Veronique, who had been trying to hug herself as close as possible to Tom, looked up now and said, “The back window.”
“And the driver has a beard,” Alyson said, clinging to Tom’s other side like a lamprey.
Polly smiled at the Henches in her new dangerous way. “Thanks.” She looked at me. “I was thinking you’d want to get out of here before anyone inside knows what happened and calls the police.”
“Or my dad,” I said. “No reason not dying just to have to face him.”
“Exactly.”
I went and stood in front of Alyson, closer than I normally would. “I have a deal for you,” I told her. “If you don’t tell my father about this, I won’t tell your parents that you were the one who punched that guy last night at the Voodoo Lounge.”
“Not much of a bargain, Calamity. My dad thought it was cool when I told him you did it. So I don’t think he’ll mind if he hears I’m actually the cool one.”
Not working. Like a lightning bolt, I remembered another moment from our special time at the Voodoo Lounge the previous evening.
“I will also tell your parents about Miles.”
I saw a flicker of fear—yes!—on her face, but then it was gone and she went, “You don’t even know about Miles.”
“You’re seeing Miles Malone?” Tom asked, pulling his arm away from her. “I didn’t know he was out of prison yet. Or is he on probation?”
Merry Xmas, Jas, is what I thought. I wanted to dance and play and kiss Tom on the lips. Instead I kept my cool. I turned a steely gaze on Alyson. “So, do we have a deal?”
She could barely whisper her reply. “Yes.”
And it was a good thing I sealed it up right then because Polly’s phone started to ring. She answered it, frowned, said a few words, and handed it to me. “It’s the Thwarter.”
“Dad? Is everything okay?” My father hated to use the phone—another genius thing—which meant there was a real problem.
“Is that you, Jas? Is it really you? Talking?”
“I think that’s what I’m doing. What’s going on? Did something happen to Sherri!? Are Uncle Andy and Aunt Liz all right?”
“Don’t change the subject,” he barked.
“Um, okay. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“A man just called on Sherri!’s mobile apparatus and told us you’d been in a car wreck and were badly injured. Is this true?”
“No.”
“You haven’t been in an accident? You aren’t unconscious?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
But I almost did faint into unconsciousness when he said, “Oh, thank God. I was so—thank God,” in a voice that sounded like he was having trouble breathing.
That couldn’t be good. He might be the Thwarter but I didn’t want him to die or anything. I mean, he’s the only dad I have. And Sherri! would be really sad. I said, “Dad, I assure you that I am speaking to you right now. Unless you think I’ve been possessed by aliens, I am obviously fine.” I was trying to exhibit the wit and verve he loved so well to put his mind at ease and help him get his respiration back on track. It seemed to work.
He sort of snorted and said, “That does sound like you. Still, I would prefer to see you. Come back to the hotel now.”
“We were just planning to do that when you called. We’ll be there really soon unless—wait, Dad, what if the man who called you was psychic? And the accident just hasn’t happened yet?”
“That is not amusing, Jasmine. Although it does prove that you are fine. Tell Polly to drive adequately on the way back. And be sure to strap yourself in.”
That’s right, geniuses don’t use seat belts, they use straps. It’s like a whole parallel universe.
“Polly, drive adequately,” I instructed her as we got into the Pink Pearl. “I’d love to stay up front here with you kids but I must go strap myself in.”
“Do you know what she is talking about?” Polly asked Roxy.
“I think maybe she hit her head harder than we thought.”
Little Life Lesson 37: One man’s madness is another man’s genius.35
I could hear Polly up front on the CB spreading the word that Princess P was desperately seeking a white car and asking anyone who saw it to call her cell phone.
Stuck in the back, I ignored Alyson’s pouting and Veronique’s attempts to probe Tom for bruises and thought about my father’s call. Why would someone phone my dad and report that I had been in an accident? Exaggerating what had happened even? Was it the person who had driven the car, anticipating I’d be hurt more than I was?
Or was the point simply to get me in trouble?
I had to admit, it was kind of a tidy idea. One call to my father and I would most likely be grounded. Which would get me out of whoever’s hair I seemed to be tangled in. There was an elegance to it that I respected…even as I recognized Jack the Immature Jokester’s slimy fingerprints all over it.
Little Life Lesson 38: If you find yourself thinking, “His soul may be black as pitch but his logic is sound,” do this: Stop, Drop, and Roll. Stop what you’re thinking. Drop the pretense. And Roll right on to the admission that what you are admiring—still—is his cute butt and his eyes and his glazed doughnut–flavored lips, which have nothing to do with the quality of his brain.
And DO NOT think that maybe this means you can just have a physical relationship with him and without his shirt.
Polly exhibited admirable adequate driving on the way back to the hotel, and after my father had hugged me (!!!), he inspected every inch of me and, finding them all wanting in all the same ways he always did—“Stop fidgeting, Jasmine. Why are you making that face? Stand up straight”—he decided I was fine.
Little did he know.
When we parted in the lobby we had made sure Tom would escort Roxy directly to their room, without any stops to look for Ivan. The Evil Henches had gone to hang upside down by their talons or read aloud from Ritual Sacrifice for Dummies or do whatever they did for fun, so Polly and I were now on our own in my room. I decided to take a bath because not only had it been the longest day of my life involving one arrest, two near-death experiences, two makeovers, one underwear exposure, and a hug from the Thwarter, but I also felt a little grimy from my tumble behind the roller rink.
I stayed there for a long time, asking myself any questions I could think of that did not lead to thinking about Jack. This limited the possibilities pretty much to questions from ninth-grade earth science like, “Define igneous rock.”
When I got out and finished flossing my teeth, Polly was scanning the sheets of one of the queen-size beds for germs with her black light. She looked at me with horror as I pulled back the bedspread and got into the other bed.
“I haven’t checked that yet!” she said. “You don’t know what you’re sleeping on.”
“And I don’t care. It is bound to be less deadly than a speeding car.”
“But there could be microbes,” she complained. “Or hairs.”
“Oh, look, Howard Hughes is alive and well and living inside my best friend. I can’t tell you how much your company cheers me at times like these.” I turned off my bedside light. “Goodnight, P. Sweet dreams.”
“Are you going to sleep? Now?”
“I was giving it very thorough consideration. It’s after three AM.”
“Don’t you want to talk?”
“About what?” I asked into my pillow.
But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew. She wanted to talk about Tom.36
Ha! I had waited YEARS for this and she sprang it on me now, at three in the morning, when I was exhausted. No. She could wait for one night. In fact, it would be good for her.
Little Life Lesson 39: Never put off until tomorrow what you could do the night before because tomorrow you might have bigger problems. Like a madman pointing a gun at you.
Twenty-two
I dreamed about my mom that night. That’s not completely weird; I dream about h
er at least once a month, but this dream was sort of different from the normal ones.
Usually in my dreams she and I are taking walks somewhere and she’s giving me advice. But since our relationship ended when I was six, most of her advice is sort of basic like, “Don’t forget to brush your teeth, sweetie,” and “Wouldn’t you like to wear a barrette to keep your hair out of your eyes?” Polly says it’s not my mom talking to me from beyond the grave but my memories of her, grafted onto things in my own head I know but have forgotten or buried. Like one time in a dream she said, “Look for the car keys your father lost in his tennis shoes, which he hid in the back of his closet after Sherri! made him take a lesson last week.” And once I heard that, I remembered seeing him put them there.
But sometimes she says things that I don’t think can possibly be in my head. Like, “French fries are not a food group.” Or like the dream I had that night. Because at the end of the dream, she turned to me and said, “Look at the whole picture. Pay attention to what is there, not what you see.”
Um, sure, okay, Mom. Just as soon as I figure out WHAT THAT MEANS. Could you have thoughts in your head, even buried ones, that you did not understand?
Doubtful.
After the dream, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Polly was still paying a visit to Snoresville, USA,37 and I didn’t want to wake her by turning on the TV, so I decided to make a few notes and surf the Web.
I was surprised, when I logged on, to see that I had email. Everyone I usually emailed was with me in Vegas, and probably asleep. But even more of a surprise was the message.
* * *
To: Jasmine Callihan
From: J.R.
Subject:
Miss Callihan—
Are you Winnie Callihan’s daughter?
A friend
* * *
That, coming on top of my dream, was kind of freaky. If the past day had taught me nothing else, it was to be skeptical of “friends” sending notes. The right thing to do, probably, was not to write back at all, but this person knew my mom’s name, so I decided on something noncommittal.
* * *
To: J.R.
From: Jasmine Callihan
Subject:?
Dear Friend,
Who are you? Why should I answer your question?
JC
* * *
A minute after I sent it, my email chirped and I found this:
* * *
To: Jasmine Callihan
From: J.R.
Subject: You already have
* * *
And that was all. No text, nothing.
I was looking back at the email I’d sent to see how I could possibly have answered a question when Polly’s cell phone rang. Princess P went from snoring to answering it in two seconds flat.
“Princess P speaking,” she said, reaching for a pad and pen. She laughed. “No, I’m not a man,” she said, then got serious and listened. “Thank you so much, Captain. Yes, that would be great. I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped. I’ll leave right away.”
“You have a date?” I said. “I never figured you for the Captain in Every Port type.”
“Shut up. It’s about the car. The white car? The one that tried to kill you? One of my CB pals, Captain Doom, saw it when he was delivering flowers this morning, remembered my alert, and called.”
“No way. Where is it?”
“The Venetian parking lot, level eight. He said he wished he could stay but he was already behind schedule. He said he left a red carnation on the trunk so we’d be able to identify it.”
“How…nice of him,” I said. Where nice equals B-Movie Stalkerish. But this nuance was lost on Polly.
“He said he’s been wanting to meet me. He said he might stop by later if we’re around. Apparently there’s a pool going about who the driver of the Pink Pearl is, a hot chick or a gay man. Fifty percent think I’m a guy.”
“How’d they find out?”
“Funny.”
We got dressed, me once again wondering how on earth I ever manage to clothe myself when Polly isn’t breathing down my neck.38 I mean, helping me.
Polly looked me up and down. My final outfit was a blue T-shirt with puffy sleeves, the only skirt of mine she hadn’t shortened beyond decency, and my blue cowboy boots with the birds on them she’d altered for my date the day before.
“Is this okay?” I asked. “Or do I have to change some more times before going to the parking lot?”
“Haven’t I taught you anything? What you wear always matters. You should dress every moment like it could be your last.39 Now put on some mascara, pick a lip gloss, and we’re outtie.”
I wanted to call Roxy and Tom for reinforcements before we left, but Polly said, “Jas, it’s only ten AM on a Saturday. Let them sleep.”
“We are going to a place on the instructions of a man named Captain Doom.”
“So?”
“If I were planning to abduct someone, calling and telling them to go to the top floor of a free parking structure at ten AM on a Saturday morning and look for a red carnation would be just the thing I’d think of,” I pointed out.
“His license plate is ‘Puppy Luv.’”
“Oh, look who just got on the express elevator from marginally suspicious to EXTRA CREEPY.”
“Do the words just come out, or do you think about them first?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t go with your lip gloss, lovie.”
Polly dialed Tom and Roxy’s room. “Can you two come to the top floor of the parking structure right away? Otherwise I might have to strangle Jas.”
“You just try it. I have Designer Imposters perfume in my boots,” I told her.
“Come QUICK,” she said into the phone before hanging up.
Captain Doom wasn’t hanging around to serial-kill us, but the red carnation was there, and it certainly looked like he’d led us to the right white car. It had a scrape on the driver’s side in the front that had some cement block dust in it, and a fleur-de-lis sticker on the back window. It also had, unfortunately, tinted windows, which made it really hard to peer in to. I was doing yoga-style contortion moves to try to get a good look through the windshield when Roxy walked over and said, “It’s unlocked. Just try the door.”
“Is that legal?” I asked.
“From what I saw last night, it was supposed to be you scraped on the front of that car, not the wall,” Polly said. “I’d say that gives you legal standing. Besides, what crime could you be committing just by opening an unlocked door and looking inside?”
When I hesitated, Roxy took off the star-shaped pin she was wearing that said SHERIFF on the top and BUFFALO BILL’S WILD WEST SHOW! beneath it, and pinned it to my shirt. “There. Now you’re official.”
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
What I saw inside was truly shocking.
Twenty-three
Polly was the first one of us to regain speech. What she said was: “Jas, stand behind me. I think I’m going to faint.”
Followed by Roxy saying, “It—it’s everywhere. The entire interior is covered with it. Floor, seats, even the ceiling. I know this is Las Vegas and things get out of hand here, but it’s just so—”
“Purple,” Tom said now, shaking his head over his breakfast menu. “It was so incredibly purple.”
It was true. Every surface on the interior of the car had been covered in purple shag carpeting. Which was both hideous to behold and extra inconvenient. Shag carpeting meant no fingerprints. And since there was nothing in the car, no custom-made shirts or business card cases, at first I’d thought there was nothing to help us.
Look at the whole picture. Pay attention to what is there, not what you see, my mother’s voice in my head reminded me. And just as I was about to get snarky with it—PURPLE SHAG, MOM. THAT’S WHAT I SEE—I got what she was saying. Because I’d bee
n so busy looking for something, I hadn’t realized what I was looking at. Which was a supreme environment for trapping tiny pieces of evidence.
After that, I spent fifteen minutes quickly going over the car while Tom, Roxy, and Polly stood guard, and then we moved to the hotel coffee shop to eat brunch and plan our next move.
At least, everyone else was going to eat brunch. Delicious griddle cakes, savory bacon, fluffy omelets—these were not for the likes of Jas. No, although I hid it behind a Brave Face, a carefree laugh, a winning smile, and of course my normal savoir faire, I was in pain. Soul-searing pain.40
Because there could no longer be any doubt. The night before, when Alyson blurted that she’d seen a man with a beard driving, I had started to hope that maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe it had been a man with a beard, like Caftan Man. Maybe someone other than Jack had it in for me. Maybe Jack had no part in this at all.
I know. There’s a table for one waiting for me at the Fantasyland Diner.
Little Life Lesson 40: If you’re lucky enough to visit the Fantasyland Diner, try to stay as long as possible because their desserts are all no-calorie, and also, the real world sucks.
Naturally, the first thing I saw in the Purple People Maimer, trapped between the cushions and the seat belt of the backseat, was a square brown button. Just like the one on Jack’s blazer.41 And as if that weren’t enough, I found dark hairs like Jack’s on the headrest of the driver’s seat.
Bad Kitty Page 14