He pulled it off, ashamed of how heavy it was with his sweat.
She took it with two fingers. Her lips curled in disgust. “This thing stinks,” she said, then took a deep breath and flipped the damp cloth over her head.
Foster started, “I just need to ask you a couple—”
She cut him off. “How do you think I’d look in a burka?” She lifted her chin until her eyes met his through the holes cut in the black cloth. Startling against the black cloth, her blue eyes darted sideways.
He looked for what she might be indicating. A security camera watched them from the passageway ceiling. He asked, “A what?”
“It worked for Elizabeth Smart,” she said, once again thumbing the keys of his phone. With her quick, confident gait, she was leading him down the corridor to a door marked Exit. Beyond that, they stepped into an alley. Without slowing, drawing no notice, her wearing the black hood and him clutching his cape to hide the gun in his hand, they followed the alley to a street.
Blush asked, “You got a car?”
Foster pointed, “This way. But I only need to ask a question.”
She strode off in the direction he’d indicated.
“Wait,” Foster protested. “Where are you taking me?”
Her ability to text and walk at the same time was extraordinary. “You ever hear of Aimee Semple McPherson?” she asked. “How about Agatha Christie?”
They were approaching a parking structure. “Here,” Foster said and nodded toward the elevator. He pressed the Up button and the memory of the escort girl, the surrogate Lucinda, came to mind. The doors slid open and they stepped inside. He pressed the button for the floor.
As they rode upward, still intent on her keyboarding, her voice muffled by the hood, Blush said, “Both Aimee and Agatha hit mid-career slumps, you know?” She said, “I know all about mid-career slumps.”
The elevator stopped and they stepped out. The concrete ramps sloped away, crowded with parked cars. Foster slid a hand down inside his spandex tights, feeling for the keys he carried in his shorts.
Blush’s eyes didn’t leave his phone as she continued to talk and text. “It was 1926, okay? McPherson was the most famous religious leader in America, but she was losing her edge, you know?” She followed as he led her along the rows of cars. “Agatha Christie was a writer with mediocre sales…” Her voice trailed off.
Foster arrived at the car, the Dodge Dart from Craigslist. He opened the passenger side door, and Blush climbed in still wearing the hood.
As she explained it, both women had disappeared without a clue. McPherson for a month. Christie for ten days. Both had been the subject of worldwide searches and intense media coverage. Thousands of volunteers had combed the globe trying to find them. “No offense to Jesus,” Blush said, “but disappearing and reappearing is a woman’s version of death and resurrection. A miracle, you know?”
Behind the wheel, Foster prompted, “Do you remember a movie called Babysitter Bloodbath?”
As she clicked her seat belt, she said, “Get driving.”
He asked, “Don’t you need to go back?”
She dug in the pocket of her jacket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. With the hood hiked up to uncover her mouth, she put one between her lips and pressed the car’s cigarette lighter. Talking around the cigarette, she said, “Just drive.”
He wanted to tell her not to smoke, but there were bigger issues at stake.
She pressed a final key on the phone and said the word, “Send.”
As she explained it, Aimee Semple McPherson was believed to have drowned off a beach near Los Angeles. Agatha Christie was widely thought to be a victim of murder, most likely by her husband who wanted a divorce so he could marry his secretary. When eventually found, McPherson claimed to have been kidnapped and taken to Mexico. Christie claimed amnesia. But both women were welcomed back with enormous fanfare. Thousands came to greet them. Their lagging careers rebounded to make them enduring worldwide successes.
As Foster turned the key in the ignition, he could hear sirens in the distance.
“Drive,” Blush ordered. “You don’t want to get caught, not so soon.”
The sirens grew louder. Closer.
Foster craned his neck to look back as he pulled out of the parking space.
“I’ll answer all your questions,” Blush said. She puffed her cigarette. “But only so long as you keep me kidnapped.”
The car was already spiraling down toward the exits. Foster protested, “But I’m not kidnapping you.”
Blush countered, “I need the career boost. You need whatever.”
The car lurched to a stop at the exit gate. Foster had prepaid but hesitated before pressing the button and inserting his receipt. Shaking his head, he said, “You can’t make me kidnap you.”
Blush lifted his phone near her face. From it she read, “Dear 9-1-1. I’ve kidnapped the beautiful and wildly talented actress Blush Gentry.” She paused, her eyes smirking.
Foster inserted the ticket and pressed the button. The gate swung open.
From Oscarpocalypse Now by Blush Gentry (p. 50)
People say I staged my own kidnapping because I knew about the Academy Awards, about what would happen at the Oscars that year. People also say certain jewelers and fashion designers refused to lend jewels and clothes for the occasion. That puts me in very good company. People who make these accusations overlook the fact that I was being pistol-whipped.
These same people insist a new weapon called Dustification was used to powderize the World Trade towers. Look up dustification. There’s your answer. I’m sorry if my kidnapping doesn’t fit the narrative of a bunch of black helicopter kooks.
Mitzi poured another glass of wine and toasted Jimmy’s memory. The deal with dating conceited men like him was that she’d hoped some of his excess self-esteem would rub off. Women always secretly hoped this: that dating a narcissist would give them confidence by osmosis. It never worked.
She lifted an edge of the bandage on her forearm. The wound from the shard of wine bottle had almost healed. It wouldn’t even leave a scar.
She
