Roll with the Punches (15 page)

"Oh, you never stop falling." E. Lizard Butt got up, adjusting her helmet.

Great. I suddenly saw myself racing my mother to the bathroom in matching wheel chairs. Or strip-searched in airports when my fifteen metal joints set off alarms and marked me as a terrorist.

"You just learn how to fall smarter," she continued. "If you stay with us long enough, there'll be a moment when you don't care about falling anymore. Then you can really fly." Her grin showed a missing front tooth.

"What's with Hippo and her pals?" I asked, "They don’t want me in the writing group."

"Oh, never mind her." E. Lizard Butt said. "She’s just a bully. Way back when, I wanted to be the Great Boudicca, the tall red-haired warrior queen of the Iceni Celts. I loved this woman, brave enough to stand up to the stinkin' Romans for her own property way back in 61 AD." E. Lizard Butt gestured at Hippo. "But
she
wanted that name. For about ten minutes. Then she changed her mind." She pointed at me. "I expect to see you at the writing group." Before I could ask her about Yvette, she took off again.

Manny, came over and sat down by me, a toothpick wiggling between his loose lips. His sharp eyes followed the girls, but it felt like he was assessing me. Like if I unzipped his head, a tiny Aztec guru like Yoda would pop out and say to the team, "A high carbohydrate count I detect in this one. Worthy she is not. Much practice must she do. Too much padding does she have to become a master."

Instead, he rolled the toothpick around and said, eyes still on the scrimmage, "You could be good in the league. We need fresh meat—er—new girls right now. But it's not choreographed like the old roller derby you probably watched in the seventies and eighties. It's a real sport the way we play it now. You can get hurt." He smiled like this might be a treat. "Fresh meat practices are Monday and Wednesday nights.”

I sucked in air and, doubting I'd return here after tonight, signed his membership form. "Can I join the writing group, too?" I asked.

"Another Danielle Steele?" Manny grinned. "Sure. They meet right after practice.”

*
      
*
      
*

At the end of practice, Cathy rolled up. "You joining the team? Daddy sign your permission slip?"

Oh, my God! Dad! I needed to go home. But not until I'd nailed Yvette. This was turning into a real lead. I hoped Arlene would understand. "Sure. I'll be J. K. RollerQueen."

"Ouch!" came from behind me.

Nearby, Cleo had smacked Wonder Woman hard on the butt. "Get a different derby name, lady. Use your brain. Every damn newbie wants that one." Then she walked out.

*
      
*
      
*

In the rink parking lot after practice, the girls invited me out for a beer.

I rubbed my butt. "No, I want to sit in on the writing group."

Largot said, "Oh. They aren't meeting tonight. They meet Mondays after practice.”

Man. All that pain for nothing. I wanted to cry. "Aren’t you in the group? Can you tell me what to bring on Monday?"
And who in the group is working for Yvette?

Largot said, "I'll tell you all about it over drinks."

I called Harley to come and meet us in the local bar. She came, and the first thing out of her mouth after introductions was: "Seriously. All men are bacon fat. Uncooked, uncured, and full of trichinosis worms." The girls erupted in cheers, and a close friendship was instantly formed.

Sipping a beer, I asked Largot if the writing group had a member named Yvette.

Largot shrugged. "Hmm. Not sure. I haven't been going lately. No time to write. But I know the rules. Everybody has to read at least four pages every week. No slackers, no rude jokes, only beer, and no tattooing or piercing during the meeting.”

Great. No info. "Well," I said, looking at my watch. "I'm dead on my feet. That blood and thunder really …"

Harley stood up. "Ass in a sling? Then let's do some research. Girls, we’ve got a problem. Rhonda wrote a fabulous book that was ripped off and published under another name. Anybody in her writers' group could have buffed up Rhonda's work and sold it under a pen name."

"Except James," I said, standing also. "He's just beginning.”

"You a famous author?" Cathy asked.

"She will be if we find the plagiarizer. Anybody want to go check out her group members' houses and kick some author butt?" Harley said.

Cathy's and Largot's eyes lit up and they raced her to the door.

Outside, I limped up by Harley. "Harley. I trust my writing group members. It has to be an inside publishing job, somebody with a constant stream of incoming work who can pull strings. A crooked agent or editor."

"I know you think it's Yvette," she said, shoving me into her car. "We're just ruling out other people.”

But Jackie's house was all lit up. So we struck out for George's in Tustin, with the car radio blaring and Largot's cigarette smoke filling my aching head.

Harley parked by a fire hydrant on the side of George's well-lit corner house and turned to us. "What now?"

Cathy swung open her door and leapt out. "Time to rumble!"

"But he’s home! The lights are on!" I yelled to her chubby back.

"Let's dump his garbage and steal his car!" Skinny Largot jumped out of the car and stamped out her cig on the sidewalk, then took off after Cathy. A coil of thick rope flapped from her belt.

Cathy's rolls jiggled. "I call any loose change or liquor we find.”

Harley sprinted after them.

"Hey," I said. “Wait! What?”

Harley yelled back, "Call me Nancy Drew. I need a sleuthing fix.”

I, the overruled detention matron, limped behind the pack of hooligans as Largot practiced lassoing Cathy's head in her long, floppy loop of rope.

George's divorces had left him only enough income to rent a small house among a tangle of overgrown bushes and bougainvillea on an otherwise neat residential block. We took out our machetes and hacked through the foliage to get to an open kitchen window.

The girls snorted at the sight: piles and piles of paper, books and old newspapers had invaded George's kitchen floor and table, leaving just a tiny place to eat. No one was in there, but voices could be heard from a room on the front of the house.

"This is ridiculous," I said.

But the girls had already headed around the garage toward the living room on the other side of the house. I followed, and we all dropped to a crawl across the front lawn, as the front windows were huge and glowing.

"Crap!" Cathy whispered, in the middle of the yard.

The others snickered and then slowed at the smell. Her hand had landed in fresh dog poop.

Harley gave Cathy a wipe from her pocket. "Always carry them for shopping carts and doorknobs. And bird flu.”

Nasty yapping started inside the house. We froze.

"Oh, quiet, Jeeves," came George's voice through the front screen door, behind us. His stupid dachshund Jeeves, who I knew from writers' group meetings, didn't have the brains God gave a gnat.

We made it to the other side of the house, where the windows were curtained and shut. My giggling compadres squatted there amid some thorny bougainvillea between George's house and the neighbor's fence like a line of jungle cats, the light from the street lamp outlining their twitching ears. Music and a female voice carried out from the screen door twenty feet away, but we couldn't see in through the curtain or hear well enough to tell what was happening in the living room.

"Come on." I said again. "I'm tired. Let’s go."

Then a window beyond the backyard fence slid open.

"Oooh." Cathy said. "You wanna go listen in back?"

"We'd need vaccinations and a backhoe to get back there, even if that fence doesn't fall down when we jump it," Harley said.

Largot twirled her ever-present rope loop. "Yeah, I already had plague once this year.”

"Let's go home," I whined.

"Let's at least soap his windows." Cathy came up with two bars of Ivory.

We looked at her.

"What? They’re for emergencies." Cathy grinned.

I was painfully rising to go call a taxi when the living room window right by my head slid open and the curtain got pulled back. We all sank into the shadows. I held my breath.

George's voice rose over
The Girl from Ipenima
. "Sorry this wasn't open. The neighbors really hate Jeeves's barking."

Jeeves, sniffing at the window frame inches from my head, barked shrilly.

"Quiet, Jeeves," George said.

"Yes, bit stuffy in here," A familiar fruity British voice said. "George, I have a question."

I poked Harley's arm, mouthing, "
Yvette!"
and pointing frantically.

"Feel that hot, dry wind?" George oozed. "Those Santa Anas will dry you up like a prune in this city. And with all that brush fire smoke in the air, your skin will suffer and peel. But this body butter is just delectable. Formulated with fig paste, guacamole and a secret ingredient that could change the world.”

I could imagine George smoothing his bald pate with the twinkling pinky ring.

"Octopus urine," he breathed.

In the light from the street lamp, Cathy's and Largot's eyes were popping, their face jewelry twinkling, their hands slapping their knees as they held back laughter.

George went on, "We don't want those nasty old free radicals making liver spots on your delicate skin. My, my. Which is just … sort of … magical. Translucent. Like … mermaid skin."

I cringed at the oily change in his voice. Largot's rope landed on my shoulders. I squeaked and grabbed it away from her.

Yvette said peevishly, "No one ever said I needed moisturizer before.”

Jeeves barked at the window again and footsteps approached the window. George's nose and glasses touched the screen, and we plastered ourselves to the wall and the fence.

"Look, Jeeves. No cats. Now settle down," he said.

"Do I look that dry?" Yvette whined.

Canine sniffing recommenced at the screen as George said. "It's not you, dear. It's the harsh weather, the sun, the smoke. It's so hard on fair people. And this one is the only cream you'll ever need. Anti-wrinkle, anti-aging, anti-freckles, anti-skin cancer guaranteed for just twenty-four dollars. Heck, I think this one's even anti-bankruptcy and anti-divorce. Ha, ha. Leave it to Alice Fay Cosmetics. We have normal/dry, combination/oily, or sunscreen. Let's see which one you need. If I may?"

A smarmy pause. Then, in a husky voice: "Wow. You don't seem to be dry or oily."

Harley started shaking and Largot and Cathy did barf mimes. Cathy produced a candy bar and her wrapper rustled. Jeeves barked.

"Bad boy, Jeeves. Excuse me." Steps approached us, then retreated. Sniffing stopped. A door closed.

Yvette said, "Really, I—"

George resumed, "Sorry about the dog. Now, for your blemishes, there's the Alice Fay Midlife Derma-Bliss Set. Believe me, those tiny, adorable puffs around your eyes will disappear like magic with Alice Fay Eye-Firming Cream."

Harley rolled around in the dirt holding her sides, about to explode.

George went on, "I'd never pressure you, but there's a special this month. Buy two, get one free for your friend who couldn't come. Wish I could have met her."

In hopes of a threesome? My stomach turned.

"Well …" Yvette said.

"Listen, I'll make it half price. Whatever you want. You're my last customer," he said. "Don't tell my exes, but I'm about to inherit a bundle from a dying uncle. This was his ring. So I’m packing up shop here. This all goes back to Alice Fay tomorrow. Except what you choose tonight.”

Largot's cell phone chirped.

My heart seized up and Cathy levitated half a foot off the ground as Largot punched at the thing. The dog went nuts deep inside the house.

"My neighbors wander around for cell phone reception," George said smoothly, closing the window down to a few inches.

We craned our ears.

But Yvette spoke up. "Listen, George, I didn't come here for creams. I came about Rhonda. A
paranormal
romance writer who's barely been published. Isn't it odd that she suddenly claims to have written a bestselling book in a different genre? Tell me. Is there any way she could have just pretended to write that manuscript while somehow … well … procuring it from someone else? Some retired group member, say?"

My mouth fell open. The night got quiet with the long pause inside. I was going to kill George for that pause.

Finally, he spoke. "But why would she do that? And how? We were with her every step of the way, at least since she joined our group last winter." Then doubt crept into his voice. "Unless she's a damned good actress and she's taking fancy computer lessons, but I can't really … Of course, if she got the bare bones of the book from another writers' group, and we helped her buff it up, maybe, but … No, she's not clever enough for that."

Not clever? Me? Harley was nodding emphatic agreement with George, the streetlight gleaming in her wild eyes, pointing at me, just daring me to burst out screaming. I reached out and clamped my hands around her neck.

George continued, "Now James can handle a computer, but he's just a pup writer. Unless they worked together somehow. Hmm. He does seem to have a little thing for—"

Yvette snapped. "No, he doesn't. She's not his type. Those … you know … they're probably
fake
.”

"You think?" he asked.

Oh, man. I'd boil them both in oil and feed them to Bing.

Cathy and Largot put hands over their mouths, Mount Vesuvius and Mount St. Helens, ready to blow.

"Wait." Yvette sounded hopeful. "Had they known each other before you met them? Could they be working together? Or could it have been done without hacking? By Rhonda alone, taking hard copies from …"

"Well, maybe." George's voice had gotten too silky. He was a dead man when I saw him next. "You don't think someone could have plagiarized the book from
her
, like she says?"

"Not bloody likely. I mean who—George, what are you doing?"

There was a long pause, and something crawled up my leg. I swatted it.