I bent over and began cutting away.
“Your daughter have a boyfriend?” she asked, not really paying attention to the Cosmo. “What’s her name again?”
“Jane.” I unclipped another swatch of hair so that it fell down in one loop. “Her boyfriend’s name is G. He wants her to go grape picking in France.”
“Tight.” Sasha gave me a thumbs up in approval. “Sounds like they’re hot ’n heavy.”
I pulled out my razor. “Too hot ’n heavy. Although at her age I was married.”
“Preggers?”
“Yup.” I combed up some hair and began razoring. “One night stand at a fraternity party. Let that be a lesson to you.”
“Oh, I don’t have to worry. Donatello and I don’t have sex. At least,” she crossed her legs, “not, you know, that way. More like in a President Clinton, Monica Lewinsky way.”
Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three. Teenager testing. I dropped the strand and moved onto the next, pretending that I hadn’t heard this classic shocker. “These bangs too short?”
“Just fine.” She eyed me in the mirror to get a bead on whether I was up for another zinger. “You think your daughter is having sex?”
I removed a bobby pin from my mouth. “She tells me she’s not.”
“Then she is.”
“Hmmm.”
“Most of my friends would die rather than tell their mothers they were sleeping around. We’d much rather get on our knees.”
“Ouch.” I had touched the iron to see if it was hot and nearly burned myself. “That sounds uncomfortable.” I clamped a plait of hair in the iron and slid it through. I did not want to imagine Jane on her knees to G. Frankly, Jane was too smart and beautiful and dignified to be on her knees for any man, much less a potbellied couch potato with an addiction to chocolate frosted Pop Tarts.
“It’s safe. Can’t get pregnant and he’s happy. Plus, I get to remain a virgin. Technically.”
“And that’s important?” I moved on to another swath of hair. This was all going to be ruined when she slept, anyway.
“I’ll say it’s important.” Sasha nodded. “Abstinence is very big these days. We all signed abstinence pledges back in ninth grade.” Giggle.
When I was done with her, Sasha looked much the same as when I had arrived, except a few split ends were missing and her hair hung like sheet metal. She seemed not at all interested in the cut she had so desperately desired a half hour before.
“If you want, I can find out for you about Jane. I’m an excellent detective.” Her eyes glistened. Finally, some drama to break the monotony of sitting in a hotel room while her mother gallivanted about. “You wanna give me Jane’s number?”
Might not be a bad idea for Jane and Sasha to get together. Of course, Sasha would drive Jane up a wall, but my motherly instincts told me Sasha wasn’t as blasé about Bud’s death or her mother’s absence as she’d like me to believe. She needed a peer to talk with. A normal teenager with Kool-Aid colored hair and cartilage piercings and a que sera sera attitude about higher education. I wrote down the number and address of the Main Mane and picked up some of the hair.
“Don’t worry, maid service will get it in the morning,” she said. “I never pick up anything. Never have. Never will.”
The phone rang and Sasha rushed to get it. “Donatello? Oh, hi, Mom,” she said with exaggerated disappointment.
I cleaned the vanity and threw the ends in the trash while Sasha answered her mother with clipped yeses and nos.
“That was my Mom,” she said, hanging up. “She won’t be in tonight so I guess that’s ixnay on the intervieway.”
Great. An entire evening wasted. I could have been in bed where my aching body longed to be. Instead I’d cut a rich kid’s hair for free and was made to look like a chump. I gathered my purse and was considering leaving a sharp message for Chrissy Price when I thought better of it. She’d lost her husband this week. This was no time for lectures.
“Maybe I’ll call your daughter tomorrow,” Sasha said at the door. “I can’t take another day in this hotel. I’ve seen the same Sex and the City episode five times.”
In the elevator, I took off my shoes and rubbed my aching feet. When I got back to Roxanne’s I was gonna make me one of those mouthwatering meat-loaf sandwiches on Wonder Bread dripping with mayonnaise and ketchup. Get me a can of Diet Pepsi, a bag of chips and a perfect position in the Barcalounger to watch some brain-numbing television. Most important, I was gonna put my feet up.
“Ah, Miss Yablonsky?” The desk clerk flagged me down as I walked through the lobby. “There’s a message for you.”
Cripes. Probably Hugh McMullen. Back from dinner and anxious to get hold of Stinky. The clerk slid the message over to me. It said simply Meet me in room 315. I’ve got what you want.
“Who’s in room 315?” I asked.
The clerk shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Man or a woman?”
“Man. You’ll just have to take your chances, dear.” The clerk returned to flipping through a Rolodex.
“What am I, James Bond?” I asked, waving the message. “I don’t want to go up to a strange man’s hotel room.”
The clerk glanced up from his filing. “And here I thought you wanted to become a hooker.”
The door to room 315 was slightly ajar when I arrived. I knocked twice and clutched my purse. I’d knock one more time and then leave. With the third knock the door opened wider to a pitch black room. Forget it. No story, no scoop was worth this.
I turned on my heels and was grabbed from behind, a hand over my mouth. The door was kicked shut and my attacker held me firm. Nuh-uh. No way was I going to be attacked. Not before getting the first decent night’s sleep in two days.
I brought up my heel and back kicked him in the nuts. There was an expulsion of air. Oof. As he buckled, his grip loosened enough for me to elbow him hard, yes, in the ribs. Twice for good measure. That self-defense lesson at the YWCA had paid for itself and then some.
He let go and his back hit the wall. I swung my purse and hit the shadow of his head as hard as I could. The purse opened, spilling my wallet and car keys and cosmetics everyplace. I reached inside and pulled out the can of Final Net at the bottom, then gave him a good long spray in the face.
“Take that, you scum.”
“Stop it!” he said, gasping. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I ran my hand over the wall and found the light switch. Stiletto was leaning against the wall, clutching his sides. His hair glistened with fresh shellac. Definitely Mel Gibson in the What Women Want stage.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know it was you.” Then I got ticked. “What was that with the hand over my mouth, anyway? And the darkness?”
“Didn’t you see the candles?” He pointed over to the living room at the rear of the suite. It was filled with candles and fresh flowers. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket next to two crystal flutes.
“But how did you find out I was here?”
“I called Salvo. He told me about your meeting with Hugh McMullen in the chapel and how he was worried that he had upset you by pointing out that stupid photo in the New York Times Style section.” Stiletto coughed and straightened. “I decided it was time I paid you extra attention before you ran off with some brawny coal miner. Though I’m not sure I should try to surprise you anymore.”
Stiletto’s trademark white oxford shirt was unbuttoned. I slid my arms around his neck. He smelled the way I liked him. Ivory soap and freshly ironed cotton.
“I love your surprises,” I whispered. “I’m knocked off my feet.”
“Too late now,” he grumbled, “you’ve ruined it.”
“Oh, have I?” I kissed him right below the ear.
“Lower.”
I kissed him on the neck, by his pulsing carotid.
“Keep going.”
And on his collarbone, parting his shirt to run my lips down his sternum to his navel.
“That’s okay,” he said, closing his eyes in anticipation, “you don’t have to stop.”
“I think before that I deserve some champagne, don’t you?”
“At least.” And he brought me to him, wrapping me in his arms so that his bare chest was hard against mine. “Regarding the New York Times Style section, don’t listen to Tony Salvo, okay?”
“I never listen to editors. You taught me that. Editors are finks.”
He cupped my chin and kissed me long and slow. “Editors are the human equivalent of vampires,” he murmured. “They will suck out every good story idea and every creative approach to getting a good story until you’re nothing but a hack.”
“I like the sucking part, but what does this have to do with us?”
Stiletto led me over to the couch and candles and flowers. He sat me down and unwrapped a ten-year-old bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne. “Newspaper editors also expect the worst out of life. They crave it. They want buildings to burn and people to get shot. Makes their jobs a lot easier. After twenty years of hoping for the worst, they expect the same about people in love. It’s habit.”
I watched as Stiletto expertly tipped the champagne into the glass. How many women had sat next to him with their glasses ready, his shirt open, and their mutual expectations high?
“Bubbles for Bubbles,” Stiletto said, clinking his glass against mine.
The champagne went down cold and delicious. I hadn’t really eaten anything since Mona’s Wonder Gobbler with Slime and knew that I had to watch it. I could get tipsy.
“But, you know, Mr. Salvo does have a point,” I said, placing my glass far away from me on the coffee table.
“I have a point,” Stiletto said, grinning like a schoolboy. “Would you like to see it?”
“I’m sure plenty of other women have.”
“Ouch.” Stiletto sat back. “What’s gotten into you? First you beat me up physically and then you batter me about verbally? What did I do wrong?”
Ran off with Esmeralda Greene for one thing. I kept mum about that, though. Some men, men like Stiletto, do not respond well to what might be misinterpreted as jealousy. It either makes them mad or goes to their heads or both.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t help it that every woman in Slagville from the old ladies sweeping their sidewalks to the clients in Roxanne’s salon drool after you.”
“Bubbles. In case you haven’t noticed,” Stiletto slid his arm along the back of the couch behind me, “men drool after you, too. Do you know what it’s like to walk down a street with Bubbles Yablonsky? I’ve witnessed near car crashes because men behind the wheel cannot keep their eyes on the road when you strut by.”
I leaned forward and took another teensy weensy bit of that champagne. “Go on.”
Stiletto smiled and stroked my chin. “That goes for me, too. It’s all I can do to keep my hands off you when you’re around. We’re in a coal mine after surviving an explosion and I think, ‘I’ve got to kiss her.’ ”
And he did just that, pushing me back on the couch as he did so. “You were lying on the cot when I got out of the mine and the first thought that ran across my mind was, ‘Maybe I can lock the doors and get her alone.’ ”
He bent closer. His blue eyes were no longer twinkling, but piercing. The crow’s feet were deep with age and experience, but every part of him felt strong and hard under my hands. And I mean every part.
“I have got to have you, Bubbles,” he said, his hand sliding over my arms. “I can’t stand it a minute longer. These aren’t just words to get you into bed. This isn’t curiosity. I’ve been through that, Bubbles. I’m done with that. This is—”
I couldn’t take it. I gripped his shoulders and brought him to me. Our tongues entwined, hot and crazy. I kicked off my shoes and wrapped my legs around his calves, sinking deep into the couch. I tore off his shirt and he pulled off mine.
“Christ, Bubbles,” was all he said before letting his head drop to my chest. His lips were maddening, purposefully caressing every spot except that one. I let out a stifled scream as his thumbs explored under my bra and ripped it off. Hooks went flying.
“Yessss,” I hissed.
“I love you,” he said.
Don’t talk, I thought. Don’t stop! The skirt. The skirt. Take . . . off . . . the skirt.
Mind reader that Stiletto has always been, his hands slid up my thighs and then stopped at the very top, his fingers playfully tormenting me. The only satisfaction was in feeling the pressure of his own unleashed desire, which appeared to support Stiletto’s frequent claims of abundance.
Let’s help that boy out. My own fingers worked the belt buckle and slid down the zipper. Naughty, naughty, Stiletto. What was it with him and no underwear? My palms slid underneath his jeans and over his smooth skin and this time it was Stiletto’s turn to moan, “Yesss.”
And that’s when the sirens came. Not portly little Slagville housewives. Real ones. Screaming right outside Stiletto’s window.
“No,” I cried, as Stiletto sat up and cocked an ear.
“Sounds major, Bubbles. Especially considering who’s staying in this hotel.”
He zipped up his jeans and opened the curtains while I adjusted my skirt and pulled on my top without the bra, which lay stretched and ripped on the floor.
Stiletto cranked open a window. I peeked over his shoulder. “Hey, there’s Myron Finkle,” I said, leaning out. Myron was running across the parking lot toward an opened car that was surrounded by two police cruisers and blindingly bright klieg lights. It was a Saab sports car and there was a person in the front seat, slumped over.
Hotel employees were gathering along the side of the lot and other guests were hanging out their windows to watch the action.
“Myron!” I shouted. “Myron, what’s going on?”
Myron stopped running. He pushed up his glasses and waved. “Hi, Bubbles. Can you see anything up there?”
“Cops around a Saab and a man in the front seat. What is it?”
“That’s Hugh McMullen. Someone told me he’s been shot.” There were gasps from the hotel employees and the other guests. “In the head.” And Myron ran off to catch up with the cops, who were taking their own slow time. An ominous signal. If McMullen had been alive, he’d be in an ambulance speeding off to the hospital. But he wasn’t alive. His corpse was merely one part of a crime scene now.
I closed my eyes and murmured a quick prayer, but all I kept thinking was Hugh McMullen dead? My mind raced, leaping from image to image. Hugh nervous at the press conference reading stiffly from a prepared statement. Hugh in the church, rumpled and mad to find Stinky.
Uh-oh, Stinky. If Hugh McMullen was dead, shot like Price, and if McMullen had been Price’s murderer, then what did that mean for Stinky?
“Come on, Bubbles.” Stiletto had his camera equipment together, was dressed and ready to go. “This is going to be another media zoo.”
I slipped into my shoes and pulled out my notebook. I stuffed my broken bra in my purse and gathered up my cosmetics from the floor. We didn’t say anything to each other except bye as I headed out the door to the parking lot.
Sometimes I hate this business. I really do. When you’re a hairdresser and you want to have sex, you just have sex. You don’t have to stop for sirens.
Sasha’s Miracle-Whip Facial (Slightly Improved)
Miracle Whip has less fat than regular mayonnaise and the vinegar in it does wonders for skin. My advice is to apply a thin layer and rub it off before a shower so you don’t smell like chicken salad all day. It really does exfoliate, though, like Sasha says, it is kind of gross.
2 tablespoons Miracle Whip
½ teaspoon ground, uncooked oatmeal
Mix Miracle Whip and oatmeal. Spread thinly on clean, dry face. Leave on for thirty minutes. Wipe off with moistened face-cloth and wash and moisturize as usual.
Chapter 18
The preliminary word from Chief Donohue was that Hugh McM
ullen had committed suicide with a Smith & Wesson to the temple. This did not register with the other reporters, but it certainly registered with me. I suppose if I had been Esmeralda Greene and had been eager to impress the Barbie and Ken of Channel Three, I would have asked at the press conference if that was the same Smith & Wesson that had blown away Bud Price.
But my ego didn’t need stroking. My ego had been stroked enough tonight.
I approached Donohue as he stepped into his cruiser. “Is that the same Smith and Wesson that—?”
“Won’t know until the ballistics tests get back,” he said, sliding his paunch behind the wheel. “But it appears likely. The bullets in Price came from a forty-four magnum S and W revolver and that’s what was in McMullen’s hand tonight.”
I wrote this down. Why was Donohue being so nice to me? Usually cops fresh from a suicide tell reporters to buzz off. Half the time they refuse to release police reports on suicides, even public ones. Gosh. I hoped Donohue’s kindness wasn’t because I didn’t have a bra on.
“You think he shot himself because he was going to be arrested for murder?”
“His lawyer was informed this evening that he had twenty-four hours to bring his client in or we were going to come for him.” Donohue shut the door and leaned out the window. He looked over my shoulder. “Aw, shit. Myron Finkle. That twerp bugs the hell out of me.”
I folded up my notebook.
“What were you and Donohue talking about?” Myron asked after Donohue peeled out of the hotel parking lot.
It was fun to thumb one’s perfectly powdered nose at Channel Three, but Myron was just a kid. He needed a break. “What time do you publish, Myron?”
“I don’t know. I think the paper gets delivered at four a.m. Why?”
“When you get back to the newsroom, give Donohue a call. Ask him about the weapon.”
“The gun McMullen used to shoot himself?” Myron exclaimed. “How come?”
“Shhh.” I put my finger to my lips. News-Nine-All-The-Time walked by, pretending like he wasn’t eavesdropping. “Keep a lid on it, Myron. I’m giving you a tip.”
Myron smiled. “Thanks, Bubbles. No one ever gives me tips. Not even my father and he’s a state trooper.”
Bubbles Ablaze Page 17