by J. L. Salter
I took a deep breath and darted inside, as though my speed could diminish the shock. Judging from the stench, that restroom was cleaned possibly once a week. Don't men have a sense of smell? Gauging from the pools of, uh, liquid on the floor, none of the Dairy Barne's male customers could aim into either of the old-fashioned sunken urinals, which seemed to be the driest spots in the entire tiled floor.
I stood as near the door as I could and faced the wall. James was already taking care of business. When the sound of the cop's urine stream began to make me feel faint, I whacked the air dryer button with my elbow to partly mask the noise. Didn't help much and hurt my elbow besides.
The corporal completed his primary task and moved to the sinks to rinse his hands. Didn't use any soap. I had taken about four breaths that entire time and each was partly screened by the black satin of my collar when I pulled it up. James opened the door and I burst out like a school kid beginning recess.
Everybody in the Dairy Barne watched intently, including the family with three young children. No one could have known exactly what transpired behind that door, but everyone would realize we weren't in there long enough for it to have been anything much. Kurtz nodded. It probably meant, Okay so far, but no more witches in my men's room.
The cop nodded back, so perhaps he understood. "Okay, let's have us a sit-down and see what's what." James motioned toward a booth. I didn't want to be that close to either of those guys, so I pulled over a chair and sat at the end of their table, which put me in plain view of everybody in the joint.
A very tired-looking waitress moved slowly toward our booth-plus-chair. With her pad and pen poised, she stared but didn't actually ask for our order. "I'm buying tonight, Ethel. Three coffees." He held up that many fingers as though the number needed visual aid.
Ethel put away her pad and trudged back to the counter, some twenty feet distant, where the manager conferred with her briefly. With little care about spillage, Ethel poured three coffees, paused to wipe an obviously filthy towel around the rim of one cup, and brought the tray slowly to our booth. "Manager don't want ya blockin' th' aisle."
Well, I certainly wasn't going to sit with the corporal so I perched on the very edge of the buccaneer's bench seat. The coffee cups looked slightly filmy and I prayed I hadn't gotten the one with the recent rim-swipe. I added sweetener — half a pink packet — and stirred with a greasy fork. I took a sip — surprisingly good. Warmed all the way down my gullet and reminded me I was also hungry. I looked toward the counter at the glass rack with pie slices. Chocolate! Oh, that would be so nice right now. But no money. And I knew this officer wouldn't spring for it. I couldn't very well ask Captain Blood.
The swashbuckler sipped his black coffee a few times and then stared into the rising steam. "So, Corporal James, is there a way you can check our names from here, then let us go back to our vehicles at the armory? It'd be nice to put this entire thing behind us as soon as possible." He didn't use the word "matey" even once. No "avast" either.
Touching the cup reminded me of the splinter in my finger so I worked on it inelegantly with my teeth. Splinters keep hurting until you pull them out because they brush against everything.
The pirate watched for several moments before he pulled out one of those little red knives with attachments. Not the one with ninety-nine gizmos. His just had four or five; one was a tiny pair of tweezers which slipped down into the handle. He extracted those and handed them over without comment.
I sighed heavily. How long was he going to watch me gnaw on my finger before he remembered his tweezers?
James watched the knife activity as he dumped several packets of sugar into his coffee, borrowed the fork I'd used, and then slurped his brew noisily. Finally he addressed the question on the table. "I'm still working on that. I'm off-duty, uh, about ten minutes ago. But I've already called-in the enter and remain, and they're expecting two perps in cuffs."
"But we're not really perpetrators. Since we're just two unfortunate citizens locked in by mistake, that would be an easy explanation. Plus no paperwork for you. Just chalk it up to an oversight by the festival organizers." The pirate was eloquent. "In fact, on Monday morning I can write a letter to the editor criticizing them for locking us in. That puts everything above board."
James mulled it over as he slurped.
I didn't want my name or circumstances in the newspaper, but that would certainly be better than a Police Station booking. When I leaned forward slightly to sip my coffee, the table top pushed up my girls over the cups of that very uncomfortable rig. It caught the corporal's attention each time. Memo to Kristen: burn bustier.
"Okay, let's have some names." From his chest pocket, James retrieved a pen, clicked it a few times for practice, and struggled to get a ticket pad from the rear of his trousers. "Pirate first."
He cleared his throat. "Ryan Hazzard."
It sounded made-up.
Then he gave his address, on the west side of town, beyond the hospital area. Hazzard also pulled the driver's license from his wallet and slid it across the stained table top.
The officer keyed his mic and transmitted what he'd read from the license. "This address doesn't match. It's even a different county."
"Oh, right, haven't changed it yet." Pirate Hazzard shrugged. "Only been here since early September. New in town… you know."
"Yeah. Well, you got ninety days from the time you move here to get a new license. Or else."
I wanted to ask what the else penalty was, but I wisely kept quiet. I did, however, finally extract my splinter and handed the tweezers back to Hazzard. He plucked his own splinters adroitly on the first try and then re-inserted the handy tool into his knife's special chamber.
Corporal James held out his hand. "Concealed weapon. You can get it back from the desk sergeant."
Hazzard looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't.
We all drank more coffee while the officer waited. The dispatcher evidently flashed him back. James nodded as he listened, and then replied. "No, I didn't see any actual vandalism, but there was a few lights they left on. No. Different county, way over to the west." He squinted at Hazzard's license and repeated the number to the dispatcher. "No, they weren't actually doing anything physical when I spotted them. Just standing outside the back door. No, I didn't say he was a pirate. Just wearing a get-up. You know, costume party. Captain somebody." James rolled his eyes for our benefit. "No, she's not a pirate, she's a witch. No. Witch with a 'W'."
"It's just a costume, you know." I wanted that clear for the benefit of those young children in the nearby booth.
"Yeah, dressed like a witch. Halloween witch. It was that big party out at the old armory. No, I didn't go… working. Yeah, locked in, supposedly. I know, I don't buy it either. Claim they fell asleep. No, not together. She was in a cage of some kind. I'll get back to that. Each one fell asleep they say, and when the other folks took off, they were left behind. I don't know either. Sounds fishy, but what would they steal from a Halloween party? No, nothing on them. Well, the guy had a pocket knife and a plastic dagger, but he probably brought them in with him. No, she hardly has any clothes at all. I mean, this costume's pretty skimpy. You know what I mean." Then he chuckled. "I'll tell you later."
Every ear in the Dairy Barne was no doubt tuned to the corporal's conversation. One could only imagine how many at the station listened at the other end. James turned his attention back to me. "Okay, let's have your name."
"Kristen Prima. 506 Fleming Lane." It was a little neighborhood off Adams Street, on the north end of town.
He scribbled it down. "Can you prove that?" He obviously meant I.D.
I shook my head. "My purse got locked in the armory. When I finally got out of that cage, I was in a hurry and forgot about my stuff 'til the outside door slammed behind me." It sounded a bit too breathless and I knew I needed to slow down. I started sniffling again — couldn't help it. How do I prove I'm bona fide? "Look, I work at the mall branch of Verdeville Bank. I'
ve probably cashed a check for you before sometime. Maybe when I was still downtown."
His head shook sideways as his chin pulled up reflectively.
Evidently not.
"Okay, okay. Go over why you fell asleep in there."
It took me a moment to collect myself. "I was exhausted. I've been working my buns off with this stupid festival and all I got out of it is sore feet, bruises from this lousy outfit, and the whole nightmare with you and this pirate. All because neither Ellen nor Karla could be bothered to check on me before they left the armory." I was still able to speak, but tears rolled down my cheeks and some landed in my coffee. A little salt flavoring won't hurt.
"All right. Hold on a minute." James called in my name and address as he'd scribbled them on his pad. It took a moment for them to get back. "They don't have a match in the database."
"Which database? If it's the one for criminals, there's no match because I've never done anything." Well nothing I was caught for.
"I don't know. I can maybe let the pirate go, but you don't have anything to prove you're who you say you are."
"Well, drive me back to the armory and get somebody to let me in. I'll prove it when I get my purse out of that cage."
The corporal's brain must have made several rough calculations. "That'd chew up a couple of hours, at least. Wait on somebody at the alarm company to reach somebody with a key, and wait for them to get out there, and have to explain everything over and over. Then they'd have to check whether you stole or damaged anything. We might be out there all night."
"Then let me go and I'll bring you my I.D. on Monday morning." Seemed logical to me. I took another sip of coffee and waited.
"How do I know you'll show up?" The skeptical mind of a small city officer would probably not be convinced even if I'd instantly posted bond. He tapped his small tablet with the clicker end of his pen.
"I might have a solution." Buccaneer Ryan. "Write her a ticket and she'll have to show up."
"Ticket for what?" I could have clawed his eyeballs. "I didn't do anything but give up nearly thirty hours of my time for this community's festival and you want to repay me with a ticket?" I fumed. "What charge do you propose for this bogus ticket, Captain Blood?"
"Impersonating a witch during Halloween." Hazzard smiled.
"If you write me a ticket, he gets one too!" I poked Hazzard's arm.
"I can't write you up for putting on costumes." James apparently had an idea, however. "But I sure can ticket you for that enter and remain I already called in." His lips curled in a self-congratulating fashion. "Yeah, that'll work." He pointed to Hazzard. "I can let you go with a ticket and I'll get on home."
"Same for her?" Hazzard's chin moved my direction.
He hesitated with pen poised. "Since you vouch for her, okay. You can work out the rest of this tale with the judge next week."
"What's the fine for entering and remaining? Just in case we can't convince the judge." Hazzard beat me to the same question.
"Not allowed to say. Depends on the judge anyhow. You'll probably do better with Judge Webb than Gunther." James wrote something hurriedly on two stiff pages, tore them out, and put away his pen and pad. "But even if you can't convince the judge, it could be just a suspended sentence, unless the witch comes up with any priors. At the worst it might be a small fine or maybe even community service."
"You mean like spending two weeks working on a Halloween festival?" My icy irony soared over their heads.
After another long slurp of coffee, James keyed his lapel mic and consulted with someone at his station. It seemed like the corporal was making a good case on his end of the conversation. It was late. More than half of the story seemed plausible. The pirate was a good talker; the witch had a temper but didn't really act like a hooker. Et cetera. Officer James ended his transmission and nodded toward us.
"Okay, it's settled then?" The pirate shifted in his seat. "We can go?"
James held out his hands, palms up.
"Go where? My car's at the armory and my key's locked way inside the motor pool!" My inner Kristen wanted to shriek, but I kept her quiet.
"Corporal, can you run me and her back to the armory?"
The officer looked at his watch and quickly eyed the four remaining slices of pie. He signaled for the bill. As Ethel trudged over, James settled things with us. "I guess this is okay, but lemme give you some advice. Don't you wear any costumes to court next week. Those judges hate smart-alecks. 'Specially Judge Gunther." He turned to the waitress. "Ethel, gimme that pumpkin pie to go."
She nodded. "Pay at th' register." Our server trudged back toward the counter and reported loudly to Kurtz. "Three coffees here an' pumpkin ta go."
We all got up and Hungry James hurried toward the pie.
Captain Blood left the tip.
I came this close to palming that dollar. But I figured Ethel would chase me down for it.
Chapter Five
I was not surprised the cop simply dropped us both in the forlorn, dark parking lot of the huge ex-armory complex and then drove away. What shocked me was the chilling breeze as I exited the cruiser. My brain shrieked, "You can't just leave me out here with this guy!" But nothing came out except the muted chattering of my teeth. The end of October could be quite intemperate in the outskirts of Verdeville, especially for idiots in skimpy costumes.
In the tinted halogen light of a nearby metal pole, Hazzard peered at his citation, then folded it twice and stuffed it in his back pocket. I surely wished I was wearing something warm with pockets. Captain Blood seemed calm enough; he had his vehicle keys.
I looked toward the armory building and wished I'd just remained asleep, locked in that wooden cage, until the county convicts found me on Monday morning. Hmm. Scratch that. Randy convicts might think their generous warden left them a wicked Halloween treat if they found a voluptuous witch confined in a cage. Voluptuous? Well, "curvy" is more accurate. Voluptuous sounded like one of those surgically-enhanced platinum blonde movie starlets. I was not enhanced by anything besides a torturous bustier. I certainly wouldn't mind a fulsome C cup, but my breasts were what I considered B+. Very nice legs, though, according to my friends.
Focus, Kristen. No, I would not be better off still locked inside. But stranded and freezing outside wasn't a whole lot nicer. When I hugged my arms around my trunk, it squeezed my bosom up a bit more, and that seemed a constant distraction for the male standing a bit too near.
Hazzard stomped his feet lightly, as though it would make him warmer. "Here's my truck." He pointed. "What are you driving?"
Hello, there's only one other vehicle in the entire lot. It was about fifty feet away near that ginormous, scary tree. "Over there." I pointed toward my British two-door sedan, which was styled like a miniature station wagon — forest green with a white top. Then I looked toward the armory door. "Think we could get back inside so I can grab my purse? And keys?"
Hazzard didn't avert his gaze from my girls. I'd gotten more eye-prints from that man alone in a couple of hours than I'd had all evening at the festival, as far as I knew. "Not unless you want to set off more alarms and get another cop out here. Maybe next one's not as easily dissuaded as Corporal James."
The pirate had a point. No need re-starting that unpredictable bureaucracy. I was so cold at that point, my teeth chattered as I stood there hugging my own torso.
"Uh, are you wanting a ride somewhere, or something?" He made it sound like I hoped he would donate a kidney.
"Actually…" I hesitated. Momma had told me never to get in a truck with a pirate in the middle of the night. Well, her advice was never quite that specific, but surely the particular current circumstance was included in her frequent admonitions. However, my body's shivering trumped my brain's dim recollections. "If you wouldn't mind too much."
He turned quickly and began walking. Evidently, in rude man-language, that meant, Certainly, I'd be pleased to take you wherever you need to go. So I trotted after him, as my heels made spooky hol
low sounds on the expansive black-top.
He got into his side of a full-size American pick-up, probably about three or four years old — plates from a different county. Couldn't tell the color at night, but it was a dark shade of something. Somehow, I'd figured a buccaneer should be driving something with a name like a sword. Ha!
When he unlocked the passenger door, I started climbing. His truck didn't have a jacked-up suspension but it was way high off the ground. Could be tricky in the short skirt of my costume. No time to be a lady now. I just hiked it up and jumped on in. Settling in the seat, I squirmed a bit and tugged on the hem, but it still revealed a considerable expanse of my thighs.
Captain Blood watched every movement. Probably why Momma warned me so fervently. Guys can't keep their eyes to themselves. Especially strangers. I realized I might remain a tad anxious over the next four miles.
"There's a jacket in the back if you'd like to, uh, cover up." Since he'd studied my goose bumps so intently, he already knew my answer.
"Yeah, sure."
His face was very close to mine as he reached back between the front seats for the jacket. Difficult to tell what he'd look like without pirate makeup, but I liked what I could see. With the effort to retrieve the jacket, he grunted a bit and his breath was an unfortunate mix of stale spiked punch and black coffee. Dude, get a breath mint. Of course, mine was likely no better.
Hazzard held out his jacket — faded denim, un-lined. It smelled slightly musty like the truck's interior, but also had that very discernable odor of a man's working body. Not the acrid stink of dried sweat. Just the earthy aroma which could cling to men who didn't wear cologne.
Any mints or gum in his pockets? Nope. Just some lint, a paper clip, and a bent nail thingy with two sharp ends.
He started the engine and waited a few seconds before shoving it into drive. "Where to?"
"Uh, into town on the highway. Shortly after it becomes Main Street, turn north on Adams." On the east side of town, Adams was the main north-south thoroughfare. I watched his face as he exited the lot and headed toward Highway 70. Hmm. There might be a semi-handsome face under that greasepaint. He'd need to find a comb somewhere, though. I remembered that electricity when his hands first touched my forearm as he groped for the latch. After I got over being startled, it felt kind of good. Good? Not strong enough. It felt nice. Hmm. I'd need a thesaurus to describe how it really felt. I just knew it was pleasant — the touch of a man who wasn't Wally the Weasel.