The Dirt on Ninth Grave(31)

"Vat?" she asked, shooing the man aside. But I hadn't thought that far ahead. I needed something to dry-clean and fast, but the only thing I could take off without making Schwarzenegger think I was desperate for a man was my coat. My warm, plush coat that a nice homeless lady gave me when I offered her a lap dance.



It wasn't as bad as it sounded. I was looking for a second job and needed an opinion.




 

 



A cold wind rushed up my backside as two men walked in. They stood behind me, speaking softly to one another. I chanced a glance over my shoulder. They wore expensive charcoal suits, and one carried a leather briefcase and a ticket stub. He nodded to his comrade, then spoke to the woman, his tone brusque, and I fought to keep my eyes from rounding.



He spoke in Russian. Russian! And I understood every word, which was basically "Vy she is here?"



I stood stunned. Eight. I knew eight languages. I was a freaking genius. I couldn't wait to tell Cookie. Seriously, who speaks eight languages? I suddenly wondered if I knew more. Maybe I knew Icelandic or Arabic or Swahili.



I turned to the man and asked, "Do you speak Swahili?"



He glared. I took that as a no and faced the woman again.



"Let me have," she said, snapping her fingers at me.



With a heavy sigh, I peeled off the coat and handed it to her. She took it and looked it over, then asked, "You need mending?"



I most definitely needed mending. My coat, not so much.



The men behind me were inching closer, showing their impatience by trying to intimidate me. Sadly, they didn't have to try very hard. I was ready to sprint out of there.



Instead, I stepped closer to the counter, hinting that my personal boundary was being invaded.



When they kept back, I said, "No mending. Just a cleaning."



"You are stained?" She was still studying the coat, but I was beginning to wonder if she wasn't really talking about me.



"No stains." Not visible ones, anyway.



"Today," she said, tearing off a ticket and shoving it into my hand.



"Today?" I was impressed. It was already late.



"Two day," she said louder, holding up two fingers.



"Oh, right. Okay, thanks." I turned to leave but was blocked in by the Wall Street boys. "Excuse me."



The one in front moved ever so slightly to the side, giving me just enough room to squeeze past. He spoke Russian to his friend again, and I almost told him exactly how impudent zees Americans could be. The nerve.



The cold!



A freezing gust slapped me in the face when I walked out. Not just chilly. Not just frigid. An eighty-below gust of sleet-infused wind scraped across my exposed skin. I had a thick sweater at home that would have to hold me over until I could get my coat back. If I made it that far. 



I crossed my arms over my chest, tucking the bag of sandwiches under one arm, then hurried down the sidewalk. I only lived two blocks away, but in this weather, it would be a long two blocks. And it had all been for naught. I now had neither a coat nor answers. I asked myself for the thousandth time why anyone would tunnel into a dry-cleaning business.



Just as I rounded the corner to go north to my apartment, I caught sight of the two Russian men getting into their car, a sleek black job that probably cost more than all my hospital bills combined.



But that wasn't what caught my attention. They weren't carrying any clothes. They'd had a ticket when they walked in but hadn't walked out with any clothes. Even more interesting was the fact that the briefcase was gone.



Maybe the dry-cleaning business was even less legit than Scooter's entrepreneurial adventures.





7





I have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life.

If I die next Thursday.

-T-SHIRT



The sun set completely as I walked home, abandoning me like everyone else in my life. If that weren't bad enough, I hadn't made it half a block before the heavens opened up and poured buckets of ice-cold water over my head. That was what it truly felt like. When it stopped raining for a split second, I saw flurries of snow drift down as if they hadn't a care in the world, and then the sleet-infused rain started again.



By the time I hit Howard Street, I'd turned blue and lost all feeling in my extremities, and my voice had taken on a mind of its own. Odd, whining sounds erupted out of my throat with no rhyme or reason. Every time a shudder took hold, I'd wheeze out some grumblings that sounded like profanity but lacked the true conviction of blasphemy.



My hair hung in thick clumps around my face and shoulders, parts of it turning to ice. I realized my shirt now revealed more of my body than it hid, and this was not the best neighborhood to be peddling my wares.