She’s the one, right? The
Penthouse
girl?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How do we get into this building?” Libby asked. “Without letting Cindie Rae know?”
I laid my hand flat on six buzzer buttons at the same time and leaned on them all. Seconds later, a variety of voices squawked on the intercom.
“UPS!” I yelled. “Delivery!”
Immediately, the door buzzed open and we went inside.
“Stairs or elevator?” I asked.
“Definitely the stairs,” Santa said with new respect.
Libby eyed him doubtfully. “Can you make it three flights?”
“Can you?” he asked.
We trooped up three flights with Libby bringing up the rear. To lighten her load, Santa and I split her remaining shopping bags between the two of us.
The third-floor hallway was L-shaped and smelled like incontinence. We checked the numbers on the doors and found Cindie Rae’s apartment at the end of the hall. We edged closer to listen, but a television blared in the next apartment, drowning out all other sound.
“I can’t hear anything,” Libby whispered.
“Shh.”
“I don’t mean to stick my nose in your business,” Santa said, “but is anyone armed in this situation?”
“Calvin is,” I said. “At least, he was wearing a gun in the store.”
“Jeez,” said Santa. “I was afraid of that. We need to call the Philly cops. It’s foolhardy to bust in on somebody with a gun.”
Libby pulled out her cell phone and checked the screen. “I’m not getting a signal in here.”
“You should get a new service,” Santa advised. “My ex-wife uses Verizon and gets great reception.”
Libby glanced up from her phone. “You’re divorced?”
“Three years,” Santa reported. “I hate living alone, but what’s a guy with false teeth supposed to do? I volunteer for the Salvation Army and the Meals on Wheels and the—”
“Could we get back to business here?” I asked. “Somebody go call the police.”
Libby said, “She has man trouble. It makes her testy. I’ll go down the hall to see if I can get a signal there.”
“I’ll help you,” said Santa.
They walked away, leaving me in front of Cindie Rae’s apartment door holding shopping bags. I listened for voices, but across the hall a new burst of game-show music began.
Suddenly the door opened from inside. Cindie Rae stood there in a tank top, flannel pajama bottoms, and flip-flops, holding the door for Calvin as if she’d just ordered him off the premises. She had a sleeping mask pushed up on her forehead and circles under her eyes. Without makeup, her face looked even more surgically ballooned than ever. Her breasts defied the laws of gravity inside the tank top.
“If you can’t remember the salad dressing, what good are you?” she asked.
Calvin continued to mope for another instant until he realized I stood in the doorway. He said, “Hey. It’s her.”
Cindie Rae’s head whipped around, and she stared at me. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” I said.
Cindie Rae grabbed my arm, pulled me into the apartment, and slammed the door.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How did you find this place?”
Her apartment looked like an entire sorority house had exploded. Discarded clothes, shoes, and take-out containers littered the floor. A glimpse toward the kitchen convinced me the health department should be making a call very soon. But the living room was draped in luminous curtains—a television-friendly background for the round honeymoon bed in the center of the room. In the middle of the bed stood a hand-lettered sign that read, BE BACK TONIGHT! The letter i was dotted with a heart.
A mounted camera stood in front of the bed, its red light blinking softly. Two large lamps with photographer’s reflecting umbrellas bounced ambient light onto the bed. Electrical cables ran all over the makeshift studio—even hanging over doors. Around the bed, someone had abandoned a variety of predictable props—handcuffs, a ratty feather boa, and a life-size
Penthouse
girl?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How do we get into this building?” Libby asked. “Without letting Cindie Rae know?”
I laid my hand flat on six buzzer buttons at the same time and leaned on them all. Seconds later, a variety of voices squawked on the intercom.
“UPS!” I yelled. “Delivery!”
Immediately, the door buzzed open and we went inside.
“Stairs or elevator?” I asked.
“Definitely the stairs,” Santa said with new respect.
Libby eyed him doubtfully. “Can you make it three flights?”
“Can you?” he asked.
We trooped up three flights with Libby bringing up the rear. To lighten her load, Santa and I split her remaining shopping bags between the two of us.
The third-floor hallway was L-shaped and smelled like incontinence. We checked the numbers on the doors and found Cindie Rae’s apartment at the end of the hall. We edged closer to listen, but a television blared in the next apartment, drowning out all other sound.
“I can’t hear anything,” Libby whispered.
“Shh.”
“I don’t mean to stick my nose in your business,” Santa said, “but is anyone armed in this situation?”
“Calvin is,” I said. “At least, he was wearing a gun in the store.”
“Jeez,” said Santa. “I was afraid of that. We need to call the Philly cops. It’s foolhardy to bust in on somebody with a gun.”
Libby pulled out her cell phone and checked the screen. “I’m not getting a signal in here.”
“You should get a new service,” Santa advised. “My ex-wife uses Verizon and gets great reception.”
Libby glanced up from her phone. “You’re divorced?”
“Three years,” Santa reported. “I hate living alone, but what’s a guy with false teeth supposed to do? I volunteer for the Salvation Army and the Meals on Wheels and the—”
“Could we get back to business here?” I asked. “Somebody go call the police.”
Libby said, “She has man trouble. It makes her testy. I’ll go down the hall to see if I can get a signal there.”
“I’ll help you,” said Santa.
They walked away, leaving me in front of Cindie Rae’s apartment door holding shopping bags. I listened for voices, but across the hall a new burst of game-show music began.
Suddenly the door opened from inside. Cindie Rae stood there in a tank top, flannel pajama bottoms, and flip-flops, holding the door for Calvin as if she’d just ordered him off the premises. She had a sleeping mask pushed up on her forehead and circles under her eyes. Without makeup, her face looked even more surgically ballooned than ever. Her breasts defied the laws of gravity inside the tank top.
“If you can’t remember the salad dressing, what good are you?” she asked.
Calvin continued to mope for another instant until he realized I stood in the doorway. He said, “Hey. It’s her.”
Cindie Rae’s head whipped around, and she stared at me. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” I said.
Cindie Rae grabbed my arm, pulled me into the apartment, and slammed the door.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How did you find this place?”
Her apartment looked like an entire sorority house had exploded. Discarded clothes, shoes, and take-out containers littered the floor. A glimpse toward the kitchen convinced me the health department should be making a call very soon. But the living room was draped in luminous curtains—a television-friendly background for the round honeymoon bed in the center of the room. In the middle of the bed stood a hand-lettered sign that read, BE BACK TONIGHT! The letter i was dotted with a heart.
A mounted camera stood in front of the bed, its red light blinking softly. Two large lamps with photographer’s reflecting umbrellas bounced ambient light onto the bed. Electrical cables ran all over the makeshift studio—even hanging over doors. Around the bed, someone had abandoned a variety of predictable props—handcuffs, a ratty feather boa, and a life-size
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