by Beth Ciotta
After a moment, he turned back to Lulu, met her gaze. Sadness and anger swirled in his eyes causing her gut to clench. “By that time the fire department showed,” he said. “Ma was frantic. When Da didn’t come back, she got past a fireman.”
Her heart pounded with admiration and grief. “She went back in to save your father.”
“Pretty dumb, huh?”
“She must’ve loved him very much.”
“Yeah.” Stone-faced, he eased back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I just thought I owed you an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” She wanted to run over and hug him, but his body language screamed back off. “But I’m glad you told me.” Knowing he was a man of few words, she felt privileged that he’d shared such a painful part of his past. Dare she push her luck? “Colin?”
He got that wary look, the one he adopted every time she called him by his first name. “Yeah?”
She shifted in her seat. “I get that the Bogarts adopted you. What I don’t get is why you didn’t go into the FBI like Joe. Seems natural that you would want to fight organized crime.”
He crooked a wry smile. “You need to be a college graduate to qualify for the Bureau. Manny and Rosa aren’t rich. I didn’t want to put them out financially. They raised me. That was enough. I joined the Marines when I was eighteen. The Corps provided me with a higher education and invaluable life lessons. My goal was to fight evil in every form, on every front. Mission accomplished.”
“About that—”
“I think I’ll take that shower now.” He stood, gestured to the cereal and milk. “Do you need anything else before I go?”
His reluctance to discuss his stint in the military only heightened her curiosity. She flashed a deceptively innocent smile. “Well, since you asked, yeah. Access to the Internet.”
Murphy’s assumption that Lulu had holed herself up in his library to check her email was fast falling by the wayside. She’d been abnormally quiet for the past couple of hours, and every now and then, she cast a furtive glance his way.
He zipped the Jag into the parking garage, making a mental note to check the history on his computer when they got back from the Carnevale. Her brain was buzzing with some sort of data. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Not a good sign. Then again the entire morning had been a clusterfuck. Why should the rest of the day differ?
He rounded the car, helped her out, his palm tingling at the feel of her warm grasp. That same heat registered in her eyes as she gazed up at him with something akin to admiration. Or maybe it was pity. He must’ve sounded like a sentimental bonehead when he’d choked out his long-winded apology. He’d told her about his parents hoping to appease his conscience. Even though there was no excuse for his sexual misconduct, it was important that she understood where his behavior was rooted. The last thing he wanted was for her to be afraid of him. To properly protect her, he needed her trust.
Unfortunately, providing her with a piece of his past had only served to reinforce his mounting attachment to this woman. Bottom line, she was still in danger. He needed to think with his head, not his heart. He needed to detach.
She looped that damned poodle purse over her shoulder, smiled up at him all sunshine and sweetness, and he thought to himself, good freaking luck.
“Are you ready for this?” she asked.
Now there was a loaded question. His answer was a wry quirk of the lips as he escorted her toward the elevator. The moment they hit the bustling casino lobby, he developed eyes in the back of his head. Every dark-haired, olive-skinned man under fifty was suspect. Every sequestered, dimly lit area, a potential hot zone. Unable to perform an advance survey, he did an on-the-spot scan, noting points of entry and exit. Murphy kept his hand at the small of her back, calculating a primary and secondary escape route in the unlikely event that all hell broke loose, while Lulu weaved through the crowded concourse apprising him of her overall schedule.
“This is where we do our first and third show,” she said. “The second set involves a meet and greet at the buffet and then the bus lobby—that’s always an adventure. We close with a parade throughout the main casino, and a show in the hotel lobby.”
She navigated a portion of the casino floor, acknowledging the greetings of numerous uniformed employees. Near as he could tell the Princess, or Gemma as she was known here, was as popular with adults as she was with children. He wasn’t surprised. He was mentally singing her praises when she pulled up short at an unmarked double-door. “What’s wrong?”
She twirled one of her golden curls around her finger and shrugged. “I need to change into my costume.”
“Okay.”
“The dressing room is through here. Back of house. Employees only,” she added when he pushed open the door.
He smiled and gave her a gentle nudge.
“Seriously,” she whispered out the side of her mouth, “you’re not allowed back here. I assumed you’d wait for me in the concourse.”
“You know what they say about assuming. Just lead the way, and stop looking guilty.”
“I can’t help it,” she said as she race-walked toward a door with a push button security pad. “We’re breaking the rules. I never break rules.”
“Now there’s a shocker.”
She shot him an exasperated look, then punched in a combo, swung open the door and shoved him inside.
The scene that greeted him was chaotic and fascinating. Women and men coming and going through two separate doors, tugging on various parts of sparkling costumes and feather headpieces while trading sexual-innuendo-laced banter, and everything from run-free fishnets to spare body sparkle.
“Who’s the hunk?” This from the man resembling a purple and gold jester, sitting on the make-up counter, and strapping on a pair of stilts.
Lulu tugged Murphy toward the elfish-man and the panel of lit mirrors. “My boyfriend.”
Impressive, Murphy thought. She’d told the lie without blushing. He offered a hand in greeting. “Colin Murphy.”
“Mortimer.” The man shook his hand, and then winked at Lulu. “Nice.”
She cleared her throat, tossed her purse on the counter. “I know he’s not supposed to be in here, but—”
“Who cares, sweetie?” A bombshell of a woman with big eyes and lush lips, snapped on a curly, blonde hairpiece. “Like we haven’t snuck people in here before. Well, you haven’t. Then again you never do anything wrong.” Red lipstick poised to her mouth, she glanced over her shoulder at Murphy. “You corrupting our girl?”
Lulu rolled her eyes and opened a pink tackle box filled with various tubes and pots and brushes. “This is Trixie,” she told Murphy, gesturing for him to take a seat on a worn arm chair. “She’s a juggler, too.”
Trixie. Murphy smiled. The name fit. His smile faded when Lulu peeled off her sweater and draped it over the back of her chair. He sat rigid in the armchair, stunned that Miss Goody Two-shoes was sitting in a room full of people, half of which were men, in her tight jeans and teeny bra. A very sexy, pink satin bra. Holy shit. He stared at her reflection in the mirror, admiring her perfect 34C breasts, the same breasts he’d pawed this morning. His mouth practically watered. Okay. So was he the only pig in this room? Looking around, his mind screamed a resounding yes! Not one of the male performers even glanced in her direction. Maybe they were all gay. Now there was a comforting thought.
Lulu dipped into her tackle box and started applying—what the hell did they call it—foundation while making further introductions. “Of course everyone has additional, personalized schtick, but in a nutshell, that’s Eugene the unicyclist, Wizard the magician, Raven the stilt-walker, Jingles the acrobat, and Enri the clown. You’ve met Mortimer and Trixie. Everyone, this is Murphy the bodyguard.”
They rang out a welcome in unison, not paying him, or Lulu’s breasts, any heed, as men and women alike spackled on more make-up and rhinestones.
“Dammit,” Trixie complained as she wr
estled with a false eyelash and glanced up at the clock on the wall. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
The energy-level kicked into high-gear as the team scrambled for shoes and props. In Murphy’s eyes the scene resembled that of a regiment scrambling for a surprise training op.
“Who’ll be here?” Lulu asked as she lined her eyes with a bright blue pencil. “And why is everyone in a rush? We have forty-five minutes ‘til show time.”
“No, we don’t.” Mortimer adjusted his gilded half-mask. “Peterson said the shuttle would leave at 11:15 a.m. on the nose. He called everyone last night, said he needed us in an hour early. Didn’t you get the message about the special appearance?”
“No. I …” She glanced at Murphy. “I wasn’t home last night.”
Mortimer and Trixie smiled. “Reeeeally?“
Lulu sprang out of her chair and raced for a locker. She flung open the dented metal door and tossed out three juggling clubs, curly-toed shoes, and … what the hell were those? Sheer purple bloomers?
Please, Jesus, Murphy thought, don’t let her strip down here and now. She disappeared through a door marked with a makeshift sign reading: Femme Fatales. Saints be praised. Telling himself to suck it up and get back to business, he turned to Mortimer. “Who’s Peterson?”
“The entertainment director. A real stickler for rules.”
Eugene slapped on a black derby with a sparkly gold band and snatched up three rubber chickens. “If Peterson finds you in here, we’re screwed.” He pointed one of those chickens at Murphy. “Sorry, man, you have to leave, now.”
Murphy stood, wondering if he was supposed to be intimidated by a novelty product, and more, what exactly was Eugene’s schtick. “Can’t do that.”
Jingles gawked at him. “Do you want Lulu to get written up?”
“Forget Lulu,” Raven said. “What about Rupert?”
“Oh, hell!” Trixie pivoted, hands on hips. “That blockhead’s late again. That’s three times this month. His ass is so outta here.”
“Who?” Lulu flew out of the adjoining room lacing up some corset type contraption. Her breasts nearly spilled over the metallic gold cups, and yes, those bloomers were sheer. You didn’t have to look too damn hard to make out the French-cut, sequined-gold briefs beneath.
Murphy ran a hand over his buzz cut, hoping his head didn’t explode as he took in what little there was of her costume.
“Who are you talking about?” Lulu repeated.
“Rupert.” Gloved hands clasped behind his back, head down, Enri paced back and forth, a comedic blur who spoke with an exaggerated, clipped French accent. “I spoke to him last night. I know he knew about the time change. Ooh! Said he was going to catch a ride with Jean-Pierre. Merde!”
“They must’ve had a flat or something,” Trixie said. “Unlike Rupert, JP’s never late.”
Lulu shot Murphy a panicked look.
“I’m sure he’s fine.” Not that it didn’t deserve a call. Murphy snagged his cell out of his inner jacket pocket.
Mortimer clapped his hands together, demanding attention. “Hellooo, people. Peterson will be here in five minutes.”
“Great,” Jingles grumbled while adjusting the foam pads inside of her sequined bustier. “We’ve got an outsider in here and one of our own is missing.”
“Rupert can’t afford to lose this job,” Enri said as he paced by.
“Solutions are us.” Trixie snagged the cell out of Murphy’s hand, tossed it to Lulu, and nudged Murphy toward a door marked Juggalos (as in Gigolòs?).
Eugene gave her the thumbs up. “Excellent, Trix.”
The team concurred.
“Don’t sweat it,” Raven said with an ornery twinkle in her spidery-lashed eyes. “No makeup or circus skills required. Rupert’s the casino mascot.”
Catching their drift, Murphy stood his ground. “Not just no, but hell, no.”
Wizard, who’d been silent up until now, lifted his sorcerer mask and zapped Murphy with the challenging gaze of a wise elder. “I don’t know about you, but we take care of our own.”
His Marine mentality swallowed that sentiment whole. “Damn.”
Cell phone to her ear, Lulu quirked a not-so-sorry smile as Trixie and Mortimer dragged him toward the men’s dressing area. “You should’ve waited in the concourse.”
Jean-Pierre was home safe, sulking. According to Rudy they’d had a tiff, and though Lulu wasn’t happy about that, she was delirious that the cause of his absence wasn’t more dire. Rudy made sure Sofie got to the Carnevale safely, and then took off for a run to Freehold to pick up a queen for Oz. After learning his butt was covered, Rupert was more than happy to play hooky.
Murphy … Murphy was more than a trooper. He was an amazing human being. In order to cover for their co-worker he’d donned a full-body fat suit made of heavy duty foam rubber, and the grotesque (in an adorable sort of way) head of a troll. Beady gold eyes, long pointy ears, a bulbous nose, and a too-wide, too-fleshy mouth. Decked out in royal blue and gold seventeenth-century finery, Murphy, or rather, Tupilo the Troll, was mega-ugly-cute. A glitzy, Venetian version of Yoda.
Lulu had cringed when she’d learned that they were scheduled to appear at the local hospital’s pediatric ward. Apparently the president of the Carnevale had been impressed by a recent article, not that she knew anything about it since she never read the newspaper.
Knowing Murphy had a history with disadvantaged children, and knowing it caused him distress, she worried that he’d have one of those meltdowns when faced with all those sick children, many of whom were terminally ill. As it was, Lulu had had to excuse herself three times to pull it together. Tupilo had been the hit of the show, spending equal time with each child, dispersing tickles and hugs.
She still hadn’t quite recovered from the heart-wrenching experience. Two hours later and back in the shuttle, she grabbed Murphy’s oversized, squishy gloved-hand. “That was … You were …”
“Man, it’s hot in here. The fan system choked twenty-minutes ago.” He lifted the oversized troll head, trying to let in some air.
Lulu knocked away his hand so that the top portion of the costume fell back into place effectively shielding his identity. “I’m sorry. Rupert must’ve forgotten to recharge the battery, but you have to stay covered until we get back to the dressing room. If Peterson finds out about this switch we’re all dead meat.”
“Sounds like a real hard-ass.”
“He’s all right. Just strict.”
“He’s a hard-ass,” the rest of the characters chimed.
The shuttle rolled up to the porte cochere. The cast poured out of the shuttle. Forming a protective circle around Murphy, they hustled toward the hotel lobby. If they didn’t move fast, they’d be stopped by patron after patron wanting to rub Tupilo the Troll for luck.
As bad luck would have it they weren’t thwarted by patrons, but Peterson. “While you’re here, why don’t you go ahead and do a lobby set.”
“He’s got to be kidding,” Murphy mumbled from under his big-eared, beady-eyed head.
“Hard-ass,” Trixie said.
Lulu shushed them. “Let’s just get this over with.” She squeezed Murphy’s plush arm. “Trixie and I have to move over there to juggle and pass clubs. Jingles and Raven will keep an eye on you. If you feel overwhelmed give the ‘Save Me’ signal.”
“Which is?”
She smiled at the sarcasm in his voice. “Just catch one of the other characters’ attention and tug on your right ear. Not your ear, the troll’s ear. Oh, and remember Tupilo doesn’t speak. Just shake hands with people and let them rub you.”
“Rub me where?”
“Wherever,” she teased. Not that he was in any real danger of being violated. His hunky body was safely shielded under layers of foam and fabric. Good-bye, ripped bodyguard. Hello, fat troll. She snickered. “Makes you think twice about breaking rules, huh?”
Not really, Murphy thought as he watched Lulu skip off with Trixie. It just made
him wonder why in the hell anyone would want to do this for a living. Although he had to admit making those pedi-children squeal with joy had been a definite rush. Every hug had reminded him of the better moments of those humanitarian ops.
Truth be told, aside from the fact that he was sweating his ass off and, because of the design of the troll head, suffering shit peripheral vision, he wasn’t all that miserable. Miserable was trudging through a one hundred and ten degree sand pit weighted down with one hundred and twenty-five pounds of body armor, weapons, and ammunition. In comparison, this was a cakewalk. He replayed the last three jam-packed days and smiled. This was one weird-ass assignment. Then he saw Sam Marlin hovering in a corner staring at Lulu and Trixie, and his mood instantly soured.
He breathed a little easier when Eugene cycled in between the two and started juggling those chickens. Ah, his schtick. Still, Murphy wanted closer proximity to Lulu. He shook hands with patrons, nodded his big ugly head in greeting, while trying to shuffle monster-sized, pointy-toed feet closer to Eugene and the girls. Problem was they were putting on a hell of show and had attracted a large crowd. Murphy accidentally bumped a man hard, and forgetting he wasn’t supposed to speak, mumbled, “Sorry about that, bro.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” was the reply.
The man turned full front. Bogie. He was dressed like a stereotypical South Philly boy, though his hair was un-typically long. He had some sort of funky facial hair thing happening, but hallelujah, it was Bogie. Alive and well.
“I knew you were around here somewhere,” he said, “but hell.”
Murphy nudged him toward the fringe of the crowd, careful to keep Lulu in his sights. Worried that their conversation might be overheard, he switched to Italian. Thanks to their dad, Manny, both he and Bogie were fluent. “You look the worse for wear.”