She’d made no progress placing Paolina after the Friday night party. She’d hung flyers all over Cambridge, Boston, and Somerville, gotten some calls on them, but mostly from PIs trying to drum up business, investigators too lame to run the phone number and discover they were calling one of their own. She had nothing new to report on Roldan's probable whereabouts. He’d disappeared from the press after the plane crash stories. She’d already e-mailed every article she’d been able to unearth.
I gave her Drew Naylor's name. “Mooney's checking him out, but I thought you might have alternative sources. He produces films for businesses.”
“Commercials?”
“Possibly. More likely the puff pieces they show at the annual shareholders’ meeting. Find out what you can. Find out if he's involved in drugs.”
“Film business? You kidding?”
“Ask around.”
“I thought Gloria was gonna be phone queen.”
“Usually. But right now I need fashion tips.” I explained about the upcoming party.
“Wish I could go,” she said. “I have so got the perfect outfit.”
Roz is apt to show up for a date, a quaint term for her encounters with males, wearing anything from fishnet tights and a mini the length of a book jacket to a fifties shirtwaist, buttons undone, over lace underwear. Still, her advice was preferable to Gloria's.
She said, “You wanna blend in or stand out?”
“Blend.”
“And you’re his date, huh? What have you got?”
I enumerated items as I hauled them from my duffel. “Black slacks, jeans, white T-shirt, blue T-shirt, black tee, gray silk jacket.” I felt like a pre-ball Cinderella, dirt under my fingernails, itemizing rags.
“Boring, boring. Keep going.”
“Um. Underwear.” If I had to rely on Roz for a fairy godmother, things were bleak. “What color?”
“Beige.” I scrabbled at the bottom of the duffel. “Um, a silk scarf.” “Ooh, the print thing? Black and green?”
“Yeah.” I usually pack a scarf or two; they weigh nothing, take up little space.
“Jungle print, right? White background? Got the silver necklace with you, the collar-hoop thing?”
“Yeah.”
“You bring a sewing kit or something? Safety pins? The little gold ones, like you use to fix a bra strap.”
“I might have a couple. Hold on.” In the bathroom, I checked the cosmetic kit's side compartments. It seemed to me I’d tossed a few pins in it a long time ago. One had worked its way open; it stabbed my index finger. I sucked the wound while walking phone and pins back into the bedroom.
Roz said, “Okay, lay the scarf down flat, on the bed, the floor, whatever. It's a square, right? So fold one end up, and you’ve got a triangle. Okay, now put the necklace at Point A.”
“The apex?”
“Whatever. Fold the point of the scarf over the necklace and pin it, so there's like a channel thingy, with the necklace inside.”
“I need more pins.”
“Go to a store and spring for a needle and thread. It’ll look better.”
Three safety pins semi-secured the necklace. “Okay,” I said, “I got a triangle with a necklace on top.”
“What you got is a halter. It ties in back. Try it.”
I slipped off my T-shirt. The necklace, a Cape Cod flea market acquisition, didn’t have a clasp, just a gap in the metal. It was rigid and silver, about a quarter-inch thick. I fumbled the ends of the scarf behind my back.
“Speaking of bra straps,” I said.
“Duh. Take it off.”
I did. The scarf clung to my breasts.
“I feel naked,” I said.
“Your nipples show? Good.”
“Roz, I don’t know about this.”
“C’mon,” she said. “Trust me. You got great shoulders. Your back's got muscles I’d kill for. Ooh, yeah, when you buy the thread, get baby oil. Oil your back. Baby oil's great for that, plus if you score at the party, you’re way ahead of the game. Guys love what you can do with a little baby oil in the right place.”
“Let's stick to clothes.”
“Hey, sorry. I know you and Gianelli are an item again, but I figure he's here, you’re there, it's a party, models and shit, South Beach, lifeguards—”
When I didn’t respond enthusiastically, she sighed and got back to business. “Okay, the black pants you brought, they the drawstring ones?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. Okay, you wear them really low. You want your stomach on display. And turn up the cuffs so they’re just below the knee. What you really need is a tat.”
Not in this life, I thought.
“They might have one of those rub-ons. On the small of your back, low, it would look so cool. Or on your shoulder. And get some eyeliner. You didn’t bring any?”
“Guess.”
“Shit, what do you have for shoes? You got heels?” I had 21/2-inch business pumps. Stuart Weitzman, on sale, Filene's Basement, but somehow I didn’t think Roz would be impressed. “Shoes, you can’t fake,” she said sternly.
“Where am I going to find a store that sells elevens?” Women's shoes effectively cease at size 10. I know tons of women who’d spring for stylish shoes in big sizes; most of us believe it's a conspiracy.
“Ask around,” Roz advised. “Lotta cross-dressers in South Beach.”
“I’m not in South Beach, Roz.”
“Then get size 10 sandals, open toe, open heel. Spikes.”
I shrugged and the cool silk rippled across my breasts. The top actually looked pretty good. I imagined it paired with low-slung slacks and precarious heels. I could always kick them off if I needed to run.
Roz said, “Call back when you get the stuff and I’ll walk you through it, okay? Thread, a packet of needles, shoes, a temp tat, if you can find one, makeup.”
“Get me something on Naylor by then.”
“If it's there, I’ll get it. ‘Bye.”
There was no message on my cell saying I’d missed a call, so Mooney hadn’t rung back while I was talking. Damn. It was too close in my small room, too quiet. The pulsing tick of the bedside clock only emphasized the blaring silence. I felt restless, worried, in need of exercise. After five minutes of floor pacing, even Roz's shopping trip seemed preferable to waiting for the phone to ring.