Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

the scrapes and cuts and a Band-Aid on your forehead. Why’d you break up? I asked Silvestri, but you know how closed mouthed he is.” She attached the clear Band-Aid and stepped back, tilting her head to look at her patient.
    “Patrice—”
    “You took up with that big shot lawyer, Bill Veeder. Silvestri’s been in a funk. Couldn’t get a smile out of him, and believe me, I tried. He’s a good boy, Les, for a cop.”
    “I know.”
    “You’d better get those clothes off so we can see if we have to give you any more first aid. So you came back to him?”
    “Something like that. If the FBI is still downstairs, how am I going to get out of here?”
    “I know there’s more to this story, but I guess I’ll have to take a raincheck. And don’t you worry, Patrice’ll get you out of here, Little Les, if you promise you’ll tell me.”
    Dum dum dum ti di dum ... The further adventures of Candide Wetzon.
    Wetzon, facing her image in the full length mirror, would never in a million years have recognized herself. Her skin was a heavy-on-the-creamy coffee color, lips outstanding, way larger than her swollen own, bright red covering the cut, glazed brilliant. Eyelids black and dusted glittery, extended eyeliner, and long black false lashes. A black wig curled over her bruised forehead, vast around her face, grand on her head, coursed past her shoulders, hiding everything but her thin nose.
    “Big hair is an understatement,” she told an admiring Patrice.
    Fishnet stockings, mega platform, ankle strap shoes in gold and rhinestones. Tight gold short-shorts. A black net overskirt, trimmed with sequins.
    “The air is thin up here.”
    “I knew you had great legs,” Patrice said. “Push up those bosoms.”
    Wetzon reached into the sock stuffed bustier and tried to coax a little more from a lot less. “Yeah, but can I walk on these platforms?”
    “It’s not a question of walking. Watch me, you sashay, roll your shoulders, lead with your pelvis. You’re a dancer, you’ll know.”
    “Well, I have danced on a raked stage ...”
    “First, a little scent, Calvin.” Patrice’s touch on the perfume spray was heavy. “And finally, the piece de resistance.” On went a white angora, fat little jacket with huge shoulder pads. Stepping back to take it all in, Patrice said, “Opera gloves.” She went into the bedroom and returned with long black leather gloves.
    While Wetzon pulled them on, Patrice threw a handful of sparkles at her. “Fairy dust for good luck.”
    “Well, of course. Listen, Patrice, will you leave a message on Silvestri’s phone that I’m okay?” Rita’s key was still in the pocket of Wetzon’s leather coat. She tucked it into her glove.
    “Give me his cell number.”
    “I don’t know it.”
    “Get with the program, Little Les. Okay, I’ll take care of it.” She gave Wetzon a light smack on the ass. “Now you go get ‘em, girl.”
    “First I have to get down the stairs.”
    How, Wetzon thought, will I ever get a cab looking like this?
    When she passed Silvestri’s apartment, she heard the phone ringing, Izz whining.
    Don’t be tentative, she told herself, at the front door. Patrice is flamboyant. Flamboyant yourself out of here. She threw open the door with bravado.
    It was dusk. Where had the day gone? Under the street lamp across the way, Judy Blue was leaning against her car, smoking, watching Wetzon. Her colleague sat at the wheel, nursing a Starbucks.
    Wetzon rolled her shoulders, rotated her pelvis, shook her big hair. I’ll bet I sparkle up a storm, she thought, sorry she couldn’t stand under the street lamp and glow.
    She sashayed toward Seventh Avenue, a prayer on her lips. On the corner, traffic was heavy. She waved her hand for a cab, taking a quick glance back. Damn, Judy Blue was standing in the middle of the street, watching her.
    “Hey, bebe!” A man stuck his head out of a black SUV as it screeched to a stop beside her. “You wanna ride?” He made smacking sounds with his pursed lips.
    The Toyota hit the SUV with a sickening crunch. Wetzon jumped back. There followed a perfect example of the domino effect. The result was pandemonium, horns blaring, drivers spilling onto the streets defending their cars, babies screaming. Was that a gunshot? A siren went off somewhere and Wetzon could see the flashing lights of two blue and whites crawling through the bumper on bumper field of cars.
    Judy Blue, in the meantime, had made her decision and was walking