Dutch Date With The French Biker Chick
“I do not pay zee ‘otel tip,” Chloie objected when I tried to collect the $20 I paid the guard.
“It is impossible.”
“But Jennifer said you would repay me, that it’s a standard deal with this hotel and you shoulda paid him when you . . .”
“Zis is your problem, I sink, Shames. Zee tips are not mine.”
Great, I thought, two hours into this job and I’ve already lost 20 bucks. 45 if you count filling up the gas tank.
I took another look at this cheap French biker chick in my car. Her pores were closed tight. She looked piggish in the film noir street light. No sweat glands, just like a pig, I thought. This one’s gonna fight me all night for what must be table scraps to her. $20. Come on. She must make a hundred times that in a week. Why was she being so stingy?
Chloie’s pager interrupted my attempts to get my money back. It was 8899. I raced to the payphones at the Denny’s on Western. The next call was the Holiday Inn on Vineland just off the 101. Mr. Handsome. Sounded made up to me, but what are the chances of that?
After dropping her off, I sat in my car fuming over the transaction, carefully parking my car across the street from the current Holiday Inn to avoid any marauding hotel security guards.
I was down to my last $10 and I’d be damned if I was going to grease any more palms tonight.
Chloie came out to the hotel curb where I had dropped her off and appeared agitated that I wasn’t parked right there, miffed that her date was so rude as to wait for her out in the car instead of in the hotel lobby. I could see her from across the street.
“Where are you?” she demanded angrily when I raced up to where she was pacing.
“Across the street. Didn’t want to attract any attention. There was a security guard walking around. . .”
“We go to zee Avenue of zee Stars,” she interrupted and handed me a rumpled hotel receipt with some chicken scrawl on the back.
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