Free A Disguise to Die For by Diane Vallere

that from happening is to keep my mouth shut.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until finding the one she wanted. “Yo, Dig? This is Ebony. I need a tow. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” She gave the address to the costume shop and said thanks.
    â€œDig Allen is on his way. How about you go make me one of those smoothies you’re always drinking.” She pulled a brown vial out of her purse. “Put this in it. Lemon balm oil drops. Helps calm the nerves.”
    I left Ebony on the sidewalk and went inside and upstairs. Since my smoothie had landed on the sidewalk, I blended up enough for two people. By the time I made it back downstairs, Dig and his tow truck had arrived.
    Dig Allen was a bald black man who favored bowling shirts with the sleeves torn off, boxy black work pants, and a wallet on a chain that was hooked to his belt. He had a tattoo of Tweety Bird on one muscular biceps and an anchor on the other. He was half a head shorter than Ebony even if you didn’t count her Afro. Even though she was ten years older than he was, he asked her out every chance he got.
    Today Dig looked like he’d stumbled onto the mother lode of rescue fantasies. Not only had Ebony called him, but she needed him. He had a hand on the small of her back and was in the middle of offering to replace and balance all four of her tires—though only two were flat—when I returned.
    â€œMargo Tamblyn! Long time no see. You come here to tell Jerry to take it easy after his heart attack?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œIs he listening?”
    â€œHe’s somewhere along Route 66 chasing down government conspiracies and alien costumes.”
    Dig laughed. “That sounds like Jerry. How long do we have you for?”
    When I asked my boss, Magic Maynard, how many days I could take, he grumbled about finding a replacement before he could make a decision. My roommate, a former employee at one of the older casinos, had volunteered to step in for me while I was gone so my job wouldn’t go to someone else permanently. I hoped she was doing a good enough job to keep me employed when I didn’t return to work on Tuesday.
    â€œI have to go back soon,” I said, “but not yet. Not until I feel like Ebony and my dad are both going to be okay.”
    Dig looked at Ebony with concern. “Margo’s got a point. You might need a man to look after you for a few days.”
    â€œAin’t no man who can take care of me like I can take care of myself,” she said. “But I tell you what. You help me out with those tires and the removal of the paint and I’ll take you out to dinner to the restaurant of your choice. Within reason.”
    â€œWhat are we waiting for?” Dig said. He fumbled with something by the dashboard, and after a series of loud noises, the back of the truck tipped down. He freed a large hook and secured it under Ebony’s Caddy and then went back to the dash and did something else that made the hook retract. The Caddy resisted, but with enough force, finally lifted from the ground. By the time Dig was done with the process, the front two wheels of the Caddy were resting on the tilted bed of the truck. Sadly, this made it even easier to read the word that was painted on the car.
    â€œWill it be hard to get the paint off?” Ebony asked.
    â€œNah, little bit of turpentine’ll do the trick. Besides, it’s still fresh. See?” Dig dragged his finger over the paint and left a streak through the
M
.
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “I found the car like this around ten o’clock this morning. Spray paint dries in halfan hour. Hour, tops.” I stepped closer to the car and looked in the window. The cans of paint had rolled to the far side of the car. I walked around and reached in and picked one up.
    It wasn’t a can of spray paint at all. It was a can of temporary hair color, like