wrong—places.
“Yeah, okay. See what you can find out.”
“Will do. And good luck this morning. Make sure you’re at
Universal on time this afternoon.”
I huffed into the phone.
“Oh, and Bullet, after you and Twyla finish at Universal,
give me a call.”
Doug’s final words perked up my watch-out antennae. “Why?” I croaked. But all I
got in return was a dial tone.
Agnes
I ran my eyes up from the stylish nametag to the face of a
woman who looked like Miss Vateroli, my first-grade teacher—the Ayatollah
Homeni of America’s public school system.
“Mr. Bullock?” Agnes had one of those voices that was so
husky you couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.
“Yes, ma’am.” At Hampton Meadows Elementary School, this is
when I usually wet my pants. I brought my legs together and squeezed.
“Come with me,” she ordered.
I hand-signaled my squad to move forward. The troops paraded
single file behind Agnes as she headed toward a semiprivate nook. Bringing up the
rear was Yigal Rosenblatt, who had decided to make a day of it with his
newfound friends. Apparently, building a defense for Miklos Zeusenoerdorf
didn’t require a lot of time.
“I’ve been given instructions to provide you with personal
services—” Agnes began but suddenly stopped and gasped for breath when she took
in a full view of Manny Maglio’s niece. “Oh dear.”
“I think someone called you about helping Twyla here with
her wardrobe,” I said.
“Twyla?” Agnes wheezed. “They told me to expect a Miss Tharp.”
“That’s right. Twyla Tharp.”
“But Twyla Tharp does the Joffrey—the American Ballet
Theatre.” Agnes began hyperventilating in a refined sort of way.
“This is a different Twyla,” I explained. The understatement
of the morning.
Agnes’s confusion quickly gave way to suspicion. “May I have
a word in private?” She led me to a neutral corner. “Mr. Bullock, do you have
so much as an iota of fashion sense?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your friend — ”
I read between the lines and corrected Agnes on the spot.
“She’s not my friend. She’s the niece of someone with a lot of influence. I was
asked to chaperone her for a couple of days.”
“Do you have any idea
of what she’s wearing?”
“From what Ms. Tharp told me, it’s a liquid metallic tank
dress that she ordered from a Ten Thousand Temptations catalogue. I don’t know
where she got the shoes, though. She calls them centerfold spike heels.”
“This isn’t a joke, is it?” Agnes asked.
The mere thought of playing a practical joke on someone who
was a carbon copy of my first-grade teacher made me shiver. “No.”
Agnes studied me carefully. “If this isn’t some kind of
boorish trick, then we have a great deal of work to do.”
“I think you’ll find Ms. Tharp to be a very easy customer.”
“First, she’s hardly a customer. She’s paying for nothing,
from what I’ve been told. Second, easy is
exactly what she looks like.”
I released a low whistle, a tension-releasing habit that got
its start thirty-five years ago when my grade school teacher walked into the
classroom with a three-foot toilet comet stuck to one of her Red Cross shoes.
For that little transgression I got thirty minutes in a corner. I wondered what
the penalty might be now.
“This is all extra work for me,” Agnes snarled. “If I
suspect this is some mean-spirited attempt to humiliate me, you and your
friends will be shown the door. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do. This is not a practical joke, I promise.”
Agnes marched back to Twyla and yanked her into the women’s
dressing room. The rest of us milled aimlessly around racks of women’s garments
for the next hour. Occasionally, we saw Agnes carry several armfuls of clothing
in and out of the dressing room. The woman was flushed and one side of her bun
had come loose. When she finally brought Twyla back to us, Manny Maglio’s niece
was still
“Yeah, okay. See what you can find out.”
“Will do. And good luck this morning. Make sure you’re at
Universal on time this afternoon.”
I huffed into the phone.
“Oh, and Bullet, after you and Twyla finish at Universal,
give me a call.”
Doug’s final words perked up my watch-out antennae. “Why?” I croaked. But all I
got in return was a dial tone.
Agnes
I ran my eyes up from the stylish nametag to the face of a
woman who looked like Miss Vateroli, my first-grade teacher—the Ayatollah
Homeni of America’s public school system.
“Mr. Bullock?” Agnes had one of those voices that was so
husky you couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.
“Yes, ma’am.” At Hampton Meadows Elementary School, this is
when I usually wet my pants. I brought my legs together and squeezed.
“Come with me,” she ordered.
I hand-signaled my squad to move forward. The troops paraded
single file behind Agnes as she headed toward a semiprivate nook. Bringing up the
rear was Yigal Rosenblatt, who had decided to make a day of it with his
newfound friends. Apparently, building a defense for Miklos Zeusenoerdorf
didn’t require a lot of time.
“I’ve been given instructions to provide you with personal
services—” Agnes began but suddenly stopped and gasped for breath when she took
in a full view of Manny Maglio’s niece. “Oh dear.”
“I think someone called you about helping Twyla here with
her wardrobe,” I said.
“Twyla?” Agnes wheezed. “They told me to expect a Miss Tharp.”
“That’s right. Twyla Tharp.”
“But Twyla Tharp does the Joffrey—the American Ballet
Theatre.” Agnes began hyperventilating in a refined sort of way.
“This is a different Twyla,” I explained. The understatement
of the morning.
Agnes’s confusion quickly gave way to suspicion. “May I have
a word in private?” She led me to a neutral corner. “Mr. Bullock, do you have
so much as an iota of fashion sense?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your friend — ”
I read between the lines and corrected Agnes on the spot.
“She’s not my friend. She’s the niece of someone with a lot of influence. I was
asked to chaperone her for a couple of days.”
“Do you have any idea
of what she’s wearing?”
“From what Ms. Tharp told me, it’s a liquid metallic tank
dress that she ordered from a Ten Thousand Temptations catalogue. I don’t know
where she got the shoes, though. She calls them centerfold spike heels.”
“This isn’t a joke, is it?” Agnes asked.
The mere thought of playing a practical joke on someone who
was a carbon copy of my first-grade teacher made me shiver. “No.”
Agnes studied me carefully. “If this isn’t some kind of
boorish trick, then we have a great deal of work to do.”
“I think you’ll find Ms. Tharp to be a very easy customer.”
“First, she’s hardly a customer. She’s paying for nothing,
from what I’ve been told. Second, easy is
exactly what she looks like.”
I released a low whistle, a tension-releasing habit that got
its start thirty-five years ago when my grade school teacher walked into the
classroom with a three-foot toilet comet stuck to one of her Red Cross shoes.
For that little transgression I got thirty minutes in a corner. I wondered what
the penalty might be now.
“This is all extra work for me,” Agnes snarled. “If I
suspect this is some mean-spirited attempt to humiliate me, you and your
friends will be shown the door. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do. This is not a practical joke, I promise.”
Agnes marched back to Twyla and yanked her into the women’s
dressing room. The rest of us milled aimlessly around racks of women’s garments
for the next hour. Occasionally, we saw Agnes carry several armfuls of clothing
in and out of the dressing room. The woman was flushed and one side of her bun
had come loose. When she finally brought Twyla back to us, Manny Maglio’s niece
was still
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