Gorilla Beach (3 page)

“Is that the bachelorette party?” asked Gia.

They moved closer. The women in fur were howling and screaming at the top of their lungs. Some seemed to be kicking at something in the center of the circle. A big pouf of blond hair rose up over the top of the women's heads for a second, then disappeared again. It rose and fell. Each time it became visible, the woman screamed and kicked.

To Bella, it looked as if this posse of women were kicking the crap out of someone. Her karate training kicked in, and she felt her muscles tense under the Bangin' Bride costume. Bella could not stand to see an unfair fight.

She strode toward the circle and pushed a few of the women—
middle-aged femooks in designer clothes, furs, plastic faces, and killer heels—to get to the center of the circle.

Bella had to blink. What in the name of cowboy Christ was she seeing?

“What the fuck?” asked Gia behind her.

At the center of the circle, a blonde was riding a bucking mechanical … what
was
that thing? Bigger than a sheep, smaller than a cow. A mechanical juicehead dwarf pony? The woman in the saddle was writhing on top of it as it jerked back and forth. She held on to the horn of the saddle with both hands, screaming with orgasmic joy. The women hadn't been gang-stomping her. They were kicking at the foam padding around the pony ride that came loose with every swivel.

“Kinky,” said Gia, nodding at the blonde. “Doesn't that hurt your vagine?”

“Who the hell are you?” asked one of the spectators. She took a pull on the bottle of Cristal in her hand as she narrowed icy blue eyes and arched her thin black brows at the cousins. Her hair was black, stick straight, with cropped bangs. It looked like a Chinese wig. Bella didn't know designers, but her dress looked expensive. The fur jacket looked real. Around her neck, she wore a six-inch, diamond-studded gold cross.

“Gia!” shouted the blonde on the bucking machine. Her words came out herky from the jerky ride. “It's. Me! I'm. Ride. Ing. A. Frig. Ing.
Bull!
”

“More like a goat,” said Gia.

“That's what I thought!” Bella said, laughing. Wait, the blonde on the … thing … was Maria? Bella wouldn't have recognized her if she'd punched her.

“You. Guys. Have. To. Try. This!”

No. Thank. You,
thought Bella. Not unless there was an on-site gynecologist.

The machine slowed and then stopped. Maria kicked one bare
leg over the side of the pony, then fell over the other side onto the foam padding.

Cupping her crotch, she said, “There goes the wedding night. I feel like I just had sex with a tuba.”

“Me next!” shouted Gia, jumping up and down, clapping.

The femooks helped Maria to her feet. She was shaky, but able to gather Gia and Bella into a three-way hug.

“Princesses,” Maria squealed. “You made it! Dressed to impress, too. What took you so long? You're an hour late. You didn't recognize me at first, right? I made a few changes.”

Some
changes? She'd bleached her raven hair with a skunk stripe into a Hollywood yellow. Formerly soft and curvy, Maria had dieted herself to bony, which wasn't a good look on anyone. Bella guessed she'd had a nose job and a face-lift. And her dress! It was black, classy, and draped. The Maria of last summer preferred clothes that were loud, shiny, and supertight. Glancing at her feet, Bella spotted another major change. No wonder she seemed shorter. The former devotee of six-inch stilettos and patent-leather, high-heeled booties, Maria now wore kitten-heeled strappy sandals.

The most shocking change of all? Maria was … pale. Maybe the blood had drained from her face after the bottom-pounding she'd just taken. Even still, it appeared Maria hadn't been on a tanning bed in months.

This woman wasn't the chronically tipsy, leathery, bronzed mystic tanning queen they knew and loved. The new Maria looked like Victoria Gotti after crawling a hundred miles on a bad road to a sketchy plastic surgeon's office.

Another woman had crawled onto the horny-pony ride, and the creature was bucking away again, the women howling and screaming. Each woman, Bella saw, was holding her own bottle of champagne.

Gia was still blinking in shock at Maria's shocking transformation.
Maria frowned at her and said, “You look like you've got gas, honey.”

“I'm fine,” said Gia, giving her old boss another hug. “It's aweome to see you! Congrats on your wedding!” She reached into the Pleasure Chest shopping bag, grabbed a handful of condoms and foil packs of lube, and threw them in the air like confetti. A few of them bounced off the writhing mechanical pony and flew across the room. A couple hit femooks in the face.

Maria said, “Come sit down, girls. I love the outfits.”

The bride brought them to a booth in back. As they squeezed in, Bella whispered to Gia, “An hour late? You couldn't make it two hours?”

A few of the other ladies joined them, including the hard-ass with the Chinese-wig hair. She stared at the girls and weaved a little.
Drunk and pissed off,
thought Bella. Not a good combo.

“We have bachelorette-party gifts,” said Gia, breaking the tension. She gave Maria the Pleasure Chest shopping bag.

Maria reached in and withdrew a cellophane-wrapped goody.

Gia said helpfully, “It's a penis pop.”

“I can see that,” said Maria.

“Cherry. Your favorite.”

The other women were silent. They seemed to be waiting for the China-wig brunette to react. She squinted at the pop for a few beats, then she barked. From the relieved smiles of the other women, Bella guessed she was laughing. The tension deflated, and the other women started laughing, too.

“You girls are too funny,” slurred the brunette. “You're the cousins from Brooklyn. Gia and Bella, right? Maria told me all about you. You're so young! How old are you?”

“We're both twenty-two,” said Gia.

“I like your style. You need champagne. Everyone needs champagne!” Banging on the table, the brunette bellowed,
“We need more bottles out here!”

Bella cringed at the volume. Gia cupped her ears again.

“I'm Donna Lupo,” said the brunette, holding out her hand with the perma French manicure and a couple of doorknob diamond rings. “I'm married to Luigi Lupo, who is Stanley's best friend from the neighborhood, like a brother. This is Antonia Diana Ravioli, Luigi's cousin Bobby's wife. Here's Carmela Incantanta Fortunata, who's married to Alonzo, Stanley's second cousin. Over there on the bull is Adriana Tagliobulo, wife of Carmine, an associate of Luigi's and Stanley's …”

While Donna introduced the group as if she were reading the Italian phone book, Bella took in their outfits. It was as if the spring collections from Neiman Marcus had fallen off the back of a truck and landed on these ladies' backs. All wore fur jackets or vests. All had stick-straight hair in various shades of Paul Mitchell, with cropped bangs and subtle highlights. No skunk stripes or poufs for this crew. They each wore clanging gold crosses that nestled snugly into their cleavage. Their makeup consisted of mascara, gloss, and five spackled layers of nude foundation.

Gia asked suddenly, “Isn't it too hot to wear fur?”

Donna wore a lynx jacket, the white fur tickling her jaw. “It's
never
too hot to wear fur,” she said. “A toast! To air-conditioning!”

The ladies lifted their bottles and guzzled until they'd drained the champagne inside. Then they threw the bottles and belched thunderously in unison. Then they started laughing like jackals. Such behavior wouldn't shock Bella among her own friends. But to see middle-aged women like this? Yeah, it was like an episode of
Mob Wives
. They'd probably start tearing each other's hair out next.

Donna pounded on the table and screamed, “More champagne!” like the Italian-American princess version of Henry VIII. Bella glanced around, looking for a cocktail waitress or a bartender. None in sight.

Donna's attention swiveled to Maria. “So tell us about the wedding. Did you arrange the tables like I told you to? I hope you
didn't seat me with Annette Camponati, because I freakin' hate that backstabbing bitch.”

Maria said, “You and Annette are on opposite sides of the room. I did everything like you said.”

Bella and Gia made eye contact. Maria seemed afraid of this Donna person. Bella felt intimidated by her, too, and she was no quivering violet. Bella could make brown-belted juiceheads quake at her karate-sparring gym. But Donna had a fearsome presence. Bella shuddered, imaging what it'd be like to get on her bad side.

Had Donna pressured Maria to make the physical changes to fit into their crew? Bella would never change herself for anyone. Sure, she'd had her boobies done, but she did that for herself. The Girls had been her twenty-first-birthday present to herself. If anyone had told her to do it, she'd've been dead set against it.

Gia, apparently, didn't feel intimidated by Donna. “Where're the male strippers? This is a bachelorette party. Don't tell me the closest thing we have to a hot gorilla is that tin-plated kiddie ride over there.”

“Are you saying I don't know how to make a party for my friend?” Donna's blue eyes flared.

“No offense to you. But this club sucks. You can't dance to this country crap. The bottles are kicked. No hot boys. Let's go to Karma to dance. We'll torpedo the place.”

“We can dance to this!” Donna said. “Come on. I'll show you.” She gestured for all the women to follow her to the dance floor. “Get in lines,” she demanded.

“Stand in a line—on purpose? Is this the DMV?” asked Gia.

“Do it!”

The cousins got on line with the others. Donna stood in front and tried to teach the ladies some country shitkicker moves.

Gia and Bella could not follow. Bella's body simply would not do-si-do. The entire experiment was a do-see-don't. Bella zoned out, barely paying attention, while the other women mimicked
Donna's steps. Bella's mind drifted back home, to her mom's face when she practically pushed Bella out the door. She hadn't wanted to leave her mom. There was too much to do, and Bella had been the coper in the house all year. Along with powering through her classes at NYU, Bella cared for her mom after the uterine-cancer diagnosis. Bella filled out the health insurance forms and made the chemo appointments. She held her mom's hand, cleaned up after her, kept the house in order, cooked their meals. Her dad? Where the hell was he during all this? He bailed. He let them all down. A bitterness rose in Bella's throat at the memory of her father, slumped in the living room armchair at home, refusing to help Mom climb the stairs after a chemo treatment.

No,
thought Bella.
Do not go there. You're supposed to be having fun.

Bella grabbed Gia's wrist and pulled her out of the line, saying, “We have to use the bathroom.”

They ran toward the restroom sign, and down a short hallway farther back into the club. Bella said, “Holy shit! Maria drank Donna's Kool-Aid.”

“It's like she's a completely different person,” agreed Gia.

“We have to do something.” Bella punched open the door marked with a cowgirl silhouette.

The room was dark. Bella groped for the light switch, turned it on, and saw a man sitting in one of the stalls, the door wide-open, his eyes wild as if he'd been caught stealing.

Or whatever else he might be doing in the ladies' restroom. By himself. Alone. In the dark. With his pants down.

“Ewww,” said Gia.

The cousins clattered back to the main room. Gia shouted, “There's a creepy, sicko freak in the bathroom! Call the cops!”

“Wait!” shouted the male voice behind them. The kid was pulling his jeans up and fixing his belt. He had waxy skin, black eyes, dark hair greased back, and a five o'clock shadow that probably took him five months to grow. Through the armholes of his black
skank tank, Bella could see how scrawny he was. Maybe twenty-five, he was tall, with a long pencil neck and bobbing Adam's apple.

“Can't I get a minute's privacy around here!” said the kid.

“It's a public john, not your bathroom at home,” said Donna, weaving over, line dancing on hold.

“I went into the cowgirls' room
by mistake
.”

“You know this freak?” asked Gia.

Maria was shaking her head frantically. A warning?

Donna said, “Gia, Bella, this is Fredo, my son, and the manager of this club.”

Ohhhh, so that's why we're here,
thought Bella. They could be at Karma, really celebrating Maria's last night as a single lady. But, no, Donna the alpha lynx had to support her son's crappy club.

Maria, the peacemaker, said, “It's an honest mistake, Donna. Gia didn't know Fredo was your son. She'd never have called him a creepy, sicko freak otherwise.”

“Yeah, I would've!” said Gia. “He was in the pitch-black women's bathroom, grunting.”

“I thought it was the cowboys' room!” protested Fredo.

Cowboys' room? It was so corny. “Why in the dark?” Bella asked.

He blushed and looked at his Pumas.

Donna said, “My boy has issues. He doesn't like to see his poops. Even when he was a baby, he'd cry hysterically as soon as his diaper was full…. What? Don't look at me like that, Fredo. You're anally retentive. It's just who you are, and I love you anyway. Did I embarrass you? I'm sorry, sweetheart. Let me give you a hug.”

Donna steamrolled toward her cringing weirdo son and mauled him with kisses. It was sickening to watch. Bella squirmed sympathetically for Fredo. Poor kid, still caught in his mama's French-manicured clutches.

Gia whispered, “Okay, that's disgusting.”

Bella's marathoner leg muscles twitched to get away from the uncomfortable relationship on display. But she feared making any sudden movements. Having grown up in a hard-core Italian neighborhood, she knew never to come between a Sicilian mama and her favorite son. It was like poking the bear with a stick. Or a Taser.