9.

"Looking for trouble?
Come to the right place!"

Sam was at the Barbary Coast, a small club across town from the Greenhouse. He was sitting alone at one corner of a rectangular bar drinking a rum runner and writing on a bar napkin. Two women were sitting a stool away. The woman farthest from him kept trying to meet his eyes. He could tell she dyed her hair blonde. Her friend was much prettier. She had short red hair and a thin face. She looked a little sad, which Sam liked.
The blonde leaned past her friend toward Sam. "Hey," she said. She had a Southern accent.
"Hey," she said again. "What are you writin', hon?"
He looked at her. "This? Oh this is nothing."
"Letter home?"
"Not really."
"Where are you from?"
"Uh, Manhattan," he said.
"Oh really. Rebecca here is from Long Island. I'm Bette."
"Hi," said the redhead.
"Hi," said Sam.
"I'm from Galvaston, Texas," said Bette. Sam nodded, then looked back at his writing. "Well what's your name?" asked Bette.
"Oh. Sam. Sorry."
"Well don't look so glum, boy. You're on vacation."
"Not really. I mean I am, but..."
"But what?"
Sam didn't answer. He stared back at her.
Rebecca spoke up. "We just came in this morning."
"Becky and me are old college buddies from Florida State."
"Is this your first time in Saint Thomas?" asked Rebecca.
"No," he said. He sipped his drink. "I was here about six months ago."
"What do you do?" asked Rebecca.
"I'm a technical writer. I write and edit manuals and reviews."
Bette asked, "Is that what you're writing, something technical?"
"No. No, this is, these are just thoughts."
"Can I read?" She reached over. He hesitated then handed her the napkin. Both women read while Sam looked around the bar.
"You sound like a bad, bad, boy," said Bette. "Who you writing about, your girlfriend?"
"My fiancee."
"Where's she at now?"
"Manhattan."
"And you down here to play and leave her home."
"No, we're not together anymore."
"Broke her heart, did you?"
Rebecca put her hand over her eyes. "Bette."
"Hey, I've been there," said Bette. "Recent?"
"Bette."
"No, it's alright," said Sam. "We just grew apart. Or I did."
"Don't sweat it babe," said Bette. "Happens everyday. What're you drinking?" She looked for the bartender and said, "Hey Georgie. Another for me and her and Sam here." She leaned on the bar back toward Sam.
"We're partying tonight. No sense being gloomy and guilty. What's done is done." She looked at Rebecca.
"Am I right?"
"Well maybe he doesn't..."
"No, you're right Bette," said Sam. He folded up the napkin and put it in his shirt pocket. "Cheers." He clicked his glass with Rebecca's and finished his drink quickly. The bartender put down three new
drinks. Bette reached for her purse, but Sam waved her away and put a twenty dollar bill on the bar.
"And three Cuervo shots, George," he said.
"Well alright," said Bette. George poured the shots. Sam and the two women picked them up for a toast.
"To freedom," said Sam.
"To freedom," said Bette. They clicked glasses all around and drank.
"Becky here's just been dumped too."
"_Bette_," said Rebecca. She was holding her face with one hand.
"She's crying her poor little heart to me just two weeks ago and I said, 'Enough girl, come with me to the islands and we'll have a grand time.' I'm sorry hon. I tell it like it is. That guy treated you just like shit, though. Didn't he?" She turned to Sam. "Like his house slave."
"It wasn't as bad as that," said Rebecca. "Let's just change the subject."
"Fine." Bette looked through her purse and took out several quarters.
"We need music. I'm gonna play the juke box. Be right back."
After she left Rebecca said, "Sorry. Bette means well."
"She's a pistol."
"Yes. She can be a lot of fun. She sees things a little too much black and white though sometimes. "
"She's just having fun."
"She was intruding. I think it was great what you wrote. I mean after you left her. It's nice. That you still care about it. I can't imagine Billy sitting in a bar on vacation and even thinking about me."
"She left me actually."
"Oh. What was . . . I mean is . . . her name?"
Sam liked the way she smiled at her slip. "Corrina," he said.
"That's a pretty name."
Bette came back. "That juke box ain't got a thing. You'd think no one told 'em the seventies are over."
"The seventies? It's almost the nineties," said Sam.
"You go look. Fleetwood Mac and Yes and that fat-ass Meatloaf. I swear."
"Have you been to the Greenhouse?" asked Sam.
"Honey, we've been to the hotel bar and here."
"There's a band playing. I have to go back there at some point and meet a woman I'm staying with. She's working now."
"My, my, my. You ain't so heart-broke as you seem."
"No, she's..."
"She's a friend." With sarcasm.
"Right."
"Whatever you say. I'm game for some good music." She gulped her drink impressively. "Come on. Let's scoot then. I'm gonna land me a nice old man with lots of money and a bad ticker who's never seen the likes of me, for sure."