“Can we sell our stuff?” Sammi asked. “I mean, if it’s on display and somebody asks-”
“I don’t see why not. And you can keep all that money.” I doubted it was how real art shows worked, but there was no way this crowd was going to cooperate otherwise. “We’ll make our money from the tickets we sell to people to get in to see the show. I know Ella will let us use space at Garden View for the exhibit, and she’s got lots of connections. We’ll get cheese and fruit and wine donated. It’s perfect.”
It apparently was. When they went out to begin the work of assessing the damage, then lifting and resetting the headstones that had been toppled over the years, my teammates were actually discussing the show and what they’d each do to prepare for it.
Did their unusual cooperation and good spirits make me complacent? Absolutely!
Which is why I wasn’t prepared when just a couple minutes later, I heard a scream that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
I raced into our section and found that Absalom, Reggie, and Delmar had beaten me to the fence. Jake didn’t waste any time. He was already taking pictures of Sammi, eye to eye with that cheatin’ dog, Virgil.
The screaming I heard was coming from Virgil. I didn’t recognize his voice because it was a couple octaves higher than any guy’s ought to be. But then, he had a good excuse. Sammi had waited for him to get nice and close, then reached through the fence and grabbed him by the balls. She wasn’t about to let go, either. The more he howled, the harder she squeezed.
There was plenty of commotion, what with Virgil’s wailing, Sammi’s triumphant shouts, the rest of the team’s urging her on, and our fans outside the fence cheering like they were at a football game. That would explain how Greer and her ever-present cameraman appeared out of nowhere.
They started filming the moment Greer realized there was murder in Sammi’s eyes and her face was twisted with anger. “You got a lot of nerve comin’ here and tellin’ me Carmela’s pregnant,” Sammi yelled. “Gee, Virgil, I don’t suppose you know who the kid’s father is, do you?”
In spite of his pain, Virgil managed a smirk. It was not a good strategy.
Sammi’s face went pale. Right before a color like fire shot up her neck and into her cheeks. Honest to gosh, it looked like her head was going to explode.
That’s why I moved forward and dared to put a hand on her arm. “Sammi-”
“Don’t you touch me! Don’t you ever touch me.” She let go of Virgil and turned on me so fast, I never had a chance to react. Sure, she was shorter than me, but Sammi was all muscle, and she was worked into a frenzy. If I wasn’t so surprised, I would have fought back. But I was surprised, and her hands went around my throat before I could do anything about it.
Her fingers dug into my skin, harder, tighter, and my windpipe closed. Stars burst behind my eyes. It happened so fast, I don’t think I even had a chance to pass out, but the next thing I knew, I was lying flat on the ground and Sammi was on top of me, squeezing the life out of me.
It took all of Absalom’s muscle to drag her off, and the second he did, Delmar dropped down next to me. He put an arm around my shoulders and helped me sit up. “You OK?”
I would have answered him if I could talk. Or even drag in a breath.
Reggie was on the other side of me. He put a bottle of water to my lips.
I sipped. I sputtered. My throat opened and I gasped, hauled in a breath, coughed, and realized that I was covered with dirt. First things first. I had my image to worry about. Before I did anything else, I brushed the dust off my khakis.
“Don’t try to talk,” Reggie said, at the same time Greer stuck a microphone in my face.
“We’ve got it all on tape,” she said, as breathless as I was, though as far as I could see, she didn’t have nearly the same good reason I did. “It will make great evidence. You are going to press charges, aren’t you?”
Absalom still had a hold on Sammi, who was red in the face and breathing hard. She looked over at the sidewalk outside the fence just as I did, and seeing that Virgil was gone, some of the stiffness went out of her shoulders. She closed her eyes, leaned back against Absalom, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.
And me?
Don’t get the wrong idea. I wasn’t about to go all Ghandi or anything. I would have loved to see Sammi out of my life and locked up where she couldn’t do me-or my clothing-any more harm. But I sure wasn’t going to give Greer the satisfaction of catching my revenge on tape.
I told her no with a shake of my head.
The excitement over, a very disappointed Greer stayed around just long enough to watch Delmar and Reggie help me to my feet. I brushed off the seat of my pants, and when Sammi opened her mouth to say something-I hoped it was an apology-I stopped her.
“We’ll talk later,” I promised, each word painful and rasping. I looked down at the mess that was my outfit. “I’ve got to get cleaned up. I’ve got someplace… someplace to go.”
And God help me, I headed toward the Porta potti.
After all, I had to shop for a used car, and while I didn’t want to look too prosperous, I sure couldn’t go looking like I did.
Porta potti aside, there was one consolation in the whole ugly incident: after tussling with Sammi, I was pretty sure that talking to Bad Dog Raphael was going to be a piece of cake.
Let’s make one thing perfectly clear: I hate public transportation. It’s smelly. It’s dirty. It doesn’t run on my time schedule, and as fate would have it, I ended up sitting next to an old guy who smelled like stale cigars and talked to himself.
But I will say this much for it-the bus I got on near the cemetery spit me out right in front of Bad Dog’s Big Car Nation.
Even if I hadn’t looked up the address, I would have recognized the place anywhere. It was hard to miss that car up at the top of a twenty-foot pole. Or the giant mechanical bulldog driving it, the one that was waving one arm to entice buyers in.
I was there to get an overall impression, both of the Big Car Nation and of its owner, so I stood on the sidewalk for a couple minutes and looked around. My ten-minute bus ride had kept me well within the Cleveland city limits, in a neighborhood where the McDonald’s across the street was built to look like a hacienda in a Zorro movie. There was a same-day check-cashing place to the right of the car lot, and on the left, a convenience store. It had bars on the windows and a security guard outside.
Bad Dog’s car lot took up the better part of one whole block, and aside from that monstrosity of a hacienda, it was the brightest spot I could see in the urban blight that surrounded me. There was a line of cars parked along the perimeter of the lot, and every one of them was washed and shined to perfection, their attributes screaming from their windshields in red and blue crayon: AUTOMATIC! LOW MILEAGE! NEW TIRES!
Beyond the cars was a cinder-block office. It had a door on one side with a welcome sign above it and another sign below that declared HABLAMOS ESPAÑOL. To the left of the door was a picture window, and inside, I could see a couple people scurrying around. Neither of them was Bad Dog.
Before I could take another step, I was corralled by a middle-aged man with thinning hair and thick glasses. He was wearing jeans and a powder blue sport coat that had seen better days. Then again, I was dressed in khakis that had a smudge of dirt across the butt and a shirt that had a hole in one elbow. If nothing else, my walk on the cemetery wild side was teaching me to be tolerant when it came to fashion disasters.
The man’s nametag told me he was Bud. He stuck out a hand. “You look like a little lady who could use some help.”
I was nice enough not to point out that no matter how thick his glasses, there was no way I looked like a little lady. Not to anyone. Instead, I started right in.