School of Fortune (20 page)

As if she could read Pippa's mind, Marla refluffed the filthy material, sending a cloud of dander and dust into the air. Two seconds later Pippa sneezed. Then she coughed. Her sinuses were closing up faster than summer camp on Labor Day.

Mike pricked up his ears. Had Chippa just cleared her throat? Had she coughed or sneezed? She was definitely making odd nasal noises. Just in the nick of time, too. He had been ready to fold.

Everyone's heart skipped a beat as Mike pushed all his cash into the pile at the center of the table. Busy blowing her nose, Pippa didn't realize what had happened until Helen said to Marla, “You'll raise
that?”

Marla caressed her velvet reindeer antlers. Through her alcoholic haze she realized that no one had any more money to bet with. She smiled: nothing was more exciting than driving six fellow humans to the brink of ruin. “No, I won't raise.”

“Patty?”

Patty thought briefly about signing away her IRA and her two kids. “No.”

“That's it, then,” Aram said. “Winner take all.”

Marla had a pair of fives. Mike had zilch. Patty had a pair of sixes. “Yeehaw!” she crowed, gathering cash, jewelry, and diploma to her shaggy bosom. “I WON!”

Pippa watched from another galaxy as Patty grabbed the diploma and ran into the bathroom. The toilet flushed. Patty emerged.

“Where's my diploma?” Pippa croaked.

“I used it for toilet paper. That's more than it's worth. Great game, guys! Happy matchmaking!” The little bells above the door tinkled merrily as Patty bounded out.

Sneezing, Pippa wavered to her feet. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut. The last thing she saw before stumbling out of Marvy Mates was Marla Marbles, ghoulishly regal in her Navajo cape, heart-shaped eyeglasses, and velvet reindeer antlers. “Some champ you turned out to be, Polack,” Marla sneered.

R
ather than knock Marla unconscious, which was very tempting, Mike raced out to the parking lot. Pippa was doubled over, sneezing. Her face had turned dark red. Her black eye looked like the dog's on the Bud Lite commercials. “Miss Flushowitz! Are you all right?”

“No. I am not all right,” she wheezed, her eyes overflowing with tears. “Why on earth did you make that last bet? You lost everything!”

“I thought you cleared your throat.”

“You can't tell the difference between a sneeze and clearing your throat? Thanks to you my diploma's literally down the toilet!”

She was crying as if her mother had just died. Mike felt terrible. “I was disrupted. Those women were calling me Polack and swearing at the Virgin.”

“Just unlock the door, will you? Let's get out of here.” “I can go inside and get another diploma if you want.” She hesitated. “How would you propose to do that?” How else? “Beat up Marla.”

Guffawing, Pippa got into the back seat. Last thing she needed was an assault and battery suit from a professional victim. She opened the refrigerator, drank a pint of water, and plopped the mushy bag of peas over her black eye. Another school, another failure: what a nightmare.

Mike turned the AC on full blast. The temperature inside the limo could melt glass. “Can I take you out for a beer?” “Just take me back to the hotel.”

He drove dejectedly out of the lot. “Those guys were pros.” “No, just addicts.” She sighed. “Guess my matchmaking career went up in smoke.”

“So who needs matches?” He slid open the partition. “Use this.”

Pippa inspected the small stainless steel case in her lap. It appeared to be a cigarette lighter.

“My brother made it custom,” Mike said proudly. “He's a welder. Press the little white button and you get a flame. Press the black button, you get Mace.”

“Are you joking? Isn't that dangerous?”

“Why? Sometimes I drive in bad neighborhoods. Sometimes there are vicious dogs. Sometimes people need to light their cigarettes. Why not combine everything in one handy gizmo? We already sent an application to the patent office.”

Good luck with that one. “Have you ever sprayed Mace in a person's face? Or torched their dog by mistake?”

“I can tell the difference between a black and a white button. All we need now is a name. What do you think about ‘Fire Bomb'?”

“It's a little strong.” Pippa noticed a brochure for Marvy Mates on the seat. A squished pea covered the top of the
t
so that it looked like a
c.
“How about Marvy Mace?”

“I don't know about that Marvy. We need something about a lighter. Or a match.”

“MatchMace.”

“That's perfect!” How did she think of that so fast? Mike and his brother had been cracking their heads together for months. “We'll give you a penny for each one we sell.”

“That's okay. I'm glad to help.”

Looking in the rearview mirror, Mike saw a tear rolling down his passenger's cheek. Desperate to make her smile, he slid his hand into a puppet that he kept in the front seat. He was pretty good at driving with his left hand and putting on a puppet show with his right. Kids liked it. “How's the weather back there?” he bleated in a Tiny Tim soprano.

Pippa stared at the puppet. “What now?”

“I'm Clownie,” the puppet squeaked. “Can you smile for me? A tiny one? A really tiny one?”

“Mike, put that stupid thing away.”

“I am not a stupid thing,” Clownie protested. “And I'm not going away until you smile. That's better! You're so cute when you smile. If I looked like you, I'd be smiling all the time.”

“You're already smiling all the time. It's painted on.”

Mike had to retire Clownie in order to make a few turns for the hotel. He opened Pippa's door and was glad to see the shadow of a smile still on her face. “I'll wait in the lot. You got me 24/7, remember.”

Pippa tried to give his lighter back. “Keep this in case Marla shows up.”

“No way! That's yours.”

Pippa sneezed one last time as she slipped the thing in her purse. “Please go to the restaurant if you're hungry. Or the bar. Charge it to my room. I don't know how long I'll be.” Forever, if she drowned herself in the bathtub.

In the hotel elevator Pippa tried to ignore a Rosimund-ish woman glaring at the bag of frozen peas pressed to her eye. Uneasy with the way another gold-plated harridan was studying her face, Pippa left the elevator on the third floor and took the stairs to her room. Matchmaking school was history before she had even unwrapped her second lipstick: Sheldon would go ballistic.

Her room was dim and as cold as an igloo at midnight. As she walked to the drapes, wondering how she'd present her latest failure to him, Pippa tripped over the cord attached to an extra reading lamp. She remained on the floor for quite a while before crawling to the phone. “Is there a guest named Cole at the hotel?” She should warn him off Marla. “I don't know his last name. He was in the bar last night.”

The front desk searched. “He checked out this morning, ma'am.” No last name offered.

Pippa couldn't remember the name of the restaurant where they were meeting for lunch. Didn't matter: Cole could handle Marla. He could probably handle any woman on the planet. Pippa asked for room service. Chocolate chip cookies, unlike the male of the species, had never let her down. As she devoured the life-affirming morsels, Pippa wondered what to do with herself next. If mistakes were the best teachers, as her grandfather had said, she should be president of Mensa by now.

Unfortunately she could think of nothing to do but leave Phoenix. After brushing the cookie crumbs off her Prada suit, Pippa rolled her belongings into a laundry bag and checked out of the Ritz-Carlton. “Mike,” she called, tapping on the limousine window. “Wake up. I'd like to go to the airport.”

His face fell. “But you only just got here.”

“Don't worry. You'll be paid for the full week.”

That's not what he meant at all. “Where's your luggage?”

“This is it.” Pippa slid into the back seat. “Let's get this show on the road.”

She was staring bleakly out the window when a high voice inquired, “Where's that smile?” “Gone. Go away.”

Clownie slid below the seat but popped up again, holding a two-inch square of paper. “I have something for you, Miss Flushowitz.” It was a lilliputian Matchmaking Diploma. “Congratulations!”

“That's not remotely funny,” Pippa yelled, tearing the paper in shreds. She burst into tears. “You have no idea what losing that diploma cost me! I may as well join the circus!”

Clownie clapped his hands. “Yes, be a clown! Then you'd smile like me.”

The puppet's words slowly sank in. Pippa slid over to the laptop in the back seat and Googled “clown school.” Why not? She excelled at disguise and slapstick. If she couldn't pass
that,
she might as well go on welfare. She called a place in Milford, Pennsylvania, because it was farthest away from Phoenix.

“Da?” a man snapped after eight rings.

“Is this the Russian Circus Arts Academy?”

“Da. I am Slava Slootski. You are who?” demanded his thickly accented
basso.

Pippa looked in desperation around the back seat. Clownie?
Nyet.
“Cluny... Google.”

“Gogol? You are Russian?” “No.”

“Then you not understand Russian clowns.” “Please, Mr. Slootski! I'm desperate to study with you! Your Web page says you're the best teacher in the world.” “I am best
clown
in world.” “That, too. I can be there tomorrow.” “What is your best trick?”

Pippa thought back to her cheerleading days. “I can do six back somersaults in a row.” “You dance?”

“Perfectly.” Lance had thought so, anyway. “Cha-cha is my specialty.” “You are how tall?” “Five feet nine inches.” “You like bears?”

Pippa thought he said “pears.” “Love them.”

“Okay,” Slava agreed fatefully. “But you audition first. You must have talent or I don't take you.”

“Thank you so much! I'll see you tomorrow.”

Pippa found an overnight flight to New York on Travelocity. Mike watched his rearview mirror in fascination as his passenger rebounded from dead to very alive. She pulled out her cell phone. “Hi, Sheldon! I have good news and bad news. The good news is I actually did earn a diploma at matchmaking school.”

“Did?”

“Unfortunately, I lost it in a poker game. Plus a bit of cash.” “You should have had four thousand dollars left after paying tuition.”

“It was a close game. We almost won twice that amount.”

We? Almost?
Sheldon didn't want to know. “Any reputable institution will replace your diploma for twenty dollars.”

“It's not that simple. The director of the matchmaking school was also in the game. She lost the diploma.”

“How could
she
lose
your
diploma?”

“Look, she just did! It's literally down the toilet now. I can't get it back.” What was his problem? “The point is I'm flying to New York tonight. I'll be back in school tomorrow. In a week I'll have a diploma for you.”

“In which field this time?”

“I'm going to the Russian Circus Arts Academy.” Pippa took a deep breath. “Clown school.”

“You want to be a
clown?
And I thought matchmaking was bad.”

“This is the Harvard of clown schools. Slava Slootski is a world-famous authority. It's like studying political science with Hillary Clinton.”

Sheldon audibly shuddered. “And where might this ‘clown Harvard' be located?”

“Milford, Pennsylvania.”

Sheldon closed his eyes and thought of Anson Walker, his beloved friend. “I'll try to find a reputable hotel in the area,” he said with deep resignation.

“How's my mother doing?” Silence. “My ex-mother? Sheldon?”

“Since you ask, she was arrested yesterday for assaulting a woman named Nori Nuki and allegedly defacing a spa with mud and melted chocolate. Would you care to comment?”

“Nori called the newspapers while we were having facials. She's the one who should be in jail. She nearly got us killed.”

“Thayne certainly settled the score. Nori has a triple concussion. Ginny's SUV also sustained some damage.” Actually, Thayne had totaled it when she drove it through the front of the spa. “The hearing is tomorrow afternoon.”

Pippa was crushed. “I'll be right there.”

“Absolutely not! Thayne is under sedation. Her doctors agree that seeing you put her over the edge.”

“I had no idea she would be at that spa. You've got to believe me.”

“She will go to a sanatorium in Kalamazoo until she recovers some degree of sanity. Your ex-father will return to Morocco. You are not to see or communicate with your
former
parents in any way. Even by coincidence. Is that clear, Pippa?”

“Thanks a lot, Sheldon.”

As Mike watched his passenger revert to a zombie, he suspected that not even Clownie could bring her back to the land of the living. They rode in silence to Sky Harbor Airport. “American Airlines,” Pippa said tonelessly.

The words felt like daggers in his heart. Mike opened her door. “When MatchMace hits it big I'll pay back all the money I lost.”

“Don't even think about it.” She kissed his cheek. “You were a good sport.”

Inside the terminal Pippa hit bedlam in the form of fifty or so people toting large placards. At first glance it looked as if the baggage handlers were on strike. Then she read a few of the signs: MARRIED COUPLES EARN MORE MONEY. MARRIED PEOPLE LIVE LONGER. MARRIAGE WORKS! BE FRUITFUL AND LEGALLY MULTIPLY. “Who are those crackpots?” she asked the ticket agent.

“They're from WedLock. A coalition of dating services and marriage counselors.”

She had to squeeze past the demonstrators to get to security. “Hello there,” greeted a woman whose tight smile bore a frightening resemblance to Marla's. She had pamphlets. “Are you married?”

“Three times. I love it,” Pippa called over her shoulder, ducking into line. Rub my face in it, schmucks! How kind of them to remind her she was destined for a B-minus job, an early death, and zero offspring. Pippa was nearly at the X-ray machine when she realized that her little souvenir, MatchMace, would be about as welcome aboard her flight as a shoe bomb. She didn't want to throw it away: it had meant the world to Mike. She had just enough time to find a FedEx outpost and send it to Sheldon, who was a heavy smoker.

The overnight flight was totally booked. Many seats were occupied by a marching band from Poughkeepsie returning home from a national competition. Sleep was the last thing on seventy teenagers' minds, as the other passengers swiftly discovered. Each time Pippa closed her eyes, shrieks would rend the air. Nonstop traffic in the aisle kept the odor of dirty sneakers, peanut butter, and French fries recirculating throughout the cabin. Worse, Pippa was wedged between two very large people. The one on the aisle had breathing problems. The other ate from a bottomless carry-on and had to visit the bathroom every fifteen hundred calories.

Between all that and worrying about Thayne's day in court, Pippa felt spry as a fossil when the plane landed in New York. She hit an ATM, then found a cab. “Take me to Milford, Pennsylvania.”

“Miffa?” He turned down the steel drum music. “Whe' dat be, mon?”

The next cabbie found a filthy Esso map of Pennsylvania in his glove compartment. He and Pippa finally spotted Milford in the Poconos about seventy miles west of New York. “That's gonna cost,” he said.

“Five hundred bucks door to door. Including gas and tip.”

“You're on.”