Snagged (2 page)

“Oh, I already asked the woman who does the hair for my father’s clients if she’d be interested, but she says she has no experience doing the backs of people’s heads.”

“OH, GOD!” Regan had always laughed with her oldest friend at some of the absurdities of growing up with a mortician father, a bond they would share until death did them part. When they were little and discovered “The Munsters” television show, where Herman, the father, worked at a funeral parlor, Regan and Maura had gone through a stage where they called their fathers Hermie. But their parents drew the line when the girls wanted to make telephone booths out of upright coffins.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please bring your seat backs to their upright and locked positions, stow away your tray tables, and make sure your seat belts are securely fastened. We’ll be landing at Miami International Airport in a few minutes.”

There is a God, Regan thought as she obediently complied, making sure that her carry-on bag, which weighed at least a ton, was completely tucked under the seat in front of her. If that thing went flying, Regan thought, someone would end up with whiplash. But if it could just be used to dislodge gum . . .

The plane swayed from side to side and finally landed with a thump, streamlining down the runway. Scattered applause and a wolf call from a college kid who’d enjoyed a few beers along the way resounded in the aircraft. With her long red fingernails, the bone-thin woman next to Regan, who Regan figured was probably in her early thirties, daintily plucked the pale-pink gob from her mouth, wrapped it in a tissue and proceeded to re-ruby her lips, powder her nose, and smilingly spritz herself with Jardin de Roses perfume that two seconds later assaulted the olfactory glands of everyone in a three-row radius.

“My boyfriend is picking me up,” she said with a smile to Regan. “He hates it when I chew gum.”

“Oh, really.” Regan made an attempt at a laugh that to her ears came out sounding incredibly fake.

“Yeah, but I get so nervous on planes, it makes me feel better. It also helps your ears pop, you know.” She fluffed her light-brown hair as she once again glanced at her pretty but tough face in the mirror of her compact. “My boyfriend has a really good job in real estate down here. So I’m gonna lay on the beach while he works. I can’t wait.”

“Sounds great.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Miami International Airport. Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete halt and the captain has turned off the seat-belt sign . . .”

Before the announcement was finished, the clicks of unfastening seat belts echoed up and down the aisles of the 747 as impatient passengers shifted in their seats and began to gather their belongings.

“Sir, please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete halt,” the flight attendant chirped in a cheerful but firm tone to a traveler already fumbling for his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. “Federal regulations require that you remain seated—”

“All right, all right,” the stout middle-aged man grunted as he snapped the compartment shut, his bowling bag now secure under his arm. As he reclaimed his seat, Regan gazed out the window at the hot tarmac, which from a distance looked as if it were hosting a jellyfish hootenanny. Squiggles moving up and down and bouncing back and forth similar to the kind you see right before you faint, Regan thought. It must be hot out there. A late-day swim and a jog on the beach sound pretty good to me. After sitting for over five hours, she was anxious to move and stretch.

Regan had a reservation at a hotel on Ocean Drive in the South Beach area of Miami, a section that had been renovated in the past five years and transformed into a pastel Art Deco wonderland, complete with trendy restaurants, hotels and sidewalk cafes right across from the beach, and great for people-watching. Modeling agencies had recently sprung up, as fashion photographers started to take advantage of the beautiful setting and weather.

Luke and Nora were staying a few miles away at the Watergreen, which would be filled with morticians who would be ready to boogie on Sunday afternoon in the Grand Ballroom.

“All the rooms at the Watergreen have been booked for over a year,” Maura had said.

“Are there that many morticians descending on Miami this weekend?” Regan had asked incredulously.

“No, but get this. There’s also a panty-hose convention coming to town.”

“It sounds like a weekend to load up on free samples.”

“Control top, thank you. Anyway, I made you a reservation at a hotel in South Beach. It’s funky and more fun anyway. It’s a few doors down from where my Uncle Richie lives—”

“How is he?” Regan interrupted. “Has he invented anything new lately? Those chunky earrings he sent me that held a ’big surprise’ sure did. They started tinkling ’You Light Up My Life’ when I was out on a date. Needless to say, I never heard from the guy again.”

“He gave me the same pair. Luckily I was already engaged. Anyway, now Uncle Richie says he’s really outdone himself, inventing a run-proof, snag-proof panty hose.”

“If he did, it would be the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

“No kidding. Right now he’s in the process of letting all the big hosiery companies know about it. I think he wants to start a bidding war.”

“Well, if they really are unsnaggable, I’m sure the big panty-hose companies will be after them in one way or another. The last thing they want on the market is panty hose that will last more than thirty seconds.”

“You’re right, Regan. And right now he’s also trying to save the Fourth Quarter, that’s the old folks’ place where he lives, from being bought out. He moved there after Aunt Birdie died. They all have their own apartments, but there’s a community room where they socialize. Richie needs a lot of money by Monday, when their option on the place expires. That real estate on Ocean Drive has gotten really valuable. Naturally there’s a lot of people who want to get in on it, but that means squeezing out the older people who’ve been there forever but can’t keep up with the higher taxes. So with his new invention and the panty-hose people being around this weekend, God knows what he’ll be up to.”

Regan waited until the plane emptied before getting up, preferring the seated position to the hunched-over variety that people were forced into while waiting for the people jamming the aisles to start filing out.

Everyone in a rush to go stand around the baggage-claim area. Regan’s seatmate had said a hurried “Have a nice time,” as she charged up the aisle on what Regan assumed were the wings of love. I guess if you have a hot date meeting you, Regan thought, there is more of an incentive to cut people off on your way out. But when the next person you’ll end up conversing with is most likely a taxi driver in a bad mood, what’s the hurry?

Down at the baggage carousel Regan stood for a good eight minutes before a buzzer went off and a red light started flashing, an oddly celebratory way to announce the slow arrival of everyone’s goodies. The conveyor started to move and Regan watched as one suitcase after another was spit out of the chute, slid down the ramp before crashing into the wall, and silently rode on as each piece waited to be claimed, sometimes being chased by an owner not fast enough to grab it before it disappeared around the bend.

Regan shifted impatiently as baby seats, cardboard boxes, and suitcases tied together with twine, masking tape, and what Regan assumed was a prayer, all made an entrance. After what seemed like an eternity, her big blue-gray suitcase finally showed up. Regan broke into a big smile and realized that she must have looked as if she were greeting a lover as she lunged forward, throwing her arms around it, pulling it close to get it off the conveyor belt and over the hump. That accomplished, she swiftly retrieved her garment bag with one arm and wheeled her suitcase toward the exit with the other. Wheels on the bottom of suitcases were a great invention, Regan thought, except when they behave like the wheels on your average shopping cart, stopping dead or locking themselves in a position where the only thing they will do is make a never-ending right turn. Regan sometimes wondered if she’d ever get a decent shopping cart on the first yank from the bunch corralled together in the entrance to her local supermarket.

Outside the terminal the Miami air was hot and sticky. Regan felt her energy drain and longed to be in her hotel room already, relaxing with a cool drink. As her suitcase squeaked, she made her way over to the taxi stand and was surprised to find her seatmate at the head of the long line. Where’s lover boy? Regan thought.

Their eyes met. Her fellow passenger shouted, “I’m going to the South Beach area. Where are you headed?”

“South Beach,” Regan yelled back as the people in front of her glared.

“Wanna ride together?”

Regan debated fiercely. Did she want to share a cab? They hadn’t even talked much on the plane. But the line was long.

“My boyfriend’s paying.”

That does it, Regan thought, and stumbling over the litter of suitcases on the sidewalk, hurried to the waiting cab.

As the driver piled the luggage in the trunk, Regan listened in awe to the instructions he was receiving.

“Put the blue one on the bottom. Don’t crush the green one, it’s got all my toiletries. Lay the garment bag on top. Don’t get it too near that greasy tire. You know, if you’re gonna be picking people up at the airport, you really should clean out your trunk.”

The scrawny leather-skinned driver reminded Regan of Popeye. Regan thought she saw him push the garment bag toward the offensive tire the instant before he slammed the trunk shut.

The luggage director, her voice sounding satisfied, said, “Okey-doke. Let’s get on our way.” She turned to Regan and extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Nadine Berry.”

“Regan Reilly. This is really nice of you. That line doesn’t look like it’s moving too fast.”

’That’s because we’re holding it up,” the cabbie snarled. “Get in.”

The interior of the cab offered an unlovely combination of dried perspiration and smoke, which was made worse by the Christmas-tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the mirror.

“Turn on the air conditioner,” Nadine ordered.

“It’s broken,” the driver said as the car lurched forward and a lit cigarette magically appeared between his lips.

“Put that out,” Nadine commanded, “or we’ll have to take a different cab.”

“I should be so lucky,” the Popeye look-alike muttered as he squashed the butt in the ashtray.

Nadine turned to Regan. “If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s cigarette smoke. A terrible habit.” She opened her bag and pulled out her gum. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. I thought your boyfriend was picking you up.”

“He couldn’t. You know how I told you he works in a real estate office. There’s a meeting of the big shots at five-thirty and they made him stay to answer the phones. Where are you staying anyhow?”

“The Ocean View on Ocean Drive.”

“Oh, that’s right near the old folks’ home!” Nadine exclaimed and then lowered her voice. “Everyone at Joey’s office is sitting on pins and needles. An option expires on that home Monday, and there’s a lot of money at stake.”

Oh, brother, Regan thought. That’s got to be Richie’s place. The poor guy.

It took forty minutes to get to the Ocean View. By the time they arrived, Regan had heard Nadine’s autobiography. Nadine was twenty-seven, sold stereos in a discount store outside of Los Angeles, and had met Joey at a Club Med vacation in Hawaii. She had been jetting back and forth to visit him for nearly six months. “He pays for every other trip,” she confided. “It’s easier for me to come here because he’s been working so much on weekends.”

As the cab neared the Ocean View, Nadine said, “What about you?”

Regan had to make it quick. “I live in Los Angeles. I’m here to be in a friend’s wedding this weekend.”

“Oh, I’ve been a bridesmaid so many times. All those dresses you never wear again, but every time they promise you’ll get a lot of use out of them. I say yeah, sure, on Halloween. By the way, what do you do?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

Nadine’s eyes and mouth became perfect circles. “That sounds really interesting. Do you pack a gun?”

“I’m licensed to carry one but I never bring it on a trip like this.”

“Do you ever get in real danger?”

“Sometimes,” Regan laughed.

“Listen, Joey’s apartment is only a few blocks from here. I’ll be on the beach when he’s at work. Maybe we can get together if you have any free time.”

“Great,” Regan said with a heartiness she hoped didn’t sound forced. “Can’t I help you pay for this?”

Nadine waved her hand. “Not at all. Joey’s the greatest. Once I set foot in Miami, he tells me to put away my wallet.”

The cab stopped in front of a pale-purple hotel with an outdoor cafe. In a few minutes I’ll be in air-conditioning and drinking something cold, Regan thought.

B
ARNEY FREIZE WAITED nervously in the plush reception room of the Calla-Lily Hosiery Company. Across the wall a poster-sized edition of the ad that had appeared in all the fashion magazines showed a pair of exquisite legs clad in shimmering black panty hose. The copy began: “The Calla-Lily legs are in bloom again.”

Freize knew that Calla-Lily hosiery enjoyed the position of being the number-one choice of well-shod women in America and abroad. Those women didn’t mind paying through the nose to have their legs look good.

Barney studied the ad. ’The Birdie stockings look better than them,” he muttered. He pulled up his own socks and brushed the lint off his Hush Puppies. “Yup, if I were a dame, I’d be happy to get my hands on a pair of the Birdie specials.” He looked up quickly. I’ve got to stop talking to myself out loud, he thought. They’ll have me committed just like they did Cousin Vince. Now there was one crazy cat.

The Muzak piped in from a seemingly invisible speaker started to play “Luck, Be a Lady Tonight.” Barney found himelf humming. Talk about luck, he thought. Whatever possessed him to take a walk past the old panty-hose factory that night he didn’t know. He’d worked there in the maintenance department for years, until nine months ago, when they finally had to shut the place down. Business wasn’t good enough. The owners never realized that specializing in panty hose for clerics just might be a slightly outdated idea. And now the place was going to be demolished.