| Subject: Ice/7 |
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b/b
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Date Posted: 21:48:47 12/18/01 Tue
In reply to:
BonnieBoX
's message, "Ice on Fire" on 07:06:59 12/15/01 Sat
##
"Well, get a load of that. A gent. A real top dollar gent. What do you think, Nikita?" Uncle Walter repeated his question twice before I looked at him. He whistled low. "Don't tell me you fell for all that Frenchie stuff."
"Me?!" I straightened up. Tried to look insulted. Knew that it was true. But it wasn't the French that had bowled me over. It had been him. Michael Samuelle. He had left the room ten minutes ago, but the potent after-effects lingered, worse than a Monday hangover. "Nah. Are you kidding? Cut me a break. I fell for his two hundred bucks. That's what. Now we can pay off the phone and utilities."
"So who do you believe? Miss Lenoir? Or this Samuelle stiff?"
"Neither. I don't trust either of them. I'll work Miss Lenoir. We have ways to track her down, Uncle Walter. Find out some answers. She never mentioned this doll before."
"What? Don't be a bunny. That plan doesn't make any sense. We need to work the man/woman angle. To a point. You should take Samuelle. Mister Enchanté." Uncle Walter chuckled. "That was swell. Should have seen yourself. You were stumped stupid. You haven't looked like that since Mack rigged that pail of honey over your shower one day." Uncle Walter hit his knee.
"Hardy-har-har. Yeah. A real load of laughs."
"A bucket of them!" He guffawed harder. The baboon. I was stuck with the pair of them - both baboons. The big childish kind. I still suspected that he'd helped Mack set up the pail. The delicate rig had Uncle Walter's signature written all over it. It had taken two days to wash out all the honey, an entire month before I didn't smell it everywhere any more. I still couldn't eat honey.
I counted to ten, then twenty. "Look, Uncle Walter, I don't think that's is a good idea. I don't want Samuelle. I'll take Lenoir instead."
He shook his head. Grinned. "Scared?"
"Of what?"
"That's the question, sugar. That's the real question."
##
The next afternoon, strange unpleasant smells were leaking into the apartment from Uncle Walter's workshop as usual. I knocked on his door, took a deep breath, held it, and then cautiously opened the door. I had learned my lesson after the last explosion.
Uncle Walter hunched over his table as he dabbed a liquid on to a cloth, then held it over the white-blue flame of his Bunsen burner. POOF. The room suddenly smelled like sulfur.
"Damn it." He dropped the cloth on to the work bench, and whipped a lid over the flames. When he carefully lifted the lid again, gray smoke eked out and rose, its long tail and cloud looking like an accusing finger which pointed at my hapless inventor/uncle. He picked up the cloth, pulled it out lengthwise. It was his shirt. He inspected the damage, poked a finger through the hole where part of his collar used to be.
"Turning lead into gold? Or is it your new spot remover?" I tried to fan the fumes away from my face. My eyes watered from the stink.
He grinned. "Yeah. Stain's gone."
"So's the shirt. Let me guess. Was it lipstick?"
Nodding, Uncle Walter reached into an insulated container with a pair of chopsticks and pulled out a steaming piece of opaque white rock. "Let's try this stuff. Cool. Real cool. Solid carbon dioxide at minus seventy centigrade." He rubbed it against a perfect pucker print, frowned. "Huh. Fading a little. Solvent evaporates, leaving no stain. Nice. Probably needs a high pressure system to work better. I wonder ... Well, better not rig it tonight. Lani will slay me if I'm late again." Regretfully, he dropped the rock back into the container, closed the lid, then picked up the bottle and dabbed some more solution on the shirt front.
"Then I can guess whose lipstick. Madeline Lenoir."
"All in the line of duty." He sighed. "Got to get the stains out before Lani sees this, and has my guts for garters."
"Well, we can't have that. I like your guts where they are. Try white vinegar." I took the shirt away from him before he held it over the open flame again.
"Yeah, but I got to test out this new formula. Think of all those two-timing Tom, Dick, and Harry's out there. We could make a mint if I ever get this lipstick remover perfected."
"Mmm hmm. Just keep growing the oyster fruit. Lani's right. Prohibition's going to end, and when liquor's legal again, the market will bottom. Fizzle out. She'll need another line of business besides selling bootleg booze. Fake gems sound like a good racket. Find a way to crank out those pearls, and we'll be sitting pretty."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You're worried about those pearls? You go check them out. And that last batch of rubies came out fine. Real fine." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where the small glass dishes were lined up neatly. "Go on ahead. The jeweler's loupe is in the drawer. I've got other things to worry about right now. Like removing the evidence before Lani sees it."
I rummaged through Uncle Walter's shelf of chemicals, found the bottle of acetic acid, uncorked it. The room began to smell like we were dyeing Easter Eggs. Got to serious work. "Jeez. There's lipstick all over the place."
"I'm getting too old for this kind of thing. That Madeline Lenoir has more moves than a Greek wrestler."
"Maybe it's her other profession. Did you pin her down?"
Uncle Walter grunted. "You bet. At great personal sacrifice, I might add. Hope it's worth it."
"Find anything out?" I said, scrubbing hard.
"Sure did, sugar. Your dad wasn't the only one that inherited the Hunter charm. She works for this guy - the Ice Man."
"The Ice Man? Never heard of him. Better run it by Lani. And Mack. Mack knows everybody, remembers everything."
"Our Miss Lenoir admitted there was a doll. Confirmed Samuelle's make. But she wouldn't say much else. They don't have it now. She'll get her mitts on it soon. Real soon."
"Hmm. Two groups, same doll. All this fuss. Must be some doll."
"Must be. There's a big meet later tonight with the Ice Man." Uncle Walter slapped his palm against the bench. "Damn. Promised Lani I'd take her to the Geary tonight. Some new play. By Molly-hay."
"Molière. A comedy. A classic."
"Classically boring. Not like a good boxing match. In the ring, head to head. POW. Now that's what I call excitement. Not people prancing around in wigs, using ten-dollar words you need a dictionary to understand." He pretended to snore.
"You Philistine. I wish I was going. I could use a couple of laughs. But tell you what. I'll shadow Lenoir instead."
"Thanks, sugar. Any luck with Samuelle?"
"No." I scrubbed the shirt harder, wishing I could remove these feelings as easily as the lipstick. In private, in my little daydreams, I called him "Michael." I was dizzy with it. It was foolish. Dangerous.
"No? What do you mean? No luck? Or no meeting? Did you see him at all?"
Ulp. Hadn't felt like this since I'd been caught playing hooky from school when Jack had one of his rare pious attacks of parenting. They never lasted, and either he'd get over it or I'd find a trickier way around it. I'm self taught. And a damn quick learner in the school of life.
Instead of answering Uncle Walter, I leaned over, inspected the shirt closer for any teeny spot. Wouldn't do to be sloppy. Finally I said, "Rescheduled. Didn't have anything new to tell him."
"So?"
"So I had a bunch of bills to pay. They were going to cut off our phone. Kick us out of the office."
"And are you ever planning on seeing Samuelle? Or are you still trying to find something nice to wear? Hair looks a little different today." He pretended to sniff. "New perfume?"
"You know I don't wear that girly stuff. I never did. All right, all right. I'll get on it."
"You better. We could sure use the cash, sugar."
I threw the shirt at him.
##
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