by Rita Lakin
Sophie and Bella seem overly giggly today. They are actually tossing things into their basket, sing-songing, ‘Dollar this, dollar that …’ Odd. I suppose it’s the excitement of the hunt.
Evvie nudges me. Our boy is on the move. Sure enough, there’s Izzy, with a face plied with makeup, dressed in women’s clothes, wearing a woman’s long-hair wig and carrying a shopping bag with a Moishe’s Deli logo. He (she) daintily tiptoes his (her) way down past his house, continuing through the empty back lot heading in our direction.
‘Places everybody!’ I push Sophie and Bella, reluctant to leave their filled shopping carts, and shove them to the door. Everyone rushes out to their appointed positions. Inside and out of Starbucks, surrounding the store. Ida is now a ‘customer,’ with a big floppy hat and large glasses, who enters and sits down at a front table ‘reading’ a newspaper. There are a few other customers, noses down in computers, and the manager is hiding as I requested.
As soon as Izzy enters, Sophie covers the rear entrance, Bella skips to her spot in the front. Evvie is already at her hiding place.
Through the store window I see Izzy head for the cash register. I wait across the street. No hurry. We know his MO, the same modus operandi he’s used before. It will be Evvie, ready and waiting, who makes the catch.
I wait and watch him doing his old robber shtick – ‘Stick-’em-up or else’ with his fake gun, this time whipped out from the inside of a baguette hidden in a tote bag from Madame Mimi’s French patisserie.
I had directed the two-person staff how to play their parts. I told them to stay calm and not show any emotion at all. I sigh. Everybody wants to get into showbiz. The guy barista is pretending ‘terror.’ The girl barista is near ‘fainting.’ They practically quake as they hand the odd-looking female all the cash in the register. They are told to get down on the floor and close their eyes. Go down quietly, I had rehearsed. What the wannabee ‘cast members’ do instead, is swoon. All right already, enough! I had said play it with subtlety, what I got is Charlie Chaplin and Edna Purviance in the silents. All they’re missing is the villain with the twirly black mustache.
Izzy has the money. He walks past the nerds at their computers, who heard and saw nothing with their ear buds and iPhones.
Time for me to make my entrance.
And now he’s in the Ladies’ Room, quickly changing back to being a male, wiping off the makeup, stuffing the loose dress and wig in the huge shopping bag, along with the dough.
To his shock, here comes Evvie, popping out of a stall, stopping him as he’s about to escape out the door. Now my entrance. I come in from the front door and further block him.
‘Hi, there,’ is my snappy rejoinder.
‘Planting some cactus in here?’ Evvie says at her snarkiest.
Ida, holding the floppy hat, comes in and joins us. ‘New hobby, Iz?’
Sophie and Bella, still sniggering, won’t be left out, and we have a full bathroom contingency. Plus a very confused millennial girl who just walked in to use the facility and who immediately turns around and rushes out, not wanting to get involved in whatever crazy is going down.
Bella needs to ask, noting what’s left of his face makeup. ‘Is he Izzy?’
Sophie says, ‘Yes, he is Izzy.’ She laughs yet again at their little inside joke.
Our captured criminal grins at us, hands held high in capture stance. With admiration, ‘You girls are good.’
And Ida has to get the last word in. ‘You’re a bad boy, Isadore Dix. You are under citizen arrest.’
We five march our perp out of the bathroom to applause from the actor-baristas. I calm the nervous manager down, saying the money must be held as proof, but will be returned soon. The nerds still don’t look up.
We trot our way down West Broward Boulevard, looking like a happy group of city hikers. One cheerful guy, surrounded by five beaming women.
Izzy shrugs. ‘Nice of me to live walking distance from the police station.’
We agree. Morrie already agreed.
Izzy’s walk of shame ends at number 1300, where Morrie waits for us outside his precinct front door. No guns necessary. A clean arrest.
Morrie reads him his rights, then congratulates us. ‘Good job, ladies.’
As our friend, the cop walks the relaxed and smiling crook inside, Izzy gives us last-minute instructions. ‘Call up Jerry Pinsky in Plantation and tell him I’m sorry, but his hernia surgery has to wait. Also my house key is hidden under a fake rock next to the front door. Don’t forget to feed my goldfish. And water the cactus.’ He winks at Bella and Sophie.
The two of them nod enthusiastically. ‘We will, we will,’ they promise. Giggle. Giggle.
Sophie pirouettes. ‘Wishhh we shoulda had this stufff fifty years … go.’
‘At leasht,’ Bella agrees.
I shake my head. If I didn’t know better, I would think those two women are on drugs. Another look at them. Is it possible?
THIRTY
The Goldfish Caper
Happy. Happier. Happiest. ‘Whee,’ shouts Sophie, ‘maybe it’s the Cucarasha-cha!’ The girls are prancing around Sophie’s apartment again. Ignoring, as usual, the pounding on the wall from her furious neighbor, Selma.
Bella twirls, then puffs for breath, linking her arms with Sophie, then asks, ‘Aren’t we supposed ta go ta Izzy’s today to feed the goldfishhhies?’ Her turn to slur.
‘Shure, we wouldn’t want the little darlings to pershh, no perishhh …’
Sophie dances Bella back into the kitchen and lifts up the gummies package, shakes it as if it was a castanet. ‘One for the road?’ she says, winking.
‘Stop running,’ Bella cries out as Sophie gallops down Oakland Park Boulevard, dangerously waving her cane about and ignoring lights and stop signs. It’s a miracle traffic is slow. A bigger miracle, Sophie isn’t falling down. Or getting run over. Or hit by a bus. Speaking of buses: ‘We gotta catch the 81 bus and there it is!’
‘Yeah, but we need to catch it in one piece,’ Bella calls out worriedly. ‘What about your hurting legs?’
Sophie laughs. ‘My gummys are finally working. I’m feeling no pain.’ She reaches the bus door, and puts one leg up on the first step. ‘Look at me, lifting a leg that doesn’t shriek. I’ll hold the driver. Hurry, get on up!’
‘I’m hurrying. I’m also dying, I can’t breathe.’
Bystanders might look surprised at the two elderly ladies, running, hopping, giggling, chortling and zigzagging their way down the street, with an occasional shout of ‘whoopee!’
‘Quick, look on the top of the bus window, does it say eleven east?’ she yells down to the puffing Bella.
‘Either I get on or read numbers. I’m good for only one choice.’
‘Get on!’
She hops on, muttering, ‘I still think we shoulda took a taxi.’
‘How many times do I have to say we can’t afford it. Too ’spensive.’
Panting, they practically crawl up the steps and lean over the bus driver, sweating in his ear. Sophie, breathing hard, asks the driver sweetly. ‘This is the east?’
‘Yup.’
‘You will let us off at Twelfth Avenue?’ She hiccups.
The driver, ordinarily a large, jovial sort, now looks at them, askance. Passengers glance up as well. Then quickly look down again, suddenly busy with magazines, knitting, praying, whatever will avert their eyes.
Why? Because what they see is one woman (Bella), with curlers still in her hair, wearing floppy beach sandals with different-colored socks and her blouse is on backwards. The other one’s (Sophie’s) makeup is smeared on only half of her face, making her look like some clown. Her hair is one big frizz. The bus passengers silent verdict is: decidedly spaced-out bag ladies.
The girls flop from side to side, on their way up the aisle as the bus lurches ahead. Bella whispers to Sophie, ‘We didn’t pay.’
At least Bella thinks she’s whispering. More like loud enough to wake the dead, so to speak.
/>
The driver calls out, ‘Never mind, ladies. It’s on the house.’ He knows the best way to deal with nutcases is to stay calm and play along. Until they get off.
‘Good thing Glad and Ida are shopping today with Tori, so they won’t notice we’re gone,’ says Bella.
‘Too bad it was Tuesday last week, and we had to arrest Izzy. He coulda driven us today. He’s such a good driver.’ Sophie sighs, leaning back, stretching out, legs splayed in the aisle.
Bella sighs. ‘If he wasn’t in jail, he could feed his own goldfishies.’ Another sigh. ‘I hope they gave him a nice cell.’
Bella, at the window seat, draws lines and a circle in the dirty glass. Sophie reaches over her. Draws an X to her circles. They play tic-tac-toe.
A little while later, the ex-jovial bus driver dutifully calls out ‘Twelfth Avenue.’ But, by then, the girls are snoring, coming down from their drug, leaning on one another’s shoulders. The driver shrugs.
At the end of the line, the driver shakes them awake. And practically pushes them out the door.
The gummies have sort of worn off. Now they are only mildly stoned. Sophie and Bella look around, confused. This is definitely not Twelfth Avenue. Way beyond.
Bella moans. ‘We missed our stop. What do we do now?’
Sophie grabs her by the hand and pulls her. ‘We cross the street and go west.’
Twenty minutes later, 81 west pulls up. Same driver. All three moan as he waves them to the back.
‘Let us off at Twelfth?’
‘Yeah, yeah, it will be my pleasure,’ he says, no longer jovial, ‘and this time stay awake.’
‘The key is under the rock, just like Izzy said.’ Sophie holds the key on high.
‘Think Goldfishy will be glad to see us?’
‘Starving and thrilled.’ Sophie opens the door, then puts the key back under the rock, as previously instructed.
Bella pats her on the back in recognition of job well done. ‘You remembered.’
Izzy’s mansion is stuffy, but they dare not open any windows.
Bella is excited. ‘You feed the fishies and water the plants; I’m itching to see the upstairs again.’
‘Okay, but don’t take too long. Izzy might not like us snooping. It isn’t polite.’
Bella hippity-hops up the staircase. As far as she’s concerned, snooping is her middle name. Sure, Izzy gave them the tour, but she wants another look-see.
She loves the old-fashioned bedrooms. All that fancy, heavy dark furniture. And that silk and satin, so neat to touch. Ooh, would she love a sleepover in this fancy place. All this luxury makes her want to sing. So, she does. She does her version of a song from Fiddler on the Roof, ‘If I was a rich girl …’
What’s that? Is it raining? She hears the sound of running water. She parts a heavy brocaded drape and looks out the window. Sunny, just like before. The rain noise stops. She must have imagined it.
Curious, anyway, she heads in the direction of the rain sound, which takes her to a huge bathroom down around a corner. Maybe there’s a leak. As she enters, she realizes it is steamy in there, the room almost all fogged in, and she can hardly see. She’s on tippie-toes, now singing, ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips.’ And to her amazement, an apparition appears before her eyes.
Bella gasps.
A figure, soaking wet, draped in white cotton, stands in front of a closed shower curtain, a mist encircling him.
‘Oooh,’ says Bella enthralled, and scared at the same time.
The figure doesn’t move.
‘You’re a ghost. Right?’ She hopes.
A voice speaks low, and somewhat quivery. ‘Yes, a ghost.’
This is so wonderful; Bella would leap up toward the ceiling in excitement, but her leaping days are long gone. She claps her hands instead.
She seats herself on a satin-covered vanity bench and crosses her legs, settling in for a long conversation. ‘So how many years have you been haunting Izzy’s bathroom?’
The low voice says, ‘A very, very long time.’
‘Does Izzy know about you?’
‘No, I’m a secret.’ He waves his arms in various directions, imitating his idea of something spiritual. ‘But it will be dark soon and you must leave before the witching hour. Tell no one about me or you die. Leave now!’
Bella leaps up, hands pointed upward, as in prayer, ‘So sorry, so sorry. Leaving!’
With that she’s out in the corridor and stumbling for the staircase, lickety-split.
Downstairs, she pulls at Sophie. ‘Let’s go, now.’
‘I haven’t watered the plants yet.’
‘Never mind. We gotta get outa here. This place is haunted!’
Bella muses, as she runs; ‘what a stud. If I was only fifty years younger. And if he wasn’t dead …’
‘What are you mumbling about?’
Bella only smiles.
THIRTY-ONE
Moments After Bella Runs
Dix drops his towel, pulls on a pair of jeans over his wet, naked body, laughing and scratching, as the shower curtain draws open and Hicks and Dockson, damp frowning twins in black suits, leap out of the tub with guns drawn.
‘This is the most fun I’ve had since, well, heck, who even remembers. I can’t believe you guys jumped into the shower to hide! Dummies!’
Dockson is annoyed. ‘Where the hell were we gonna hide when she was already at the door? You had to call us in while you were taking a shower? What for?’
Ignoring him. ‘You should have seen the old broad’s face when she thought I was a ghost. And then turned scaredy-cat when I told her I’d kill her if she told anybody.’ More side-splitting laughter from Dix.
‘Who the hell was that looney-toon?’ Hicks wants to know, pocketing his weapon, in his wet pants, and reaching for a towel. ‘What was she doing in your father’s house? She knew where the key was hidden.’
‘Who knows? Who cares?’
‘But what if she comes back? We should have offed her,’ adds Dockson, grabbing Hicks’s towel and wiping his soggy face.
‘You two are always so quick with the offing. Maybe she’s just a sweet old lady.’ Hicks frowns. ‘Always with the guns. And killing.’
Dockson and Dix ignore Hicks; to them he’s the wussy of the three.
‘Nah. Too messy. And what would we do with the body?’ Dix finishes dressing and heads for the stairs. The other two follow, flapping their arms in an attempt to get dry.
‘It was the steam; she thought I was a spirit. I shoulda dropped my towel and given her a cheap thrill.’
His buddies laugh.
‘Or you guys coulda pop your heads out of the curtain, woulda give you a hell of a guffaw. And probably give her a heart attack.’
‘What about that other dame downstairs? What if she tells her?’ says Hicks, worry-wart, again.
‘Bet ya fifty bucks you’re wrong. She was so strung out, she’ll be lucky if she remembers her name.’
Hicks is shocked. ‘Old dame like that doin’ drugs. What’s the world coming to?’
They are in the living room now, searching drawers and cupboards. Dockson holds up a half-bottle of sweet sherry. ‘This all the booze your pop has? Pathetic.’
‘So take my pop’s car out of the garage and go find a liquor store. I love that the guy leaves the keys in his amazing expensive car.’
Hicks worries some more. ‘Drive an antique Edsel around? Wouldn’t that make us stick out like a sore thumb?’
‘They’ll assume he’s in it. And, by the by, you think we’re gonna leave that beauty here when we go? Not a chance. A special extra gift from dear old Dad.’
‘And what about your dad? How come he isn’t in that car out somewheres? Where is he? What if he walks in?’ asks Dockson.
‘So, like I said, I give him a great big hug and sloppy kiss and say, “Glad to see your sonny boy again?” He’ll be thrilled. Will you stop with the maybes? We got a perfect setup. The SUV is hidden. A great hidey-hole to do our job from here.
Never thought the old guy would be of any use to me, and now he will be, whether I have to kill him later or not.’
‘Maybe,’ hopes Hicks, that less bloody-driven partner, ‘he’s away on some vacation and we’ll be in and out before he gets back.’
Dockson is also concerned. ‘What about nosy neighbors? This layout is almost too good to be true.’
‘Hey, scram; why don’t you go and pick up some groceries along with the booze and leave the big thinking to me. I can’t wait to sleep in my old room again. I wonder if he saved my old baseball cards.’
On his way out, Dockson pauses at the baby grand piano and picks up the father-son photo. ‘That you, as a kid?’
‘That’s me, buck teeth and all. Hated the buzzard even then. If I could have run away at nine, I would have.’
‘Why? Did he beat on you?’
‘Nah. He was just some wimpy guy. A nobody.’
‘So,’ asks Dockson, ‘what’s the story? Must be a story, if you already knew you wanted to jump ship at nine.’
‘What do ya wanna know for? You hate your daddy-o, too?’
Dockson. ‘Never knew mine. My pop was hit and run. Knock her up and leave town.’
They laugh.
‘What about you, Hicks?’
‘My daddy was a wife-beater. Maybe they named that undershirt after him.’
They all laugh again.
Hicks, pressing now, ‘Yours must have done something that made you wanna leave these rich, fancy digs. What are you hiding?’
‘I’m not hiding anything. You really need to hear this dull stuff?’
‘What else have we got to do until we grab the girl? Entertain us.’
‘Grandpa made his dough in the stock market, which bought him this mansion and plenty more. My father just pissed most of it away. He was always full of grandiose plans. I’m gonna do this. Build this. Buy this. Fix this. I’m gonna be a big shot. Talk. Talk. Talk. Everything he touched turned to zilch. After rich Grandpa died, my brilliant dad wanted to sell the house, so we could go to some desert isle and drink Mai Tais. It was damned lucky that Mom talked him out of that or we would have ended up living in the streets. He wanted to be someone important; he was waiting for an inspiration that never came; he was a nothing, a dumb dreamer.’