by A W Hartoin
“I want to go home,” said Mom.
I kissed her forehead. “I know. Please don’t fight me on this. You really have to go.”
Mom wrapped one of my limp curls around a finger on her good hand. “They tried to make me go to rehab. I said, no, no, no.”
I laughed and sang back, “Yes, I been black. But when I come back, you’ll know, know, know, know.”
Takira picked up the rest, singing my favorite line from Amy Winehouse about how Daddy thinks I’m fine. Maybe I liked it because my dad never thought I was fine. I almost told her that I talked to Dad, but something held me back, a little niggling feeling that I shouldn’t get her hopes up quite yet.
Instead, I hugged her. “You don’t know how much I needed that.”
“I do know. I’m still your mother. Isn’t it odd that I can remember that song and I can’t remember what happened yesterday?”
It was odd, but it wasn’t the oddest thing about those days, not by a long shot.
Chapter Twelve
BECAUSE I’D JUST claimed to be a good girl, I called Fats on the way out of the ICU. She was in the hospital garage, ready to go. I said I’d meet her at the front as I pushed through the door to find Chuck leaning on the wall opposite. He usually looked incredibly hot when he leaned like that but not that day.
“You and I have some business,” he said without smiling and Chuck was a big smiler, even when he hated the person he was talking to.
“How about later?” I asked. “I’ve got to go to the house for…slippers. Mom’s going to be up and about soon.”
“Now.”
I didn’t know what his issue was and I found I didn’t much care. If it was about Pete again, I might scream. Hell, I might scream anyway. It was a hell of a bad day. “Seriously, I have to go.”
“I don’t need your help,” he said, raising his voice.
So we’re doing this.
“Who said you did?” I asked.
He stood up straight, stiff, and unfriendly as all get out. “The FBI.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Is that all you have to say to me?”
“I don’t know. What do you want me to say?” I asked.
He wanted me to explain why in the hell I made him part of my deal with the Feds. I thought it was obvious, but I guess not.
“I was trying to help. You can’t go undercover because of me. You can do this.”
Chuck pointed a long finger at me. “It’s a pity tasking. Thanks, Mercy. Now I’m fucking pathetic.”
“No, you’re not. You were pissed when the FBI took over the case and booted you off. I got you back on. What’s wrong with that?” I crossed my arms and tried to control my temper.
“I’ll get my own damn assignments.”
Suddenly, I was so tired I wanted to sink to the floor and put my head in my hands. But I couldn’t. I had to go read a file on a girl who got put in a wood chipper. Because that was my life and my boyfriend was looking at me like I’d committed a capital offense by getting him a job that he wanted.
“I don’t understand. This is good,” I said. “You want this. It’s a huge case.”
“And my girlfriend gave it to me,” he spat. “What did you have to do to get me on it? A little breast goes a long way.”
Now I’m awake.
“Don’t say anything else,” I warned.
“You don’t want me to say it. I bet you don’t,” he said, flaming red with indignation.
Before I could respond, Uncle Morty came out of the waiting room and punched Chuck in the chest, knocking him on his butt. “Remember who you’re talkin’ to!”
Chuck leapt to his feet and said, “I know exactly who I’m talking to. The one who talks to her ex before she talks to me.”
“We covered this already,” I said.
“Pete was just in there.”
“So? He’s a doctor.”
“Whatever,” said Chuck.
“No whatever. You’re losing it and that’s not my fault.” I turned to go and he yelled after me, “I’m not taking the assignment.”
Uncle Morty stuck his finger in Chuck’s face. “The hell you aren’t. Mercy traded good info for that assignment and you’re freaking gonna take it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I don’t give a shit. The Feds are trying to keep Tommy off this for some damn reason and we need you in there.”
Sydney came out of the waiting room and calmly said, “We’ll take it. I don’t care how we got it. Tommy’s a media whore, but he shouldn’t be kept away from his own wife. I’ll do it for the bastard and, with any luck, I’ll become a media whore myself.”
Chuck clenched and unclenched his jaw. “She needs a bodyguard.”
“She,” I said, “has one.” Before I could name Fats Licata, Grandad said, “I took care of it. Called in a favor.”
Chuck forcibly unclenched his jaw and turned his icy gaze on me. “Alright then. Fill me in on Hunt.”
I was too angry, too hurt to deal with him. “That’s a hard no.”
“Where are you going?” asked Chuck, his face not softening one bit.
“To bat my eyes and who knows what else.” I flipped my hair back and thrust a hip out.
The red drained out of his face and he took a step forward. “I didn’t mean it.”
I took two steps back. “But you said it.”
Uncle Morty stepped between us. “It don’t matter. You both got jobs to do.”
Nikki came out of the waiting room with two spots of red high on her cheeks and a plastic container in her hands. “It matters. It just doesn’t matter right now.” She gave me the container and said, “For your bodyguard. I’m sure you’ll give him a workout.”
“Who is this guy?” asked Chuck, his voice going deeper.
Nikki winked at me and then turned me around, giving me a gentle push toward the elevator. “Go do your thing. We’ve got it here.”
“Mom’s got a test at four. After that, she can eat,” I said.
“Aaron and I will take care of it,” she said.
I pushed the elevator button, it dinged, and the doors opened. “Together?”
“We decided to join forces.”
Why does that make me nervous?
“What does that mean?” I went in the elevator and punched the Lobby button. “You’re cooking together?”
“We’re exchanging techniques,” said Nikki, her cheeks glowing brighter with excitement.
The doors started to close.
“Like what?”
“Today we’re spit-roasting a goat. You’ll love it.” She waved and the doors closed.
“Oh my god,” I said. “Goat.”
Behind me, there was some twittering from a couple of candy-stripers wearing huge grins.
“You have to eat goat,” said a willowy blonde, wearing electric tangerine lipstick that practically glowed. “I’m going to order from Pappy’s.”
“No barbecue for you. I bet goat stinks like roadkill,” said the other one, who was inexplicably wearing pigtails. She really shouldn’t have talked. Somebody forgot her deodorant. Even I didn’t smell that bad and I had a good excuse.
They reminded me of the uber rich girls at my high school, the ones that only volunteered because they were serving time on community service.
I smiled back. “So is Marianne Goldberg still the head of the youth program?”
The grins fell off their faces.
“Yeah,” said the blonde with suspicion.
“I’ll give her a call,” I said. “I’m sure she won’t mind you coming to my mother’s floor for some goat. Marianne’s all about diversity and trying new things. Heck, she’ll probably come with you.”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.
“You won’t,” said the pigtailed one.
I stepped out and held the door open. “Do you recognize me?”
Aunt Miriam stomped by me with a brand-new cane. “They know who you are.” She punched a bu
tton with the spiky brass tip. “And I know who they are.”
The girls shrank back into a corner in horror.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked.
“Tiffany and Heather. They locked a disabled girl in the bathroom overnight at St. Elias Prep and posted it on the internet,” said Aunt Miriam, giving them the laser-focused stink eye.
“We didn’t do it,” said the blonde with the ultimate confidence of the eternally idiotic.
“You’re here, wearing a smock, so I’m thinking you did,” I said, letting go of the door. “By the way, Sister Miriam hits.”
The doors closed on a couple of terrified squeals and I said, “I feel better.”
“Why do you need to feel better? Besides the obvious.”
I spun around and Fats stood there, wearing a new set of yoga clothes and a holstered gun. She didn’t even bother to wear a jacket to cover it up. All the passers-by were giving her a wide berth, but to be honest, they probably would’ve done that without the sidearm.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to open carry in a hospital,” I said.
“I’m a licensed bounty hunter,” said Fats. “There’s nothing to say that I can’t apprehend in a hospital.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“It isn’t. Why do you think I got the license?” Fats started walking me to the exit and I saw two security guards with big eyes watching us from behind a post. The cops really had to get someone on Mom quick if the hospital guards were scared to ask Fats what in the world she was up to.
“Is there anything else I should know about you?” I asked.
“Plenty, but we’ve got things to do. Why do you have that look on your face?” she asked.
“Why do men have to be jerks?” I asked.
“They aren’t jerks to me.”
“No?”
She grinned. “I scare them.”
“I don’t think I have that option.”
She gave me an appraising look. “You need a weapon.”
“I really do.”
Fats took me to my apartment and cleared it for entry. Nobody had been in my place for over a week and it was super musty.
I bent over to pick up a fat manila envelope that had been shoved under my door, but Fats’ big hand beat me to it. “I’ll be checking that.”
“For what?” I asked. “Ricin?”
“You think that’s out of the question?” Fats gingerly placed the envelope on my breakfast bar and opened her striped backpack. In with a small collection of literary novels was a hand-held bomb sniffing device, explosive materials wipes, a taser, extra clips, and a couple of gas masks.
“Are we prepared for the apocalypse?” I asked.
Fats handed me a mask. “Yes. You know how to put that on?”
I did and Fats’ masks were the same as the ones Dad bought Mom and me. He also gave us a class on how to use them. That was one of the longest Saturdays of my life and that included the time Dad made me take wilderness survival training in the Ozarks. It included digging trenches and worm-eating. But at least I wasn’t bored for a change. For the record, I didn’t eat a worm and only lasted twenty-seven hours because I passed out from hunger.
“You got a good seal?” asked Fats, her voice weird and muffled.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Seal?”
I groaned. “Yes.”
Fats used her wipes to check for explosives. Clear. Double-checked with the sniffer and then carefully unsealed the envelope, sliding the stack of paper onto the counter and checking it for powder. There wasn’t any.
She gave me a thumbs-up and popped off her mask. I tried to take mine off the way Dad taught me, but it went as well as you might expect. My hair got wrapped around the rubbery straps and buckles.
“Help,” I said.
Fats bent over my head, trying to unwind my hair while I glanced at the cover letter on the top of the stack. It was from Dr. Bloom, the history professor from Oxford. He said he’d gotten some interesting information from Big Steve about his mother, Constanza. Also, a man named Spidermonkey had contacted him with information about Stella Bled Lawrence and he had some information regarding that, too.
I didn’t know Spidermonkey had contacted Dr. Bloom. I was going to do that once he confirmed Dr. Bloom was on the up and up.
“How did you do this?” asked Fats as I stuffed the stack back in the envelope.
“My hair hates masks. Scuba’s bad, too.”
“I don’t think I can get it undone. This hair. It’s like it’s alive.”
“It is alive and it kinda hates me,” I said.
“I’m not kidding. It’s literally rewinding as I’m unwinding, like a Sci-Fi movie and it’s an alien.”
I laughed and tucked the envelope under my arm. “You’re not the first to come up with that theory.”
“I’m going to have to cut it,” said Fats.
I tried to take off, but she snapped me back by the mask.
“What’s your plan? Going to run around with this thing hanging off the back of your head?”
“Okay.”
“I’m cutting it off. You look like an idiot.”
“That’s fine. I’m used to it,” I said, making another break for it and failing.
Fats put me on a stool and asked, “Where are your scissors?”
“My mom can get it off. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she’s gotten off my head. A catcher’s mask from the time Dad thought I could be a prodigy. Numerous pairs of sunglasses and the tiara from my first communion. That took her three hours. She’s a genius with hair.”
“Scissors, Mercy?”
“Nope. You are not going to make me look like I have mange,” I said, crossing my arms. “Mom will do it.”
Fats looked up from my over-stuffed drawers, her naturally aggressive face slightly softened. “Can she do it with one hand?”
That stopped me. “Um…”
“We’ve got to cut it. It can’t be worse than your hair in Roatan. That was insane, like a blonde Brillo pad.”
“Salt water is not my friend,” I said, thinking about Mom’s hand.
“There’s no salt water in Paris,” she said. “What happened there?”
“Did you look up all my bad pictures?”
“Not all. There are a lot.”
“Thanks. You suck.”
“That’s what Tiny said.” She gave me a huge grin.
I clapped my hands over my ears. “Noooo!”
“Scissors or else I start talking. A lot!” she yelled, grinning like a nutter.
“Drawer next to the fridge.”
A few snips and I was free. I felt my head and it wasn’t great.
“It’s not that bad.” Fats set the mask on the counter with three tufts of hair sticking out of the buckles. “You’ll have to go with the shorter Marilyn do.”
“I’m not trying to look like her, you know.”
Fats stepped back and gave me the once-over. “What would happen if you tried?”
“It’s creepy.”
“I bet.”
I took off down the hall. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Good. You stink.”
“This day just gets better and better.” I went into the bathroom and closed the door on my bodyguard’s laughter.
I tossed Dr. Bloom’s envelope on the counter next to the sink and hesitantly took a look. From the front I looked okay, greasy and snarly but okay. The back was definitely mangy. Awesome.
Since I couldn’t begin to fix it, I took a boiling hot shower in record time. Then I put on a sundress. I’m not usually a sundress kind of girl, but Mom would like it.
I topped it off with a floppy hat and grabbed my Mauser out from between my sweaters. Then I rooted around and got my taser and a spare pepper spray. Remembering that I didn’t have any ID, I dug out my passport. With my arms full, I went out to see what Fats was doing. I expected to see her watching Downton Abbey since I’d heard the petulant voice of Lady
Mary echoing down the hall, but she wasn’t watching the TV, where Mary and Edith were snapping at each other. They were enough to make me glad I was an only child.
Fats was reading and quite engrossed with her feet up on the coffee table as she devoured Nikki’s baklava.
“What’s so interesting?” I asked, grabbing my spare purse and stuffing my self-protection and passport inside. I’d have to see about getting a new driver’s license and canceling my credit cards. Why’d he have to steal my purse? The DMV was a serious pain.
“You,” said Fats after a minute.
“Me?”
She held up Dr. Bloom’s envelope.
“How did you get that?” I snatched the papers out of her hands. “I locked the door.”
“Please. You think I can’t pick a lock?” Fats stood up. “Ready?”
“How much did you read?”
“Enough to know that you’ve got something interesting going on.”
I marched to the door and flung it open. “This is just what I needed. Let’s go.”
We trotted down the stairs. Fats stopped me before we went outside. She checked the area and then put me in the truck for the short drive over to Hawthorne Avenue. Mr. Knox wasn’t happy, but I swore to him that Grandad hired Fats to protect me and he opened the gate.
My parents’ house was easily visible down the block, looking forlorn with all the fluttering crime scene tape and the trampled lawn. Mom was going to freak.
“I have to get a gardener to come fix this before Mom comes home,” I said.
“I know a guy,” said Fats as she trotted me up the front walk.
“I bet you do.”
She smiled a devilish smile and kept an eye out while I let us in. Pounding footsteps came from the back. Fats thrust me out of the way and pulled her weapon. A young uniform ran into the receiving room, fumbling with his sidearm and choking on the enormous sandwich stuffed in his gullet.
“Febreeze!” he yelled through the sandwich.
Fats kept her weapon on him. “Did you say ‘Febreeze’?”
The sandwich split in half and flopped on Mom’s hardwood with a splat. “No. Febreeze!”
“I’m hearing Febreeze,” I said, waving at him. “Mercy Watts. This is my parents’ house.”
The officer lowered his weapon and chewed with the grossest noises ever. Fats holstered her weapon and eyed the sandwich on the floor. “I bet that’s your mom’s food.”