Page 60 of Making His Bones

Gray

We rode to the top of a rise. Then I cut the engine.

I dismounted and kicked the kickstand on my ride while Elektra removed her lid, shaking her shiny locks until they fell over her shoulders. I’d even bought her a tight-fitting short little black leather jacket. I could picture a PROPERTY OF patch adorning that, but we were a long way away from that step.

Crickets surrounded us in a cloud of clicking. “This good enough?” I asked quietly.

She nodded. There was a quarter waxing moon and her beautiful face glowed. I’d had to switch out my #HotForElektra T-shirt for something with less letters, like a white wifebeater.

My big concern was that Narcissa Whitman would for some reason hear us rummaging through her garbage, come out, and recognize Elektra. Having heard about Elektra’s new career, no doubt she’d figure out why we were interested in her pizza boxes. So the plan was to walk the few blocks downhill where Elektra could point out the correct can for me—one belonged to the church, and one to Narcissa personally. Elektra would hide, I hoped, while I did the dirty work.

“Even something like used Kleenex will work,” she’d informed me.

She didn’t need to get into the other soiled bathroom toiletries that would work for her purposes. But if our call was right, and Narcissa was really a man, we’d never find those toiletries. Just the pizza.

When we were near the Beautiful and Immaculate church—the cross and sign were still turned on, though it was one o’clock in the morning—Elektra said, “There. The church’s cans are closest to us. Narcissa’s cans are farthest away. They’re like ours. Red is trash, but you might find something in the blue recycling too.”

Kissing Elektra on the forehead, I gently pushed her to hide behind a mobile home.

At first, I didn’t find anything worth a damn. Atkins and Lean Cuisine microwave dinner boxes wouldn’t have any DNA on them. Would the black nukeable trays? I didn’t find any of those. She must’ve washed them and put them in the blue can.

I stuck a few crumpled paper towels or napkins into my white plastic grocery bag. A squeezed lemon wouldn’t help, or plastic film torn from the microwave trays. I had to rip into a knotted plastic bag that held the mother lode. Bingo. I laughed, remembering my last bingo game. This bag held all sorts of empty prescription bottles. There might be no DNA, but at least we could see what she was on.

Out of desperation, I looked into the blue can. If she’d drank directly out of these water bottles, those might work.

I’d just shoved a few water and soda bottles into my grocery bag when I became aware of headlights turning around the corner, about where I’d left my scoot. Fuck fuckity fuck. I dropped my plastic bag to the ground, turned around, and casually walked toward the car.

The car veered and weaved as though it intended to hit me. I automatically leaped behind the big blue can to protect myself. It looked like one of those driverless cars zigzagging down the hill, and it kind of came to a stop, about half the car in a parking spot, the other half over a bush, just twenty yards from me.

“Whoo!” the woman cried, stumbling from the car.

She had fishnet stockings on long, muscular legs, and high heels she didn’t seem accustomed to. She slung the strap to a gold lame bag over her neck, like a lanyard holding a wine glass at a tasting. “Whoo!” she blared again and slammed the car door so hard she fell onto the car roof.

Thinking she’d caught the purse string in the door, I headed toward her. She wouldn’t recognize me—I wasn’t wearing my cut, if indeed DeFreeze or her uncle had warned her about our club. “Can I help you?”

“You sure can!” she bawled. But she wasn’t stuck in the door. She opened her arms wide to me and came for me in a way that made me panic. “What’re you up to next to my garbage cans in the middle of the night?”

I couldn’t tell if the drunk part of her was overshadowing the pissed-off part of her, or how quickly it could turn on a dime. So I became overly hearty, flirtatious even.

“Oh, just out looking for my cat,” I said, assuming she was a cat lady.

I was right. “Oh, no! Your cat got out? Is he an indoor cat?”

“He sure is, and he escaped when a friend left my door open.”

Did she seem like she could’ve been a man? Yes, there were definitely masculine shadows to her heavily made-up features. Her lips were certainly botoxed, but the slight rise of cleavage delving into her V-neck dress seemed real enough. “Whoo!” she cried again. “You’re one handsome drink of humanity. I’ve never seen you around here. Have I?”

“You probably have. I’m always playing tennis at the courts,” I said, assuming they had some.

“Oh, the courts over by the bowling alley?”

I was perplexed. “Yeah, those are the courts I mean.”

“I saw you playing naked there the other day.”

What? “Oh, yeah? That must’ve not been me.”

“No, no, that was definitely you. Your big cock bounced up and down when you ran, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on your body, and you hit the pigeon with a frying pan.”