It's a Curious Thing
Lucy & Ethel Go To
Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved
It was a curious thing, picking someone up at the airport whom I had never met face to face. I had told her that she would recognize me as the woman with the shaved head, no front teeth, an 'x' tattooed on her forehead (ala Manson) and carrying an iguana. She wasn't scared off. I was impressed.
We had never worked together before but I don't remember any uncomfortable silences as we made our way up I95 towards DC. We were like two spies heading to a secret assignment. I handed her a dossier, which she read with great seriousness for about twenty miles. We spent the other forty miles making fun of Kevin. Ah, yes - we poked fun at the eldest BSB but we both knew that the other wanted that man. Would this project end in a major catfight between Morgan Maxwell and Tristan Mallory or would DJ and Grace work together for the common good?
We checked into the hotel and immediately realized that we might be in trouble. Trench coats and wired ears abounded. We could barely take five steps without being stopped and questioned and knew right away that information would be difficult to retrieve. We were forced to slip into our alter-identities. Although DJ had had the foresight to send me a disguise (a pair of those funny glasses with a big nose, mustache and 'Kevin' brows) I chose to gamble on my own face and let the chips fall where they may. I had 'become' a free lance reporter who had checked in to interview a member of the BSB entourage and DJ was a novelist. I thought that was a little sneaky on her part because she IS a novelist, which made ME the liar…. I had to be nice, though - after all, she had the cell phone and laptop. But I had the getaway car and the concert tickets…ha!
Once again, my suspicions rose as DJ stared longingly at the bathtub built for two. I knew what she was thinking…. Oh yeah - a double-trouble-bubble bath with a goateed pop singer who has a 'thing' for skirts. I stepped discretely to my suitcase, checking to make sure I had my 'supplies'. Deej had her perfume and red fingernails but I had kneepads and Altoids…. So there!
We came to the telepathic conclusion that we were going to have to work this one together and we tried… Lord, how we tried! We roamed, investigated, bribed and ate 25.00 turkey club sandwiches. We sat in the bar and sent cryptic notes to Marty Hom. We did manage to find out that the tight security had not been put into place on behalf of the BSB but for visiting dignitaries. Like we really cared about the peace of our planet! We were after a piece of our Backstreet. But, alas - nothing. Frustration was beginning to set in. We forgot to eat. Unfortunately, we didn't forget to drink.
By the time we left for the concert, we had all but given up. As a result, the concert - great, by the way - was somewhat of a melancholy experience. We hitched a ride back to the hotel with two fellow agents and then things got strange. As we pulled out into traffic, we suddenly found ourselves between tour busses. We couldn't tell who was in front, but Nick was behind us. Our 'wheelman' was in top form and before the bus driver realized what was happening, we had pulled behind the bus, intent on keeping our eyes on the prize despite attempts by the driver of a green Cherokee to….well - kill us.
We saw a lot of
We had to check out on Saturday but DJ and I made one more attempt at surveillance. I sat in the lounge, watching while she went back to the room and…well, I didn't know what the hell she was doing but I had to trust her. I was giving her fifteen minutes and then I was coming up - and she'd better not be in that damned bathtub with HIM! I didn't have to wait that long. I detected motion in my peripheral vision. It was DJ, trying to be subtle by cocking her head, pointing her finger towards the elevators and flailing her arm. She was beginning to draw a crowd so I acknowledged her signal and we entered the elevator together. After checking for bugs, she told me that she had made 'contact' - sort of. She had talked to somebody who had spilled the beans and all it took to break this squealer was cash. There were BSB in this hotel!
Cut to the chase - finally, right? We got a letter to Kevin. Of course, it wasn't delivered until the 'courier' had been assured that we were, indeed, leaving. Personally, I was mildly insulted by that. I don't even know what was in the letter, I wrote it so fast. I just hope the pink ink impressed him. If it didn't, maybe the Altoid I enclosed did… We left email addresses and DJ's cell phone number (she made me put it in the letter - curses!).
As we were leaving DC, which took awhile because we couldn't find I395, her cell rang. YIKES!! Kevin?! Oh my God! Unfortunately DJ, had a mouth full of chips at the time and managed to cover the dashboard in one giant choke. We had definitely lost our 'cool'.
She said it wasn't him but I'm not so sure. She's pretty smooth. That's okay… I won't tell her about the four-page email I got from him today - the one where he lists the great things about Altoids - and mentholated coughdrops - and fireballs.
We plan to refine our technique before the next leg of the tour and although she still has the Vegas show to look forward to, I'm counting on her companion to keep her in line. I am not above blackmail on this issue and she knows it!
Remember Deej - You scratch my back and I'll…………..share my kneepads.
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