Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew

smooth soft, leather and smile as I pull it from my pocket.

      “Thank you, Papa,” I whisper.

      I have one or two very vague memories of my real father. In one, he is a large man, but then, I was but a small child, and he is laughing as he pulls a quarter from my ear and a flower from my sleeve. My mother and Victor are watching and they are not happy, but Papa is very, very happy. Now I think, perhaps he was drunk, but then, he just seemed happy.

      “Leave us alone,” I hear my mother say, and she is crying. One day, my father leaves and never returns. When I am older, I buy a magic kit with my own money. I get very, very good at it, but Papa never returns. But when I have magic, he is never very far away.

      I open the thin, flat billfold and begin to examine it. There are the usual credit cards. Ray’s full name is Octavio Reymundo Estanza and while he lives in Manhattan, I do not recognize the address. His business card is printed on heavy, ivory stock and reads simply “Octagon Enterprises, Inc.,” with addresses and phone numbers in New York, Los Angeles and Madrid. I probe further, pulling out a picture of a beautiful dark-haired woman when the door to the ladies’ room bursts open. A female voice is speaking in harsh, rapid-fire Spanish.

      “Watch the door. If someone wants in, tell them it’s broken and they must use the other restrooms.”

      A second voice, also female, agrees as the door closes behind her. What I hear next turns my stomach and I pull my feet up onto the seat so I won’t be seen. It is Emma.

      “I don’t understand,” she says. “What is going on?”

      The other woman switches from Spanish to flawless English. “Whore! You know why we are here.”

      I peek through the crack in the door and see a flash of silver. I think maybe it is a gun. I look at the floor and see three sets of high heels. Shit!

      “Listen, if that’s your husband,” Emma begins again. She is cut off by the sound of a slap that echoes through the tiled bathroom.

      “Shut up, bitch!” the other woman cries. “There is no more time for lies. Tell me who you work for or I’ll kill you.”

      Emma says nothing. She cries out as the woman hits her again, only this time I don’t think she has used her hand. What am I going to do? I don’t have a weapon. If I try and call for help, they’ll shoot us both.

      “Who are you working for?” the woman demands. “Who is she? Tell me now and you die quickly—delay and your death will be very painful.”

      Shit! Victor and Mother were always insisting I hire bodyguards and I was always giving them the slip. Why didn’t I listen to them? I draw in a deep, silent breath and think, well, at least it will be an honorable death. I place my feet down onto the floor, flush the commode and slowly open the door.

      I can’t tell who is more shocked, the two women holding Emma, Emma herself, or me. I step out, just as if nothing whatsoever is happening and smile brightly at them all.

      “Hello!” I say. I let my eyes come to rest on the gun and then look at the woman holding the gun. She is the same woman as the one whose picture is in Ray’s wallet. Great, the irate spouse.

      “Oh, dear me!” I say. “I know you! I just saw your picture! Here, look!”

      I shove the small wallet-size picture at her. For a moment she is distracted, and this is all the time it takes. Emma darts around me and does the most amazing kick-thing with her right leg. The gun goes flying in one direction and Emma’s attacker is suddenly on the floor staring up at a very irate Emma.

      Emma doesn’t see the other woman coming for her, but I do. I don’t really have any time to think. I just reach out, grab her long, black hair in one hand and yank her backward, hard, into the frame of the metal bathroom stall. Emma springs forward, retrieves the gun from its resting place under a sink and stands up, covering both women with the weapon.

      Emma Bosworth has never held a gun in her life, at least as far as I know. Her family is Quaker. They don’t believe in it. Yet here’s my Emma holding the little silver gun and looking positively violent!

      She reaches her free hand into her pocket, pulls out a tiny cell phone, hands it to me and says, “Hit one on the speed dial.”

      So of course I do. A woman answers and says, “Emma?” in a voice I don’t recognize.

      I look at Emma who says, “Tell her that I need a pickup in the ladies’ room.”

      Now I know the world has turned upside down because Emma Bosworth would never be doing these sorts of things. But I do as I’m told and the woman on the other end says, “Right.” But she never asks where we are or what’s going on. She just hangs up.

      “What about the one guarding the door?” I ask Emma.

      Emma looks a little uncertain and appears to be mulling over her options. While I, on the other hand, am completely undone and wish like hell for another Bemelmans Cosmo to settle my nerves. Of course the bathroom door just has to open then, and as I’m standing right by it, I am the one who must deal with the problem.

      I grab her arm and pull her forward into the room before she can say or do anything. Emma lifts the gun just slightly so the newcomer can see that someone will surely die if she doesn’t behave and says, “Search her.”

      “Emma,” I say, starting to do just as I’m told. “Are you a cop?”

      Before she can answer me the door to the ladies’ room opens again and the room fills with three very burly men in black camou outfits. The music outside stops and a voice says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain exactly where you are. The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people are only here to perform a routine check for underage patrons. I’m sure no one has a thing to worry about.”

      Mass panic ensues as nine out of ten patrons begin emptying their pockets of illegal substances and I realize that this is far more than the ATF riding to the rescue. Emma is handing over her prisoners and quietly issuing orders. When she turns to me again, she smiles and takes my arm.

      “There’s a car waiting for us in the alley,” she says.

      She reaches for my elbow, but I step back out of her reach. “Emma, who are you and what exactly is going on?”

      Emma’s lips compress into a flat obstinate line, no longer smiling. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

      “No,” I say and shake my head. “Tell me now.”

      Emma shakes her head. “I can’t explain it here, Bug. Come on.”

      I take another step backward. “I don’t think I know you, Emma. Guns? Men in black? ATF? What is all this?”

      Emma’s features soften. “Bug, honey, I’m still me. I’m just helping with something very important and I’m not allowed to say, at least not here. Trust me, Bug. I’m not a bad guy. I’ll take you to meet my boss. You’ll see. You’ll love her.”

      It is the pleading look in her eyes that makes me relent and follow her out the back exit of the Canal Room and into the waiting limo, but I promise myself that I’ll never again agree to let my poor baby, Marlena, have a silk wrap without mommy.

      “You’ll love Renee,” Emma says as the car pulls out of the alley and accelerates. “But do me a favor, Bug, don’t ask any questions. When Renee’s ready, she’ll tell you about us, but until she is, it’s just better if you let it go.”

      Let it go? Forget women holding guns on Emma and people in black camou outfits swarming the Canal Room like ninjas? Let it go? But Emma has that look in her eyes again, and so I figure I’ll let it go, for now.

      “Oh,” I say, digging into the pocket of my shrug again, “here.” I hand Emma Ray’s wallet. “I don’t know if this’ll help or not, but I can’t keep it.”

      Emma’s eyes widen. “How did you…”

      I