Killer Pancake

I smiled at Frances’s ill-disguised nosiness, at her sudden insincere concern about my need for nourishment. “Nah,” I told her lightly, “it’s probably the food fair people. Or maybe it’s a new client. I’ll be right back.” But she ignored me.

We walked across the roof and maneuvered back onto the top of the parking garage. I told the money-takers that Frances was helping me, and didn’t need a bracelet because she didn’t eat normal food. They waved her through. The jazz band had gone on break. Their audience had dispersed and turned their ravenous attention back to the booths.

“Okay,” I said, as if granting Frances permission for what she was going to do anyway. “Let me get just a quick bite to eat first, and then we’ll see what the message is.”

The crowd buoyed me along to the booth of a vegetarian Mexican restaurant. I chose a burrito stuffed with roasted peppers, tomatoes, and onions. It dripped with guacamole and melted cheddar, and sour cream oozed out of both sides when I took a bite. The American Heart Association definitely wouldn’t approve. My mouth full, I thought of Marla and resolved to get really serious about lowfat cooking. Tomorrow.

“Enjoy,” said Frances with a laugh. “Isn’t this where your booth was?”

The booth had been abandoned early by the barbecue people. I guess “all you can eat” had been more than they could handle. They’d even pulled down the flaps on the tent, as if to say nobody was home.

Frances pulled up the flap and peered into the dark interior. I stepped up beside her and felt the hot, stuffy air inside. There was a plastic bag taped to the near table.

“There it is,” said Frances as she stepped confidently forward. “Wait,” I said. “Frances,” I said again sharply, “wait.” But I couldn’t restrain her; one of my hands held the burrito, the other the tent flap.

There was a sudden movement. I heard the intake of breath that accompanies effort.

“Frances!” I shouted.

“Help!” she cried.

Stale air swished against my face. Something was coming at us. Because of my years with the Jerk, I had learned how to protect myself from a potential assault. The air—or maybe it was liquid, I realized—whooshed. I dropped the burrito and buckled forward.

“Duck!” I shouted to Frances.

A loud sloosh traveled through air. It was coming toward Frances and me. The smell was familiar … acrid.

It was a bucket of bleach water.

“Close your eyes!” I screamed to Frances. I shut mine tight, held my breath, and covered my face with my hands. The water cascaded over my doubled-over body in a hard, heavy slap. Cold liquid saturated my chef’s jacket.

Someone pushed past me. One of the canvas tent flaps brushed my legs and I heard footsteps. But with the possibility of bleach anywhere nearby, I knew better than to open my eyes.

“Frances! Are you there? Keep your eyes shut, it’s chlorine bleach!”

A stream of loud, inventive curses came from about a yard away. Yep—Frances was there.

“Back out of the tent,” I ordered, ignoring her angry protests. “Follow my voice. Go slow.” Still doubled-over, my hands covering my face, I treaded backward slowly. Soon, cooler air indicated I was outside the tent. I felt metal. Moving metal. A baby stroller.

“Help!” I cried. “I have bleach on me! Don’t let any get on the baby!”

A woman screamed and the metal veered away. I started to lose my balance. Voices erupted all around and within a few seconds I felt a large, gentle hand on my shoulder. An adult? A teenager? Whoever had assaulted us? The hand guided me sideways.

“Come on,” a man’s calm voice urged. “Let me get you a towel.”

“I have a friend with me. She needs help too.”

“The red dress?” asked the voice. “I’m holding her arm.

More colorful curses indicated this was true. I sighed.

Over the acrid stink of the bleach, the welcome aroma of coffee came close. The masculine voice attached to the hand on my shoulder asked someone for a couple of towels. A piece of cloth with the consistency of a dish towel was placed over my head and tucked around my ears. My sodden hair was being expertly wrapped, turban-style.

“Please,” I said, “I need some plain water to rinse my face—”

“All right, stand back, everybody,” came another male voice, a familiar one. It was Pete, the espresso man. “Goldy, I’m going to toss a pitcher of plain water in your face,” he warned, up close. “It’s not cold, not hot. Well, maybe a little cool. Just relax. Then I’m going to do the same for your friend.”

A splash of liquid hit my face and neck. Another towel was thrust in my face and I vigorously scrubbed my cheeks, forehead, and eyes free of bleach and eye makeup. Frances yelped when the water gushed on her, but then she fell silent, no doubt engaged in the same drying activity.