Baker's Dozen Read online

  “What? You were the one who said it.” Hugh couldn’t help smirking.

  She held out her pinkie. “Do you swear?”

  “I swear to someday see you naked.”

  “Hugh! It’s a part of me no one has ever seen, not even Conner. And I’m sharing it with you. Because we’re”—the words were hard to say—“working together.”

  “Okay, I swear I’ll be your best friend or whatever you want.”

  He stuck his hand between the door and the frame. They locked pinkies.

  She opened it a bit and paused. “And no wise-cracks.” The door fully opened to let him peek in.

  “No, nothing but pure admiration.” He stepped over the threshold in awe, gazing at the double rungs encircling the room.

  Where rest of the apartment was in disordered chaos, her closet room was precise organization. All around the perimeter were closet rails full of different types of clothes, hipster, youthful, old ladyish. In the center, stood more free-standing garment racks, each laden with costumes, doctor’s scrubs, uniforms, graduation gowns, unitards, overalls. And one wall had rows of wigs, labeled make-up jars, and jewelry hanging from stands, scarves, fake nails, and prosthetics. “You collected all of this on your own?”

  “Yup.”

  “No help from anybody?”

  She shook her head. “I mean the lady at the thrift shop helped me find some things. And Carla paid for maybe half of it in exchange for the nitty-gritty details.”

  He raised his eye brows in admiration and nodded his head approvingly. “Andy Baker you are amazing. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”

  Andy was in her element, searching through things for just the right stuff, gathering it. He didn’t expect her serious concentration. “No, but as you are now part of my secret you must help me.”

  She handed him a cup.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “When was the last time you peed? I just went.”

  “Wait—you want me to…” He couldn’t finish the thought let alone the sentence.

  Pointing into the mouth of the cup, she finished for him. “Pee in the cup.”

  He tilted the cup in his hand, examining the outside label. “Is this for a drug test?”

  “Should I test you?” She raised an eyebrow. “I have one.”

  He held his hands out, puffing out his chest. “I’m clean.”

  “Urine. I need it. Hopefully you’re dehydrated.” She rummaged around underneath hanging clothes. “The smellier the better.”

  “You are one odd girl, Andy Baker.”

  “It’s all in the details.”

  He smiled slyly. “At least you’re not asking for any other types of body fluids.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and blinked at him innocently. “Oh, like your blood?”

  He stepped back. “You are so scary.”

  “I hope so.”

  When he returned from the bathroom, she’d found a double-bagged sack. She unwound one of the red twisted ties, allowing the smell to escape.

  “Woah, your bag stinks,” Hugh said, handing her the cup of yellow pee.

  “Vinegar, vodka, soured milk, garlic, cumin—which I find always smells like body odor—stale smoke”—she paused for effect—“and a shot of urine.” She tossed the warm plastic cup of yellow liquid after dashing it into the bag, wincing as she tied.

  “Sounds like a terrible recipe.”

  “The recipe for overnight hobo smell. It’s hard to fake months of no showering, but this is the best I can do.” She mashed the bag together. “Gotta take it to the laundromat, stick it in the dryer to set the smell. There’s one next door.”

  His eyes grew big. “Remind me never to use public laundromats again.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t.” She hefted the sack, hoping to throw it over her shoulder, but Hugh caught it.

  “If you’re going to have to wear it, the least I can do is take it to the dryer for you.”

  “Thanks.” She handed him a fistful of change she dug from a box on a vanity. “Quarters. While you’re doing laundry, I’ll get my hair and makeup done and teeth in.”

  “Teeth?”

  Several sets of dentures sat on her table, one with gaping holes, others with large gaps, or big horsey tombstone teeth or small pointy teeth. “I won’t ask for your secrets. Just do your thing.”

  When Hugh returned, he almost didn’t recognize Andy. Tangled hair covered her face. And her face, covered in who knows what, was filthy, leathery instead of smooth. In place of her beautiful teeth, a rack of yellowed broken choppers launched from diseased gums.

  “Repulsive,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Even her voice eked its way out of her hideous mouth. “Rancid olive oil sprayed in my hair. Do you have my clothes?”

  “Yes.” He handed her the bag.

  “Ah, the sweet smell of stench.”

  “Do you want me to leave so you can change?”

  “No need.” As she opened the bag, she suppressed the gag reflex. “You are an angel to take this to the dryer.” He shrugged.

  As she lifted the jacket over her head, she gagged. “Well, at least I’ll have a little bit of you to go with me. Man, this reeks.”

  She slipped the skirt over the top of her ratty leggings and filled pockets within the skirt with lock picks and other oddities. When she tucked a canister in her jacket pocket, Hugh raised his eyebrows.

  “What are you pocketing?” he asked.

  “Hexachloroethane and zinc for smoke screen. Just in case. I’ve never faced the mob before.”

  Her fingers trembled as she slid on a jacket, hat, and several sweaters. Padding in the shirt. Gloves with fingers missing. A ratty scarf.

  “What do you think?” Andy asked him, smugly satisfied with her appearance.

  She was so unprepared to face the mob. He wanted to stop her and tell her he’d take care of it. But some part of him wondered if she could do it.

  “You’re really going to go through with this?” he asked.

  “I have to.”

  He leaned closer. “What is on your face?”

  “Glue.”

  “Glue?”

  “Yes, just dried school glue with bronzer and charcoal.” A briquette laid on the counter.

  Amazing. He examined her makeup job. The smell kept him from getting too close. Age spots, freckles, even white over the lips from wind burn or dehydration. He absorbed every detail, her hands, the hair. Only the eyes were Andy’s. They were still bright and attractive. And focused on him, laughing, enjoying her success in such an utter transformation. He leaned nearer, holding his nose in blatant mockery. Maybe she could pull it off. He’d be watching close by just in case.

  “It’s amazing up close. Although I don’t know anybody who would stay close.” She had transformed into a hideous hag, but he couldn’t help admire her for having the guts to do this, the knowledge. But she hesitated.

  “I’m still scared,” she said, her expression serious. “They killed Brad, and they will have no problem killing me, if they catch me. Before I was always in control. I could out-man any of those guys. They may have done bad things. But they weren’t bad people. These guys are bad. They kill and they don’t care.”

  “If you want, I can go instead.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You are much too big to be a homeless man. No, I am the one who has to go. I am the only one who can go.”

  “You can leave it. You can buy all your stuff again.”

  She paused. “You’re right. I could but it’s not just the stuff. Brad gave me some information about Tyrone. It’s in the bag. I have to get it if we want to continue. And I have to prove to myself I can do this.”

  Hugh nodded. He understood. He just hoped it worked.

  ****

  Jack waited by the side of the abandoned warehouse. The river gurgled to his left, the sounds of the city murmured to his right. Cold blew through him, and he stomped his boots a bit, waiting. He hadn�
�t eaten much the last few days, and the cold bit his body like a beast.

  Maybe after tonight, he could eat like a king, drink imported beer, and get him a girl. Best way to get the last girl out of the mind—a new girl.

  How was he going to bargain? He had what they wanted, didn’t he? He glanced at the picture. They should be the one to pay him. Like all those spy shows. Those who had the information had the power.

  He checked the time. A little past seven. He said seven, didn’t he? Maybe he got the dates mixed up or the wrong warehouse. This was the old Hodgekins coal supplier building. Boarded up. Used to be quite booming, loading and stashing coal for years into the brick seven-story building until the trains out-pulled the steamboats.

  The sound of crushed gravel alerted Jack. The limo made his heart flutter. He’d only seen them around town and at his high school prom. He’d never hoped to ride in one. The door of the sleek limo opened, and though all was dark inside, he climbed in, feeling the warmth and smelling something foul.

  “I’m glad you didn’t leave,” Tyrone said as Jack crawled into the seat.

  Jack situated himself into the leather seats, sizing up the man across from him. He’d never met Tyrone before. His coal-black eyes leaked liquid, as if crying. Jack couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he was crying. No. Not crying. Tyrone had no other tells of emotion.

  The smell overpowered his empty stomach, and the overwhelming heat made his stomach lurch as the limo returned to the road.

  “So, you know something of this Andrew Baker?” Tyrone asked.

  Okay, so Jack lied on the phone when he’d called. He only knew what he had. A picture of his girlfriend.

  “Yeah, well, you know.” Jack couldn’t remember the story he’d rehearsed. He flipped the phone in his hand. He hadn’t expected Tyrone to be so stern and confident. It made Jack lose all courage, as though the man read his thoughts. Tyrone unfolded a white handkerchief and wiped his watering eyes.

  Jack trembled like a shirt on a clothes line.

  “So, what do you have for me?” His voice grated Jack’s ears, like tires across gravel.

  “Well.” Jack ran his finger along the leather stitching of his seat.

  “Please tell me you did not waste my time.”

  Jack couldn’t speak. Tyrone’s voice sent serious tremors under his skin. He was a man who did not waste time.

  Jack winced a bit. “There was this girl.” He fidgeted in his seat when the man with the weeping eyes, stared more distinctly into his own. “She really was a sweetheart.” He smiled like a schoolboy admitting to his first crush. “I don’t think it was her. But she was being awfully friendly with a guy the night before the story broke. The beginning of my bad luck.”

  Jack hadn’t a chance to tell anyone about his broken heart, first the girl left him on his doorstep, although he didn’t remember how or why. He hadn’t had too much beer. Then the story. Then social media lit up like a bonfire. The phone calls. The police interrogation. The lawyers. It was too much. This man before him was the least likely person to listen to his heartbreak. Maybe he was getting revenge because he didn’t like the way Mary Lou flirted with the man at Ronney Dell’s.

  Tyrone wiped his eyes again but remained as stoic as ever, perhaps even a little bored, like Jack was wasting his time. But Jack continued on. He didn’t care if he had an attentive audience, it just all tumbled out.

  “I called her, but her phone number was disconnected.” Tears stung his eyes. “I swung by her place where I always met her before, and they said they’d never seen or heard of her. She disappeared.”

  “Interesting.”

  Eager to have a listening ear, Jack began to blather forth about all his troubles.

  Tyrone stopped him. “Yes, so this girl. How did you meet her?”

  “Who?” Tyrone’s expression made Jack focus. “Oh, Mary Lou? It’s kind of a funny story. She dropped off her car. A nice one. BMW 7 series.” When he thought about it, why was a girl like Mary Lou driving such a nice car?

  “At the shop?”

  Jack nodded, pleased he was interested. “She flirted with me pretty hard core. Even asked me out.” His chest puffed a little, remembering how flirtatious Mary Lou had been when they first met. Boy, she came on hot and heavy, and it pleased him.

  “Do you have a picture of Mary Lou?” Tyrone asked.

  “Yes, it’s not a great one. But you should be able to recognize her.”

  Seeing Tyrone was interested, Jack grew bolder. “But I want money for this. Lots of it.” Jack couldn’t remember the exact figure he’d planned.

  “Oh?” Tyrone’s gaze shifted from the phone to Jack.

  “I know how this works. The man with the information gets paid. He gets what he’s worked hard for.”

  Tyrone leaned forward and plucked up Jack’s phone. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get what you deserve.”

  Jack leaned back, satisfied with his bargaining. He’d managed to score big. This guy must have millions. Jack relaxed even when they parked at an abandoned warehouse. This must be where they keep their money. Perhaps he could score himself a woman tonight.

  Chapter Six

  Andy stood outside his parked car. Hugh spoke behind her. “Wait, you want me to give you a ride in my Porsche?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “Of course.” Andy had already broken her rule riding with him over here. She hoped he was indeed the police detective he said he was. Besides, he wasn’t a mark. He was a partner. Maybe. Andy couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling.

  “You can’t have a bag lady coming out of a Porsche,” he said.

  “Drop me off a block from the casino.”

  He pinched his lips together in a frown. “You are not sitting on my leather interior in your costume.”

  “You’re such a baby.” Andy furrowed her brow, her face hurt as it puckered under the glue. Facial movements would have to be kept to a minimum. “How am I supposed to get downtown?”

  “Bus?”

  “It would take four times as long. We are a little pressed for time. I have no idea when the city picks up the trash.”

  Hugh grabbed some plastic bags from his trunk. “Place these over the seats, and we ride with the windows open.”

  “It’s still chilly and wet outside.”

  “I am not staying in a car with your stench. No close proximity, no enclosures.”

  Andy rolled her eyes. “You are such a wimp. You could not handle doing my job.”

  Hugh snorted. Andy spread the plastic bags out on the seat, then opened one and slid it over the back, starting with the headrest. “You should’ve been there when I was a sewer worker, wading through waste water trying to find…”

  “Enough, girl. Get in.”

  Hugh murmured about having to get the seats professionally cleaned and settled into the car. The car ride was silent. Silent because you can’t really talk when the windows are open and you’re driving down the highway. Andy had to hold on her knit cap to keep it from flying away. At least the wind messed her hair up more. When they exited for downtown, Andy elbowed him. He recoiled, checking if she’d rubbed off on him.

  “Just a bit farther,” she said.

  “If I could, I’d drop you off sooner.”

  “Enough cracks about the costume.”

  “This had better be worth it.”

  “It will be.” Two blocks from the casino, Andy directed him to an alleyway where no one would witness a homeless woman descending from a steel-gray Porsche. Andy struggled to get out of the car, carrying several carrier bags and an opaque plastic bag to slip her weekender tote in to. With her many scarves, multiple jackets, she was a coat closet come to life. Maneuvering was a problem.

  “Why are these cars so low to the ground?” she asked through the cracked teeth, tumbling toward the door.

  “It makes them go faster.” The engine vroomed as he raised his eyebrows.

  “Enough. Are you going to help me?”

  “Wha
t would people think if I helped a bag lady out of my car?”

  “Never mind.” She placed a grimy hand on his window sill with a purposeful stare in his direction and was on her feet. “Meet you back here in say, an hour?”

  “Sure.” And he zoomed off.

  Andy waited until the sound of his engine faded. She wanted so much to trust him, to be able to let go her apprehension.

  Andy rummaged through her bags, feeling quite like a bag lady, until she found her cell phone she picked up at home with “Bethany’s” SIM. Badges were hard to fake, easier to steal, but she wasn’t taking anyone’s word. She was calling Fred.

  “Oh, Fred,” she sighed aloud as she dialed his number, thinking of the red-headed freckled guy with a smile.

  Andy actually found it quite respectable he wanted to make it on his own steam, to not use his father’s money as a crutch. To Carla it was unforgivable. Being a black sheep who dated bottom-dwellers was one thing; leaving the fold another. Standing in the alley dressed as a bag lady, Andy needed confirmation of one name. But his voicemail answered.

  “Is your refrigerator running? You’d better go catch it! Leave a message. Or not. I don’t care.”

  Immediately, she switched into character. “You’ll never guess who I ran into,” cooed ditzy “Bethany” into the phone after the beep. It was weird being Bethany while reeking of trash. “Detective Donaldson. He says he knows you from the STLPD. He just wanted me to say hello. Give me a holler when you get this message.”

  She hung up, stashing the phone in her pocket. Why was she so suspicious of Hugh? It was possible the police department had a special forces she knew nothing about. Operatives trained in vice or narcs. Matters they didn’t want to get the feds involved with. Andy chewed her lip. Without further information, she had to trust him. She wanted to trust him. She just couldn’t trust him completely.

  Andy headed for the casino. She judged her success on their reactions. Good, good. She must be convincing. People on the street avoided her gaze and her person. Their reactions caused tears to sting her eyes.

  Meeting with Brad, she realized she missed family, close relationships. Even Carla was more of a fangirl.

  Slumping slightly, she shuffled in her worn, mis-matched shoes, one of which pinched her small toe. The meandering cost her some time, but it had to be real. She had to be completely in character. They might still be searching for her.