Free Calamity Jayne by Kathleen Bacus

wraps for this long qualified for miracle status.
    Had the cops found the body? Were the forensic tests completed? Did the police have any suspects? Had the next of kin been
     notified? Had Townsend given any more thought to his tushie tattoo?
    The afternoon crawled by slower than it takes a cold sore to heal. I was daydreaming about a gorgeous cowboy with a great
     smile running his fingers through my hair and looking deep into my eyes. Of course, in my fantasy, I had someone else’s hair—someone
     for whom the term “the frizzies” is a mystery. I had earphones on, listening to sample CD tracks, imagining myself anywhere
     but where I was, when it dawned on me there was a customer to my right, almost rubbing elbows with me. I pulled my headphones
     off and turned. A long set of ugly fangs greeted me. I gasped, and then recognized the fangs as belonging to a rather frightening
     cobra tattoo coiling around a rather large arm.
    “Sorry,” I gulped. “Did you find everything you needed, sir?” I watched, intrigued, as the cobra seemed to wriggle when its
     owner’s muscles tensed.
    “As a matter of fact, no, I haven’t found everything I need.” Cobra Man moved closer, his brewery breath hot on my face. “But
     I’m guessin’ you’ll be able to help me out. You are the helpful type, aren’t you?” He tapped my Bargain City name tag. “Tressa?”
    “That depends on what you want,” I replied, my eyes drawn to the silver stud pierced through his left nostril, and the collection
     of them in his left eyebrow, before returning to the serpent decorating his arm.
    “I want my property,” the snake charmer said, and wound a lock of my blonde hair around a dirty-nailed finger. “I want my
     property,” he repeated, “and I want it now.”
    “P-p-p-roperty?” I stammered. “Did you check the lost and found at customer service?”
    The serpent performed another recoil. “What I want was never lost, but it sure as hell was found. And you, blondie, found
     it. Now, I want it back. Simple as that. So hand it over.”
    “If you could be more specific, sir—”
    “I ain’t got the patience for game playing, bitch. Just hand over the green and everything will be cool.”
    “Green?” My god, I thought, a robbery! “Is this a robbery?” I asked, with a pathetic tremor to my voice.
    Tattoo Ted’s eyes shot open, and he looked around. “Just calm down, you stupid bitch. I didn’t say nothing about no robbery.
     I’m here to retrieve my personal property, that’s all. I happen to know it came into your possession last night. You got it.
     I want it back. End of discussion.”
    Up until this point I was pretty much playing a guessing game on how to serve this particular customer. His references to green, property, and the other night finally got the old cognitive abilities firing, and it became clear as the slithering serpent on the bulging biceps. Since
     I was fairly certain my visitor didn’t want Peyton Palmer’s body back, even though it might well be green by now, I concluded
     he was inquiring about the envelope of Bennies that had almost made me wet my drawers.
    “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have the particular item you’re interested in.” I hardly recognized my own voice. In my dreams
     I’d wished for a voice this husky.
    The finger tangled in my hair yanked hard on the twisted lock. My eyes began to tear, and I knew how the early settlers must
     have felt before they said goodbye to their scalps. “This ain’t no goddamned raincheck I’m asking for, girlie. You got something
     belongs to me and I aim to get it back.”
    “But I can’t—” I started to explain I couldn’t give him what I didn’t have when he clamped another dirty hand over my mouth.
    “I hate the word ‘can’t.’ Implies a lack of effort. I hate it almost as much as I hate Buttinsky blondes who can’t keep their
     goddamned nose out of things that don’t concern them. But believe me when I say, I know