Flirtinis with Flappers (7 page)

I shook my head. We were definitely verging on TMI territory. I needed to reel the rodent in.

"So…what should I be doing? I'm a little lost here, to tell you the truth."

The Rat sighed a squeaky sigh—admittedly kind of cute, now that I'd gotten used to him—and gave me the once-over with his beady eyes. "Jeez Louise," he muttered. "They get dumber every time."

I frowned. "That seems a bit harsh coming from someone who has a fuzzy nose and whiskers."

"Fine. Make fun. I can take it. After all, I'm just some poor rat." He looked so miffed that I almost felt bad. Almost. At the same time, he was supposed to be my contact. Didn't the job description include some rudimentary tact?

Still, it was obvious that I needed The Rat more than The Rat needed me. And that meant I had to play nice. (Or
was that mice?)

"Look, I'm sorry," I said in what I hoped sounded like a somewhat apologetic voice. "We're on the same side here. Let's not fight. Let's plan." I leaned against the chain-link fence. "As you probably know, I need to find Nick Fitzgerald, member of the Time Warriors and all-around pain in my ass. He's evidently been sent back in time into someone else's body, and I need to figure out whose. Have you happened to see him in your travels?"

The Rat shrugged. Well, as much as something without any real shoulders could manage. "Nope."

I sighed. Oh well, that would have probably been too easy.

"So then, what's the plan?" Maybe he at least had some clever scheme to help me figure things out. After all, he was a pro at this kind of scenario, while I was simply stumbling my way through.

"Plan? You tell me. Jeesh, you're slow."

Grrr.
Why had they even bothered sending me someone so useless and unpleasant? I gritted my teeth. "Why did they send you back here again?"

The Rat frowned. "To keep an eye on you, honey. To make sure you don't do anything stupid like change history yourself."

Oh. Nice. So he wasn't here to help me. He was here to babysit me. To make sure I didn't get into any trouble. So much for a super partner in saving the world.

"Fine. Then, if you're not going to help or be a productive member of my team, I suggest you go take a hike," I said, hands on my hips. "Raid the garbage. Find some cheese. Hook up with a sexy female rat and procreate. Whatever gets your rodent rocks off."

"You know, you're lucky I'm getting good overtime on this gig, princess," The Rat snarled back. "Because with an attitude like yours, I should just leave you to flounder out here in the streets and not tell you where you live or how to get there."

D'oh. Way to
go,
Dora.

"Uh, I'm sorry," I apologized quickly. "It's just been a…rough day. You know how it is."

The Rat twitched his nose at me but didn't respond. Great. Just great. I stifled a sigh.

"I would be eternally grateful if you were to show me where I lived," I tried.

Another twitch. More silence. Grrr.

"Uh, my, what a shiny fur coat you have?" I tried. "I've always dug a guy with white whiskers."

The Rat rolled his beady eyes and chuckled. "Nice to see how far you'll grovel for a warm bed." He laughed a laugh that I was pretty sure was at and not with me. "Fine. Let's go." He turned and scampered down the road. I followed him through the windy streets until we came to a somewhat dilapidated brick rooming house that rose up next to a weedy vacant lot.

"This is it," The Rat informed me. "Watch out for the landlady, though. She's a nosy one. Doesn't really care for rats either, I've found. Might be better off sticking me in your pocket until we get up to your room."

I squirmed a little at the idea of touching The Rat, never mind slipping him into a pocket of my dress and bringing him up to the area where I would sleep, but what could I do? I gingerly reached down and picked him up. His claws tickled my palms, and I almost dropped him as I tried to tuck him into my dress pocket.

"Watch it!" he growled. "It's a long way to fall, and there ain't any rat hospitals to set my leg if you break it."

"Sorry," I muttered.

"Louise! Who are you talking to?"

I looked up at the sound of a raspy smoker's voice from inside the building. A minute later, a heavyset, gray-haired woman came out the front door, wringing her hands in a dish towel. She wore a long colorless nightdress, and her silver hair was pulled up into a Gibson Girl bun.

"Louise," she said, shaking her head disapprovingly. "You don't have a beau out here, do you? You know what I think of you girls bringing boys around. I run a proper house here. Respectable. And I plan to keep it that way."

"Her name is Mrs. Landers," The Rat squeaked in my pocket.

"No, Mrs. Landers," I said. "There are no boys here. I was just talking to myself. I, um, do that sometimes. I know, I know. My mom thinks it's odd too."

Mrs. Landers narrowed her eyes and scanned the dark landscape beyond her front porch. Evidently Louise wasn't one to be taken on her word alone. But since the real guy I was talking to was a foot long and sitting nicely in my pocket, I felt I was pretty safe.

"I hope not, Miss Rolfe," Mrs. Landers said at last, looking almost disappointed. "Because just a few minutes ago, a fella came by looking for you." I raised my eyebrows. Interesting. "Who was it?"

"Some
man,
" Mrs. Landers said, spitting out the word. From the way she said it, I gathered Mr. Landers wasn't such a gem of a husband. "Said his name was Sam, and he wanted to make sure you got home all right."

I frowned. Wait a second! Sam had claimed he didn't know where I lived! And then he goes and beats me to my front door?

Still, I couldn't help but feel a small tickle of delight shiver down my spine. Was he checking on me? To make sure I was okay? That was kind of sweet.

"Who is Sam?" The Rat hissed from my pocket. I ignored him.

"Well, if he comes around again, you can tell him that I did," I said diplomatically, even though what I really wanted to say was that she could tell him to come up to my room and have his wicked way with me. Somehow, I didn't think that would go over so well, however. With either Mrs. Landers or The Rat.

Stupid twenties chaperone types.

"Very well, Miss Rolfe. Have a pleasant night." Mrs. Landers shot me one more suspicious glance from over her glasses and disappeared into the house.

"So, which one's my room?" I whispered to The Rat as I made my way inside. The squeaky screen door slammed shut behind me, leading to a final rebuke from my dear landlady.

"Second floor. Third door on the left," the Rat hissed. "Now tell me, who is Sam?"

"No one. Just some guy I met at the club."

"Does he already know Louise? You aren't going around changing history your first day out, are you?"

"Dude, will you relax? Take a cheese-flavored chill pill. I've got it all under control."

"Sure you do, princess. And you've got a bridge in Brooklyn you wanna sell me, too, right?"

I ignored him, climbing up the flight of stairs and heading down the hall. I fished through my purse for a key and found one. Sure enough, the rodent hadn't steered me wrong. The key worked, and the door swung open.

I stepped inside and surveyed the place. Ugh. My room was just as lackluster as the rest of this 1929 world. Where was Pottery Barn when you needed it? Even an IKEA wouldn't go amiss here.

The walls were covered in a dark blue wallpaper that succeeded in sucking out all the light. The furniture was solid but über plain. A kitchenette sat against one wall, a bed with gray sheets and blankets against the other. A couple of chairs, a coffee table covered with movie magazines, and a big radio-looking thing. That was it.

I stared at the radio in dismay. I had conveniently forgotten there was no TV in the twenties. Now I was going to miss the season finale of America's Next Top Model. (Um, not that I watch that cheesy show. Really. What I was truly going to miss were the…documentaries on…important stuff. Yeah.)

You know, this wasn't at all what I'd expected as far as furnishings for a mob boss's girlfriend. I mean, where were the perks of sleeping with the head honcho? Look at Ray Liotta's chick in
Goodfellas.
He'd set her up with a really nice place. A little tacky, I suppose, but it was the seventies. Louise needed to start demanding her right to a good interior designer, I was thinking. Like, until I get my matching sofa and love seat, Mr. McGurn ain't getting his jollies.

"Bleh," I remarked, as I pulled The Rat from my pocket and set him on the floor. "This place sure is dull."

"You were expecting the Four Seasons, perhaps?"

I shrugged. "At least something up to Motel Six standards."

"May I remind you that you're on a mission for the FBI, not a vacation to Club Med?"

"You can remind me all you want. Doesn't mean I'm going to suddenly enjoy sleeping on this lumpy bed." I sat down on the sleeper in question and bounced a few times. It creaked under my weight.

"Well, I'm sure it's more comfortable than the hardwood floor where I'll be sleeping,"

I looked down at The Rat. He looked up at me. I sighed.

"Fine," I relented. "You can sleep at the foot of the bed. But no squirming around at night. If your nasty bald tail brushes against my foot while I'm asleep, I can't be held responsible for what I'll do."

The Rat laughed and scrambled up onto the bed. I suppressed a shudder. I couldn't believe I was allowing a rat to share my sleeping accommodations. Even if he was a secret agent in real life.

I yawned. It wasn't that late, but I was exhausted. And since there was no sufficient entertainment in this bleak little room, I had nothing better to do than go to bed. I got up and searched through Louise's drawers and found a little silk negligee. Hm. I was normally more of a boxers and T-shirt kind of gal (much to my ex-boyfriend's dismay), but this would have to do.

After heading to the tiny ceramic-tiled bathroom and donning the ensemble, I crawled into bed, careful not to touch The Rat, who was already sound asleep and sawing logs like a lumberjack. I felt more than a bit skeeved out from slipping into someone else's sheets—even if that someone else was technically me. But hey, I guess I wouldn't be giving myself any diseases. At least, not ones I didn't already have.

I sank back down onto the pillows, staring up at the gray ceiling. Then I reached over and flipped off the light and released a slow sigh.

One night in the twenties and I'd already been chased, kissed, and rebuked by a talking rat. I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

"Are you
ever
going to wake up?"

I groggily opened one eye, then the other, and stared at the owner of the now familiar squeaky voice tickling my ear.

"Ugh," I said, squeezing my eyes closed again. The sunlight streaming through the window felt like laser beams burning my corneas. I had never been a morning person, and waking up in some random chick's body who had lived and died years before I was even born made getting up all the less attractive.

"What, you think you're on some Caribbean vacation? That you can sleep in and then take out the catamarans when you finally wander out of bed at noon? You have a lot of work to do, princess. It's three days before Valentine's Day, and I'm willing to bet you haven't a clue as to how to find this man of yours, never mind how to convince him not to change history. I mean, sure, maybe a complete change in history doesn't mean much to you, but think of the rest of the world, Oh Selfish One. There are a few of us out there that actually are pretty Zen with life, the universe, and everything and would appreciate keeping things status quo."

I groaned, pulling the covers over my head to drown out his nagging. "I'm tired. World-saving can wait five more minutes."

"Sure. Five minutes here. Five minutes there. Pretty soon you've slept away your entire trip to the twenties. You know, I'm supposed to be freaking nocturnal, and I was up with the sun. What's your excuse?"

"Okay, okay. Jeesh." I tossed away the covers with an exaggerated flair. "I'm up. Happy?"

"I'm stuck in the twenties as a talking rat, having to keep an eye on a moron like you. Take a guess at the level of my delirious joy."

"About on par with mine at being stuck with a dirty rodent who thinks he's freaking Albert Brooks."

"Touché, princess," the Rat replied, but I could almost hear approval in his voice. "Now get your butt out of bed."

I rolled my eyes and slipped out of bed, crossing the room to the bathroom. Why, oh why, couldn't my twenties contact have been some leather jacket wearing sexy biker boy with really good massage skills? I mean, was that so much to ask?

Someone like Sam?
my brain queried as I caught my reflection in the dingy bathroom mirror. My lips still appeared somewhat puffy and scraped—slightly bruised, as if I'd been kissed senseless by someone with a strong, aggressive mouth. Which, of course, I had, but I was surprised to see the evidence remaining on my face the next day. Louise's face, technically speaking. Evidently she didn't heal as quickly—probably due to a lack of availability of Prada Shielding Balm in Tint 02. Poor Louise. So deprived.

I pressed a finger against my lower lip and then released it. Hopefully the guy Louise was supposed to be dating—the one who saw nothing wrong with people addressing him as "Machine Gun" to his face—wouldn't notice her
just been molested by an oh-so-sexy friend
glow. Ugh. I was not being a good caretaker of my twenties body. Good thing I hadn't put down a big deposit on her, or I'd
so
be forfeiting it by the end of my stay.

I rinsed my face and headed out of the bathroom. After shooing The Rat out of the room (rodent or no, he wasn't about to see Louise-me naked) I approached the chest of drawers to find something to wear. I rummaged through lacy, belty undergarments and other frilly unidentifiable things. Yuck. Why couldn't Nick have chosen to hang with Charlie Manson or something as his crooked time-travel mission? At least in the sixties women could do the casual jeans/T-shirt thing. Not to mention, I could have been hanging out with movie stars in oh-so-cool San Fran instead of gangsters in chilly, gritty Chicago.