pretty?”
“Yes, I can. I can also tell that she has large breasts.”
“Of course you can. You think everyone has bigger breasts than you.”
“Well, they do.”
“You’re petite.”
“I’m breastless.”
“Well, you can’t really ask Niles about this allegedly large-breasted pretty girl named Chelsea, can you?”
“No, but I can catch him in the act. I think he’s a lying shithead, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I think you might be rushing to judgment. She could be anyone. How are you going to catch him in the act?”
“I’m going to follow him next Saturday night. You have to come with me.”
“No, Kit, you know I hate surveillance. What if he sees us?”
“Don’t worry; he won’t see us.”
“Why not?”
“Because it won’t be us.”
I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. Kit is very big on disguises. She gets first pick of whatever comes into the vintage-clothing store that she works in and she prides herself on looking like a completely different person every time she leaves the house. She owns a vast selection of wigs, hats, sunglasses, jewelry and shoes. She’d make a great gumshoe. Not including Halloween (which I won’t even get into), I’ve been dressed as a disgruntled shopper (when Kit needed backup on a complaint about a staff member at a boutique), a Girl Scout (when Kit needed a partner to go door-to-door, collecting empty bottles to support her fake troop), a guy (when Kit needed a pretend boyfriend to make her current boyfriend jealous) and a middle-aged woman (when Kit exceeded the one-per-customer on free samples at the Lancôme cosmetics counter).
“So, will you help me?”
As I’m lying there, Pierre appears in my doorway. He strides purposefully past my bedroom without even a glance in my direction. I jump off the bed and tiptoe to my doorway, poking my head out. Pierre stands in front of Suki’s door and meows. The door opens. Pierre disappears inside. The door shuts.
“Allie? Are you there?” asks Kit.
“Aha!” I say into the phone.
“What?”
“Pierre is cheating on me with a Japanese woman.”
“You see what I mean? You can’t even trust a male cat.”
“Okay, sure, I’ll help you. But I’m not wearing a disguise.”
“Yes, you are. Call you tomorrow.” She hangs up before I can respond.
I pull the Beatles’ Rubber Soul out of its sleeve and place it on the turntable. The needle drops and “Drive My Car” starts up. I lie there and listen to it, looking up at the ceiling. My eyes close. I imagine M lying next to me, listening, our fingertips touching, feeling the music and the heat of our bodies flowing through his fingers to mine and back again. There’s no need for us to talk. That’s what it’s like with us. We talk without speaking.
Chapter 5
T he minimart on Telegraph and Alcatraz was robbed last night, and this time someone got hurt. The robbers were surprised when an employee came out of the bathroom holding a Road & Track magazine, which they mistook for a gun. One of them shot the guy in the arm. He’s going to be okay but I hope he wasn’t planning a career as a major league pitcher. Right after that, as if that weren’t bad enough, the perps went another couple of blocks down Telegraph and robbed a barbecue place, a pretty bold move. The minimart got them on the security camera but they were wearing ski masks and it was too grainy for a positive ID. How is it that you can get a crystal-clear picture on a cell phone camera but security cameras still deliver the picture quality of your great-aunt’s black-and-white TV that she bought in the sixties to watch I Love Lucy on?
Bob has put the store on what he’s calling “high security alert,” which one might take to mean that he’s handing out assault rifles and digging foxholes, but all it really means is that we’re supposed to report any suspicious-looking characters immediately. That’s a bit tricky. Everyone on Telegraph looks at least a little
“Yes, I can. I can also tell that she has large breasts.”
“Of course you can. You think everyone has bigger breasts than you.”
“Well, they do.”
“You’re petite.”
“I’m breastless.”
“Well, you can’t really ask Niles about this allegedly large-breasted pretty girl named Chelsea, can you?”
“No, but I can catch him in the act. I think he’s a lying shithead, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I think you might be rushing to judgment. She could be anyone. How are you going to catch him in the act?”
“I’m going to follow him next Saturday night. You have to come with me.”
“No, Kit, you know I hate surveillance. What if he sees us?”
“Don’t worry; he won’t see us.”
“Why not?”
“Because it won’t be us.”
I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. Kit is very big on disguises. She gets first pick of whatever comes into the vintage-clothing store that she works in and she prides herself on looking like a completely different person every time she leaves the house. She owns a vast selection of wigs, hats, sunglasses, jewelry and shoes. She’d make a great gumshoe. Not including Halloween (which I won’t even get into), I’ve been dressed as a disgruntled shopper (when Kit needed backup on a complaint about a staff member at a boutique), a Girl Scout (when Kit needed a partner to go door-to-door, collecting empty bottles to support her fake troop), a guy (when Kit needed a pretend boyfriend to make her current boyfriend jealous) and a middle-aged woman (when Kit exceeded the one-per-customer on free samples at the Lancôme cosmetics counter).
“So, will you help me?”
As I’m lying there, Pierre appears in my doorway. He strides purposefully past my bedroom without even a glance in my direction. I jump off the bed and tiptoe to my doorway, poking my head out. Pierre stands in front of Suki’s door and meows. The door opens. Pierre disappears inside. The door shuts.
“Allie? Are you there?” asks Kit.
“Aha!” I say into the phone.
“What?”
“Pierre is cheating on me with a Japanese woman.”
“You see what I mean? You can’t even trust a male cat.”
“Okay, sure, I’ll help you. But I’m not wearing a disguise.”
“Yes, you are. Call you tomorrow.” She hangs up before I can respond.
I pull the Beatles’ Rubber Soul out of its sleeve and place it on the turntable. The needle drops and “Drive My Car” starts up. I lie there and listen to it, looking up at the ceiling. My eyes close. I imagine M lying next to me, listening, our fingertips touching, feeling the music and the heat of our bodies flowing through his fingers to mine and back again. There’s no need for us to talk. That’s what it’s like with us. We talk without speaking.
Chapter 5
T he minimart on Telegraph and Alcatraz was robbed last night, and this time someone got hurt. The robbers were surprised when an employee came out of the bathroom holding a Road & Track magazine, which they mistook for a gun. One of them shot the guy in the arm. He’s going to be okay but I hope he wasn’t planning a career as a major league pitcher. Right after that, as if that weren’t bad enough, the perps went another couple of blocks down Telegraph and robbed a barbecue place, a pretty bold move. The minimart got them on the security camera but they were wearing ski masks and it was too grainy for a positive ID. How is it that you can get a crystal-clear picture on a cell phone camera but security cameras still deliver the picture quality of your great-aunt’s black-and-white TV that she bought in the sixties to watch I Love Lucy on?
Bob has put the store on what he’s calling “high security alert,” which one might take to mean that he’s handing out assault rifles and digging foxholes, but all it really means is that we’re supposed to report any suspicious-looking characters immediately. That’s a bit tricky. Everyone on Telegraph looks at least a little
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