Rescued By A Kiss (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

“Do you turn into a frog or maybe a duck after midnight?” Julia asked. I don’t think he heard her or maybe he ignored her.

Stan answered, “I was up working on a case and just poured myself a Scotch by way of winding down. It’s a nice surprise seeing you, Brandy, no matter what time it is.” He acted like he hadn’t noticed Julia at all.

“Stan, this is my friend Julia.”

Stan extended his hand to shake Julia’s and asked, “So where did you go to high school?”

“What is it with y’all and high school? Didn’t any of you go to college?” Julia turned to me leaving Stan’s extended hand waiting for a handshake.

Before she could do any more social damage and provoke Stan into throwing us out of his home, I launched into my dilemma. I recounted the shooting, rescuing Isabella while fleeing for our lives, and tried to avoid mentioning Dante through it all. I needed access back into the hospital. Stan took it all in with his eyes trying to observe my rather low neckline without looking right at my chest. Then he said, apologetically, he was not willing to don the Duck Man persona anymore.

“Well, why not?” I whined. “Why won’t you help me?” I hated it when I sounded like this.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you, I just can’t be Duck Man. If I get caught wearing that outfit, I’ll never be taken seriously in court again, and my Dad would oust me from the firm. One of you can be Duck Man. You are both tall and could pull off being a guy. Besides who, in this city, during Mardi Gras, is going to challenge you wearing a costume?”

He had a point.

“Also, you need to ride my motorcycle. It’s the vehicle of choice for Duck Man, so Brandy that means you. I know you can drive a motorcycle. I taught you how when I lived across the street from you, remember?”

Stan was more than willing to teach me how to drive a motorcycle. His dad bought him one as soon as he was old enough to drive. He used to sit behind me and put his arms around me. Stan, Dante and I learned to drive on Stan’s first motorcycle and spent all summer on it. I continued driving and riding them with Dante and his brothers after Stan moved. They all had one at some time or another and I always tagged along, taking turns driving them while the other rode on the back. Sometimes Stan would buzz by my high school and give me a ride home on the back of his bike.

“OK.” I said, “will you take care of Isabella for us while we go back to Charity to see what we can find out and tell Heinkel his dog is OK?” I asked.

Julia was aghast at the idea of us wearing the Duck Man costume and both of us dressing like men.

“You have lost your mind. I’m not riding on the back of a motorcycle with you and I’m not wearing that nutty costume. People will think we are related to that kook, Ruthie, the Duck Girl in the French Quarter. You know the one. She feeds the ducks that live with her and follow her around. Are you sure he isn’t related to Ruthie?” Julia asked questions out loud about people as if they weren’t standing right there next to us. She needed to work on her people skills.

Ruthie was a street person. Everyone knew Ruthie and the residents of the French Quarter loved her and fed her and her ducks. She was an eccentric local that was harmless and everyone watched out for her.

Stan knew how to roll with it. He looked at Julia and asked, “Did you say you know each other from charm school?”

“I’ll wear the Duck Man costume,” I said answering Julia. “You’ll drive the station wagon in case we are separated from each other. Besides, if anyone sees us in the station wagon they will know who we are. If you are with Duck Man and you’re not wearing a costume, someone, like those two goons, might figure out who we are.”

“Exactly.” Stan said while leading us through his home and to the costume closet. The costume closet was bigger than any room in our house. It was a huge walk in with double hung sides that went on for miles. One half of the space was dedicated to womens’ costumes and the other half to mens’. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Stan had a bigger inventory than the costume shop on Magazine. Julia’s face lit up when she found the French Maid and Dallas Cowgirl cheerleader costumes. The look on her face showed a new appreciation and a hint of interest in Stan.

“I think I should wear one of these. Stan, you ole dog, this is a very interesting side of you.” Julia held the outfits in front of her trying to decide which one to wear. On the men’s side of the closet I looked at the Village People collection and tried to envision Stan in the construction hat, no shirt and tool belt. The construction worker is my personal fantasy. He had all kinds of costumes from Super Heroes like Spiderman and Superman, to animals, Halloween costumes and even a Santa suit. I could almost hear Julia thinking, Stan is either kinky or goes to a lot of parties.

“You into role play, Stan?” Julia asked with her eyebrow arched.

We grew up in a Superhero world. Cartoons, movies and TV teach us that men who are superheroes are the successful ones, the desirable ones. These caricatures create an unreasonable expectation on men as to what women expect from them. Maybe Stan felt the need to be souped-up to attract women.

“Julia, I think you should wear this one.” Stan showed her a white gorilla costume that completely covered the head, hands and feet.

“Are you some kinda fairy?” Julia asked. When she pronounced fairy in her Baton Rouge twang it sounded like furry. Stan looked confused.

“Julia, that looks hot,” I could hardly contain myself from laughing. I said it before the two of them could fight over it.

“You both are a riot. Yes, it’s looks hot, as in Africa hot,” she fired back. “Now why would I wear that? That’s not something I’d be caught dead in.”

“I had that custom made for the Zoo To Do the year the Audubon Society got a white gorilla. It’s a very well made costume.” Stan said defending it by pointing out its finer features.

“Look this covers your head and no one will know who you are. You can wear flats and look almost a foot shorter. This is about stealth and covertness. This isn’t the time to be sexy and draw attention to either of us.” I said.

“If I have to wear a costume, I’ll decide which one.” Julia’s adamant stance indicated I needed leverage. I needed to pull out the big gun, my ace in the hole.

“You are forcing me to come clean on your last escapade with Dante’s brother, Daniel.” I added, “I’ll tell my mother, Dante, and Daniel’s mother.”

Drawing in a huge breath she almost exploded with “You promised! You even pinky swore that you would keep that a secret. Now, even the Duck here knows.”

“Stan doesn’t know . . . yet. But I’ll be forced to tell him every juicy tidbit.” I added emphasis to juicy and tidbit in case she missed the point. You can’t overstate the obvious with Julia.

“Whatever you tell me is considered attorney client privilege if anyone would ever ask me. As it is, I’ll come bail you two out if you get arrested in these outfits. I can get you to sign a retainer that I’m your attorney, representing you, if that makes you more comfortable telling me.” Stan tried the back door approach by way of getting the Daniel information out of me. Julia was not having any of it.

“Don’t tell him another thing. Give me that damn gorilla suit. We had a deal,” Julia looked deflated and Stan looked disappointed.

Stan had his arms crossed and then put one hand on his chin with the other hand on his elbow. It was his thinking pose. He started to instruct me in Duck Man habits and actions to take. He still had the entire outfit including the running shoes. He made me put it all on. The shoes were too big and I couldn’t walk in them.

“I think I have a pair of shoes in the car. My mother’s Jazzercise bag is in there and she wears my old tennis shoes.” I went out to the wagon and found them. Stan’s boxy shirt and jeans made me look more like a guy.

“If you get in a jam, or get arrested, call me and I can get you out. If I’m Duck Man, then I’ll be in jail sitting next to you. I have my career to think of. You just walk in like you own the place. Try not to draw any attention to yourself.”

“She is wearing a Duck suit riding a motorcycle following a white gorilla driving a green station wagon, and you don’t think she will draw attention to herself? The gorilla will be driving the getaway car? Do I have this right?” We both ignored Julia’s sarcasm.

Stan continued with his instruction. He was positively exuberant to see his alter ego back in action. “Do not use the Duck Foot unless you think you are in real danger. You can really hurt someone with it. Use it in self defense if someone looks like they are going to hurt you. No one is going to think much of you in a costume. This is New Orleans. You just walk in like normal, do what you need to do, and leave. Remember, walk with a purpose.”

“Instead of waddling with a purpose?” Julia was still at it and had not warmed up to the idea of the gorilla suit or the mission.

“I always hoped I would find someone to carry on the Duck Man tradition. I’m glad it’s you, Brandy.” Stan said beaming.

“I am getting misty-eyed.” Julia said dabbing at her invisible tears. “In case you haven’t noticed, Stan, Duck Man is you, and you are a man. Brandy has boobs.”

Undaunted, he added, “Well, that will add to Duck Man’s mystique. Harder to figure out who Duck Man is if everyone’s looking for a man. Besides there are more cross dressers here than anywhere on the planet. No one will think anything of it.” Stan glowed over the idea of Duck Man’s revival. He rummaged around in the bottom of the closet coming out with a roll of duct tape.

“Here, just tape your chest with this and you won’t look so, so” he paused, then added “girly.”

“Duct tape? Really?” asked Julia.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had no intention of accepting the Quacker and taking on the Duck Man tradition, but I needed a diversion to get into the hospital past the cops, and this seemed like the best option on short notice.

Stan went about finding all the feet and hands to the gorilla suit. He gave Julia a pair of flip flops and told her she had to take off the high heels since the gorilla feet were designed to slip over flat shoes. She grabbed them and began putting on the costume with unsportsmanlike conduct.

Stan gave us two walkie talkies with a good range so we could stay in contact. He instructed us how to use them. He stood back to review his work and our outfits. The gorilla suit looked the same on Julia as it did on the hanger. She didn’t fill it out so she made a tall, skinny ape. “Well, you look about as ready as you’re going to get,” he said.

“Is that your idea of a pep talk?” Julia asked. “Cuz, if it is, don’t ever think about volunteering to answer the Suicide Hot Line.”

“O.K. I feel ready,” I said trying to keep those two from going at each other. This began to feel like one of those ideas that was great before you started actually doing it. It was go time. Stan handed me the keys to the motorcycle and I handed Julia the keys to the station wagon and we were off. Her bra was still holding up the fender.

T
he plan seemed
simple enough. We were going to walk in through the emergency entrance, Julia going in first as the gorilla to divert attention. She would alert me on the two way radio if a problem arose. I would follow about half a corridor back and she would instruct me over the walkie talkie if she spotted Dante so I could avoid him and get in to see Heinkel. I didn’t want to be herded off and sent home by Dante for the third time in twenty-four hours. If he saw me again, he might arrest me in order to keep me in one place for the rest of the night.

If I didn’t return in thirty minutes Julia was to drive my mother’s station wagon back to Stan’s. If it took me too long to get in and see Heinkel, then I would ride back to Stan’s on the motorcycle. I didn’t feel good about Julia going first. Her big gorilla heart just didn’t seem into it. It was now going on three 
A.M.
, the hospital seemed more awake and active in the middle of the night than it was in the middle of the day. The staff cleaned floors, restocked cabinets and nurses pushed pill carts from room to room up and down the halls checking on patients.

We passed an ER and a woman dressed like a French Maid with a stethoscope and ID badge around her neck pulled Julia into the room saying “Our party is in here, you animal.” Oh boy, I will have hell to pay over this. Julia disappeared behind doors marked ER 4. As the doors closed I caught a glimpse of the hospital costume party in full swing for those who had worked the 3-11 shift. The bad news: I lost Julia as a lookout. The good news: There were lots of the hospital staff in costumes. That would help me get past any policemen.

Any policemen, except the two at Jiff Heinkel’s door. These two New Orleans Police Department officers, dressed in SWAT team uniforms, were stationed there and would not let anyone in.

I approached them and said in the deepest voice I could muster, “I have information for Mr. Heinkel, I need to get it to him.” I wished Julia was here in that French Maid costume. My chances would have been better.

“Give me some ID and you can go in,” one of the cops said to me. The second guy didn’t speak to me but gave me a brief look up and down, then went back to staring at the opposite wall. I felt my pockets while I looked back to the nurses station acting as if I left it there.