Leanne Banks - Hot Stuff

Cate closed her eyes and thunked her forehead against an over-the-counter cabinet. She was in bad shape. She was doomed. There was no denying it, she was in love.

Two hours later, Cate had four cakes cooling on racks on the granite countertops, and she had the butter softening for the icing. Plenty of time, she thought. She didn’t have to be at work until six. It was three o’clock now. And it wasn’t like she had to go back to Kellen’s house to get dressed. She still had clothes in the condo.

She was about to add powdered sugar to the butter when the doorbell chimed. She wiped her hands on her jeans and went to the door. She looked out through the peephole and didn’t see anyone at first. She looked lower and realized it was Pugg at the door.

“Julie sent Pugg to help,” he said to Cate.

“Thanks, but I don’t actually need help.”

“Pugg would score points if you let him help. Or maybe Pugg could just stand to one side and watch. Pugg would be very quiet.”

“Sure. Come on in.”

Pugg followed Cate into the kitchen and flattened himself against a wall.

“You won’t even know Pugg is here,” he said. He craned his neck to see what Cate was doing. “Did you know that some people believe the first cake mix in a box dates back to 1929 with Duncan Hines? Pugg has read that these mixes were lumpy, but he doesn’t know from personal experience. Jiffy and Bisquick were introduced in 1930. And General Mills and Pillsbury did not produce cake mix until 1949.”

“I didn’t know that,” Cate said.

“Where is Cate’s dog?”

“He’s with Kellen. I thought he’d be safer there. Kitty Bergman wanted to take him away.”

“Why would Kitty Bergman want Beast?”

“I’m not sure, but I think he might be mixed up in stolen property.”

“Pugg is interested in this. If Pugg was a master thief he would implant a microchip under a dog’s hide and have Pugg’s secret bank accounts recorded on it.”

Cate stopped stirring. “Can you do that?”

“Yes. It’s common practice to implant microchips in animals for identification purposes. Microchips are tiny transponders approximately the size of a grain of uncooked rice. They carry unique identification numbers and are implanted just below the hide using a needle. They can be easily read with a handheld scanner.”

“Can anyone do this?”

“Most often this is done by a veterinarian or breeder, but it would seem to be a simple procedure, that could be done by anyone able to stick a needle in his dog.”

“How do you know all this miscellaneous information?”

“Pugg has large blocks of free time while he waits to score with chicks, so he reads books, many of which are filled with interesting but basically useless information.”

“What would a scanner look like?”

“Pugg has never seen one, but he imagines it might look like a small television remote.”

“Look around the condo while I make icing and see if you can find one. Look in Marty’s room first.”

Cate was finishing the last cake, piping on small yellow flowers, when Pugg came into the kitchen with the scanner.

“Pugg thinks he found the scanner,” he said. “It was in Marty’s office and could easily be overlooked in a drawer with other electronic gizmos. Pugg thinks this is the scanner because Pugg could not get it to work the television or DVD player.”

Cate took the scanner in her hand. “It’s light.”

“Yes. The average chip scanner weighs four ounces and can read transponders operating at 125 and 128 kHz. Pugg believes this particular scanner is Swiss-made to read a fifteen-digit code and needs a transponder operating at 134 kHz. It sells for $179.95 on the Internet and weighs less than three ounces.”

“You must have a photographic memory.”

“At the risk of ruining your inflated opinion of Pugg, Pugg read most of that on the back of the scanner.”

Cate dropped the scanner in her purse and carefully boxed the cakes.

“I got these boxes from the bakery on the corner so everything would stay nice,” she said to Pugg. “You take two of them, and I’ll take two of them. Just be very careful not to tip them. I don’t want the icing to get smushed.”

They maneuvered out of the condo with the cakes, and Cate made sure the door was locked behind her. They rode one floor down in the elevator, and carried the cakes into Julie’s apartment and set them on her kitchen counter.

“The little old folks are gonna love these cakes,” Julie said. “The trolley’s coming by special to pick them up.”

“Pugg… I mean, I was very helpful,” Pugg said. “I found the scanner for Cate.”

“What the dickens is a scanner?” Julie asked.

“It’s a device for reading a microchip,” Cate said. “We think Marty might have installed one in Beast. It would be a safe way to transport bank codes or safe combinations.”

“That sounds real high tech. My cousin Orville used to do something like that. He was a professional balloon swallower. If you wanted something transported somewhere and you didn’t want anyone to know, Orville would put it in a balloon and swallow it. It worked real good except the downside was you had to wait a day or two for Orville to poop it out.”

“Your cousin Orville was a mule?” Pugg asked. “That’s a very dangerous profession.”

“Yeah, but if Orville didn’t do that he was pretty much unemployable. He once dropped his teeth in the deep fryer at Burger King. He said he sneezed and next thing his dentures were in with the French fries. Lucky for him he was good at carryin’ drugs or else he wouldn’t have been able to keep up the payments on his double-wide.”

“Is Orville still employed in this manner?” Pugg asked.

“No, poor ol’ Orville was carryin’ a balloon from Mexico to Birmingham one day, and it got a little pinhole in it and leaked some of the stuff out into Orville. By the time he got to Birmingham he was foamin’ at the mouth. He didn’t die, but he’s still droolin’ and foamin’, and he thinks everyone’s Walter Cronkite. So my Aunt Madelyn had to put Orville in the Shady Rest Nursing Home. It was a shame, but Orville had a real good run before the pinhole.”

“Shit happens,” Pugg said. “Excuse my French.”

Cate put Julie’s typed pages on the counter next to the cakes. “I have about twenty pages here,” Cate said. “Take a look at them and make sure they’re okay. I have to run. I want to talk to Kellen before I leave for work.”

“Do you need Pugg to escort you?” Julie asked.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you could stop in and say hello to Sharon for a second,” Julie said. “She’s nutty over 2B again, and I haven’t been able to do anything with her. I swear she’s such a sensible, grounded person, except for her shoes and 2B.”

Cate left Julie’s apartment and rang Sharon’s bell. No answer. On a hunch Cate went down a level and found Sharon in the hall, looking wild-eyed and wringing her hands.

“What’s up?” Cate said. “You look a little unhinged.”

“The door’s open.”

“Excuse me?”

“The door to 2B. Take a closer look. It’s open just a smidgeon.”

Cate took a closer look. “Yep,” she said. “It’s open.”

“Someone’s in there,” Sharon said.

“It could be the housekeeper. Or the plumber again.”

“It’s him,” Sharon said. “Mr. M. He’s home. I can feel it. My skin is tingling.”

“Oh boy.”

“What should I do?”

“Nothing?”

“Should I ring the bell and tell him his door is open?”

“Yeah. Ring the bell.”

“I can’t. I’m too nervous.”

Cate rang the bell.

“Omigod,” Sharon said, her hand in a death grip on Cate’s arm. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“When he answers just tell him his door was open.”

A couple of moments passed and no one answered the door. Cate rang the bell again. No response.

“Maybe he’s dead on the floor,” Sharon said. “Maybe this is the death building.”

“Maybe you’re a fruitcake.”

“Do you think we should go in and investigate?”

“No.”

“Okay then,” Sharon said, pushing the door a little more open, peeking inside. “But it was your idea.”

“It wasn’t my idea. I said no!”

“Hello-o-o,” Sharon called softly. “Anybody home?”

“That’s it. I’m leaving,” Cate said.

Sharon had hold of Cate’s shirt. “You can’t abandon me. We’re in this together.”

“You’re insane! You’re in this all by yourself. Let go of my shirt.”

“Please. Please. Please. I have to find out about this guy. And suppose he really is dead or hurt or something. It’s our obligation as neighbors to help him, right?”

“If he’s dead it won’t matter. And if he’s hurt he should be moaning. Do you hear moaning?”

They both stopped and listened.

“No moaning,” Sharon said.

“He probably took trash to the trash room.”

“He’d be back by now if he was on a trash run.” Sharon had inched her way into the living room. “This is nice. Very calm without being sterile. Earth tones. Flat-screen television. African fertility statue. Framed movie posters on his wall. Fun but not expensive. Excellent Tibetan area rug.”

“I think we should leave,” Cate said.

“Not until I see his bedroom.”

“Okay, but make it fast. I feel uncomfortable.”

Sharon tiptoed in her heels into the bedroom.

“Why are you tiptoeing?” Cate asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t help myself. It’s what you do when you’re being sneaky.” She stopped and looked around the room. “King-sized bed. Completely rumpled. He’s a thrasher. Other than that, the room is neat. Crossword puzzle book on his nightstand. I think I could live with him.”

“You don’t even know him! He could be Jack the Ripper.”

“Jack the Ripper is dead,” Sharon said.

“Okay, he could be Frank the Ripper.”

Cate looked at her watch. She’d been in the condo for not quite five minutes, but it seemed like five hours.

“I haven’t seen any photos of kids or wives or girlfriends,” Sharon said.

“Also no photos of Mr. M.”

They were in the master bedroom and two rooms away Cate and Sharon heard the front door click closed and the bolt get thrown.

Cate felt all the air leave her lungs. Mr. M. was home. It was a nightmare come true. Run! Cate’s brain was screaming. Run! Cate looked around. Nowhere to run. The window, she thought. Go out the window. Okay, so they were two flights up. Probably she’d just break both legs. She could deal. Mental head slap. That was dumb. The window was no good. They had to hide. The bathroom? The closet? Cate was in a panic attack. Sweating. Can’t breathe. Heart racing. Brain running down dead-end streets.

“The bed!” Sharon said. “Get under the bed.”

It was a faux antique mahogany four-poster. No dust ruffle but the quilt was oversized and hung low. Sharon dropped to the floor and belly crawled, barely fitting under the box spring. Cate followed her, and they lay side by side, eyes wide.

There were muffled footsteps on the rug and shoes came into view. Nike running shoes. Maybe size eleven. Jeans breaking on the shoes. Cate couldn’t see more. The shoes were walking around, doing things. Something was placed on the bedside table. A dresser drawer was opened and closed. The shoes were back by the bed. A brown-and-orange T-shirt was dropped onto the floor. The shoes were kicked off. White athletic socks were peeled off the feet. The jeans hit the floor and navy briefs followed.

Cate and Sharon stared out at the pile of clothes and the naked feet and didn’t breathe.

This is a train wreck, Cate thought. What on earth would she say if she got caught? Sharon is in love with you even though she’s never seen you and has no idea who you are, and so we sneaked into your apartment and looked around and hid under the bed. Yeah, that would fly. Not.

The feet walked into the bathroom, there was the sound of the shower being turned on, and then there was the sound of the shower curtain being drawn.

Cate and Sharon locked eyes and backed out from under the bed. They quietly tiptoed out of the bedroom and sprinted through the rest of the condo, out the door, down the hall, and up a flight of stairs. They threw themselves into Sharon’s condo and locked the door.

“I’m having a heart attack,” Sharon said. “What are the symptoms? Are they profuse sweating and burning in the chest?”

“No. I think that’s a hot flash.”

“I’m too young for a hot flash,” Sharon said. “Aren’t I?”

“I don’t know. I guess some women go into menopause earlier than others. How old are you?”

Sharon looked around, making sure no one else was in her apartment. “I’m pushing forty.”

“No! You look much younger.”

“Forty! And I just had a hot flash. Next thing I’ll be finding Modern Maturity in my mailbox. And my breasts will get saggy. And I’ll have to start popping antacids. And I’ll have to start getting Botox shots. Well, okay, so I already get a little Botox, but it’s more preventative, right? And all I have in my life is some phantom man. I haven’t gotten laid in over a year!” Sharon wailed.