Authors: Jana DeLeon
I waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ve put that whole dinner thing way on the back burner. Maybe even off the stove.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, then,” Ally said.
I glanced at Gertie, who barely shook her head. Crap. Ally had an appointment with her insurance adjuster this evening, and I’d hoped I’d be gone before she got back. She was already worried about my safety and I knew if she found out about our plan, she’d try to talk me out of it. If I’d known about the outfit and the hair ratting, I might have let her.
I knew Gertie wanted me to lie so that Ally wouldn’t worry, and normally, I’d have no problem with that. But for the first time in my life, I couldn’t think of a single plausible explanation for this horror.
“I’m thinking of auditioning for
American Idol
?” I said.
Ally stared. “Try again.”
“I thought jogging in the heels would pump up my calves?”
“The truth. What are you up to?”
I sighed. “I’m going to the Swamp Bar to see if I can get the lowdown on your friendly neighbor.”
Ally’s eyes widened. “You can’t go to the Swamp Bar looking like that. You’ll cause a riot.”
Gertie perked up. “But if men are hot for her, they might talk.”
Ally shook her head. “The only sounds that will come from them is the cussing they’ll be doing while fighting. The Swamp Bar crowd is not an overly civilized bunch.”
Gertie frowned. “Maybe we should try a bigger pair of jeans…in case you need to run or something. You can’t really bend well in those.”
“If I have to run, I’d need to strip naked first. These shoes are a broken ankle waiting to happen. And if I ran with my boobs pushed up like this, they’d probably give me black eyes, not to mention that the straps wouldn’t hold very long.”
Ally gave me a critical up-and-down. “Where did you even get those clothes? I know you didn’t pick them out.”
“They were in the donation boxes at church for a charity drive we’re doing,” Gertie said. “We didn’t have time for a trek to New Orleans, and Walter doesn’t carry anything suitable, so I picked through some new arrivals.”
Ally nodded. “I thought I recognized those shoes and that top. They used to belong to Pansy, back in junior high. Aunt Celia must be cleaning out some of her old stuff. She probably didn’t want anyone at the Catholic church to see them, so she donated them at the Baptist church.”
No wonder. I glanced back at the mirror and cringed. Ally’s late cousin could have charitably been referred to as “easy.” Her run on married men had caused herself and others a ton of trouble, ultimately ending in her death.
“Maybe this is too much,” I said. It didn’t really bother me to wear a dead woman’s old clothes, but the limits on my physical ability did. “The last time we went to the Swamp Bar, we had to leave in a hurry. I’m at a serious disadvantage dressed like this. There’s not even a place to carry my pistol.”
Ally cocked her head to one side. “Well, there’s
one
place.”
“I’m not carrying my pistol in between my boobs.”
She shrugged. “Then there’s no other place. Look, I don’t want you to go at all, but I know you’re too stubborn to be talked out of it. If you insist on going and want to carry a weapon, which I’m all in favor of, then maybe you should switch to a skirt. It probably wouldn’t be comfortable, but at least you could strap it to the inside of your thigh.”
“Hmmm.” I looked at Gertie. “Did you happen to find a skirt when you were confiscating charitable donations?”
Gertie reached for the trash bag she’d hauled upstairs and dumped the entire thing onto my bed. “I think I grabbed a black one with that stretchy fabric. It might work.” She pawed through the pile of sleazy-wear and finally pulled something small and black out of it.
“Here it is,” Gertie said, looking triumphant.
I stared at the object in dismay. “That’s a headband.”
“Stop exaggerating,” Gertie said. “It’s a perfectly good skirt. Go put it on.”
I took one wobbly step in the heels and plopped down on the bed. The tight jeans sent me careening backward and two attempts to bend into a sitting position were met with failure. “I’m going to need some help here.”
Ally and Gertie each unbuckled a shoe and pulled them off. I unfastened the jeans and pushed at the waistband. After a minute or two, I’d gotten it worked down around my hips. I looked up at Ally and Gertie, who looked rather amused at my discomfort.
“Either start pulling or cut these off of me,” I said.
They both grabbed a pants leg and tugged, moving the jeans down maybe an inch.
“You’re going to have to work harder than that,” I said.
They both got a grip and pulled again, this time so hard they almost pulled me off the bed.
“Hold up,” I said. “This isn’t working.” I inched back onto the center of the bed and rolled over. “I’ll hold on to the other side of the bed so that I don’t move when you pull.”
“I think the scissors would be easier,” Gertie said.
“Or dynamite,” Ally agreed.
I reached over the side of the mattress and clutched the bed rails. “Just pull.”
I felt them grab the jeans again and this time they counted.
One. Two. Three.
It was a really good yank.
The jeans ripped down my legs like a magician performing a big reveal. A second later, I heard a crash, followed by a thud and a yell, then tumbling and another crash.
I jumped up from the bed and turned to see Ally staring out the bedroom door, one hand over her mouth. Gertie was in a heap in the hallway, the blue jeans completely covering her head. At the bottom of my stairs, Ida Belle used a newel post to pull herself upright.
I rushed out into the hallway and snatched the jeans from Gertie’s face, then scanned her for injuries.
“Is she all right?” Ally asked, leaning over beside me.
“I think she knocked herself out,” I said and started tapping her face with my fingers.
I heard stomping on the stairwell and a couple seconds later, a somewhat disheveled Ida Belle appeared on the landing. “What the hell is going on?”
“Gertie knocked herself out,” Ally explained.
Ida Belle, who was dressed in all black and wearing combat boots, stepped up beside me and peered down at Gertie. “Well, that’s what happens when you run around with blue jeans on your head.”
“She wasn’t doing it on purpose,” Ally said. “We were trying to get the jeans off of Fortune and we might have pulled a little too hard.”
Ida Belle shook her head. “Well, next time, check behind you first. Being knocked down a flight of stairs is never on my list of things to do.” She stalked off into the bathroom and came back with a cup of water that she promptly tossed into Gertie’s face.
Gertie bolted upright, sputtering and sending water droplets spraying. “What happened?”
Ida Belle stared down at her, hands on her hips. “You knocked me down the stairs, you old coot.”
Gertie noticed the cup in Ida Belle’s hand and glared. “Afraid you’re going to break a hip, Methuselah?”
“No. But I might have torn a perfectly good shirt.”
I held up a hand. “We do not have time for a senior citizen insult fight.”
Ida Belle looked me up and down. “Do you plan on putting on pants before we go to the Swamp Bar?”
I realized I was standing there in a hooker top and my underwear. “I’m wearing a skirt, actually.”
“Whatever,” Ida Belle said. “Just put on something or you’ll stand out even more than you already do. Underwear Night is Friday.”
I blanched and headed back into my bedroom to grab the skirt. The words “Underwear Night” and “Swamp Bar” did not belong in the same sentence together. I found myself hoping the underwear part was for the ladies only. Otherwise, good God, the horror.
I pulled on the skirt and took a look in the mirror. It wasn’t quite as small as a headband, but if I bent over, someone would see my weapon. The pistol, that is. I contemplated digging through the clothes pile for something else, but if the clothes had been part of Pansy’s junior high wardrobe, the chances of my locating better coverage were slim to none. At least I could run in the skirt.
Ida Belle and Ally had gotten Gertie into a standing position, and I sat down on the edge of the bed to buckle myself back into the death shoes.
“You’re late,” Gertie said. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waxing that car again.”
Ida Belle’s Corvette was a source of contention between Ida Belle and most everyone who’d ever gotten in the way of what she considered her best relationship. After my disastrous trash bag ride, I would be the first to admit that the thought of the Vette did not inspire good feelings. But we had already decided that speed might be a necessity if things went south, which put Gertie’s ancient Cadillac and my Jeep out of the running and left Ida Belle’s Corvette as my ride for the evening.
“I sold the Corvette.”
“What?” “No way!” “Seriously?”
We all spoke at once, and I bolted up from the bed, grabbing on to Ally as my feet threatened to fall out of my shoes. “When did this happen?” I asked.
“Yesterday,” Ida Belle said. She scanned our faces. “What? I’ve been saying I was going to sell the car. I thought you’d all be happy?”
Gertie shot me an apprehensive look. “I guess I never figured you’d really do it.”
Ida Belle shrugged. “It was a great car, but I didn’t find it exciting any more. It was time to try something new.”
An uneasy feeling ran through me. Ida Belle was dangerous enough in the Corvette. The thought of her navigating a new vehicle on the narrow, curvy road to the Swamp Bar, especially if high speeds were required, didn’t leave me with a good visual.
“So what did you replace it with?” I asked, already sure I wasn’t going to like the answer.
Ida Belle grinned. “A motorcycle.”
Chapter Ten
Gertie’s jaw dropped and Ally’s hand flew up to cover her mouth.
“You’re joking,” I said.
Ida Belle gave me a dirty look. “No, I’m not joking. What? You think I can’t handle a motorcycle? I’ll have you know I was a pretty good off-road rider in my day.”
I immediately saw two problems with her last statement. One, we were supposed to be
on
the road. And two, “in my day” was not something that yielded confidence when the woman making the statement was as old as the dirt she used to ride on.
“You’re supposed to be giving me a lift to the Swamp Bar, remember?”
“Of course I remember. I’m not senile. Are you telling me you’re scared of motorcycles?”
I shook my head. “It’s not the motorcycle that concerns me.”
“You need a way in and out of the Swamp Bar. If things go south, a motorcycle is the best bet for speed and maneuverability.”
It wasn’t that I disagreed with her, exactly. But the number of things I could see going wrong with this situation was so large that I couldn’t even wrap my mind around it.
“Bottom line,” Ida Belle said. “It’s either my motorcycle, Gertie’s Cadillac, or your Jeep.”
“You could use my car,” Ally said.
“You’re a nice girl to even offer,” Ida Belle said, “but I don’t want a Ford Escort to be the thing I’m depending on to get me to safety.”
“What about my boat?” Ally suggested.
I perked up. The Swamp Bar sat right on the bayou. A boat would be a much better option than playing Evel Knievel with Ida Belle.
Gertie shook her head. “As much as I hate to say it, a boat won’t work. Walter said the dock at the Swamp Bar is being rebuilt, and you’d never make it up the bank walking.”
“Especially in those shoes,” Ally agreed. “Those heels would sink down into the mud and it would harden around them like concrete. They’d probably have to rebuild the dock right on top of you.”
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll take the motorcycle.”
I grabbed my nine-millimeter and a thigh strap from my nightstand and waved them out of my room. “Let’s get this over with.”
###
If I didn’t need therapy before I got on the motorcycle, I was pretty sure I needed it now. I don’t know what I’d expected—maybe a Harley—but what sat in my driveway was a dual-sport bike. One of those that could be ridden on or off road. Given that the road was the only solid piece of ground running to and from the Swamp Bar, I found the off-road option a little more than disconcerting.
Then the real fun began.
Ida Belle handed me a helmet that I think I’d seen in a black-and-white movie the week before. “No visor?” I asked.
“You’re sitting behind me,” Ida Belle said. “That will be fine.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I grabbed the straps and placed the helmet on top of my hair. It took me pulling and Gertie and Ally pushing to get the helmet down far enough to buckle, but no way was I riding without one. This one may have come over on Noah’s Ark, but it was still better than nothing. I shuddered to think what my hair would look like when we got to the bar. Probably like one of those Albert Einstein posters. Once the helmet was in place, I used Gertie and Ally as balancing posts and swung a high-heeled leg over the seat, then they arranged the toes of my shoes on the foot pegs.