by A. J. Lape
Good question. “I dunno,” I shrugged. But I knew it didn’t include empty-headed.
“You’re his best friend, and you don’t know?” she scoffed with laughter.
Yankee’s smug sarcasm struck a nerve. I knew everything about Dylan’s likes and habits. His favorite ice cream, what he liked on his pizza, his secret stash of cash in his car, and even where he kept his journals that I never read. But his particular tastes in females we’d never discussed. Not because he’d rebuff the conversation; maybe because I didn’t want to know the answer.
“I’ll tell you,” Sydney rasped out, reaching over to tweak my nose. “Tall, blonde, knock-out body, funny, a little quirky,” she laughed, “with a face that could stop traffic.”
Yankee threw her hand over her chest, gasping, “He likes Mary Cartwright?” Heck, we all knew Sydney wasn’t referring to Mary Cartwright. She merely played nice trying to throw Yankee off the trail and onto me. “You almost sound like you’re talking about Darcy,” Yankee said, laughing even harder. “Obviously, that isn’t true.”
My hand begged to deck her.
“You have no class, Yankee,” Sydney seethed.
“You’re just mad my house is bigger than yours,” she said.
Sydney tipped her head in concession. “Yours is bigger, but mine doesn’t look like a pink fish bowl that a Christmas tree threw up on.” I bit back laughter. Sydney 1, Yankee 0. The Knobleckers’ home had a pinky glow with lawn ornaments of dolphins, jellyfish, and an octopus on steroids. Plus, their place seemed overly–lit. You strolled past it at night, and it might as well have been the International Space Station.
Yankee stiffened so quickly she toppled my chair. “You take that back,” she fumed.
“I don’t take back the truth. Besides,” Sydney’s voice rasped, “my father paid for his. It wasn’t a lucky windfall at the state of Louisiana’s expense.” Me-owch, I laughed. Sydney 2, Yankee 0. “And if you insult my sister again, I’ll pluck out both your eyes and rip out your bottled blonde hair. You look like a freaking albino wench, Yankee. And as much as you try, you’re never going to morph your second-rate face into Darcy’s.”
Game over: Sydney 3, Yankee 0.
It all happened so fast that it felt like I’d imagined it.
We had a honest-to-goodness catfight. Yankee sprang for Sydney who already stood on both feet, lunging straight for Yankee’s face. I somehow wrenched my way between the two who shoved, scratched, and shouted things so obscenely profane I needed an urban dictionary to keep up. Getting jostled around in the process, I caught the southpaw of Yankee’s blood-red nails, a heavy-handed slap from Sydney, and quickly deduced the process might leave a mark.
My iced tea got knocked over, and I stumbled backwards with one foot in the shallow end of the pool. I felt positive we were going to drown one another until someone wedged themselves in the middle and jerked Yankee out by her hair. She kicked and screamed she was going to kill the beeyotch. As the fighting slowly stopped, I took a deep breath, feeling like I’d just climbed the pyramids in South America. Yesterday, I would’ve sworn I was in decent shape, but who would’ve thought all your energy would be suspended in less than two minutes of a fight? Once my breathing regulated, I glanced up into Kyd’s shocked, blushing red, and totally mortified face.
“I’m sorry, ladies!” he barked. “Yankee is out of line!” Kyd wore baby blue board shorts, ready for swimming. My guess was he felt that his invitation—although he’d never had one—got permanently rescinded.
Yankee wore a sick, sadistic pleasure on her face, and frankly, the left side of her head appeared balding. “You’re sorry?” she screamed exasperated. “Sydney insulted us! If anyone was out of line, it was her!”
Kyd gritted his teeth, swiping a hand through his sandy blond hair. “I’m sure you provoked it, and you probably destroyed any chance you’d ever had of dating Dylan.”
All three of us glanced to Sydney.
Whatever Sydney said usually flew. Sydney smiled broadly in my direction giving me an over-my-dead-body look. But, then again, she did love her brother. If Dylan all of a sudden decided to tango with Yankee, my guess was Sydney would provide the rubber stamp.
“Should my brother want it,” she said diplomatically, “he shall have it. But let me make myself clear.” She turned to me; her black eyes softened into a deep hypnotic, shade of gray. “My brother wants that in-your-face kind of love. The kind you can’t control. The kind you don’t know whether to be embarrassed of or envious of. My brother wants his world to be rocked or simply,” she paused, “he’d rather not.” She bore a hardened gaze into Yankee. “He’s not interested in you, Yankee. If he were, we’d all know it. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of you.”
I couldn’t help it, but I gave Yankee a below-zero stare. I’m not sure I looked threatening, but God knew I felt threatened. She glared back, and after a few seconds, she shockingly looked away blinking first. Good for you, Darcy, I complimented myself. You’d better get used to her kind of girl.
Kyd apologized again, dragging Yankee and her wenchified self back toward the fish bowl.
When they quietly slipped out the gate, Sydney dropped back down into her seat, crossing her legs like it was a bad experience all but put behind her. Me, I was a nervous wreck. I swept my tongue across my teeth, checking to see if the porcelain was still intact. God knew I didn’t want to go the braces route again.
“Darcy,” Sydney purred, smoothing down her suit, “I think it’s best we keep this incident between the two of us. I’m not sure anyone will understand it, including my little brother.”
“Fine by me,” I mumbled, falling into my chair.
We both sat there drowning in the recall until Sydney broke the tension. “Do you want to get out of here? Like in twenty minutes?”
“Yeah,” I said, “but first, I’ve got to make a phone call.”
I eavesdropped on Lincoln speaking with Paddy about both Turkeys. Subtle differences, or personal peculiarities, existed between the two that didn’t match up. They both were right-handed and smoked cigarettes, but they didn’t smoke with the same mannerisms. Turkey Number One removed his cigarettes from their package by tapping the top of the pack three times, until one popped up. Immediately, he’d shove it in his mouth. Turkey Number Two carefully fingered the stick out, drew it to his nose for a smell, then lazily slid it in his lips. Number One looked at the door, over his right shoulder when in a hurry. Number Two narrowed his eyes, sometimes glancing at his watch. Lincoln’s boys were evaluating six months worth of videotape, so it wasn’t like they were taking a stab in the dark. Their faces appeared identical, but the pupils on Number One’s eyes briefly dilated if someone stood too close to him. Number Two could give a rat’s arse what anyone did and didn’t have an autonomic response at all. My guess was Turkey Number Two was the badder of the duo.
Ten tootsie rolls later, Troy verified what I thought to be true. “Jester, you were right,” he exhaled. “Polly Teasdale works at Bank of America. She’s a teller, but once you’re inside it’s reasonable to believe you have access to anything. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I blew out some CO2 as I brushed my hair, pulling it up into a high ponytail. “I do, but if something dicey is going on, that doesn’t necessarily mean those funneling the money can lead us to Cisco. If it’s Polly, she could merely be money hungry and taking advantage of a bad situation. Knowing that Lola gambles like she does, I’m led to believe there’s another plot besides kidnapping a child. If we’re lucky, when we unravel that plot, Cisco will come along with it.”
After Troy and I disconnected, I changed into a white miniskirt, navy tank top, and pulled the zebra laces out of my Chuck Taylor’s, exchanging them for tie-dyed red. After a brief conversation and neck massage from Zander, I stole away into the bathroom to contact Grizzly. There might be a lot of stupid running through my veins, but no one could accuse me of being an out-and-out fool. I’d memorized the numb
er on his business card before Lincoln confiscated it nights ago. Walter Ivanhoe remained the only person who could tell me if Polly Teasdale was, indeed, the point person in the disappearance of Cisco Medina. If it were Polly, however, where did the woman with the expensive shoes fit in?
“It’s Legs,” I said when he answered.
“Hello, Legs,” he murmured, remembering me. “Nice exit, by the way.”
“A bumpy one,” I giggled. “I broke a heel. If you run across Republic, tell him Rock misses him.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. Describe Republic for me.”
“Black, strappy, size seven and four inches, but I need an eight.”
His voice chuckled lowly, and suddenly my temperature spiked up to feverish. This man epitomized suave because in one beat I forgot he was old enough for an AARP card. “To what do I owe the pleasure,” he murmured, “other than a new shoe?”
Be a verb, Darcy. “I’m going to shoot straight, Walter.”
“Call me, Grizzly.”
“Okay, Grizzly. Are you X?”
He belted out a laugh so hearty I flipped on the water faucet for fear the rest of the household would hear. “Why? Do you want to play?” he asked.
Bluff … bluff … bluff.
“If I play,” which I can’t, “I want to make sure two people aren’t playing together. If Lola’s playing for X, how do I know you aren’t X? Let me be clear, Grizzly, I hate it when things aren’t fair.”
Crap, I couldn’t believe my girl cojones had the gall to say that. “Ah,” he murmured impressed, “you’re a smart girl, Legs, but I’m not X.” He sounded believable. I collapsed on the toilet seat, totally befuddled. If he didn’t masquerade as X, then Polly must be the best gothic mastermind around.
“Then are you sure X is a woman?”
“If you weren’t a teenager, questions like these would alarm me.”
I stood back up, fiddling around in the medicine cabinet until I found a tube of sunshine orange lip gloss on the top shelf. After I rolled on a coat, I raised my shirt and swabbed alcohol on my newly pierced navel with a cotton ball.
“I merely want to make sure I know what I’m getting into,” I said. Sort of like this belly ring. I should’ve asked more questions because the price of fashion and vanity—not to mention good health—required a bit more energy than I’d intended to expend.
“Lynx refers to X as a—” bleeping bleep “That insinuates female.”
Spit it out, Darcy. Pucker up and spit to your heart’s desire. “Does X have her little boy?”
I heard him sigh, even though I’m sure he didn’t want me to hear it. “I’ve wondered that myself,” he said quickly, a tad too relaxed. I cleared my throat once.
Then again.
And again.
Dang, could I actually be onto something? After I regained my composure, I asked, “Why does X keep someone like Elmer Hershel on her payroll? I’m going to be honest, Grizzly. He put the mo in moron.”
Noise was heavy wherever Grizzly happened to be. Still, I detected the velvety tone of a female. “How much longer?” she whined.
“Good question,” he murmured to me. “I would say X is playing more than one game.”
“How does your game work anyway?”
“I get a cut off of everything that passes on my table. The people that come to me don’t need money, Legs. They come merely for the thrill, and they like to win.”
“Lynx?”
“She needs the money.” Then that meant X liked to win … vis-à-vis Lola.
That got me to thinking. If Lola was indeed the best card counter around, those earnings were technically hers. X must hold something pretty substantial over Lola’s head for Lola to continue to agree to play for nothing. And P.S., why did X need someone like Elmer Herschel to be her hired eyes?
Forty minutes later, Sydney was still tardy. In other words, I would’ve had time to kill and pluck a chicken. I should’ve expected it. Sydney’s average was more than thirty, less than sixty minutes late. I laid on the bed with Zander as he recapped our night of adventure while I watched the clock tick closer and closer to 6PM. Once I’d terminated the call with Grizzly, I decided to visit Bank of America and view Polly Teasdale in action. I flipped open my iPhone to set up an appointment with Eleanor Talley, too.
“Eleanor Talley,” she answered. Eleanor sounded all business although this happened to be her personal number. From voice alone, I placed her in the 40 to 50 year-old range with the possibility of a slight North Eastern accent.
“Hi, Eleanor. I’m Darcy Walker. Herbie Knoblecker gave me your number.”
“He did?” she laughed, not even hesitating. “Why any friend of Herbie’s is a friend of mine. What can I do for you, Darcy?” Oh, boy. When you talk to the bank, tell them you’re going to give them more cash.
I took a deep breath, knowing this might be my last chance. “I’d like to donate money to the Trust for Cisco Medina.”
Sydney cranked up the radio and tapped around until she landed on a classic station, playing a song featuring The Who. How apropos. How FREAKING apropos. We guzzled our iced frappuccinos and turned onto I-Drive a little past five o’clock. We cruised in Willow’s Audi R8, purring twenty miles above the speed limit. I thought once about telling her to lose a few miles, but I wasn’t in the position to stand in judgment of what I considered misdemeanors anyway.
I had one Chuck Taylor in felony.
Once in the parking lot, Sydney took another call from a dejected and down in the dumps ex-boyfriend. Man, I really needed to ask what his name was.
“I’ll be back in a few,” I said to her.
She put her hand over her cell with a tender smile. “Take your time,” she purred breezily. I shoved my iPhone into my purse and shuffled out of the car.
I pulled open the tinted black doors and propped my sunglasses on my head. Once inside, Bank of America was your typical financial institution. Faux mahogany furniture decorated the lobby, including a navy leather couch on one wall, and four palm tree fabric covered chairs on the other. Glass end tables scattered both sides of the furniture, housing bank brochures. In the center sat a narrow island with deposit and withdrawal slips one could fill out before approaching the teller counter on the far wall.
To not look so obvious, I snagged a few and leaned up against the island making chicken scratch with an ink pen. Three people worked the reception with an empty slot for a fourth. So far, no sign of Polly Teasdale, and as far as I knew, Eleanor Talley could be gone for the day.
Right when I conceded defeat, the mahogany door opened to the middle office and out strode Polly Teasdale … surprisingly un-gothic.
Words alone could’ve knocked me over.
If she hadn’t worn a gold nametag that said “Polly,” I wouldn’t have recognized her. She was dressed conservatively in a navy pencil skirt and matching blazer. The jacket’s buttons hung unsnapped, allowing a tailored white blouse to peek through, accessorized by two-inch navy pumps. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun and pearl earrings draped modestly from both ears. Polly honestly looked like someone who could tell you a heckuvalot about banking.
Like kismet drew us together, we rubbed eyeballs.
After my heart stopped then resumed a beat, I gave her some teeth. Polly dispensed a customer-friendly smile as she confidently padded forward. I didn’t know whether to act surprised or admit we’d been introduced before. Frankly, I had the urge to blurt out that Elmer was a freak of nature who probably gave her fleas, but before I could do anything, she said, “Darcy?”
I considered acting blasé but knew panic was written all over my face. “Y-yyes?” I sputtered. How in the world did she know my name?
“Right this way,” she smiled. Polly stole a glance at the brass clock on the wall right when the corner office door marked “Bank Manager” cracked wide, spitting out who I assumed was Eleanor Talley herself.
Eleanor hit the rafters at basketball center tall, and if she ever got
the urge to smash me, she could do it with a thumb. I took her to be well over seventy-two inches without her black heels. Her heather gray pants and menswear shirt were tailored to an athletic build and a nice contrast to her suntanned skin. Dark brown hair fell chin-length next to chestnut eyes, a button nose, and thin peachy-pink lips. Not exceptionally pretty but not ugly, either.
She took two long strides, our eyes locking. “Hello, you must be Darcy. I just spoke with Herbie, and I recognize you by his description.”
I sort of nodded; sort of peed my pants.
Still, I had no chance to respond because directly following after her was—holy cow!—Gertrude Burr. Fate threw me a curveball and smacked me right in the face. Yes, I knew Gertrude recommended Livingston & Associates (Howie’s employer) to help find Cisco, but shouldn’t she be home mourning Howie’s head? He held the title of her former boyfriend, but she was nothing but smiles … and new botox.
My mind played the events again. Howie had the word “Medina” in his mouth. Had he known something that he wanted to warn Gertrude about? Or did Gertrude have something to do with him losing his body? By the looks of things, she seemed awfully chummy with the woman holding Herbie’s and her money.
Maybe that meant nothing.
Maybe that meant everything.
“H-hhello,” I stammered again. My eyes bounced over to Polly who returned another smile, but something different lined the curve of her lips. Somebody help me; this felt like a setup with no backup available but Sydney … which was no backup really, if it meant interrupting her during a phone call.
Eleanor swung her black leather bag over her shoulder, sweeping her hand toward her office, a paragon of customer appreciation. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’m on my way out. I’m boating this weekend, but Polly will take care of you.”
Polly led the way and following like a well-trained dog trotted Gertrude. How in the world had I managed the VIP treatment? For all they knew, I’d give them a George Washington, not a few C-notes or bequeath all of my earthly possessions.