Blond Hermione agreed, “It kicks the crap out of it.”
Her arrival signified by a five-note set of electronic chimes, Bibi pushed through the glass door into the store before which they had halted. Two well-dressed thirty-something female salesclerks were conferring at the back, though they probably were required to call themselves fashion consultants or style assistants, or something equally high-end and lowbrow. Bibi went to a rack of dresses on the left, turned away from the windows, and fingered the merchandise with apparent interest. She hoped this was one of those places where the style assistants were trained never to approach a newly arrived customer too quickly, lest it appear that the store needed to sell its wares rather than fight off an excess of customers.
One of the salesclerks had meandered a third of the way from the back, pausing here and there to adjust an item on one of the display tables, when the five notes of the chimes announced the entrance of another customer. If the clerk was a missile locked on to Bibi’s cash potential, she had an instantaneous retargeting capability, because she declared with what sounded like genuine delight, “Mrs. Hoffline-Vorshack, what a lovely surprise,” and moved toward the newcomer.
At that moment in Fashion Island, Bibi might have been persuaded that her parents’ surrender to fate was the wisest course in a world that seemed intent on doing to you what it would, violating its own declared rules of cause and effect. Encountering Mrs. Hoffline-Vorshack twice in one day, after not having seen her for almost six years, and just when Bibi had to wend through phalanxes of murderous men without drawing attention to herself…well, it almost made her throw up her hands, walk to the nearest bar, order a beer, and wait to see what happened next, a miraculous reprieve or sudden death.
The second salesclerk strode forward, greeting Mrs. Hoffline-Vorshack without giving the impression of eagerness, and took from her the burden of the two shopping bags, to “keep them safe during your visit with us,” while the first clerk, having been stricken with amnesia as regarded Bibi, wanted to know if Mrs. Hoffline-Vorshack would enjoy coffee or perhaps an aperitif. Being a woman of social grace and propriety, the wife of the real-estate developer wondered if it might be too early to imbibe other than coffee. But when she was assured that it was always cocktail time somewhere in the world, she wondered if they had any of “that delicious champagne,” and of course they did.
Throughout the royal entrance and the ceremonial greeting, Bibi kept her back turned to her former teacher, but she expected to be recognized at any moment. She had no confidence that the ponytail, the cap, and the sunglasses pulled halfway down her nose would shield her from discovery and another upbraiding. Then the only way to stop Mrs. Hoffline-Vorshack from following her outside and loudly accusing her of carrying a concealed weapon without a permit would be to shoot her, which was not a viable solution, though an appealing one.
The promise of good champagne proved to be like a hook in the lip. Following the salesclerks, Mrs. Hoffline-Vorshack was reeled toward the back of the shop, past tantalizing garments and jewelry in which, for the moment, she revealed no interest.
When Bibi realized that she had been spared, the reprieve felt nearly as miraculous as the remission of brain cancer. As she exited the store, the five-note chimes seemed like a supernatural warning that might be saying, She-will-yet-find-you. Because Bibi did not believe in coincidences, she didn’t need a translation of the chimes to know that her former teacher was not done with her and that this particular wheel-within-wheels, which had begun turning at the big-box store, had at least one more revolution to go.
Hermione and Hermione were abashed by their failure to warn Bibi that the loud-as-a-Mack-truck woman had been descending on her. She had seemed to be going past the shop. She had turned so suddenly for the door. She was a bitch supreme, the way she looked at them with contempt. Those knockers coming at you were terrifying, like a couple of torpedoes. And those mean-little-piggy eyes.
Bibi assured them that they had done all they could, and the three of them set out again for the end of the main promenade and the parking lot beyond Neiman Marcus, talking about whether tattoos were cool or creepy and whether it was better to be cool and stupid or uncool and smart.
Pogo’s Honda still stood between the Ferrari and the Maserati. As far as Bibi could tell, no one was watching it. Evidently, Terezin’s thugs didn’t yet know what she was driving.