by Norah Wilson
“You don’t need all that! I was married you know!”
I stopped mid shimmy. “Well I got this itch you see. And my gynecologist prescribed the douche Bidet to relieve the swelling. Just wait, I’ll show you.”
“Christ! Dodd,” he yelled. But he yelled while he headed for the door. I knew it would work. Detailed descriptions of feminine hygiene products scare the shit out of most any man. “You’ve got ten minutes — no, eight minutes — to do whatever the hell you have to do.”
At that precise moment — damn the lad could read my mind — the phone on my desk rang. Dylan answered from the outer office, then yelled to me. “Dix, I’ve got Ms. Bee on the phone.”
“Good,” I said. “Give me a minute, Dylan, then send the call in.”
With a grumble, Dickhead closed the door behind him. I had to work fast.
The cabinet I had directed him to for the douche Bidet (to my knowledge there was no such thing, but I guessed Dickhead wasn’t up on these things) — was a cabinet I knew he’d never open in a million years if I asked him to. And of course it was the one that contained good old Blow up Betty. I kicked a box on the floor to make it sound like I was rummaging around. And while I did so, I pulled her out, whispered hello, and removed the jacket I’d been wearing. I stuck her plastic arms into it.
She looked better behind my desk than I did. Quietly, I pushed my chair out and sat on the floor. “Okay, Dylan,” I yelled. “Give me Ms. Bee.”
I picked up on the first ring, glancing only a minute at the call display before I erased it — Dylan’s cell phone of course. With my number on speed dial, it had been easy for him to call the office, pretend it was the non-existent lawyer, and buy me some time.
With duct tape I kept in the drawer for such emergencies (and there were a surprisingly number of them), I taped the phone to the blow-up doll’s hand, then taped that up to her head as if she were listening. If, and when, Detective Head looked through the beveled glass, he would see the outline of the doll and the black phone positioned against the blond head. And, where he thought I was talking to my lawyer, he maybe would give me a few extra minutes. Maybe.
God, I hoped this worked.
I turned to head toward the window leading to the fire exit. Not a venture I would enjoy. The rusty contraption hadn’t been used in years, and it emptied into a narrow alley between my building and the next one. I knew for a fact the alley was full of broken bottles and smelled of urine, but it was a way out.
I had one leg out the window when a thought occurred to me. I went back, grabbed the duct tape and positioned Betty’s free hand palm up on the desk in the classic middle finger salute, ready to properly greet Dickhead when he stormed in. Hell, maybe he’d think it was me for a moment, after all.
Task completed, I made my way down the fire escape and tiptoed through the broken bottles and other things I didn’t want to examine too closely. And just like that, I was officially on the lam.
Chapter 12
In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have foreseen what would happen to me that day.
Possibly because my wildest dreams do not involve my life going into the dumpster. And there could be no question that’s where I was headed. Literally.
The alley, if you could call it an alley when it was bisected by a freaking nine-foot fence, proved a tricky escape route. The fence, a solid wood proposition, was too tall and too foothold-free for me to scale. Fortunately, a dumpster squatted right up against the fence. A dumpster that was no longer covered, its lid having been wrenched off by vandals not long after I’d moved into the building. I’d given up harping to the landlord about it months ago. So, there I am with an open dumpster and a nine-foot fence between me and freedom. No problem, I think. I’d just climb up on the dumpster, edge my way around to the fence and boost myself over.
Great plan, until I lost my footing and fell into the damned thing. And oh, Jesus, what a smell! Cursing, I pushed myself up out of the pizza boxes, rotting vegetables and rolled up disposable diapers. Ugh.
Goddamned leather soled flats. Next time I went on the lam, I wanted better footwear.
And then — oh, shit! — something small and fast moved under my foot. I came up out of that dumpster like a rocket and over the fence, slippery footwear notwithstanding.
As I pulled the cold, green pasta from my hair brushing the … whatever-the-hell-that-was from my jeans, I realized how very much this whole situation … well, stank.
But I’d seen a lot over the years as a PI, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that women are resilient. When we have to face our dark hours, we do. And we usually find a silver lining there.
Don’t we?
My silver lining, as I loped off down the street, was picturing Dickhead, patience exhausted, finally barging through my office door and finding me gone. Finding Blow-Up Betty holding the phone in one hand and flipping him off with the other. He’d be frothing at the mouth!
I felt a tinge of guilt for leaving Dylan behind to handle the wrath of Detective Dickhead. He might not be spitting bullets, but certainly he’d be spitting toothpicks around the office as he raged and made ever more colorful expletives from my name. I knew he’d take it out on Dylan, blame him for my escape. Of course, there was nothing to link my escape to Dylan. Nothing anyone could prove, anyway. But Dickhead was the kind of man who needed to blame others for his fuck ups — you know, the kind of guy to shoot the messenger (thus back again to his blaming me when his wife found out he was cheating and left him). But Dylan could handle Dickhead. That law degree did come in handy sometimes. Hell, if I knew Dylan, he’d be hard pressed trying to hold back the laughs when he saw Blow-Up Betty so artfully posed. In any case, I’d know soon enough what had gone down between Dylan and the detective.
Because Dylan would know where to find me.
You see, we had it all worked out. Granted, we’d worked it out not so much in anticipation of my escaping lawful custody, but rather as a hedge against the possibility of my having to go into deep cover some time.
If I’d moved the dead Aloe vera plant from the window and tipped it over on the floor to the left of said window, he’d have met me at the airport with some cash. If I’d left the plant upside down directly in front of the window, we would meet at the university library (third floor, stack twelve in the BFs). But I’d set it to the right of the window, and he’d know what that meant.
Of course, he also had to know that the cops would be tailing him to see if he would lead him to me. But I had faith in Dylan Foreman. He’d be patient. He’d be smart.
And he’d be there tonight.
I’d slowed to a brisk walk now, partly because I’d developed a stitch in my side (despite my gymnastics in clearing that fence back there, I am no athlete), and partly because I knew I’d attract less attention. But even with an ache in my side, even with the black cloud of a waiting jail cell hanging over me, I couldn’t suppress a small smile. The Flashing Fashion Queen thought she was pretty smart. But I was willing to bet she wasn’t counting on me running. She’d wanted my ass sitting helplessly in lockup while she dug a deeper hole for me by the minute. Well, bite me, baby! I wasn’t going to be her victim. I wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim. And as far as the Flashing Fashion Queen was concerned, I was about to become her worst fucking nightmare.
Did I finally have one up on her? I couldn’t help but grin as I wondered how that would make her feel when she realized I was still at liberty. The control was slipping out of her hands. She’d fucked up this once, and I had to believe that would rattle her.
+++
“Geez, Dix, what’s wrong? You look all shook up.” Mrs. Presley winked and elbowed me hard. “Get it … ‘all shook up’?”
“Yeah, I get it Mrs. P.”
For a woman who day in and day out worked below a sign that emphatically told the world she was not related to Elvis, Mrs. Presley had no qualms about stealing a line to get a good laugh. Even if it was her own good laugh.
&
nbsp; God, I liked this woman.
We were sitting side by side on the lone bed in Room 111 of the Underhill Motel. This was her ‘special’ room, reserved for ‘special guests’. For the drop of a few quarters, the bed would start vibrating. The lampshades were red and when the lights were on, cast a red haze around the room. There were mirrors on every wall and built into the headboard of the bed. And I’d bet anything that the light fixture hanging from the ceiling would support the swinging weight of at least one nimble person. Hell, the toilet seats were even padded! (God, I hated the deflating sounds those things made when you sat on them, but far be it from me to complain.)
But that’s not what made Room 111 special. What made it special was its location, far away from the street at the other end of the motel, with a view that was unobstructed by trees or other structures. A person could keep a pretty good watch on traffic in and out of the motel — be that traffic irate husbands/boyfriends, johns, or in my case, the cops.
But even better, Room 111 had a secret back door. Not one with a doorknob, but a hidden one in the back of the never-used closet. A solid hip to the left of it, and it would open, but only when unlocked from the other side. That back door just happened to lead to a narrow, unlit hallway, low-ceilinged but straight. Those in the know (and few of us were) knew that there was a small penlight stashed up over the doorway. And that passageway led right into Mrs. Presley’s kitchen, and thence to the outside via a private exit.
Room 111 was always the last to be rented out. And the door was locked to most clientele, who were unwitting of its existence. But I knew for a fact that at least two women had escaped from abusive ex-husbands that way. And here was the best part — if anyone unwanted were foolish enough to find and burst through that hidden door, they’d receive a lovely how-do-you-do from one of Mrs. Presley’s hulking sons at the other end of it, neither of whom would have qualms about beating the crap out of an intruder. Those boys were just that protective of their mom.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble, Mrs. Presley,” I’d said, when I’d landed on her doorstep. “But holy shit, I’m in trouble!”
She’d raised an eyebrow. “Cops after you?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “ I can understand if you don’t want to—”
“Trouble? Ah hell, we all have troubles. Quit complaining! You need a room? I got a room. That’s it; case closed.”
No need to sign the register. She just slipped me the key.
I slipped her a couple hundred from the Jennifer Weatherby advance, which Mrs. Presley promptly pocketed behind her pencil-pen-pencil combination. She was a businesswoman, after all. But I know Mrs. Presley, if I’d come there flat broke and on my ass, there’d be the same room and the same hospitality for me.
And yes, the same old Elvis jokes.
With a gentle suggestion that I might want a shower (okay, more like a ‘phew, you really stink’), Mrs. Presley left me. She took the back door, the one that led directly through her apartment and out. She was short enough so that she didn’t have to stoop to pass through, and knew the route well enough she didn’t bother with a light.
“Usually, I lock this door, but sometimes I forget,” she said with an obvious wink. “I’ll send that handsome young assistant of yours through when he gets here.”
If anyone happened to see Dylan enter the Underhill Motel, they’d only know he entered the main lobby and he’d exit from the same. They’d not see him entering Room 111.
As if in afterthought Mrs. Presley added, “Oh, and when you get in that shower — and I hope that’s soon — stick those old clothes in the passage, I’ll send Cal or Craig down to get them and throw them in the wash for you. I’ll have ’em back in an hour.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Presley.”
She headed for the closet/back door and gave it a hip check that would have taken out Tai Domi. “Take care, Dix. I mean that. And you get your ass down that hallway double time if you need help. Me and my boys’ll be home all night.”
The door snapped back into place as she left — back into near invisibility. And I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t even known I was holding. And when I took a breath back in — holy shit — even I had to grimace.
Mrs. Presley was right. I did need that shower.
I stripped from my standard uniform — jeans, t-shirt, granny panties and sports bra. I hipchecked the door open and quickly (as in I’m naked here, quickly) shoved the soiled clothes into the hallway to await retrieval by one of the Presley boys. Then I ran into the bathroom, closed the door and ran the water as hot as I could.
The warmth of the water felt amazing. I shampooed my hair twice, emptying the little hotel bottle of shampoo, and scrubbed every inch of me for a good ten minutes. With the side of my hand, I wiped clear the bathroom mirror, and I combed out my long blond hair. Despite having opened the lone, small window, the bathroom was steamy when I’d finished. Hot. And when I let myself out, despite the terrycloth bathrobe Mrs. Presley had provided, the cool air hit me.
I grabbed the remote and clicked on the room’s small TV, not at all surprised to find it tuned to a program that gave new meaning to the phrase ‘love triangle’. Hell, I was never that flexible. Quickly … well within an hour … I clicked to another channel, one that displayed the time. It was just after two o’clock. Dylan wouldn’t be along for hours, possibly not until after dark. And I knew better than to be out and about in Marport City. Every cop in town would be seeking my hide. I’d leave the TV on, volume muted. When I awoke, it would be easier to open one bleary eye to check the time than to move an actual major muscle to reach for my watch on the nightstand.
With the shower, the heat, and the coziness of the bathrobe, that bed looked damn inviting, despite its garish red bedcover. Of course, a reasonably clean floor would look inviting, considering I’d been sleeping in spurts of about 40 minutes since I embarked on the surveillance of Ned Weatherby just one week ago. I removed the bedcover, revealing red sheets beneath. Figured. I folded the bedspread and dropped it on the lone chair in the room. I tossed the heavy, warm quilt Mrs. Presley had provided over me.
“I’ll just snooze for a little while,” I mumbled, crawling into the sea of red.
Of course this was the logical choice, I assured myself, closing my eyes. Just until Dylan came.
Dylan. The thought of him was comforting to me. I wanted to see him. Okay, I’ll admit it, I really wanted to see him. I couldn’t wait to see him.
Strictly professional, I assured myself. You’re just tired and anxious to get working on the case and find out what he knows and needing a coffee and horny as a sailor on shore leave….
My eyes opened wide.
It’s been a long, lonnng time since I’d been with a man. Okay, if I was honest with myself, it had been a long time since I’d wanted to be with a man. Not that I didn’t have the physical desires — hell, I wasn’t dead. But it had been a long time since I’d thought of one specific man in that way. A long time since I had allowed myself, if only for the briefest moment, to think that way….
Geez, snap out of it, Dix.
But whatever I was feeling — however I got there and however I justified it, professionally or completely unprofessionally — I couldn’t deny the end result. I wished Dylan were here. He would be soon. As I drifted off to sleep, I allowed myself the self-indulgence of thinking of him.
But only for a moment, because wrapped in the snuggliness of the soft housecoat, I wasn’t long drifting off.
I dreamed of being back in high school, wandering the hallways in my PJs while the cool kids looked on. Then I was riding an escalator wearing just a pair of old blue fuzzy slippers. That morphed into the one where I was riding an elevator that just wouldn’t stop on the damn floor I needed. Okay, normal dreams. But then the dream elevator finally stopped on the floor I wanted. The door opened. And it didn’t surprise me that she was there again. There to taunt and torment me. The Flashing Fashion Queen.
I stared at her. She stood
on one side of the elevator threshold, and I stood within it. Her back was to me. Why could I never see her face clearly?
“Hiya Dixie,” she said, her voice gritty.
“Still got that throaty thing going on, I see. Maybe you should see a doctor.” But for what? A polyp on the larynx or a sex change?
“You’re concerned about me! How sweeeet.”
Even as I slept, I could feel my blood beginning to boil. “Concerned? Not a chance. The only thing I’m concerned about is that your stint in jail is nice and long.”
“But you’ll have to catch me first, Dix Dodd. And I bet you can’t.” She waved a backward hand at me.
“I’d be careful on what bets I placed,” I goaded. “After all, I’m not in jail, and I know you wagered that I would be.”
She huffed. “That’s just a technicality. You’ll be there soon enough.”
“Still think you’re too smart for me, Blondie?”
She laughed. “Oh, I know it, honey. If I didn’t, then why would I—”
Quick as lighting, I reached and grabbed her. I jumped that quickly and that forcefully and grabbed this dream apparition. In my dream, I tossed her down onto the elevator floor beside me. No way in hell was she getting away this time. Not until I had some answers. Not until I saw her face. Not until—
“Dix! Wake up.”
And in that instant, murky turned to clear-as-glass as I awoke and discovered that I’d not pulled my nemesis down beside me after all.
It was Dylan who lay there in the red-sheeted bed beside me, eyes wide, his t-shirt pulled taut in my white-knuckled grip.
“You must have been dreaming, Dix,” he said.
“Yeah. I … I was.”
“Her again?”
I nodded, and released my grip on his shirt. I braced myself for the whiplash effect that would ensue as he jumped off the bed like it was on fire.
