Zipping
into the dress, I was uncomfortably aware of how long it had been since my legs
and armpits had last encountered a razor. I checked the gown’s price tag and
sucked in my breath. Originally $3,600, a steal at $390. Feeling unworthy of
the dress, I emerged from the dressing room and modeled for Magenta.
He
cocked his head to one side, considering. “Too big,” he said finally. “I don’t
have a lot in your size, munchkin. I have to stock the big sizes because my
clientele—”
“Drag
queens?”
“Drag
queens and straight guys who like to prance around wearing sparkly stuff in the
privacy of their homes. They need the big sizes. Big, bigger, biggest. Let’s
try black—it’s a little clichéd, but it should be dynamite with your
blond hair.”
I
tried on a shimmering black silk Valentino with a bowed-out back.
“Not
bad,” Magenta said. “Turn around. Ooh, yummy! Maybe we should test-drive it on
Labeck.” He cocked his head and eyed my reflection in the pier glass mirror.
“So, have you and the Bonaparte—” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Bonaparte?”
“Didn’t
he tell you?” Magenta chuckled as he adjusted the back of the dress. “Bonaparte
Labeck, that’s his real name. He’s Quebecois-Canadian, born up in one of those
schizo border towns where everyone grows up speaking French out of one side of
their mouths and New England out of the other. He got drunk one night after he
broke up with his girlfriend and told me the whole story. I’m a fellow hoser,
darlin’—from Saskatoon originally. My driver’s license name is Howard
Pfluge. Well, obviously you can see why I prefer
Magenta.
I crossed over
at North Dakota one year and never bothered to go back. I’m an illegal, a
snowback, a fugitive from justice. When I got to Milwaukee, I met Boney. He let
me crash at his place while I looked for an apartment. I was hoping something
interesting might develop between us, he
is
such a smoldering hunk of Y
chromosomes, but unfortunately he’s as straight as a Nebraska highway.”
I
checked myself out in the mirror. Going without meals for the past few days had
given my face some interesting new hollows. “If I had any guts I’d give myself
up right now,” I said. “This whole charade is going to blow up in our faces.
You and Labeck will be arrested for aiding a fugitive. Maybe even deported.”
“Negative
thinking gives you frown marks, babycakes, so just stop. Let’s focus on more
important stuff. Such as, how is the Bonaparte in the sack?” He handed me a
silver gown made of stretchy, beaded fabric. Vera Wang.
“He
snores.”
“A-a-nd?”
“There
is no
and.
” My face flared as red as the Gaultier gown.
“But you’d
like
there to be some
and
happening, wouldn’t you? Don’t fib to your
Auntie Magenta.”
I turned my back
to let Magenta unzip the black dress. “All right, busted. The guy is so hot he
sizzles.”
“Preachin’ to the
choir, sweetikins.”
I stepped out of
the dress. “When he first kidnapped me—”
“
Rescued
you.”
“Semantics.
Anyway, I thought he was a rapist-serial killer.”
Magenta gave a
bark of laughter.
“But he turned
out to be a perfect gentleman. He’s never touched me. The first night I stayed
at his place, he slept on the sofa, and last night—well, I couldn’t let
him sleep there again, so I told him I’d take the sofa. But he said it was
stupid not to share the bed, since we were rational adults who’d established a
relationship of trust—”
“Blah, blah,
blah. I’m disappointed in Boney. There’s a time and place to be a Boy Scout,
and it’s not when you and a beautiful woman are in the same bed.”
“No, he’s right.
You should know a person before jumping in the sack with him. I don’t know the
first thing about Labeck. I didn’t even know his real name until—”
“Listen to
yourself! The two of you make me want to scream. You’re like sixth-graders
throwing spitballs at each other, both of you afraid to make the first
move.”
He stepped into
the dressing room with me and helped shoehorn me into the silver dress. “Know
what I think, Mazie? I think you’re head over heels for the guy.”
“I think
you’ve
sniffed too much hair spray.”
“And he’s got it
bad for you.”
“Magenta, are you
bilingual? Because that’s
merde
!”
But secretly I
hoped Magenta was right. I remembered how sweet it had been waking up this
morning to discover Ben’s arms wrapped around me. I’d felt incredibly safe,
protected, even cherished. I’d lain there drowsily, enjoying his warmth, softly
stroking the hair on his forearms as he slept. That is, until bad girl thoughts
began seeping in, and I started thinking about how it would feel to wake Ben up
with a kiss and see where things went from there.
But I hadn’t
acted on that impulse. I’d slipped out of bed and dressed, giving myself a
mental pat on the back for resisting temptation. Once Labeck was up, he’d
barely looked at me, just grabbed a Pop-Tart for breakfast and headed out the
door.
“I have to talk
to my lawyer,” he’d explained, probably glad to have an excuse to get away from
me.
Meanwhile, I’d
stayed hidden in the apartment, recuperating from my near-death experiences and
jumping every time I heard a noise. Finally, late in the afternoon, Magenta had
arrived bearing a disguise for me. Camouflaged in a wig and oversized jacket as
Riff Raff, the
Rocky Horror
caretaker, I’d been able to walk the few
blocks to Magenta’s Brady Street shop virtually unnoticed.
Magenta
had put the
Closed
sign on his front door so no one would disturb us
while he worked his voodoo. Although this was ordinarily his busiest time of
day, he’d sacrificed his profits so he could turn me into the kind of
femme
fatale
who could waltz past security without being recognized. The bad guys
would be looking for a singed-around-the-edges woman in a baseball jersey, not
a glamorpuss in a designer gown. You
shall
go to the ball, Cinderella.
I
finally wriggled into the silver number. “Too tight,” I said, emerging from the
dressing room to check myself out in the three-way mirror. “And too low cut.”
Magenta
hooted with laughter. “No such thing, darling. It’s perfect. You’ll knock
Labeck’s socks off.”
He tugged the
neckline still lower. “And hopefully, the rest of his clothes too.”
Escape tip #30:
Blondes really do have more fun.
It was nearly ten
that evening before we left Magenta’s shop. I slipped into the godawful Riff
Raff costume again and we walked back to Labeck’s place. Magenta gave a
complicated series of raps, the secret code he and Labeck had arranged, the
idiots.
Labeck opened the
door.
Magenta thrust
the bright purple shopping bags into his arms. “Handle with care—pricey
gear inside. Mazie, show him your hair.”
I pulled off the
Riff Raff wig.
“So? What do you
think?” Magenta put his hands on his hips, blatantly fishing for compliments.
“Nice. I like
it.” Labeck tucked a strand of my newly bleached hair behind my ear. Magenta
had trimmed it to even out the sides and now I didn’t feel so lopsided. I
wished Labeck wouldn’t stand so close. He pulsed male pheromones the way some
men gave off body odor. “But I liked you as a brunette, too,” Labeck added.
“Thanks for
everything, Magenta.” Standing on tiptoes, I kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a
prince.”
“Or princess.” He
bent and whispered in my ear. “Go for it, baby.”
Howard Magenta
Pfluge, part pimp, part yenta.
The men started
going over details of the plan, actually using words like
Zero hour minus
twenty
and
operatives.
I just rolled my eyes and headed for the
bathroom. Seeing a blond person in the mirror gave me a jolt, and for a split second
I thought I’d walked in on someone else. Being blond was going to take some
getting used to, but I thought I was going to like it. For one thing, I now
could wear colors brunettes couldn’t. Magenta had done a trial run on my
makeup, too, slathering on a creamy foundation that concealed most of my
scratches and bruises, although he’d had a hard time covering over the burn
mark, which today flared angry maroon.
A centipede
crawled out of the drain. I gave a shriek, then realized that one of my false eyelashes
had fallen into the sink.
There was a light
rap on the door. “Mazie? You okay?” called Labeck.
“False alarm.”
“Want your
stuff?” The door opened a crack. Magenta’s shopping bags appeared, attached to
Labeck’s oversized hands.
I took them. “Is
he gone?”
“Yeah.”
I sighed in
relief.
“You don’t like
him?”
“Of course I like
him. I love him! He’s a great guy. And he does a terrific manicure. But four
straight hours with Magenta is—”
“Like being in a
bar where the only thing on the jukebox is Cher?”
I’d been thinking
it was like being slowly strangled with a feather boa, but the Cher image
worked, too. I untied one of the bags and delved into the tissue paper. I’m a
sucker for clothes wrapped in tissue paper. Even K-Mart footsy socks look
elegant swaddled in layers of white tissue. I pulled the brassiere out of its
tissue. Magenta had ordered me to wear it under the gown. It was long-line,
like a bustier, the kind that squishes your waist and lifts your boobs so they
look like pears served up on a platter. It was champagne-colored and lacey and
hooked up the back. Since there hadn’t been time to try it on in the shop, I
decided I might as well do it now, in case it had to be exchanged for a smaller
size tomorrow.
Stripping off the
T-shirt I’d borrowed from Labeck, gritting my teeth, I embraced the iron
maiden. It was the first time in days my charlies had been restrained and they
hated it. The tiny hooks, located in the most inaccessible parts of my spine,
were murder. Having one hand bundled in bandages didn’t make it any easier; it
was like trying to crochet a doily wearing an oven mitt.
“Need some help?”
Labeck called from the other side of the door.
“No.”
“You’re
handicapped. You probably need a personal assistant.”
I blew out a
breath, knowing this was a bad idea. “Okay. But keep your eyes closed.”
“Sure. I’m
legally blind.”
Labeck came in,
one hand held ostentatiously over his eyes, and groped around. “What do I need
to do?”
“Fasten hooks.”
“I’ve never
fastened. I’ve always unfastened.”
“I’ll bet.”
I felt his hands
at my back. They were big, warm, and surprisingly deft with the tiny hooks.
They moved to my waist. He hadn’t kept his eyes closed. They were wide open,
taking in my reflection. I flushed, embarrassed at my own sudden
voluptuousness. The bra created instant cleavage. I could have been a
Victoria’s Secret model. Third string, of course—one of the girls who
does the clearance sale catalog, but still, this long-line thing was not just a
waist-whittler; it was an ego-booster.
“I don’t think I
can breathe,” Labeck choked out, eyes smoking.
“Oh, please. Try
wearing the stupid thing.”
His hands splayed
along my ribs. “What’s this stiff stuff here?”
“Boning.”
“Boning?”
His eyebrows zinged upward; I could see him in the dresser mirror. He
laughed. He had a great laugh. Deep, booming, contagious, and it made him
look—deceptively, of course—helpless.
Boning.
I
started laughing, too. It made my constricted ribs hurt. Magenta was right; we
both possessed the maturity level of sixth-graders. Out in the hall, Muffin
began yapping.
Labeck put his
hands on my shoulders and turned me around until we were facing each other.
Oh, very bad
idea.
There wasn’t
going to be any hanky-panky, I reminded myself. It had been more than four
years since I’d stopped having hanky-panky with Kip Vonnerjohn, Mr. Priapism,
who was bonking everything but the vacuum cleaner. I didn’t think I even
remembered how to commit hanky-panky.
Labeck slid his
hands up and down my arms, which broke out in gooseflesh.
“
You’re incredible,” he murmured in
my ear, and the hairs inside my ear, hairs I didn’t even know I possessed,
stood up on tiptoes.
Then
I wriggled out of his grasp, pulled on oversized flannel pajamas, and went out
to sleep on the sofa.
That’s what I did
in my mind’s eye.
What I really did
was slide Labeck’s shirt off his body, run my hands over his chest, glide my
hands along the sculptured muscles of his back, caress the lovely big bumps of
his biceps, bring his face down to mine, and kiss him.
He
was a wonderful kisser. His lips were warm and full, and when he slid his
tongue into my mouth I lost every last ounce of resistance. I wanted him with
painful intensity; every fiber of my body ached with my need for him. We
staggered our way to his bedroom, shedding clothes. He kicked the door shut. I
knew it was to keep Muffin from interrupting, but there was something
thrillingly cavemanlike in the motion.