Down at the baggage carousel Regan stood for a good eight minutes before a buzzer went off and a red light started flashing, an oddly celebratory way to announce the slow arrival of everyone’s goodies. The conveyor started to move and Regan watched as one suitcase after another was spit out of the chute, slid down the ramp before crashing into the wall, and silently rode on as each piece waited to be claimed, sometimes being chased by an owner not fast enough to grab it before it disappeared around the bend.
Regan shifted impatiently as baby seats, cardboard boxes, and suitcases tied together with twine, masking tape, and what Regan assumed was a prayer, all made an entrance. After what seemed like an eternity, her big blue-gray suitcase finally showed up. Regan broke into a big smile and realized that she must have looked as if she were greeting a lover as she lunged forward, throwing her arms around it, pulling it close to get it off the conveyor belt and over the hump. That accomplished, she swiftly retrieved her garment bag with one arm and wheeled her suitcase toward the exit with the other. Wheels on the bottom of suitcases were a great invention, Regan thought, except when they behave like the wheels on your average shopping cart, stopping dead or locking themselves in a position where the only thing they will do is make a never-ending right turn. Regan sometimes wondered if she’d ever get a decent shopping cart on the first yank from the bunch corralled together in the entrance to her local supermarket.
Outside the terminal the Miami air was hot and sticky. Regan felt her energy drain and longed to be in her hotel room already, relaxing with a cool drink. As her suitcase squeaked, she made her way over to the taxi stand and was surprised to find her seatmate at the head of the long line. Where’s lover boy? Regan thought.
Their eyes met. Her fellow passenger shouted, “I’m going to the South Beach area. Where are you headed?”
“South Beach,” Regan yelled back as the people in front of her glared.
“Wanna ride together?”
Regan debated fiercely. Did she want to share a cab? They hadn’t even talked much on the plane. But the line was long.
“My boyfriend’s paying.”
That does it, Regan thought, and stumbling over the litter of suitcases on the sidewalk, hurried to the waiting cab.
As the driver piled the luggage in the trunk, Regan listened in awe to the instructions he was receiving.
“Put the blue one on the bottom. Don’t crush the green one, it’s got all my toiletries. Lay the garment bag on top. Don’t get it too near that greasy tire. You know, if you’re gonna be picking people up at the airport, you really should clean out your trunk.”
The scrawny leather-skinned driver reminded Regan of Popeye. Regan thought she saw him push the garment bag toward the offensive tire the instant before he slammed the trunk shut.
The luggage director, her voice sounding satisfied, said, “Okey-doke. Let’s get on our way.” She turned to Regan and extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Nadine Berry.”
“Regan Reilly. This is really nice of you. That line doesn’t look like it’s moving too fast.”
’That’s because we’re holding it up,” the cabbie snarled. “Get in.”
The interior of the cab offered an unlovely combination of dried perspiration and smoke, which was made worse by the Christmas-tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the mirror.
“Turn on the air conditioner,” Nadine ordered.
“It’s broken,” the driver said as the car lurched forward and a lit cigarette magically appeared between his lips.
“Put that out,” Nadine commanded, “or we’ll have to take a different cab.”
“I should be so lucky,” the Popeye look-alike muttered as he squashed the butt in the ashtray.
Nadine turned to Regan. “If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s cigarette smoke. A terrible habit.” She opened her bag and pulled out her gum. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. I thought your boyfriend was picking you up.”
“He couldn’t. You know how I told you he works in a real estate office. There’s a meeting of the big shots at five-thirty and they made him stay to answer the phones. Where are you staying anyhow?”
“The Ocean View on Ocean Drive.”
“Oh, that’s right near the old folks’ home!” Nadine exclaimed and then lowered her voice. “Everyone at Joey’s office is sitting on pins and needles. An option expires on that home Monday, and there’s a lot of money at stake.”
Oh, brother, Regan thought. That’s got to be Richie’s place. The poor guy.
It took forty minutes to get to the Ocean View. By the time they arrived, Regan had heard Nadine’s autobiography. Nadine was twenty-seven, sold stereos in a discount store outside of Los Angeles, and had met Joey at a Club Med vacation in Hawaii. She had been jetting back and forth to visit him for nearly six months. “He pays for every other trip,” she confided. “It’s easier for me to come here because he’s been working so much on weekends.”
As the cab neared the Ocean View, Nadine said, “What about you?”
Regan had to make it quick. “I live in Los Angeles. I’m here to be in a friend’s wedding this weekend.”
“Oh, I’ve been a bridesmaid so many times. All those dresses you never wear again, but every time they promise you’ll get a lot of use out of them. I say yeah, sure, on Halloween. By the way, what do you do?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
Nadine’s eyes and mouth became perfect circles. “That sounds really interesting. Do you pack a gun?”
“I’m licensed to carry one but I never bring it on a trip like this.”
“Do you ever get in real danger?”
“Sometimes,” Regan laughed.
“Listen, Joey’s apartment is only a few blocks from here. I’ll be on the beach when he’s at work. Maybe we can get together if you have any free time.”
“Great,” Regan said with a heartiness she hoped didn’t sound forced. “Can’t I help you pay for this?”
Nadine waved her hand. “Not at all. Joey’s the greatest. Once I set foot in Miami, he tells me to put away my wallet.”
The cab stopped in front of a pale-purple hotel with an outdoor cafe. In a few minutes I’ll be in air-conditioning and drinking something cold, Regan thought.
BARNEY FREIZE WAITED nervously in the plush reception room of the Calla-Lily Hosiery Company. Across the wall a poster-sized edition of the ad that had appeared in all the fashion magazines showed a pair of exquisite legs clad in shimmering black panty hose. The copy began: “The Calla-Lily legs are in bloom again.”
Freize knew that Calla-Lily hosiery enjoyed the position of being the number-one choice of well-shod women in America and abroad. Those women didn’t mind paying through the nose to have their legs look good.
Barney studied the ad. ’The Birdie stockings look better than them,” he muttered. He pulled up his own socks and brushed the lint off his Hush Puppies. “Yup, if I were a dame, I’d be happy to get my hands on a pair of the Birdie specials.” He looked up quickly. I’ve got to stop talking to myself out loud, he thought. They’ll have me committed just like they did Cousin Vince. Now there was one crazy cat.
The Muzak piped in from a seemingly invisible speaker started to play “Luck, Be a Lady Tonight.” Barney found himelf humming. Talk about luck, he thought. Whatever possessed him to take a walk past the old panty-hose factory that night he didn’t know. He’d worked there in the maintenance department for years, until nine months ago, when they finally had to shut the place down. Business wasn’t good enough. The owners never realized that specializing in panty hose for clerics just might be a slightly outdated idea. And now the place was going to be demolished.
But in the meantime his fellow maintenance worker Richie Blossom had been hanging around the place, setting up a little research lab, tinkering with the machines, up to his usual business of trying to invent something useless. But when Barney peered in the window that night and watched Richie fiddling with scraps of fabric, he just
got a feeling that this time it might be different.
Barney’s curiosity was piqued. He knew that if he knocked on the door, Richie wouldn’t tell him what he was doing. So he went home and searched through all his maintenance uniforms, which he sentimentally kept heaped in the corner of his closet, and found what he hoped might be there. A key to the side door of the panty-hose factory.
The next night he waited outside until Richie had left, gave him fifteen minutes in case he had forgotten something, then let himself in. Armed with his flashlight, he started looking around.
The old picnic table where they had gulped their coffee during their strictly observed five-minute breaks hadn’t been moved; Richie was obviously using it as the command station for his project. Barney couldn’t count the number of times he’d ended up with a burned tongue as he rushed to swallow the black brew that was passed off as coffee.
The gray time clock attached to the wall was still there, clicking away. Barney went over and gave it a punch, remembering all the misery it had brought him. “There,” he smirked. “I didn’t forget to punch in.”
Stacks of cheap paper with a printed message, the kind that people force on you when you’re running down the block late for an appointment, were lined up on the table. Barney picked one up, and with the glow of his flashlight began to read Richie’s literature on his new invention. “One size fits all! Superior-quality hosiery that will not run or snag. You can’t afford to pass up this offer!!” Give me a break, Barney thought. I wonder if he sat around all day suffering from writer’s block as he tried to think that stuff up, or if those catchy phrases came to him naturally.
If you’re going to try and sell something as unbelievable as run-proof panty hose, Barney mused, you better get someone like me, a born salesman, someone who could sell ice to the Eskimos, to do it for you. I’ll write your ad, I’ll even act it. Barney always thought he would have been a great salesman, but his mother said that one Willy Loman in the family was more than enough and urged him to get into the maintenance workers’ union when he had the chance. May she rest in peace, the poor soul.
Barney leaned over and shuffled through the papers. Photocopies of handwritten letters to various hosiery companies asking them for a few minutes of their time were scattered on the table. It doesn’t look like he’s had to start a file for responses, Barney thought. It’d probably be easier to get an audience with the Pope.
As he straightened up, he scanned the room with his flashlight, and started to walk toward the machines. Before Barney knew what was happening, he tripped over a cardboard box and fell to the floor, his flashlight cracking in the process, tiny pieces of its glass arranging themselves on the floor of the factory. Sharp pain stung his knee and shin. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn! Damn! Damn!” he repeated faster and faster into the sudden darkness as he rolled on his back, cradling his knee to his chest while he rubbed his shin. With his flailing arm he accidentally brushed the side of the cardboard box and grabbed it to steady himself. And then he felt it. And forgot his pain. A jumble of the smoothest, silkiest material skimming his fingertips.
Barney grunted as he lifted his back off the floor and arranged himself Indian-style, with his feet tucked underneath him, then greedily dipped his hands into the mound of luxurious fabric that turned out to be a couple of dozen pairs of panty hose. This must be the stuff, Barney thought. Richie’s latest. Knowing that Richie had never been too organized, he helped himself to a few pairs, hoping that they wouldn’t be missed. I’ll get these home and test these out myself, see if they’re what Richie claims they are.
He did.
As far as he could tell, they were.
Run-proof.
Snag-proof.
Which had led him to the Calla-Lily Hosiery Company, whose owner had hired Barney’s nephew to do yard work. The only other hosiery company besides the defunct “Hose for the Religious” headquartered in the Miami area. That had been a month ago, and now Barney was waiting to meet with Ruth Craddock for the results of their lab tests.
“Mr. Freize, Ms. Craddock is going to be a little while longer,” the receptionist reported to Barney, stirring him out of his thoughts. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” The request did not sound as if it were coming from an eager-to-please waitress.
How about a life-insurance policy in case I die in this room? Barney thought, but what came out of his mouth was “Light and sweet.”
DOWN THE HALL Ruth Craddock sat at the head of the gleaming conference table, panting in exasperation. An ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts smeared with orange lipstick was positioned to her right. She constantly flicked her ever-present cigarette in its general direction, only occasionally hitting the mark. Crushed cans of Coke littered the table. Her ranting speech was interrupted only for deep drags, tornadolike inhales that puckered her weathered cheeks and looked as though they had the force to leave major tar and nicotine deposits in her little toes. Exhales were followed by a swig of soda.
“We are going to get screwed!” she opined in her raspy voice. “We have got to buy the formula for that panty hose or else we’ll be out of business! If someone else gets it first, then we may as well put out a sign that says GONE FISHING!”
The eight members of the board seated on either side blanched and shook their heads. They were all older men who had been with Calla-Lily since the early days and were called together now for the first emergency meeting since jeans started to replace skirts in the sixties as the fashion of choice, sending business into a tailspin. Women wanted to be liberated, and one thing they definitely wanted to be liberated from was garters. Garters that dug into the flesh on the backs of their thighs when they were seated, causing pain and leaving indentations. But garters held up stockings, Calla-Lily’s bread and butter. That’s when the idea of panty hose caught on, thank God, and kept women from adopting jeans or the dreaded pantsuit as permanent replacements for skirts and dresses.
Bra manufacturers had also gone through a worrisome period when their pretty laced cups were being used to fuel bonfires. Fortunately for them, most women realized you can’t fight nature and the laws of gravity, and the bra business has held up since then, so to speak.
“I’m telling you,” Ruth continued after another drag and swig, “we have got to buy out that Blossom guy before somebody else does. His Birdie Panty Hose is not to be believed. It’s comfortable, sexy, can be made in all different colors and, worst of all . . .”
The board members braced themselves.
“IT DOESN’T RUN OR SNAG!”
“But madam,” Leonard White, a distinguished octo-genarian, began. “Five million dollars is an awful lot of money, and we don’t want it to compete with our other lines.”
Ruth slammed her fist on the table, causing the ashes to fly around like the fake snow in a watery Christmas-scene paperweight. “What, are you crazy? Who’s competing? These panty hose will never see the light of day. Remember our motto: ’Repeat Business.’ We buy the formula, own the patent, and then put it away for safekeeping. Over my dead body will a panty hose be marketed that doesn’t run. As for the five million dollars, we figured he could get a lot more than that if it goes to auction. We want to offer him a figure he’ll take right away. It’ll cost us a lot more than that if someone else gets their hands on it.”
White, the only brave one in the group, cleared his throat. “But can we be sure it’s so durable? You’ve only had them for a month.”
Ruth narrowed her beady eyes and tossed back her shoulder-length brown hair. “I wore them for a week straight, and went down to wash them in the Laundromat’s battered machines every night. Beach towels get chewed up in those things. The next morning when I put them on it was like they were fresh out of the wrapper. Then I gave them to the lab to test. Every test so far has come out positive. Irving is supposed to give us an update at this meeting, WHERE IS HE?”
The door at the back of the room opened and Irving Franklin, a thin, bespectacled man in his early fifties, wea
ring a white lab coat with a pair of black panty hose draped over his arm, stepped inside. Irving had been with Calla-Lily since the start of his career as an engineer and had seen them through the transition from stockings to panty hose and all the other crises in between, including the year of the fishnets. “Hello, Ruth. I’m here now.” There was no trace of nervousness in his manner. He was the one employee Ruth couldn’t bully, and she knew it.
“Talk to us, please,” Ruth urged. “I’ve been trying to tell them . . .”
Irving walked to the opposite end of the conference table and reverentially laid the panty hose in front of him. He took off his glasses, pulled a tissue out of his pocket and began to clean them, holding each glass inside his mouth and giving it a good “hahhhhhh,” before returning them to the bridge of his nose. The board members fidgeted in their seats and Ruth finally exploded.
“Irving, would you please hurry up!”
Irving stared at her.
Ruth slunk back in her seat.
“I have completed most of the tests,” Irving began. “It seems to me we have a breakthrough. I liken this to the discovery of nylon, which of course revolutionized the stocking, for the most part replacing the use of delicate silk. I can’t swear, but they seem to be perfect. I even gave them my own personal test.”
“What was that?” an up-till-now silent board member croaked in a barely audible voice.
“I lent them to my mother-in-law. She hasn’t been to the chiropodist in years.”
Murmurs rippled through the boardroom, many of whose members knew firsthand the importance of monthly visits to the foot clinic.
“My mother-in-law wore these for three days, which is an endurance test equivalent to any of us competing in a triathlon,” Irving pontificated as he walked around the room, “and not even breaking a sweat.”
More murmurs.
“These panty hose survived so well that my thirteen-year-old daughter, who weighs about one hundred pounds less than her grandmother, was able to borrow them for a teen dance and not worry about bagginess. These things snap right back into shape. Yes, I must say that these are the first ’one size fits all’ that don’t look cheap.”
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