Soldiers of Fortune (23 page)

“Mother of God,” Ida Belle mumbled.

I lifted one the of the tattoo sheets and studied the red and black swirls that looked like some sort of tribal art. “I’m not putting this on my body.”

“It’s temporary,” Gertie said. “A little soap and it comes right off.”

“You’re sure?” I said. I’d had my share of run-ins with Swamp Bar patrons, and had to admit that the tattoos might be enough to throw them off my scent, but no way was I walking around the rest of the summer looking like an eighties headbanger or a rapper. I’d take my own self out before I let that happen.

“Positive,” Gertie said. “I tested a small one myself last night on my leg. It came right off in the shower.”

I looked at Ida Belle. “It might keep me from being recognized from my previous visits.”

Ida Belle shrugged. “It’s your skin. You want to walk around with arms looking like an angry hornet, who am I to say anything?”

“How long will this take?” I asked.

“The hardest part is getting everything lined up,” Gertie said. “Thirty minutes, at least.”

“Then we better get moving,” I said.

“We should probably do them in the bathroom. You can hang your arm over the tub. That way, there’s not a big mess.”

“Cool.” The last thing I wanted to do was clean. “My bathroom is set up best for two people standing over the tub.”

Gertie pulled a tank top from her purse and handed it to me. “Once we get the tattoos done, change into this. It’s a better fit.”

I unfolded the black tank and was relieved when I saw the Metallica logo in the center. “I can roll with this.”

“And you’ll need to take off the sports bra,” Gertie said. “I want to see cleavage.”

Ida Belle grimaced and reached for the television remote. “I’m just going to sit here with the TV on really loud and try to cleanse my ears.”

“You still have to look at us,” I pointed out.

Ida Belle flopped down in the recliner. “I’m going to bleach my eyes when I get home.”

Gertie and I headed upstairs, where she pulled off her black hiking boots, rolled up her jeans, and stepped into the bathtub. I draped a towel over the side and stuck my arm over. She turned on the water and wet my arm with a towel, then began to apply the first set of tattoos.
 

Thirty minutes later, I had on a push-up bra, the black Metallica tank, and more decoration on my arms than I had in my entire condo back in DC. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and tied the bandanna around it, then pulled on my sunglasses. I took a look at myself in the mirror and blinked.
 

“You look great,” Gertie said, grinning at me. “It would have been even better if we could have dyed your hair, but with it being extensions, I was afraid to suggest it.”

“Yeah, that would have been a big no.” I wasn’t particularly attached to the hair that had been forced on me before I made my trip to Sinful, but I’d be lying if I said I hated it. Sometimes it bothered me because I looked like my mother with all that blond, but I’d finally decided that wasn’t a bad thing. When I was a kid, I’d always thought my mom was the most beautiful woman in the world. It was sometimes hard for me to reconcile that fact with the thought that I looked so much like her.

“I don’t think anyone will recognize you from before,” Gertie said.

“Let’s hope not. Getting a rash of trouble for showing up would make it hard to spy on Benedict.”

“I just hope he’s there to spy on.”

“Well, if he doesn’t work much, surely he’d be where free food and cheap beer are located.”

Gertie nodded. “Unless he’s in jail.”

“True.”

“Hurry up!” Ida Belle yelled. “We need to get this costume party on the road.”

We hurried downstairs where Ida Belle was waiting. She took one look at me and blinked.

“What do you think?” Gertie asked.

“I think you two look like those sad mother-and-daughter combinations at the mall in New Orleans where the mother is trying to look like her daughter’s sister.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gertie said. “But do you think people at the Swamp Bar will recognize her from before?”

“I may not recognize her by the time we get to the boat,” Ida Belle said.
 

“Told you,” Gertie said and gave me a wink. She pulled her cell phone out of a vest pocket and handed it to Ida Belle. “Get a couple pics of us.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

“Come on,” Gertie said. “In a couple of hours, all this glorious art will be gone and we won’t have any proof of how great we looked.”

“The police wouldn’t have any proof either,” Ida Belle said, and snapped some pictures.
 

“You always think we’re going to run into trouble,” Gertie said. “I don’t understand why you have to be so negative.”

Ida Belle shook her head and traipsed off down the hall. We followed her out to the boat, where Gertie climbed in and promptly sat on the bench without my even having to argue with her. Maybe her gator ride had taken some of her enthusiasm for speed racing out of her.
 

“Take off your bandanna,” Gertie told me, “and put it in your jeans pocket for the ride.”

“Got it,” I said and pulled the scrap of material off my head. I hoped my ponytail held during the ride over, but worse-case scenario, I arrived looking like I’d been sleeping on it for a day and didn’t own a brush. In other words, I’d probably blend better.

Once I took my seat, Ida Belle started the boat and the thrill ride was on. I had to admit though, this arrival at the Swamp Bar was going to beat any of my departures hands down. If my lucky streak continued once our little investigation was over, I was playing the lotto this weekend.

Boats lined the bank at the Swamp Bar when we pulled up, and from all the hooting and hollering, the party was going strong, even though it was barely 11:00 a.m. Ida Belle docked against the bank back a bit from the other boats, leaving enough room for a quick getaway, in case one was necessary. That was something I kept telling myself—“in case.” I figured if I forced myself to think it wouldn’t be the norm, then nothing bad would happen. So far, I was mostly glad that I’d worn jeans with spandex and my good running shoes, which didn’t say much about my confidence in a clean getaway.

Gertie and I climbed out of the boat and I tied it off on an old post, leaving the knot loose so that it could be removed in a second. I pulled my cell phone out and checked. “No service, as usual.”

“I figured as much,” Ida Belle said. “No worries. Sitting here, I can see a good thirty yards up the bank. If you come running, I have plenty of time to untie us and be ready to haul by the time you jump in.”

She pulled a baseball cap out of her back pocket and put it on, then dug out a copy of
Hot Rod
magazine.

“What’s that for?” Gertie asked and pointed to the magazine. “You sold your car.”

“I know,” Ida Belle said, “but I’m thinking the motorcycle isn’t practical for a lot of things.”

Gertie snorted. “You mean things like being a hundred years old?”

“No. I meant things like getting away quickly with passengers. We can’t take the airboat everywhere.”

I frowned. “You’re thinking of buying a fast car because we need a getaway vehicle? Do you realize how frightening that sounds? We’re not bank robbers. We’re not supposed to need a getaway vehicle.”

“It is what it is,” Ida Belle said and lifted the magazine up.

I opened my mouth to argue, but off the top of my head, I didn’t have anything.
 

“Hey, should we have some fake names?” I asked.
 

“You think anyone here is going to care what our names are?” Gertie asked.

“Well,” I said, “I get hit on by drunk men and non-drunk men.”

Gertie frowned. “Oh yeah. Been a couple of years since I had that problem.”

Ida Belle snorted. “It’s been a century since you had that problem.”

Gertie shot her a dirty look. “You can be Little Nicky and I’ll be Icepick.”

“Lord save us,” Ida Belle mumbled behind her magazine.

“I was thinking something less ‘mobster movie of the week,’” I said. “How about Tina and Mary? You can be either.”
 

“Fine,” Gertie said. “I’ll be Tina.”

“Then let’s get this over with,” I said and motioned Gertie toward the fray.

Despite the early hour, the party was in full swing. Country music blared from inside the bar, and I could see people inside sitting at the tables and dancing on the dance floor. A group of men sat on one corner of the porch playing cards and another group occupied the other end playing quarters. People gathered around several huge stainless steel pots on the front lawn, and I had to admit that whatever they were cooking smelled great. My vow to avoid eating anything went out the window. With any luck, investigating would offer up time for a snack.

“Everyone looks worse in daylight,” I said.

Gertie scanned the crowd and grimaced. “The understatement of the year.”

“Do you see Benedict?” I asked.

Gertie shook her head. “No, but he could be inside.”

“I guess we should check, then find someplace to take up post.”

“Have you noticed—no one has looked twice at us?”

I scanned the crowd again and realized she was right. A couple of people had looked up from their activities as we walked up, but no one had given us more than a glance. It was both encouraging and frightening all at the same time.

“Good call on the costumes,” I said.

Gertie grinned. “I told you I had it handled.”

“Let’s just hope it holds.”

We headed for the inside of the bar, but it only took a quick look to know that Benedict wasn’t inside either. “We should get drinks,” I said. “It will help us blend.”

“Awesome,” Gertie said. She strolled up to the bar, perched on a stool, pulled down her sunglasses, and smiled at the bartender. “Hey, cutie. How about getting a sexy woman a drink?”

I cringed a bit, waiting for the insults to fly, but apparently, nothing was new to the bartender.
 

“You bet, sweetheart,” he said. “What’s your poison? And please don’t tell me anything that requires a blender. It’s not that kind of bar.”

“Please,” Gertie said, “drinks shouldn’t have an umbrella. Give me a scotch on the rocks.”

The bartender smiled. “You got it. What about you, gorgeous?” He looked at me.

“Whatever light beer you’ve got,” I said. “Gotta watch those calories.”

The bartender gave me the once-over. “Whatever you’re doing is working, so light it is.”

He moved down the bar to retrieve the drinks and Gertie sighed.

“You got ‘gorgeous.’ I only got ‘sweetheart.’”

“Yeah, but he’s probably only forty or so. Wouldn’t calling you ‘gorgeous’ be against one of those Southern rules about your elders?”

“You have a point. While ‘gorgeous’ is a bigger compliment, ‘sweetheart’ is probably more respectful.” She sighed again. “Oh, for the days when men weren’t concerned about being respectful with their compliments.”

I grinned as the bartender placed our drinks in front of us. “What do I owe you?”

“First round is on the house,” he said. “Enjoy the party.” He moved off to the other side of the bar to serve a group of men arguing over fishing lures.
 

I took a sip of my beer and looked over at Gertie, who’d taken a gulp of her scotch and was making a face as though she’d drunk medicine. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course. God knows, I’m always trying to get into your personal business. It would be rather hypocritical if I didn’t share mine.”

“Why didn’t you marry? I mean, you seem to like men and talk about the good ole days of the hunt, so what kept you from pulling the trigger?”

“That’s a good question, and I have to admit, I thought about settling down a time or two, but I couldn’t make that leap.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Lots of reasons. It was a different time then. Women were expected to fulfill a certain role in a marriage, and it wasn’t one I was interested in. Don’t get me wrong, I love to cook and knit for myself, but if I had to do it by demand and on schedule for someone else, then it would become work and not enjoyable.”

“Surely there were men more progressive than that.”

“Not in Sinful. And even if someone was willing to put in on the domestics and not heap it all on me, no man would have liked my independent streak. When Ida Belle, Marge, and I headed off to war, it scared a lot of people. Mostly men. Especially men who were praying they didn’t get a draft call. And here we were, volunteering to go.”

I nodded, thinking about the era and the mentality. I was certain I’d scare men today if they knew the real me. I suppose I couldn’t blame men back then for being a little leery of women volunteering for Vietnam. “I guess it would be hard to wear the pants in that family, especially if they didn’t serve.”

“Exactly. But the biggest issue was kids. I never wanted them. I taught long enough to know it’s not my calling. And not having kids wasn’t really an option. Men wanted families. And other women expected you to have one if you were married.”