Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle by Linda Barnes Page B

I?”
    â€œUnkah Mahty.” Her frilly white blouse stopped well above baggy red pants, exposing a pudgy belly. She wore four gold bangles on her left wrist.
    â€œC’mon, a favah.”
    The line was moving, and the women and kids behind me shuffled restlessly. Little Ginny gazed up at me with sky-blue eyes.
    â€œWhere should we meet you?”
    â€œI’ll be right here, waiting.” That’s not how it sounded, but you get the idea.
    â€œTwenty-seven. Sixteen. Thirteen’s wide open!” We were getting close enough to hear Florrie’s deep voice.
    â€œHow old are you, Ginny?”
    â€œFour and a half.”
    Was 4½ old enough to go into a stall by herself and do her stuff?
    â€œDo you have any tricky buttons or anything?” I asked. “Can you pee all by yourself?”
    â€œMommy says tinkle.”
    â€œCan you tinkle by yourself?”
    â€œâ€™Course I can. I’m not a baby .”
    â€œNumber six is free. Hey, there, Officer Carlyle.”
    â€œJust Carlotta, Ms. Andrews.”
    â€œFlorrie to you, and who’s this little darlin’?”
    â€œPicked her up outside. Name’s Ginny.”
    â€œGinny, you lake number four, right over here.”
    I was dispatched to number 17, where I returned the beer, wondering how in hell Florrie had identified me without lifting her head or missing a beat on the numbers. I met up with Ginny talking with Florrie, and we washed quickly. Everybody moves quickly in there, because they want to get out. It’s a sty, exhibit A for those who favor a new Fenway Park. Me, I think they need to renovate the bathrooms.
    Moochie wasn’t waiting.
    â€œDid Uncle Marty give you your ticket stub, Ginny?”
    She gave me blank blue eyes. I swiveled and surveyed the crowd: Fans hurrying to their seats, laden with junk food; smokers leaning against the walls, watching the teenage girls, tank-topped and tightly jeaned, testing their power by wiggling their hips. There was no line outside the nearby men’s room. Maybe Moochie was in there. Maybe he’d come out the door right now.
    Nope.
    Ginny’s damp hand tugged me down to the level of her mouth.
    â€œCan I have cotton candy? Pink?”
    â€œDoes your mom let you cat that stuff?”
    â€œUnkah Mahty promised.”
    While we waited in line, I kept an eye peeled for Moochie. He’d been wearing a plaid shirt over a white tee, jeans, a bright-yellow Harvester cap.
    â€œGinny, do you remember where you were sitting?”
    She twisted her mouth in concentration. “Near the man with the big red finger.”
    They sell them at souvenir stands: Big red styrofoam “We’re number one” fingers. You see them waving all over the stands.
    I saw Moochie out of the corner of one eye, opened my mouth to call his name, shut it quickly.
    â€œGinny, come with me.”
    â€œI want cotton candy!”
    â€œI’ll get you two cotton candies. Later. Promise.” I reached down and picked her up. Her bracelets jangled. “Whoa, how much do you weigh?”
    â€œI’m not fat!”
    She wasn’t. I pushed my way into the bathroom via the exit door, past nasty glances from the waiting line.
    â€œFlorrie, keep an eye on her, OK?”
    By the time I pushed my way out, I’d lost him. I was standing on tiptoe, calculating the best way to get help from security, when I saw the top of Moochie’s hat disappear down the runway, a bad-news bum on either side, one behind him, probably holding a blade.
    My hands rummaged my backpack for a weapon. Not a gun. No way would I bring a firearm to Fenway, what with seats glued together like kernels of corn. While I searched, I gave chase. Not that Moochie was a prince, but if they croaked Unkah Mahty under the stands, I’d be stuck explaining it to little Ginny.
    Fenway Security used to wear navy blazers and stick out like pimples. Now they wear khakis and do the background