I said to her back, "I don't like the big lady. I just want to know where the book is. I promise I won't tell her."
She turned. "Promise?" She crossed herself.
I crossed myself and held out the cash.
"Sure?"
"Cross my heart. Hope to die.”
"Okay. I show you, you not tell lady." She snatched the stack of twenties.
Would she lead me straight to Reynard Jackson? Was I about to find out what this traitor/asshole/genius looked like, when the rest of America was still madly guessing? He’d probably have fancy digs in Newport Coast or Newport Beach. And an alarm system and designer guard dogs.
With a jumpy stomach, I drove as Maria Elena guided me, not toward the beach, but inland to Stanton, near the railroad tracks, where rents were cheap. We stopped the car on a block of newish condos and walked around the block, checking driveways. Finally, Maria Elena let me into a condo with one of her many keys.
This was Reynard Jackson's fancy lair? Not likely. The condo was small and inside, it was thick with ferns, hanging prisms, crystal angels and Maxfield Parrish fairy prints. Giant leopard and tiger-print cushions covered the living room floor, and cats of every imaginable size were draped over everything. It looked like fairy land and smelled like an old cat box.
Thank God Music Man was dog people.
We walked through the rooms, me batting away ferns and cats. Maria Elena stopped at each large fern, checking the basket hiding its giant pot. I was headed toward the big wardrobe in the corner of a bedroom, sure I'd find stacks of stolen manuscripts inside, when I saw a chilling sight. An ornate jewel box monogrammed RJ.
"Yes!!!" I pumped the air. I'd finally nailed Reynard Jackson!
Outside, a train approached with a lot of noise and vibration. Maria stopped at the huge fern by the window and started to wrestle it out of its basket. The pot didn't seem to want to budge, and she rocked it violently, making the leaves spew dust everywhere. Then the train noise assaulted our ears and shook the whole place until it felt like it would shatter into splinters. The cats didn't move. Finally, Maria Elena liberated the pot, heaved the thing high, and gestured toward the wide wicker basket underneath.
I stepped closer and saw a manuscript full of red markings in the basket's depths. The train was gone, but there was a new noise outside: footsteps on the porch and keys jingling in someone’s hand.
I grabbed the manuscript and Maria Elena dropped the fern, sending dirt and cats shooting in all directions like bowling pins. I ran toward the door, but Maria Elena just stood there like a statue.
“Maria Elena! Come on!”
She still didn’t move, and I heard the deadbolt slide. So I did the only thing I could think of. I scooped up Maria Elena and carried her out the back door over my shoulder. She weighed about as much as a cat, so it wasn’t that hard. I fled out the back door on winged Nikes, running for my life with the damning evidence, not stopping to breathe until we were safely back in my car, stuck in freeway traffic. Then poor Maria Elena looked like a living heart attack and refused to answer any more questions.
But I had what I wanted, and I fingered it at a stoplight. The manuscript was written in a tight hand on lined paper with forty-seven adjectives on the first page all circled in red ink. Jackson's handiwork? The title was Jane Joins the League. The author's name, Gina Johansson, was marked through with pen, and underneath, someone had written R. J.
Wow. Oh, blessed relief. I'd actually found Reynard Jackson's house. Plagiarism Central. Illegal Alley. Bestseller's Remorse. The maids must all be reporting there to Jackson with their stolen pages, like Oliver's gang reporting to Fagin. And I'd found Jackson in action, and retrieved real evidence of stolen work. I couldn't wait to tell Harley. I couldn't wait to get even. I couldn't wait to tell the world. Now they'd have to believe me, and I could hold my head high again.
I thanked Maria Elena, gave her a bonus twenty, and dropped her at her house in Santa Ana, since she had taken the bus to Acorn Street. It was nearly 2:00. I searched the folks' house one more time for any signs of my own work to take to the lawyers. None. So I blasted James an evil email message about my laptop from Mom’s computer. Lucky I still had an email account. Rhonda the Pariah had been kicked out of her online groups, Facebook, and Blogspot.
At 2:30, I walked into the lawyer appointment with my great discovery, Hippo's manuscript, found hidden in a Stanton home, probably Reynard Jackson's, for evidence.
"Look," I told Bill Melmore, the lawyer, "This proves that Reynard's using cleaning ladies to steal manuscripts from people's homes and hand them over to him. He stashes them around his house until he polishes and publishes them. Could we get the police to raid his home in Stanton for my manuscript?"
I walked out five minutes later with a strong warning against breaking and entering and using other people's work for my own ends. One hidden manuscript, obtained illegally, wasn't enough to sue anyone when I had no proof that I had written anything.
So I decided to borrow Maria Elena's key and go back into Reynard's house later to find more conclusive proof of his thievery of my book, Memory Serves.
CHAPTER 33
One thing was for sure. I couldn't do this kind of evidence gathering alone, and I wasn't taking Music Man again. Dal could watch him. I tried to call Harley, who wasn't answering. There was only one other place to turn for this kind of help: Amazons.
So I wore the Booty-Ka bustier Cathy had loaned me to Amazon practice that night. The rink had taken a real beating in the brawl the week before. The stands still had whole chunks of seating missing, and raw two-by-fours now shored up the damaged rink sides.
Remembering Yvette's words about how mad Manny was, I sucked it up and walked in like I belonged there, but kept a wary eye out for Manny, as well as Hippo and Cleo. But aside from a ragged pack of Amazons, only Cleo was there, and she looked right through me, as usual. After a half hour of mean drills, we had scrimmages. I replaced another absent skater as jammer, and this time, I lasted a good fifteen seconds, beating my record of thirteen seconds from before. Then I played blocker, and only got knocked down twice by Harley. The time I got tossed over the rink rail by Cleo didn't really count, being a face plant.
At break time, I loosened the bustier to breathe, but tightened it up again when the stands filled with a throng of folks sporting black leather attitudes. Oh, right. Tonight was not just a practice. It was a bout as well. With Irvine.
As if right on cue, Yvette walked in, still looking pale, and perched on the sidelines with several sparkly Iridescence girls and Kween Viktorious and Cleo. As I moved from surprise to wonder at why an "ill" Yvette would skate, a brown hand clapped me on the shoulder. I looked up, right into Manny's sharp eyes. Oh, crap. He'd ream me out about the fundraiser fiasco and Yvette would crow.
But instead, the loose lips widened around the ever-toothpick-laden teeth. "Good goin', the other night, Rhonda. Biggest take ever at a fundraiser. People came in off the street to join that brawl. We sold out all our T-shirts and ticket sales are sky high. That was genius. You're my kind of people." He one-arm hugged me.
"Thanks." Oy.
He indicated my bustier. "Good. You're dressed. 'Cause you're on the roster as fourth alternate. Hippo's not here, so you may get to play.”
I relaxed. "Sure," I said, my bowels dancing. This was not practice. It was a real bout against the Iridescence. YIKES.
Manny pointed me into the waiting area for the Amazons and wandered away, mumbling, "Fresh meat."
Gulp.
Cathy came over by me and said to someone behind me, "Hey, Rocky! Booty-Ka's having her first bout! Her cherry-popper. Stay awake. She might need you."
I looked around to see who she was addressing. It was a pair of paramedics, complete with insignia, hanging out at the sidelines. Oh, man, this could get ugly.
The bout between the Amazons and the Iridescence began with blaring punk rock music followed by Storm Goddess belting out the Star Spangl
ed Banner. At the starting, or pivot line, our blockers, Kween Viktorious, Largot, and Merrie Queen of Snottz, popped their necks from side to side, adjusted helmets and mouth guards, and shook out their muscles. Our opponents, the Irvine twins and Go-Glow-Yourself were bored, adjusting their bras and checking their manicures. At the jam line, Cleo looked like a sulking Japanese anime character while Yvette as Gold Diggeressa glittered like Tinker Bell.
But at the whistle, things roared to life and got ugly fast. Girls got hip-checked, shoulder-checked, body-checked and butt-checked. Then they were J-blocked, C-blocked, booty blocked, sheriff blocked, multi-blocked and sit blocked. It was when they got back blocked and low blocked (tripped), that fouls were called. The legal target zone for hits in roller derby doesn't include the back, the head, legs below the knee, or arms below the elbow. When girls fell, the penalty boxes for both teams filled up. In the first half, Kween Viktorious, Largot, and Queen Malevizent all got injured. That sent Harley into the game and made me first in line to sub.
Midway through the second half, when we were barely ahead, E. Lizard Butt got tripped and landed face-down. She couldn't get up due to severe neck pain, so the two paramedics had to take her off the track.
Crap. I was up.
On wobbly legs, I joined Harley and Storm Goddess as a blocker. I felt like I was in Pamplona, about to run with the bulls. Cleo stared at me. Everyone stared at me. Aaack. I averted my eyes from the folks in the stands, but not too soon to see James in the first row, cheering Yvette on.
The whistle blew, and we blockers leapt into action, followed in seconds by the skinny little jammers. Yvette's teammates took her hands and whipped her around from the back of the pack for a rousing takeoff right past me, but Cleo caught up to her fast. Yvette dodged past our wall of blockers, with Storm Goddess fairly leaping out of her way in a very odd fashion. She zipped around the track, then started through us again. But I became a semitruck in her little path, trying to sit-block her, which meant sticking my butt in her little gold gut. It worked until she said, "Rhonda, guess who Reynard Jackson is.”
"Huh?" I lost concentration and she zipped by me. Was that legal? I raised my hand to the referees. "Can I see the section on distractions in the rule book?"
The refs didn't hear over my teammates yelling, "Clothesline her!"
Then Harley hip-checked Yvette into the center of the track and got sent out for a penalty. I raced ahead, thighs burning, but in seconds, Yvette caught up with me again. She breathed something I couldn’t catch about James in my ear and pinched my inner thigh hard. Then she dashed under my arm just as the sparkly Irvine twins ushered me smack into the rail. Damn! The round was over with another ten points for Yvette, bringing her even with Cleo.
In the next two jams, Yvette sat out. I stayed in and helped block their other jammer, Shiny Lips, from making so many points. Cleo made thirty. Then Kween Viktorious limped back on the track and I returned to our team box in the stands to ice my rail bruise. Ever-Ready Bunnies Yvette and Cleo were back in jammer mode. In my haze of triumph over surviving my first bout, I forgot and cheered for both.
When Cathy took a turn jamming, Cleo sidled up to me on the bench, a sweaty mess in her black helmet with the gold Cleopatra asp coiled around it. She sipped a Coke.
"Not bad.”
I looked around. Was she speaking to me?
"But not good,” she went on. You're petrified, candyass."
"Huh?"
"You're scared to fall. I've seen it a million times." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "So you're hanging back. Look. Face it. You're gonna fall. It's part of the game. So just suck it up and do it some. Get over it. Then you can relax. Maybe.”
My mouth opened and shut. Wisdom from the cheap seats.
Getting up and stuffing her limp hair back inside her helmet, she said, "It’d help the rest of your life, too. Can't fall means you can't fall in love, can't have orgasms, can't go flat out for your dream. If you have one." And she took off, a gaping hole in her fishnets.
I mumbled, "I can too go flat out for my dream. I can too handle Dad and I can too get back my reputation. And orgasms? Excuse me?"
A crusty biker dude behind me tapped my shoulder. I looked around, into a gap-toothed smile reeking of tobacco. "Yer cute." He waggled craggy eyebrows at me.
I moved myself down two rows.
Irvine was up four points when our girls pulled a corral on the other team. Normally graceful Yvette fell hard, allowing Cleo to tie the score. Yvette got up, looking pained, and the crowd cheered. She hobbled to the stands, holding her wrist. Farouz, her coach, checked the wrist and handed her an ice pack. She sat down just behind me, breathless, and removed her helmet.
Slugging back water, she said, "Rhonda, listen. Jackson's—"
"Yvette, save your breath. Pinching? Goading? That was such a dirty ploy to get past me. The thing is, I know where Jackson lives. I was there today. In St—never mind. But I'll have proof of his identity tomorrow."
"What? That's not where … " She frowned as James appeared at her elbow.
"Yvette, my dear. Let me see that." He grabbed her arm.
"Sod it." She flinched and tried to pull her arm back. "It's fine, James. Let me go."
"It's not fine," he insisted. "It needs an X-ray right now. It may be broken." He yanked her to her feet by the offended arm, and she yelped. Several people turned.
Leading her out of the rink like a father wagging a toddler home, he said, "See? You need medical attention. I know these things.”
She half turned. "Rhonda, please." But he had her out the door in seconds.
By the time I'd processed her wide-eyed look of—was that fear?—at his touch and sprinted out to the parking lot, they were gone.
CHAPTER 34
We won by a landslide. The Irvine girls waddled off home with ice packs on their butts. The Amazons, showing off fresh rink rashes on their knees and elbows, took me to a cowboy bar. A perfect place for me to recruit a crew to break into Jackson's house for evidence.
Cowboy Heaven was dark and sweaty, and guys swarmed us the minute we entered. With the air of a newly awakened grizzly bear, Harley parked herself in a big, horseshoe-shaped booth. She sat, nursing a fishnet burn on her thigh and a beer. I wanted to tell her about my exciting day, but the other girls dragged me off to the dance floor and clapped a cowboy hat on my head. Guys circled us and tried to join in, and the girls teased them by dancing suggestively with each other. Largot got out her lasso and did a round of tricks for the guys while dancing. One tall guy with long sideburns and a black cowboy hat eyed me. Once upon a time, I would have flirted with him, but now, his nose was too small.
I came back and sat by Harley, who looked away. "Harley, I know where Reynard Jackson lives. In Stanton, in a condo full of Maxfield Parrish posters."
She wrinkled her nose. "No way. He’s rich."
The girls were coming back to the booth, all sweaty and giddy. Cathy pointed over her shoulder. "Can you believe that guy?"
Largot, playing with her lariat, plopped down by me. "Guy said …" She mimicked a deep male voice. "'Darlin', you ever take a skate to the crotch?'"
"Well, I have," Kween Viktorious said, across the table. "I got a 'giner shiner' right in the middle of blood and thunder, on Largot's skate last week. Ow. I swear she sharpens 'em.”
Largot grinned and lassoed the chandelier hanging over the next booth.
I started, "Hey, guys, today I found Jackson's house." But all my words were drowned out by an explosion of laughter from the neighboring booth with the shaking chandelier above it.
Cathy yelled at Largot, "Sure the guy wasn't talking about Mr. Tube Steak? You've sat on plenty of them. I know."
"Now I only sit on bald-headed hermits," Largot said, retrieving her rope plus a cowboy hat from the next table, creating another roar of laughter.
Cathy's crossed eyes blazed. "Don't you mean one-eyed wonder worms? Muscled masses of ma
nly meat? Purple-headed love darts?" She sang, "Love darts. Love darts. Love darts," to the tune of Love Shack.
This was rich. I took out my notebook and pencil, eager for more fun phraseology. "How about a dangling participle?"
Frowns.
“I guess you can’t really sit on that.” I was tanking bigtime.
"The hooded lizard." Harley said laconically, glugging beer. She had harpy hair and mascara running down one cheek.
Cathy sang, "I like Long Dong Silver! Away!" And she galloped off on an imaginary pony toward some cowboys.
Kween Viktorious's eyebrows wiggled, "I only know Jolly Roger."
"Jolly who?" Hippo, our own Jolly White Giantess, joined us in a baseball jersey, pulling up a chair at the end of the booth.
I hid my notebook behind Harley.
But Hippo grinned. "For jollies, we Renaissance wenches prefer Master Longstaff or Old Hornington, the Pillicock."
Cathy was back. She mimed a six-foot long shaft with her hands. "My sister calls it a heat-forged shaft of hammered steel. Orgasmaspasmatic.”
The girls howled. I scribbled gleefully in Harley's shadow.
Hippo ordered a beer. "I’d take Jack Hammer over Jolly Roger any day. Or a good old beef injection.”
E. Lizard Butt said, "I like a nice love rocket, myself." She licked a drip of beer all the way up her glass, slowly and suggestively.
Kween Viktorious whined, "My boyfriend's fifty-four. His damned rocket's always turning into a wiggly piece of pork!"
"Oh, who needs real ones anyway?” Harley intoned balefully. “Electric ones never betray you.”
Hippo wandered off, and I relaxed. "Hey, if you like love rockets, you should try a bona fide Native American totem po—"
Harley turned on me with a glare that would have cracked granite. "Do you want to live? If so, shut up now."
Mean looks all around. E. Lizard Butt frowned.
Largot jabbed me. "What did you do, Rhonda?"
Panic rose in my gut. Oh, God. I couldn't outrun these girls. "Hey! It's not my fault!"
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