“Preferably before she sends out Dixon and Chino to haul you in,” Gitana said.
Chase shuddered. Dixon and Chino, part of the Pink Mafia, were currently employed as Lacey’s henchwomen. She wasn’t even sure if those were their first names or their last names. No one seemed to know. She’d met them in OfficeMax, where they had cornered her in the binder aisle and forced her to consider writing lesbian novels again, something she had quit after the mainstream mystery series she’d written as Shelby McCall had started to sell and make the big bucks. The book that resulted, her lesbian novel about life in a commune, had inadvertently illuminated Lacey’s brain, becoming the operating manual for Lacey’s Illumination Institute. The Pink Mafia never let up. Sometimes Chase felt that between Lacey and the Pink Mafia that she was a prisoner on the Isle of Lesbos.
“Speak of the devil.” Nora pointed out the window of Gitana’s office at a black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows. Dixon and Chino were getting out of it and making their way toward the office.
“Are they on steroids?” Eliza asked.
“I don’t know, but Lacey’s tailor, Joseph, is making a killing off their black suits,” Chase said.
“With those suits and dark sunglasses they look like FBI agents or friends and family of the Sopranos,” Nora said.
“I guess we can’t all be Girl Scouts,” Chase muttered. She handed Gitana her car keys. “I might not be back for a while.”
Chino and Dixon didn’t have to say a word as they stood in the doorway. Well, as parts of each of them stood in the doorway. Chase kissed Gitana’s cheek and dutifully followed them out.
Chapter Three—Politics
Chase was escorted into the boardroom of the Institute. “Like I’m going to run off,” Chase muttered as she tried to wriggle free of their grasp.
Chino grunted.
“There you are,” Lacey said, leaping up from her high-backed leather chair. “We have a major fucking emergency here and I needed you.”
Lacey had been Chase’s best friend for as long as she could remember. It was a documented fact that children began forming memories at the age of four, so Lacey must have been there then. In moments like this Chase wondered if she preferred the happy-go-lucky-man-chaser Lacey had once been to this radical lesbian megalomaniac with her brown tight-bun hairdo and trim somber business suit intent on changing the face of the lesbian nation. Chase glanced around the long boardroom table looking for an ally.
She saw Isabel, the Institute librarian and archivist. Isabel at least was still recognizable with her long, dark hair and tie-dyed T-shirts. When they first met, Isabel had been a member of Chase’s SUP class—a group program for socially unacceptable persons. Their mentor, Lily Hirack, now taught at the Institute. It appeared from the attendance rolls that there were a lot of socially unacceptable lesbian persons on the premises. If someone was reported and then cited for SUP behavior they had to attend Lily’s class—like when you got a speeding ticket and you had to go to driving school.
Donna sat next to Isabel. She had the squeezed colon look she often got when presented with a Lacey-istic Problem. Donna was Chase’s personal assistant as well as the Chief Financial Advisor of the Institute. Out of consideration and necessity for Donna’s increased workload, Chase had learned to be more self-sufficient. Well, kind of—she had Bud to help her with her tech snafus, and she had Myrna, her publicist, to handle all the stuff on the ongoing mainstream mystery series she wrote under the pen name of Shelby “Fucking” McCall. Donna did not approve of the middle name she had given Shelby of late, but Chase hadn’t planned on being the next Sue Grafton when she started the series, and she now harbored a great dislike of Shelby. Shelby, however, didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about her creator’s discomfort—the fucking little bitch in her penny loafers and elbow-patch herringbone blazers.
Chase scowled as she sat by Donna. “Are you thinking about Shelby?” Donna whispered.
“Why do you ask?” Chase said, taking a Dasani from the tray in the middle of the long mahogany table.
“Because you have that look.”
“Myrna is in the process of scheduling my annual New York trip and Eliza P. Newman is planning a big gala party for Shelby, which is going to require an expensive new suit.” Chase groaned. “I’ll have to take her to see Joseph. At least now that I am on a first -name basis with my tailor we can tell each other inappropriate Jew and lesbian jokes while Shelby gets fitted.”
“Chase, you do realize that you are talking about yourself, right?” Donna said, her face a portrait of concern.
“Of course, I do,” Chase said petulantly. She glanced around to see if anyone had been listening. On the opposite side of the table was Dixon, who along with henchman duty was also in charge of lesbian protocol. Dixon was busy glaring at everyone and apparently hadn’t heard.
Chase smiled at Sophia, a lovely Italian woman with long black tresses and seductive eyes. She should have been a movie star in a spaghetti western instead of a chef in charge of the three kitchens—a vegan one, a meat and potatoes one and an epicurean, eclectic one. Chase referred to them as the Rabbit, Cow and Orchard kitchens. To the dismay of all, the monikers stuck.
Next to her was Gloria, the head of maintenance—a proud butch of the old-school ways, dressed in Dickies work pants and a black T-shirt with “Maintenance” written across the front. Only you couldn’t quite make out all the letters because of the Appalachian-like formation of her breasts, which she fondly called her bazooms. Chase looked up “breasts” in the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus and “bazooms” was listed as a synonym much to her surprise. Bazooms made her think of weapons of mass destruction, which Gloria’s breasts could be. On one occasion, Chase had come out of Lacey’s office, not paying attention to where she was going, and walked right into Gloria’s bazooms. Chase had been so stunned she actually nestled there for a moment until Gloria plucked her from the crevasse between the letters “E” and “N.”
“That’s a danger zone, darlin’. I’ve lost women in there,” Gloria twanged. She referred to herself as a big-breasted woman from southern Oklahoma in homage to a k.d. lang song about big bones and a Canadian province. Chase found her accent charming; it had a calming affect on her. When the Institute got too much for her, Chase would stop by Gloria’s cave of a maintenance office and talk. Gloria ran a tight ship, and Chase was not only amazed by her bazooms but also her organizational skills. Gloria’s maintenance office and workroom was like Badger’s hole in Wind in the Willows.
Chase often had the inexplicable desire to sit on Gloria’s lap and nestle between her breasts—not in a sexual way, more like a child in need of comfort. She wanted to stick her face in between the “E” and the “N.” Was that really too much to ask to relieve a boatload of stress? And why, she wondered, does that particular metaphor still have a descriptive place in this world when boats are no longer as prevalent in delivering supplies to port cities? Why didn’t we use a fifty-seven-foot semi-tractor trailer as a source of measurement instead—a semi-load of stress?
Gloria must have sensed Chase’s desire because when it was a particularly bad day, she would give Chase a long hug and then “talk her down from the ledge,” as they called it. Chase tried to imagine how she would explain being found in the nestling position.
Lacey banged her gavel. Chase had a hard time with this corporate incarnation of Lacey.
“Okay, listen up everybody—let’s get this party started.”
If this was a party, Chase thought, she’d rather attend a Southern Baptist revival under a tent with ninety percent humidity, a hundred and five degrees temperature and a seat in a rickety folding chair next to someone who smelled bad.
Gloria must have been thinking the same thing. “If this is a party, I’d prefer a funeral.”
Chase snickered.
“What did you say, Gloria? Is it something you should share with the group?” Lacey widened her eyes, in her what-the-fuck expression that made Chase t
hink of Marty Feldman after corrective surgery.
“I was telling Chase that the pipes in the lavatory…” Gloria said.
Lacey interjected, “You mean the Human Relief Room.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Chase muttered under her breath. Why did Lacey have to rename everything?
Lacey eyed her suspiciously. Chase wondered if she had heard her muttering. “The pipes in the Human Relief Room are…” she prodded Gloria.
“Working perfectly after I replaced the P-trap.” Gloria smiled at her.
“P-trap? We trap pee now? Is that a civil liberties issue that we need to address?” Lacey said.
Chase and Gloria looked at each other in astonishment.
“You’re kidding, right?” Chase said. Chase wasn’t a plumbing expert, but Lacey had to know something about under-the-sink pipes and even if she didn’t the context would supply clues.
“No,” Lacey said, adamantly. “The Institute, as we all know, is very concerned with the rights of its citizenry. If we are trapping people’s urine, they should be informed.”
Chase stared at Lacey. “We have citizenry? When exactly did we become a country?”
“I am speaking metaphorically. As a weaver of words, you should understand the use of a political metaphor.”
Chase shot her a dirty look. Was there such a thing as a political metaphor—politics used metaphor but could it be a metaphor in and of itself? It dawned on Chase that she didn’t understand the political term anymore than Lacey understood plumbing.
Dixon cleared her throat. “Could we get this meeting started? Some of us are on a tight time schedule.”
What, Chase thought, could be so urgent? Rounding up socially errant lesbians?
“I want to get this P-trap thing settled first,” Lacey snapped.
Chase’s stress and annoyance level had reached its beyond-the-tolerable level notch on her psychic meter. First, this school thing and Commies and then getting hauled in here by the thug-girls only to become embroiled in the politics of the Republik of Lesbekistan. Then to top it off, Lacey’s ignorance when it came to plumbing.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lacey, a P-trap is the U-shaped pipe under the sink—it has absolutely nothing to do with urine entrapment,” Chase blurted.
Gloria smiled as Lacey scowled at her. “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Lacey said.
“And when would I have inserted the proverbial word-in-edgewise with you going on about lesbian civil liberties?” Gloria inquired.
“Hmmph, I just think you could stand to be more specific in your reports,” Lacey said.
Feeling the need to defend Gloria, Chase said, “With your current level of the understanding of building mechanics and maintenance issues, it should be no problem.”
Lacey ignored her. She organized her notes, straightened her shoulders and began. “There is a serious rift here at the Institute that must be addressed. The Left Ovaries have, in effect, declared war on the Menopausals. We cannot have this kind of division in our beloved community. We live in a new and tender country and this is the first incident of this nature.”
“Does she really believe in this Lesbekistan thing?” Gloria whispered to Chase.
Chase nodded. Gloria raised her eyebrows in that this-is-absurd-you-realize-that look.
Chase wanted to be part of the eyebrow raising club like Gloria, Gitana and Bud, but her one gesture of note was the ability to smirk. Whenever she raised her eyebrows she resembled a silent screen actress feigning fright. She looked ridiculous, which was why she didn’t do it publically.
“The Left Ovaries?” Chase said. This was the first time she’d heard of them. She knew about the Menopausals because of the three bearded ladies. The first time she met them she had her sunglasses on—for which she was grateful as she was certain her eyes had been popping out. As it was, she choked on a Mento. One of the bearded ladies was on the verge of performing the Heimlich maneuver after a moment of beard stroking on the part of all three ladies as to the best course of action. Luckily, Chase had regained control of her breathing and some of her decorum. She thanked them and introduced herself. In turn, she learned they were Jessica, Emily and Edith. Edith was in charge of the Menopausals.
Lacey shook her head at Chase like she should know. “The Left Ovaries are suffering from loss-of-organs syndrome or L.O.S.”
“What an original title,” Chase muttered.
“And some even have ghost pain.” She glared at Chase.
“Oh.” Chase said. She was not unsympathetic to abdominal pain as she had a sensitive stomach.
“The Left Ovaries no longer feel women-indentified because they have lost the ability to bear children,” Lacey read from the document.
“So now they feel like men?” Donna asked, evidently confused.
“No. They just don’t feel like women,” Lacey said, and she continued to read. “The Menopausals are offended because they do not believe femininity is tied to menses. Just because the Left Ovaries are missing equipment and don’t bleed doesn’t mean they’re less of a woman according to the Menopausals. But the Left Ovaries feel that the Menopausals are ignoring their loss.”
“What the fuck is she talking about?” Chase said.
Gloria furrowed her brow, “Well…”
Chase loved the way Gloria spoke, how “well” came out as three syllables.
“I think, from what I can gather, it’s about Kotex. I swear to Goddess, I keep that machine routinely stocked to the hilt. I got one gal who spends half a day filling those machines up. With two hundred women having periods, it’s a monster task,” Gloria said.
This made Chase think of two hundred women having PMS. “Do you realize how dangerous this place is?” she said.
Gloria stared at her, apparently grasping her import. “Are you suggesting…”
Chase nodded. “Perhaps we should put the Pink Mafia on this.” Chase refrained from saying, “in other words, doing something constructive.” “We might need extra security and perhaps a PowerPoint presentation on the cycling chart of the Institute’s bleeding occupants.”
Lacey snapped at them. “What the fucking hellshitonfire kind of assholebullshitmotherfuckingkissingass shit are you two fucking talking about?”
Chase stared at her in utter astonishment.
“What?” Lacey said.
“That was nine profanities in one sentence and we’re in a board room. What are you capable of in everyday situations?” Chase said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lacey replied, shuffling papers again.
Chase looked around the room. Did Lacey have multiple personalities? Was Chase the only one who noticed that Lacey had switched from being Regan from the movie The Exorcist to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, who wanted everyone to have what they most needed. It was frightening. No one else seemed to have noticed.
“Now, if I have everyone’s attention, I’d like to discuss possible solutions to resolving the rift.” She passed around copies of her solution-solving guidelines. Each packet contained the cover sheet with the Institute’s logo of a giant eyeball with a candle inside the pupil. Chase had always thought it was creepy. On the next page the problem was listed. Lacey had titled it To Bleed or Not to Bleed. Chase nearly spewed water out her nostrils when she read that. The following page had a pie chart of how many women were missing organs, were menopausal, or were still menstruating. Did they really need to know this stuff? Chase thought. After that Lacey laid out her problem-solving method in numerical order with bullet points.
Chase barely contained her urge to make a fleet of paper airplanes and aim them at Lacey’s head. Instead, she made herself read the guidelines.
“Number One: Don’t bother with the obvious because it’s obvious.”
What the fuck, Chase thought. Lacey is the one in charge and she’s bonkers. She is in charge of the fate of the Republik of Lesbekistan—a two hundred strong hunk of dykeness—and she’s nuts. She is currently in char
ge of my life and she’s certifiably crazy.
Damn! She was going to need another appointment with Dr. Robicheck. Her synapsis was overriding her ability to edit her mental monologues—she’d used “currently,” “in charge” and a thesaurial variation of mentally unstable three times in a row. She looked askance at Lacey, who was tapping her pen as if the repetitive noise was going to speed up the problem solving.
Chase slipped her BlackBerry out of her front pocket and covertly texted Dr. Robicheck’s secretary. “When can I get in?”
While she waited for the return text, she read the next bullet point.
“Number Two: The solution should contain a minimum of twenty-four contingency plans.”
Sweet Jesus, even the United Nations couldn’t come up with that many solutions and they are professional diplomats. Chase rubbed her temples. She checked her phone. The tiny red light in the top corner of her BlackBerry blinked. Thank fucking God. It read, “She’s not available until next Wednesday at one forty-five. Is it life-threatening?”
Chase considered this. It wasn’t her own life she was concerned about—it was Lacey’s. She regarded her friend, who had stopped tapping her pen and was perusing a file folder full of papers. Chase missed her happy-go-lucky goofy friend, the one who took very few of life’s problems seriously. Had aliens abducted the real Lacey and replaced her with this megalomaniac? Was this what happened to people in power? They lost their senses of humor? Chase suppressed the urge to get up and tickle Lacey just to make her laugh. She texted back, “That will be fine.” It was only a week. She’d let this alien Lacey live another five days.
“Okay, I think that’s enough time. Who wants to go first?” Lacey demanded, eyeing the group and homing in on Chase.
Chase froze. She hadn’t given the problem any thought. This was as bad as being in college, not paying attention and then getting called on. Instinctively sensing inattention, the powers-that-be zoom in for the kill and wham! You find yourself in the crosshairs.
In the Unlikely Event... Page 3
