Explosive Eighteen

“Exactly, and after you open the car, you can start the engine and do all kinds of things… like work the gas and brake and steering without being in the car.”

Lula looked up from her magazine. “So I could use that photo to start any car I picked out of the lot and ram it through your plate-glass window?”

“Maybe not any car, but I suppose,” Brenda said.

“Nice,” Lula said. And she went back to reading her magazine.

I was beginning to understand the potential value of the photograph. It sounded like the photo held a program that enabled you to hack into the operating systems of cars remotely. You could use it to steal cars. Or you could use it to drive an unmanned vehicle into another car, or a pedestrian, or a building. And if you filled the car with explosives, you’d have a remote-controlled bomb.

“Is this technology well known?” I asked.

“I guess a lot of people know it’s out there, but not many people have hold of it. It’s, you know, cutting- edge.”

I thought about the megabucks Ferrari sitting in Brenda’s garage.

“You used it to steal a car, right?”

“I used it to get my car back. Do you know who Sammy the Pig is?”

“Sure. Everyone in Jersey knows Sammy the Pig. He’s famous. He runs the north Jersey mob.”

“Well, my genius husband, who is now dead, decided he wanted to expand his business, so he borrowed money from Sammy. We were doing just fine with thirty-five car washes and a big house and platinum credit cards. I didn’t want him to expand, but would he listen to me? No. He wanted to be the car wash king. He wanted to go national. He wanted car washes on the moon. So he got money from Sammy, and he started building car washes, and all of a sudden the economy is tanking and people are washing their own friggin’ cars. And then Bernie starts having construction problems and labor problems, and he can’t keep up with his loan payments to Sammy. So long story short, Sammy the Pig ended up owning Bernie’s nuts. We lost everything. All the damn car washes, the house, the time-share in Jamaica that we never used. Everything. And three months ago, he took my car. He had no business taking the car. Bernie gave it to me for my birthday. Two of Sammy’s guys came into the salon, took the keys out of my purse, and drove away with it.”

“What kind of car was it?” I asked her. As if I didn’t already know.

“A Ferrari. Red. And it was real expensive.”

“Why didn’t you just go get it back?”

“I was never able to find the papers for it. Bernie’s records were a mess by the time he offed himself. And the registration was in the car. And what am I gonna say to the police? My husband was in bed with Sammy the Pig, and Sammy took my car to pay off the vig? Anyway, I sneaked over to Sammy’s place and tried to steal my car back, but my key wouldn’t work. It set off the alarm system, and the door wouldn’t open. I guess The Pig had a new lock put in. Probably had a new VIN put on, too. He’s got a bunch of chop shops. The truth is, the car might have been hot even when I got it. Bernie won it in a poker game.”

Brenda unrolled one of the foils and looked at my hair. “Still needs more time,” she said.

“But you got the car back, right?” I asked her.

“Yeah, I was complaining to this person I know, and he said he could override all the systems and get me my car. Only thing is, he was living in Hawaii, and he was worried about sending me information. So when my client Ritchy came in to get a haircut, and he said he was leaving for a conference in Hawaii, I had this brilliant idea that he could bring the information back for me.”

“Why didn’t your friend just mail it to you?”

“He said it wasn’t safe. Turned out this wasn’t safe, either. At least he was smart enough to do the photo thing. I guess you wouldn’t want this code stuff to get into the wrong hands.”

“Like your brother?”

“Yeah, he’d probably sell it to the Russians, or aliens from outer space, or whoever the heck the enemy is. I can’t keep up with it. Or he could keep it and use it to hijack shit.”

I looked at myself in the mirror and tried not to grimace. This was more than I’d expected. My whole head was covered in foil.

“Here’s the big question,” I said to Brenda. “Why did Richard Crick put the photo in my bag?”

“It was an accident. He was airsick, or maybe he was coming down with the flu or something. Anyway, he got off the plane for the layover and was too sick to get back on. He was looking through his bag for his boarding pass, to get it changed out, and he realized he didn’t have my envelope. And he said he remembered you had the exact same bag. A black Tumi messenger bag. And he realized he stuffed the yellow envelope into your bag by mistake in his rush to deplane. He said your bag was laying on the floor between the seats, just like his. So he called and told me. He said when he thought about it, he knew exactly what happened. He thought maybe I could meet you when you got off the plane, but I didn’t get his message in time. And then he was dead. What are the chances, right?”

Probably pretty good, considering the circumstances.

“How’d your brother find out?”

“He was with me when I played the message back. How was I to know he’d be such an asshole?”

“You told him about the photo with the code?”

“I’d had a couple Appletinis,” Brenda said. “I get chatty.”

“I love them Appletinis,” Lula said. “I could drink a gallon of them.”

“Over to the sink,” Brenda said to me. “You’re done processing. This is going to be awesome.”

***

I’m always amazed at the way life plays out. How so often a single decision sets people on an irreversible journey. Richard Crick agreed to do a simple favor for a friend, and it led to his death. And the whole ugly chain of events was set in motion when Bernie Schwartz borrowed money from Sammy the Pig. And what was the ultimate result? Highlights from Brenda.

When your hair is wet, you really can’t see exactly what the hairdresser from hell has given you. So when I left the shampoo sink and sat in the styling chair, there was hope. By the time my hair was blow-dried, ratted up, and sprayed, I was ready for serious alcohol consumption. The highlights were brilliant red and yellow, my hair looked like it had exploded out of my head, and I was at least six inches taller.

Brenda had tears in her eyes. “This is the most fabulous thing I’ve ever done,” she said. “I’m going to call it Route 1 Sunrise.”

“I never seen anything like it,” Lula said. “This here takes her to a whole other level. She’s not just another ordinary bitch no more. She’s, like, Super Bitch. She’s, like, got fire hair.”

“And you see how I gave her hair some lift,” Brenda said. “It gives her style some drama.”

“I could see that,” Lula said.

“What do you think?” Brenda asked me.

“I’m speechless,” I said.

Brenda put her hand over her heart. “My pleasure. I’m glad I could help you.”

Lula and I left the salon and climbed into the truck. I got behind the wheel, and my hair stuck to the roof.

“I can’t drive like this,” I said. “My hair’s stuck.”

“You need a bigger vehicle to go with your new look,” Lula said.

I slouched in my seat and drove to the edge of the lot, where Brenda couldn’t see me. I took a brush out of my bag and worked at my hair.

“I can’t get the brush to go through it,” I said to Lula.

“That’s the way hair’s supposed to be when it got some body. She kicked your hair up a notch. Wham!”

“You might want to dial back on the wham thing,” I told her. “I’m not in the mood.”

“How could you be Miss Crankypants when you got hair like that?”

“This is not my kind of hair.”

“Yeah, but it could be. It could be a whole new you.”

I didn’t want a new me. I still hadn’t figured out the old me.