Charli and I reached Art Danner’s “Towing and Hoeing” (He does backhoe work as a sideline.) on East Turtleback Street at ten ‘til six. I breathed a sigh of relief when I spied my Mustang huddled next to a busted up Harley in the very back of the lot.
“Thank God. I hope it’s not messed up from where he dragged it,” I said.
“I’m sure it’s gonna be just fine,” Charli said. “Do you want me to wait?”
“No. You go on ahead and pick up the pizza. I’ll see you back at your place in a jiff.”
As Charli pulled out of the parking lot, I hurried inside the tiny office. It smelled like bad coffee and sweaty feet, and judging from the grease-caked, grimy walls, interior decorating wasn’t Art’s claim to fame. He was seated at a gray industrial-type office desk bug-eyed over the swimsuit issue of one of those sports magazines. He took his time closing the dog-eared magazine and ambling to the counter.
Art was one of those guys who give southerners a bad name. He was as redneck as they come and proud as peaches of it. You know the stereotype of a ‘Bubba’? The image of the guy spitting tobacco juice out the window of his Chevy truck, a deer rifle hanging in the back window, a stars and bars bumper sticker on the tailgate? The one where he’s swigging down Budweiser while he listens to NASCAR on the radio? That was Art.
Thinning and wiry, his hair looked like a bucket of axle grease fell on it. Either that or he’d rubbed up against his walls. On thing for sure, it was definitely not a color that you'd find in actual, real-life nature. The style was what I’d describe as James Dean-meets-Conway Twitty, with maybe a touch of Loretta Lynn mixed in for good measure. His fingers were webbed with grease-filled cracks, he wore a short-sleeved uniform shirt that said ‘Art’ on the pocket, and the left sleeve was rolled up around a pack of Luckies. The effect was of being trapped in some sort of fifties time warp.
“Hey, Art, I’ve come to get my car,” I said.
He scanned me from tip to toe, evidently comparing me to the girls in his magazine. I’m not sure how I stacked up, but he scowled when he reached my chest, so I gathered that I didn’t exactly measure up to his obviously high standards.
“Got here just in time,” he said. “I was fixing to close up.”
“I’m glad I made it,” I said. “Just unlock the gate and I’ll be out of your hair in no time.” As long as I didn’t touch it, that is.
He stroked his skinny, shoe-polish mustache with his left hand while shuffling through a stack of papers with the right. “Here we go,” he said pulling out a chicken-scratched ticket. “That’ll be fifty bucks.”
“Fifty dollars! But that’s outrageous! Frank had it towed. He’s the one that ought to pay. Send the bill to him.”
Art shot me a slimy grin. “Marty, I don’t give a rat’s patootie who had your car towed. You want it, it’s fifty bucks. You wait ‘til Monday to pick it up, that’s another thirty. Storage fees. Ever day I gotta add on ten extra for storage fees. I don’t got all night, so’s you best be making up your mind.”
I thought about it, and about how maybe I should open up my own towing company if people were making that sort of dough on a regular basis. Then I pictured myself hooking up a car during a blizzard with the temperature a “balmy” fourteen below, and came to my senses.
“Well, what’s it gonna be?” Art asked. “I told ya, I got places to go, people to see.”
I hugged my pretty little fifty-dollar bill and mourned the loss of all the much-needed food I could have bought with it. “Here,” I finally said, reluctantly handing it over. “Now give me my car.”
Art led me out back through a maze of rusty, dusty automobiles and unlocked the back gate. Except for the right fender, which bore a new foot-long scratch, my poor Mustang didn’t seem too much worse from the ordeal. She started right up for me and I high-tailed it out of there, afraid that if I didn’t hurry Art would slap on another few bucks. Besides, since I was out of money, I wanted to make sure I got back to Charli’s before they ate up all the pizza. At the rate things were going in my life, there was no telling when I’d be able to afford to buy food of my very own.
For the next hour and a half, over low-fat veggie pizza (Whoever heard of pizza without pepperoni? Or sausage?) and caffeine-free root beer floats made with fat-free ‘ice cream’, we plotted out Charli’s strategy for taking over ONAG, then Mom watched the kids while Charli and I hit every big-box store in a thirty-mile radius.
Since it was so late when we finished, and because we were planning an early start Saturday morning, we decided that I’d just stay at Charli’s for the night. She scooted by my apartment and I picked up some clothes and my toothbrush.
Delbert was madder than heck at me and wouldn’t even let me rub his ears. I opened a can of foul smelling -- but according to the label delicious and nutritious -- Kitty Glop and dumped it in his bowl. He turned his nose up at it and stalked off into the bedroom. I couldn’t exactly blame him. It smelled almost as bad as Charli had when all that compost was smeared on her head.
“Will he be all right?” Charli asked.
“Of course. He’s just ticked because, since I’ve lost my job, I had to start buying this real cheapo brand instead of Gourmet Deluxe. He’ll eat when he gets hungry enough.”
Back at Charli’s, Mom, who evidently hadn’t had enough martyrdom yet, decided that she’d take the two boys home to spend the night with her. Charli put Jaelyn to bed and we worked on getting everything ready for Saturday morning. At midnight I fell into Adam’s bed and instantly crashed.
Charli woke me at eight-thirty Saturday morning and, after a cup of Hazelnut decaf and a pesto bagel smeared with a dollop of fat-free (and taste-free) cream cheese, ‘Operation ONAG’ was in full swing. First on Charli’s list was Dicey Ward. Charli had spoken to Dicey on the phone after we returned from our shopping tour and Dicey was eager to help. I wasn’t so sure about signing up Dicey, but Charli calmed my fears.
“Even though she’s the ONAG treasurer, she’s never been in step with the other three board members,” Charli said as we headed over to Dicey’s Saturday morning, Charli pushing Jaelyn’s stroller and me pulling the kid’s wagon.
“In fact, she pretty much told me at lunch yesterday that she was fed up with all of them, especially Frank. He’s been on her case for months now over her mulberry tree. He says it attracts birds and they leave their droppings all over his patio. Anyway, if we can get Frank and his cronies kicked out, Dicey will be the perfect person to be president.”
I stopped to pick up Jaelyn’s stuffed rat for the fifteenth time. “I can’t help it, but I worry about her. Dicey can be so brassy and in-your-face. Plus, all her sex talk turns people off. I know she’s just going for shock value, but still…. Besides, I thought we were doing this ‘cause you wanted to be the president.
“Heavens no! I don’t have that sort of time. I have kids, Dicey doesn’t. I’ll do vice president or something easy like that. I know what you’re saying about the brassiness and the sex stuff, but Dicey’s got a good heart. She means well and when it comes down to loyalty, there’s no one better. I think everybody will overlook that other stuff and vote for her.”
We carefully skirted around Frank Billingham’s and rang the doorbell of Dicey’s ‘Deluxe Presidential Model’ colonial. After a couple of ‘bing-bongs’ an extremely surly Robby Pluck swung the front door open. Other than a pair of skimpy bikini-style red undies that barely covered his, uh, assets, he was buck nekkid. I blushed all the way down to my roots and attempted to keep my eyes from straying below belly button level.
“Is Dicey in?” Charli asked once she’d managed to swallow her own obvious embarrassment.
He turned toward the front stairs. “Yo, Dice, door.”
Dicey’s whiskey-and-cigarette tinged voice drifted down to us. “Is it Charli?”
He yawned and stretched. “Yup,” he hollered. “And Marty.”
“Invite them in,” Dicey called out. “I’ll be down as soon as I get my face on.”
Without another word Robby held the door open and motioned us inside. He slammed the door behind us and clomped up the stairs, leaving us standing in the foyer.
“He’s actually good looking,” Charli whispered, “and what a body! But, really, I can’t imagine what he and Dicey have in common. What do they talk about?”
I plopped Jaelyn down on the floor and gave Charli the ‘you must be the dumbest woman on the face of the earth’ look, the one I usually reserve for Giselle.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked. “Think about it for a minute. I doubt that talking plays much of a role in their relationship.”
When the light finally dawned Charli stuck her hand over her mouth to squelch a giggle. “Oh,” she said, “I guess that was a pretty stupid thing to say.”
“Stupid,” I said. “Now that’s an understatement.”
Charli socked me in the arm. “Shh, they’ll hear us.” She stopped Jaelyn from pulling an expensive vase off of an antique table.
It was the first time I’d ever been inside Dicey’s home, which was beautifully decorated. An impressive painting of a bright Italian street café over her living room sofa caught my eye.
“Wow, nice painting,” I said.
“It’s by a painter out of Alabama, Tommy Mathis,” Charli said. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
Before I could answer loud voices blasted down the stairs.
“No,” Dicey shouted. “I just gave you five hundred yesterday. What the hell did you spend it on?”
I couldn’t make out Robby’s answer. “What should we do?” I whispered to Charli.
“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “Maybe we should just leave and come back later.”
I scooped up Jaelyn and opened the front door.
“Well for goodness sake, Charlene,” Dicey said from the top of the stairs. She pronounced Charli’s name with a Sh sound instead of the Ch. “Robby didn’t leave y’all standing here in the foyer, did he?”
“That’s all right,” Charli said. “It wasn’t but for a minute. Listen, if this is a bad time we can come back later.”
Dicey forced a forty-watt smile. “Why of course not, sugah. This isn’t a bad time at all. Gracious me. I hope you forgive me for being so rude. Why don’t we go back to the study and have us a cup of coffee?” She continued to babble as she waved us down a small hallway.
Her study was decked out in a deep shade of red and was lined with bookshelves. A plush sofa and leather wingback chair cozied up to the huge stone fireplace, a match to the one in Charli’s family room. Another beautiful painting hung over the fireplace and the whole room glowed with richness and good taste.
We were just settling in with cups of fragrant cinnamon coffee when Robby popped his head around the doorway. “Going out,” he announced. “Back around two.”
Dicey eyed him sharply. “Don’t forget to pick up the tux,” she said. “And have the car washed, please.”
He was long gone. Dicey jumped up. “Excuse me,” she said to Charli and me, and then went out the door. “Robby, wait,” she whined.
Charli and I exchanged a look. Things were obviously not well in paradise. I felt sad and sorry for Dicey.
Her face was mottled when she finally came back in a few minutes later. “So,” she said, tossing another bright, but obviously fake, smile our way, “tell me what delicious plans you have for our tiresome threesome.”
Charli filled her in on all the plans we’d made and outlined what we needed her to do. Dicey clapped her hands together and cackled. “Charlene, you are a genius. This will absolutely drive them off their rocker. Frank won’t know what hit him.” She popped to her feet. “Well, what y’all waiting for? Let’s get this show on the road.”
We divided up the neighborhood, each one of us taking a third of the houses and by noon I was about halfway through my list. One last stop, then I was absolutely going to have to take a break. My feet were killing me and my shoulder was aching from pulling the wagon.
I guess I could have waited until after lunch to do the last house, but it was Kyle Zagle’s, and he was in his driveway washing his BMW. His shorts showed off his tush quite nicely and since he wasn’t wearing a shirt, there was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity to do a little ogling. After all, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
“Hi there,” I said as I came up behind him.
I almost gasped when he turned around. He looked so good that I found myself almost envious of that dad gummed Giselle. This bad karma thing was really starting to suck.
He tossed the towel into his bucket and ran a wet hand through his hair. “Hey, Ms. Sheffield. Nice to see you again. Pretty day, isn’t it?” He reached into the bucket, wrung out the rag, and stretched up to wash the top of the car, giving me a really nice view of his abs. I was close to hyperventilating.
“Beautiful. And please, call me Marty.”
“Will do. And I’m Kyle. Say, I’m really sorry about what happened yesterday. I tried to talk Giselle out of putting it on the news, but, well, I don’t seem to have much in the way of influence over her."
“What do you see in her anyway?” Oops. Did I really say that out loud? How come there’s never a time travel machine around when you need one?
He snorted. “Giselle? And me? You think she’s my… Oh man, that’s a good one.” He laughed so hard I thought he was going to choke.
“She’s not your, I mean, the two of you aren’t, well, you know,” I stumbled around and finally managed to sputter out a word, “dating. Y’all aren’t a couple?”
He was still laughing, one of those deep belly laughs that bring tears to your eyes and leave you weak. “No. Not a chance,” he said between guffaws.
“But Charli said… she said that… she thought… oh, never mind. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
He wiped his eyes and chuckled a couple more times. “Not at all. Listen, don’t worry about it. And as for Charli, well, I expect she probably thought that because Giselle’s been over here a lot. It’s a long story, but basically, I met Giselle right after I moved here. We sort of became friends and she’s been helping me get my place decorated. She’s really quite talented, you know.”
“Ah. I see.” I was gonna kill Charli. How could she have been such a ditz?
“So, what’s up with that?” He indicated the wagon I was pulling.
I explained to him my mission, told him how Charli was trying to take over ONAG. He was gung ho to sign the petition and throw his support to Charli. “Those folks running that group definitely need to get a life. Tell Charli to give me a call if she needs any other help.”
“I will. Thanks so much. I know Charli will be thrilled to find out that you’re on her side,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. I’m glad she’s doing this. Say, Marty, I have to go to this dinner thing tonight. For the Glenvar Valley Economic Development Consortium. I know it’s short notice, but would you like to go with me?”
I tried to keep cool and not come across like a dingbat. “I’d love to.”
“Great. It’s at the country club, starts at eight. Some folks will be all gussied up, tuxes, formals, stuff like that, but I’m just going to wear a business suit. You don’t have to go all out if you don’t want to. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”
Well poop. I knew there had to be a catch. The only ‘fancy’ clothes I owned were two extremely tacky bridesmaid dresses that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. Picture Little Bo Peep in chartreuse taffeta or lemon chiffon and you’ll get the idea. Maybe Charli could help.
“How about I just come over here,” I said, giving my apartment a mental once-over. Samantha Stevens would have been hard pressed to clean the place up before seven-thirty, and she had that nose-wiggling thing going for her. “That way you won’t have to go out of your way to pick me up.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
We grinned at each other for a few seconds, then Charli hollered for me to come and eat. “Better run,” I said. “See you at seven-thirty.”
Charli, Dicey, and Jaelyn were in Charli’s sunny kitchen eating tuna salad sandwiches made with, ugh, fat-free mayo, on sugar-free whole wheat bread, and drinking iced tea. Charli and Dicey were giddy with excitement.
“No one has turned us down!” Charli said. “Everyone in the neighborhood is as upset with those guys as we are.”
No one had turned me down either. I told them about my morning and about my date with Kyle Zagle.
“What am I going to wear?” I bellyached while Charli stuck spinach leaves on the sandwich she was preparing for me. “I don’t have anything appropriate and no way can I buy something. I’m flat broke.”
“You’re welcome to look in my closet,” Charli said, “but I’m afraid my stuff will all be too small.” She had a point. Charli wears about a size two and I’m a five/six. I picked the spinach leaves off the sandwich and spread a glob of margarine on the bread.
Dicey eyed me critically. “I have just the thing, Marty. Come on down to my house after lunch and we’ll get you all fixed up.”
After we’d rinsed the dishes and fed them to the dishwasher, I went to Dicey’s to see what she had in mind for me. I wasn’t optimistic. I knew the sort of clothes that Dicey wore and they were designed to show off her figure. And she had a whole lot more figure than me.
Her house was quiet; apparently Robby hadn’t returned from wherever he’d gone off to yet. We went up the stairs to her bedroom, a lush, romantic wonderland. Not at all what I’d expected. I guess I’d been picturing a sex parlor, you know, waterbed, mirrored ceiling, that sort of thing.
Instead the room was gorgeous, a pencil post bed with mosquito netting draped over it, wonderful tropical colors on the walls and rug, it looked like something you see on an ad for Jamaica or some other island paradise. Dicey went straight to the huge walk-in closet and rummaged around.
“Aha! Here it is,” she said. “Yes, this will be just perfect on you.”
The dress she handed me was a deep rose color, short, cut low in the back, and it fit like a dream. I had to admit it looked spectacular on me. The shoes she’d brought out fit too. “This is so great, Dicey. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You look wonderful. Why don’t you just keep it? I never liked that color on me.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I said.
“But of course you can.” She eyed me critically. “Something’s missing.” She opened a jewelry box and fished around. “Here. This will be perfect.” She held up a huge single black pearl on a gold rope.
“Dicey, it’s beautiful, and perfect. But I’d better not. I’d be scared to death that I’d lose it or something.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said. “I trust you. And besides, so what if you lose it. It’s only stuff. It can be replaced.”
“You are just too much. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I admired myself in the floor length mirror again and caught a glance at the bedroom clock. “Uh oh. I better get my stuff back on and get rolling. Charli’s going to shoot me.”
We hung the dress back on the padded hanger and I took it over to Charli’s house before I headed out to finish up my neighborhood rounds. By four o’clock, as I wound my way back to Charli’s house, I knew we had ONAG beat: The Oaks at Stableford Manor was a veritable sea of pink plastic flamingos. Every yard in the neighborhood except Art Danner’s, Sam English’s, and Frank Billingham’s sported at least one of Charli’s little beasties.