The Big Dirt Nap

Forty-seven

Sam showered and changed into Taylor's borrowed clothing while Oksana, Lucy, and I transformed ourselves into a trio of zombie extras from Night of the Living Dead. When the shoe polish ran out we relied on Lucy's gray eye shadow to sculpt the requisite lines on our faces.

"Do you have any idea how much this stuff costs?" Lucy asked.

"Do you have any idea how much funerals cost?"

"Good point," she said, slathering the precious Chanel cream in the hollows of her cheeks instead of on her eyelids. She bravely put on my skanky torn hoodie and gave it a few more rents for good measure; I borrowed Amanda's bicycle chain and wrapped it around my own waist, tucking the lock and key in my pocket as if they were a grant watch fob.

Sam had borrowed a disposable razor and elastic hair band from me and when he emerged from the bathroom he looked like a reasonably attractive, if emaciated, ponytailed fifty-year-old in jeans and T-shirt. I didn't want to think about how long it had been since he'd had a shower, and I was glad housekeeping would be cleaning the tub and not me.

"You women look damn scary. Have I really been out of circulation that long?"

"It's a party," Amanda said. "Not real life." She looked him up and down. "The other outfit was edgier. You look too healthy, now." Probably not something that Sam Dillon had heard in a while. He put on Taylor's UConn sweatshirt and we each contributed a little white stuff from our arms to smear on Sam's face. Not that anyone would have recognized him.

On the way to the party, we checked one another out. If we'd had more time Amanda said she would have painted our nails black, but as it was, we convinced ourselves we could pass for college students if the lobby was crowded, the lights were down, and no one looked too closely.

We needn't have worried. I couldn't imagine that even at the height of its popularity, Titans was any more crowded than it was when the elevator doors opened. It seemed as if the entire student body of the local UConn campus was in the hotel lobby dressed in black and drinking beer around the now-blossoming corpse flower.

Only Titans's employees were not in whiteface and Goth accoutrements and they stuck out like basketball players at a Pygmy convention. That's why it was easy to spot the Michelin Man. He'd positioned himself in the lounge and was so clearly not celebrating that the partygoers, not sensing a kindred spirit, gave him a wide berth.

"Let's not rush to the door," I said. "I don't want to be too obvious."

The corpse flower was spectacular and Amanda, or someone, had opened both doors and all of the panels to the greenhouse so that the cadaverous scent filled the lobby. She disappeared into the crowd to play hostess.

Before I realized it, I'd been separated from Lucy and Sam by a swarm of Marilyn Manson and Kelly Osbourne look-alikes in chain-mail tank tops. I didn't risk calling out their names and alerting the Michelin Man.

Someone took my arm. "Come with me." Marat, the Michelin Man's skinny sidekick, squeezed my elbow and pressed something hard and cold into my rib cage. The squiggly lines in his eyes had brothers on his cheeks and nose and he smelled like an ashtray. Only a drunk or an idiot would think that blowing me away at a hotel party was a smart thing to do but I wasn't going to bet my life on either this guy's sobriety or his brains. I went with him.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Shut up and walk. My boss wants to see you."

Who was his boss? The Michelin Man? Sergei? He led me through the lobby, past the freight elevator, and into the bowels of the hotel, where I'd been before, once with Hector and more recently when I'd visited the kitchen. I dragged my feet trying to remember which of the doors marked Employees Only led to the loading dock and which led to the kitchen.

"Can't you walk any faster?"

"It's the shoes," I lied.

"American woman are like sheep. They wear stupid clothing and stupid shoes. If you were in my country you'd be wearing good sturdy boots."

I was willing to bet that he hadn't seen Mother Russia for quite some time, if ever, and styles had changed, but I wasn't going to play What Not to Wear with him. Then I recognized the laundry room with its locked door. I smelled food and knew the kitchen was close by around the corner on the left.

When we made the turn I pushed my way into the kitchen with the skinny guy hanging on.

"Hey, this is my kitchen! Oh, it's you. Did you find Sam? Is he all right?" The chef looked from me to my attacker and quickly realized this wasn't a social call. The slightest tilt of his chin led my eyes to the kitchen knives on an island six feet to his right. Mine and the Ukrainian hood's.

"Can you throw a knife as fast as I can shoot?" Marat asked. "I don't think so." He was cackling at his own joke when one of the busboys came up from behind and hit him in the head with something shaped like a paddle. He fell to his knees and I was able to kick the gun out of his hand. It slid across the floor and wound up underneath one of the massive commercial ovens.

"Should I hit him again?" the busboy asked. He was standing over the now horizontal man ready to whack him again with a frozen Alaskan Salmon.

"No!" I didn't want him dead, just neutralized. "Do either of you have the key to that laundry room outside?" The chef nodded and produced a large key ring.

We draped a tablecloth over the man, just in case anyone was in the corridor, dragged him out of the kitchen, and locked him in the laundry room.

"Mrs. Page has the only other key," the chef said. "He'll stay in there until you tell me to let him out."

I ran back through the empty corridors to the hotel lobby. The party was in full swing now. I scanned the crowd for Lucy and Sam and saw them being ushered out by the Michelin Man, one upper arm in each of his hammy hands.

Someone in the crowd squealed and the Michelin Man spun around to look. I grabbed the nearest guy and planted a wet one on him to hide my face until I was sure the coast was clear.

"Whoa, thanks, lady. Do I know you?" Lady? Great. Here I was convincing myself that I could pass for a college student, and even wearing Goth makeup I was lady.

"Dude, I'm being cougared!"

I fished around in my bag and got out Babe's Taser. I loaded the cartridge just the way she'd shown me.

"Don't get me wrong. Cougar's not an insult, it's just, like, you know, an older fox." That was an ego boost. "You can kiss me again."

"Maybe later, sonny." I checked the safety twice then put the Taser in my pocket and ran out to the parking lot. The three of them were getting into the Toyota.

"Stop," I yelled, running toward them. I tried to keep the bicycle chain from flapping against my wounded thigh but was only intermittently successful. I considered tearing it off, but it was my backup weapon in case the Taser failed.

"Excellent," the Michelin Man said, "now we're all here." He tightened his grip on Lucy. "Just come quietly, we're all gonna have a nice little talk."

I crept closer to him and tried to stay calm. I knew I had to be fifteen feet away or less for the Taser to work. Once I was within range I spoke. "I'm not going anywhere with you, a-hole. And neither are my friends."

With one hand still pinning Sam to his side he shoved Lucy in the car and reached for something in his right pocket. Lucy kicked at his crotch and missed but it distracted him just long enough so that I could draw quicker.

"Move your leg!" I yelled. Then I fired.

Lucy screamed as the large man fell backward and rolled over. She scrambled out of the car, still kicking, and tripped over his inert body.

"Quick," I said, running toward her. "I don't know how long this thing lasts." I unwrapped the bicycle chain from my waist and used it to tie the Michelin Man's hands together. The three of us dragged him to the front of the car and locked the chain around the bumper.

Then we called the cops.