Busted

by Diane Kelly

  My feet were sweating in my boots, my bra and panties were stuck to me, and wearing this cheap polyester uniform was like being trapped inside a personal sauna. Maybe I should go for a dip, after all. “What the hell, Glick. You’re on.”

  While Trey stood aside, watching with an amused expression, I stepped up to the card table, took off my boots and socks, my shoulder-mounted radio, and my belt, laying them on the table. “Keep an eye on my gun, Betty.”

  “Sure thing, Marnie.”

  I rolled my pant legs up to my knees and climbed the three rungs of the ladder on the side of the dunking booth. Trey held the flimsy metal door open for me as I eased into the booth and took a seat on the hinged board. The seat creaked under my weight as I dipped my feet in the water.

  Lucas exchanged tickets for three balls, and stepped back to the line. By this time a number of people, including both Andre and the unusually tall and buff jackrabbit, had gathered to watch. What the heck had I been thinking? The dunking booth was the G-rated equivalent of a wet T-shirt contest and I’d willingly volunteered. Clearly I wasn’t too smart. No wonder I couldn’t figure out what was going on with the credit cards and deliveries.

  I glared at Lucas through the mesh screen. How was he ever going to overcome his problems if he couldn’t get his drinking under control? I was upset that he didn’t seem to be trying, upset that I’d wasted my time giving a rat’s ass about the guy. Upset that I still gave a rat’s ass. I motioned to Lucas. “Come on, Glick. Show me what you got. Or are the only balls you’ve got the ones in your hand?” Nasty words, sure, but Lucas deserved them, the drunken bastard. How dare he make me feel sad and inept and discouraged. Hadn’t I suffered enough? Hadn’t he?

  The crowd of men whooped and hollered. Lucas squinted his bloodshot eyes at me, handing two of the baseballs to Trey to hold. He put one leg in front of the other, bending his knees. He pulled his arm back and sent the ball sailing straight over the top of the booth into the safety net situated behind me.

  The crowd of men guffawed and catcalled. I threw my head back and laughed, too. “If you were sober, you might’ve got me.”

  His next ball hit the front of the booth with a resounding bam and fell into the mud.

  I continued to taunt him. “I’m going to write you a ticket for DUI! ‘Dunking under the influence’!”

  Glick yanked the last ball from Trey’s palm and hurled it at me. His final ball went to the outside, missing the target by a good six inches.

  I threw victorious fists in the air. “Can’t get a woman wet, can you Glick?” It was hitting below the belt, literally and figuratively. But rage flared inside me. Lucas Glick had been nothing but pleasant just a few hours ago at the face painting booth, but then his old buddy Jack Daniels had brought him down. It made me mad. It made me sick. And it made me sad. This guy was ruining his life.

  Lucas crossed his arms over his chest. “This game’s rigged.”

  Trey handed Betty four tickets and gathered up the stray baseballs while Lucas and the ever-increasing crowd of men watched. Trey stood at the marked line, flashing me a soft smile. He juggled the three baseballs. Impressive. Trey was full of surprises.

  “Show off!” I cried.

  He caught the balls and transferred two of them to his left hand. He tossed the one ball up a couple times with his right hand, catching it in his palm, eyeing me all the while.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

  Betty put her fingers to her lips and giggled behind them, enjoying our show. Trey’s eyes locked on mine across the twenty-foot span, that dark, dangerous look flickering in them. No doubt about it. Trey was going to get me wet. Again. His hand pulled back, the ball went flying, and I went down into the water with a yelp and a splash. The mayor was right. The water was refreshing.

  Trey stepped up to the booth and stuck a hand in to help me out. With all the water in my clothes, my weight had increased by ten pounds. I fell back and he stuck his other arm in, too, dragging me out of the booth, but not before I splashed him good. A pool of cool water formed around my feet as I stood facing Trey, our bodies just inches apart. Trey’s stare moved from my face down to my chest. My eyes followed. My hard nipples pushed against the tight fabric of my uniform as if trying to break free.

  Trey groaned and closed his eyes. “Marnie,” he whispered. “You make me crazy.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest to hide my breasts. Betty stepped over and handed me a blue beach towel covered in pink flamingos to dry off with. The water had smeared the heart painted on my face and I wiped the remaining paint off with the towel, the gesture a subtle reminder that my relationship with Trey, like the paint, wasn’t made to last.

  By this time, a line of volunteer dunkees had formed, mostly the men who’d stopped for a peep show, now eager to cool off in the dunking booth.

  I looked around for Lucas, but he’d disappeared into the crowd. I grabbed my handheld radio from the table and squeezed the talk button. “All officers keep an eye out for Lucas Glick. He’s on another tear. Any trouble, haul him in. Check his boot for a flask.”

  The officers radioed back.

  “Yes, ma’am, Cap’n,” from Jared Roddy.

  “Roger,” from the other night officer.

  “Sure thing,” from Andre.

  “Got that” and “Okey-Dokey” from the two guys who worked the weekend shift.

  Nothing from Dante.

  I perched on the edge of the table and Trey helped me pull my boots back on. Once I was dressed, we headed out for more fun. Selena walked toward us down the midway, her arms loaded with stuffed animals. Eric walked behind her, a proud look on his face. When Selena had taken my advice and played it cool with Eric, he’d stepped up, all but begging her to attend the Jamboree with him. Heh-heh.

  At the end of the midway was a brightly striped beach umbrella under which sat Madame Beulah, a rotund woman with hair dyed jet black, a dozen or so bracelets encircling her wrists, and a curtain of flab hanging from her upper arms. Her sign read “Madame Beulah Sees All. Palm Reader. Fortune Teller. Spirit Medium.”

  Trey and I stepped over to the wooden cable spool that served as Madame Beulah’s table. “How much?”

  “Ten tickets.”

  Trey pulled out our dwindling supply of tickets, counted off ten, and handed them to Madame Beulah. I took a seat on the folding metal chair, the heat from the chair searing through the wet fabric of my pants, frying my thighs.

  Madame Beulah leaned toward me across the table. “What can I do for you?”

  From what little I knew about the occult, palm reading was fairly vague. The only spirit I might want to contact would be my mother’s, and I didn’t want to belittle her memory by trying to contact her in this environment. Not that I thought there was any truth to this bunk. “How about you tell my fortune?”

  “All righty.” Beulah put her meaty right hand on the table. She opened her palm and gestured for me to put my left hand in hers. I saw her eyes quickly dart to my ring finger, checking my marital status.

  She closed her eyes and looked down at her lap. She sat that way for a minute or more, and I began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep. I glanced up at Trey. He shrugged.

  Madame Beulah’s head jerked up. Her neck craned toward me and she looked me pointedly in the eye, speaking in an eerie, mystical voice. “You will live in Jacksburg the rest of your life, but you will move from your current house into another one nearby. I see a messy but happy home, a sink full of dishes, the floor covered with toys. You will have two children, both girls.”

  Not bad so far, but for there to be two girls, didn’t there have to be a man involved? I found myself looking up at Trey. Would he be involved? And was I actually believing this crap?

  Her focus, too, shifted to Trey. “The man you love will disappoint you.”

  Trey chuckled, rocking back on his heels. “Well, heck. Isn’t that what men do? Disappoint their women?”

  Madame Beulah
skewered him with her gaze, her tone no longer mystical. “This won’t be the ‘I forgot to pick up the milk’ kind of disappointment. This will be much bigger.”

  Trey’s smile melted into a scowl. “I paid for a fortune, not an indictment. I want my tickets back.”

  Madame Beulah tapped on a small placard on the spool table that read FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. NO REFUNDS.

  Trey turned and stalked away, marching through a crowd of kids breaking confetti eggs over each other’s heads.

  I stood to go after him, but Madame Beulah kept a tight hold on my hand, refusing to let me go. “Don’t you want to hear the rest?”

  “No, thanks.” Frankly, I was irritated, too. Who the hell did this woman think she was? Some type of god? “I’ve heard enough.”

  I pulled my arm free and headed after Trey. Behind me I heard Madame Beulah’s voice call, “Don’t fret! Your story has a happy ending!”

  My story might have a happy ending, but it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be a happily ever after with Trey. Given the lack of challenging tech jobs in the area, Trey had no intentions of moving back here. And I could never leave my home and move to another big city. I simply wasn’t a city girl. But a part of me wanted desperately to believe it, to believe that I could somehow spend the rest of my life with Trey.

  I found Trey leaning against a horse trailer by the pony ride, arms crossed over his chest.

  “What a load of crap,” he said. “I haven’t disappointed you yet, have I?”

  “Well, you only managed to give me three orgasms last night,” I said, giving him a grin. “I’d been hoping for four.”

  His hard face cracked and he put an arm around my waist, pulling me to him. “I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SHOWTIME

  Other than Madame Beulah getting stuck inside a port-a-potty and a brief cat fight between two girls from the pep squad, one of whom whacked the other with her cardboard cotton candy stick, the remainder of the Jamboree was free of incident.

  After a dinner of corn dogs, I headed over to the stage area to get ready for my performance. Trey waited outside while I changed into my Wonder Woman costume in the ladies’ dressing room, a nylon dome tent not quite tall enough to stand fully upright in. As big as my rear was, it probably wasn’t a good idea to be covering it in bright blue fabric adorned with white stars, but if Wonder Woman could do it, so could I. Besides, with my huge gold pointy breasts, who’d be looking at my butt anyway?

  I folded my police uniform and left it in a corner of the tent. I knelt on the floor in front of a slightly warped full-length mirror propped in the corner and applied a generous coat of bright red lipstick and glued on my fake eyelashes. I pulled out my braid and brushed out my long hair, fluffing it out before sliding the gold headband with the red star in the center onto my head. I slid into a pair of knee-high panty hose, slick enough to make it easy to put on the tight red go-go boots that went with the costume.

  When I emerged from the tent, Trey’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, issuing a wolf whistle. “Damn, woman.”

  I didn’t exactly have the tight bod of Linda Carter, but Trey’s reaction had me feeling gorgeous and sexy. I’d had the tailor add thick shoulder straps to the strapless costume rather than risk fallout, and he’d also added some stretchy panels on the side for comfort. But overall I had to agree with Trey. I looked and felt quite sexy in my get-up.

  Trey hurried off to get a front-row spot for my performance, which, by necessity, would be performed in a roped-off circle on the parking lot to the side of the stage. The entertainment coordinator, a PTA mom who took the job way too seriously, stood to the side with a clipboard checking in the acts, fretting that two girls from Tina’s Tap and Twirl were AWOL and that the show was seven minutes behind schedule. Like anyone cares. Nobody in town had anything better to do.

  Uncle Angus and Dad had driven my motorcycle to the Jamboree for me, and Uncle Angus was in the circle rubbing a rag down the shiny new pipes Trey had bought for my bike. Dad set the boom box on the ground at the back of the circle as I seated myself on my bike. He cranked the volume to maximum, his hand poised above the play button, waiting for the go-ahead from the mayor, who also served as the emcee for the evening’s events.

  The sole microphone was back at the stage, so the mayor used one of the Jacksburg PD’s bullhorns to introduce me. “Ladies and Gentleman, boys and girls,” he said in a voice that would make a circus announcer proud. “Welcome to Jacksburg’s annual Jackrabbit Jamboree!”

  A roar went through the crowed. We in Jacksburg looked for any good reason to be loud and boisterous. That’s the kind of people we are.

  “Jacksburg, Texas!” the mayor cried. “Home to the most-talented and best-looking people on God’s green earth!” The crowd-pleasing banter incited another roar from the crowd. Guess we wouldn’t qualify for the most-humble people.

  “Our first act tonight is a woman who’s performed at the Jackrabbit Jamboree for the past fifteen years straight.”

  Gosh, has it really been that long? I mentally calculated. Yup, I’d been doing this since I was sixteen. A few more decades and I’d be wearing Depends under my costume.

  “Without further ado, I offer you motorcycle stunt woman Marnie Muckleroy, the Wonder Woman of Jacksburg!”

  The crowd roared a third time and Dad pushed the stereo’s play button.

  As Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” blasted from the speakers, I started my engine, gunned it, and took off, circling four or five times to get my bearings. I positioned the handlebars so that the rope tied to hold them in place went taut, keeping the bike in a steady circle just inside the perimeter of the ring. Once momentum kicked in, I pulled up my left leg, putting my knee on the seat, then pulled up my right leg, crouching on the cushy leather, my right hand still grasping the handlebar and pulling back on the gas. The crowd hooted and hollered, cheering me on.

  What Wonder Woman performance would be complete without the golden lasso? I pulled the yellow rope from my belt and twirled the long, silky lasso over my head as I made a couple of complete rotations around the ring. The next time I drove past Uncle Angus, I tossed the lasso to him. He grabbed it out of the air.

  For my first stunt, I stuck my left arm straight out in front of me and pushed up on my right knee, sticking my left leg straight out in back of me. If not for the fact that I was on the back of a moving motorcycle, this wouldn’t be much of a trick, but this crowd was hard up for entertainment and they gave it up for me, clapping their hands, whistling, and shouting, urging me on. Trey stood on the front row next to Savannah, Craig, and their boys, a broad smile on his face as he watched me cruise by.

  I sat back down on the bike, riding side-saddle for a few seconds, waving to the crowd, my bracelets gleaming in the early evening sun. My next trick was to lie sideways across the bike, still holding the handlebars with my right hand, and kick my left leg up in the air. I nearly pulled an ab muscle executing that trick. Generous applause followed.

  The rest of the performance consisted of a series of similar poses, the highlight of which was a new stunt in which I stood with both feet on the seat, hunched forward so I could still reach the accelerator. For the grand finale, I performed a three-second wheelie, then whipped the bike around to a screeching, instant stop in the center of the ring, cut the engine, and threw my hands in the air just as the song ended.

  My ears met much more applause than I deserved, especially given that I’d performed virtually the same routine for the same crowd at the Jackrabbit Jamboree every year and my show was nothing new. But the town had come to count on me as one of the few sure things in life.

  “Thank you!” I called, blowing kisses, waving with both hands, and bowing to the crowd. “Thank you!”