by Jana DeLeon
The jeans ripped down my legs like a magician performing a big reveal. A second later, I heard a crash, followed by a thud and a yell, then tumbling and another crash.
I jumped up from the bed and turned to see Ally staring out the bedroom door, one hand over her mouth. Gertie was in a heap in the hallway, the blue jeans completely covering her head. At the bottom of my stairs, Ida Belle used a newel post to pull herself upright.
I rushed out into the hallway and snatched the jeans from Gertie’s face, then scanned her for injuries.
“Is she all right?” Ally asked, leaning over beside me.
“I think she knocked herself out,” I said and started tapping her face with my fingers.
I heard stomping on the stairwell and a couple seconds later, a somewhat disheveled Ida Belle appeared on the landing. “What the hell is going on?”
“Gertie knocked herself out,” Ally explained.
Ida Belle, who was dressed in all black and wearing combat boots, stepped up beside me and peered down at Gertie. “Well, that’s what happens when you run around with blue jeans on your head.”
“She wasn’t doing it on purpose,” Ally said. “We were trying to get the jeans off of Fortune and we might have pulled a little too hard.”
Ida Belle shook her head. “Well, next time, check behind you first. Being knocked down a flight of stairs is never on my list of things to do.” She stalked off into the bathroom and came back with a cup of water that she promptly tossed into Gertie’s face.
Gertie bolted upright, sputtering and sending water droplets spraying. “What happened?”
Ida Belle stared down at her, hands on her hips. “You knocked me down the stairs, you old coot.”
Gertie noticed the cup in Ida Belle’s hand and glared. “Afraid you’re going to break a hip, Methuselah?”
“No. But I might have torn a perfectly good shirt.”
I held up a hand. “We do not have time for a senior citizen insult fight.”
Ida Belle looked me up and down. “Do you plan on putting on pants before we go to the Swamp Bar?”
I realized I was standing there in a hooker top and my underwear. “I’m wearing a skirt, actually.”
“Whatever,” Ida Belle said. “Just put on something or you’ll stand out even more than you already do. Underwear Night is Friday.”
I blanched and headed back into my bedroom to grab the skirt. The words “Underwear Night” and “Swamp Bar” did not belong in the same sentence together. I found myself hoping the underwear part was for the ladies only. Otherwise, good God, the horror.
I pulled on the skirt and took a look in the mirror. It wasn’t quite as small as a headband, but if I bent over, someone would see my weapon. The pistol, that is. I contemplated digging through the clothes pile for something else, but if the clothes had been part of Pansy’s junior high wardrobe, the chances of my locating better coverage were slim to none. At least I could run in the skirt.
Ida Belle and Ally had gotten Gertie into a standing position, and I sat down on the edge of the bed to buckle myself back into the death shoes.
“You’re late,” Gertie said. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waxing that car again.”
Ida Belle’s Corvette was a source of contention between Ida Belle and most everyone who’d ever gotten in the way of what she considered her best relationship. After my disastrous trash bag ride, I would be the first to admit that the thought of the Vette did not inspire good feelings. But we had already decided that speed might be a necessity if things went south, which put Gertie’s ancient Cadillac and my Jeep out of the running and left Ida Belle’s Corvette as my ride for the evening.
“I sold the Corvette.”
“What?” “No way!” “Seriously?”
We all spoke at once, and I bolted up from the bed, grabbing on to Ally as my feet threatened to fall out of my shoes. “When did this happen?” I asked.
“Yesterday,” Ida Belle said. She scanned our faces. “What? I’ve been saying I was going to sell the car. I thought you’d all be happy?”
Gertie shot me an apprehensive look. “I guess I never figured you’d really do it.”
Ida Belle shrugged. “It was a great car, but I didn’t find it exciting any more. It was time to try something new.”
An uneasy feeling ran through me. Ida Belle was dangerous enough in the Corvette. The thought of her navigating a new vehicle on the narrow, curvy road to the Swamp Bar, especially if high speeds were required, didn’t leave me with a good visual.
“So what did you replace it with?” I asked, already sure I wasn’t going to like the answer.
Ida Belle grinned. “A motorcycle.”
Chapter Ten
Gertie’s jaw dropped and Ally’s hand flew up to cover her mouth.
“You’re joking,” I said.
Ida Belle gave me a dirty look. “No, I’m not joking. What? You think I can’t handle a motorcycle? I’ll have you know I was a pretty good off-road rider in my day.”
I immediately saw two problems with her last statement. One, we were supposed to be on the road. And two, “in my day” was not something that yielded confidence when the woman making the statement was as old as the dirt she used to ride on.
“You’re supposed to be giving me a lift to the Swamp Bar, remember?”
“Of course I remember. I’m not senile. Are you telling me you’re scared of motorcycles?”
I shook my head. “It’s not the motorcycle that concerns me.”
“You need a way in and out of the Swamp Bar. If things go south, a motorcycle is the best bet for speed and maneuverability.”
It wasn’t that I disagreed with her, exactly. But the number of things I could see going wrong with this situation was so large that I couldn’t even wrap my mind around it.
“Bottom line,” Ida Belle said. “It’s either my motorcycle, Gertie’s Cadillac, or your Jeep.”
“You could use my car,” Ally said.
“You’re a nice girl to even offer,” Ida Belle said, “but I don’t want a Ford Escort to be the thing I’m depending on to get me to safety.”
“What about my boat?” Ally suggested.
I perked up. The Swamp Bar sat right on the bayou. A boat would be a much better option than playing Evel Knievel with Ida Belle.
Gertie shook her head. “As much as I hate to say it, a boat won’t work. Walter said the dock at the Swamp Bar is being rebuilt, and you’d never make it up the bank walking.”
“Especially in those shoes,” Ally agreed. “Those heels would sink down into the mud and it would harden around them like concrete. They’d probably have to rebuild the dock right on top of you.”
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll take the motorcycle.”
I grabbed my nine-millimeter and a thigh strap from my nightstand and waved them out of my room. “Let’s get this over with.”
###
If I didn’t need therapy before I got on the motorcycle, I was pretty sure I needed it now. I don’t know what I’d expected—maybe a Harley—but what sat in my driveway was a dual-sport bike. One of those that could be ridden on or off road. Given that the road was the only solid piece of ground running to and from the Swamp Bar, I found the off-road option a little more than disconcerting.
Then the real fun began.
Ida Belle handed me a helmet that I think I’d seen in a black-and-white movie the week before. “No visor?” I asked.
“You’re sitting behind me,” Ida Belle said. “That will be fine.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I grabbed the straps and placed the helmet on top of my hair. It took me pulling and Gertie and Ally pushing to get the helmet down far enough to buckle, but no way was I riding without one. This one may have come over on Noah’s Ark, but it was still better than nothing. I shuddered to think what my hair would look like when we got to the bar. Probably like one of those Albert Einstein posters. Once the helmet was in place, I used Gertie and Ally as balancing posts and swung a high-
heeled leg over the seat, then they arranged the toes of my shoes on the foot pegs.
Despite my earlier objection, I decided my boobs were the best carrying option for my pistol, at least until we got to the bar, so I wrapped the holster around my biceps and shoved the gun into the middle of my cleavage. Ally’s lips quivered but no one was foolish enough to laugh at an irritated woman packing a pistol in her boobs.
“You talked to Myrtle?” I asked Gertie.
“Yes,” she said. “She’s working dispatch until midnight. If any calls come in about the Swamp Bar, she’ll call me and I’ll figure out a rescue option.”
“Great,” I said, with a lot more enthusiasm than I felt. This entire plan was so full of holes it wouldn’t hold water.
Ida Belle had already donned her helmet and a black leather jacket, complete with a Sons of Anarchy patch. “Ready?” she asked.
“As ready as I’m getting.”
She dropped the visor on her helmet. “Good enough for me.”
She fired up the motorcycle and revved the engine. It was so loud I was certain it rattled the windows on every house on the block. I wrapped my arms around her thin frame, she put the bike in gear, and off we went.
I’ll be the first to admit that I rode the first block with my eyes closed. If I was going to die, I didn’t see any point in seeing it coming. It was one of those areas where I felt ignorance was bliss. When a bit of time passed and we didn’t hit the skids, I opened one eye and saw we’d made it safely down the block. Considering it was better than I’d expected, I decided to give both eyes open a whirl and took in a wide-angle view just as we pulled onto Main Street.
The sound of the engine alone had everyone on the sidewalk turning to look, although with our helmets and completely odd clothes, I doubt anyone recognized us. If anything, they probably all thought some skinny dude had picked up a hooker.
Ida Belle surprised me by maintaining a reasonable speed and executing good control over the motorcycle. In fact, the highway riding was almost pleasant. And then we turned off the paved road.
The road to the Swamp Bar was basically a narrow path of dirt and rocks that wound through the bayou. In some places, it wasn’t even wide enough for two cars to pass each other, explaining the partially submerged automobiles that littered each side of the road. The road was also covered with potholes—some only big enough to provide a jolt up my spine, others big enough to disappear in. Ida Belle wove in and out of the big ones, seeming to hit every single small one on the road. I was fairly certain she shook loose a filling or two.
It was dusk when we pulled into the Swamp Bar parking lot, which was essentially one big patch of dirt that was either dry or muddy, depending on the weather. Ida Belle parked at the far end of the space, near the bayou and on the other side of a van. The light from the bar didn’t extend to where we were, so no one inside would be able to see us. The van blocked us from the view of people pulling into the lot.
I did a quick check of the van to make sure it was empty and not a roving meth lab or something equally as dangerous, and grimaced when I saw two child seats in the second-row bench. I hoped they, at least, had one responsible parent at home. People who showed up at the Swamp Bar weren’t usually part of Sinful’s most reputable. Showing up before dark added a whole level of unsuitable to the mix.
“Do you see Floyd’s truck anywhere?” I asked.
Ida Belle shook her head. “No, but it’s a bit early.”
There were twenty or so vehicles in the parking lot. I knew from my last visit that there would be three times that once the place was hopping. “Should I wait for more people to show up?”
It was a catch-22. If I went in while it was quiet, I’d draw more attention, but not the kind I was looking for. If the place was busy and everyone had belted back a few, they wouldn’t care as much when a stranger walked in. If it was quiet and people were still sharp, they might take a closer look and realize they’d seen me before. Things would go further downhill if they recognized me as a friend of Carter’s.
“I think it will be easier to blend if there’s more people inside,” Ida Belle said.
“Okay, but I’m taking off this helmet.”
Ida Belle nodded. “You can certainly try.”
I unhooked the helmet strap and pulled the helmet up. It didn’t budge. I yanked harder and only succeeded in wrenching my neck. “A little help, please?”
Ida Belle motioned for me to bend over and she grabbed the helmet. With her pulling and me pushing, it finally popped off my head. Ida Belle took one look at me and started laughing. I reached up with one hand and met with hair a good two feet from my head.
I bent over to take a look at my hair in the mirror on the motorcycle handlebars, but the mirror was too small to see much. I rose up and twisted the side mirror on the van and gasped. My hair stood straight out as though I’d stuck a fork into a 220-volt plug.
I pressed my hand on the top of the hair, trying to push it flat. “I’ve got to get this down.”
“It would take a downpour and weights to accomplish that,” Ida Belle said.
“I don’t have weights and I’m not standing here until a downpour passes by.”
Ida Belle shrugged. “There’s always the bayou.”
“You want me to stick my head in the bayou?”
“Jesus, do I have to think of everything?” She bent over and grabbed an empty soda bottle from the ground, then stomped over to the bayou and filled it with dirty, icky swamp water. When she walked back over to me, bottle in hand, I shook my head.
“No way,” I said. “You’re not putting that stinky water on my hair.”
“It’s either this or you go in looking like a porcupine hooker.”
Crap.
“Okay, but just pour a little in my hands and I’ll try to pat it down.”
She gave me a skeptical look, but dumped some of the dirty water into my hands. I tried not to think about what was in it as I flopped my hands on the top of my head and rubbed the hair down. “Is that better?” I asked.
“Better than what?”
“Than before.”
“I suppose it will have to do.”
I leaned over and looked in the van mirror again. My hair was still poofier than it had been after Gertie finished with it, but I had cut it down in volume by at least a third.
“Here comes the crowd,” Ida Belle said and pointed over the hood of the van.
I peered around and saw a line of headlights coming toward the bar. “It looks like a funeral procession.”
“That’s probably the regulars, so same difference, really.”
I watched as the vehicles pulled into the parking area, switching off in different directions to park. Burly middle-aged men and the occasional sleazily dressed woman climbed out of cars and trucks and headed straight for the bar.
“I didn’t see Floyd in the mix,” I said.
“Me either. Now that more people showed up, it’s probably a good idea for you to get in there before Floyd arrives. People aren’t likely to talk about him if he’s sitting in there with them.”
“Maybe I can get the skinny on Floyd from the others, and if he shows up, I might be able to find out more.”
Ida Belle pointed her finger at me. “If he shows up, you get the hell out of there before he realizes you’re one of the people who tore his fence down.”
The mental image of the giant leaping cat and my torn T-shirt flashed through my mind. “You’re probably right.” I unwrapped the holster from my arm and secured it around my thigh, then pulled my pistol out of my cleavage and tucked it into the holster.
“Am I good?” I asked.
“Not if you bend over, or maybe even sneeze.”
“I’ll be sure not to do either.”
“I wouldn’t breathe too deeply, either,” Ida Belle said. “You’ve got your phone, right?”
I grabbed the tiny purse at the end of the gold cross-body chain hanging over me and pulled out my phone. “It�
�s all that would fit in this completely useless purse. One bar for service. That’s not exactly encouraging.”
“Typical this far out in the swamp. Don’t worry about it. I’m going to move the motorcycle to that small spot of grass over near the front door. I brought a ball cap and a pack of cigarettes. I’ll stand around the edge of the porch and keep watch. If anything goes down, make a break for the door. I’ll be ready to go.”
“You took up smoking?”
“No. I took up blending with this crowd. Standing outside for a smoke doesn’t attract attention.”
“Good plan.” I tucked my phone back in the purse, pulled down my skirt, and pushed up my boobs, then carefully picked my way across the parking lot in those god-awful heels.
I’d made it halfway to the bar when Ida Belle called out, “The bar closes at two a.m. In case you want to pick up the pace.”
“Smart-ass,” I grumbled as I forced myself into a faster wobble.
Fortunately, the owners of the Swamp Bar were not only disreputable but cheap, and the flooring on the entire front porch and inside was sheets of plywood. That gave me long stretches of flat board to balance on and I managed a more natural-looking walk as I strolled to the front door.
I paused a couple of seconds at the threshold and took a deep breath before shoving the door open and stepping inside. A second later, a tidal wave of cold water hit me in the face, completely drenching me. I heard a cheer inside the bar as I sputtered and wiped at my eyes with my fingers.
“You idiot,” the bartender yelled. “Throw the water on the chest, not the face, or they’ll get all upset over your ruining their makeup.”
Directly in front of me stood a man holding an empty bucket—I assumed the source of my current soaking-wet status. He stared at my chest and yelled back at the bartender. “They’s so big, they’re up next to her face. Can’t aim that narrow with a bucket.”
“Why are you throwing water in the first place?” I asked,
The bartender pointed to a wall behind him with a list of events. Next to Wednesday, in barely legible handwriting, were the words “Wet T-Shirt Contest.”
Oh hell no.