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If I'd had the slightest hint of the hornet's nest I would find myself blundering into when I agreed to go undercover in such a respectable town, I would have found any number of other assignments to take. Undercover? The very thought of big dark secrets in such an insular, self-satisfied backwater was absolutely ludicrous. Or so I thought in my own self-satisfied, cocksure way. The name I adopted this time was Sheila Carver; my real name is Sheila all right, but the surname is Casey. In the past I'd used Shirley Cook, Sally Cotter, Sarah Caton -- there is a pattern here, you see? "S" and "C" always, in that order. I like to think the hidden meaning is "Sharp Cookie," but this time "Stupid Cow" might have been more appropriate. Never, NEVER assume you really know anybody! The local police department and the business leaders had been in a lather for some months; more and more rumors were scuttling around town that very sophisticated drugs were being funneled through Fort Meriwether. Local authorities, badly undermanned as they were, were simply unable to effectively cover all possible ports of entry and each suspicious person. It appeared the dealers were not vending their wares in Fort Meriwether but, rather, sending on surprisingly large quantities of high-quality smack and various designer drugs to the lucrative markets in more populated areas to the east and much farther south. No matter how well-managed any law enforcement department might be, it takes many man-hours of mind-numbing basic footwork to solve major crimes. And it takes someone unknown to the perpetrators, of course, to infiltrate their organization or simply have big ears open when tongues get loose. In a burg this size, no one is unknown. I wasn't much at infiltration, but I had good hearing and looked too dumb to be dangerous, two assets which had brought to grief more than one lawbreaker. Hence, here I was, the great unknown. (Shit; the town wasn't the only thing with delusions of grandeur.) February 2nd found me blowing -- literally, at the head of a gale -- into town in my rusted, old bilious green Toyota pickup, the driver's door a faded yellow, frizzy-haired, granny-dressed, looking like a seeker of the last bastion of the hippy movement, and this was it! A little long in the tooth for a grunge -- hell, perhaps just a mite long in the tooth for hippy, truth be told. But a slightly cantankerous flower child in spirit, even so. My instructions from my boss (in no way my superior) had been to futz around town for a few days, getting the feel of the locals and their hangouts. I'd been indoctrinated on the half-dozen places that were suspected of being sites for the ubiquitous penny-ante drug deals, and I needed to be seen there long enough to not be considered an obvious threat if I hoped to learn anything about the possibly big deals which were rumored. Let me stress "obvious." I would have had to have been born there to not be considered a threat. Dealers in controlled substances, while not necessarily smart, are a damned well cunning and wary lot. If they lose that caution through too many trouble-free deals, they don't last long. And they know that. So "obvious" is the operative word. I needed a bit of the "familiarity-breeds-contempt" coloration. Actually, the coloration comes rather naturally for me. How many of the drugworld crowd are going to think "Watch her! She might be dangerous!" when seeing a tubby, middle-aged -- well, the big four-oh had rung my chimes about a year ago -- running-to-gray, not-too-friendly broad who seems to be permanently hungover? That has been my undercover persona for as long as I've been in this line of work, and I'm good at it. Dress me up, I can pass muster almost anywhere. But dress me down -- well, I can really sink my teeth into that! Over the years I had learned a few subterfuges, primarily in my physical appearance. The fact I was naturally a bit lardy was a help. I wore thongs in the summer and well-worn Nikes that were about one size too large the rest of the time; both made me walk funny. I wore a hat -- sometimes a snagged knit oversize beret, sometimes a floppy straw. I always carried either a truly ugly jute tote bag or an even uglier shoulder bag large enough to conceal a sheep. I wore perfectly awful second-hand dresses, never jeans or pants. I didn't shave my legs, nor did I wear hose. I kept my fingernails trimmed to the quick, painting them a revolting pink which I allowed to become chipped and grubby. My only concession to makeup, my large dark-penciled eyebrows. And finally, now and again I removed an upper bridge, leaving my central incisors unflanked -- a sight to strike terror to the strongest of hearts. All of this made me look remarkably like a fat, scruffy, slightly demented beaver. A harmless beaver. A hungover, batty, nonthreatening beaver. Just right, in other words. There is no room for false pride when undercover, especially when the job is of long duration. To me it was simpler to remain in my awful get-up until the job was done. Even if catching an inadvertent glimpse of myself in some mirror behind a sticky bar turned my stomach at times, that still was preferable to moving in and out of character. But back to my description of my disguise, I kept my baggage to a minimum. What little stuff I must carry could be crammed into two cardboard boxes and one scruffy canvas carryall, a haversack. Mostly it was changes in underwear, a minimum of toiletry articles -- no makeup ever, other than the eyebrow pencil -- a few oversized shirts, dresses, and skirts bought in near-new shops all over the country, one really grubby downfilled man's jacket, one olive drab Army Surplus hooded waterproof poncho, a couple of cardigan sweaters, a well-thumbed but unread romance novel, a .38-caliber snub-nose Colt Detective Special with ammo and three speed-loaders, a minuscule micro-cassette recorder, and two or three cans of criminally expensive dogfood. Oh, I forgot to mention Fuzz! Fuzz is my best friend, my guardian, my early detection device, my confidant when I can't talk to anyone else, my ever-present companion for the last four years (a record with me in relationships), and the most loyal, loving and smart canine God ever created, for all his six pounds and three ounces. To my knowledge, Fuzz has never barked. If he did, I suppose it would be falsetto, considering his thumb-sized neck. The most noise he ever makes is when at night he walks up on my pillow and mumbles at me, sometimes to alert me to a noise, less often to tell me it's go-out-right-now time. His rating as early warning device comes from when we both have our feet on the floor, he has a penchant for nibbling on my bare ankle if someone is coming; he continues, muttering all the time, until I react in some appropriate manner. He rides in his own diminutive carseat in the pickup, in my pocket when I have one, in either of my two "purses" when I don't. He has sat on countless damp drink coasters atop bars circled by my arms and my beer, keeping a watchful eye on each and every while I proceed to melt into the background. Should anyone get too interested in my pockets or my change on the bar at such times, he shows his surprisingly long canines in what he takes to be a bone-chilling threat and mumbles. That usually brings up my blowsy head, followed by my usual "Whatthehell?" in a loud voice. To the unwary opportunist, the sudden shift of all eyes to him often results in a "Sorry, lady -- don't mean nothin'," and a precipitate departure. That reminds me of the only time Fuzz ever nipped me. Somebody really should do something about the ink in beer coasters. One time Fuzz inadvertently showed me a perfect skipper blue horseshoe imprinted squarely on his backside. He took umbrage at my efforts to scrub off the stigmata by grabbing the finger gripping his tail, popping his big brown eyes at me, and mumbling darkly. Over the years Fuzz has learned certain rules. The first thing we look for when checking into some motel or other temporary place of refuge is the hide. This might be a space under a low, overstuffed chair with only inches of space, behind the davenport (should we have such an amenity) -- anyplace with so tight an access, no one would ever believe anything could squeeze in there. We never, for obvious reasons, choose as hide behind the pillows on the bed, for instance. Some poor motel chambermaid changing the bed would probably think Fuzz a black-and-tan rat and brain him with her trusty dustmop. If everything is either too far off the floor or bolted down too well, we have two built-in hides. One, I leave my heavy jacket on the floor of the closet rather than hanging it up; Fuzz can always find the pocket and lay low. The other is to upend one of my helpful cardboard boxes; Fuzz rams his pointy nose under the edge and crawls in, shutting the door behind him, so to speak. We find these places and practice them each time so he is sure where to dash when I hiss HIDE! at him. He also understands that when he must stay behind he heads for the hide if he hears anyone coming in. That includes when I come in, too; I figure his ears might fail him sometime. Once I came back "home," threw my bag on the bed, and said, "Okay," which is the signal to come out, come out, wherever you are. Nothing -- not a thing moved in the room. "Hey, Fuzz, where are you?" Nothing. Now, since this little blob of protoplasm is my one Achilles' Heel, my pulse mounted and I suddenly felt very alone. I started searching the motel room, finding nothing. I even went outside and splashed around in the driving rain, thinking somehow or other he had gotten out; nothing. I wanted to go to the manager's office and ask if anyone had seen him, but I couldn't do that; no dogs being allowed in this sty, naturally I hadn't gotten around to mentioning his presence. I went back in, sat on the bed, and bawled like a kid. It had been a really shitty day, but nothing to compare with the disappearance of my dog. Since I still had a job to do, an hour or so later I had no choice but to pull myself together and go back out in the cold drizzle, Fuzz or no Fuzz. When I retrieved my jacket from the hangar since it was getting cold, it swung rather heavily and something thumped against my leg, something that was mumbling with considerable put-upon irritation. After Fuzz finally forgave me, scarfing down many tidbits and wiggling happily at all the attention, I figured it out. I had left the jacket on the floor of the closet since it would be the only hide available. The charlady came in to vacuum and make the bed; being a neatnik, she hung the jacket with Fuzz hiding in the pocket back on the hanger where it belonged, leaving him suspended in midair. It was harder than usual to maintain my usual dour face that night in the local gin mill; the dog and his fat lady just kept smooching each other. Now and then I dumped a little draft into my cupped palm; he loved beer, but we had to watch it so he wouldn't develop a beer belly. Mine? Who cared? |