Sudsy Dudsy
An Alamo Barnes adventure
By Hugh Lessig

The girl who stole my clothes ends up inside the geek tent, talking politics with Jabaleel, the World's Smallest Woman. 

The girl doesn't notice me. She is deep into it with the midget. The girl says: "Ma'am, I don't mean to be condescending to a little person, but how are you an expert on Third World geopolitics? Just because you came from a dirt-poor country and galavant around this tent like an emu on parade?"

Jabaleel the World's Smallest Woman pops up from her tiny recliner. Her legs disappear beneath a flouncy blue dress. She says: "I'm not arguing that point, girlie. All I'm sayin' is this: Specifically targeted monetary initiatives are much more humane than imperialistic, macroeconomic stimuli. Sweet Jesus, girl, what do they teach Yankee women besides how to get banged?"

The girl blows cigarette smoke sideways and scratches her back against a tent pole. She is sunburnt with straw-colored hair, maybe 25, with the build of a soccer player. I find myself wishing I were that tent pole.

"Excuse me," I say. "I need to introduce myself here."

Jabaleel smiles with impossibly white teeth. The girl pushes off the tent pole and sidles up to me. She takes my arm in both hands like we're long, lost friends, and she looks at Jabaleel. "This man wants me," she says, "because I'm wearing his clothes."

Jabaleel gives me a knowing glance. 

"You don't understand," I say. "This woman here, whose name I still don't know -- "

"She says it's Nicole McCord," says Jabaleel.

"Fine. This Nicole McCord stole my clothes from a laundromat not two blocks from this fairgrounds. I know this because next to the laundromat is a bar, and when I went to the bar to call the police, she was sitting at the table with this white shirt and this pair of khaki pants, both sopping wet, and she saw me and ran. She got into the fairgrounds by vaulting over the fence, and for the past two hours I've searched the fairgrounds, lost money on the miniature pig races, successfully fooled the Guesser and eaten something called a porkette sandwich. Now I'd like to get out of here with all my clothes because I'm on my way to the United Nations."

Jabaleel asks for my press card, and I show it to her. "Alamo Barnes of The Frisco Foil," she says slowly. "You're that leftist rag, ain't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say cheerfully. "Not some imperialistic macroeconomic stimuli."

"And why are you going to the United Nations?"

"I've been assigned to do a hostile profile of a former San Francisco city council member who has risen to the post of under-secretary of something or other. I stopped in this town because it's three hours from New York and I needed to do laundry. That was before I ran into Bonnie Parker here."

Jabaleel pushes out of her chair and teeters toward me. "Mr. Alamo,there's no discernable reason for such larceny unless she's got something up her sleeve. This Nicole here," she points to my quarry, "she's got a smart look about her. Were I you, I would not summon the constabulary until you figure out what the hell she's trying to pull."

Nicole and I regard each other, then she addresses me for the first time.

"Face it, Mr. Barnes. No woman has ever stolen your clothes before, and you're dying to find out why. I don't mind telling you, but first I need some lunch. Jesus, I thought you'd never find me."

We eat at a place called The Jack-a-Lope. It is on Main Street, which runs through the center of town. The street runs level for a while and then it goes up a hill. On top of the hill is a small state university with a golden dome.

Nicole eyes me. "If you're from San Francisco, why didn't you just fly to New York?" She has ordered a vanilla coke, plus French fries and meatloaf with gravy over everything. I am waiting on a Jack-a-Lope Burger with special sauce, and the prospect of eating it makes me hinky. 

"I don't fly in airplanes, Nicole. End of story."

"So you drove across the country? Hah. I saw your California license plates and presumed you were headed west. That's why I stole your clothes. Because I wanted a ride. Your fear of flying has screwed up my plans."

"Walk me through your plans."

She takes a deep pull on her Coke. It is a 24-ounce cup, and she grips it in both hands. She has small hands with strange rings on her pinkies. I had her pegged for 25. Now I'm not sure. Maybe she's 18.

"I steal your clothes," she says. "That gets your attention. I play hide and seek. You finally catch me. We make up and become fast friends. You drive me to wherever you're going because I'm so charming and you can't resist me."

The look on my face asks her to try again.

"OK, " she says. "Fine."

Our food comes just then. Nicole attacks the gravy and fries with something resembling true hunger. I nibble at my Jack-a-Lope burger. Its smokey flavor excites me for no particular reason.

"You were saying, Nicole. About your plan."

"Give me a minute."

Ten minutes later, she wipes her plate clean with a crust of bread and takes a mouthful of ice. She looks at me playfully, crunching ice with her molars. I get the impression I'm supposed to be fascinated with this. Finally, she pulls out two packs of $20 bills bound by a wrapper, peels off a single bill and lays it on the table with great ceremony.

"You shouldn't carry that much cash, Nicole dear. I hear this town is crawling with thieves."

She smiles just a little."It's my dad's money. It's part of the plan."

"Let's talk about the plan, Nicole."

"Well, here's the thing." She hunkers forward on her elbows. "These clothes are kinda wet, and I'm being chafed in all the wrong places. If we could stop off at The Dollar Store so I could get some new clothes, then go back to your hotel room -- "

"No."

"Thennnn," she continues, "I could return your clothes and tell you the reason I want to leave town. You'll need your clothes back anyway."

"You can tell me now."

"True," she agreed. "But you won't believe me unless I show you something."

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

She shoots me a look. "Please, Mr. Barnes. I'm trying to be serious."

She buys some blue jeans and a T-shirt at The Dollar Store. She retrieves a backpack that she had stashed at the public library. It contains the rest of my laundry -- three pairs of underwear and five pairs of socks. We adjourn to my hotel room and I hang my damp underwear over the shower rod in the bathroom. Nicole watches me.

"Boxers," she says. "I would have figured you for briefs."

"In San Francisco we go both ways. Now will you please tell me - - - whoa there."

Nicole walks into the bathroom with me. She closes the door and locks it behind her. She unbuttons her shirt, which is my shirt. I am momentarily blinded by sexual confusion. Then I see what I am supposed to see.

Five cigarette burns just under the collarbone. Three striped scabs across the kidneys that could only be caused by a leather strap. A fresh cut that zigs and zags across her stomach, ugly and infected, as if it was made with a rusty nail.

I stare at the damage longer than is necessary, longer than I should. I have seen this stuff on kids, mostly. The kids were dead at the time.

"A boyfriend?" I ask.

"My father."

"You need to go to the cops, Nicole. File charges."

Her eyes get a faraway look, and for the first time I see what she looks like at night, alone, when there is no one to argue with, no one to impress. I thought she was 25, then I thought she was a few years younger. Now she has the frightened puppy dog eyes of a 12-year-old.

"My dad is what they call a pillar of the community." She laughs joylessly. "I mean, he's the president of the Rotary Club. He collects eyeglasses for underprivileged kids. I've got a juvenile arrest for underaged drinking and one for disorderly conduct."

"You've got evidence. They can't ignore that."

"The cops will say it came from rough sex."

"You don't know what they'll say. Cops'll surprise you." It is my way of saying I like her.

She fixes me with a stare. "The cops will say it came from rough sex. That's what I've been told. Trust me. I need to get out of town. I'll pay you, if you want."

She puts my shirt back on. As she buttons it, I realize I forgot to notice her breasts. I ask, "If you've got money, why do you need me? This town must have a bus station. You can go pretty far with the money you've got."

Nicole unlocks the bathroom door and walks back into the room. She goes to the window. It overlooks Main Street. She says: "People will be looking for me."

"Because you stole your father's money?"

"It's not exactly my father's money."

"Whose money is it?"

When she doesn't answer, I open her purse and examine the two packs of 20s. They look freshly printed, the kind that come straight from ATM machines. 

"Did your father get this money directly from the bank?"

"Actually," she says, "he's the president of the bank. And I took it from -- "

"You took it from the bank," I finished.

"Yes."

"You robbed a bank."

"Robbed is an ugly word, Mr. Barnes. He leaves the security codes on his workbench in the garage. I mean, really. How dumb is that?"

"Great." I grab my laptop off the desk and fire it up. I ask Nicole for the name of the local newspaper. She tells me. I do a search for its website.

"As a reporter, I always love asking this question: Tell me exactly when you robbed the bank?"

"I walked in around 6:30 this morning. I turned off all the alarms and the cameras, got what I needed, then walked out. I could've got bazillions." She has the tone of someone discussing the weather.

"How much did you take?" In this town, the newspaper's name is the Daily Star. I find it without much trouble.

"Maybe five thousand dollars. I don't know. It's all 20s. "

I mutter something under my breath, and she shoots me a look. "Robbing a bank is a victimless crime," she says. "It's not like people will wonder if the bank can pay its bills."

The Daily Star web site looks pretty savvy for a small-town paper. And I'm in luck. It has a section for breaking news -- stuff that hit after the deadline for an A.M. daily, which would be around midnight. They've got about six inches on this morning's bank robbery.

No sign of break-in ..... cops won't say how much money ..... souces say up to 12 grand ...... no witnesses ..... cops won't speculate on motive ..... sources say it was an inside job. 

It's not a bad little read for a small-town rag. Near the end is sad, throwaway quote from bank President Harvey McCord: This is a crime against our customers, our employees and yes, the community.

"Your dad is a dork."

She smiles and fingers her collarbone.

"Your mom around?"

Nicole nods. 

"She get beat up, too?"

"Less so, now that I've gotten older. Mom's a Catholic. They don't get divorced. They get even. I figure one day she'll pull out the little .25 caliber she keeps by the bed and cap his ass."

"Will your dad suspect you stole the money?"

"Eventually, yes. He knows that someone found the security codes. And when I don't come home, he'll figure it out." She looks at her watch. It is about 1:30 p.m. "He may have figured it out already."

"Which is why you can't take the bus."

I switch off the laptop and stare at the blank screen for what seems like a long time. Behind me, I hear the sound of Nicole taking off her clothes -- my clothes -- and rummaging around her backpack for her own stuff.

"You could do that in the bathroom, you know." I keep my eyes trained on the window to see her reflection.

She ignores me. "What are you going to do?"

"In cases like this," I say, "I'm supposed to call my editor. But he would say something like the following: 'Mr. Barnes, I don't mind you harboring a fugitive from justice, and I don't even mind you writing about her. But how do you know for sure that her dad abused her?' That's what he would ask."

"That's a hell of a lousy question."

"He's an editor. It's his job to ask lousy questions. And then he'd say: 'How is this going to interfere with doing a hostile profile of that under secretary from San Francisco?"

"What exactly is hostile profile?"

"A hostile profile," I say, "is when you're profiling someone who doesn't want to be interviewed, who'd rather you not do a story. This guy at the UN -- his name's not important -- he has a history with us. So I have to snoop around and talk to people who know him, and put together maybe 30 inches that will play downpage on Sunday's A-1, which is difficult because I'll have static art - file photos and such."

"Sounds hard."

"It is," I agree. "But it can be very revealing. For instance, sometimes you can ask -- Jesus!"

"What?"

"I'm such an idiot. Right in front of me all the time . . . . "

I grab my notebook and run out the door before Nicole has time to be surprised.

Harvey McCord is president of the Miner's National Bank, which is only a few blocks from the hotel. He agrees to see me after I flash my press card at his secretary. He welcomes me into his office with a quiet, wary look -- a man well over six feet tall, with the look of a someone who was athletic in his younger years.

He has a nasty smile. "Please don't tell me that The Frisco Foil sent someone halfway across the country to cover our little trouble here?"

"Not at all,"I say. "I'm a roving business reporter, and I'm always looking for interesting business leaders to profile. I was wondering if I could do a story on you? This robbery would be a good hook -- describing how a bank president in a small town handles something as rare as this. This is such a nice town and all."

He thinks for a moment. "Do I get to read the story before it's published?"

"Sure," I lie.

"Well, this is kind of a bad time right now -- "

"No. It's a great time. This way, I can catch you at your best. Besides, I'm always on the road. I can't stay in Pennsylvania another day."

He throws up his hands in resignation. "Fine. What do you want to ask me?"

I open my notepad. "Well, for starters, do you still beat your kids?"

The look on his face tells me all I need to know. He stands up behind his desk and looks like he wants to hit me. I throw up my hands in mock surrender.

"Relax," I say. "It's a joke. Just breaking the ice."

"Get out."

I close my notepad. "One more thing, Mr. McCord. Do you smoke?" I scan his desk and see an ashtray, then nod approvingly. "I've always thought that only real men smoked. Me? I've got exercise-induced asthma. You know, a cigarette produces a nasty burn."

"Get out."

I walk out of the bank like I own it and head away from the hotel. After half a block, I pretend to have forgotten my car keys and suddenly turn around. The person who was ordered to follow me -- and who is not doing a very good job -- stops too quickly and pretends he is window shopping. I take the opportunity to dart between traffic, cross Main Street and get lost in an alley.

I arrive at the hotel through the back entrance. Nicole is on the bed, watching TV. She smiles. "I thought you were going postal the way you ran out of here," she says.

"I had to confirm that your father beat you."

"How did you do that?"

"I asked him straight out -- never mind. I'll tell you on the way."

She gets up off the bed. "On the way to where?"

"To your escape."

As I drive out of town, the cops stop me. It is a pretty good excuse -- saying they had set up a roadblock for this morning's bank robbery and they were checking all cars, and since I had out-of-state license plates could they please search my vehicle.

I pop the trunk and get out of the car. The sergeant, a tough-looking kid with a Polish name, asks me what I was doing in their nice little town. I tell him about my UN assisgnment and invite him to call my editor.

He looks like he wants to cuff me. He says, "You were at the Miner's Bank this morning. Talking to the president. Why was that?"

"I wanted to do a profile of Mr. McCord," I say. "But we got off on the wrong foot, so I left. No hard feelings, I hope."

The kid gets up in my face and tries to stare me down. I keep my hands at my side and smile. I've been stared at harder, and by more dangerous people, but there is never anything to be gained by pissing off a small-town cop. So we just stand there for what seems like about a minute.

"Get out of here," he says finally. "And I would be careful if I were you."

I get back in the car and drive under the speed limit until I reach the entrance for Interstate 80 west. I get on the highway and start toward New York. I drive across an overpass that offers a decent view of the town. I can see the fairgrounds, its colorful skyline dominated by the Ferris wheel and the Tilt-aWhirl. I can't see the geek tent, of course, but I know Jabaleel is there.

The fair will leave town tomorrow. All the barkers and gamesters and faceless carney workers. What is one more sunburnt face among them?