[Steven Lyle Jordan]

6: Desperate plans

I was trying my damndest to enjoy my grande double-shot skim milk espresso with room, nestled like a scared child hiding under his blankie in the little corner table of one of the few Starbucks that are mercifully open at four in the morning. Problem was, it wasn’t working. Visions of Veronica the Lethal Ukrainian Spider Woman kept popping unbidden into my head, and it was making it as hard for me to concentrate as a male barista trying to out-sing Mariah Carey. (Trust me, I know whereof I speak… pray to whatever Gods you favor that you never, ever find out which Starbucks, or which barista, I’m talking about.)

Listening to Martin and Gail wasn’t much easier on my nerves. Between his moaning about Veronica, and her grousing about Esmeralda, I was beginning to lose it. No, edit, cut that, and paste: I had lost it an hour ago, and I was still unable to find it again.

“Okay,” I finally announced, “this really isn’t helping! Can you guys try to think of something that would scare Ukrainian mobsters and spider-people? I’m having a lot of trouble concentrating, here.”

“I don’t know… bigger Ukrainians?” Gail suggested.

“Having to go back to Ukraine?” Martin ventured.

“Okay, not bad… but not helpful,” I said. “We don’t have bigger Ukrainians, and we don’t have anything on them that would deport them. What else?”

Martin shrugged. “Italian mobsters?”

“No,” Gail said quickly. “Ukrainians are more afraid of the people in this place, than they are of Italian mobsters.”

“Huh?” I blinked.

Gail nodded at the counter. “Homophobic. Most of them are die-hard old-school Catholics.”

“Oh.” I drained my coffee on that tidbit, but could see no way to solve this problem by throwing gay Starbucks baristas at Ukrainian mobsters and women who looked like Death's ugly sister. And I was about to say so…

When, suddenly, I thought of a way.

“Martin,” I said abruptly, “how long has it been since Veronica saw you?”

“Uh,” Martin mumbled, thinking. “Couple years, I guess…”

“Good. Gail: Can you find us a great makeup person? I mean, really, really realistic good.”

After thinking a moment, Gail said, “I know someone who owns a shop in town—”

“Perfect! Get ahold of ‘em, and tell ‘em—guy or girl?”

“Guy.”

“Better than perfect! —tell him we need him for an emergency job, today. And tell him we might need him a few days.”

Gail’s face began to light up. “You have a plan.”

“Yes, I do.” I looked Martin up and down, sizing up the possibilities. “It’s a long shot, but it’s probably the best shot you’ve got. Gail, get me back to Pete’s place.”

I wish I could say it was odd showing up at my brother’s apartment, the place where I also crashed when I wasn’t with Gail, at six in the morning, after being out all night. Fact is, hanging out with Gail regularly kept me out all night, usually humping like crazed rabbits at her place, before she’d drive me here, kick me out of the car at speed, and go to work. So in this case, the only thing unusual about my coming in at six in the morning was that Gail came in with me, followed by Martin.

As we closed the front door, we heard a toilet flush. A moment later, the door to the hall bathroom opened, and Pete came out. He was fully au naturel, and when he saw us, he merely yawned, clearly not concerned that he was starkers in front of his brother, his ex, and an old acquaintance. “Oh… morning,” he said tiredly. “I think there’s cereal in the cupboard.” Then he turned, and trudged back to the bedroom.

Before he closed the door, he said, “Nice to see you again, Marty.”

Something about that moment bugged me. I looked at Gail, and she looked at me. “Tell me,” I sighed, “he’s not on any of Martin’s tapes.”

Gail shook her head. Thank God. That was an image I would not have been able to handle, on top of everything else.

“When you think your makeup guy is up,” I said, “get him here, with his bag of tricks. I’ve got some documents to rustle up in the meantime.”

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Gail asked me, as I stepped gingerly past the detritus littering my Borg alcove, formerly known as Pete’s dining room, and sat down in front of my Toughbook.

“Hey,” I said, “it’s either this, or shopping for Samsonites.”