Air Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan

dollar bills, and hand “Sally” the cash. “Just-call-me-Sally” means “Sally” is probably the only name that isn’t hers. I carefully lift my hand away from the lens. “Sally” has opened her cash box and I need that shot.
    “I, um, well,” I give Elsa an embarrassed look and lean in closer to Sally as the purse proprietor adds the bills to her stash. The cash box is Fort Knox. The mint. Crammed with cash. I hope the camera stays in focus this close.
    “Well, I’d adore to keep shopping of course. And thank you for offering to hold my darling bag, but I’m afraid first, I…” Elsa drops her voice to a whisper, scrunches up her shoulders, points the camera right at the boxful of bills “…have to go to the ladies. Could you point me?”
    “The bathroom.” Sally hands me my change, then closes her box and looks around the room. Almost scanning. Maybe she’s wondering why people aren’t arriving with more cash and purses. I suddenly wonder if there’ssome kind of security system out there. Making certain the desperate housewives don’t abscond with their purses without paying. “Of course, it’s, uh…” she brightens “…upstairs. Top of the stairs.”
    I click the bathroom door closed, and twist the little latch on the door handle. Just to make sure, I lean against the door, my back padded by a set of yellow towels hanging over a rack. I open my purse.
    Come on, video. Show me the money. And the loot.
    I push Rewind and watch a chaotically jerky mishmash of colors flash and flicker backward. That’s all I needed to see. If I watched it forward, I know it would be pictures.
    I click out the tape and search for a pen to mark the label tape one. Damn. I don’t have a pen. This isn’t my real purse. Inside is only a camera. I touch my finger to my pink lipstick, then touch the finger to the tape label. Tape one is pink.
    Just in case someone is waiting outside, I flush the toilet, then turn on the water in the sink. I click off the almost dead battery and click on a new one. I insert a new cassette, push Play, and watch the tiny cassette start to reel forward. I’m back in business.
    I turn off the water, pause a beat, and open the door.
    And there’s just-call-me-Sally. Standing, feet apart, hands on hips, three inches from me.
    Rule one of carrying hidden camera. The person you are shooting does not know you have it. No matter what they say, no matter how they behave. The most ordinary remarks will sound suspicious and threatening. But they don’t know. Rule one is banging through my brain as I size up the situation.
    “Hi, Sally,” I say, in my chirpy Elsa voice. “Need the bathroom? Hey, where’s my beautiful new bag?”
    “Looks like you already have a pretty nice bag,” she replies, pointing. She makes no move to go inside.
    Rule one, rule one.
    “Oh, this old thing?” I reply. “I think my mother bought it for me. I use it to carry around my art supplies. That’s why I think its time to splurge on a new one. Oh, don’t tell me. The party’s not over, is it?”
    “How did you find out about our little get together?” she asks.
    Rule one, rule one.
    “Oh, golly, I met a lovely girl in the airport, gosh, I think maybe Baltimore?” I reel off the whole story of Regine, and her card, and the Web site. Gauging her reaction the whole time. She backs away a bit. Seems to relax.
    Rule two of carrying a hidden camera. The best defense is a good offense.
    “You have such a wonderful turnout today. Of course, you have all those wonderful purses. I can’t believe they’re so inexpensive,” I say. Then I tilt my head as if I’d just had an offhand thought. “How does this all work? I mean…” I pause, and glance both ways down the hall, as if confirming the coast is clear and we’re alone. I lower my voice. “Does your husband know about this?”
    Sally laughs, quietly, and shakes her head. Her coppery curls don’t budge. “My husband—my ex-husband—is God knows where.