New readers will benefit from reading Jailbird: 1.1 for foundation and background.
An hour later, Sharon was mildly stressing over viewer counts for the month, Kona was stressing over nothing, because she’s Kona, and I was still on hold with the police department. For the fourth time.
“You’re sure you didn’t get any details?” I asked Louisa, who was pooching her lips and studying herself in a mirror as she rocked in the hammock. I tapped my pencil with a ceaseless frustration, trying not to listen to the hold music.
“Just what I said. I was more concerned about getting strip searched in the melon department.”
“Not the worst Saturday program,” Kona offered, being helpful.
“We need something that’s going to hit hard this week,” Sharon said, looking thoughtfully at Kona.
“We can send Kona to prison and do an inmates reality show,” I suggested, drawing the another question mark on the paper tablet on my lap.
“Orange isn’t my color.”
“Orange isn’t anyone’s color,” Sharon said. She studied her manicure thoughtfully.
A pack of tourists on scooters buzzed by on the street, trading noise and smoke for a moderate pace as they reviewed the island.
“It’s Myrtle’s color today.” I said, after the sound moderated. “Every call I get passed to someone new,” I said. “There can’t be that many cops on the island. And they all know who we are.”
“I wonder if we could interview people in the grocery store. Put glitter melons on display or something,” Sharon mused.
“Maybe that’s why you’re on hold.” Kona reach out a hand for my phone. I handed it off reluctantly. She put it on speaker and set it down in front of her. “I’m up for glitter melons. Might get mobbed in the store, though.”
“Maybe we just interview cruise ship captains,” Sharon said, floating another idea.
“Kona in prison will get more…”
“Hello? Who are you holding for, please?” A new voice joined the chat from my phone.
“Hi there….. This is Kona Hargrove.” Kona streamed hot-sex-come-hither do-me-now vibes through the phone and started foaming up wherever the other end of the call was located. “Can I speak to someone who can help me, please?” She gave a little moan and twist at the end. We heard a clatter come from the other side as the police phone hit the floor.
Kona smiled at me and winked. More phone clicks and bangs preceeded the next stanza.
“Uh, this is Officer Baaa….. Officer Bailey. How can I help?”
“I’m soooo sorry to bother you, Officer Bailey. I’m trying to reach my great grandmother. I wondered if she might be there.” Kona’s voice was so hot that I was starting to feel it myself, watching her from three feet away. “I’d be so thankful if you could tell me what to do….” She did another soft moan and puddled up obscene images in the police station.
“I, uh, well, uh, if you’re able to, I mean if it’s convenient for you, uh, I could…”
“Oh, baby, it’s gonna be so much more than convenient. It’s gonna be like destiny pulled me to you, and I’ll be soooo thankful…” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to maintain focus on the mission.
Another pack of scooters approached, buzzing excitedly.
Louisa joined us, leaving the hammock swinging, and laid her phone on the table in front of Kona. A picture of Officer Montrose (Monty) Bailey filled the screen on the city’s web site.
“Is this, uh, really Kona Hargrove? Like the Momositas?” His voice rose to a squeak as he pushed out the word ‘Momositas’ with extra air. Sharon rolled her eyes and Kona lit off her thousand watt smile as she scrolled Weesa’s phone with a manicured finger. In the background on the other side we heard chairs scraping on the floor and a general air of hyperventilation gathering.
“It’s really me, Monty dear.” Another signature moan painted pink desire in the air. “Can you help me reach my grandmother? Her name is Miss Myrtle…” Kona stopped dead, eyes growing wide as she gestured wildly. She mouthed “Name?” I looked at Sharon. Sharon looked at Kona, then me. We all looked at Louisa, who studied the porch ceiling with indifference.
It was at that moment we all realized we didn’t know Myrtle’s last name.
Scooters started arriving on the street by our gate, clustering and going silent as their riders dismounted.
The awkward pause started rolling out seconds like Big Ben chiming the twelve o’clock hour. Sharon furiously flicked in her phone. Kona rolled in her chair, trying to hold it together, and I furrowed my brows, searching for any memory that might help. Pointed looks and gestures flowed freely across the porch in agitated silence and the scent of panicked estrogen fogged the zone. An iguana studied the whole program from the porch railing with a bemused air. Louisa, lying in the hammock, lifted a foot and practiced toe curls.
Big Ben struck eleven as girl energy boiled and frothed on the porch in silence, culminating in looks of concern (me), desperation (Sharon), and amusement (guess who).
Two women tourists draped themselves over our Mammary House sign and other riders started taking pictures and selfies, oblivious to the porch drama in progress.
“We, uh, have a Myrtle Green in holding. She’s still in processing.”
“That’s her honey…” Indistinct whispers rippled across the connection from the other side. “How can I bring her home? I could come see you, and after we’re done…. bring her back home with me….” Aside from an onslaught of stalker-grade heavy breathing, Officer Montrose Bailey seemed to have ghosted the kitten.
Hoots and laughter erupted from our house sign as the revelers exchanged places and took more pictures.
“Monty, baby?” Kona flamed out vocal heat like she was melting asphalt and behind schedule. “Hello?” The heavy breathing turned into what sounded like an asthma attack before the hold music abruptly clicked on as Officer Bailey officially evaporated.
“We’re just going to have to go down there and do this in person,” I said, standing up. “Assuming Officer Monty hasn’t had a stroke or something. Who’s up for a rescue mission?”
“Isn’t that one of the Momositas?” Someone called out, pointing at me from the street.
“I’ll go,” Kona said. “But I need to glitter up in case we have time to stop by the grocery. I want to check out the melon bin.”
“There’s another one! Kona! Kona! Over here!” Someone from scooter town waved frantically at the kitten.
“You mean get checked out,” Sharon replied dryly, looking at the street.
“Same thing,” Kona said. She stood up and waved at the tourists. “The key in this business is to never be out of sight long enough to be forgotten.” She moved to the top of the stairs and gave a shimmy dance for the gathering.
Returning, she launched her smile at us and scampered through the screen door. I may have made a face.
“We go out there now, we’re gonna be leading a parade. Kona just amped them all up.”
Louisa swung her feet to the floor and fluffed her hair. “I need to pick up a piano off FBM in Newtown. We could combine trips.” She waved at the tourists, causing animated responses. “Besides, I like a parade.”
“Fine. Jail, melons, pianos, parades. Sounds like a typical weekend getaway. And you can distract your cop buddies while we’re there. You seem good at distractions.” I flapped a weak hand at the group, trying not to convey encouragement.
Weesa just smiled at me as she did stretches and twists, drawing a series of whistles and invites of questionable value from the crowd. Sharon tapped her chin and I studied the yard and street as we waited for Kona.
“Maybe we could interview Max or Alex,” Sharon mused, teasing out more ideas to keep us afloat in spite of the Myrtle anchor we seemed to be dragging.
“Maybe you just set up a camera out on the street and interview the fans,” I said dryly. “Seems like that’s the low effort option.”
It really is like wrangling kittens, isn’t it?