Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  Pretty girls get preferential treatment and men are pigs. “Not much call for a communications major here,” The service manager said, sweeping his arm across acres of unsold automobiles. He pulled a card from his wallet, handed it to Honey. “My brother’s an event coordinator, works the Strip. Go see him. There’s plenty of opportunities for good looking gals in Vegas.”

  When Honey and Mags arrived at the brother’s office they found an assortment of young women in dark glasses wearing too much makeup and too little clothing. They were lined up on straight back chairs outside a door with a star over the name Wes Barr. Waiting to See The Man. They found seats, and Honey asked a twenty-something woman she realized was forty-something after closer inspection, “What does an Event Coordinator do?”

  “Hooks you up with guys looking for a good time. Ones, you hope, are high rollers, big tippers in town for all kinds of fun.” She paused long enough to pop a Chiclet in her mouth. “Wes runs an escort service.” She glanced at Mags, busy with an electronic game. “Cute kid. She part of your shtick ?”

  “How much does this escort job pay?”

  “Two, three hundred a night. More, if you’ll do anal.”

  The seven foot tall man in the drum major’s costume said no one under eighteen in the casino and she said I’m looking for the employment office and he pointed to the bank of elevators and told her Department of Human Resources is on the Mezzanine.

  That’s where Honey told a whiskey-voiced woman she was last year’s Miss Ole Miss, Featured Cheerleader three years in a row, and majored in Communications.

  “How tall are you?”

  “Five ten.”

  “Let’s see your legs.” Honey lifted her dress thigh high. “Higher, and turn around.” The woman handed Honey a single sheet of paper, pointed at a desk in the corner. “Fill this out. No drugs, no soliciting. Dancers start at six-fifty a week, three shows a night. Go down to the casino level, park your kid in the day care behind the Cafe Olé Buffet, and find Max at the Stage Door Canteen.” The woman waved a hand at the colorful posters adorning the walls. “He’s the choreographer for all three of our shows. Zombie Burlesque, Sexxy Topless Reduxx, and Menopause the Musical.”

  Six weeks later her engine was rebuilt, they were living in a residential hotel, and Honey was breaking into the infomercial game. She joined SAG, the Screen Actor’s Guild, and started out in the audience, oohing and ahhing at the miraculous transformation of the girls with speaking parts, showing off their ‘After’ faces, bodies, or skin, depending on the product. For which she was paid the minimum, $478 a day.

  The camera loved her, and when she learned that ‘Before’ pictures are Photoshop inventions she could buy for a hundred bucks, she started getting some ‘After’ work, paying scale, $4200 for a two-day shoot.

  Honey shook off the Blast from the Past daydream, and focused on the Here, Now, and Tomorrow. All of her old infomercial DVDs were in the box. She’d been embarrassed to let Mac watch them, but he thought they were cool, was captivated by her stories about the amount of time and number of people it took to create a half hour sales pitch. But wait! Call now, and we’ll double the order, just pay shipping and handling. Call now!

  Not all that different, he said, from the smoke and mirrors involved in getting government contracts. Give a little, get a lot.

  She'd been doubly-blessed, and she thanked the Lord; endowed with a body lusted after by both sexes, the one to have, and the other to hold. Each CD was labeled with the product name and date.

  Stairway to Heaven. An exercise machine that plays gospel rock with a catchy beat, gets the pulse pounding as you climb toward the Lord or an endorphin buzz, depending on your spiritual and physical conditioning.

  The Ab-So-Lutely Abs, a beach ball with handles, and with a different video was sold on the Adult Channel. She’d declined to even read the script for that one; a girl had to have some standards, and that early in her career she didn’t want to be typecast.

  The Slim Down Latex Belly Band. “Oh, is that a Country Rock group?” Slim Downs being a big star on the Rodeo circuit, back when her ex was wearing clown makeup, and diving into barrels.

  Slim’s big number was the National Anthem, sung on horseback while twirling a lariat. The man saw himself as the second coming of Will Rogers. Too bad nobody in Biloxi knew who the first one was, American History not being a hot subject in the school system. Turned out, the Latex Belly Band came and went as fast as Slim Downs.

  There it was, a blue trifold document with ‘Last Will and Testament” in bold letters.

  —o—

  Halfway to Washington the limo driver raised the partition separating him from the Nags, Pinkos, and Twats in the passenger compartment. The increasingly-abusive limericks were drowning out his favorite hate-radio host. As a God-Fearing ditto head he was infuriated that a bunch of tree hugging atheistic peaceniks could afford a stretch limo. They probably robbed a bank; the butch bitch paid him out of a wad of hundreds still in a bank wrapper.

  The robbery scenario was reinforced when he stopped in front of the Rayburn House Office Building, and the pink-haired lesbo told him to, “Circle the block like a vulture, we’ll text when we need you.” She grinned. “You ever drive a getaway car?”

  While her five friends cruised the halls, heckling legislators and shooting selfies, Mags found the office of Congressman Sheldon Varnish. She told a wide-eyed blonde not much older than herself she wanted to see her congressman, but did not mention the magic words 'campaign contribution'.

  She wanted to see the man without his greedy face in place, and assumed her birth father's name. Daddy Mac said to measure a man, watch how he acts when he thinks you can't do anything for him.

  The name Magnolia Scayles did not ring a bell when Debbie Melon, Congressman Varnish's Legislative Assistant, whispered it in his ear. He leaned past Debbie and checked out the pink-haired girl in his doorway. Not too bad, if you liked 'em buff.

  When Mags told him she was Honey Poitrine's daughter Congressman Varnish smiled wide, and halfway rose out of his chair.

  He gave Debbie a beat it jerk of his head, and extended his hand across his desk to the teenager in the double-breasted suit. His distaste for her hair dissolved when he saw the bank-strapped bundle of bills.

  Congressman Sheldon 'Shelly' Varnish was never too busy to meet with a constituent, especially one carrying cash. Untraceable cash. His mouth watered, and he swallowed rather than drooled, as Mags wet a thumb and slowly counted out twenty three hundred dollars.

  It disappeared into his desk drawer as he eyed the remaining hundred-dollar bills. “Did I mention I have a PAC? That's a political action committee, dear. There's no limit to the amount that can be donated to it. Just as there is no limit what a congressman can do for a constituent.”

  Mags had watched her mother operate for the past eighteen years, from the time Honey chose formula over mother's milk, because she knew what the wear and tear of nursing does to your tits, to parking little Magnolia in serial daycare, while she made infomercials. Mags could do an impression of her mother that would rate a cameo appearance on late-night TV, if Honey were famous enough to warrant one.

  So she slowly ran her tongue across her upper lip, until it glistened with saliva. “And there's no limit to what a constituent can for her congressman.” Mags paused. “But let's first let's see which way the wind blows.”

  In a pathetic attempt to schmooze this girl—he had teenage daughters of his own, and was clueless as to what makes them tick—he asked if spiked, pink hair was the latest rage in his district. Whenever he traveled home he confined his visits to the Rotary, Lions, and Optimists, because that's where the campaign donations were harvested.

  Daddy Mac told her this pig was the one who brought home the bacon, and Mags saw Code Pink was a non-starter, so she threw a load of bullshit at him.

  “It's very big in Russia right now, sir. As a solidarity protest with Pussy Riot. You should get a spot on the Foreign Relation Co
mmittee. Broaden your horizons.”

  She sensed she was dealing with a man who would stoop to pick up a penny, so she added, “They do a lot of fact-finding travel to exotic places, and tend to schedule the trips to warm places during our winters.”

  —o—

  Honey drummed scarlet nails on the bank box. So Mac hadn’t changed his mind or his will. Yet. She tucked the document back under the stack of DVDs, and glanced at the piece de resistance. The Magic Ladder System. The one that got her out of Vegas.

  They were in the Mojave, shooting location B-roll, when Honey noticed a wizened old man hanging around, schmoozing the producer, the director. He had a Hollywood chin, piano-key teeth, and brass-colored hair, frozen in a pompadour that reminded her of soft ice cream at the DQ.

  Today's Product was a rejuvenating goop made from Joshua trees. Or Century plants. Cactus juice. Saguaro cactuses. Not cactuses, stupid, the wardrobe mistress said, I thought you went to college. Yeah, right, the topic of cacti came up all the time at Ole Miss. Like when the gals sat around the dorm, talking about ugly, wrinkled things nobody in their right mind would want to touch.

  The old guy introduced himself as Saylor Brannigan, a poor man's Merv Griffen. Since Honey never watched daytime television she had never heard of ‘Your Money or Your Wife’, a game show dealing in double entendres and hundred dollar bills.

  Before TV, before mastering the thirty-second commercial, Saylor had been a pitchman for one of the giants of the game, S.J. Popeil. As a young man his first job was working the county fair circuit, selling the Pocket Fisherman. A fisherman himself, Saylor was skeptical about the gizmo’s usefulness, until S.J. explained, “It’s not for using, it’s for giving”.

  So when he told Honey that he had a once in a lifetime opportunity for her, he did the telling with all the persuasive abilities he'd used for thirty years, moving aluminum siding, timeshare vacations, and dreams.

  He told her he'd just acquired the exclusive rights to a new product, the Magic Ladder System, a Rubik’s Cube of aluminum extrusions and patented joints that was a stepladder, a scaffold, and half a dozen other assemblages that could do anything you could imagine, and a few you couldn’t.

  Mr. Brannigan not only wanted her to star in the infomercial, he planned to take her on the road, demonstrating the contraption at Home Shows, Hardware Expos, and Builder’s Conventions all across the U.S. of A, this great land of ours, where fantastic opportunities for unimagined wealth and fame await anyone with the brains, looks, and aspirations to succeed. Why choose little old me, you ask? Because, as a former cheerleader, you’re not afraid of heights. I’m too old, I’d kill myself climbing on the thing.

  “You get a hundred bucks for every ladder you sell, a draw of a thousand a week against commission. How ‘bout it, Kiddo?”

  Kiddo said yes; dancing in feathers and a thong wasn’t going to lead to a career of any kind. The SAG work was bringing in less than ten grand a year, and Mags spent more time in daycare than she did with Mommy. What did she have to lose?

  Saylor told her a pitchman has to make you applaud while handing over your money. He said I’ll teach you to make the Turn, that crucial moment when you go from entertainer to business woman. You’ll learn the Countdown, how to tell the crowd they’re not going to pay the $795 as seen on TV, and not the $695 at the Big Box stores, no, my friends, today, and today only, you can have the entire Magic Ladder System, including the X-tensions, the Level-R Leg, the Sturd-E Scaffold Plank, the E-Z Carry Roof Rack, for the low, low price of $595. Is that a deal or is that a deal?

  But wait! My manager screwed up big time, sent two hundred Magic Ladder Systems instead of a hundred to this week’s home show, and I’ll have to rent a warehouse if I can’t sell them, sell them today, right now, so who'll give me $495, help me out of a jam?

  “When I’m finished with you, Kiddo,” Saylor said, “you’ll be able to sell air conditioners to Alaskans. But first we need to buy a wardrobe of tubafores.”

  “Tubafore? Is that anything like a pinafore?”

  “Not exactly. A tubafore dress is like an after dinner speech. Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to hold their interest.”

  Saylor Brannigan had acquired many affectations during his career as a salesman. Ascots, boutonnieres, an ivory cigarette holder. Anything to grab the attention right now, jog the memory later on.

  Emphysema forced him to give up tobacco, so he fitted a smokeless menthol inhaler into the holder, and clenched it at a jaunty FDR angle in those astonishing teeth.

  “Mules are excellent animals, work ‘till they drop. But they’re stubborn and stupid. So first off, you have to whack ‘em upside the head with a two by four, get their attention.” He patted Honey on the fanny. “But I see you already know how to do that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Procedure was for Duane to call for backup, secure the crime scene, and wait for the Sheriff to make the decisions. He couldn’t take his prisoner back to the station, and leave this little red car here by its lonesome. If only his partner knew how to drive. . .

  Then his partner made the decision moot. Bugle Boy turned his head from the open glove box, and told Duane there was an unlawful substance close at hand. Or nose.

  “What is it, Buge? Found us some contraband?” Duane walked around the front of the BMW, leaned over the door. Buge indicated there was something besides ‘curiously strong mints’ in the little Altoids box. Yes there was. Two hand-rolled cigarettes, one that Duane's own nose said they smelled just like the ones he'd told LuAnn to get rid of. He turned his eyes to Mac. “Looks like you just stepped in it a bit deeper, mister.”

  Mac tried to get his cuffed hands into a less uncomfortable position. “Not if the car’s stolen. Whatever you have there must belong to the owner.”

  “Oh, you’d say that. Except I got no way to know you ain’t a drug dealer, and stole this vehicle as part of some crime spree.”

  “Two joints?” He needed to have a talk with Mags about asset forfeiture.

  “Quantity don’t change the nature of the facts, mister.”

  Bugle Boy had been exploring the other interesting scents in the car. When he got to the First Union deposit bag his data base went off like a skyrocket. This was the first time since Glenco he'd come across these particular indicators. Oh, wow, oh-bow-wow-wow, dumb-ass Duane and I are going to be on the evening news.

  “What is it, Buge? The bag’s got more drugs in it?” Duane unzipped the bag, saw a Beretta Nine, and bundles of cash. “Holy Jeez, I think we got us a drug kingpin here, Partner. You keep an eye on our prisoner, while I go call the Sheriff.”

  Dune removed a roll of yellow CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS tape from his cruiser, stuck one end in Buge's mouth, and circled the BMW.

  Twelve minutes later, lights flashing and siren screaming, Sheriff Claxon slewed to a stop in front of the sporty red roadster. Climbing out of his cruiser, he hoisted his gun belt to ease the pressure on his bladder, and rested his behind on a fender as he listened to Duane explain.

  After studying the license and registration, the Altoids box, the pistol, the cash, the sheriff told Bugle Boy he done good, and strolled to Duane's patrol vehicle.

  He bent down and peered at Mac in the back seat. Who said, “I can explain—”

  “Oh, I bet you can. And will have a chance to, soon as we can get you in front of a magistrate. Until that time I got to advise anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Got that?”

  Mac got that. And reconciled himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be buying any trucks today. He’d use the money to send Honey on Ralph Cramden’s trip to the moon.

  Sheriff Claxon left Mac to his revenge fantasy, and returned to the BMW. Corporal Milt was studying the TSA K-9 Signals and Signs manual. “Less’n I’m wrong here, Sheriff, Bugle Boy’s telling me there’s explosives in the bank bag. Except all I see is a bunch of hundred dollar bills, and the pistol I already tagged and bagged as evidence.”<
br />
  “Well, I know that most C notes carry a trace of cocaine, so maybe that’s what your dog is responding to.”

  “No sir, I know all of Bugle Boy’s drug indicators. Remember the time, 'bout six months back, we was called to the Puss ‘n’ Boots, pry the pole dancers off of Day Late and Dollar Short? Gals was about to kill them old fools. Turned out that pair of pranksters done put itching powder on their dollar bills.

  “And Buge signaled me half the crowd was holding coke, meth, or weed, but we couldn’t do nothing, not having probable cause. So it ain’t dope, Sheriff.”

  Duane stabbed a finger at a subchapter. “According to this here, Buge thinks we got us some of this stuff.” Duane wasn’t about to try and pronounce Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine, so he pointed to it instead. “I figure there’s explosives secreted in the vehicle. Like them car bombers, over to Afraghanistan.”

  Sheriff Claxon had no idea what the alphabet soup was, and didn’t need to, since he had a highly-trained dog to tell him. What he did know, was this could be his chance to grab some face time on national media.

  He remembered the Quecreek mine disaster a few years back. For three days it was wall-to-wall TV coverage, with the National Guard, State Police, Department of Environmental Protection, Pennsylvania Emergency Management Agency, folks from OSHA and the Mine Safety and Health Administration, all tripping over each other to get some camera time. Governor Heftshank helicoptered in, along with the U.S. Navy, bringing nine hyperbaric decompression chambers.

  It happened over to Somerset County. Seems like those folks had all the luck, since the Quecreek mine wasn’t but ten miles from the spot Flight 93 went down on September 11. He wondered if this was a message from above, telling him it's time to run for County Commissioner.