Nicolette: Whoa whoa, hold up—I’m not ‘Sam’s’ angel. I’m my angel. And I’m not an angel! Stop putting women up on some pedestal where we’re supposed to be simultaneously pure, yet hot for the male gaze.
Ellen: Who are you talking to?
Nicolette: Samantha! Pull your head out of your butt when you fantasize about us being undercover spies.
Angle On: Samantha, Ellen and Nicolette, collectively known as Three Independent And Strong Women Who Fight Crime On Their Own Terms Under The Direction Of No Man. Their hair blows in the breeze that appears to be originating from nowhere. They are dressed in unisex camouflage fatigues.
Nicolette: Better. Not catchy, but better.
Samantha: Thanks. All right, TIASWWFCOTOTUTDONM ladies! Let’s search Taylor Monroe’s apartment for the secret thing.
Angle On: Samantha poses with her hip cocked, and her hands also cocked into finger guns. Ellen crouches and does a barrel roll across the carpet. The music swells. Nicolette rolls her eyes and walks away.
Nicolette: You two just see rainbows and unicorns wherever you go, don’t you?
Ellen: Not everywhere.
Angle On: Samantha raises both eyebrows at Ellen.
Ellen: Okay, everywhere.
Angle on: The TIASWWFCOTOTUTDONM Team skulks around the dark, empty house, searching for clues. Their hair still blows, even though it’s getting in their mouths and is pretty annoying at this point. They find a dodo bird in a cage, and a map that says ‘Noah’s Ark’ on it with an X.
Samantha: Huh. Jersey? I wouldn’t have thought the Ark was there.
Nicolette: It’s probably been turned into a tanning salon.
Angle On: Sam dressed in black leather hot-pants and a tight tank top. His hair cannot blow in the mysterious breeze, but his legs twitch buffly. He leaps into the study where the three ladies are and lands in a defensive position.
Sam: Hey! When did we change the uniform?
Samantha: Yeah—sorry. We’re not your angels anymore.
Sam: When were any of you angels? I wish you’d have told me—do you have any idea what leather shorts do to balls?
Ellen: I can die happy without that information. So… What is Taylor hiding?
Nicolette holds up a cup she finds on the desk.
Nicolette: Besides this ancient golden chalice that has the name ‘Jesus’ on it?
Sam: We should grab that just in case.
The three women glare at him.
Sam: Come on—there’s no man in the world who hasn’t wanted to be Indiana Jones!
Angle On: Taylor Monroe bursts through the door of the study. The TIASWWFCOTOTUTDONM Team leaps into action. Literally. They leap across the room to land four deep on top of the bearded asshole.
Taylor: I had a dream like this once, you luscious crime-fighters. Although I like his outfit best.
Sam: Thanks. That compliment totally makes up for the two times you tried to murder me.
Ellen: Ew. This guy is the human equivalent of bed bugs.
The three women bind Taylor’s hands and shove him into a chair.
Samantha: Give it up, Taylor! What…are you hiding? What…is the secret of your vast wealth? What…is your favorite color?
Taylor: I’m hiding the fact that I’m tremendously insecure and selfish in bed. The secret of my vast wealth is inheritance from a long line of robber barons despite the fact that I tell myself I earned it all via bootstraps. My favorite color is recycled barn wood brown.
Angle On: Samantha grabs the ‘Jesus’ cup and menaces Taylor with it. He shrinks away in horror.
Samantha: You’re not telling us the whole story! I appreciate your honesty about your inadequacies, but we all had pretty much guessed those.
Nicolette: Yup.
Ellen: Pathetic.
Taylor: All right! All right! I’ll tell you what I make money on.
Everyone leans in.
Taylor: It’s Brony merchandise from China.
Sam: What?
Taylor: My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic knockoffs. I love that show! I have quite a tidy business selling rainbow horse outfits for men sewn by Chinese toddlers. These horses—my bro-nys, if you will—they’re the only ones who understand me.
Angle On: The TIASWWFCOTOTUTDONM Team gapes.
Taylor: Sam, you would look seriously good in these pink ponytails we just got in.
Sam: Wait, ponytails for the hair? Or pony…tails, for the—?
Samantha: Team TIASWWFCOTOTUTDONM, I suggest we arrest him, take long decontamination showers, and forget this ever happened.
Ellen and Nicolette: Agreed.
Angle On: Samantha punches Taylor in the face. He screams and falls clear off his chair.
Samantha: That’s for the Samnesia! And take a bath, hippie.
* * * *
I guess Ellen’s undercover mojo was particularly full of both mo and jo, for not three days later she’d been hired—owing to a lucky accidental pregnancy for one of Taylor’s favorite maids, ugh, to work in Taylor Monroe’s swingin’ pad. My bestie already hated the manual labor, and had invited us over for an impromptu get-together post-haste. It was the night before I would begin my film shoot with Taylor, and he and Billie had stepped out for the evening to do whatever aging hipsters do. Comb each other’s beards? Ha ha, no—combed hair is for squares.
Ellen snuck us in the service entrance, which I made a big show of objecting to, seeing as how I was a movie stah.
“Shut up, you low-budget Aniston,” was Ellen’s reply.
Sam and I had brought our own gloves—experience, y’all—and also pairs for Nicolette and Ellen. Nicolette owned cop gloves, but we all decided that if we were caught, we totally shouldn’t advertise her place in law enforcement. Before we got started, Ellen put drinks and snacks in the living room to make the party appear legit while Sam combed the place with his bug-detecting software. Ellen had sworn that there were no cameras, and that the only other live-in helper, the chef, was not an issue tonight.
After Sam had declared the place bug-free, we gathered in the living room. Sam suggested we hit the study first, but he told us to keep the lights off. We proceeded in, just as I had guessed we would. Although we did not, in fact, find the Holy Grail. At least not right away—the night was young. The group looked to Sam for direction—even Nicolette, albeit begrudgingly. A shiver of excitement lit up my insides, and I said to him, “Where should we start?”
Sam bit his lip and peered around the room. Ellen started to wander, but he held her back. Wordlessly, he walked to the desk, upon which a laptop sat. He took a roll of electrical tape from his pocket, tore off a strip, then slowly affixed it to the front of the computer from behind. “Camera,” he explained.
Wow—secret agent man! It was hot.
“Locked files first. Keep an eye out for drawers that are shallower than they appear from the outside.”
“False bottoms?” Ellen asked.
“Yes. Watch for keys taped to bottoms or sides. Financial records and stuff like that should be photographed—we’ll comb through them later.”
“Let’s do it!” I said entirely too loudly.
After a bunch of ‘shhhhhhh!’s, we got to work.
The adrenaline chased around my body like Wile E. Coyote as I sorted through drawers—papers, magazines, reviews and a handgun that shot my anxiety up to eleven. Eventually, though, an hour passed and none of us had found what we were looking for, which was… Who the hell knew?
Ellen and Nicolette moved on to other parts of the apartment while Sam stuck with me in the office. I sighed and said, “It would be nice if he had a file marked ‘goons’ or ‘how I make the money I launder’.”
He flashed me a smile as he continued copying files from Taylor’s laptop. He’d brought a handy gizmo that magically guessed passwords. Good thing I didn’t keep secrets from him.
“He’s writing a new movie,” Sam said.
“Yeah, I think I’ll maybe not put in a bid for that one
, seeing as you only have one head.”
“And I appreciate that.”
The computer files nice and stolen, we searched other rooms and hallways until we found a locked door. Locked door made Sam très happy. He picked the lock lickety-split—no memory problems there—and a cool gust of air conditioning greeted us. It was a large hallway—maybe originally a laundry room, but now filled with paintings draped in dust cloths leaning against both walls. My stomach flippy-flopped, and we looked one another in the eyes. He grabbed the back of my neck to pull me in for a passionate kiss. Thieving always got his blood up. I remembered another room full of art, the chilled air, and his mouth on mine. My predilection for following him into locked rooms full of priceless beauty had led me down the path.
His fast lop-lock turned serious, and he circled his other hand around my waist to pull me closer. I looped my arms around his neck. Damn, he was already hard, his lips druggingly soft on mine, stirring feelings that had nothing to do with breaking, but everything to do with entering.
“The air raid sirens! Get underground! Get underground!”
The voice came from behind us, and we jumped around so fast we nearly toppled a large, no doubt massively expensive piece of art.
I found a place on the wall to brace myself and faced the person who’d discovered us… a little old lady in a long lilac nightgown. Who stared through us with limpid brown eyes. In a wheezy, kindly British accent straight out of central casting, she said, “They haven’t bombed us out yet, those Nazi bastards! We’ll show them!” Then she cackled wildly and left the room.
I turned slowly to my paramour. He turned slowly to me. As one confused body, we closed the art room door behind with a quiet click, then followed the woman into the kitchen. A whiff of rose petals lingered where our new friend had been.
Old Lady tottered to the sink and ran the water. “I’ll make tea!” She stood and stared at the faucet, making no move to get a kettle. “Tea always calms the nerves. It’ll be over soon.”
Sam began backing away, down the hall that led to the rest of the house. I followed. We found Ellen and Nicolette in the living room, on the couch, not searching for anything. Well, they were searching, but what they wanted could only be found under a shirt.
Sam and I would never behave so irresponsibly during a secret mission. Perhaps we needed to go over the TIASWWFCOTOTUTDONM Team operations manual.
“Ahem, Ellen?” Sam said.
They jumped apart. “H— Hi!” she returned, overly brightly. “We haven’t found anything.”
“You sure about that? Anyhoo—there’s an old woman in the kitchen who believes we’re being invaded by Nazis.”
“Shit! She should be sleeping!”
I leaned onto the arm of the couch. “I think she is. Who?”
Ellen scratched her arm and managed to look sheepish. I almost yanked out my phone and took a picture, as this phenomenon was rarer than Halley’s Comet. “She’s their chef.”
The thin strains of a song about a soldier and the woman waiting at home for him wafted from the kitchen. It didn’t sound too bad for a loopy old lady.
Sam nodded and sat in a chair opposite Ellen, his elbows on his knees. “Uh-huh. And you said she wasn’t an issue.”
“I ground up a prescription sleeping pill and put it in her Ovaltine.”
“Oh, my God!” I punched her in the arm. “You dosed her? She looks to be ninety!”
“Eighty-something. She’s Taylor’s grandma.”
“What?” yelled all three of us who weren’t Ellen, the grandma-drugger.
“Yeah.” She sank farther into the couch, and also her shame. “He pays her next to nothing, but she thinks he’s wonderful because she’s not living in the home anymore. Her cooking is seriously amazing, even though he demands that everything be organic and gluten-free, and she doesn’t know what those are. He’s not allergic or anything, so I don’t tell on her.”
I said, “But Taylor has all this money. Surely some of it must be hers.”
Sam put his face in his hands. Nicolette shook her head.
Grandma the Impoverished Chef wandered into the doorway and said, “They sounded the all-clear! Anyone want to go to the movies? There’s a new Jane Russell. I just think she’s so lovely! What a set of tits.”
Ellen jumped to her feet. “Let’s go back to bed, Margery. But we’re totally gonna watch The Outlaw tomorrow night when Taylor and Billie go out for their weekly enemas.”
“I hate that woman he married. She’s mean to me. And crazy! She talks to people who aren’t there!” Margery cackled and took Ellen’s hand.
They retired to the back of the apartment, Ellen smiling guiltily the whole time. Grandma’s parting shot was, “Billie’s tits are just terrible!”
The three of us left in the living room struggled not to laugh. It was a valiant effort.
After a minute or so, Nicolette, her mouth hanging wide open, looked to Sam. “You think she’s going to remember us tomorrow?”
“Doubtful. She appeared to be sleep-walking.”
I said, “Sleep-reliving World War II more like.”
“Sleep-reliving bombshells of the 40s. Jane Russell was stacked.” Sam’s dimple certainly appreciated Ms Russell’s assets. “Either way, we’re outta here. You two really found nothing?”
Nicolette shook her head. “Not a damn thing, except that he’s into some really weird Norwegian fish-spanking porn from the 80s that he keeps on VHS. You got his computer, though?”
“Yeah. I’ll make a copy of the files and send them to you. Nothing immediately jumped out. Are you okay?”
The lovely cop nodded. “It makes me sad that Taylor’s grandma went to the movies and lusted after Jane Russell in secret.”
I sat beside her and gave her a hand squeeze. “Hopefully she’ll meet her in heaven.”
“Fish-spanking porn?” Sam asked, his face as confused as when he tried to remember our wedding day. “Do they spank the fish…or do they use the fish as a spanking implement?”
My mouth fell into lines of ick. “If this is anything more than horrified curiosity, we’re getting a divorce.” I scratched my arm and pondered. “But how can you spank a fish if it has no butt?”
Nicolette’s eyebrows raised to the ceiling. “You want me to go get it for you? There is not enough tequila in the world to make me watch Fisken Porno Seks.”
Sam bit back a smile that held only a shadow of apology. Men. “I’m not ready to divorce the wife I just met, so no, thank you. This break-in was a bust. Let’s find a bar, and I’ll buy you a drink for having learned the words Fisken Porno Seks.”
So we did.
Later that night, too late for the morning table read I needed to be sharp and looking younger than I am for, Sam joined me in bed. He wore only striped boxer briefs and a dirty grin. He crawled in and sat up on one elbow to look down at me, seduction in his wicked brown eyes. “What’s your best guess as to what Taylor’s up to?”
Ah, not seduction. I’d forgotten that the game being afoot also lit him up like a fourth of July sparkler. “He’s trading arms with Somalia? He’s selling old space shuttles to the Martians?”
“Yeah—that guy would definitely betray all humans.” He took my hand in his and held it against his chest, but made no move to grind on me.
It was a gesture of affection, not humping, and made my tired heart glow. I could nearly see my loving feelings glittering in the air. “It’s definitely to do with art, though. I need to get back in that room.”
I sat straight up. “Not without me, you don’t. If they bash your head in again, they’re gonna bash mine, too.”
“That’s a good solution.”
“Swear to me you won’t do this alone.” I was suddenly desperate and breathless, all the terror of being in that hospital crowding my senses and suffocating them.
He took me by the shoulders and guided me to a supine position once again. He rubbed my upper arm, the motion almost ticklish, but also soothing and w
arm. “I did, perhaps, grab something from the house that I think warrants some thorough investigation.”
“What?” He had not promised. Sneaky little shit.
“It’s shocking. There are some pretty amazing things that will be revealed to us.”
I yanked my arm away from his lulling caresses and popped up onto my elbow to face him full on. “What? What!”
He lifted the universal remote and pressed a couple of buttons. A series of clicks and whirs sounded from the direction of the plasma TV hanging on the bedroom side wall in the sitting area we had over there. A flicker of static, then the words Fisken Porno Seks flashed on the screen in cheesy, hot-pink 80s lettering.
“Am I having a stroke?” I asked him.
“A stroke…of sexiness.”
I fell onto my back, laughing to the point of wheezing. “I am not watching fish porn!”
“I don’t think anyone has sex with the fish. I hope. Now, come here and behave.”
He actually picked me up and threw me across the bed until we lay on our bellies facing the TV and its horrible message. Terrible keyboard music had begun, and the plasma revealed a blonde woman. She had boobs the size of cantaloupes and a likely host of back problems. Those tits defied gravity to the point of disproving Newton.
She appeared to be some sort of cook in an enormous mansion. Her outfit, consisting entirely of giant chef hat, white half-apron made of chiffon, and electric purple spike heels, did not seem to be a safe one for the culinary arts. I stared on in horrid fascination as she took a giant fish out of the refrigerator and slapped it on the island counter.
I buried my eyes in my arms. “I’m afraid.”
“You’re supposed to be turned on,” he assured me as his hand landed firmly on my pajama-clad backside. And stayed.
The Wrath of Dimple Page 11