“Dig Allen is on his way. How about you go make me one of those smoothies you’re always drinking.” She pulled a brown vial out of her purse. “Put this in it. Lemon balm oil drops. Helps calm the nerves.”
I left Ebony on the sidewalk and went inside and upstairs. Since my smoothie had landed on the sidewalk, I blended up enough for two people. By the time I made it back downstairs, Dig and his tow truck had arrived.
Dig Allen was a bald black man who favored bowling shirts with the sleeves torn off, boxy black work pants, and a wallet on a chain that was hooked to his belt. He had a tattoo of Tweety Bird on one muscular biceps and an anchor on the other. He was half a head shorter than Ebony even if you didn’t count her Afro. Even though she was ten years older than he was, he asked her out every chance he got.
Today Dig looked like he’d stumbled onto the mother lode of rescue fantasies. Not only had Ebony called him, but she needed him. He had a hand on the small of her back and was in the middle of offering to replace and balance all four of her tires—though only two were flat—when I returned.
“Margo Tamblyn! Long time no see. You come here to tell Jerry to take it easy after his heart attack?”
“Something like that.”
“Is he listening?”
“He’s somewhere along Route 66 chasing down government conspiracies and alien costumes.”
Dig laughed. “That sounds like Jerry. How long do we have you for?”
When I asked my boss, Magic Maynard, how many days I could take, he grumbled about finding a replacement before he could make a decision. My roommate, a former employee at one of the older casinos, had volunteered to step in for me while I was gone so my job wouldn’t go to someone else permanently. I hoped she was doing a good enough job to keep me employed when I didn’t return to work on Tuesday.
“I have to go back soon,” I said, “but not yet. Not until I feel like Ebony and my dad are both going to be okay.”
Dig looked at Ebony with concern. “Margo’s got a point. You might need a man to look after you for a few days.”
“Ain’t no man who can take care of me like I can take care of myself,” she said. “But I tell you what. You help me out with those tires and the removal of the paint and I’ll take you out to dinner to the restaurant of your choice. Within reason.”
“What are we waiting for?” Dig said. He fumbled with something by the dashboard, and after a series of loud noises, the back of the truck tipped down. He freed a large hook and secured it under Ebony’s Caddy and then went back to the dash and did something else that made the hook retract. The Caddy resisted, but with enough force, finally lifted from the ground. By the time Dig was done with the process, the front two wheels of the Caddy were resting on the tilted bed of the truck. Sadly, this made it even easier to read the word that was painted on the car.
“Will it be hard to get the paint off?” Ebony asked.
“Nah, little bit of turpentine’ll do the trick. Besides, it’s still fresh. See?” Dig dragged his finger over the paint and left a streak through the M.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “I found the car like this around ten o’clock this morning. Spray paint dries in half an hour. Hour, tops.” I stepped closer to the car and looked in the window. The cans of paint had rolled to the far side of the car. I walked around and reached in and picked one up.
It wasn’t a can of spray paint at all. It was a can of temporary hair color, like the kind we stocked in the costume shop.
Chapter 7
I TURNED THE can over in my hands. A small white price sticker on the bottom read CANDY GIRLS. I shook the can a few times and the ball inside clinked back and forth, the same way an empty can of spray paint might sound.
“Ebony, didn’t you say Amy Bradshaw works for Candy Girls?” I asked.
“Yep. Why?”
I held the empty can up. “This isn’t paint, it’s hair spray. It’ll come off with a bucket of warm soap and water.” I pointed to the price tag. “It came from Candy Girls.”
“What does that tell you?” Ebony asked.
“Not much. We sell this stuff by the truckload. It’s one of the most popular everyday items. I bet they do too.”
Ebony took the can from me and read the label. I had enough experience with the colored hair spray to know that you needed to spray it in short bursts, otherwise the nozzle would drip and the spray would get on your hands. The user of this can didn’t know that. The black spray had run down the label and spidered around it. Ebony looked inside her car. There was a black splotch on the middle of the camel-colored vinyl interior.
She held the can up in front of her like Hamlet about to address a skull and said, “I’m gonna git you, sucka!” and then handed me the empty can. As long as she was quoting blaxploitation movies, I knew she was taking the vandalism in stride. Better than I was, all things considered.
“I have to get back inside and open the store. Dig, do you have this under control?” I asked.