Shimmy Bang Sparkle(28)

Roxie emerged from the hallway and stood in the kitchen, with her hair dripping wet, wearing a pair of black capris and a tank top emblazoned with a sparkly unicorn. She was towel-drying her hair; when she saw me she froze, midscrunch. Even though she looked like a reborn Marilyn Monroe, she was nobody’s dummy. “UPS?”

“Look out the bathroom window,” I told her. “See if it’s clear.”

“On it,” Roxie said, and pattered off through the kitchen as I headed toward Ruth’s bedroom, which had a better view of the lot than the living room.

My stomach was in my throat as I peeked out through the slightly parted vertical blinds. One more cop car pulled into the parking lot, and a clump of beefy cops were huddled together, heads bent, holsters unsnapped. I wasn’t exactly sure what they were after us for; if there was one thing we were, it was careful. But in this business, the cops showing up at the door was a risk we ran. And one we had to be ready for. With my purse over my shoulder, I headed for the kitchen.

“All clear,” Roxie reported back.

“Out the bathroom window,” I said.

The bathroom window was tiny, barely more than decorative when it was all the way open. Roxie affectionately called it “the fart vent,” and she wasn’t far off. But we had no choice. We either had to put our faith in the fart vent or go out the front door into the welcoming embrace of Albuquerque’s finest.

Ruth climbed out first, as lithe and lean as Catwoman. She went out backward and leveraged herself on the top of the window outside, doing a pull-up, maneuvering out without even brushing her skinny jeans on the sill and landing in a crouch. For about two seconds I flashed back to some scene in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Next was Roxie, who wasn’t as fit, but she was no stranger to escaping from dates through bar bathroom windows. She went out with her knees on the top of the toilet. She kicked her legs to get herself through; her wedge sandal heel caught the toilet paper, and it unspooled onto the ground below. She put one arm around Ruth outside, and I heard Ruth say, “Careful. Don’t get scraped up.” I had to give her a shove through, planting my hands on her tush to get her curves to pop out of the window frame. Finally, it was my turn. I followed Roxie’s form. With my purse in my hand, I got myself halfway out before I heard the ominous sound of heavy footsteps, crunching on the gravel and getting louder.

But I was stuck. With nobody to give me a push from behind, I’d managed to high-center myself. I tried to get a purchase on the toilet, but it was too smooth to be of any help against my worn-down Converse. My rubber soles squeaked against the porcelain, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Go,” I said as I tried to shimmy my curves out of the window. “Keys are in here.” I gave my purse a shake.

“We’re not leaving you, num-num,” Roxie said. “Live together, die alone!”

So I looked to Ruth. I was serious, and I needed her to know it. And I wasn’t about to let some old Lost reference make me all sentimental, even though it did make my heart ache. It was more important to me, far more important, to make sure they were out of harm’s way. “I’ll find you later. I’m parked in Mr. Bozeman’s driveway. No arguments.”

Without another word, she grabbed my keys from my bag and took Roxie’s hand, and together they scurried over the adobe wall, through a thicket of pampas grass, and to safety.

Like a rag doll, with my purse swinging like a pendulum, I awaited my fate. I kicked my legs, but it was useless. Every wiggle made the sill dig farther into me. I was stuck, utterly and completely stuck. It was unbelievable. I was going to get nabbed, and all because I had an undying devotion to caramel apples. And gummy worms. And gummy cherries. And Nerds. But I wasn’t that curvy, for God’s sake. I tried a good old shimmy-and-shake.

Fine. Yes. I was.

Fantastic.

But the footsteps got quieter, not louder. Farther away, not closer. Turning to the left, I could just see the entrance of the building next to ours. Cops clustered at the front door of unit 4A, and one of them boomed, “Albuquerque PD!”

I went slack in the window, limp with relief. They weren’t after me. They were after my neighbor, who—rumor had it—was the most unscrupulous city councilman anybody had ever heard of ever. “Mr. Dellacourt! Open up!” another officer boomed.

Thank God. Poor sketchy Mr. Dellacourt, but thank goodness for us. Once the initial wave of relief passed, I hooked my purse over my neck like a feed bag and dug around inside for my phone. Automatically, my thumbs went to the top conversation, which was always a group chat with Roxie and Ruth.

Who wants to give my ass a squeeze?

Except right as I was hitting send, I realized what I’d done. The top conversation was now with Nick, not Ruth and Roxie. With hurried and imprecise moves of my thumbs I typed out what was supposed to say OMG wrong person! Instead I said:

Lmg weinf owesin

Nick totally ignored my gibberish, replying with:

Fuck. Be right there.

There were no do-overs in iMessage. Though I hadn’t imagined it under these circumstances, I really wanted to see him again, very much. And I did need a hand. So I went all in and tried to prepare him for the situation. As best I could.

1196 Habanero Dr.

Apartment 3A. I’m . . . around back. Just . . . hanging out.





14

NICK