The stiff spandex was up to my butt when I ran out of pulling energy. It was like giving birth to myself. I reached out from the curtain and yanked Kit back into the fitting room. Two of us in a closet-size space forcing my only body into spandex casing caused the purple drape to flip around like a gypsy girl’s skirt.
Our grunts drew a cautionary comment from Lady Merlot. “This is neither the time nor place!” she snapped.
When I was finally installed in the full-body straightjacket, Kit fastened the hood under my chin. The mask pressed on my sore nose but I did look adorable in a super-hero way. I wondered if they had a Batman suit for Roger. It occurred to me I might have to pee, but I filed that thought away under things to do later.
Experienced at costume changes Kit helped me remove the suit. It was a keeper.
“Stay right there!” Kit said.
Since he’d run off with my street clothes I didn’t have a lot of choice.
He hung two bawdy corsets with dangling garters on the cushioned hooks. One black and one white, and both trashy.
“I hope those are for you, because they are so not for me!”
He unfastened the black iron maiden. “Try it on. Just for fun. Roger will love it.”
“Roger won’t have to wear it. That’s a portable torture chamber.”
He spun around and covered his eyes. “I won’t look. Just do it. For me.”
It was hard to turn him down. He’d been so good to me. Reluctantly I wiggled into the iron-boned waist cincher, my ribs poking my kidneys. The corset came with a built-in bra large enough to accommodate the playmates of the month for the entire year.
“You can turn around.”
Kit’s hand flew to his mouth as he gasped. “You look just like Mae West! Absolutely bodacious!”
I burst out laughing and the Velcro fasteners busted sending both ends of the corset flying. “That is the last word anyone would use to describe me.”
A deep sultry voice interrupted our play. “Someone needs the fitting room. Are you done in there?”
I shoved Kit through the curtain and redressed in my gray business suit. I ran my brush through my hair and pulled it back in a barrette.
Lady Merlot leaned on the counter at the checkout desk chuckling. Kit and I were quite a team once we started with the slaps and giggles. The hostess happily charged and bagged me. I thought of putting the cost on my business card, but I’d be hard pressed to turn this into a real estate deduction.
One step outside the shop and my cell rang. It was Tippy. “I’m being followed!”
“Tip, call the cops. I can’t help you right now. You’re on my to-do list but not today.”
“Fine! They’ll find a note in my pocket blaming you for my death.”
I clicked off. The dame was impossible.
“Let’s stop in the Calligraphy shop. I promised you a little gift.”
“I’ve never had a calligraphy before.” My understanding of calligraphy was fancy writing done with a special pen. What was a calligraphy?
Kit held the door and I stepped into the shop. It was an explosion of color, tiles of every shape and size with quotes from Oscar Wilde to Cher. The tiny store was crowded. I guess calligraphies were popular with gays.
“This one is perfect.” Kit handed me a six-inch white tile with dark blue lettering.
It’s the friends you can call at 4 a.m. that matter. ~ Marlene Dietrich
“For luck, tonight.” He kissed the top of my head as the clerk bagged the gift.
Back at my condo I set the alarm for nine p.m. and curled into bed for a short nap. It was going to be a long night. A horrible nightmare settled into my REM sleep. Goofy-looking mummies with holes in the wrappings were chasing me up the side of the Empire State Building. Detective Stranger was standing at the top like King Kong beating his chest. I screamed out for Roger and woke up.
Chapter Thirteen
At ten minutes after midnight Leech, dressed in charcoal gray spandex and wearing a Batman mask, disappeared up the side of the North by Northwest building and into the shadows on the third floor ledge, covertly entering in order to open the street exit door for me. Within minutes he was back on the ground and I was entering my first burglary. So far so good, no alarms.
He nodded his head motioning me to enter. “Now we become invisible. Travel silently with the night.”
“Cut the drama,” I mumbled through the cat hood.
He waved me on. The suit seemed to be getting even tighter and the mask didn’t line up with my eyes; I felt like a kid in last year’s Halloween costume. Half blind I stumbled over his heels. The landings went by, slower and slower… fifteen… sixteen… I was burning up inside the spandex. Maybe climbing the outside of the building wasn’t such a bad idea.
My energy was sapped. I stopped on a landing, clutching the rail. The suit had become a portable steam bath. I was soaked and did not feel the slightest bit sexy. My panting echoing in the staircase resembled an old asthmatic dog. Six-inch numerals on the door showed me I was on the thirtieth floor. A mere twenty-one to go. Suck it up, you wimp. I pushed off and caught up with the skinny mountain goat on thirty-five. An eternity later we reached the fifty-first floor. My calves and thighs spasmed. I fell forward on the landing. Sexy belly wiggles under the laser beams were no longer a possibility.
Leech cracked the door and peeked in. “All clear.”
I slipped through the door after Leech. We were in a corridor illuminated by night lighting. Butts against the walls, we inched our way to the offices of the Cowboy Pension Fund. Leech fiddled with the lock on the huge gallery doors and they rolled open. We stood side-by-side scanning the room for movement. Dim indirect ceiling lighting cast a faint bluish tone.
Leech reached into the bag strapped to his waist and threw a fistful of white powder into the room. The dust filled the air. The room was layered with laser beams, starting a foot off the floor with a new layer about every foot up to the ceiling. Not on my most bendable day, in my sexiest mood, would I be able to accomplish the under and over shimmies to negotiate my way into the gallery and back out with the bronze bronco.
Leech motioned to me. He put a finger to his lips and pointed upward to remind me of the possibility of audio sensors. He mouthed some words but my eyeholes were misaligned again and I didn’t catch it. I shook my head and mouthed for him to repeat.
We stood on the threshold in a pantomime argument. If we were on camera we were providing a nifty vaudeville act and plenty of time for security to arrive.
It was then I remembered a little trick I’d learned in London. The first sensor glowed red just inside the door. I bent down and spat on it. The glow went out.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible to look dumbfounded wearing a Batman mask, but my partner did. He threw a second fistful of powder. No beams. The lasers were shut down. Leech blew me a kiss in admiration.
I tiptoed to the bronco’s podium, raised the statue a hair, and held my breath waiting for the sound of a siren. Blessed silence. I was officially a cat burglar. Or a bronco buster. Or both.
Planting my Keds firmly on the floor, I lifted the statue. It was more awkward than I expected. It slipped from my grip but I got control of it just before it hit the floor, the same instant my heart slammed into my throat.
Leech was doing a touchdown dance on the threshold. Idiot.
The red laser beams popped back on. I looked to my right and then my left. I was surrounded by a cross-hatch of crimson jail bars. So much for the lifespan of my particular brand of spit.
Leech knelt and spit on the sensor. The beams stayed on. He tried again. No effect. I was trapped behind a maze of laser rays. The statue was less than a foot thick but heavy and getting heavier.
“We’re gonna have to make a run for it. Slide the statue to me,” Leech staged whispered.
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“’Cause you’re about to do some serious running, babe. Trust me.”
I dropped t
o the floor, laid the bronco on its back, and using my famed ashtray-throwing muscles delivered a power-shove.
The bronco slid under the beams, first straight then catawampus. I held my breath. It just cleared the beam by the door. Leech picked it up, grinned an evil grin beneath the Batmask, and waved bye-bye to me.
Screw any possible audio sensors. “You bastard!” I screamed.
“Sorry, but this is going to finance my trip to the International Buildering Competitions in Dubai. If Alfred Hiccup wants this overgrown doorstop, it has to be worth a fortune. Been nice working with you.”
“No! Don’t! He’s dying… I mean he’s not dying. He needs that… horse.”
Surrounded by a cross-hatch of laser beams I did the only thing I could think of. I spit. The third spit took and the alarm system went down.
I galloped for the exit staircase with the intention of wringing that skinny jerk’s neck. He was two flights down and running as if his life depended on it. It did.
No sense in wasting my breath. I adjusted the mask, said a silent thanks to Uma Thurman, and hands on the railing did a Kill Bill bounce dropping dead-center on the skinny dude’s back. Like two Gumbies mating we rolled to the next landing. I sucker-punched him on his Batman mask, my hand bouncing off but leaving enough of an impression to stun him.
I grabbed the bronco. “There goes your tip, you bastard.” I dashed off but three flights down I realized I couldn’t leave the creep. If he got caught he’d rat me out. I ran back up the stairs, delivered a wake up smack, and hefted him by his spandex collar.
Clutching the bronco to my chest, I raced down the red-glow fire-exit stairs with Leech close behind, my feet running ten times faster than my body. Skidding on my butt more than I managed to stay upright, I hit the exit door amped by my determination. The door sprung open, and an alarm blasted. A fifty-one flight marathon, my tushie hadn’t hurt this badly since the camel ride across the Sahara.
Tumbling onto the deserted street, I fell against the building, panting.
“Now what, partner?” Leech said.
“You got some pair of balls!” I spun him around and kicked his butt with all the force I could muster.
He laughed and tumbled down the street, converting my kick energy into an urban clamberer routine. He disappeared in the shadows. Would he be back to haunt me?
I felt someone at my shoulder. It was Mrs. MacGuffin. She glanced at her watch… a dainty little Timex. “Hic’s transmigration has been moved up. He only has six hours and five minutes left.”
Tears gathered and overran my lower lids. “Please… how will I recognize him? He might come back as a newborn baby or something.”
“My client is transmigrating not reincarnating.” She slipped her hands in her apron pockets. “I just got dibs on a soulless young man in the queue. Before another afterlife coach gets him I have to prepare Hic for the transfer. Now get your bum up to Nashville pronto.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m an expediter. My job is to tie up the loose ends so the spirit can body-jump. This bronco was the last request of a soul in transition and must be performed by someone who loves him. Last wishes are karmic keys to the doors for transmigration. It’s clear you love that old man which makes you the only person qualified to help him. Now go! I’ve arranged a ride for you.”
Kit’s SUV was parked at the curb. I flopped into the car panting and wheezing. “What are you doing here? You can’t be involved in this!”
“I got a call from an old lady. She said you needed me. I brought you a change of clothes and your purse. Her orders were to take you to the airport before whatever it is you’re carrying is reported missing.”
“I didn’t exactly have this type of emergency in mind when I gave you a key to my condo,” I said as I climbed over the seat and into the rear of his Escalade. Adrenalin left my body in a splat as I fought with the cat suit, stripping it from my sweaty limbs.
“That old lady was Mrs. MacGuffin. She’s Hic’s afterlife coach and fairy godmother,” I said wriggling into my skinny jeans and cable knit pullover.
The SUV sped along the ribbons of highway leading to Miami International.
Kit pulled onto the departure ramp. I leaned forward, kissed his cheek, and stumbled from the car. If Roger knew what I’d done he’d fire me. I thought about the make-up sex and wondered if he’d terminate that just to punish me.
It was three a.m. when Kit dropped me at the airport. “I have your extra set of car keys. I’ll leave your Jag with my cousin Jeffery at the Avis desk for whenever you get back. Want me to keep you company until you get a flight?” he said.
I needed time alone to decompress. Strong coffee and solitude would go a long way toward preparing me for the coming hours.
Chapter Fourteen
The clock was ticking down as I ran the concourse of the Nashville International Airport, my canvas courier’s bag over my shoulder, and the bronze bronco nestled in the crook of my right arm.
“Hey lady! What’s your hurry?”
Security! I suppose running through an airport with a statue under your arm might arouse some suspicion. I slowed up, working on my sexy smile which I hadn’t used in weeks. I turned to the guard, a plump, crew-cut bubba with water-blue eyes and a Taser holstered on his belt.
“Miss, we’re under Mauve Alert. We’re looking for a Miami horse thief. A rustler is on the loose.” He hooked his thumbs on his belt. “We hang horse thieves in Tennessee.”
“No you don’t.”
“Well we should.”
“Officer do I look like I have a horse?”
He blushed. “Course not. Mind if I ask what that is under your arm?”
“It’s a lamp base.”
He squinted and craned his neck trying to get a better look.
My cell phone rang. I stepped a few feet away from the bubba’s prying eyes and answered it.
Tippy howled, “Someone put a dead fish in my bed!”
“Come again?”
“I couldn’t. Not with a stinky snapper in my sheets.”
“A bedded dead fish qualifies as a threat. I’m out of state right now and can’t help. Did you call Detective Stranger or the Fish and Wildlife Commission?”
“Stranger was on vacation with his wife. No one is taking this threat seriously.”
“Have you had any unusual visitors? Plumbers? Electricians?”
“No one. Just Gary.”
“Who’s Gary?” The way she said his name spoke volumes.
Bubba gave me the evil-eye as I put ten feet between us. He tapped his earpiece. “Not a real horse?”
He glared at the bronze bronco still lodged under my arm.
Without saying goodbye, I pocketed my phone and sprinted toward the airport door doing my best roadrunner impersonation. As the doors swung open, I caught a reflected glimpse of Bubba hot on my heels, grabbing for his Taser. With a spark and a yelp he went down, a quivering bowl of blue-eyed Jell-O. Evidently he didn’t read the part of the directions that said to get the Taser out of its holster before pulling the trigger.
When I settled in the taxi it hit me. This was my final scene with Alfred Hiccup. Falling back in the seat I allowed myself the luxury of tears over the loss of my old mentor. Get it out now, Wendy. You need to be a rock for your friend. This is a time of celebration for him.
Who would Hic be if he returned? And what about the mummies in Miami? With all this wackiness going on, it was just as well I wasn’t pregnant. The baby would be break-dancing in my belly.
The taxi pulled under the canopy, the morning sun highlighting my over-cooked emotions. The White Rabbit’s watch hands were on the ten and the five. The driver scrunched down in his seat perhaps dodging imaginary bullets. I leaped from the cab carrying the bronco and my courier bag, my heart raced and my legs buckled.
The lobby lights were lit as if guiding me in. “Hic! I’m home.”
A bell tinkled. I followed the sound. Hic sat in a chair where we�
�d dined days earlier.
“MacGuffin told me you were on your way. Good girl, Wendy.” Hic extended his hands and took the bronco. A smile broke through the sags in his face. His relief washed over me. I stood next to him, my hand on his ginormous shoulder pad. I’d done good.
He turned the bronco over and examined the bottom.
“See… here’s the password. Memorize it.”
I repeated it aloud. Strange word. “Hackensack.”
“I foolishly engraved it on my bronco back in ’76. I was afraid I would forget the code for the return trip.”
“Couldn’t you have changed it once the bronco was stolen?”
“It doesn’t work that way. You only get one password per transmigration. Bad part is anyone can use your password. It’s good for one trip only.”
We wound our way down the stairs to the musty boiler room. I’d been in worse situations but not by much. Hic raised his left hand and pulled a dangling string with a tiny Statue of Liberty tied on the end. A single bulb lit the room.
My phone rang again. Dollars to donuts it was Tippy. I shouldn’t have clicked it back on but I was hoping Roger would call. I was feeling naked and alone and not in a good way. I checked the ID. Tippy. I ignored her.
Hic and I picked our way to the furnace guided by the blue-red glow and the roar of the flames. The huge rusty door was propped open and the fire was blazing.
“Thank you, Wendy.” He had tears in his eyes as he threw the bronze into the flames. We watched it melt into a puddle. Then we closed the door.
“Now… if you don’t mind. I feel tired. Help me up to my rocking chair.”
Wobbling through the lobby and up a twisty broken-tile staircase, loose stones and cracked cement skated under my feet. My palms were uber-sweaty, afraid Hic would fall sending us both into a painful, if not deadly, tumble. Twice his Kleenex-boxed feet slipped and I braced for a crash but somehow we made it to the second floor sunroom.
The rocking chair sat in the arch of a bay window, the sun ricocheting off the spider webs. Hic backed into the rocking chair, his hands on the armrests. He settled in then turned his gaze toward me and said, “Remember the rest of your promise. Change my position in case anyone is looking at me from the street.”
Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies Page 7
