While Mother disappeared into the bathroom to wash off the dust from our trip, I put her suitcase on the king-size bed, leaving my things in the outer room by the couch, where I would sleep. Foldout beds were never wonderful, but compared to sleeping with a world-class snorer, this would be a magic carpet to slumberland.
After giving Sushi her insulin, followed by a dog biscuit reward for taking the shot, I helped familiarize the blind little darling with the layout of the suite so she could move around and about without bumping into anything.
I also set up a little emergency pee-station for her, having brought along a plastic tray with pads designed for emergency situations.
Finally, Sushi and I played the “maid game” I had taught her on other trips (including at those accommodations where dogs were not welcome): I would rap on the door and call, “Housekeeping, housekeeping,” and she would scurry into the cracked-open closet, out of the way, until the maid had gone.
Mother, now dressed in her favorite emerald green velour top and slacks, held out a hand to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking the silver object she offered.
“A rape whistle, dear.”
“Oh-kay . . . I’m not wearing that.”
“Then keep it in your pocket.” She had hers around her neck on a silver chain.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Mother shrugged. “Suit yourself. But we’re in the Naked City now, where there are eight million stories, few with happy endings.”
She had conveniently forgotten that I’d lived in Chicago for ten years before my divorce.
But to placate her, I said, “I’ll think about it,” and set the whistle on the coffee table.
Mother stared at me with a frown. “Dear, meaning no offense and not intending in any way to redraw battle lines, but . . . you do look a fright. I hope you’re going to freshen up before we go down to the reception.”
There was a preconvention get-together in one of the ballrooms for the guests and professionals—artists and writers—along with staff members. Most of the pros were involved in the comics industry, but others—like Mother and me—were from related fields, like movies and books.
“This is as fresh as I’m gonna get,” I said grumpily.
Mother took my hand and led me to the couch, pulling me down to sit with her.
“Brandy,” she began gently, “I know what’s troubling you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You miss him.”
By “him,” I knew she meant Tony Cassato, former Serenity Chief of Police, with whom I had barely begun a romantic relationship before circumstance and fate intervened. Tony had been forced to flee into witness protection after New Jersey mobsters dispatched a contract killer to retaliate for his testimony against them.
Mother was saying, “Taking your frustration out on me won’t help, dear. You’ve been a grouch all day. You are better than that.”
She was right. About the me being a grouch part, anyway.
“I’m sorry,” I said, nodding, sighing. “I’ll try to be better.”
Mother patted my knee. “There’s my sweet, good girl.”
So I washed my face, combed my hair, reapplied makeup, and put on a Max and Cleo geometric-print dress, little Juicy Couture cardigan, and short tan Frye boots.
Mother had once again locked herself to the briefcase and, after we’d pinned on our convention badges for the reception, we headed down.
The reception, in one of the smaller ballrooms, was in full swing, designed not for attendees of the convention but the guest professionals and staff, who were talking and laughing, competing with a disc jockey in one corner playing loud dance music. That disco beat never seemed to go out of style in NYC.
I was both disappointed and kind of relieved that there was nary a costumed superhero in sight; that would come tomorrow, when the fans arrived, and would accelerate on the day of the costume ball and contest.
While Mother stood in the doorway—either expecting to be noticed, planning her next move, or choosing a new victim to befriend—I made a beeline for the buffet, where I filled up my small plate to overflowing.
How to be a one-trip salad bar cheat—a.k.a. salad bar hacking: First, fill a bowl with food, then lay carrot sticks on top as a “floor.” Next build a circular wall of cucumbers, tomato slices, and/or oranges. Finally, fill the tower in with other salad bar goodies. (Be careful your tower isn’t the leaning Pisa kind, because mine once toppled all over a restaurant floor.)
Balancing my plate, utensils, napkin, and bottled water, I surveyed the tables, looking for an empty chair, but found none. Then I remembered passing by a little alcove outside the ballroom, with end tables and two overstuffed chairs, and decided to go there.
Mother was across the room, flitting from person to person, inserting herself into one conversation or another, showing off her briefcase bracelet. I wanted to get her attention, to motion I would be out in the hall, but had no free hand to do it.
Which didn’t matter; I wouldn’t be missed.
Finding the alcove empty, I settled in to one of the comfy chairs. The food on my plate looked yummy, but admittedly at this stage of my long day, I would have found cardboard a feast. I was in the process of removing juicy bits of meat and vegetable from a skewer when an altercation between two men outside the alcove interrupted.
One of the pair I immediately recognized: our host, Tommy Bufford. The other was tall, slender, with wavy dark hair, and an angular face; he wore a yellow polo shirt and tan slacks, a preppie alternative to train-wreck Tommy.
“You signed an exclusivity clause, remember?” the wavy-haired guy said angrily, poking Tommy in the chest with a hard forefinger. “You weren’t supposed to operate a competing convention for five years, and I’m gonna sue your stinky ass.”
“So sue me,” Tommy said, and shrugged. “But you’ll be wasting your time and money. I’m merely a hired hand here.”
The wavy-haired guy snorted. “That won’t wash. You’re running things—your name is being used.”
Another shrug. “Just because I founded your convention, that doesn’t mean you have any claim to my name. Or do I need to sue you over that?”
Now Tommy poked the other man’s chest.
“And that goes double for the Buff Awards,” he said. “Buff is short for Bufford, you know. If you wanted to keep presenting those at my old con, then you should’ve included that in the contract.”
As Tommy walked away, the guy yelled, “Sometimes I could just kill you, you bleeper.” Fill in the bleep yourself. Then he was gone, too.
I had meant to tell Mother about the scrap, but when we returned to our suite—Mother having made countless new friends, me having gone through three plates at the salad bar—I was so full and so tired, I just flopped on the couch, not bothering to unfold the bed, still in my dress and cardi.
I don’t know how long I’d been asleep, when something woke me. The room was dark, as was Mother’s bedroom, though I could hear her snoring behind the closed door, like a sea storm behind a shut porthole. That was probably the noise I’d heard, I thought, and rolled over.
I felt around for Sushi, but she wasn’t with me, having deemed a soft bed with Mother more appealing than a cramped couch with her mistress.
As I lay curled up with my head on one of the small davenport pillows, my eyes accustomed to the dark, it seemed to me as if something or someone was coming through the wall directly across the room!
I froze as a figure moved stealthily toward the bedroom.
The intruder had not seen me, apparently not expecting anyone to be camped out on the couch . . . which gave me an advantage.
I grabbed my rape whistle off the coffee table, stuck it in my mouth, and blew.
The shrill, eardrum splitting sound startled our uninvited guest, who stumbled into the dinette set, toppling a chair.
Suddenly the door to the bedroom flew open and Mother, in red flannel pj’s, came rushing out, cr
ying, “Rape! Rape!” at the top of her voice. And Sushi was not far behind, yapping for all she was worth.
The intruder fled back through the wall, which I realized was a connecting door to the next room. And there was a little “click” as it was being locked from the other side.
How had our side gotten unlocked?
“Quick, dear,” she said, “we can catch him.”
I shook my head. “No! I’m in no mood for a struggle. Anyway, he’s gone by now. And I think you’ll find that the room next door is empty.”
“You’re no fun,” she said poutily. “But surely those whistles, our yelling, will result in help arriving unbidden!”
“You’re in Manhattan,” I reminded her, and a siren underscored my point. “Anyway, this is what you get by letting everyone under the sun know we’ve got that Superman drawing in our room. The first thing tomorrow, we’re putting that thing in the hotel’s safe!”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mother replied sheepishly. “But we should call security.”
“In the morning. Go back to sleep. He won’t be back. If it makes you feel better, I’ll leave the lights on out here.”
“Very well,” Mother said disappointedly. “But I still think, with a little effort, we might well have caught him.”
“Good night, Mother,” I said with finality.
She shuffled into the bedroom, making a decidedly untheatrical exit. For her.
And I went back to the couch—after making doubly sure our side of the door was locked and had a chair propped under the knob.
But I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
Because there was something I hadn’t told Mother about our intruder—and the reason I didn’t want us running after him.
When she had opened the door coming to my rescue, the light from the bathroom caught the glint of metal in his hand.
In the shape of what seemed to be a knife.
A long, sharply pointed one.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Comics conventions are not just about selling or buying funny books. There is a wide array of pop-culture memorabilia and collectibles: cartoon figurines, autographed photos, original comic artwork, and even clothing. I’m looking for a set of Shmoo salt and pepper shakers, because I think they’re so darn cute! (But Mother finds them repellent, calling them phallic symbols with eyes.)
Credit: Bamford Studio
Barbara Allan is the joint pseudonym of acclaimed short story writer Barbara Collins (Too Many Tomcats) and New York Times bestselling mystery novelist Max Allan Collins (Road to Perdition). Their previous collaborations have included one son, a short story collection, and eight novels, including the 2008 winner of the Romantic Times Toby Bromberg Award for Most Humorous Mystery, Antiques Flee Market. They live in Iowa in a house filled with trash and treasures. Learn more about them at www.maxallancollins.com and at www.barbaraallan.com.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Copyright © 2013 by Max Allan Collins and Barbara Collins
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-9316-9
First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2013
Antiques Slay Ride Page 7
