FRIDAY morning I was up early to open the store. I dressed in what I’d renovated last night. After removing the collar, sleeves, and elastic by the ankles of the costume, I’d been left with a wide-legged jumpsuit that had colorful polka dots on it. I cinched the waist with a pink obi belt from a box of uniforms we’d inherited when the Las Vegas Benihana changed its dress code, and slipped on a pair of bright pink suede flats. I put a white plastic hair band on my head to keep my hair from falling into my face and added a sheer pink lip gloss to my lips.
After blending up a smoothie with blueberries and raspberries that made a nice complement to the polka dots, I rolled the same rack of clown costumes out front and, based on my own outfit, sold five more plus two obi belts. If things kept up, I was going to have to find another sidewalk sale item! My dad checked in at closing time; he and Don were spending another night with the collector. He—the collector, not my dad—wanted to treat him and Don to a tour of Area 51, and I knew my dad well enough to know he couldn’t pass that up. After a heavy grilling of Don about my dad’s pulse and then a lecture with my dad about medication and taking it easy, I told him that business was under control.
*
BY the time Saturday rolled around, talk of Blitz’s party was all over town. Everyone was excited to see what Ebony had planned on short notice. Even though both Blitz and Grady had extended invites to me, I chose to remain a member of the staff and volunteered to help Ebony behind the scenes.
I dressed as Honey West and assembled my outfit from a black, V-neck dress with a high slit cut up one leg, a garter from the mob section, and a plastic pistol tucked into the garter. I pinched a stuffed ocelot from the jungle section of the store and hooked a leash to a studded collar from the ’80s section. Since my hair was far from her golden blond, I tucked it under a tight cap and pulled on a wig. This girl for hire, indeed.
I strapped the stuffed ocelot onto the back of my white Vespa scooter and slowly fitted my helmet over the wig. It was a couple miles drive to the fire hall that Ebony had rented for the party, and I arrived in about fifteen minutes. Parking was limited, but a small spot on a side street called my name. Thankful for the compact size of the scooter, I backed it into the space. The blond wig came off when I removed my helmet, leaving my head—in a black stocking cap!—exposed. I tugged the wig on quickly and glanced around, hoping nobody had seen.
Ebony met me and the ocelot at the fire hall doors. She whistled when she saw my outfit. “Only you could turn out forty costumes in twenty-four hours and still have the best-looking one for yourself.”
“I never turn down an opportunity to wear a wig. You know that.”
“You’re practically the same age as Blitz and his crowd. You should be here as a guest, not an employee. Who knows, you might even meet Mr. Right.”
“Mr. Right? Let’s see, I made a Mr. Moto, but I don’t remember making a costume for Mr. Right.” I looked at her sideways. “Besides, I’m six years older than Blitz. Maybe six years is nothing to you, but that would be practically cradle robbing to me. And you don’t want me to become part of Blitz’s scene any more than I want you to move to the moon. What’s up?”
“It wouldn’t kill you to meet a nice guy and settle down.”
For a self-proclaimed independent-for-life woman, Ebony had an odd obsession with me meeting “a nice guy.” I rolled my eyes, the standard response for when she brought “him” up, and went inside.
The interior of the fire hall had been converted. Tables and chairs were arranged to one side, leaving ample space for a band and a dance floor. There were four portable bars manned by bartenders in plaid capes and deerstalker hats. Servers circled with heavy, leather-bound encyclopedias in place of serving trays, each covered in clear trays of crudités and hors d’oeuvres. Guests were given large magnifying glasses instead of plates, and they selected items from the servers and set them on the surface of the glass. The handles made them easy to carry.
Ebony handed me a magnifying glass that held a rolled piece of roast beef with a dab of horseradish on the top. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.
I followed her stare. An older gentleman, dressed nattily in a fitted black suit and narrow trousers, stood off near the side entrance. He wasn’t so much dressed as a detective as he was dressed from the pages of GQ. He looked across the hall at her and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Who’s he?”
“Octavius Roman. Otherwise known as He with the Broken Pipes.”
“Otherwise known as Blitz’s First Choice.”
She shook her head. “Takes a lot of nerve to show up here after his services were terminated. I can’t see Blitz sending him an invite.”
“Where is Blitz, anyway?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He said he was playing a joke on his friend Grady and we might not see him until after the party was in swing. You’re lucky Grady already paid you for the costumes. Blitz said he’d pay me tonight. I know the boy’s got money but I put this whole thing together on his promises.”