Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies

by Barbara Silkstone

  According to my White Rabbit watch, it was leaning hard on four o’clock when I entered the salon. The tan and ivory walls offset the black marble floor and brushed-steel manicure tables. Classical music played, softening the sound of gossip at the stations. All the techs were male and could have been in the latest issue of Vanity Fair.

  I spotted Kit talking to a client. He looked up and shot me a million-dollar smile. He tapped his client’s hand and whispered something to her. She tittered, kissed Kit on the cheek, and sashayed out the door.

  My buddy placed his hands on his chest and belted out the first lines of Que Sera Sera à la Doris Day. I joined in the chorus. It was our version of fist-bumping.

  Kit’s singing voice was a deep Natalie Cole. Mine was more Lucy Ricardo with strep throat. One of the nail-techs covered his ears and scurried into the facial room.

  Queening-out, Kit waltzed toward me, his hand held high over his head. I reached up, grabbed his fingers, did a little pirouette, and yowled the next lines.

  We hit the chorus together but the drag-queen supreme had to finish solo when I choked on a Sera and fell giggling into his arms.

  “You look like road kill and smell worse.” He examined my nails, his voice going down two octaves. “You just had a mani and a pedi.”

  “I need something a wee bit more special.”

  “How about a daisy on each pinky and a diamond in the center?”

  “You know me better than that. I said something special.”

  He raised his perfectly arched eyebrows. “Oh, oh.”

  “If a person wanted to burglarize a gallery in an office lobby at the tippy top of a Miami high-rise, whom would she contact?”

  “Would this person be anyone we know?”

  I shot him a shut-your-mouth-honey grin. “I’m just saying… Do you know a trustworthy burglar?”

  He put his hands over his eyes, peeked out and said… “What tall building?”

  “The North by Northwest Financial Center.”

  “Oh cookie… can’t you… I mean this person aim lower? That’s almost the tallest building in Miami.”

  “She anticipates a few challenges.”

  “I don’t think this person should get involved.”

  “It’s an obligation. This person needs to recover something that’s been stolen. She needs to catch a thief.”

  “I don’t know crooks. I’m an honest queen. I might know rumors. You met one of those rumors at my Fourth of July party. Archie Leech?”

  The name sounded familiar. My mental mug shots pulled up a handsome black dude with dreadlocks. “Tall, thin, good looking? Braids to his butt?”

  “That’s him. Leech was arrested for cat burglary. I think it was an art gallery heist. He bragged about getting off but he was dead guilty. The dude gets his jollies climbing tall buildings.”

  “Buildering! That’s the kind of dude I need… I mean this person needs. I’m not telling you what she’s after or who it’s for. It’s a humanitarian caper.”

  Kit gave me a lifted eyebrow. “It always is with you… I mean this person.” He put his arm around me.

  “Think of it as the opposite of re-gifting. It’s re-thefting,” I said.

  “Leech usually does street performances for the after-work crowd. Acrobatic stunts like jumping over cars and climbing the outside walls of buildings. His troop is called The Birds. They work for tips. We can probably find him down on Biscayne Boulevard.”

  “You sure about him? Works for tips? The kind of thief I was thinking about was more like Ocean’s Eleven. George Clooney cool, not so much panhandler.”

  “It’s not like I have a list of robbers in my perfectly coifed head. By the way, like my highlights?”

  His sun-streaks always made me a tinge envious.

  He patted my noggin. “We’ll head over to Biscayne. If he’s there, it’s meant to be. Use your instincts, they’re almost always wrong. Do the opposite of what your gut tells you. And please inform this person no outside climbing jobs. That’s a freakin’ tall building and I look dreadful in wake black.”

  He didn’t have to warn me. High on my list of phobias—after holes in fabric and getting my face wet—was heights. I make Mel Brooks in High Anxiety look like the Flying Wallendas. But a promise made is a promise kept. I meant what I said, and I said what I meant, an elephant’s faithful one hundred percent. Horton and Dr. Seuss would be proud of me. I was babbling in rhyme.

  Kit grabbed an unlined suede sport coat that screamed Armani, looped his arm in mine, and we were out of the salon after a short delay for air kisses he exchanged with a tone-on-tone redhead entering as we exited.

  We crossed against the light and were on our way to find a mountain-scaling low-life. “Your friend might consider an insider snatch and grab. I could be the distraction. I’m good at that,” Kit said.

  In full drag Kit could distract a nun from catechism class. “With those size thirteen tootsies in stilettos you’d be stopped in the first floor lobby.”

  “Profiling is illegal, immoral, and fattening,” he snapped.

  Forming a box camera with my hands I peeked at him. “I’m guessing the gallery is wired and camera-ed up the tushie so I was thinking more along the lines of ducking under laser beams like in that Sean Connery movie.”

  “Catherine Zeta Jones! You’re going to need a cat suit with a racing stripe and a mask. I know just where to get one. Calligraphy and Cat-Scans!”

  “Ooo!” I shivered with excitement. I always wanted a slinky cat suit.

  We strolled up Biscayne Boulevard. I perused the high and mid-rises for a dreadlocked climber. Nothing. “Not meant to be,” I said to Kit.

  “Yikes!”

  Leech leaped down and under the Capricorn restaurant’s copper awning. He looked like a skinny version of the Fly dressed in black-on-black, his dreads held in a low ponytail. He patted Kit on the back. “Whatsup, girl? Saw you strutting with your lady friend. Fine looking woman.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.

  Kit chuckled. “This lady is my good friend, Wendy. She might be in the market for your special skills.”

  Leech looked me up and down and leaned over to eyeball my butt.

  “Not those skills, you beast,” Kit said and whapped him.

  We stood on either side of Leech. The slender dude smelled of sweat and Versace’s Eros. I lowered my voice. “You know the North by Northwest Building? I need after-hours access to the top floor.”

  “Whoa, woman. You are a radical chick.”

  I ignored his teen compliment. “What I want is in the secured lobby of the Cowboys Pension Fund.”

  Leech pulled away from us, his braids swinging, “Just so happens I’m working on my CV right now. I could use that building on my Buildering resume. You’re talking about the fifty-first floor. I got me a goal of beating that Frenchman who holds the world’s record for climbing the outside of skyscrapers.”

  Kit shot me a look of pure terror. He grimaced and shook his head.

  “Gotta get back to work before the cops come,” Leech said. He whapped Kit on the back and me on the butt. “Meet me at the Cracker Box tomorrow at nine. You’re buying breakfast.” He eyed me up and down. “Pull on your tights woman and get ready to rumble. Watch this!”

  The urban climber tore across Biscayne Boulevard, bouncing off the hood of a Cadillac and ricocheting from a Mini Cooper. He ran up four stories of the Jamaica Inn, a Key West Art Deco mutant, waving to the crowd from a balcony.

  “I want what he’s drinking,” I said.

  “He’s better than Spiderman.”

  Sirens howled and a police car squealed to a stop in front of the Inn. Two uniforms leaped from the car. In the moment it took to follow their actions, Leech vanished.

  Kit cut his eyes to me and wrinkled his nose. “The Cracker Box? That chicken-fried steak place? Don’t inhale while you’re there. You can gain five pounds. Drop by the salon after five tomorrow. We’ll go cat suit shopping. Meantime, spend an hour in a showe
r. And do something with that hair.”

  I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in a café window and shuddered. Popping on my sunglasses I stepped behind Kit. “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like road kill? Cover me until we get to my car.”

  Kit ran interference as we eased down Biscayne and made our way to my car. I pulled down the vanity mirror and gasped as Baby Jane gazed back at me. Patting my hair was useless, it sprang in all directions like a cartoon poodle. I scrunched down behind the wheel thanking the salesman at the dealership for tinting Goldie’s windows.

  A long shower, some protein, and a stiff drink, I dangled them in front of me like a mental carrot. The ride home took forever. I caught every light and the need to pee outran my need to eat. I waved to the security guard and pulled into my garage; the thought of Mrs. Lipschitz cruised through my mind but didn’t make a stop. I tumbled out of Goldie feeling rode hard and put away dirty.

  Galloped to the bathroom just in time. Sitting there I knew I’d not get a decent sleep unless I had answers about the mysterious Mrs. MacGuffin. Avoiding the mirror, I washed my hands and grabbed my phone from my purse.

  Hic’s phone went unanswered. Dang that man! I had questions about his so-called after-life coach. I’d try again when I’d showered and had a bite to eat. I thought of my dinner with Hic and grabbed the bottle of mouthwash from the counter. I swigged and spit and swigged again. Last night was like a bad dream.

  I dropped my clothes in the bathroom trash, I’d never wear them again. The hot water felt so good I could have stayed in the shower forever. But the thought of the Lobster Pot leftovers in the refrigerator and a glass of scotch put a hustle in my bustle. I poured handfuls of Johnson’s Baby Wash and lathered every reachable part of me enjoying the cuddly smell and allowing myself a one-minute pity party. No baby. I sure did love the smell of babies. I brushed a tear or maybe it was just shower spray.

  That odd mix of emotions, loss and relief, hit me again, only to be cut off by an image of me falling from the side of a building, slow motion, with a look of terror on my face. How the hell did I let myself get talked into flinging my only body up and down the side of a building? I toweled off, shaking and not from the cold.

  With a short scotch and a cold lobster tail in my belly, I crawled into bed but sleep wouldn’t come. Had I made the mistake of my life agreeing to a high-stakes theft with an idiot partner?

  Chapter Nine

  Dressed in black jeans, a matching pullover, and black Keds—the uniform of choice for stylish burglars—I sauntered through the parking lot. My mouth watered as the aroma of fried chicken and bacon wafted from the Cracker Box… breakfast was served.

  I followed the aproned hostess to a table in the back. Fifteen minutes later my fingers ached from drumming the sticky surface. Since I was putting my life in Leech’s hands, punctuality would give me a tad bit of comfort. I scanned the tables wondering if there was a more reliable robber in the room.

  The waitress poured bubbling hot coffee into a cup perched precariously on her tray. Liquid nerve-enhancer. I sipped the brew while I studied the tchotchke-laden walls. A battered black and orange metal sign boasting Eveready Batteries hung below a barely green Bubble-Up Soda Pop plaque. Vacant-eyed prairie folk stared from daguerreotype portraits, a Dali-like contrast to the day-glow garbed tourists wolfing sausage biscuits and eggs.

  My stomach growled. Last night’s lobster tail was a distant memory. The aromas of southern comfort food ignited my appetite.

  I flagged the waitress. Sausage gravy with two eggs over easy and some buttery grits might give me an extra jolt of energy. Then I remembered the skin-tight cat suit and held my cup for her. “Just a refill. Thank you.”

  Leech finally arrived performing a John Travolta strut; his entrance caused a mini-disturbance. Evidently, he was a mini-celebrity in the Cracker Box. He wore jeans, a checkered shirt, and cowboy boots. A diamond stud glittered from his left earlobe as he threw his dreads behind his shoulders. He lifted my hand and kissed it, pulled out the opposite chair with a wood-on-tile squeal and eased into the seat.

  He passed the menu to the waitress after ordering bacon, smoked ham, eggs, and hash browns. His dark eyes set on me with an amused look. “I’m being upfront with you. The deal is Buildering. Urban climbing. If I can’t scale the outside of a building, a gig isn’t worth beans to me.”

  “You’re crazy. There is no sane reason to climb the outside of a high-rise. It’s a simple inside job with probable high-tech security.”

  “Look doll, I checked you out. You’re famous, sort of. The only reason I’m helping you is so I can use your name on my website. Saying you’re my student will get me corporate sponsors.”

  “You are so not using my name on any website. Hear me good. I’m not about to risk my life on the outside of a building so you can get brownie points with The Birds.”

  “This ain’t about The Birds. I’m working on winning the international record for Buildering. The final competition is in Dubai in June. Need me some deep-pocket sponsors. Doing cheap stunts like hanging from the inside of an elevator shaft won’t get me moneyed backers. I ain’t no Tom what’s his name.”

  I cracked my knuckles instead of cracking his head. Time was running out. Hic could be gone at any moment. I locked my green peepers with Leech’s inky eyes. “I assume hiking the sides of high-rises doesn’t exactly pay well; for every building you climb you spend an equal amount of time in a police car. You probably have a bail bondsman with both hands in your pockets.”

  He broke eye contact.

  “I’m willing to retain your talents for one thousand dollars.”

  Leech snorted, coffee shooting from his nose. “I wouldn’t embarrass myself for a grand.”

  “What amount would you lower your standards for?”

  “Let’s try it my way first. Humor me. You’re a fit chick.” He shot me a lecherous look. “What’s your sign?”

  “It’s unlisted.”

  He snorted again. “Once you soar like a pigeon to a ledge you’ll be begging to write me a website testimonial.”

  I shook my head trying to loosen plan B. It had to be in there somewhere.

  His voice turned whiney. “Aww come one. Take a crack at being my student. I’ll watch out for you. If you don’t feel the thrill, then I will chill.”

  Hic’s time was running out. What were my options? “Maybe one practice session,” I bluffed. “If I don’t like it we stop immediately. Oh… and no publicity. Nada. This is a black op.”

  “You look great in black,” he flashed a snow-white grin sans one front tooth probably lost in a fall.

  I glanced around the dining room delaying my response. The elderly couple next to us was chowing down on a breakfast of southern fried chicken and corn on the cob. Two policemen sat at a window-side table speed-eating scrambled eggs and toast. Not a spare robber in the house.

  “Okay. We try one quick lesson, but it has to be soon!”

  “Cool. Two grand. Cash.”

  There wasn’t time to negotiate with the skinny dude. Leech extended his slender hand across the table. We shook. His palm was sandpaper rough. His smile reminded me of a fox sizing up a chicken, not that I’d ever seen a fox in person but I was definitely a chicken.

  “Just remember I’m scared purple of heights but I can beat the shit out of you. And I don’t do anything illegal.”

  He snorted again. “Hello? You’re hiring me to help you break and enter a high security building. By the way, what are we stealing?”

  I flipped a mental coin then unflipped it. I had no choice but to trust him. My life was about to be in his hands. “I’ve been hired by a confidential client to recover a bronze bucking bronco that was stolen from him. It’s thirty-two inches tall but pretty heavy. It’s supposed to be on display in the Cowboy Pension Fund gallery lobby along with other western art.”

  I stopped speaking while the waitress placed a large platter in front of Leech. The eggs swam in melted butter and the bac
on looked like a menu photo. He managed to gobble it down and slug three mugs of coffee in the time it took me to get the check.

  “That metal horse must be worth a lot,” He blotted his lips with a paper napkin and pushed back from the table. “We’ll run through your preliminary Buildering practice at my place, then visit the gallery. You’re in good hands.”

  He stood smoothing his tight jeans down his thighs. “Follow me.”

  I was so not going to take a lesson from this fanatic. At the last minute I would claim cramps, back out, and drag his cat-burglar butt to the North by Northwest building.

  Goldie and I followed Leech’s faded silver Nissan hatchback for about five miles and thirty-five red lights. He parked outside a large complex in Kendall Lakes in suburban Miami. I parked in a guest slot then jogged down a paved side alley behind my sensei.

  We entered a concrete courtyard with a dusting of snack food bags and empty beer bottles. “Where’s your house?”

  He pointed to an old stucco mid-rise with touches of faux Spanish trim. His finger moved to a patio three floors up with a rainbow flag waving from the railing. “I always enter from the rear window.”

  It took a full minute to grasp the situation. “I think not!” My hands felt like two slabs of cold raw liver.

  “Trust me. This is your first lesson. Once you get in the flow you’ll feel weightless.”

  “No. I will feel like one-hundred and twenty-five pounds falling to earth.”

  “You won’t fall. You’re in the hands of a master. I live for the wind in my dreads.”

  “I have no dreads except that of heights.” Also holes in fabric and getting my face wet.

  Leech took me by the shoulders and turned me so we were nose to nose. “Grasshopper, whom do you think taught Daniel Craig his James Bond jazz? Whom do you think stood eighty-eight stories below Sean Connery and Catherine Zeta Jones at the foot of the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur?”

  “Your neighbors will call the police,” I said fighting the impulse to turn and run. This was not going the way I envisioned. Whatever happened to regular old burglars?