by Lotta Smith
For them, I was just an accessory to my ex’s crime and a ‘bloody’ lucky slut who’d dodged criminal charges by getting a divorce before things got ugly. Another gold digging third wife who married a man probably older than her own father—that’s what they labeled me. They turned blind eye to the fact that first, I had nothing to do with my ex’s business; second, I had fully cooperated with prosecutors; and third, I was actually the dump-ee in the divorce, not the dump-er.
It had only enraged them even more when they realized that they wouldn’t be able to recover their losses by suing me. I had a modest divorce settlement but by the time they thought about lawsuits, I had already donated the entire divorce settlement to a research fund to find a cure for osteogenesis imperfecta. And another research fund for achondroplasia. It felt wonderfully good to donate money to congenital diseases with hard-to-pronounce names. Then so-called victims started making threats about ruining my life and everything, but I’d just got a new phone number and closed all of my SNS and email accounts. My lawyer (or the lawyer Mom hired for me) was adamant that I keep low profiles. So she put me in an exile in Gibraltar. As instructed, I was keeping low profiles in a safe house, and that’s when a couple of paparazzi just popped up in front of my doorstep, from out of nowhere. Just like unpleasant version of genies.
“Hey Kelly, is that true that Warren the big swindler did a double-penetration with you and his new girl on finalizing the divorce?”
“Of course, it’s true,” before I could react to Baz the reporter’s rude question, Dick the cameraman chimed in. “You know what? They must’ve done it to celebrate her coming back as Kelly Kinky back from 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 the Day One in grade school, I’ve heard this Kelly Kinky joke gazillion times! I thought my head had 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-anymore house. I could have stayed inside, but I went out 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 breathed fire, but I’d seen one of former faux-dads breathe fire (he’s an illusionist) and believe me, I so wanted to make my point. I used vodka and some lit candles. 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 in video. Which, was aired on TV. Over and over.
My name was engraved as Kelly the Bitch in all Britons’ memory. This hate-Kelly campaign got really popular. Magazines, newspaper 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 media industry had managed 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 the first post-divorce gig. During this fiasco, this American comic heavy metal band called Iron Dragon was visiting London, watched the video featuring yours truly breathing fire. They recruited me as Lady Dragon the fire breather to accompany 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 the fists, they did a high-five.
I was still standing there frozen, stunned, and motionless. In my mind, I was shooting at those British paparazzi with an automatic firearm until those SOBs resembled the Swiss cheese from 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 contemplation, Baz flashed his chipped, yellowy teeth. “So how have you been, Kelly? What are ya doing here? Swindling out of the people as you used to do with Warren, now in the U.S.? 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, now you’ve 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 also we got to take pics of Kelly the Bitch! Think about the headline – ‘Kelly the Bitch spotted on 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 PM for comin’ to the US!”
I bit my lip. I didn’t bother to cover my face with my hands. I was aware that’d only enhance the photo in the worst possible way, giving an impression that I was actually humiliated. It was like a total déjà vu. The worst part of my personal history was recurring and revisiting me. It was like seeing a really bad movie that’s scored six Razzies coming back with an even worse sequel.
But deep in my heart, I knew this day was coming, and there really was nothing I could do. Michael Archangel was right. I was a socialite dropout. It was only a mere luck that I’d never had an encounter with British paparazzi in the U.S. so far. I was so used to be my current mediocre, invisible status as an assistant to a private detective. Michael Archangel was famous for his brilliance, crime-solving skills and wackiness, but he was the one who gets 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 whooping wrong. They hadn’t forgotten about me, or forgiven me. Still yet, meeting those paparazzi from hell wasn’t something I had expected. Ever again. Not to mention being reminded that Bitch-who-used-to-be-married-to-the-Big-Swindler-Warren catch copy 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 as if I was the one responsible for the gruesome murders.
I closed my eyes, blinked, 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 waste a moment to search the garbage on the web, two; I was still famous and a sort of popular among them, and three; well…what about the third positive thing…?
BASH!
Alright, add that the camera suddenly got busted and shattered to tatters in front of my eyes, to the reason#3 to stay positive.
“Bloody fuck!”
“Hey, what the fuck do you think you just did?” yelled two mean men from the UK.
“Chill, I’ve just saved your lives.” Archangel, who had just shattered the camera into bits and pieces with a reverse roundhouse kick, 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 get bitten by that, it could have caused serious consequences such as an acute abdominal and back pain, muscle cramps, nausea, vomiting, difficulty breathing, high blood pressure, restlessness, and death.”
British paparazzi exchanged glances.
“You’re tryin
g to con me, right?” said Dick the photographer.
“You’ll be sorry if you’re bullshitting on us.” With narrowed eyes, Baz said. “Just because we happen to be English gentlemen doesn’t mean you can take an advantage of us.”
Archangel bent down, picked up a fragment of the shattered camera using a handkerchief. “By the way, the spider has highly potent venom which causes helluva 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 out,” dropping the camera fragment, Archangel continued in a low and husky voice.
“Look at this,” he kicked the left leg in front, exhibiting the slightly chipped sole of the Jimmy Choo platform to their eyes. “Your camera had caused a tremendous damage to my shoe, this baby had 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 he exchanged greeting with the officer by first names. I could hear Baz and Dick asking around about the bloody giant bloke in funny getup, and obtaining the answer telling that 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 someone else was taking a video of everything?”
“You mean, like the moment you bashed the camera into pieces with your kick? Why do you want anyone to record that particular moment?”
“You know,” he shrugged. “I was thinking maybe the video goes viral and maybe it’ll be cool to have a reality show with a title like ‘Keeping Up with Michael Archangel.’”
“Are you serious?”
Now I was very confused. “By the way, there really was a deadly spider on the camera so you had to bash it, right?”
“Oh-oh,” he frowned. “I’m not really sure if asking a question for the 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 comes 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 a cheek hinting a not-so-well-concealed grin.
Chapter 8
As I stepped inside the house, I couldn’t help but flinching by the stench of blood. Dribbles of blood in the foyer were telling 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 one eyebrow.
“Oh yeah, every now and then when I feel like enforcing traffics.” Henderson shrugged, with a tight little smirk on his face.
“That’s not funny. Same ol’, same ol’, smartass,” A woman in a white Chanel suit emerged and snorted like Queen Victoria. I had almost expected her to say, “I’m not amused.”
“Ouch, that hurt. Really hurt. I’m so crashed.” 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 the same ol’ smartass remarks?”
For just a little moment, a flash of emotion flickered over her gaze. It seemed like a mixture of anger, frustration, irritation, and something that resembled a passion. And maybe, a very subtle sadness. Throw in some blushing on her well-sculpted cheeks, which added a certain level of warmth to the edgy, femme fatale-esque cool beauty.
She was beautiful. Tall, slender and supermodel-esque figure. Only that she looked more feminine. Delicate, heart shaped face with high cheekbones like Keira Knightley. Icy blue eyes sparkling with aggressive liveliness. Add shiny platinum blond hair 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 the Representatives. Very impressive.” Archangel countered. “Then again, considering you’ve got spare time hanging around a crime scene which is completely out of your jurisdiction, the business in the 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 an irritation. And a sign of a trouble.
Always a supportive assistant, I cleared my throat.
“Who’s there?” Patricia the cool beauty, now 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 guess? Excuse me, but you’re 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.” And she chuckled a bitchy cackle.
Oh-la-la, now I’m determined to call you Bitchtricia, I thought. And I didn’t feel guilty for calling her Bitchtricia.
“When are you from?” I said.
“I’m a representative of Virginia, but originally from New York,” she shrugged. “You’re supposed to say ‘Where are you from?’ in English.” She corrected me as if I was a toddler, or a foreigner from Godforsaken out of nowhere with a poor command of English.
“I get your point, but that doesn’t apply in this case,” I shrugged back. “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 of them on the account that when I arrived this world back in late 20th century, go-go dancing had already well gone extinct-ish, 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 at fire-performance rather than dancing, so for the most part of the tour, my responsibility was very much focused on tasks with fire.”
For the emphasis, I took a bottle of Purell (I always carry 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’s, 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, away from me, 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 was chewing his lower lip so as not to burst out laughing. Archangel had a facial expression like that of a cat licking cream.
I nodded, “Fine. By the way, did I mention Michael Archangel usually solves complex cases immediately? Cases like the ones that the feds and the local police take months and even years to figure out? And saving a great deal of taxpayers’ dollars? So with this series of particular cases, he might be
taking a little bit more time than the previous cases but you can’t make a fuss, judging solely on this case.”
“Enough!” Bitchtricia growled. “Solve the crimes, catch the killer and stop further killing.” 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 lighter.”
“Bummers.”
“Guess what, Ritchie? She’s good at pranks or what?” 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 that I was engaged with her.”
“Engaged? Like, for a marriage?” I gasped.
“I believe so.” Archangel snorted.
“You’re joking.”