Luz
Abalcony on the twelfth floor of a New York building in November is frigging cold, I can tell you. I was about to freeze my ass off, and Carolyn was wet and shivering, but it wasn’t like we could go back inside when the place was in flames. Where was the damn fire department? Most of the people must have been on the flaming-turkey balcony, because I could hear the racket. Maybe they’d found a fire escape and were fighting to get on. Well, I could elbow my way through any crowd of foodies and writers, but I wasn’t real sure my knees would carry me down twelve flights of fire escape or that Carolyn would be willing to give up the turkey, which she still clutched to her chest with both arms.
Greasy turkey after falling water was going to do in that dress. I’m happy to say mine, which a cruise line had provided me after losing my suitcase, had survived the turkey roast and sprinklers. Not likely I’d ever be able to afford another dress even close to it; I’ll still be wearing it when I’m eighty, if I live that long. My arthritis meds are bad for the health, even if they do keep me moving.
But I was going to have to kick off my fancy shoes and leave them behind; no big loss. The sandals with their frigging high heels hurt like hell. So why had I worn them? Pride! One of the seven deadly sins. I hadn’t wanted to seem like some wetback country bumpkin in the big city. I’d have to go to confession when we got home, and Father Gabriel would say, “About time, Luz. So get on with it. I always look forward to hearing about your sins.” He’d love this confession—I’d shacked up with the ship’s doctor on that cruise. Well, nobody can say traveling with Carolyn Blue isn’t interesting. Better than sitting home with a narc dog, who’s in worse health than me.
“Get a grip on your turkey, Carolyn. Let’s go see what all the noise is about on the front balcony.”
She hefted the bird, arms circling it, fingers laced, like it was a big brown sack of cement, and followed while I cut a path through the people standing on our side of the building. I could hear sirens now. About time! Some of the shivering guests tried to stop her. The dumb shits wanted to know why she’d “attempted to burn down the publishing house with flaming turkeys.” At least she didn’t answer: Either she was furious or in shock.
We rounded the corner and got caught in a bigger crowd, lots of them hanging over the edge of the balcony, looking down. I spotted the owner’s assistant and figured her for the most sensible person there. She was standing in front of the French doors, arms crossed, face set in stone, keeping one eye on the gawkers and the other on the smaller amount of fire still flickering inside. Evidently their useless sprinklers had done some good. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said politely. “What’s happening?”
She turned to us. “Petronius and Roland threw the turkeys off the balcony. I believe it has caused problems down below, but I didn’t care to view the damage, whatever it may be. Mr. Pettigrew is not going to be pleased.” Then she studied Carolyn. “Why are you carrying that turkey, Mrs. Blue?”
“It’s evidence,” said Carolyn through chattering teeth.
“She’s in shock,” I added hastily.
“I’m not surprised,” said Mrs. Christopher, who was always polite to the authors and addressed them formally, unlike her treatment of the Pettigrew employees. Carolyn’s weird agent had told us this on our first day in New York, when we visited her office.
“There’s a bench over here, Mrs. Blue,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down? Your turkey must be heavy.”
“The chef tried to make off with it,” said Carolyn indignantly. “I’m not letting it go until the authorities arrive.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Christopher nodded. “Come along. There’s room for you and the turkey on the bench.”
For a wonder, Carolyn went off with her. Courtesy works pretty well with Carolyn, which is why we sometimes get into it. She thinks I’m rude. Go figure. I went off to find Petey and the fat editor. Also, I wanted to see what was happening in the street, and it wasn’t pretty. Fire engines, two of them, with crews of guys in hats and raincoats dragging out hoses. One police car and more coming. I could see their flashing lights both up and down the street.
There was a car on fire in front of the building and a wrecked limo that had squashed a lavender metallic VW bug. I wouldn’t have expected a lavender car in NYC. El Paso, yeah. The Hispanic population is into color, but I’d figure New Yorkers would think lavender was tacky. They’d probably faint if they saw some of the bright blue-green or red low-riders at home. The owners like to drag race in the streets and get themselves busted by the cops.
Firemen were trying to cut into the VW while medics waited to get in and pull out victims. Guys wearing Yassar Arafat headdresses and fancy New York suits surrounded the limo, shaking their fists and yelling at the cops. Other cars had smashed into one another or run up on sidewalks behind the first wreck. And all these people spilling out of an Irish pub—that’s what dumbhead Petey called it. They were carrying beer mugs, singing, laughing, and generally getting in the way. “So, Petey, did you see the whole thing?” I asked. “How did it go down after you pitched the turkey? Think they’ll arrest you?” I asked.
Petey looked like I’d just told him his fly was unzipped. What the hell did he figure was going to happen when the cops found out he’d dropped a flaming turkey into the street?
“Why would they arrest me?” he asked. “Roland and I just tried to save the building. Wow! Did you see those turkeys go up? And the tablecloth? This is the most exciting party Pettigrew has ever thrown.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Petey. This may have ruined the book launch,” said Roland, “and I talked your uncle into paying for it. People will be laughing at Carolyn rather than buying her book.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but maybe Carolyn had, and that explained why she was so glum.
“Well, how were we to know that the turkeys wouldn’t go out on the way down?” said Petey. “You’d think the wind or something would put the fire out.” He looked back at the room from which he’d run with the turkey held over his head. “Roland and I saved people’s lives. And now the fire’s stopped burning inside…well, almost.” Then he looked over the balustrade. Several people had managed to get out of the VW with help, but a crumpled figure in the driver’s seat had to be removed.
“I don’t think anyone was hurt in the car that caught fire,” he said kind of hopefully. “One of the turkeys went straight down, hit someone on the sidewalk, and bounced under the car. It was parked illegally. You should have seen the people inside scrambling out.” He started to laugh and then noticed a reporter listening and scribbling notes. “Very frightening,” Petey added, looking at me. “You can imagine.”
“Damn right,” I agreed. “Not every day a flaming turkey rolls under your car. Frigging hilarious. What happened with the limo and the VW?”
“Well, that was my turkey,” said Petey. “I didn’t realize I had such a good throwing arm. Adrenaline, I guess, although I did play cricket at Cambridge. My turkey hit the windshield of the limo, and the driver tried to swerve out of the way and smashed into the VW in the opposite lane, ramming it into another car. If he’d just kept going straight, the turkey would have rolled off the hood, and there wouldn’t have been an accident. Limousines always have unbreakable glass.”
“Maybe the guy panicked when he saw a flaming turkey heading for his windshield. He might have thought it was a firebomb.”
“Or a meteor,” suggested Petey enthusiastically. “Something to tell his grandchildren.”
“Are you out of your mind, Petronius?” demanded Mrs. Christopher, emerging from the crowd and tapping him smartly on the shoulder.
“Come on, Mrs. Christopher,” he said plaintively. “You’ve known me since I was a little kid. Couldn’t you call me Petey?”
“I could not. You have a perfectly respectable name. You were named after the famous Roman satirist and arbiter of taste, Gaius Petronius, the Emperor Nero’s arbiter elegantiae.”
“And look what happened to him,” Petey whined. “Nero made him commit suicide.”
“But he did maintain his dignity by satirizing the emperor in his will. No one ever accused Gaius Petronius of creating an embarrassing situation by throwing burning turkeys onto a busy street.”
“All those people and cars shouldn’t be down there,” said Petey defensively. “It’s a weeknight.”
“Corrigan’s is celebrating a saint’s day. St. Laurence O’Toole, a twelfth-century Bishop of Dublin,” said Roland. “Imagine leaving one’s home to drink Irish beer and eat Irish food. One wonders about the deteriorating taste in this city.”
I figured Roland was making that up. I’d never heard of any saint named Laurence O’Toole, and my mom used to read us the life of a different saint every night. Not that I listened: After a hard day of punching out little boys who got smart with me or hassled my sisters, I usually fell asleep before Mom finished the latest grisly tale of sainthood.
“If you knew the street would be crowded, Roland, why did you throw that turkey?” asked Mrs. Christopher, her mouth grim. “Both of you, and the publishing house, may be sued for property damage and personal injury.”
You had to like the woman even if she was prissier than Carolyn. She wasn’t letting the two idiots talk their way out of this mess. But then she turned to me, and I figured I might be in for a tongue-lashing, too, although I’d had nothing to do with any of this. I was just here letting my curiosity get the best of me, like any former cop would.
“Ms. Vallejo, I suggest that you rejoin your friend and take her back into the room. The fires have subsided, and she’ll be more comfortable out of the cold.”
I did that while Mrs. Christopher herded the other guests inside. I could hear Petey, that bastard, saying, “It was Carolyn’s fault. They were her turkeys.”