He didn’t seem to have the vaguest inkling that I could nail him with a sexual harassment suit, and he was lucky I didn’t come to Vegas gunning for sexist pigs. I knew I had to be tough to make it in journalism. I stayed in my cubicle so I could get some work done. I didn’t have time to waste sparring with a leathery old misogynist.