Snagged Page 9

  “Remember,” Richie said, “you have to wear dresses short enough so we can see your legs at least up to the knees. Some of you might want to go shorter.”

  “Oh, sure,” Minnie mumbled.

  Respectfully, Richie left the room as they all struggled into their assigned hose, amid murmurs of “These really do feel nice,” and “How pretty.”

  Finally Regan called Richie back in.

  “Birdie would be proud of you, Richie,” Bessie called out. “These make my legs feel good.”

  “Thanks, Bessie.”

  Regan and Richie placed all twenty models in a line, with lovely Annabelle from the agency leading the pack.

  “Annabelle,” Richie said, “let’s see how you walk across the room and back, like you do when you’re in a show.”

  With a self-assured attitude, Annabelle strode the length of the Dolly Twiggs room, turned from side to side, paused, and then sauntered back with one hand on her hip and the other flowing at her side.

  “That was great,” Richie exulted. “Now, did you see what she did, everybody? That strut, that look in her eye, that pause at the end of the imaginary runway. You all do that and we’ll have the audience eating out of the palms of your hands.”

  “I feel ridiculous trying that at my age,” Pearl kvetched.

  “Do you want to go back to living with your daughter-in-law?” Flo asked her.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then get out there and strut.”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll imagine I’m at one of the USO dances during the war.”

  Pearl started to shuffle across the floor.

  “You have to look happy, Pearl,” Richie advised.

  “I’m trying, I’m trying.”

  “Well, pick up your head and stretch out your torso like Annabelle did.”

  “Like Annabelle! She’s two feet taller than me to start with!”

  “It’s all in your attitude,” Richie insisted. “I want to show that women at any age will look great in and will love Birdie Panty Hose.”

  They rehearsed with Pearl several times and before too long they had her swinging her arms and cracking a smile. “This is good exercise,” she said.

  “Tomorrow, when we have music, you can really get into the rhythm,” Richie declared.

  The other models each took their turns at parading across the room, listening to Richie’s instructions to “be natural,” and “flirt with the audience.”

  “Now that wasn’t so bad,” Richie said when they were all finished.

  “The show really won’t last that long, will it, Richie?” Regan asked.

  “No, but that’s good. People’s attention spans are getting shorter by the minute. Your mother is going to narrate a little script she’s writing. We just want to grab them, hook them, and let the bidding begin!”

  One of the old girls raised her fist. “Let’s do it!”

  “What about some sort of finale?” Regan asked. “Something to pull it all together at the end.”

  “Like the Rockettes!” Richie exclaimed.

  “Well, something like that.”

  The models lined up side by side with their arms around each other’s waists, and at Richie’s repeated urgings, kicked up their heels. Slightly.

  “Come on, a little more, a little more. Just look like you’re having fun. At the end of the song you’ll all file off the runway, snapping your fingertips. We want to bring the house down with this number.”

  “You’re going to end up bringing me down,” Pearl said. “If I kick too high, I’ll lose my balance.”

  “Do what you can, Pearl,” Richie advised. He turned to Regan. “Can you think of anything else we should cover before the group breaks up?”

  “Richie, we want to get started with the memorial service,” a voice said. Regan turned to see Elmer Pickett standing in the doorway.

  “Have a chocolate cookie, Elmer,” Flo snapped. “I can assure you, there are plenty left.”

  He’s such a disagreeable soul, Regan thought.

  “A couple more minutes, Elmer,” Richie said and turned to the young models, who were now anxious to hurry off to other appointments. “If everyone could just leave their panty hose in one of the plastic bags and mark your name on it, I’d appreciate it. We’ll have a changing room in the suite. Get there early tomorrow, everyone, and we’ll knock ’em dead!”

  If someone doesn’t get to us first, Regan thought.

  HE SAT IN the phone booth and sighed, twirling his finger around the cord. The crackling noise in his ear was finally joined by the sound of a foreign ring. The long-distance connection to South America was finally going through.

  The phone was answered by a man with a heavily accented voice.

  He let go of the cord and nervously identified himself.

  “Well, what’s going on?” the voice asked.

  “We haven’t been able to get him yet.”

  “Why not?” the man with the accent asked angrily.

  “All day today he’s been with that girl.”

  “So, get rid of her too! Don’t you realize that we’re running out of time?”

  “I know. Don’t worry. One way or another it’ll get done.”

  “It better get done. There’s a lot at stake here. I knew we should have started this sooner, but you . . .” The man took a deep breath. “You said there wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I didn’t think there would be. And there still might not be.”

  “I don’t want to hear any excuses or explanations. Get it done!” The phone clicked.

  He sat there holding the receiver in his hand. “It will be,” he said after a moment, slamming the phone back down and pulling open the door. “You can be sure it will be.”

  IF I SHALL walk through the valley of death, I shall have no fear. I know that my sister, Dolly, will be there to greet me and we can go on that walk on the beach in heaven together.” Lucille, with tear-filled eyes, looked around the congregation gathered in the Dolly Twiggs Memorial Room. “My sister was so fond of you all. I feel she’s looking down right now and sending a spiritual greeting. But I know she would have wanted you all to have something physical to remember her by, something that was important to her. There’s a box of her seashells by the door. Please take one on your way out.”

  A hum of gratitude rippled through the audience.

  “I know that she also would have wanted you to raise the money to buy the Fourth Quarter and live here for the duration of your earthly lives. I want that too. More than anything. So let us join hands and pray silently, in the religion of our choice, for the sale of Richie’s panty hose.”

  Regan and Richie joined hands. Regan turned to Elmer Pickett, who was sitting on her other side. He was sitting there with his arms folded. Clearly he did not intend to hold hands with anybody.

  For someone who wanted to get this service started on time, Regan thought, he certainly doesn’t seem to be fully participating in the tribute. Or was it the sale of the panty hose that he didn’t want to pray for?

  Regan looked around at the rest of the group. Everyone else’s eyes were closed, some shut so tightly it looked as though they were squinting in the desert sun, as if the harder they squeezed, the more likely the panty hose would generate some cash.

  “Amen,” Lucille finally said.

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Up and down the rows of folding chairs the word was heard.

  Lucille quietly took her seat in the front row.

  Flo, who Regan figured must have been president of the pep club in high school, got up and addressed the group.

  “When Dolly died, with the way she died, on the beach, alone, we were all in shock. We had a funeral but we never really came together to talk about Dolly and honor her until now. Time is a healer, thank God, and today we want to celebrate her life with joy. This was a woman who kept our rents low all through the years. She wanted to keep us together as long a
s possible. When she could no longer afford to keep up this place, she promised us the chance to try and buy it for ourselves. This at a time when the prices around here started to skyrocket and she could have gotten way more than she was asking us. And now her sister, Lucille, who never really knew any of us before, has been so patient and is praying with us here so that we can raise the money to buy the Fourth Quarter. She isn’t looking for a fortune, either. She just wants to get back to her gentleman friend in Texas.”

  Lucille blushed. “Flo, hush.”

  “It’s all right, Lucille. Now I invite anyone who would like to come up here and share. Share with us a story about Dolly, anything you’d like, about how she touched your life in some way.”

  To Regan’s surprise, Elmer Pickett got out of his seat and walked to the front of the room.

  “I only moved in here shortly before Dolly died, but she was very welcoming to me,” Elmer said almost accusingly to the other residents of the Fourth Quarter. “My wife had just died and I didn’t want to live all alone in our house. So I sold it and got an apartment here. Dolly was always there to talk to me when I was just moping around. One day we took a walk down the street outside here and saw all of those models getting their picture taken. They asked us to stop and be in the background. After that, Dolly encouraged me to try and get involved in the modeling. That’s when I got an agent. I used to report back to Dolly about all the goings on at the agency. She told me I should stop by there every day to see, maybe a call would come in when I was there and they’d need an old guy. It got me back on my feet again. Heck, I’m not a star, but it gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”

  Regan thought he directed his attention to Richie.

  “I haven’t gotten as much work lately, but whatever I do get, I have Dolly to thank for it.”

  He’s mad at Richie, Regan thought, for getting that commercial.

  Next up was Pearl. ’’Every year on my birthday, which was the day the men landed on the moon, Dolly always baked me a special cake and stuck an American flag in it.” Her voice quivered. “I’ll always remember that.”

  Minnie Kimble ambled out of her chair and recounted how she and Dolly used to love to walk on the beach together.

  “Dolly was always picking up every seashell she passed and inspecting it to see if it was worth keeping. I used to say to her, ’Dolly, when are you going to stop collecting those shells? Haven’t you got enough?’ And she said her favorite tongue twister was ’She sells sea-shells by the seashore.’ Try saying that three times fast.”

  How about “The big black bug bled black blood,” Regan thought.

  Next up was Charlie Doonsday with his harmonica. “Before this area got busy with people wandering by all the time, Dolly and I used to sit outside on our beach chairs and I’d play my harmonica for her. Dolly, I hope you can hear this in heaven.” He held the instrument up to his mouth and started to blow “Home on the Range.”

  The sea of humanity that passes outside on the sidewalk of South Beach doesn’t leave much room for the deer and the antelope, Regan thought.

  The duration of the hour-long service was filled with more personal stories, a few songs, and a tear-soaked rendition of “Good-bye, Dolly.”

  As they filed out, Regan checked her watch. It was ten past five.

  “Richie, I’m going to go back and get changed for tonight. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. You’ll be here, won’t you?”

  “Oh sure, Regan. I’ll be here.”

  I hope so, Regan thought as she hurried out the door.

  REGAN STEPPED INTO the late-afternoon sun and glanced across the street at the ocean with its mildly breaking waves. At this time of day the beach looked peaceful. The setting sun’s rays were reflecting off the water and most of the sunbathers had headed home.

  Regan breathed in the salt air, turned and moseyed down the sidewalk, observing the cafes on the way to her hotel. It might be peaceful on the beach, she thought, but these joints are already getting crowded. Another night of mixing and mingling about to take off.

  She reached a side street and waited at the curb for a spurt of traffic to pass before crossing. After last night, she wasn’t about to take any chances. She had just stepped down into the street when she saw another car coming. In a reflex action she jumped back onto the curb and crashed into a rollerblader, who was knocked to the ground with her.

  She felt a sharp pain as her elbow smashed into the ground. As she fell she saw his hand scrape along the sidewalk.

  She heard him curse under his breath. “Watch it, would ya, lady?” he mumbled as he pulled himself up.

  Anger flared in Regan as pain darted through her body. “Watch it yourself,” she snapped as she struggled to her feet. “You shouldn’t have been so close behind me.”

  He did not respond. He was already halfway down the side street, skating like lightning in his sunglasses and wide-brimmed straw hat.

  Jerk, Regan thought. Her body felt sore all over. The jolt had shaken her badly. He was a solid guy. It was like hitting a brick wall.

  She rubbed her elbow and looked around.

  A middle-aged couple approached her. “Are you all right?” the man asked solicitously.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I backed into him, she thought. And he was moving forward. If he wanted to turn right down the side street, then he shouldn’t have been so close to the curb where I was waiting. He would have just rounded the corner at the high speed he was traveling. Unless of course he wanted to be right behind me.

  Once again Regan waited to cross the street and continued on to her hotel. Did he hurry off because he didn’t want me to get a good look at him? she wondered. He looked like a geek with that hat. Was that a disguise? Was this related to last night?

  Back in the hotel room, which more and more felt like her escape from the outside world, Regan kicked off her shoes and flopped on the bed. The ceiling fan was doing its thing and it made Regan think of New Orleans, even though she’d never been there. But her mind came back to the rollerblader. Who was he, and would he have pushed her into the street?

  I need a bath, she thought. My bod could use a good soak. With the sore knee from last night and the bruise that was developing at that very moment, it was a good thing she was not in Richie’s fashion show. Panty hose for the injured. Next thing you know I’ll be wearing Ace bandages.

  Two mishaps or accidents, or whatever one would call them, in twenty-four hours. And they say they come in threes. What’s going to happen next? I’ll probably slip in the tub, she decided. It would almost be a relief. Get it over with. She hadn’t noticed any foot-shaped appliques stuck on the bottom of the tub, the kind that were supposed to prevent you from a nasty spill. They were very tacky but practical. Whenever Regan saw them in a tub she imagined that they were the final footsteps of the Roto Rooter man who got lost in the drainpipes.

  She went into the bathroom and turned on the faucets full blast. It sounded like Niagara Falls. Regan turned. Did she hear a sound in the bedroom? She always thought she was hearing things when the water was running.

  Regan went back into the bedroom to check it out. Nothing. Everything was fine. Let’s not get paranoid, she thought. She returned to the bathroom and shut the door. Peeling off her clothes, she gingerly stepped into the tub, feeling herself relax as the warm water enveloped her injuries. Using a towel as a pillow behind her, she lay back and closed her eyes. Within minutes she felt herself being drawn into a semiconscious state, that never-never land between sleep and wakefulness. A few feet away the doorknob to the bathroom turned. Regan’s eyes sprang open and she jumped up and screamed. Dripping wet, she ran over and with her body barricaded the door. “Who’s there? WHO’S THERE?” she screeched, her heart beating furiously.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” a meek woman’s voice said. “Would you like some fresh towels?”

  Regan exhaled sharply. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  “Would you like me to turn down
your bed?”

  “No, thank you, it’s okay.” Regan was starting to shiver.

  “Would you like some chocolates for your pillow?”

  Regan wanted to say “Yes, a box of Milk Duds,” but resisted the urge. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, miss, have a good evening then.”

  “Thank you, you too.” So much for this place making me feel laid-back, Regan thought as she stepped back into the tub and slipped, grabbing the shower curtain. Two of the hooks snapped and the curtain went awry.

  Three strikes, you’re out, Regan thought miserably.

  RICHIE PULLED ON his jacket and adjusted his tie. It was six-thirty. He picked up a bottle of the cologne from his dresser that he’d gotten from the holiday grab bag at the Fourth Quarter and sprayed it on. Normally he didn’t like to wear cologne, but the ads for White Knight showed the guy who wore it to be a powerhouse driving a sexy car, with all the girls swooning over him. I wonder if it works with selling panty hose, Richie thought. He looked over at one of the many pictures of Birdie that adorned his apartment. “I don’t want any swooners, honey. I just want to give off an aura in case I run into any of those panty-hose types at the hotel tonight.”

  In the mirror Richie studied his reflection and practiced a “Hello, I’m Richard Blossom. Yes, I am the inventor of the Birdie Panty Hose. I’d love to take a meeting.” He paused. “My agent?” Richie frowned. He’d have to ask Regan about that one. He peered closer at himself. Is this the guy who’s going to be a hero tomorrow? he wondered. Or is this the guy who’s going to let down his friends?

  Richie shrugged. Hey, fella, he thought, what happened to the power of positive thinking? That and a dollar might buy you an ice cream. They were getting so close. This was it. Either he made money on the panty hose this weekend, or the old gang was going to have to break up.

  “Birdie,” he said and picked up the picture of her wearing a French beret and standing in front of the Eiffel Tower under a drizzly sky. “I need your help, honey.” Briefly he got mad at her. “If you hadn’t died, I would never have moved in here and gotten so attached. And now we might lose it and I’ll end up alone again.” As Birdie stared back at him with her crooked smile, Richie felt ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I guess our joke that we’d both keel over at the same old age from driving each other nuts was just a dream.” He carefully replaced her picture on the antique oak dresser.