CHIP TRIED TO RATTLE the door of his jail cell with both hands like he’d seen in movies, but the beige-painted bars neither moved nor made the slightest squeak.
“Calm down or you’ll pull a muscle,” said Billie, as she lay on the wooden bench inside the cell. “Then I’ll have to listen to you moaning about that all day.”
Chip rested his forehead against a cool metal bar.
“Why’d you have to punch the deputy in the face?”
“Good question.” Billie spat a brown glob across the room. “Why did you––when faced with a single Barney Fife from a Podunk dip-in-the-road who was just trying to take a report––start freaking out with that story about how we’re two lovebirds on our honeymoon? Where in the name of Garth Brooks did that come from?”
“I panicked. I thought he’d stop asking questions.”
Billie shook her head. “You couldn’t give away a can of Fresca in Death Valley.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re dumb.”
“Breaking his nose was a better option?”
“I thought we could outrun that jellybean patrol car,” said Billie, with a despondent sniff. “My truck looks like a fresh cow pie, but she can go. Could go.”
“Running from the police doesn’t make it better. Especially without a windshield!”
“Me and the law, nothing makes it better.”
Chip rubbed his cheeks with both hands and grabbed the cell door again.
“What a nightmare.”
“If you think this is a nightmare or a dream or whatever, you’ve never spent time in a Juarez lockup,” said Billie. “Don’t get your little pink panties twisted in a knot––Fran’s gonna be here in a few hours. That was my one phone call.”
“Fran?”
“Dean’s father. Name’s Frank, but don’t ever call him that, always use Fran. And this ain’t funny like on TV. When I say don’t ever call him that, it means don’t ever call him that. He’ll rip off your baby-making bits.”
Chip thumped his forehead against the steel bars. “Fantastic. Wish I could call my mom. I just want to get the PPPP and go home.”
“So you can play video games all day?”
“Yes, actually. That’s my job.”
“Find something else to do,” said Billie. “A few years of that and you’ll be fatter than a convention of pigs in a Hostess bakery.”
“Hey! I take yoga.”
A series of rapid-fire thumps came from the end of the corridor, and sounded like a cluster of M80s thrown into a pond. A muffled crash followed, then a desperate scream.
Chip tried to peer sideways through the bars. “What the Freaky Friday was that?”
“Beat all we can do about it,” said Billie.
The noise had seemed to come from behind a heavy security door, out of sight down the corridor to the right. Chip heard a series of clicks, a squeal of metal, then footsteps. Step by slow, methodical step, hard soles slapped the bare concrete.
Black leather shoes appeared first, reflecting the yellow sodium light with a bright, expensive shine. Chip’s gaze traveled up the tall pipes of tuxedo pants past a white shirt, black bow tie, and black tuxedo jacket to brilliant blue eyes, blonde flattop, and impassive, pale face. Behind this regal figure shuffled a mustachioed chauffeur in a uniform of sky-blue velvet.
Chip cleared his throat. “Are you Fran?”
Billie had a fit of coughing which required a few backslaps from Chip.
“Not Fran,” she said at last.
“Okay, then,” said Chip to the two men in the corridor. “How can we help you?”
The chauffeur sneered. “Small boy, you are locked in box and cannot help us. You should say, how can WE help you. It is basic English.”
“Fine. Can YOU help us?”
The man in the tuxedo nodded and spoke with a Slavic accent. “Allow me to be introduced. I am Duke Nichego of Kamchatka––”
Billie raised her head. “Catcha-what?”
The chauffeur jumped forward. “Shut your face, small man! The Duke is speaking.” He kicked the metal bars of the door and hissed in pain.
“I am Duke Nichego of Kamchatka,” said the blue-eyed figure. “I am rich man come to the famous city of San Jose to be married, but my bride is now kidnapped.”
“Girl thief!” screamed the chauffeur.
Nichego held up a pale hand. “If you have taken my beautiful Angelika or lie to my face about her location, I will release you from this prison only to scoop out your eyes with an egg spoon. If, on the other hand, you are not weasel-persons and can help me find her, I will release you from prison and probably not do that other thing with the spoon.”
“Who’s Angelika?” asked Chip.
“Shut up.” Billie grabbed the cell bars. “Yeah, we can find her. Let us out.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Nichego. “Vassily, the egg spoon.”
“The what, sir?”
“Egg spoon, egg spoon, egg spoon!” shouted Nichego. “Ah, what’s the use. Thirty times and you still can’t remember.”
Vassily took a small automatic from his jacket. “You mean the pistol, Duke Nichego? Should I aim for eyeball?”
Nichego closed his eyes and rubbed his face for a moment. “I am asking you two jail-weasels one more time––have you seen a girl in a red wedding dress? She is kidnapped by a pink van.”
“I’ve never heard of this girl,” said Chip. “But the pink vehicle is mine. It was kind of stolen––borrowed, if you like––from my house.”
“That is good,” said Nichego. “My Angelika is with the people in that pink monster. If you help me find it, I promise to let you out of this cell and not scoop your eyes or even shoot them.”
Red-faced, Billie paced the tiny cell.
“I don’t know,” said Chip. “My mother––”
“Quiet,” said Billie. “Duke Leggo-My-Eggo or whatever your name is, we’ll help you find this girl. They’re heading east on the highway, and we’ve got an electronic tracker.”
“Very good,” said Nichego.
He took a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the cell door. Chip and Billie stepped out and were prodded along the corridor by the chauffeur and his pistol. Nichego pressed a buzzer, and the exit door squealed open.
Inside the sheriff’s office, Chip expected a scene of gore and sprawled bodies, but not a paperclip or file folder looked out of place. Across the room, two deputies calmly chatted behind bulletproof glass.
“What was all that noise before?”
Nichego waved to the deputies, and they waved back. “Noise? Oh, that––I gave the American officers a bag of coins, enough to buy all the ice cream bars in the machine. Unfortunately, the machine became stubborn about giving ice cream and then somehow became smashed on the floor. Life is so stressful sometimes.”