Chapter 6
I’M STARTING TO WORRY.
The one good thing you can say about cartels is that they’re unbiased. Whoever you are, cross them in even the mildest way, like adding too much cilantro to the guacamole, and they will smash your head in like a rotted pumpkin without regard to your race, religion, ethnicity, or country of origin.
Even being a wife or girlfriend doesn’t earn you any brownie points. Sad to say, I’ve seen cartel women with enough black-and-blue marks to audition for a new reality show, Bruises Gone Wild.
And those were women who were loved.
God knows what they’d do to a female FBI agent.
So, putting aside all dreams of a new car and a revised reputation, I realize there are certain hazards awaiting me.
When you go undercover, there are risks involved.
Death is a distinct possibility. Losing an eye, a limb, or various parts of your face is not out of the question.
Sure, I love milkshakes as much as the next guy.
But I’d rather not spend the rest of my life eating everything through a straw.
Yes, spying on the cartel has its downside.
But taking care of a baby? Now, that’s truly terrifying.
I stayed up late reading a bunch of baby-care manuals I downloaded. But there’s really no way to prepare for the job until it happens. It’s like trying to prepare for a beheading.
In the mirror this morning, I see my wild bloodshot eyes with yesterday’s smeared makeup underneath.
In fact, I bear a striking resemblance to the classic Bride of Chucky.
I wash it all off. Metcalf has given me strict orders: No makeup today.
He’s arranged for me to visit a stylist. Or, perhaps in my case, an un-stylist. A “concealment professional” whose job, in Metcalf’s words, is to “drab you down.”
Shouldn’t take long.
My burner phone buzzes. I look at the screen. It’s the address for where I’m going: 430 Hudson Street, suite 307. Typical FBI move. No info communicated until the precise need-to-know moment.
Thirty minutes later, I’m getting off the elevator on the third floor of a creaky Greenwich Village building.
I pass a psychic’s office, a party planner, an attorney, and another psychic (really handy if you need a second opinion).
Then, at the end, is suite 307. The door reads INGRID STEPANCHIKOV. I ring the bell.
I expected some sort of drop-dead gorgeous cosmetologist. But no.
Ingrid is a chunky woman in her late forties wearing a denim shirt and baggy khaki pants, her gray hair piled on top of her head in a bun surrounded by flyaways.
Even before saying hello, Ingrid looks me up and down a few times to check out my body.
Reminds me of the old days when I used to go to singles bars.
“Take off your clothes,” she says as soon as I’m inside.
Now I really feel like I’m in a singles bar.
“Where are you from?” I ask. Anything to take my mind off my slow striptease.
“Russia,” she says. “Town of Vyazemsky.”
Oh.
Ingrid makes me turn around slowly, like a middle-aged ballerina. “I think we’re wasting taxpayer money,” I say as I twirl. “I’m already invisible.”
She shakes her head no. “Too thin,” she says. Words I never expected to hear in my lifetime.
She goes to a closet and pulls out a mushy foam bodysuit.
I lift my arms so she can wrap it around me.
A tug here, a pull there, a little prodding and pushing as she molds it into a tight fit, lifting my breasts so they slide into the large, heavily padded round cups.
Then she closes the whole thing with Velcro. I look in the wall mirror.
And lo and behold, it’s my old body! The one I ballooned up to after I was canned from the FBI. A wave of nostalgia hits me. It’s like bumping into an old friend.
Today’s bodysuit is designed to make me look bigger than I ever was, as matronly as humanly possible. And it does. Over the years, I used to think there was a thin person living inside me. Today, it looks like there are two thin people.
“What’s my bra size in this?” I ask.
“Is forty-two G.”
“Bingo!” I say. Ingrid looks confused. I guess bingo isn’t big in Vyazemsky.
“Walk,” she says. So I do. After a few tentative steps in my new bodysuit, I begin to wobble.
Not good. I’ve got to get used to this new girth before I show up for my job interview tomorrow.
But it’s a little daunting. What happens if the foam suddenly slips or the Velcro comes loose?
And what if I stand too close to a candle?
Another thing to worry about—I’m suddenly flammable.
Ingrid goes to a different closet and pulls out a few very large white polyester nurse-type uniforms. Short-sleeved, of course—the least flattering look a huge bust can have.
“Now is time for hair,” she says, examining my scalp. Ingrid sees me wince.
“I just had my roots done a few days ago,” I tell her, already mourning the loss of my beloved L’Oréal Frosted Chestnut.
Ingrid nods sympathetically. “I will put back,” she promises, “when time is ready.” She shows me a color chart.
Who knew there were so many shades of gray to choose from?
I point to the one that looks the most glamorous: marble gray (medium gray with some shiny pewter tones).
But Ingrid shakes her head. She taps her finger on ash gray—dull gray with some black strands mixed in haphazardly.
She wants me to look as drab as tarnished silver.
“And now is time for face,” she says. Clearly, when Ingrid was learning English, she must have been absent the day they taught pronouns.
She sits me in front of a makeup mirror and demonstrates what I will have to do every morning: cover up what’s good and emphasize what’s bad.
With a tiny brush, she fills in all my wrinkles with brown eyeshadow.
She does the same with my crow’s-feet and laugh lines, extending them down to add droopiness.
She rubs highlighter on my undereye bags to make them puffier.
Then she smooths it all out with a rubber cosmetic wedge.
Going from bare face to old hag takes all of three minutes. Good for when I have to do it myself every morning.
Not so good for my ego.
Like Michelangelo surveying the Sistine Chapel, Ingrid evaluates her work.
“Is nice,” she says.
Is she kidding?
I really wouldn’t blame the cartel if they decided to cut off my head.