But more than that, I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost the stupid kid I’m supposed to be trailing. I finally spot Porter, and he acknowledges me with a chin nod, but I can tell by the angle of his brow that he can’t find the backpack kid either. How could this be? I glance around one more time, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot something: two white sneakers slipping through one of the larger hole formations in the rocky cave walls. Not Polo, but the backpack kid. Sneaky little monkey is doubling back up the stairs.
Porter’s attention is elsewhere, and I’m not losing this kid again, so I take off after him. Up I go, back the way I came, twice as fast, pounding the stone steps.
The backpack kid tosses me a glance over his shoulder. He knows I’m chasing him, and he’s not stopping. Too bad. Neither am I.
When he reaches the mouth of the cave, he hesitates long enough to spot his cohort, slamming up the steps on the other side. Then they’re off, racing together through the lobby.
Porter said not to make a scene, but what about now? Do I just let these jerks get away? I quickly decide: No, I don’t.
I book it as fast as I can go, giving chase. They nearly bowl over an entire family, who startle like ducks on a pond, jumping out of their way.
“Someone stop them!” I yell.
No one does.
I think about Porter surrounded by people that horrible day on the beach years ago, when no one would help him save his dad from the shark. If strangers won’t help when someone is dying, they’re definitely not going to stop two kids from running out of a museum.
Pulse swishing in my temples, I race around the information booth, pumping my arms, and watch them split up again. Polo is heading for the easy way out: the main exit, where there’s (1) only a set of doors to go through, and (2) Hector, the laziest employee on staff.
But Backpack is headed for the ticketing booth and the connecting turnstiles. Freddy should be there, but no one’s entering the museum, so he’s instead chatting it up with Hector. The turnstiles are unmanned.
Like a pro hustler who’s never paid a subway fare, Backpack hurdles over the turnstiles in one leap. Impressive. Or it would have been, had his backpack not slipped off his shoulder and the strap not caught on one of the turnstile arms. While he struggles to free it, I take the easier route and make for the wheelchair access gate.
I unhitch the latch.
He frees the strap.
I slip through the gate, and just as he’s turning to run, I lurch forward and—
I jump on his back.
We hit the ground together. The air whooshes out of my lungs and my knee slams into tile. He cries out. I don’t.
I freaking got him.
“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” He squirms below me, elbowing me in the ribs. I clamp my hand over his arm to hold it down. A breathless, evil laugh comes out of me in fits. I can’t even say anything; I’m too winded.
“Oh no you don’t,” a triumphant male voice says nearby.
I twist to the side and spit hair out of my mouth. Porter is dragging Polo by the arm. He doesn’t look half as winded as I feel. Stupid surfer genes. But now Freddy and Hector are coming—to gawk, I guess. And here’s Grace, too; finally, someone with sense.
“What in the world is going on?” she asks.
“Watch him,” Porter tells the three of them as he parks Polo on the ground. Then he pulls me off Backpack.
“She’s crazy,” the boy repeats. “I think she broke my leg.”
“Whatever. She’s got the strength of a tater tot,” Porter says, pulling the boy to his feet, who protests and hobbles, but manages okay.
“Oww,” he whines.
“Shut the hell up, you thieving-ass rat.” Porter grabs the boy by his shirt, wrenches the backpack off his arm, tosses it to me. “Check it.”
I unzip the pack. Nested in a wadded-up hoodie is the statue. I hold it up like a trophy.
The boy groans and tries to wriggle out of Porter’s grip. “Nuh-uh,” Porter says, urging him down next to Polo and pressing the button on his sleeve. “You and your punk-ass friend aren’t going anywhere right now. We’re going to sit tight while my buddy Mr. Pangborn makes a little phone call to our friends at the CCPD. Got that, Pangborn?” he asks into his radio.
“Got it,” Pangborn’s voice answers.
While the boys exchange panicked looks, a small crowd is forming. I brush off my skirt and notice that a small trail of blood runs from a nasty scrape on my knee. I don’t even care. I’m still on an oh-so-sweet adrenaline high.
Porter grins, eyebrows high. “Damn, Bailey. You took him downtown. Full-on atomic drop body slam. I had no idea you had it in you.”
Me neither, to be honest. “No one steals from Sam Spade and gets away with it,” I say.
He holds his hand up, and I slap it, but instead of it being a simple high five, he laces his fingers between mine, squeezing. It’s probably only for a second, but it feels longer. When he releases my hand, I’m a ball of chaos: fingers tingling from where his just were, mind trying to make sense of it. Is he just being friendly, or is this maybe some sort of surfer handshake?
Now he’s crouching in front of me, inspecting my knee. “Ouch,” he says. Gentle fingers prod the skin around my wound. “You busted that up pretty good.”
“Yeah, stop poking it,” I say, but I’m not mad.
“You okay?” he asks in a softer voice.
“It’s fine.”
He nods and stands, then gestures for the falcon, gimme-gimme. When I hand it over, he turns to the two punks.
“You know this thing is worthless, right? If you ding-dongs would’ve just hustled a little faster, I suspect all you’d get for it on eBay would be ten lousy dollars, and we’d just order a new one online the next day. But now you’re going to start your teenage lives with criminal records.”
“Screw you,” Polo Shirt says. “My dad’s a lawyer. A hundred bucks says he’ll get you and the bitch fired.”
Porter laughs and tugs a thumb in my direction as Mr. Cavadini rushes toward us through the gift-shop exit. “Nice try. Her mom’s a lawyer too.”
Uh, divorce lawyer living all the way across the country, but who cares? We both share a secret smile. Who knew that my archnemesis could make such a good partner? A crime-solving partner—that’s all. No other kind of partner. I really need to wipe all those other thoughts out of my head, especially the confusing lusty thing that happened before we chased down these two kids. And the hand-holding. And the secret smiling.
Ugh.
Must rectify this tangled mess quickly, and I think I know how.
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@mink: I have a horoscope for you.
@alex: Do you? Lay it on me, because I’ve had a REALLY confusing day, and I need some guidance.
@mink: Okay, here it is: If life suddenly gives you a choice to say yes to a new experience, you should accept.
@alex: What if that experience might be a pain in the ass?
@mink: Why would you assume that?
@alex: Instinct. I’ve been burned before, remember?
@mink: Instinct is no match for reason.
@alex: At this point, I’m not even sure I’ve got either one of them on my side.
“Story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.”
—Marilyn Monroe, Some Like It Hot (1959)
10
I’m doing this. I’ve got the day off, and I’m heading toward the Killian’s Whale Tours booth. It’s eerily gray and foggy this morning. So foggy, it’s nearly noon and I still can’t see much of the ocean. This is okay by me. Fewer tourists running around. It’s like I have the boardwalk to myself.