Malicious Mischief

by Marianne Harden

  Each contestant was allowed one friend for encouragement, so I circled the table and stood between Tita and Booth. I looked around. Booth’s female friend stood in the back of the tent talking on her cell phone again. Booth had his back to me, watching her, his hands fisted and his knuckles white.

  “Here goes.” I crouched and took out my cell phone. I made a pretense of showing Tita some pictures on it, but in reality, I was snapping photos of the label on the prescription bottle, which read on closer inspection: OXYCODONE 5MG. TAKE TWO TABS EVERY 4 HOURS AS NEEDED FOR PAIN.

  “You know taking painkillers isn’t a crime?” Tita whispered.

  “But taking them so you can climb a big hill and kill Otto is,” I whispered.

  Booth turned around. “What are you doing?”

  “Er—nothing, I’m not doing anything, right, Tita?” I said. “Er—we’re just discussing strategy. I have lots of ideas about how to eat the most wings.”

  Judging by the look on his face, he thought that hilarious. “My win is in the bag,” he said.

  The time was right to prod him for answers. “Funny the company Leland was keeping.” I watched his eyes for a reaction. “On second thought, it’s probably not that funny to you, Happy Hye being arrested. Leland, too. Curious mix. Does it make you jealous, maybe?”

  Tita leaned in. “The boss was arrested?”

  I gave her a sidelong look. “A couple hours ago.”

  “You’re out of your damn mind if you think any of that bothers me,” Booth said. “Common mistake, married folks messing in each other’s enterprises. Happy Hye and I have a good thing going, see. It pays the bills.”

  I gaped at him in shock. “You two are married?”

  “Five long years,” he said. “Don’t tell me you thought I was her pimp.”

  My mouth was still open.

  “Pretty clear that’s exactly what she thought,” Tita said.

  Booth’s companion came up behind us. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  I started, my elbow slipping from where it rested on the table, and knocking over the bottle of painkillers. When I scrambled to pick it up, the top popped off, and I got a whiff of a familiar, yet unidentifiable nasty smell. I started to ask about it when Booth bolted up.

  “Who was on the phone?” he asked her.

  “Don’t start, not here,” his female friend said. “Calm down.”

  He grinned sickly. “Go on, then. Convince me, baby. Every second counts.”

  There came a pause as her face stiffened. Then she rose on her tippy-toes, and dutifully, slightly theatrically, she kissed his cheek.

  “See, was that so hard?” he asked.

  “Don’t look so smug,” she said, bristling.

  “Like it or not, pleasing me is the key to everything, see.”

  She looked down and saw me watching. “Who are you?”

  She laid on the tough girl act so thick I was tempted to say Xena: Warrior Princess but knew I couldn’t pull it off with a straight face. “Rylie Keyes,” I said. “I work with Booth.”

  “No kidding?” But after Booth whispered in her ear, she added with a suggestive shake of her ass, “I work with Booth, too, if you get my drift.”

  Booth grinned, his jowls aquiver. “She gets your meaning, Queenie. Don’t you, Rylie?”

  I wanted to gag in my hand, but decided this Queenie would likely slap me to high heaven. “Congratulations,” I said instead.

  She stared at me with a highly stubborn glare. I had the impression I had seen her before, not because of her face so much as her eyes. They were oval, angled, and hung for dear life from her perfectly bowed brows. French poets would call her le beau ideal. French painters’ création d’Art. No matter the language, she was drop-dead gorgeous and by standing next to her, I was reduced to primordial pond scum.

  “Congratulations,” I said again, though I knew full well she had heard me the first time.

  Her responding humph was almost a bark, as though her mouth had farted, which I was pleased to note showed a flaw in my earlier assessment. Her beauty was only skin-deep. And no, I was not smiling. However, I was sidelong watching as she pulled Booth aside to say something close to his ear.

  Booth hesitated, and then he said, “See, the thing is, she won’t thank you.”

  “I’ll break your face if you tell her,” Queenie said through her teeth.

  “Silence costs, baby,” he said.

  “Your price is too high.”

  Booth shrugged and moved back to take his seat. “But you’ll pay it for her.”

  Queenie blew out a breath and joined him.

  When the announcer tapped on the microphone and announced the competition was about to begin, I scrambled to my feet, crossed to the set-up table, and barreled back with a glass of water for Tita.

  “My victory waits,” Tita said, pounding her fists on the table.

  “Whatz with the diarrhea mouth?” Queenie asked.

  Tita grinned; it was not a nice grin. “Booth,” she said, “how come you never told me that you had a dog?”

  Queenie gasped. “You take that back!”

  “Be afraid, geezer chaser.” Tita wielded a threatening finger. “Be very afraid.”

  I wedged in between them, turned my back on Queenie, and placed the water in front of Tita. “Here you go,” I said. “You might need it.”

  “Oh yeah, she’s gonna need it,” Queenie said. “Game on. Let’s trounce this bitch.”

  Tita’s nasty smiled widened.

  When a waiter set down a bowl of wings on the table in front of her, I leaned in for a whiff. My nose went up in flames. “Omigod, that’s hot.”

  “Stop worrying,” Tita said.

  The Roaring Wings announcer tapped on the microphone again. “Nothing but the hottest Trinidad Scorpion Moruga peppers, chocolate, red habaneras, and vinegar, folks. We at Roaring Wings want to wish everyone luck. Five seconds till start.”

  “Milk,” Tita said in a hurry. “I need milk. Lots of it.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “I’ve never eaten Trinidad Scorpion Moruga peppers, but I’ve heard they’re shitloads hotter than habaneras.” She whimpered, froze in horror. “You didn’t hear that. No whimper. Got it?”

  I nodded.

  “Get milk,” she said. “Now!”

  The crowd had closed in, stalling my progress.

  Tita scowled. “Why are you just standing there? Hurry!”

  “Ready. Set. Go!” the announcer shouted from the podium.

  The contestants dove into their wings. I rushed into a wall of onlookers. No one budged. Beyond them was a sea of gawking and pushing people. I felt like a spawning salmon, swimming against the current, thrashing for speed, bouncing off rocks. Going nowhere fast.

  When my knee bumped into something hard, I looked down to find a sleeping toddler in a stroller. The little girl wore a one-piece jumper embroidered with the name Dodo Baby. And—like manna from heaven—a discarded bottle of milk lay in her lap. I scanned the nearby crowd for the child’s mother. No females, only men. All eyes focused on the competitors.

  No way could I take Dodo Baby’s bottle. No way.

  Then a gut-wrenching howl split the air. It was Tita. I cut my eyes to the child again. This was wrong. Really wrong. But it was no time for principles. Fragile taste buds were at stake.

  In a quirk of fate, Dodo Baby opened her eyes and smiled sweetly. I pointed to the bottle. “May I?” I asked, and she giggled. Necessity required flexibility, so I took that as a yes. “I’m coming, Tita!” I said on the run.

  The frat boys were out of their chairs, bent over, and retching. Puke splattered everywhere. It was like running on oatmeal.

  The werewolf was ringing his help bell. “Omigod!” Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. “I’m on fire!”

  I squirted a weak stream of milk into his open mouth.

  “More!” He clawed at me. “Give me more!”

  Tita shoved him aside and, after clamping her hands over mi
ne, she raised the bottle to her mouth, but still a meager bit of milk came out the nipple. I attempted to twist off the top while trying to wiggle free my other hand trapped beneath her death grip. The bottle tilted and the milk spilled on the floor.

  On a cry of “No” the werewolf dropped to his belly and began to lap at anything white, which I’m sorry to say included some frat boy puke.

  Tita gasped for air. I looked for water, spied a glass near Booth, and grabbed it.

  “Give me that,” Queenie insisted. “That Latina got hot sauce on my top. You give it to me, or I’ll scratch your eyes out.” She flexed ten digits with ten red talons. “Give it!”

  “Don’t—let—her—have—it—” Tita croaked.

  Probably Queenie would gouge out my eyes if I didn’t. Then I would be blind over a T-shirt emblazoned with skulls and snakes. So I loosened my grip, but the cup whipped back and drenched her face with water. Oops-a-daisy.

  “Oh. No. You. Didn’t.” She came at me with those badass nails.

  A hush fell over the crowd, and I swear I heard Booth chuckle.

  Queenie narrowed her eyes. I narrowed mine. Her mouth lathered up. I started to apologize, but stopped. Funny how hard it was to say sorry to a frothy mouth.

  “You are dead.” She stabbed all ten nails into my shoulders, a ring of Jolly-Roger tattoos beneath her shirt collar exposed and straining from the effort.

  “Oh, stop it, both of you.” Tita body-checked Queenie off me.

  Queenie’s mouth made a sucker of an O as she flailed backward, her arms whirling, and squished—butt-first—into a huge bowl of hot wings.

  Booth pushed aside his empty bowl, climbed to his feet. “Looks like I won. Maybe I’m full of bullshit, I don’t know, but that was fun. Come on, baby. Let’s get my iPhone. Here.” He tossed me his old phone. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping against hope that he had left behind his SIM card for some evidence. “I owe you.”

  “Bet your sweet life you do.” He strode away with only the barest of a limp.

  Queenie followed him, her tiny butt even sexier thanks to the two well-defined circles of hot sauce. Where was the justice?

  Then from behind, a female voice yelled, “What asshole took Dodo Baby’s bottle?”

  Uh-oh.

  There is a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot

  I pleaded insanity to Dodo Baby’s mother—strange, how easily she accepted my excuse—then I tickled Dodo Baby under her chin and left the tent. Tita managed to stay upright—more like bowed and humped. If she dragged a leg, she would be Quasimodo—as she walked beside me on the sidewalk. I knew she was a wild stallion to the core, but right now, she looked more ridden hard and put away wet.

  “Sure you don’t want any?” I held out one of four Roar Energy drinks she had received from Roaring Wings as a consolation prize.

  She shook her head. “Keep ’em. I may not eat or drink ever again. Man, I was killing it until my throat closed. Two more wings. That’s all that stood between me and that iPhone.”

  Physically, I was fading fast from lack of food or sleep, so I downed one of the energy drinks and pocketed the rest. “It’s all good, though. It may not be an iPhone, but I think Solo will be happy with Booth’s cell. And you want to know the best part? I discovered Booth is on painkillers. So all I need is some real incriminating evidence, something not just circumstantial.”

  “He’s no barrel of laughs.” She righted from another stumble. “Watch yourself. He won’t go down easily, you know?”

  “Gotcha.” I was anxious to get inside so I could look at Booth’s phone without him seeing me as I knew he planned to work a shift at the FoY booth. I scanned the front of Shlomo’s Deli, spied Solo and Gilad in a booth by the window, and waved. I grabbed Tita when she stumbled again and headed that way.

  I was tickled pink about how my first dip into the investigative pool was shaping up. We pushed through the double doors. Solo and Gilad were bent over a table, combing through a cheese blintz with dueling toothpicks.

  “Whatcha doing?” I asked.

  “Looking for this varmint’s cohort in crime.” Solo pointed to a dead fly pasted to the plate in creamy cheese. The men resumed their hunt, trash talking the as of yet discovered second insect.

  “Duck and cover, you germ spreader,” Gilad said.

  “Watch yourself, you low life. A new sheriff is in town,” Solo added.

  Tita’s response was neither pretty nor printable.

  The guys made room for us as I relayed the details of the hot wing competition. I slid the cell phone across the table to Solo. “It’s Booth’s,” I said.

  “Holy moly,” he said.

  We stared at each other then stared at the phone. In the background, Tita and Gilad were discussing the competition.

  “SIM?” Solo asked me.

  “It’s there.”

  “Perfect, mawn.”

  I nodded toward Gilad. “Anything?”

  He shook his head. “Tight as a tick.”

  I was still marveling at how Solo and I could communicate in few words when Gilad unleashed a raucous guffaw.

  “Trinidad Scorpion Moruga peppers!” he cried out. “I swear, Tita, is there anything you won’t put down your gullet?”

  She shrugged. “Could have had an iPhone if Rylie had gotten me some more milk.”

  I was doubtful. Booth had been a hot wing-eating machine. “Fine. At least let the record show, I sort of took a bottle from a baby,” I said and filled them in. “Come on. Come on. That’s enough laughing. I gave it back.”

  “Empty,” Tita reminded me.

  “Tut, tut,” Gilad said. “Guilt should be nonexistent when the crime is justified.”

  I looked at him. “You believe that?”

  “Yes,” he said straightforwardly.

  I was reminded of his words to Elsa last night at the fundraiser. “Otto isn’t here. He was too chicken shit to show up.” What did Otto have to fear? I wondered. A jealous boyfriend, perhaps? Now that I thought about it. Gilad and Elsa had been arguing a lot lately.

  I looked at Gilad again, frowning, and saw him frowning back. “How’s Elsa?” I asked. “Tita says she went to the ready clinic.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong place for that answer. Ask her,” he said.

  There was a sudden rocking of the table. Solo had shoulder bumped Tita. “You’re off the chain, girl. Thanks for trying to get me an iPhone.”

  She managed a thin smile. “Rylie can be very persuasive,” she said. “Seriously, chica, you oughta go back to sales rep’ing for Coca-Cola. You’ve missed your calling, you know?”

  “Fat chance,” Gilad said. “Hawthorne told me she got fired for drinking Pepsi while calling on Coke customers.”

  I sighed, more dismayed than surprised. Granddad had such a big mouth. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea, having an honest relationship with a senior. It seemed with age came a sort of free rein to tell stories, even a granddaughter’s humiliating blunder.

  “In my defense,” I said, “7-Eleven was out of Coke.”

  Tita rolled her eyes. “I mean, really, what choice did you have?”

  “I can’t look at this fly anymore.” Gilad pushed away the plate. “It’s nauseating, not to mention non-kosher. I think that yenta put it in my blintz on purpose.”

  “Well,” Solo said in a clarifying sort of voice, “you did say something about her not knowing her ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “I was within my rights,” Gilad shrieked, his bony face purpling. “I’m sick of being slighted. No one leaves what is mine alone. Hey, you!” he called to the counter girl. “There’s a disgusting fly in my blintz.”

  “No charge for bugs,” she said.

  “Does that sound like innocence?” Gilad popped up and rushed to the counter. “Young lady, I demand a refund!”

  “I better go referee.” Tita rose. She was a salad bar of conflicting signals,
tough talk, fragility, and protectiveness all assembled in one person for the choosing. “I need a drink anyway. What do you think the chances are of getting a margarita?”

  If only. I handed her a ten from inside my bra.

  She stared at the limp bill. “Ever thought about carrying a purse?”

  I shrugged. “Go ahead, if you want, buy us both a chocolate blintz. Solo, want one?”

  “Ya, mawn.”

  Tita grumbled something about being no one’s damn maid and strode toward Gilad. “Hold up,” she said to the counter girl. “Better watch out, he’s a Nazi hunter, you know?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Holy smokes! Really? You must be a gazillionaire from all the rewards. I mean, it’s totally cool getting rich by tracking down those murderers.”

  A radiant Gilad leaned a hip against the pastry case. “I did okay. Now had I captured Alric Mueller, I would have retired in style. A quarter of million would purchase a lot of Florida sunshine.”

  “I’m sorry about the fly.” The girl then hollered to someone in the kitchen, “One Oy Vey special. We’ve got a Nazi hunter in the house.”

  Several people waiting in line to order food moved in to crowd around Gilad. He regaled them with graphic tales of midnight chases and violent gun battles, his voice loud and swollen with pride. The counter girl was bent over the glass, captivated, a hand to her mouth. And behind the throng, wearing a tired but protective expression, was Tita, even when Gilad finished one story and changed to another.

  “There definitely is good money in hunting Nazis—probably why some do it—I’ve hunted down so many vile ones it’s hard to keep count, so unlucky they were to be in my sights. I’m sure history will show the very mention of my name made many a men quiver,” Gilad said.

  I looked at Solo.

  “Now?” he asked as if reading my mind.

  I nodded.

  He went to work on Booth’s phone as something outside the window caught my eyes. The sun was still low-ish on the horizon, so I had to squint to see through the glare. I was about to pass it off as nothing, when I spied Leland, bondage outfit hidden by a baggy trench coat. He gazed around nervously as he hurried toward a plainclothes car parked at the rear police entrance. At the wheel was Alistair.