by Lotta Smith
“Hey, Kelly, is it true that Warren the Big Swindler did a threesome with you and his new girl while finalizing the divorce?”
“Of course, it’s true—” Before I could finish, Dick the cameraman chimed in.
“You know what? They must’ve done it to celebrate her coming back as Kelly Kinky instead of Kelly Estevez. Seriously, have you ever met a woman named Kinky who’s not into kinky sex?”
That was the moment something went pop! in my head. I didn’t like the fact that my appointed safe house was not-so-safe anymore, and I was really sick of this ‘you are Kinki which makes you kinky’ joke. Since day one in grade school, I’d heard it a gazillion times! My head may have rotated 360 degrees. The rest was a history. I made a rapid-fire response laced with colorful expletives that were capable of making a gangsta cry like a virgin with embarrassment. Then I went back inside the not-so-safe house. I should have stayed inside, but I returned to reencounter the offending paparazzi. And I breathed fire.
Yes, you heard me right. I breathed fire, as in literally. Just like Godzilla does to the city of Tokyo all the time. It was the first time I’d ever done it, but I’d seen one of my former faux-dads breathe fire—he’s an illusionist—and believe me, I so wanted to make my point. I used vodka and a lit candle. When I exhaled fire, it felt amazingly hot, as if having a temporal visit to hell. I wasn’t aware of the third paparazzo who captured everything on video, which was aired on TV. Over and over.
My name was engraved as Kelly the Bitch in all Britain’s memory. This ‘hate Kelly’ campaign became really popular. Magazines and newspapers featuring photos of me taken from unflattering angles totally sold out. And on TV, they got killer ratings when they did shows caricaturizing a potty-mouthed woman breathing fire. Not only did the big boys in the media industry manage to cover their losses by hating me, they ended up with even bigger profits. Talk about an irony. The marginally good part about this fiasco was that I got my first post-divorce gig. During this fiasco, an American comic heavy metal band called Iron Dragon was visiting London and watched the video featuring yours truly breathing fire. They recruited me as Lady Dragon the Fire-Breather to accompany the Feel the Heat world tour.
“—Bloody hell! I said I was right!”
Before I could recover from the shock, Baz shrieked happily. “It’s Kelly the Bitch. The poisonous, vicious, kinky, fire-breathing bitch. Hey, Dickie, I told ya I knew it! We ain’t over with the Bitch!”
Hooting and pumping their fists, they did a high-five, while I stood there stunned and motionless.
In my mind, I shot at those British paparazzi with an automatic firearm until those SOBs resembled the Swiss cheese from the Tom & Jerry cartoons. Albeit I didn’t even own a handgun, I could have purchased something at a Walmart on the way. I knew it was not ladylike, nice, or even legal to shoot at people just because you loathed them, but I hated them. I hated them so bad. They were the ones who started that huge ‘hate Kelly’ campaign! Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do—especially when they were the root of all evil.
Not knowing my intention, Baz flashed his chipped, yellowy teeth. “So how have you been, Kelly? What are ya doing here? Swindling these people as you used to do with Warren? Should we warn the Americans about you?” He peppered me with a series of mean questions—just like he did on that day in Gibraltar. “Or better yet, have you switched to taking eyeballs out of innocent people?”
“We’re goddamn lucky!” Dick howled while shooting photos of me without giving a second’s rest. “Not only do we get to see a new Eyeball Snatcher case, but we get to take pics of Kelly the Bitch! Think about the headline: ‘Kelly the Bitch spotted at a crime scene! Does she kill too?’ Now it’s even better than confirming PM’s affair with a twenty-something model turned actress. God bless our prime minister for comin’ to the US!”
I bit my lip, not bothering to cover my face with my hands. I was aware that’d only enhance the photo in the worst possible way, giving an impression I was actually humiliated. It was like a total déjà vu. The worst part of my personal history was recurring and revisiting me.
But deep in my heart, I knew this day was coming, and there really was nothing I could do. Archangel was right. I was a socialite dropout. It was only mere luck that I hadn’t encountered British paparazzi in the U.S. so far. I was used to my current mediocre, invisible status as an assistant to a private detective. Michael Archangel was famous for his brilliance, crime-solving skills, and wackiness, so he was the one who received all the attention. Not me. I was just a person in the background who would be Photoshopped out by editorial people. Here in the U.S., I was practically no one. And I really loved my anonymity.
In my current world, the fiasco back in the UK was just a bad dream, but now it seemed like I was wrong. They hadn’t forgotten about me, or forgiven me. Yet meeting the paparazzi from hell wasn’t something I had expected. Ever again. Being reminded the ‘Bitch who used to be married to the Big Swindler Warren’ disgrace got stuck on me like Elmer’s permanent glue was not the happiest prospectus of my life. Headlines of tomorrow’s trashy morning papers in the UK flashed in my head, with photos of me spread all over and captions that implied I was the one responsible for the gruesome murders.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to count three positive things about this event in a vain attempt to cheer myself up. One, at least I didn’t live in the UK anymore so I wouldn’t be bothered with mean headlines unless I wasted a moment to search the garbage on the web. Two, I was still famous and sort of popular among them. And three, well…what about the third positive thing…?
BASH!
All right, the camera suddenly getting slammed onto the ground, thanks to Archangel’s roundhouse kick hitting clean on the lens in front of my eyes was reason number three to stay positive.
“Bloody fuck!” and “Hey, what the fuck do you think you just did?” the two mean men from the UK yelled.
“Chill, I’ve just saved your lives,” Archangel, who had just taken the SD card out of the camera, and shattered it into bits and pieces by stomping on it, casually chimed in. “On that camera, you had a black widow spider crawling about. It’s one of the deadliest spiders of the world, and if you were bitten by that, it could have caused serious consequences, such as acute abdominal and back pain, muscle cramps, nausea, vomiting, difficulty breathing, high blood pressure, restlessness, and death.”
The British paparazzi exchanged glances.
“You’re trying to con me, right?” said Dick the photographer.
“You’ll be sorry if you’re bullshitting us,” Baz said with narrowed eyes. “Just because we happen to be English gentlemen doesn’t mean you can take advantage of us.”
Archangel bent down, picked up a fragment of the shattered camera using a handkerchief. “The spider has highly potent venom, which causes ulcers to the skin in case you have physical contacts. Wanna try?”
As he extended his hand, holding the fragment to the British paparazzi, they literally jumped back. “Hell no!”
“By the way, you are bloody lucky that I’m not suing your little arses,” dropping the camera fragment, Archangel continued in a husky voice. “Look at this.” He kicked he left leg forward, exhibiting the slightly chipped sole of the Jimmy Choo platform to their eyes. “Your camera caused tremendous damage to my shoe. This baby cost a fortune. Think about the sacrifice I’ve just made for the two of you! I’ll send the shoe-repair bill to your office in London, cheers!”
Grabbing my arm, he dragged me away from the British tabloid guys to the house entrance where greeted the officer by first name. I could hear Baz and Dick asking around about ‘the bloody giant bloke in the funny getup’ and obtaining the answer they had just met someone they didn’t want to mess with.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” I whispered to Archangel.
“No problem,” he whispered back with an enigmatic grin. “Do you think anyone else videotaped it all?”
“You
mean, like the moment you bashed the camera into pieces with your kick? Why do you want anyone to record that particular moment?”
“I was thinking if the video went viral, maybe it’d be cool to have a reality show with a title like ‘Keeping Up with Michael Archangel.’”
“Are you serious?” Now I was very confused. “There really was a deadly spider on the camera so you had to bash it, right?”
“Uh-oh.” He frowned. “I’m not really sure if asking a question with an answer you don’t want to know is a clever move.”
“Oh, my God.” I gasped. Then I heard the British paparazzi cursing that nothing good ever came with Kelly the Poisonous Bitch, so I said, “Mr. Archangel, you could have kicked their heads off rather than the stupid camera.”
“Ya think?” He shrugged off my proposition with a twitch of his cheek, hinting a not-so-well-concealed grin.
Chapter 8
As I stepped inside the house, I couldn’t help but flinch at the stench of blood. Dribbles of blood in the foyer told the horrific nature of the crime that had taken place.
Henderson came up to us and said, “You’re early. I’m sure you broke a traffic law or two.”
“I didn’t know you started a side job as a traffic cop.” Archangel raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah, every now and then when I feel nostalgic.” Henderson shrugged with a tight little smirk on his face.
“You can feel nostalgic but you’ve got to leave traffic safety to the professionals. You might trigger a multiple car wreck by scaring the hell out of some innocent drivers.”
“That’s not funny, smartass.” A woman in a white Chanel suit emerged and snorted like Queen Victoria. I almost expected her to say, “I’m not amused.”
“Ouch, that hurt. Really hurt. I’m so crushed.” Archangel cocked his head. “Then again, has it ever occurred to you that I might have had no intention of entertaining you when I made one of my smartass remarks?”
For just a moment, a flash of emotion flickered in her gaze. It seemed like a mixture of anger, frustration, irritation, and something that resembled passion—and maybe a very subtle sadness. Throw in a blush on her well-sculpted cheeks, and it added a certain level of warmth to the edgy, femme fatale-esque cool beauty.
She was beautiful. Tall and slender with a supermodel’s figure. Only she looked more feminine with her delicate, heart-shaped face and high cheekbones like Keira Knightley. Icy-blue eyes sparkling with aggressive liveliness. Her shiny platinum-blond hair was in a tight ponytail ‘do. Perhaps drop-dead gorgeous was the most accurate words to describe the woman standing in front of us.
“Ha.” She snorted. “Has it ever occurred to you that you can’t waste taxpayers’ dollars by just hanging around crime scenes without solving murders?”
“Now you’re talking like a member of the House of Representatives. Very impressive,” Archangel countered. “Then again, considering you’ve have spare time to hang around a crime scene that is completely out of your jurisdiction, the business on Capitol Hill must be pretty slow, I guess? So, how have you been, Patricia? Or, should I call you Ms. Congresswoman? Or should I say Ms. Congressperson instead, to be politically correct?”
“Stop insulting me and Congress, and shut up, Archangel,” Patricia snapped. “I’m here to support solving the crime with my expertise.” Then she added, “I am here to fully utilize the taxpayers’ money. Unlike you, I’m making an effort.”
“Very funny.” Archangel chuckled, but I sensed his irritation. And a sign of a trouble.
Always a supportive assistant, I cleared my throat.
“Who’s there?” Patricia the cool beauty, sounding more like Bitchtricia, gave me a short glance. Before I could introduce myself, she said, “Oh, now I remember. She’s the assistant, whatshername. Mary, I think? Excuse me, but are you whimsical or what, Archangel? Hiring not just an unskilled assistant but a former go-go dancer? Though, she doesn’t look like one of those go-go dancer type girls, if I may say so.” She let out a bitchy cackle.
Oh-la-la, now I’m determined to call you Bitchtricia, I thought. And I didn’t feel guilty.
“When are you from?” I asked.
“I’m a representative of Virginia, but originally from New York. You’re supposed to say ‘Where are you from?’ in English,” she corrected me as if I were a toddler, or a foreigner from out of nowhere with a poor command of English.
“I get your point, but that doesn’t apply in this case. Because I was asking when you came from, using when as in during which time. Then again, that might have been unnecessary. Assuming from your vast knowledge of go-go dancers, perhaps you’re from circa 1960s. Albeit, I’m not very familiar with it on the account that when I arrived in this world back in the late twentieth century, go-go dancing had already gone extinct, you know.”
Then I continued. “Oh, did I mention my name is Kelly instead of Mary? I’ve never go-go danced, but I have toured the world with a band called Iron Dragon, performing as a fire-artist. Okay, so sometimes I danced as a lesbian stripper, but that was all for shows and acts. Besides that, as the tour proceeded and the show matured, we came to a mutual understanding that I rocked the fire-performance rather than dancing. So for the most part, my responsibility was very much focused on tasks with fire.”
For emphasis, I took a bottle of Purell—I always carried one in case I felt compelled to get rid of death and murder cooties—and a lipstick from my purse. “Ma’am, if you like—” clicking the lipstick lid like that of a lighter, I smiled “—I can breathe fire right here, right now, just for you. Would you care to get some heat? Oh, you may lose the tip of your eyebrows and eyelashes; I hope you don’t mind.”
“Stop it!” Cringing and taking a large step back, she almost shrieked. “Don’t do it here. Yo-you-you’ll… ruin the evidence!”
I took it that she was afraid of getting scorch marks on her smooth complexion.
Behind the congresswoman, Henderson chewed his lower lip so as not to burst out laughing. Archangel wore expression of a cat licking cream.
“Fine. By the way, did I mention Michael Archangel usually solves complex cases immediately? For example, the ones that the feds and the local police take months and even years to figure out. Saving a great deal of taxpayers’ dollars. With this series of particular incidents, he might be taking a little bit more time than the previous cases, but you can’t make a fuss, judging solely on this event.”
“Enough!” Bitchtricia growled. “Solve the case, catch the criminal, and stop the killing.” After snapping at Archangel, she stormed out of the place. Following her dramatic departure, there was a moment or two of silence.
“Ms. K,” Henderson muttered, “I didn’t know you carried around a lighter.”
“Oh, it’s not a lighter,” I said. “It’s a lipstick that looks like a lipstick-lookalike.”
“Bummer.”
“Guess what, Ritchie? She’s good at pranks,” Archangel said contently.
“That was so impressive.” Henderson exhaled. “Scaring away the barracuda in a Chanel suit. That’s not an easy task, you know.”
“I’ve never heard of a barracuda in a Chanel suit. Who’s she?” I asked.
“Her name is Patricia Warshawsky,” Henderson replied. “Before she swam to Congress to become a representative of Virginia, she used to be a special agent with the FBI. Actually, Archangel and I mentored her, and…”
For the first time, he faltered as if searching for the right word. “Um…well…” With furrowed eyebrows, he stole a glance at Archangel.
“It’s fine; that’s no secret,” Archangel said with his arms crossed. “Technically speaking, there was a time when I was engaged to her.”
“Engaged? Like for a marriage?” I gasped.
“I believe so.” Archangel snorted.
“You’re joking.”
“Except it’s lacking the punchline.”
“Wow, so it means you’re straight?” I muttered.
“Excuse m
e? You thought I was gay? That’s a shocker.” He grunted through clenched teeth. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being you-know-what. But hey, you could have asked me before making such a wild assumption.”
“Ask you about your sexual orientation? I don’t think so. That’s so rude and insensitive. By the way, when you courted her, were you wearing a Vera Wang gown or something like that?”
“No. I was wearing a darkish suit from Giorgio Armani with trousers, a dress shirt, and a tie.”
“You, in a suit? Wow, funny it’s so hard to imagine you in a suit.”
“My attire back then is not supposed to be the point of amusement. Okay, so let’s get back to the present issues.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers, as if trying to make the past disappear.
He turned to Henderson. “How about letting us see Jane Doe for a change?”
“Come in, take a look.” Then turning to me, Henderson said, “This time, the body’s way more gruesome than the previous cases; I must warn you.”
“Oh, that bad?” I asked. For a moment, offering to wait in the foyer a safe distance away from the murdered corpse crossed my mind. After all, they didn’t teach me proper ways to observe corpses in Switzerland. But then again, sharing what the detective’s going through should be an important part of the job for an assistant extraordinaire, right? Also, I didn’t like the concept that I couldn’t look straight at the corpse with which Bitchtricia had no problem observing.
So I said, “Don’t worry; I’m a professional. I’m not going to cry or puke. I promise.” Somewhere in my mind, I was competing with that ex-fed-agent-turned-congresswoman for an unknown reason.