Revenge of the Cootie Girls by Sparkle Hayter Page B

LaGuardia Place,” she said. “This won’t take long.”
    â€œAnd who are you?” I said to the woman. “Are you a friend of Julie’s?”
    She just smiled at me.
    When we got to LaGuardia and Bleecker, also known as the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk because there used to be a tavern by that name on this corner, the green-haired woman said, “Cross over to that lot.”
    She was pointing to a little parking area in front of a strip of shops. There was a black car parked there.
    We crossed and she said, “Get in the car.”
    A voice in my head said, “Never get into cars with strangers.” But I hesitated only for a moment because this was just so Julie-esque.

8
    T HE CAR DOOR OPENED, and I slid into the back seat. In the shadowy car, there were three more women in green wigs and Groucho-nose glasses. The woman who had walked me over slid in behind me. The car was heavy with the smell of Shalimar.
    The woman to my left, apparently the head woman, said, “Kathy is fine.”
    â€œThanks for letting me know. I was a bit worried. I’m very anxious to find her.”
    â€œGood,” the woman said. She turned to the bewigged woman in the front and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
    The car pulled out into the street. About three feet later it stopped. Traffic was really bad.
    â€œDid Julie dream up those outfits, or did you?” I said.
    â€œJulie?” she said, with an odd, perplexed note in her voice. “No, I did.”
    Yeah, I should have guessed that. Their costumes were strictly off the rack, cheap polymer wigs and the kind of nose glasses you can buy in any convenience store in New York on Halloween. If Julie had done the costumes, she would have made them bearded ladies or Jehovah’s Witnesses. If Julie had done them as Groucho, who is one of my personal heroes, they would look like authentic, quality Grouchos. Or she would have made each of them a different Marx brother, and put them in dresses, made them the Marx Sisters. She had imagination.
    â€œAre you actors she hired, or friends of Julie’s?” I asked.
    The head woman looked at me coldly. “Actors,” she fairly snapped at me.
    Touchy, jeez. It’s so easy to offend some people.
    â€œSorry, I didn’t mean to block the action or ruin the fun or whatever,” I said. “Are you going to give me a clue?”
    The car drove forward again, stopping after a block.
    â€œYeah, we’ve got a clue for you,” the woman to my left said. “This is the skill-testing question: When did you last speak to Julie Goomey?”
    She lit a cigarette and exhaled in my direction.
    Her accent was hard to place. I couldn’t tell if she normally had an upper-class accent and was affecting the borough accent or vice versa, if she was trying to do either Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinnie or Bette Davis in All About Eve .
    â€œNineteen seventy-nine,” I said.
    â€œWhat did the last clue say?”
    â€œWait for contact.”
    â€œContact. Uh-huh,” she said, and dragged on her cigarette. “The clue is to go to the next place, and don’t quit until you find Granny.”
    â€œGranny!” I laughed in spite of myself. “Then you’re going to load up the truck and head to Beverleee? Look, you’re probably a great actress and you’d rather be doing Uncle Vanya than this. But, you see, I’m tired. If you know where I’m supposed to go next, please tell me.”
    There was silence, then she said, “We don’t know where you’re supposed to go next. We’re just here to keep an eye on you.”
    â€œAll right. So, when I find Granny …”
    â€œYou just bring her to us, and we’ll look after the rest,” she said, sounding kind of pissed. “You have until dawn. I have your cell-phone number, I’ll be calling you, and we’ll be watching you.”
    â€œDid you