“We do,” he said. “Check our charter.”
“I’ll—I’ll call a press conference and—and you’ll be toast.” As if she had the slightest idea how to call a press conference. Maybe she’d just take a jaunt down to the Star Tribune offices and do a demonstration for them. Then they would call the press conference. Right? Right.
The Boss was laughing at her. His eyebrows had smoothed out, but his face was still an alarming shade of brick. “Tell!” he gasped, waving at her. “Tell!”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell whomever you want. Tell Stacy. Tell your mailman. Tell your landlord. Tell the president, that fucking moron. We don’t care.”
“Well, why don’t you?” she asked, nettled.
“Caitlyn, dear child—“
“Do not call me that.”
“—what would they do? Even if they believed you? Do you think Stacy would tell the world even if she had the faintest idea how? Do you think your mailman gives a ripe shit? I’ve got a little test for you—tonight, when you’re out having drinks or premarital sex or whatever it is you do to pass the time, yell to the bar that you’re the product of a secret government experiment. See what happens.”
“But…” She was totally floored. She had figured the Boss was evil—he wore too much brown—but she never would have guessed he was suicidally careless. “But in the movies, blowing your cover, that’s always a huge disaster. It—“
“Sunshine, do you see a movie set anywhere?”
“Do not—“
“This is real life, and let me tell you something about your fellow homo dumbasses: they’re too wrapped up in their own problems to give a fuck about anything that may or may not have happened to you.”
“I’m sure that’s not right,” she said stiffly.
The Boss shrugged.
She stood abruptly, resisted the urge to grab him by the ears and pound his head into the desk for ten, maybe twenty minutes, and walked to the doorway.
“Don’t screw up next time!” he called after her.
“Blow me next time,” she muttered.
She thought she heard laughter when she headed into the stairwell, but though she strained, she couldn’t make it out. She decided it was her imagination.
Chapter 9
As she stepped into Mag, she overheard some of her regulars playing her all-time favorite, Mother-in-law Jeopardy. She grinned as she hung her coat in the back, then hurried over to her chair, where Jenny had already sent her first customer of the afternoon.
“I’ll take ‘you did not just say that to me’ for two hundred, Alex,” her client, Lydia, was saying, dropping her purse on the floor and waving to Caitlyn.
“The answer is Where your son will spend eternity.”
“The question is What is hell,” Lydia replied promptly, “because he doesn’t go to Sunday school.”
“Ding-ding-ding-ding!” Caro, Robbie, and Barb all clapped. Robbie, the game-show host, added, “Very good, Lydia, and that puts you in the lead.”
Caitlyn smirked and started combing out Mag’s running Mother-in-law Jeopardy champ. Squeaky clean, as usual. Lydia had a thing about never coming to the salon with hair that needed to be washed. Her mom had done heads back in the day and would have skinned her alive if she’d shown up at a salon with greasy hair.
“’Lo, Caitlyn. Alex, I’ll take ‘things that caused my mother-in-law to freak out for no reason,’ for four hundred.”
“The question is ‘What your son had for breakfast one day.’ “
“um… what is cereal without milk?”
“Ennnnnnhhhhh! I’m sorry, Lydia. Barb?”
“What is toast?”
“Ding-ding-ding! Good job, Barb. And the board goes to—ouch, Dara, not so hard.”
“Sorry,” Dara replied, easing up with the comb.
“I’ll take ‘you told your mother I’d do what?for six hundred, Alex.”
“Something you swore you’d never do.”
“What is host Easter?”
“That is correct, Barb!”
“You guys,” Caitlyn said, shaking her head. “C’mon, married life can’t be that bad.”
“Talk to us when you’re married,” Barb said. “Love the highlights, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you keep them for a while?”
Caitlyn blinked, confused. “Because I don’t know what tomorrow will bring?” she guessed as if it were a riddle.
“You have ADD hair,” Robbie pointed out. She was younger than Caitlyn , a PhD candidate at the U of M. A nerd who cared about her appearance… a rare and wonderful thing. “I’m here every six weeks, and you never have the same hair color twice in a row.”
“I try to match my hair,” she explained, “to what the situation demands.”
“Medical boards,” Robbie said.
“Dark brown with reddish gold highlights, wire-rim glasses.”
“But you don’t wear glasses.”
“The lenses,” she explained, snipping Lydia’s bangs, “are clear.”
“Dinner at the White House.”
“Dark blond hair, red lipstick.”
“Uh… job interview.”
“Brown hair, bangs, minimal makeup.”
“Class reunion.”
“Which one?”
“Uh… tenth.”
“Bright red hair, lots of makeup.”
“But, Caitlyn,” Lydia said, “isn’t your natural hair color that gorgeous white blond? Marilyn Monroe blond?”
“Yes.”
“Why, why would you ever color it? Women pay a hundred bucks to color their hair to match what God gave you.”
She shrugged. She was looking for something, had been all her life. Too bad she didn’t have a clue what it was. And too bad she kept expecting to find it in the mirror. “I like change, I guess.”
Robbie was still trying to stump her. “Dinner with an ex-boyfriend.”
“Black streaks, perfect makeup. Engagement ring.”
“Your wedding.”
“Natural. No color, but flawless makeup and expensive underwear. Maybe a Vera Wang dress.”
“Get-together with old sorority girlfriends.” A new voice, one she didn’t recognize. She looked across the room and saw a new customer sitting patiently with her hair in foils. She was small, about five feet tall, with brown eyes and long lashes. She was pretending to read that week’s People, but Caitlyn could tell she wasn’t cognitively engaged in the magazine. She was much more interested in the conversation. “With lots of alcohol and a rented limo.”
“Dark blond streaks,” she replied. “Miniskirt, fitted T-shirt, sandals.”
The woman just smiled in response.
“I’ve never seen you in here before,” Caitlyn said pleasantly.
“I heard this place was the best. So here I am.”
“Mmmm. Well, we appreciate that. Don’t we, girls?”
The other cutters murmured in response, and Dara struck up a conversation with the stranger. Who was so obviously a spy, it wasn’t even funny.
Great. The Boss’s way of keeping an eye on her, she supposed.
“Oh, and I’ve got one for Mother-in-law Jeopardy,” the stranger added.
“Sorry,” Caitlyn said shortly. “Game’s over.”
Chapter 10
“—So then the Boss is all shoot-him-in-the-face and I’m all screw-that-buddy-roo, and he’s all just-do-it, you know, like a Nike ad gone mad, and I’m all just-do-it-you’re-so-fond-of-guns, and he’s all—unff!”
The second punching bag’s chain snapped and it sailed a good six feet in the air before collapsing on the mat.
“Aw, nuts!”
“Now you’re just showing off,” Stacy said. She was dressed in trendy workout gear—tight shorts, two tank tops (one pink, one white), spotless white socks, spotless workout shoes—and sipped her daiquiri (she’d brought a cooler full of them) while she watched Caitlyn work out. “Seriously, knock it off.
It’s bad enough I’m already the ‘funny one.’ I gotta be the ‘dull one’ too?”
“Shut up, you’re gorgeous, dammit, dammit!” Caitlyn kicked the now-supine punching bag, which obligingly rolled over and over. “So I, the new kid, cleverly think up a way to fix the virus problem without anybody getting shot in the face—“
“You’ve been using that phrase a lot,” Stacy observed, pushing the pedals of her stationary bike hard enough so they went around once, then slowly stopped. She rewarded her exertions with another gulp of alcohol and ice. “It’s kind of yucky.”
“—and for my thanks I get a bunch of veiled threats and he laughs at me.”
“Sounds like a real jerk.”
“A real jerkoff. Yes. He is, he is And I can’t work out anymore! I wreck half the gym!”
“Oh, please.” Stacy rolled her eyes. “Pardon me if I don’t cry you a river. It just means you can’t kickbox anymore.”
“But it’s, like, the best way to stay in shape.”
“I don’t think staying in shape is gonna be your big concern anymore,” Stacy observed. “Flabby thighs are now the least of your problems. And it’s one o’clock in the morning, in case you didn’t notice. We’re the only ones in the gym except for the—“
“What happened here?” the trainer cried, rushing up to them.
Caitlyn opened her mouth to say what she did not know, when Stacy interrupted. “This thing fell down and almost hit my friend.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
“She’s fine,” Stacy answered, again before Caitlyn could say a word. “She’s got the reflexes of a cat on crack.”
“Look,” Caitlyn continued when the trainer had hurried to the back to fill out the appropriate forms, “you seem a little, I don’t know, cavalier about what’s happened to me. What they did to me. Where’s the outrage on my behalf? Where’s the love, Stace?”
Stacy climbed off the bike, smoothed her hair back, checked her reflection in one of the mirrors, then replied, “Am I sorry you got hurt? Sure am. Am I sorry you’re in this weird-ass fix? Yup. Am I sorry you’re still alive, and better than ever, and nobody can push you around anymore, not that they really ever did, excluding your parents, God rest ‘em? No.”
“I’m having a little trouble following that,” she admitted.
“It’s like this, Jimmy. The first time I called the hospital—you know, after they’d released me and I was home? I wanted to check up on you, right? Well, they told me you were dead. And I—it freaked me out, okay? It totally, completely freaked me out. I wasn’t ready to lose my best friend in my mid-twenties, okay? I mean, I heard later that it was a mistake and you were in rehab or whatever, but still. That first time. Hearing it. Major major shock.”
“Sorry,” Caitlyn said quietly. She’d been so focused on what had happened to her, she had never considered what had happened to her friend.
“Wasn’t your fault. Anyway, now I don’t have to worry about that happening—you doing the big gak—for a long time. So I guess if you’re looking for a shoulder to cry on, you’d better talk to somebody who doesn’t care either way if you’re dead. Which ain’t me.”
“That’s… so sweet,” she said at last. “I’m pretty sure. So the sympathy train is at an end, huh?”
“Baby, the train never left the station.” Stacy sat on the floor, leaned against one of the rolled-up mats, propped one toe atop the other toe, took another sip, wriggled her shoulders, then asked, “So, what else can you do?”
“Burn out that bike. Knock the last kicking bag off the chain. Pick up every weight in this place—at the same time.”
“So, standard stuff. Ah, but can you do this?” She set her drink down, then patted her stomach and rubbed her head at the same time.
Caitlyn burst out laughing. “No, they must have left that out of the upgrade.”
“Well, then,” Stacy said, clearly trying not to sound smug, and failing miserably.
Chapter 11
Caitlyn hung up her coat and glared at the spy, who claimed her name was Sara. Sara hauled her sorry butt into Mag about once a week, which in itself was a joke. Caitlyn was a big believer in maintenance, feeling every woman should try to look her best, but even her most hardcore clients contented themselves with semi-monthly visits. Some secret-secret-ultra-cool government spy agency if they didn’t know that most basic spa-ism.
Thus far, “Sara” had been in for a pedicure, to have a broken nail fixed—Caitlyn didn’t know if she’d cracked it herself or if it had been an accident… probably the former—a haircut, highlights, a deep conditioning treatment, and another haircut. Then another manicure and pedicure. It was springtime now, and Caitlyn couldn’t help wondering how the powers that be decided Sara would pretend to be a customer that week. Acne attack? More broken nails? Foot fungus? Bikini wax? It would have been funny if it weren’t so damn annoying.
She hadn’t heard from O.S.F. or the Boss since she’d un-virgined (de-virgined?) Terrance, a blessing for which she gave thanks daily. She supposed she should be waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she was too busy pretending everything was back to normal. It was much easier to pull that off when she didn’t have to deal with, speak to, or look at the Boss.
Sara the spy was chatting with Dara—Sara and Dara… how too fucking cute—about a new look. Since she’d had four new looks in as many weeks, Dara had told Caitlyn in privacy that she assumed her new client was either a) incredibly lonely, or b) incredibly insecure.
“She’s new in town,” Dara had said, “so I’m betting it’s the first one.”
“I’m betting it’s neither,” Caitlyn had replied, but refused to be drawn into a pleasurable gossip on the subject.
She certainly didn’t look like a spy, Caitlyn thought, grabbing the mail from Jenny and walking over to her station. Sara was teeny and cute, especially now that Mag’s professionals had had their way with her. She was still a brunette, but now her hair was streaked with gold. Her lashes were professionally curled, and her eyes, deep and dark, looked out at the world from beneath professionally plucked brows.
Her pulse and blood pressure no longer skyrocketed whenever Caitlyn walked into the room. She was obviously getting used to these weekly “go-sees,” in model parlance.
What a job, Caitlyn thought, not without a twinge of envy. Go to a salon once a week and keep an eye on the local freak. While you’re at it, get your roots done. To think, her tax money paid this woman!
The money. The money… Caitlyn tried not to think about the money, but it was difficult. About six days after she’d returned from “neutralizing” Terry, a government check for $16,326.91 had shown up. They had, of course, taken out state and federal taxes, FICA, and something called a CIAA, but there was still plenty left over.
And that was half of her check. The Boss had docked her.
She had banked the check—hell, she’d earned it, hadn’t she?—and tried very hard to forget that if she just did four or five favors a year for the Boss, she could live very comfortably. It was stupid, because money had never been important to her. Heck, she’d given almost all of hers away, hadn’t she? Her dad had held the money over her head so many times, she lost count, and couldn’t get rid of it fast enough after the funerals. So she needn’t—
Jenny hurried over with a pink message slip, breaking Caitlyn’s train of thought. Thank goodness! Worrying about a spy spying on her she completely did not need, as the tiny . wrinkles around her eyes would no doubt attest.
“Barb called, says it’s an emergency. Home perm,” Jenny added in a near whisper. “She’s in bad shape. Can you squeeze her in?”
Caitlyn nearly gasped. The horror, the horror! “Sure I can. Poor thing. Tell her to come right over. And what was she thinking?”
“She let her niece do it for practice,” Jenny said over her shoulder. “I guess she didn’t think it’d go so bad. Teach her to be nice.”
“Boy, no kidding. Agh!” She lo
oked up from brushing off her chair to see Sara standing in front of her. “What do you want?”
“The Boss wants to see you,” Sara said pleasantly. She smoothed the navy blue smock—every other salon in town did black smocks, so eighties—which came down to her knees. “Right away.”
“Tell him tough noogies. I’ve got an emergency.”
“You have to cut hair,” Sara sniffed.
“Yeah, well, one woman’s emergency is another woman’s something-or-other.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me. The Boss wants to see you now.”
“And I don’t think you’re hearing me, Sara, if that is your real name, which I totally doubt: if you don’t get your spying ass out of my face, I’m going to rip your arms off.”
Sara backed up. “I don’t think—“
“Good-bye.”
“—but—“
Caitlyn turned her back on the smaller woman. The Boss wanted to see her now? Tough luck. She had work to do. She had hair, not to mention that most precious of commodities, a woman’s self-esteem, to save.
Chapter 12
“I sent for you thirty-eight hours ago,” the Boss said.
Frothed, actually. He’d been drinking a latte, and foam was sticking to his upper lip. It made him look rabid, which was not an entirely unrealistic image. “What the hell took you so long?”
“I had a hair emergency, then I had to finish my shift, then I had a party.”
“You had a what?”
“Which word,” Caitlyn asked slowly and carefully, “do you need me to define?”
“Party?”
“Why am I not surprised it’s that word. Okay. A party, noun, is a gathering of friends… um. Friend. Okay, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. A friend is a—“
“You went to a party? The hair thing I almost get—you’re a small-business owner, you have to please your customers—but a party?”
“It was an important party,” she said defensively. “Stacy got her real estate license.” Ah, and the beer had flowed, as they said in Dumb and Dumber, like wine.