Plot Boiler

by Ali Brandon

  “You’ve done a wonderful job with the block party,” Mary Ann gushed on, clapping as another round of spoon-toting kids raced past them—much to the disdain of Hamlet, who flopped from his seated position onto his belly and refused to watch. “And what a clever idea you had for my booth, offering free appraisals. Brother has already looked at five different items, plus we’re almost sold out of all the vintage Independence Day memorabilia we had.”

  She paused and waved at her sibling seated at a bunting-draped table across from them. Mr. Plinski—whose first name Darla still didn’t know; he was only ever referred to as “Brother” or “Mr. Plinski”—waved a feeble hand back. He wore one of those bucket-style fishing hats like Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond, which, combined with his white long-sleeved shirt topped by red suspenders, looked appropriately summery. Mary Ann, in a vintage red and white striped shirtdress, coordinated quite nicely, Darla thought.

  Then the old woman gave Darla a puzzled look. “But I do have to wonder, my dear, where you found those, er, interesting young men dressed in black playing the music.”

  “Great band, aren’t they?” Jake exclaimed from behind them and slipped into the seat next to Mary Ann. Like the rest of them, she was dressed in patriotic hues: blue walking shorts, a white boatneck top, and a chunky necklace of red, white, and blue stars and beads.

  Jake nodded her curly head in time to the beat, which was pulsating from the block beyond where a makeshift stage was set midway between the intersection and the martial arts ring. “These guys are awesome. Robert said they’re called the Shrieking Kids, or something like that?”

  “The Screaming Babies,” Darla corrected her with a sigh. “Robert found them. They agreed to play mainstream music, but it sounds like they’ve reverted to their original material.”

  Darla had had her first inkling of a musical rebellion when Pinky and his fellow Babies had shown up at noon. All the young men had their black eyeliner and black nail polish in place, and were wearing all black instead of the patriotic red, white, and blue that she’d suggested. Still, they’d started off their set with a credible version of Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.,” followed by a couple of vintage Beatles hits. Darla had relaxed, certain that the Babies were firmly with the program. She’d even gotten a big thumbs-up and a quick riff on the air guitar from Steve as she passed by his restaurant’s booth.

  But about thirty minutes after their first number, the band launched into a few verses of a song she didn’t recognize. Heavy on bass and an electric organ, it featured Pinky giving a raspy croon to lyrics that, if one listened carefully, were dark to the point of suicidal.

  Thankfully, the band had taken a break right afterward. Darla had been busy helping Doug hand out doughnut hole samples at the time, so she hadn’t been able to check in with Pinky to make sure that the last song was an aberration. It wasn’t until the band started in on their second set that Darla realized that she’d been sold a gothic pig in a nice black satin poke. Not that the Babies weren’t talented; even though the music wasn’t to Darla’s taste, she could still recognize their skill. But their moody, sonorous music wasn’t exactly providing the upbeat background sound she had hoped for.

  Jake, meanwhile, was still raving.

  “Seriously, they sound like the Cure’s little brothers,” she proclaimed. Darla wasn’t surprised that Jake liked the music; her friend had a known preference for dark heavy metal groups, though these guys were more emo than thrasher. “I can’t believe they’re not under contract somewhere. I wonder if they have any CDs for sale.”

  “Actually, I think they do,” Darla told her. Then, glancing at her watch, she went on, “Say, Reese said he was going to stop by this afternoon, and maybe even bring a friend. Have you seen him?”

  “Not yet. But I’ve been pretty busy at my own booth. This is the first break I’ve had.” Jake paused and chuckled. “I set up that whole ten-minute-free-consultation thing kind of as a joke, but you wouldn’t believe how many people have stopped by for advice. Heck, I might even get some actual clients out of this.”

  Darla smiled, too. She could easily see Jake’s booth from her vantage point beneath the canopy. It was a dozen feet away from the Pettistone’s table, and situated in front of the wrought iron railing at the stairs that led down to her garden apartment. In homage to Charles Schulz’s acerbic comic strip character from Peanuts, Lucy van Pelt, Jake had set up a table with a big sign reading, “The PI is IN.” Jake normally gave free consultations in the privacy of her office (which was also her apartment), but Darla could see how some people might not be comfortable taking that first rather intimidating step of setting up an appointment with a real-life detective. In a festival-like setting like this, however, some of those barriers might be lowered.

  Mary Ann, meanwhile, rose. “I’d better get going. I promised Brother I’d bring him a lemonade and some of Steve’s Thai appetizers to try. And maybe I’ll run down and pick up one of those Screaming Babies CDs for myself, while I’m at it.”

  “You go, girl,” Jake said in approval, giving the old woman a clenched-fist salute. Then, turning back to Darla, she launched into a different subject. “I almost forgot, Robert mentioned you had a little run-in with George King at the Perky’s booth this morning. What happened?”

  Darla suppressed a groan. “Typical George, acting like a bully. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except he threatened Hamlet.”

  While Jake listened in concern, Darla gave her a quick rundown of that morning’s encounter. As a good event coordinator, she’d made the rounds of all the retailers right before the block party began. Hamlet, wearing a red, white, and blue harness that matched Roma’s, had accompanied her, giving his own approval by means of a meow or a head rub against the booth. Everyone had met with the finicky feline’s approval . . . that was, until he reached King George’s booth.

  To his credit, George—or more likely, Livvy—had gotten into the spirit of the event and set up one of the nicest booths of the event, a long wooden table covered in cloth doilies instead of the usual card table gussied up with a tablecloth. Displayed upon it were vintage coffeepots, along with a small batch of logoed Perky’s merchandise and, of course, carafes of various brewed coffee offered by the sample and by the cup.

  Once again, probably all Livvy’s doing, Darla had told herself as she nodded her approval of their setup. She had hesitated going any closer, until Livvy had given her a swift if friendly wave. Apparently, George had yet to tell his wife that they were out of the faux drug business, she decided in relief. Assuming a nonchalant air, she had gone over to their table and greeted the couple.

  George wore another of his tent-sized blue Perky’s shirts, meaning that, intentionally or not, he fit the day’s color scheme. Livvy had made a greater effort, wearing a bright red T-shirt over her usual black yoga pants and a red, white, and blue bandana tied over the two short, spiky braids she wore in place of her usual messy bun.

  George had given Darla a hard look, but all he said in response to her greeting was, “Eh, it’s gonna be a scorcher.” His prediction was borne out by the fact that the armpits of his Perky’s shirt were already soaked through, though the morning was still pleasant.

  Livvy, however, shook her head. “It won’t be any hotter than usual, and we’re in a nice shady spot here,” she assured her husband. To Darla, she said, “All the decorations on the street look great. I feel like I’m in a Norman Rockwell illustration.”

  “That was the idea,” Darla replied with a smile. “Everything should go smooth as silk, but if you need me for anything, I . . . Hamlet!”

  That last had come out in a shriek as, without warning, Hamlet leaped onto George’s table. Before she could stop him, he had cocked one large front paw and sent a bag of coffee beans flying, like a major league batter hitting one out of the park.

  “Hamlet!” Darla shrieked again as she tried to catch the airborne bag bef
ore it hit the sidewalk. Her athletic skills were not on a par with those of the feisty feline, however, so the coffee beans had landed with a splat.

  Fortunately, George hadn’t cheaped out with his packaging, for the bag did not spill its beany guts all over the sidewalk as she’d expected. Heaving a sigh of relief, Darla grabbed up the bag and set it back on the table, only to see George cocking a big mitt of his own.

  “Darn cat,” he exclaimed with a threatening shake of said mitt in Hamlet’s direction.

  Darla promptly snatched Hamlet off the table and set him safely behind her on the ground.

  “Don’t yell at him; yell at me. I forgot there’s something about your coffee that irritates his nose,” she shot back in exasperation, though she doubted any of the bags on display were adulterated. Chances were Hamlet was only acting reflexively. A bit more calmly, she added, “It’s my fault he was near the table in the first place.”

  “Don’t worry, Darla,” Livvy interjected, grabbing her husband by the arm and obviously not getting Darla’s veiled intimation. “No harm done. Besides, George wouldn’t hurt an animal. He’s just putting on a show.”

  “Eh, I shoulda knocked his furry block off,” the man muttered, though he lowered his fist and instead started rearranging the merchandise.

  Dismayed by the outright threat to her pet, Darla had been tempted to stomp off and recruit the Tomlinson twins to do a little block-knocking on Hamlet’s behalf. But Livvy had shot her a pleading look, so Darla had contented herself with a stern glare before gathering up Hamlet in her arms and finishing her rounds.

  Now, as Darla finished her account, Jake gave a commiserating nod but reassured her, “Believe me, kid, I’ve run into dozens of guys like George over the years. Like Livvy said, his type of bully is all bark and no bite. He talks a good game, but he’s not going to do anything about it. So don’t worry about Hamlet.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Darla replied, reaching down to give the feline in question a fond pat. “Not too many people get under my skin, but Mr. Perky sure knows how to do it. If he’s not careful, I still might blow the whistle on their fake drug scheme.”

  “That’s up to you,” Jake replied with a shrug, “but if you go for it, at least wait until after the block party wraps up.” Then, glancing at her watch, she added, “I’d better get back to my booth. I’ve got another of my ten-minute clients showing up soon.”

  They headed back across the street to their respective booths. Darla sent James and Robert to take their well-earned breaks, while she spent the next twenty minutes handing out books and letting children have their pictures taken with Hamlet. The latter obligingly posed on the table next to the electronic picture frame that was looping his “Karate Kitty” video. Doug stopped by the booth, as well, trading one of his firecracker doughnuts—“Last one, girl!”—for a cup of iced coffee.

  “You seen Penny, er, Penelope around?” he asked over the distant music.

  Darla shook her head and looked at her watch. “Not recently, but if we’re on schedule her girls should be performing again any minute, so she’ll be wherever they are.”

  Nodding his thanks, Doug swallowed down the rest of his coffee and, tossing the empty into the nearby trash bin, headed back through the crowd toward his shop.

  James and Robert returned a couple of minutes later, both bearing rainbow snow cones courtesy of Steve’s nephew. At the same time, the faint sounds of goth music abruptly faded. That music was replaced by the canned playing of a bouncy hit from a well-known pop diva.

  “Boom box tunes,” Darla exclaimed. “I bet that means the dance troupe is about to perform nearby. Guys, hold down the fort. I need to get Hammy his window seat before the girls start. The last number scared him a little, I think.”

  Slinging the feline over one shoulder, she puffed her way up the half dozen concrete steps to the bookstore’s front door. She unlocked it and entered the darkened shop, setting Hamlet down with a whoosh.

  “Time to switch over to diet kibble,” she told him as she unbuckled his harness. “Now, why don’t you watch things from the window? I cleared a nice spot just for you so you can lounge right there and have a cat’s-eye view of the action.”

  Apparently unimpressed by her efforts on his behalf, Hamlet made a sound suspiciously like a harrumph but wandered toward the window, anyhow. Darla, meanwhile, had already turned to the door.

  “I’ll be back later,” she promised as she slipped outside again and joined James, Robert, and Roma at the booth.

  “Look, I bet those are Ms. Penelope’s girls,” Robert said, pointing to a couple of teenagers who were strolling in their direction. One of the girls swung an oversized boom box in one hand, which explained the music they’d been hearing. Both girls wore high red and white stockings, and short blue dresses, and what appeared to be red yarn wigs tied up in twin ponytails. As for their makeup, rather than a heavy-handed application of bright red lipstick, they instead sported mere cherry-sized dollops of red in the center of their mouths. Even as Darla noted an unfortunate similarity between the girls’ hairstyles and hers, James spoke up.

  “Children’s literature is not my specialty, but I would venture to say that these girls have been reading Johnny Gruelle.”

  “Johnny who?” Robert asked in confusion, obviously unfamiliar with the author James had mentioned.

  Darla grinned a little. She’d been a fan of the Raggedy Ann stories when she was in grade school and recognized the homage; moreover, now she saw other similarly dressed girls moving among the milling festivalgoers. Having watched the two earlier flash mob dance routines that Penelope had choreographed—both variations on vintage 1980s rock—Darla had a feeling about what was coming next.

  Sure enough, the boom box–toting teen set down the player and pressed a few buttons. The Auto-Tune female voice abruptly shut off. In its place came the familiar one-two, one-two bang of a drum, that rhythm followed by an equally recognizable whine of guitar that was pure Aerosmith.

  “Rag Doll!” Darla exclaimed in delight as the classic hit song of that name came blasting from the boom box’s speakers.

  “Yes, I’m movin’!” she sang to herself, grinning as the red-wigged girls came together, a dozen matching live rag dolls in a line. Everyone around them paused, attention now fixed on the troupe who thrashed, wiggled, and swayed in choreographed precision to the raucous lyrics. Perhaps the song was a bit R-rated for a family-oriented event, Darla conceded, but the boom box’s cheap speakers disguised the worst of the racy language, so that the music took priority.

  A few minutes later, the song abruptly ended with the living rag dolls flopping to the ground into limp heaps. Darla and the other spectators burst into applause, which signaled the girls to pop back to life and scamper off down the street.

  “While I am not a fan of that particular musical group,” James said, “the dance routine was quite well performed. Kudos to Ms. Winston and her troupe.”

  “That was, like, totally sick,” Robert decreed with a vigorous nod, while Roma gave an approving bark. Darla glanced back up at the shop window to see if Hamlet had also enjoyed the show.

  Apparently not, she decided with a smile, since the only view she had of the ornery feline was that of his back leg flung high in the air. At least from this angle, the people on the street couldn’t tell he was signaling that the act hadn’t met his entertainment standards.

  Turning back to the street, Darla spotted Penelope coming out from beneath the PR canopy. She caught the woman’s eye and waved. “Great job!”

  Penelope nodded and waved her vaping pen in Darla’s direction. But instead of coming over to chat, she headed off in the same direction the girls had gone, her expression distracted. Must be the heat, Darla decided.

  “Hey, kid, look who decided to show up,” she heard Jake call to her.

  Darla looked over toward the PI’s booth to see Ree
se standing beside her friend. She smiled. The detective was wearing tan slacks and a navy blue NYPD polo shirt, a sexy yet professionally casual look that she’d always liked on him. But barely had she registered all that when Darla also noticed the woman standing next to him, possessively clinging to Reese’s heavily muscled biceps.

  Darla felt her smile slip a little.

  The female in question looked to be a little younger than Reese, likely in her late twenties, though the thick application of bright makeup on her overly tanned features made judging her actual age difficult. With her four-inch strappy white sandals and short, straight black hair teased to stratospheric heights, the young woman topped Reese’s almost six-foot height by a good two inches. But most eye-catching of all was her outfit: a tight, capri-length jumpsuit in a shiny red and white tiger-striped fabric, its bustier-style top revealing more than necessary of her assets.

  Hey, lady, this is a family-friendly event, Darla wanted to shout, but contented herself with a mental eye roll. Even the usually unflappable James looked slightly taken aback. As for his part, Robert simply appeared mesmerized by Miss Tiger . . . or, rather, by the bustier portion of her outfit. But in contrast, Reese’s expression was one she could only peg as unenthusiastic—hardly the face of a guy out to have a good time with friends.

  James was the first to break the momentary lull in conversation.

  “Detective Reese,” the store manager greeted him in his usual sonorous tones, “nice to see you here. It has been a glorious day so far. Now, are you going to introduce us to your companion?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.”

  He and the woman started toward them, trailed by Jake, and Darla realized that Reese was being careful not to make eye contact with any of them. Obviously, this wasn’t his long-lost cousin he was squiring about. The thought made her heart start beating faster . . . and not in a good way.