“Watch him,” Porter tells the three of them as he parks Polo on the ground. ?en he pulls me off Backpack.
“She’s crazy,” the boy repeats. “I think she broke my leg.”
“Whatever. She’s got the strength of a tater tot,” Porter says, pulling the boy to his feet, who protests and hobbles, but manages okay.
“Oww,” he whines.
“Shut the hell up, you thieving-ass rat.” Porter grabs the boy by his shirt, wrenches the backpack off his arm, tosses it to me. “Check it.”
I unzip the pack. Nested in a wadded-up hoodie is the statue. I hold it up like a trophy.
?e boy groans and tries to wriggle out of Porter’s grip. “Nuh-uh,” Porter says, urging him down next to Polo and pressing the button on his sleeve. “You and your punk-ass friend aren’t going anywhere right now. We’re going to sit tight while my buddy Mr. Pangborn makes a little phone call to our friends at the CCPD. Got that, Pangborn?” he asks into his radio.
“Got it,” Pangborn’s voice answers.
While the boys exchange panicked looks, a small crowd is forming. I brush off my skirt and notice that a small trail of blood runs from a nasty scrape on my knee. I don’t even care. I’m still on an oh-so-sweet adrenaline high.
Porter grins, eyebrows high. “Damn, Bailey. You took him downtown. Full-on atomic drop body slam. I had no idea you had it in you.”
Me neither, to be honest. “No one steals from Sam Spade and gets away with it,” I say.
He holds his hand up, and I slap it, but instead of it being a simple high ve, he laces his ngers between mine, squeezing. It’s probably only for a second, but it feels longer. When he releases my hand, I’m a ball of chaos: ngers tingling from where his just were, mind trying to make sense of it. Is he just being friendly, or is this maybe some sort of surfer handshake?
Now he’s crouching in front of me, inspecting my knee. “Ouch,” he says. Gentle ngers prod the skin around my wound. “You busted that up pretty good.”
“Yeah, stop poking it,” I say, but I’m not mad.
“You okay?” he asks in a softer voice.
“It’s ne.”
He nods and stands, then gestures for the falcon, gimme-gimme. When I hand it over, he turns to the two punks.
“You know this thing is worthless, right? If you ding-dongs would’ve just hustled a little faster, I suspect all you’d get for it on eBay would be ten lousy dollars, and we’d just order a new one online the next day. But now you’re going to start your teenage lives with criminal records.”
“Screw you,” Polo Shirt says. “My dad’s a lawyer. A hundred bucks says he’ll get you and the bitch red.”
Porter laughs and tugs a thumb in my direction as Mr. Cavadini rushes toward us through the gift-shop exit. “Nice try. Her mom’s a lawyer too.”
Uh, divorce lawyer living all the way across the country, but who cares? We both share a secret smile. Who knew that my archnemesis could make such a good partner? A crime-solving partner—that’s all. No other kind of partner. I really need to wipe all those other thoughts out of my head, especially the confusing lusty thing that happened before we chased down these two kids. And the hand-holding. And the secret smiling.
Ugh.
Must rectify this tangled mess quickly, and I think I know how.
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@mink: I have a horoscope for you. @alex: Do you? Lay it on me, because I’ve had a REALLY confusing day, and I need some guidance.
@mink: Okay, here it is: If life suddenly gives you a choice to say yes to a new experience, you should accept.
@alex: What if that experience might be a pain in the ass? @mink: Why would you assume that? @alex: Instinct. I’ve been burned before, remember? @mink: Instinct is no match for reason. @alex: At this point, I’m not even sure I’ve got either one of them on my side.
“Story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.”
—Marilyn Monroe, Some Like It Hot (1959)
