Twenty-seven
Frances was slow to rise the next morning.
She felt leaden, her body’s mechanics beginning to rust as the cancer ate through her.
The steroids were wearing off, she feared, which would necessitate a call to Amani.
But there was so much to do! So, she loaded up on her meds and walked outside into a morning that was far too hot for this time of year.
Skinner was waiting for her in his new-to-him truck. When she climbed in, he handed her a paper bag. “Doughnuts,” he said. “Todd says you should start every day with breakfast.”
Frances had heard Todd speak maybe five words in total since they’d arrived and found it interesting that those were the few words he would choose to impart. She helped herself to a cruller.
“He’ll meet us there with the van,” Skinner informed her.
To his credit, Skinner hadn’t asked why she needed a chop shop and he didn’t inquire now.
He talked about the weather, his views on global warming (it’s real, man), which was the perfect segue into the time he saw an alien (also real, man).
They drove through a neighborhood of low-income housing, past what looked like an abandoned airstrip, a variety of shops clustered in old buildings, and at last turned into an alley.
At the end of that alley was a line of garages with a big sign overhead that read ALLEY AUTO REPAIR.
Frances didn’t know what she’d expected, exactly, but she had not envisioned a run-of-the-mill auto body repair shop. She’d imagined it to be more secretive. Hidden behind a facade. Maybe out in the desert away from the city’s Nosey Parkers.
A man walked out to greet them, wiping his hands on a red oil rag as Skinner rolled down the driver side window.
The man tossed his long, greasy tail of salt and pepper hair over his shoulder, then braced a tattooed arm on the door as he bent down to peer inside.
“This her?” he asked, eyeing Frances curiously.
“This is her,” Frances confirmed, looking him directly in the eye.
With his chin, the man indicated the last bay. “Talk to my buddy Joe. He’ll help with whatever you need.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the first bay.
Skinner moved the truck to the last bay. Todd was already deep inside with the van. Skinner gave him a thumbs-up. To Frances, he said, “Check you later, Rose.”
“Okay, then.” Frances got out of the truck and walked to where Todd stood motionless and wordless.
Another man in a red ball cap appeared, striding forward with quick, nimble steps.
He wasn’t any taller than Frances, and he wasn’t any younger, either.
He looked like his life had been harder than hers.
“Morning,” he said. “What you got in mind?”
“Hi, umm, Joe? I’m Wilma.” He said nothing, as if names were not important.
Frances appreciated that he did not want to engage in small talk.
Neither did she. “I need to remove anything that could identify it, hammer out the dents, paint it, and either put a false floor inside that does not look like a floor, or figure out how to put a large storage area under the existing floor. I need about eight inches depth.” For what she assumed would be canvas bags full of cash.
“Got it,” the man said.
“Can you do vinyl wraps?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll need one of those. Hopefully. But in a hurry and at a time yet unspecified.”
Joe glanced at Todd. Todd nodded. “Okay,” Joe said.
“Great!” She turned her attention to Todd. “Did you bring the materials?”
He moved to the back of the van and opened one of the panel doors. He pointed at shopping bags inside.
“Perfect.” Frances smiled warmly at Joe. “Shall we get started?”
Joe opened the second panel door and reached into the van to gather her equipment. Todd, Frances noted, had brought a book. He settled on a folding chair, oblivious to the activity around him by all appearances, and began to read.
Joe had the panel doors off in a few minutes. He paused to wipe sweat from his brow with a nasty bandanna. “Lot of work for an old van,” he observed.
“But worth it,” Frances said. “Old doesn’t mean dead.” She winked at him, guessing they were simpatico on that idea. Whatever Joe thought was apparently going to remain a mystery—he handed her a face shield.
Frances donned it, then picked up a piece of sheet metal she’d asked for and took it into the van to measure it.
She’d learned to work metal with welding one long-ago summer, when the gardener at her family home had enlisted her to help with the iron fence.
Her father was gone most of the time, and she’d been happy to have something to do.
Mr. Mobley, the gardener, took her to an art show that featured metal.
She’d fallen in love with the twisted metal sculptures.
She’d been so inspired she signed up for an art class.
Alas, her desire to make art never went anywhere.
But she’d learned how to use a blowtorch.
She worked for half an hour, taking measurements, cutting the new metal for the false floor.
If anyone was curious about a skinny septuagenarian woman cutting and welding sheet metal, they didn’t ask.
That was the difference between the rich and the rest of the world, she thought.
Rich people assumed that elderly women were incapable of anything much more than some knitting, casual dog walks, and throwing an occasional dinner party.
But in the rest of the world, people assumed everyone had to work, and it didn’t matter how old one was.
At some point, Todd wandered over to have a look inside. He studied her work with a critical eye. “You should put in a spring release for easier access.”
Frances hadn’t thought of that. “Great idea. But I didn’t get springs.”
“Joe’s got ’em.” Todd disappeared but returned a moment later with Joe. The two of them examined the flooring.
“Got it,” Joe said, and disappeared again.
By the end of the day, Frances and Joe had successfully removed the floor of the van and installed a new one, a few inches higher than the old one. There was enough space to hide several canvas bags.
She and Joe and Todd stood back and studied their handiwork. “What do you think?” Frances asked.
“I think anyone gets a good close-up, they’ll know it’s fake,” Joe said.
“Yeah, but who’s going to get that close?” Todd chimed in.
“Maybe when we paint them it won’t be so obvious,” Frances suggested, but it was clear Joe didn’t think that was going to help matters.
Still, Frances was pleased. She said she’d be back tomorrow to paint and work on the outside of the van, hammering out dents and replacing a rusted bumper.
Removing anything that would make the van easy to identify.
She paid Todd, Joe, and the man with the tattoo sleeves in cash.
Todd texted Skinner, and when he arrived, the two of them climbed into his pickup truck, Frances smashed between them.
She was beyond exhausted when they dropped her off.
She hadn’t called Amani today, but that had to be a priority in the morning.
She looked at her phone and noticed a text from Marjorie reminding her of the cruise.
She knew Marjorie would not let up about that cruise, and she could not afford to be distracted over the next few days.
So, she pulled out her laptop and booked two spots, then texted Marjorie with the information.
Marjorie responded almost immediately. Wonderful! Can’t wait to see you there. Call as soon as you can so we can talk about what we’re wearing.
“I’ll do that, Marge,” Frances muttered, and lay down, intending only to rest her eyes.
When she opened them again, it was dark. She could hear voices in the other room.
She pushed herself up, pausing to press both hands to the sides of her head with the ridiculous hope it would ease her pounding headache. It did not. She took a pain pill, then forced herself up and went into the other room.
She found Marcy standing in the middle of the small living area in a floor-length red gown. The neckline dipped to her navel, and the back … well, there was no back. It showcased her flawless skin and curvy frame.
Edie was futzing with her hair, but then Marcy used both hands to bat Edie away. “I can do it.”
“Franny, there you are,” Edie said. “Show her your walk, Marcy.”
Marcy groaned loudly, but she walked, moving with such fluid grace that it was impossible to believe this the same young woman who’d stomped across the room just last night. “Wow,” Frances said, truly impressed with the transformation.
Edie wore a proud grin. “We’ve got it all worked out. Marcy will be in the bar in the Nest. You and I will be nearby, watching.”
“Me?” Frances didn’t have enough energy for a night out.
“Yes, you. How is the van?”
Frances held up her hands, nicked and bruised and looking arthritic. “It’s great.”
Irene suddenly appeared from the kitchen. “Glad you’re all here. I’ve got news.”
“You figured out how to turn off the power to the casino,” Edie said.
“Almost, but that’s—”
“You got a raise after one day,” Frances said. “Because you’re so good at cleaning.”
“Very funny, but no,” Irene said as Joan came out of the kitchen. She was wearing gym clothes. “It’s about our security man, Mark Wachtel. I’ve been able to track him for two nights. Both nights, he left the casino, drove across town, and parked at—get this—a male revue.”
“What does that mean?” Frances asked, sinking onto the couch before her legs gave out.
“That he’s probably gay,” Marcy answered.
“Bingo,” Irene said.
“And?” Joan asked. “What do we do with this information?”
“We use it,” Irene said. “He leaves with a bag big enough to hold a laptop, and I doubt he’s carrying it into the club. So, if I could get in his car and copy his hard drive, I could break into the security system and disable the motion detector.”
“How on earth are we going to get in his car?” Edie wondered.
“We’ve got two options. One is to use a shim like the police have, you know? Get it in through a window, punch the unlock button on the door panel. Or get his key fob and open the door. Which is preferable, if you really want to know. Quicker, easier, no sign of entry.”
“I don’t know how on earth we get the man’s keys,” Joan said, and without warning, performed a high kick that came very close to Marcy’s head.
“Hey,” Marcy said, bending backward.
“Sorry. Gotta practice.”
“Distract him,” Irene said. “I’m thinking lap dance. We go in, pay for a lap dance for him. Or two. And while he is occupied, we grab his key fob, run to the parking lot, unlock the door, and make sure he stays occupied while I do the copy.”
“That is literally the definition of absurd,” Frances said. “It sounds like an old cop show.”
“That’s where I got the idea,” Irene admitted.
“We just go into this place?” Edie asked. “Four older women?”
“We’re a book club,” Joan said. “Out for a wild night on the town.”
“Oh, sure,” Frances scoffed. “No one will suspect a thing.”
For some reason, they all looked at Marcy.
She blinked back at them. “Oh. Do you want my opinion?”
“Yes,” they all said in unison.
“I don’t think clubs today are like they were in the seventies. Men and women of all ages go to male revues now. And if you really want him occupied, you can pay one of the performers to do it. They work for tips, you know.”
The four of them absorbed this information.
“And for sure no one is going to think you guys are there to steal a laptop. You look like you knit each other sweaters at Christmas.”
“Don’t knock knitting. It’s very relaxing,” Edie said.
“I, for one, have zero confidence in this plan,” Frances opined.
“Got a better idea?” Irene asked.
“Of course I don’t,” Frances sniffed.
“Then it’s the plan,” Joan said. “If it’s a bust, we’ll have a good time. We could use a good time.”
“We’ll go tomorrow,” Edie said. “Right now, we’ve got a bigger fish to catch. Franny, get dressed! We should be there in an hour, no later. Irene, where are the earpieces? Let’s make sure everything works.”
“They work, they work,” Irene said.
Somehow, Frances pushed herself up from the couch and went to change clothes. And while she was at it, she took a second dose of pain medicine. She was taking too much, she knew, but this was an emergency.
She would call Amani first thing tomorrow.