by Kylie Logan
I got over there just as Osborn added a twist to a long blue balloon and it popped in his face.
“Do it again! Do it again!” The urchin in front of him figured the exploding balloon was part of the act. She clapped her hands and shrieked.
Yes, there was a whole lot of shrieking going on.
Osborn blew up another balloon, twisted it a few times, and handed it off to the kid. When he was done, he stepped back and, with one hand pressed to his chest, gasped for air. That’s when he noticed me. “You’re not one of the guests,” he said.
“No, but I need to talk to you.”
A boy of five pushed me out of the way. “I want a butterfly!” he yelled.
His plastic red nose twitching, Osborn made the kid a butterfly, twisting the balloon this way and that while his gaze traveled over the army of kids who raced through the yard and skimmed the thirty or so adults who weren’t even pretending they could control them. “They won’t be happy if they figure out you’re a party crasher,” he said.
“The party givers, you mean.”
Osborn’s blue Afro twitched when he nodded.
“I get it. I don’t want to ruin the gig for you. You could make a balloon animal for me,” I suggested. “Then they might think I actually belong here.”
He blew up a pink balloon and twisted it.
It popped.
Osborn mumbled a word he shouldn’t have said at a kids’ party. “I hate balloon animals,” he added with a look toward the adults, who by this time were oblivious to the sounds of bursting balloons. “Why can’t I just do card tricks? I’m really good at card tricks.”
I had seen his card tricks onstage at Creosote Cal’s and I wasn’t sure really good applied, but I didn’t point that out. Just so he couldn’t tell me to shut up and mind my own business, I waited until he was in the midst of blowing up another balloon before I started in again. “You and Dickie had a fight yesterday. You argued about ticket sales to your shows this weekend.”
Osborn gave the pink balloon a couple twists. “So?”
“So now Dickie’s dead.”
He glanced at me. “What happened to your chin?”
Once I’d got back to the RV the night before, I’d realized the wound I’d sustained thanks to my run-in with Yancy’s fence wasn’t nearly as serious as I’d feared when it happened. I’d taken care of it. Plenty of soap and water. A slathering of Neosporin. It might have been a little less conspicuous if I could have found some regular old bandages and hadn’t had to go next door and ask Johnny Purdue, who ran a stand that sold cold drinks, if he had any he could spare. Not only did Johnny have bandages, but he had little kids. My injury might have been a little less noticeable if not for the Angry Birds bandage.
“It doesn’t matter what happened to my chin. What happened to Dickie, that’s what’s important.”
“You think?”
I shouldn’t have had to remind him. “I think Dickie was poisoned.”
“And you think I did it?”
He grabbed a green balloon, but before he had a chance to blow it up, a small kid tugged at his sleeve. “Doggie,” the kid said. “I wanna doggie.”
Osborn put down the green balloon and grabbed a blue one, blew it up, and twisted it into what looked more like a misshapen soccer ball than a doggie. “There you go, kid,” he said.
The little boy’s bottom lip bulged. “Not a doggie.”
The smile on Osborn’s face never wavered. Then again, it was painted on. “It’s a doggie. Take it and get lost.”
The kid did.
“I didn’t say you killed Dickie,” I commented once the kid had walked away.
“Good thing, because I didn’t.”
“But you did have a fight.”
One of the adults had gone over to a table at the center of which was a two-foot-high cake decorated to look like a pirate ship, and Osborn saw his chance. He motioned me to follow him to the side of the house, where, out of sight of the party goers, he lit a cigarette and took a drag.
Once again I had to face the demons of my former addiction. Lucky for me, there was green Silly String on my shorts so I concentrated on picking that off instead of on the aroma of tobacco.
“That fight . . .” Osborn scratched a hand under his bulbous rubber nose. “It was a setup, you know?”
“You and Dickie planned it?”
“His timing was bad. And doesn’t it figure? Dickie was a—” He didn’t finish the thought. Then again, the way his mouth twisted, he didn’t have to. “Comedians, they’re supposed to be all about timing. Still, Dickie screwed it up. We had it planned so we’d wait until the audience was seated.”
“You wanted to fight in public?”
“We wanted to get some attention. You know, so people left there talking about us.”
“And bought tickets to both your shows this weekend.”
It was unnerving when the blue Afro bobbed in my direction.
I backed up a step. “Okay, I get it. The fight was all about promotion, all about publicity. You and Dickie planned it. But I bet you didn’t plan that Dickie would steal Hermosa away from you.”
The painted smile squeezed. “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
“That Dickie stole Hermosa away? That’s not exactly what I’d call it.”
“Then what would you call it?”
He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out beneath the sole of one red boot. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Like I said, I didn’t say—”
“Then why come around asking questions?”
I answered as best I could. Which meant I shrugged. “Ruth Ann’s upset. And the whole thing . . .” I thought back to the scene in Creosote Cal’s auditorium the day before. It felt like a lifetime ago. “None of it makes sense. Bernadette’s chili couldn’t have been poisoned. If it was, you all would be where Dickie is now.”
Even though it was coated with white greasepaint, I could tell Osborn’s face got a little green. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”
“So I guess I just want some answers,” I admitted. “I thought you might be able to help.”
A rousing—and very off-key—chorus of “Happy Birthday” ended in the backyard, and Osborn peeked around the corner. Apparently he was still in the clear.
“I didn’t see anything,” he said.
“You left the judging table at one point.”
“So I tasted the chili and went backstage so everybody in the audience didn’t see me gag and throw up. What of it? Again you’re insinuating—”
“Nothing. Honest. I’m just trying to sift through the facts. You took a taste of one of the chilies. And you coughed and pounded your chest and—”
“And got up and went backstage so I could choke in private. Man, that stuff was hot!”
“And when you walked past where Dickie was sitting—”
“Did I put poison in his bowl?” Osborn laughed. Not a pleasant sound. “What do you think?”
“I think the cops are going to be looking at everyone’s motives. You and Dickie and Hermosa . . . that’s definitely a motive.”
“Yeah, well, if they’re looking for motives, tell them to be sure to talk to the lovely and talented Hermosa.”
Call me a romantic at heart (go ahead, say it—it isn’t true, and after what happened back in Chicago with Edik, it never will be), I couldn’t help but flinch. “You’re pointing the finger at Hermosa? I thought you loved her!”
Osborn peeked around the corner one more time before he lit another cigarette. “Yeah, well, I thought I loved her, too. What a sucker I was, huh? Then one day, she marches into the theater and announces that Dickie is moving in with her.”
“So Dickie and Hermosa were an item. Then why do you think she would want to kill him?”
<
br /> Osborn dismissed my logic with the wave of a hand. “You met Dickie. Everyone who knew him wanted to kill him.”
“I doubt that applies to the woman he was living with.”
When a clown with white greasepaint smeared over his face and a huge red smile rolls his eyes, there’s something particularly sinister about it. “You’ve never been in love, have you, kid?” he asked me, and it was a good thing he didn’t give me a chance to answer. There wasn’t time to get into all the ugly details of the Edik story. “Why do you suppose the cops always look at a murder victim’s spouse first? Nobody knows another person as well as the person they’re sleeping with. And more often than not, getting to know you turns into getting to hate you.”
Even I wasn’t that cynical. Or was I?
Osborn interrupted my conscience searching. “You were at the show the other night when Dickie got up onstage. He insulted plenty of people, including Hermosa.”
“He did, didn’t he?” I cocked my head and thought this through. “Yancy said Hermosa went along with it for the publicity. Do you think that’s true? It sounds crazy to me that any woman would let a guy talk about her like that. They were supposed to be—”
“In love? Yeah. Whatever!” Osborn finished his cigarette. “Hermosa didn’t love Dickie as much as she loved his money. And his promises. See, Dickie claimed he had contacts at one of the big hotels on the Strip. Good contacts. He told Hermosa he was going to get a permanent gig there. And that he was taking her along with him.”
“It wasn’t true?”
“What do you think?”
“Did she leave you before or after Dickie promised her the moon?”
Osborn grunted. “The minute he spoke the words.”
“So Dickie promises her a bigger spotlight—”
“And she walks out on me.” He threw his hands in the air.
“And that’s when you decided you hated Hermosa.”
“You got that right, kid.”
“And that’s when you decided you hated Dickie, too.”
He thought about it, but only for a moment. Then he shook his head and that blue Afro wiggled like a bowl of Jell-O. “Nah! Only realized how much I hated Hermosa a little while ago. Dickie—”
“Where’s Osborn the Clown?” we heard someone call from the backyard.
Osborn sighed, straightened his wig, and made sure his nose was in place. “Dickie,” he said, “I knew I hated a long, long time ago. And he reminded me of the fact. The fifteenth of every month.”
Believe me, I would have asked him to explain if a couple little kids hadn’t barreled around the corner, grabbed on to Osborn, and dragged him back to the party.
Me? I walked up front and called a cab, and it should come as no surprise that even when I got back to Creosote Cal’s, I didn’t head straight to Deadeye.
See, Osborn got me thinking, and thinking, I thought about Yancy and everything he’d told me the evening before about how Dickie Dunkin had been blackmailing him.
That’s when I casually strolled back over to Creosote Cal’s Human Resources Department, and once there, I found the answer to the question that had been nagging me since leaving the party.
No wonder Osborn hated Dickie Dunkin so much! I’d bet a case of Thermal Conversion that, just like he had Yancy, Dickie had been blackmailing Osborn. Every single fifteenth of every single month—payday.
CHAPTER 9
“It’s about time.”
The fact that Sylvia had customers when I got back to the Palace didn’t keep her from editorializing. She packed a woman’s shopping bag and glared at me from behind the cash register, all at the same time. Sylvia is just that kind of talented. “I can’t believe Ruth Ann needed your help this long.”
“You know Ruth Ann!” How’s that for noncommittal? I grabbed a handful of the corn chips Sylvia had put out next to the tiny bowls of chili samples for customers. It had been a long day, and I hadn’t even gotten a piece of cake at the birthday party. I chomped down the corn chips and gave my half sister a half smile. “I’m back now.”
“And you better get to work!” Sylvia handed the woman her shopping bag and thanked her for stopping in before she glanced toward the back of the bordello. I looked where she was looking and saw a familiar flash of red.
“The Chick is back in town!” I fist-pumped and closed in on my cleaned (and itch-free, I hoped) costume and headed into the back storage room to change.
The moment I stepped back into the bordello, Sylvia pushed a pile of papers into my right hand. “Coupons for a free sample-size jar of Chili Cha-Cha with every ten-dollar purchase. And flyers advertising our latest specials, and—”
My left hand out and my stilettos dangling from it, I stopped her. “At least let me get my shoes on.”
“Well, do it fast.” Sylvia gave me a shove toward the front door. “The Chick is supposed to be our big drawing card and you’ve barely worn the costume since we got to Vegas. Look, there’s a boatload of people coming into Deadeye. It must be one of those senior citizen bus tours. Get out there, Maxie. Get out there and dance!”
In fishnet-stockinged feet, I stumbled out to the wooden walkway in front of the bordello, set down the coupons, and leaned against the building to slip on my shoes. All set, I grabbed the coupons again, and since a few of the old folks who’d just walked in had spied the Chick and walked over to check out what the giant chili was all about, I dance-stepped my way over to the dusty main street of Deadeye.
“Texas Jack Pierce’s Hot-Cha Chili Seasoning Palace!” I waved and tapped and—
“Whoa!” My feet slid out from under me, and I threw out a hand and caught the arm of an old guy in a white jacket who thought it was part of the act and looped an arm around the Chick, chuckling all the while.
I thanked him with a smile he couldn’t see, caught my breath, steadied myself, and pulled away.
Only to have my feet go out from under me again.
This time, I wasn’t fast enough. I thrashed my arms, and coupons and flyers geysered into the air, then floated down on the crowd, like overgrown confetti. I fought to regain control, but the more I shuffled my feet, the more I spun out of control. The blue sky and white puffy clouds painted on the ceiling above my head tipped. The shops of Deadeye swirled when I whirled. They disappeared from my line of sight completely when I ended up in the dust and drifts of coupons on my chili butt.
“Oh, that was just terrific!” A tiny old lady let go of her walker long enough to applaud. “Wasn’t it, Harry? Wasn’t it terrific?” she asked the man at her side. “Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to be able to dance like that again.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
Here’s the thing about the Chili Chick. She’s made of heavy canvas reinforced with wire and mesh and all sorts of whatevers that keep the chili shape. The costume cushioned my fall and that was a good thing, but trying to pull myself up off the floor while encased in a giant chili wasn’t so much an aerobic exercise as it was a matter of rolling, turning, and grunting.
I rolled, turned, and grunted, and finally, I was able to raise myself on my elbows and sit up. Getting to my feet, that was a whole different challenge. I looked up at the circle of senior citizen faces that looked down at me and knew I would find no help there. All I needed was to grab a hand and yank some old guy down on the floor and have him break a hip! On my own, I braced a hand against the floor and shoved. It actually might have worked if my feet didn’t slip.
I ended up back where I started.
“Looks like you could use some help.”
This time when I looked up, I found Gert Wilson had joined the crowd of onlookers. Gert owned the stand that sold things like cute kitchen towels and potholders, chili-themed jewelry and crockery, and she was currently working out of the general store next door to the bordello.
Gert is no fragile seni
or citizen so when she offered me a hand, I grabbed it. She tugged, I got to my feet. But no sooner had the soles of my shoes settled on the floor than my left foot shot back and my right foot kicked forward.
This time when I went down, I landed on my knees and I didn’t care how many senior citizens were within earshot, as soon as I felt my fishnet stockings rip along with my flesh, I snarled out a curse.
“Again.” Gert held on to my hand tighter this time and looped an arm around the chili. “Careful,” she warned when I got to my feet and they slid to either side like I was on ice skates. “Don’t try to move too fast. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t try to move at all.”
She didn’t need to tell me twice. I stood as still as if I’d been turned to stone and braced myself, waiting for the room to pitch, and when it didn’t, I let go a long breath and kicked off my shoes.
“Thanks,” I told Gert, steady on my feet now that I was stockings to floor. “I must have stepped in something.”
She’d already bent to retrieve my stilettos, and she turned them over and tipped the shoes so that I could see that both of them had something shiny on the soles. She touched a finger to the substance. “It looks like Vaseline, and it’s smeared over the soles and heels of both shoes. There’s no way this was an accident. Somebody wanted you to fall.”
“Somebody?” I shot a laser look at the Palace and at Sylvia, who, in spite of the fact that her sister was down on the ground—hard to miss a prostrate chili—and surrounded by old people who smelled like mints and arthritis cream, was engrossed in rearranging jars of spices. “Like the same somebody who claimed she didn’t know anything about the itching powder in my costume?”
I pulled away from Gert and I would have stomped right into the Palace and had it out with Sylvia, but dang, it turns out senior citizens can move pretty fast when they see a chili with its chili fists curled and steam coming out of its ears; they beat me to the door. I reminded myself that customers meant sales and sales meant income and income meant paid bills, and put the knock-down-drag-out I planned to have with my half sister on my to-do list.