Saturday Morning

The long, single note cut through Iva’s sleep like a hoochie-mama’s fingernail through expensive nylons.

“What the…?” Iva hoisted herself up onto one elbow and shook off the shadows of last night’s champers-induced haze. It wasn’t so much a note as it was a screech – the thin sharp screech of a pregnant cat being run over by the Hell’s Bell’s lesbian bikers group. The noise whimpered into blessed silence. Iva dropped back into her waterbed; it rocked her gently back to sleep.

It started again. Louder this time, and sharp enough to peel the cheap paint job – ‘Madagascar Merlot’ if you could believe the label on the side of the can - off Iva’s bedroom wall. She gave the wall a thump. “You hear that, Carmene?”

Carmene’s voice was muffled and low. “For the love of god, or make it stop or shoot me now.”

Iva threw back her leopard-skin doona. “It’s coming from Mausie’s place. This can’t be good.”

Iva, in her matching leopard-skin wrap, met Carmene, in her hot pink lacey ensemble, in the hallway and together they rushed downstairs to Mausie’s flat situated directly beneath them.

Mausie McQueen had been Iva and Carmene’s landlady for nearly three years now. She was a good old stick, always up for a laugh and a drink, never too bothered about the odd late rent cheque. Iva suspected Mausie may have been a stripper in her younger days. She certainly had the rack for it; even if it sat closer to her navel than her shoulders thesedays. But she’d always change the subject whenever Iva pressed her. There was something Mausie didn’t want them to know about her past but Iva knew she’d get to the bottom of it. Iva Biggun knew how to get to anyone’s bottom.

Carmene knocked on the door. Suddenly the screeching note died in the morning air. “Door’s open.” Mausie called out.

Iva and Carmene found their landlady standing in the middle of her livingroom. Even at 8 o’clock in the morning her Liza Minnelli hairdo (circa early-70s “…somewhere between Cabaret and Liza With A Z…”) was perfectly combed. “What the hell was that sound?” Iva asked.

“Oh? You mean this?” Mausie raised her right hand to reveal a trumpet. Golden and shiny, it gleamed in the (too damn) early morning light. “I just started trumpet lessons yesterday. How did I sound?”

“You certainly don’t need a microphone,” said Carmene. It was the kindest thing she could think of to say.

“Actually, this here trumpet ain’t what I wanted you both down here for. I wanted you to meet someone. Go on, turn around, he’s right behind you.”

Friday Night

"These shoes are the best forty bucks I ever shelled out but they are fucking killing me." Iva flopped onto the cane divan and tugged her sparkly blue heels from her size elevens.

"Darl, watch those heels on the chaise." Carmene always referred to the divan as a rattan chaise lounge but she wasn't fooling anyone.

Carmene was counting out the tips. It had been a good night, considering. Iva was probably at an age when any decent self-respecting showgirl would be calling it quits but Iva Biggun could still draw a crowd. Carmene didn't know what she'd do when Iva hung up her pearl encrusted g-string for good.

"You got some dollars for me honeeeeeeeeeeeey." Ten ridiculously long floral fingernails brushed Carmene's shoulder.

"For God's sake Imelda pour yourself a Mai Tai and back off." Iva tried not to throw a shoe at her.

Imelda turned her attention to Iva, "What's wroooong? Someone jealous that Imelda is so populaaaar?"

"Settle down my little Peking Duck." Iva estimated Imelda had about five minutes before she copped a slap.

"But all the boys - they asking for me all the time."
"Well I did hear someone asking for Number 69 with lemon sauce if that's what you mean?"

"Seventy dollars each" Carmene interrupted

Imelda snatched the money, double-checked it and turned to leave.
"Well daaarlings I go now. I have plenty people waiting to see me." Imelda sashayed to the door where an Aussie battler in his seventies was waiting.

Iva couldn't resist, "Hey Imelda, great dress."
Imelda smoothed the polyester print, chuffed.
"Thaaaaaaaaankyou Iva."
Iva continued, "The next time I've got a spare $13.99 I might just grab one for myself."
Imelda sniffed, turned on her white leatherette six-inch stillettos and out the door.

"Where do you think they're off too?" Carmene ventured.
"Silvertop Taxis serve $3 hamburgers all night."
"Iva, you give her a hard time."
"Certainly a lot harder than grandpa will be giving her tonight."
Carmene tried not to laugh, "She's really not that bad."
Iva looked incredulous, "Who are you kidding? She's a five dollar rice queen who doesn't deserve to be here. People like me and Polly have worked for years on routines and costumes and in walks Miss Spring Roll with a denim mini-skirt and a bedazzler and the worst fucking pair of come-fuck-me boots I've seen since that horrible Shania film clip - and we're expected to share tips with her?"
"Well, not all of them." Carmene slipped Iva a fifty dollar note. "Champagne?" Carmene offered Iva a glass.
"Bubbles and bucks - you know what a girl likes." Iva relaxed back onto the divan.