Crazy for You (20 page)

“I’d love to dance,” I told Jared Kennison. Take
that
, Bonaparte Labeck! I surrendered myself to the delicious sensation of being in the arms of a man who was such a good dancer he actually made me look good.

“You’re really cute, Mazie,” he said, and my heart skipped a beat because he was gazing at my lips. “You ought to be a model.”

Not a very original line. Still, I enjoyed hearing it. “I’m too short. What would I model—Smurf wear?”

“Seriously, you ought to have some shots taken and send them to a modeling agency.”

I was too embarrassed to admit it, but I’d actually looked into the possibility of modeling. Unfortunately, the only agency that had expressed an interest in hiring me had asked if I was willing to pose nude, and whether I was allergic to dogs. The reputable agencies preferred models just out of puberty. If you were old enough to legally drink, you were
too
old.

Kennison smoothed my hair back from my face. Usually this is a signal that a kiss is in the cards, but along the way, he hit a snag.

“What’s this?” He touched my left cheekbone. “Not a birthmark?”

“That?” My hand went up to the puckered skin. “Nothing. Just where someone tried to fricassee me with a cigarette lighter.”

“A burn. I figured. You should have it taken care of.”

I shrugged. “I just cover it up with hair.”

“Mazie, a couple of simple treatments would get rid of the scar. Tell you what, come to my office Monday. I’ll do an exam and we’ll schedule some treatments.”

I hesitated. It would be just too weird, seeing somebody in a doctor’s office after close-dancing with him. I preferred my doctors ancient and nearly blind.

“If it’s a question of the expense,” he said, “I’d do it pro bono.”

I started to shake my head, but that’s when he tilted my face upward and kissed me. It was a nice kiss. Our lips fit, we didn’t bonk noses, and he didn’t try to thrust his tongue down my throat. But it was not a trip to the moon on gossamer wings. His jaw was scratchy and his breath smelled like vodka. If we were a science-fair project, and he was vinegar and I was baking soda at the bottom of a papier-mâché volcano, we wouldn’t have erupted.

But when we broke apart, we both smiled to indicate we’d enjoyed it. He bought us more drinks. We danced some more. I sang along with the music, realizing that I was a little loopy and enjoying the sensation.

“May I cut in?” asked Magenta, who’d scrubbed off his makeup and changed back into gender-appropriate clothes. Without waiting for an okay, he pried me out of Dreamboat’s arms and into his. “I don’t trust that guy,” he said, using his everyday voice, a growl that lurks in the subbasement of baritone.

“You
love
gorgeous guys,” I pointed out. “I can’t believe how rude you were to him. You didn’t even introduce yourself.”

“He shouldn’t have been dancing so close.”

“He’s very nice. He’s a
doctor
.”

“So he was monitoring your heart rate by inspecting your boobs?”

“He was not!”

“Mazie, I know how guys think. I’m a guy myself. Sort of. I noticed him earlier this evening. He was with his date.”

“So? She went home sick.”

“Sick? Try heart attack. This lady was in her seventies.”

“Maybe it was his mother.”

“Mummies don’t kiss their boys on the lips.”

“She couldn’t have been that old.”

“She’d had work done, she looked good. But underneath, I’m talking Granny Clampett. If Granny Clampett shopped at Bergdorf’s. Now wave good night to your yummy chum, because I am hauling your tanked little tushy home.”

Kennison watched as Magenta steered me toward the door. He started toward us, then hesitated, apparently trying to make up his mind whether to pursue me. I could have yanked myself away from Magenta and returned to Dr. Dreamboat, whose body language had made it pretty clear that he’d been hoping the evening would end with me in his bed.

I waved at him as we headed toward the door. He sent me an “Our stars weren’t aligned” shrug, then turned and shouldered his way through the crowd. James Bond had other fish to fry.

Chapter Twenty-three

Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly.

—Maguire’s Maxims

I slept late the next day and spent the morning in delicious lassitude, reading the Sunday papers over doughnuts and coffee. The Cougar Killing had been bumped off the front page by a congressman and a call girl, and I had to hunt through the Metro section before finding anything on the story. Ben Labeck, the main suspect in the murder, had been sighted in various areas of the city and suburbs, but none of the leads had panned out. Lieutenant Vincent Trumbull was quoted as saying the police were following up several tips and expected to make an arrest soon. Good luck with that, Vince. If you find him, do me a favor and let me know.

As I read, I absently stroked the burn scar on my cheekbone. It was a raw, irregularly shaped scrap of skin, about an inch and a half in diameter, a shade pinker than my natural skin tone. Back in my fugitive days, a thug had set my hair on fire, and when I’d rolled my head to put out the fire, my cheek had been burned. I’d never been self-conscious about it, but ever since Dr. Dreamboat had noticed it, all I could see when I looked in the mirror was a squid clinging to my face, looking as though it wanted to suck out my eyeballs.

Muffin barked. It was his outside-or-I-dump-on-the-rug bark. Grateful for the distraction, I bundled into my coat, snatched up a plastic bag, and attached Muffin’s leash. Outside, we ambled east on Brady Street toward the lake, Muffin leisurely snuffling fire hydrants and tree trunks, catching up on canine news until he finally found a maple tree that suited him and did his business.

We were on our way back, just passing Glorioso’s Market, when a splurt of green paint suddenly exploded against a nearby hydrant, the splash spattering Muffin’s fur. Tires squealed as a car careened to the curb next to us, the barrel of an assault weapon
poking from its open window.

“Usted idiota estupido,”
I screamed at Rico Del Toro.

“Sorry,” Rico said, grinning. “My aim was off on account of Eddie can’t drive straight.”

Eddie Arguello was in the driver’s seat. “Hey, Maze—check out my new wheels.”

I scrutinized the vehicle. Its frame was composed of giant sheets of rust patched together with duct tape; its front bumper was attached to the body with clothesline; and its muffler appeared to be made out of a Pringles can.

“It’s a Caddy,” Eddie informed me.

“No way.”

“No shit, Mazie—this is a 1986 Cadillac Cimarron d’Oro. C’mon, get in, experience the power, let me take you for a ride.”

I clutched Muffin to my chest. “Do I look like I have a death wish?”

“C’mon, don’t be a chicken doody!” Rico threw in a few clucks for effect. “We patched up the holes in the floor, specially for you.”

I heaved a sigh, knowing I was going to regret this. “No speeding,” I warned.

Rico snickered. “This heap don’t
do
more than fifteen, Maze. Eighteen, tops.”

“Well, put those guns away before the neighbors haul theirs out and start taking potshots.” Brady Street was a shoot first, ask questions later type of neighborhood.

I’d met the boys when I was a fugitive, searching for Eddie’s cousin, who was a link to my husband’s murderer. Eddie has liquid brown eyes, deep-bronze skin, and a nose that’s been recycled from some distant Aztec ancestor. He has a wrestler’s build—stocky and solid—whereas Rico is built more along the lines of a flagpole. Rico is cute, once you get past the pony hawk, the pierced lips, and the acne flares. Both boys had recently turned sixteen and obtained their drivers licenses, Eddie’s legit and Rico’s a piece of plastic purchased over the Internet that looked even more authentic than the real thing. They’re both good kids, puppy dogs at heart, the kind of guys who’d be able to score you some primo weed or show you how to get past the ogres in a video game, but not guys you’d want operating heavy machinery in your vicinity.

Displaying a surprising courtliness, Rico got out and wrenched open the rear door, which, amazingly, didn’t fall off. Gingerly, I climbed into the backseat. Eyes bright,
panting at the prospect of a ride, Muffin hopped up into my lap. Eddie took off, laying rubber, not that there was much rubber to lay—in another week this crate was going to be rocking along on its rims. I used a Kleenex I found in my pocket to wipe the paint off Muffin’s fur so he wouldn’t lick it off and get sick.

“Look at this,” Rico held up his gun. “It’s a Halo B Loader. Handles twenty-two paintballs per square inch.”

“Nah—that’s a piece o’ garbage,” Eddie scoffed. “You want to see a weapon, check out the baby in the backseat. A Tippmann X7 Phenom. You can set it for manual or electro-pneumatic. Rico’s crappy Halo is like a blunderbuss compared to mine.”

“Dude, you could have a shoulder-mounted grenade launcher and I’d still outshoot you,” Rico said.

They carried on like this for a while, dissing each other’s weapons and bragging about their stealth, their cunning, and their prowess on the paintball field. Eddie was actually a cautious driver, sticking scrupulously to the speed limit, correctly assuming that he fit the police profile for driver most likely to be pulled over: young, male, driving an exhaust-spewing car with a bobblehead hula dancer on the dash, and paintball guns in the backseat so realistic they looked capable of taking over a banana republic. He drove down Lake Park’s steep bluffs and headed north along Memorial Drive. Lake Michigan glinted silver-blue in the pale sun. Seagulls skimmed its crests and clouds massed along its horizon, looking as though they’d been created by a sloppy watercolorist.

“So you’re coming to the tourney this week, right, Maze?” Eddie locked eyes with me in the rearview mirror.

“What tourney?”

Rico slapped his forehead. “What tourney, she asks. Only the most important game of this century, screw the Olympics or the Super Bowl, what nobody cares about anyway. The
championships
.”

“We’re in it this year,” Eddie said, so excited he forgot to act cool. “We already beat every candy-ass team on the planet. Now we’re facing off against the pansy Madison team in the tourney, winner take all.”

Rico turned around in his seat to eyeball me. “You’re coming to cheer us on, right, Maze? Wednesday, three o’clock.”

“If I get off work in time. Wait—you guys have school, don’t you?”

“Nuh-uh. School gets out at noon the day before Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving!
I was supposed to go home to Quail Hollow and spend it with my brothers and their families. The thought filled me with dread.

“Hey, almost forgot,” Eddie said. “A certain someone said to give you a message.”

I boosted Muffin up so he could look out the window. “What certain someone?”

Eddie did the up-down-up eyebrow thing. “You know.”

“George Clooney?”

“Who’s he?”

“Thanks for making me feel old.”

“
Labeck
, that’s who,” Rico said. “You remember. The guy the cops have been chasing all over town.”

“You saw him?”

“Yesterday,” Rico said, grinning. “We found him a safe place to stay, a place the cops will never look.”

“Lake Waupoose.” Eddie said. “Way the hell out in the boonies. There used to be a motel and tourist cabins out there years ago, but the state paintball committee bought the land and set up game grounds. It’s where they’re holding the tourney. There’s this old woodsy who lives out there—the club pays him like a few bucks to keep up the grounds and stuff. Labeck is renting his cabin.”

“Where is this place?”

“Twenty, thirty miles west of the city, near the state forest.”

“See, Labeck’s been in touch with us,” Eddie said. “We’ve been bringing him food and stuff. I even let him borrow the Cim.”

“Great disguise,” Rico put in. “Nobody would ever guess that a cool dude like Labeck would be seen driving this POS.”

“The message,” I reminded them.

“Hell, Mazie, I just gave it to you, don’t you ever listen?” Eddie said. “Labeck wanted us to tell you where he’s at.”

“That’s it? That’s the whole message?”

Both boys looked at me with what-were-you-expecting expressions. Guys, I swear!

We pulled up in front of my place, Eddie stopping as gently as if he were setting a baby bird back in its nest. I hopped out, clutching Muffin, grateful to have been returned in one piece.

Eddie started to pull away.

“Wait!” I yelled and the car screeched to a halt, rocking on its suspension. Scrabbling in my coat pocket, I snatched out the GoMo phone, the extra one I’d purchased earlier that week, and thrust it through the passenger window at Rico. “Give this to Labeck next time you see him,” I said.

My number was programmed in to the phone’s memory. This time I wasn’t leaving Bonaparte Labeck any weasel room for not calling me.

Chapter Twenty-four

Coincidences don’t exist.
Everything happens for a random reason.

—Maguire’s Maxims

“This is what keloid tissue looks like,” Jared Kennison told me, zooming in on an image on his computer monitor. It showed a photo of a man, the entire left side of his face a mass of burn tissue. “In your case, Mazie, reconstructing the keloid tissue would involve surgically incising it, then implanting a patch of skin taken from another part of your body—the back of your thigh maybe—onto the burned out patch. The skin graft will gradually merge with your normal skin, and after a few months the transplanted skin will look identical to the original.”

I found it hard to focus on the computer images, since my gaze kept shifting to Dr. Dreamboat. His eyes were very blue today, the color intensified by the cobalt shade of his tie, and a strand of black hair had fallen over his forehead. A faint scent of Armani drifted from him, tantalizing, sexy.

“You need to have this burn seen to now,” he said, “because in later life the tissue can metastasize.”