Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) (15 page)

Howard was in the bar. Why was Rick locking up if there was still a customer in the bar? Panic set in.

Without thinking twice, I started walking back toward the restaurant. Then I stopped, realizing that if Howard was in trouble inside the restaurant, maybe I should get my mace ready. Stopping to think turned out to be a mistake. While I was slowing down, the car was speeding up and was now making a beeline for my body. In a flash of a moment, two things happened: First, I recognized the license plate, FEEVRR, on Rita Ash’s red Mercedes E550. Second, I decided to do what action heroes do when a car is about to mow them down—I jumped onto the hood.

I have been known to pass out on occasion. I wished that now would have been one of those times, because the crushing pain of impact was worse than anything I’d ever experienced—including childbirth and being struck by a bullet at close range while wearing a Kevlar vest. Unfortunately, I did not lose consciousness before, during, or after the whole horrific incident.

After colliding with the hood, I rolled onto the windshield, cracking my head against the glass. Then I rolled farther, across the windshield and almost onto the top of the car, which by now had skidded to a hard stop. Momentum flung me forward onto the cold, hard pavement, where I landed with a thud. I was far too dazed and confused to move. My entire body throbbed, my head pounded, and bile rose in my throat. The door of the car opened and for the first time I saw Rita Ash in person. She was still dressed in sweat pants, the same ones she’d been wearing in the pictures. Her blond hair was pulled back.

My vision began to blur. A moment later I felt myself being dragged and then lifted. Someone grunted in my ear. A few moments later the world began rocking, something like being on a boat.

Although I didn’t actually lose consciousness, I did have a visit from Meryl Streep and Steven Spielberg. Usually this only happens when I’m dreaming, but apparently waking delirium was close enough.

We were in a limousine and Meryl was the driver. She had the black suit and little black hat and everything. Let me tell you, that woman looked stunning, even in her chauffeur’s uniform. She could wear a dirty rug and make it look like runway style. I could see her eyes in the rearview mirror. Steven was seated in the other seat, facing me. His hands were clasped together, his elbows on his knees and he leaned toward me with a look of concern on his face.

The fact that I was in a limo with Meryl and Steven (that’s what I call them, Meryl and Steven—I feel so cool) gave me goose bumps. I wondered whether we might be headed for my dream destination: The Academy Awards.

“Please tell me we’re going to the Oscars,” I said to Steven.

“It ain’t good, Barb, it ain’t good,” he responded with a solemn shake of the head. He sounded more like Michael Corleone than Steven Spielberg.

“Steven, why are you talking like a Goodfella?”

“You gots a problem, here, y’know?” he continued, ignoring my question.

“Meryl,” I pleaded, “Why is he talking like this?”

“A farm in Africa, I had,” she began, not in her own voice, but that of Frank Oz’s Yoda. “At the foot of the Ngong hills, it was.”

So there I was, in a dream-limo, with an Italian Mafioso Steven Spielberg and Meryl Streep impersonating a Star Wars icon. If only we were on our way to a red-carpet walk, I thought, this dream would be so much more fun. But I couldn’t tell whether we were Oscar-bound or not, since neither of them were addressing my questions directly. You’d have thought they were presidential candidates on the debate trail. I pressed forward for answers, or a possible way out to reality.

I offered a question to the both of them. “Why am I here?”

Steven threw up his hands. “You was run over by a car, don’tchoo remember nuthin’?”

Meryl seemed to be in her own world. “Knew, perhaps he did, that made round the Earth was,” she kept reciting Yoda renditions of lines from
Out of Africa
, “so see down the road too far, we would not.”

Or was she in her own world? It occurred to me there was a theme—Mafia Steven talked about the car and Yoda Meryl pontificated on “seeing down the road.” Were they sending me a message?

“Are you speaking to me in riddles?” I asked, beginning to think I was onto a DaVinci’s Code-esque set of clues. “Should I be digging deeper into the meaning of your answers?”

Steven rolled his eyes. “Nah,” he said. “Meryl there is workin’ wit a vocal coach, preparin’ for her role as Yoda’s wife in George Lucas’ first pre-quel to the pre-quels to the Star Wars Saga.” He called forward to her. “What’s dat movie gonna be called again?”

Meryl dropped the Yoda voice. “
Star Wars, Episode A-1: With You, May the Force Be
. George is convinced he can erase Episodes One through Three from viewers’ memories and regain the love of his fans with this newest trilogy which explains that Jar Jar Binks was just a really, really bad dream.”

I cringed. “I knew I was upset that Disney bought Lucasfilm,” I said. “But I never thought it would affect my hallucinations.”

Steven shrugged, “Whatcha gonna do, right? If nuthin’ else, they’ll make their money back in DVD sales and merchandisin’.” He leaned in close and furrowed his brows. “And I ain’t Steven Spielberg, Barb. Ain’t ya figured out who I am?”

The voice was familiar, now that he mentioned it.

“You’re not Michael Corleone?” I asked.

“Heh, don’t I wish? One day, though, I’d like ta meet Pacino, right? Here’s a clue.” Steven-not-Steven began to croon, “Come fly with me,” just like Frank Sinatra.

Of course! How I didn’t see it sooner, I didn’t know. But as soon as I realized Steven-not-Steven was really my rehabilitated criminal friend, Frankie Romano, he transformed before my dream-state eyes. Frankie had once kidnapped me, but now we were tight, and looked out for one another.

“Frankie!”

“Yo, Barb,” he said with a smile. “Good ta see ya, although, da circumstances are less than copasetic, am I right?”

“You hit that nail on the head.”

“Listen, we ain’t got much time, so I’ll put it to you fast-like: dis broad, drivin’ da car,” he pointed to the front seat. “She ain’t Meryl Streep. It’s dat Ash chick and she’s got brains smaller than an alligator’s. Her husband too. Just remember, in dis, you got da upper hand.”

“How about Howard? Is he okay?”

“Da thing is, I ain’t real. Dis is just dream-Frankie, ya know?” He looked very apologetic, I must say. “I can only point out da tings you already know—on a subconscious level, dat is.”

He sat back and pointed to my chest. “Oh, and one of those ribs might be broken. Nuthin’ time won’t heal when dis is all over, but, and dis is key, don’t let anyone know yous hurt. Don’t show da pain.”

I nodded. “Don’t show da pain.”

He was starting to fade when I wondered, why? Why not show da pain? But he and Yoda-Meryl were gone before I could ask the question. Just like the movies, in life, dreams only reveal enough to move the plot forward.

I was awake when Rita Ash pulled her Mercedes to a stop. In my semi-conscious state, I missed the binding of my ankles and wrists. I now lay in fetal position in the backseat, with my bound hands near my face. I was able to see up through a sliver between the seat in front of me and the car door, and glimpse an outdoor lamp as it glowed from its secured location on a brick wall.

Rita opened her door just as I heard the approaching motor of another vehicle. I craned my neck enough to see that the new arrival was a large pick-up truck. The slamming of Rita’s door and the crunching of her shoes on gravel was followed by discussion between a man and a woman. The voices were low and far too garbled for me to make out words.

Inspecting my wrists more closely revealed that my captor had used decorative package ribbon to tie me up. According to dream-Frankie, she wasn’t a rocket scientist, and the curling ribbon bindings seemed to prove him correct. I pulled at the ribbon binding in hopes of loosening it before anyone had a chance to stop me. Unfortunately, not much loosening occurred before the door by my feet swung open and a large pair of hands grabbed my legs. I held my breath and braced myself, anticipating forced movement that would surely hurt like the dickens. Sure enough, the mystery hands tightened and yanked.

Oh man it hurt, but I successfully bit back the urge to yelp in agony. Another yank, and I was out of the car. A third, and I’d been hoisted onto the shoulders of possibly the hugest man on earth. I felt easily ten feet off the ground and since I was now near the top of him, looking down, I could see his backside was very wide as well. This guy, I decided, if he had a shred of acting talent at all, could easily play Lennie in yet another movie remake of
Of Mice and Men
. I just hoped I wouldn’t go the way of that poor puppy or Curley’s wife.

I turned my upside-down head a bit, working to see where I was. Rita was nowhere in my sights. I was, however, able to glimpse not one, but two trucks parked nearby. Lennie began moving and I bounced with each step. We were outside in what appeared to be the back of another strip mall. If it was a shopping center of any kind, I reasoned, and there were other people around, screaming might possibly save my life. On the other hand, screaming might incite the giant to squash me like a bug. I didn’t have much time to decide because Lennie, despite his size, moved at a decent clip. Hoping beyond hope that someone somewhere would hear and rush to my rescue, I risked it and wailed away.

“Help!” Somehow the plea didn’t sound loud enough. I gave it another go. “Help! Help! Someone help me!” I was shrieking now.

Lennie laughed. “You kin yell all yoo want outchere,” he drawled in a deep Southern tone. “Ain’t gonna do yoo one bitta good. We’re in the middle-a gosh-darn no wheres.”

Gosh-darn? Did he really say gosh-darn?

Not to beat a dead horse, but I had been kidnapped before, and always by people who liked a little more bite to their curse words. This, I had to say, was a refreshing change.

Gosh-darn Lennie grabbed hold of a metal door, pulled and ducked. I swear, I am not making this up. He was so tall he had to duck to get us both through the door. He did a pretty good job until the metal door swung closed so fast that it bonked me hard on the head.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said the Hagrid-sized man. He turned, I guess to see if I was okay, but since I was on his back he just ended up banging my head on the wall. I was beginning to think I’d survived a collision with a Mercedes only to have my life cut short by unintentional brain-bashing.

“Oh,” he said, “sorry again.”

Afraid he’d continue throwing me into walls and other hard objects, I interjected. “That’s okay,” I croaked, grinding my teeth from the pressure of my broken rib pressed against this man’s shoulder. “Just take me wherever you’re taking me, please.” The blood was starting to pool in my head, causing it to throb all the more.

Apparently, that wasn’t far. In through one door we turned and voilà, there I was, on the shoulders of a giant, looking down at Peggy, Clarence, and Guy. They were bound hand and foot with duct tape, but only poor Peggy, for reasons I could guess pretty easily, had a big ol’ piece slapped across her mouth.

Chapter Fourteen

C
larence’s face brightened in what
I read as relief when he saw me. Although I’m not sure why having me there was anything to be relieved about. Possibly he was happy to have another friendly face to die with?

Guy had a bruise on his left cheek and his head was hat-less. I wondered if he’d lost his precious fedora in a struggle. Poor Guy. He wasn’t exactly equipped for violent encounters.

“You okay, Guy?” I asked as Lennie-Hagrid lowered me gently to the concrete floor next to Peggy.

“There have been times in my life,” he answered, “that were far superior, emotionally speaking, than this particular experience, thus far. The question, I guess, going forward, is, will things get better or worse?”

Lennie-Hagrid chortled while lowering himself onto a stool near the opposite wall.

“Barb’s here,” noted Clarence, “so I’m saying better. Right?”

Guy released a mildly derisive grunt. “The problem with that logic is that Barb is here, and not elsewhere, seeking the assistance of law enforcement for our rescue. And, I might add, she looks like she’s been run over by a Mack truck.”

“Just a Mercedes,” I said. “Do I look that bad?”