Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies (7 page)

My stomach growled. Last night’s lobster tail was a distant memory. The aromas of southern comfort food ignited my appetite.

I flagged the waitress. Sausage gravy with two eggs over easy and some buttery grits might give me an extra jolt of energy. Then I remembered the skin-tight cat suit and held my cup for her. “Just a refill. Thank you.”

Leech finally arrived performing a John Travolta strut; his entrance caused a mini-disturbance. Evidently, he was a mini-celebrity in the Cracker Box. He wore jeans, a checkered shirt, and cowboy boots. A diamond stud glittered from his left earlobe as he threw his dreads behind his shoulders. He lifted my hand and kissed it, pulled out the opposite chair with a wood-on-tile squeal and eased into the seat.

He passed the menu to the waitress after ordering bacon, smoked ham, eggs, and hash browns. His dark eyes set on me with an amused look. “I’m being upfront with you. The deal is
Buildering
. Urban climbing. If I can’t scale the outside of a building, a gig isn’t worth beans to me.”

“You’re crazy. There is no sane reason to climb the outside of a high-rise. It’s a simple inside job with probable high-tech security.”

“Look doll, I checked you out. You’re famous, sort of. The only reason I’m helping you is so I can use your name on my website. Saying you’re my student will get me corporate sponsors.”

“You are so
not
using my name on any website. Hear me good. I’m not about to risk my life on the outside of a building so you can get brownie points with
The Birds
.”

“This ain’t about
The Birds.
I’m working on winning the international record for Buildering. The final competition is in Dubai in June. Need me some deep-pocket sponsors. Doing cheap stunts like hanging from the inside of an elevator shaft won’t get me moneyed backers. I ain’t no Tom what’s his name.”

I cracked my knuckles instead of cracking his head. Time was running out. Hic could be gone at any moment. I locked my green peepers with Leech’s inky eyes. “I assume hiking the sides of high-rises doesn’t exactly pay well; for every building you climb you spend an equal amount of time in a police car. You probably have a bail bondsman with both hands in your pockets.”

He broke eye contact.

“I’m willing to retain your talents for one thousand dollars.”

Leech snorted, coffee shooting from his nose. “I wouldn’t embarrass myself for a grand.”

“What amount would you lower your standards for?”

“Let’s try it my way first. Humor me. You’re a fit chick.” He shot me a lecherous look. “What’s your sign?”

“It’s unlisted.”

He snorted again. “Once you soar like a pigeon to a ledge you’ll be begging to write me a website testimonial.”

I shook my head trying to loosen plan B. It had to be in there somewhere.

His voice turned whiney. “Aww come one. Take a crack at being my student. I’ll watch out for you. If you don’t feel the thrill, then I will chill.”

Hic’s time was running out. What were my options? “
Maybe
one practice session,” I bluffed. “If I don’t like it we stop
immediately
. Oh… and no publicity. Nada. This is a black op.”

“You look great in black,” he flashed a snow-white grin sans one front tooth probably lost in a fall.

I glanced around the dining room delaying my response. The elderly couple next to us was chowing down on a breakfast of southern fried chicken and corn on the cob. Two policemen sat at a window-side table speed-eating scrambled eggs and toast. Not a spare robber in the house.

“Okay. We try one quick lesson, but it has to be soon!”

“Cool. Two grand. Cash.”

There wasn’t time to negotiate with the skinny dude. Leech extended his slender hand across the table. We shook. His palm was sandpaper rough. His smile reminded me of a fox sizing up a chicken, not that I’d ever seen a fox in person but I was definitely a chicken.

“Just remember I’m scared purple of heights but I
can
beat the shit out of you. And I don’t do anything illegal.”

He snorted again. “Hello? You’re hiring me to help you break and enter a high security building. By the way, what are we stealing?”

I flipped a mental coin then unflipped it. I had no choice but to trust him. My life was about to be in his hands. “I’ve been hired by a confidential client to recover a bronze bucking bronco that was stolen from him. It’s thirty-two inches tall but pretty heavy. It’s supposed to be on display in the Cowboy Pension Fund gallery lobby along with other western art.”

I stopped speaking while the waitress placed a large platter in front of Leech. The eggs swam in melted butter and the bacon looked like a menu photo. He managed to gobble it down and slug three mugs of coffee in the time it took me to get the check.

“That metal horse must be worth a lot,” He blotted his lips with a paper napkin and pushed back from the table. “We’ll run through your preliminary Buildering practice at my place, then visit the gallery. You’re in good hands.”

He stood smoothing his tight jeans down his thighs. “Follow me.”

I was
so
not going to take a lesson from this fanatic. At the last minute I would claim cramps, back out, and drag his cat-burglar butt to the North by Northwest building.

Goldie and I followed Leech’s faded silver Nissan hatchback for about five miles and thirty-five red lights. He parked outside a large complex in Kendall Lakes in suburban Miami. I parked in a guest slot then jogged down a paved side alley behind my sensei.

We entered a concrete courtyard with a dusting of snack food bags and empty beer bottles. “Where’s your house?”

He pointed to an old stucco mid-rise with touches of faux Spanish trim. His finger moved to a patio three floors up with a rainbow flag waving from the railing. “I always enter from the rear window.”

It took a full minute to grasp the situation. “I think not!” My hands felt like two slabs of cold raw liver.

“Trust me. This is your first lesson. Once you get in the flow you’ll feel weightless.”

“No. I will feel like one-hundred and twenty-five pounds falling to earth.”

“You won’t fall. You’re in the hands of a master. I live for the wind in my dreads.”

“I have no dreads except that of heights.” Also holes in fabric and getting my face wet.

Leech took me by the shoulders and turned me so we were nose to nose. “Grasshopper,
whom
do you think taught Daniel Craig his James Bond jazz?
Whom
do you think stood eighty-eight stories below Sean Connery and Catherine Zeta Jones at the foot of the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur?”

“Your neighbors will call the police,” I said fighting the impulse to turn and run. This was not going the way I envisioned. Whatever happened to regular old burglars?

“My neighbors would call the cops if I went in the front door. They respect my talent.”

I wanted to believe him but if he was that good why was he Buildering for tips on Biscayne Boulevard?

He grabbed my head and pushed it down. What the hell was that all about?

I balled my fists and swung at his abs.

“Chill… it’s just a few stretches to limber you.”

My head popped up.

He pushed it down again.

My jeans were tight and had no flex. Head between my knees I looked at my sneakers and kissed my ass goodbye.

Releasing my noggin, he leaned against the wall and pulled off his cowboy boots. He was wearing bright yellow toe socks. Each toe had a separate covering and looked like a gloved finger. Yanking a pair of hand gloves from his jean pocket he tossed one leather fingerless glove my way. “For your right hand.”

I let it fall at my feet. Germs! Bacteria! Holes in the fingertips! I was in yuck-shock.

“You only get one. One hand for grip and one hand for slip… not.” He snort-laughed, picked up the glove and handed it to me. “Wear it!”

Using two fingers I daintily accepted the glove.

“Just relax. Have fun with your fears.” He took a knife from his pocket and scraped the stones of the building creating a gritty dust. “Rub your fingertips in this. It will prevent slipping.”

“I’m getting cramps,” I said and clutched my stomach.

Leech grabbed my fingers and smushed them through the chalky powder.

“Put your foot there and your other foot there. You’ll feel better when you gain some altitude. Get a strong open-handed grip. Find your plumb-line.”

Plumb-line? I don’t have a plumb-line.

My cell phone did its
Pink Panther
ring. I fumbled in my jean pocket holding one finger up to Leech. Caller ID read T. Henman. Not now, Tippy. I silenced the ring and pocketed the phone. I’d call her back as soon as this was over. If I lived through it.

Leech grabbed my tushie in an upward shove. I frog-jumped away from his hand and found myself clambering up the wall. “Stop that you little shit!”

Failing to dodge his next pass I felt his palms cup my butt cheeks. I frog-jumped again and shot further up the wall. “Get your hands off my ass!”

“Be Zen,” he said.

This was bullshit. I was about to kick his head to drive the point home when he boosted my right thigh sending me into yet another hop. I was a good ten-feet high on the building.

“Less swing on the hold!” he called as he spidered-up the wall leaving me behind.

In a blink I was two-stories up and clammy as a dead tuna. The strain on my wrists was making carpal-tunnel seem like a holiday. Pressing my head and chest to the wall, I swung my lower body back from my waist, hips and legs dangling over the courtyard. The logical side of my brain chose that moment to wake up and do the math. Leech would have been about ten years old when Sean Connery and Catherine Zeta Jones filmed
Entrapment.
I was dealing with a psycho.

“Just watch where I step and place your feet in the same grooves.”

Hands on the ledge I leaned back to see where his damn yellow feet were. My bare palm scraped the cement. It stung like acid. My feet were now toe-in, kitty-corner on the four-inch wide third floor ledge. I sensed Leech one level above me. “How the hell do you get your groceries?” I panted trying to distract my un-Zen mind from jumping to the pavement and ending it all.

“I eat out. Now take your nose off the bricks and reach higher with your bare hand. Just a little further. Push up with your lower body.”

My lower body was in no position to thrust, my feet teetered on the edge of air. Stretching, my fingers slid from the narrow concrete trim. A window to my right opened with a rattle. “Who the hell are you? Batwoman?” an old man shrieked.

Losing my grip I spun a one-eighty
Kill Bill
kick and ended facing out with the back of my head pressed against the wall, my clammy right hand suctioned to the building, my left fingers frantically clutching clouds, and my sneakers slipping off the ledge.

Looking down I could see the Grand Canyon. I thought I knew vertigo before, but this was an entirely new dizzy. The air whooshed from my body as if being hermitically sealed. The ground spiraled up to meet me. I flung my head back against the wall. If I fell I’d splash like corned beef hash.

“I am so out of here!” I yelled at Leech. “Talk me down you lunatic!”

“Get Zen!”

“Does he have a net?”

I crossed my left hand over my body and groped for my cell phone. “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“Don’t do that!” Leech hollered.

I fumbled my phone out of my pocket. It slipped from my hand and dropped hitting a cluster of bushes and lodging on a limb. A fleck of dirt flicked in my right eye. I blinked like a neon bulb going out. The image of Roger weeping at my funeral pooled tears in my eyes and washed out the grit. Small blessings.

Shadows settled to my left and then my right. Tangible darkness seemed to be enclosing me. I felt a hand clutch my ankle. In what appeared to be a computer-generated horror scene the wall filled with a flock of skinny dudes in black. The Birds.

I fell forward. The Bird who had me by the ankle held tight. I swung down, face in toward the building. My nose scraped the wall, my body bounced once, and then slammed into the arms of two Birds. They fell to the ground with me. I was killing two Birds with one nose.

“This is not going to happen
ever
again,” I said as I released my death grip from the taller Bird. My legs buckled and the shorter Bird caught me. “Hey lady, no offense, but you’re too old to be Buildering.” He handed me my phone.

I collapsed on the pavement and glanced down at my left leg in horror. There was a hole in my jeans… at the knee. A real honest-to-Pete hole.

Back at my condo I showered and scrubbed my knee until it was bright red. There was no way to undo what was done. I would always know my left knee had been holed. I towel dried and pulled on my undies avoiding a knee-glance. Packing concealer on my red clown nose, I winced from the pain and admired the results. Not too bad for gallery reconnaissance.

I had to meet Leech in front of the North by Northwest Building at three o’clock. I decided on a discreet gray business suit with a pencil skirt and form fitted jacket, tailored but not too flashy. Likeable, but not memorable. I pulled my shoulder-length blonde curls into a tortoise-shell barrette at the nape of my neck. Leech was to look the part of a wealthy cowboy but not so he would attract attention.

At three on the dot, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the North by Northwest tower. I couldn’t fathom the compulsion Builderers felt to climb. Tipping back to look up the fifty-one stories, I bumped into a passerby. He caught me as I fell into his chest. “Sorry, sorry!”

Stumbling back I spotted Archie Leech marching along the street lost in his own parade of self-importance. Dressed entirely in white he looked like the new sheriff in
Blazing Saddles
. The only spot of color, a huge turquoise belt buckle, matched the rings he wore on all ten fingers.
And I was worried about standing out.

“Cool, huh?” he pivoted on the heels of his white cowboy boots, took off his ten-gallon hat and swung it in an exaggerated bow.

“Terrific. Let’s hurry. I only have days, hours, minutes to re-steal Alfred Hiccup’s bronco.”