Ed McBain - Tricks

The kids said nothing.

The eyes behind the masks darted, covering both sides of the avenue. The slits in the masks made all the eyes look Oriental, even the blue ones.

"Especially you, Alice. Do you hear me?"

Alice nodded stiffly.

"There she is," the blonde said, "number two," and began easing the station wagon in toward the curb.

The liquor store was brightly lighted.

The lettering on the plate-glass window read FAMOUS BRANDS WINE WHISKEY.

"Have fun, kids," the blonde said.

The kids piled out of the car.

"Trick or treat, trick or treat!" they squealed at an old woman coming out of the liquor store.

The old woman giggled.

"How cute !" she said to no one.

Inside the store, the kids weren't so cute.

The owner had his back to them, reaching up for a half-gallon of Johnny Walker Red.

Alice shot him at once.

The thirty-year-old account executive standing in front of the counter screamed.

She shot him, too.

The kids cleaned out the cash register in less than twelve seconds. One of them took a fifth of Canadian Club from the shelves. Then they ran out of the store again, giggling and yelling, "Trick or treat, trick or treat!"

"Hello, Peaches?" the man on the telephone said.

"Yes?"

"I've been trying to reach you all day. My secretary left your number, but she didn't say which agency you're with."

"Agency?"

"Yes. This is Phil Hendricks at Camera Works. We're shooting some stuff next week, and my secretary thought you might be right for the job. How old are you, Peaches?"

"Forty-nine," she said without hesitation. Lying a little. Well, lying by eleven years, but who was counting?

"That's perfect," he said, "this is stuff for the Sears catalogue, a half-dozen mature women modeling housedresses. If you'll give me the name of your agency, I'll call them in the morning."

"I don't have an agency," Peaches said.

"You don't? Well, that's strange. I mean hellip; well, how long have you been modeling?"

"I'm not a model," Peaches said.

"You're not? Then how'd my secretary hellip; ?"

There was a long, puzzled silence on the line.

"This is Peaches Muldoon, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes," she said, "but I've never hellip;"

"349-4040?"

"That's the number. But your secretary must've hellip;"

"Well, here's your name and number right here in her handwriting," he said. "But you say you're not a model?"

"No, I'm an RN."

"A what?"

"A registered nurse."

"Then how'd she hellip; ?"

Another puzzled silence.

"Have you ever thought of modeling?" he asked.

"Well hellip; not seriously."

"Because maybe you mentioned to someone that you were looking for modeling work, and this got to my secretary somehow. That's the only thing I can figure."

"What's your secretary's name?"

"Linda. Linda Greeley."

"No, I don't know anyone by that name."

" Did you mention to someone that you might be interested in modeling?"

"Well hellip; you know hellip; people are always telling me I should try modeling, but you know how people talk. I never take them seriously. I mean, I'm not a kid anymore, you know."

"Well, forty-nine isn't exactly ancient ," he said, and laughed.

"Well, I suppose not. But people try to natter you, you know. I'm not really beautiful enough to do modeling. There's a certain type, you know. For modeling."

"What type are you, Peaches?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know how to answer that."

"Well, how tall are you, for example?"

"Five-nine," she said.

"How much do you weigh?"

"I could lose a little weight right now," she said, "believe me."

"Well, there isn't a woman on earth who doesn't think she could stand to lose a few pounds. How much do you weigh, Peaches?"

"A hundred and twenty," she said. Lying a little. Well, lying by ten pounds. Well, twenty pounds, actually.

"That's not what I'd call obese ," he said. "Five-nine, a hundred-twenty."

"Well, let's say I'm hellip; well hellip; zoftig, I guess."

"Are you Jewish, Peaches?"

"What?"

"That's a Jewish expression, zoftig," he said. "But Muldoon isn't Jewish, is it?"

"No, no. I'm Irish."

"Red hair, I'll bet."

"How'd you guess?" she asked, and laughed.

"And isn't that a faint Southern accent I detect?"

"I'm from Tennessee originally. I didn't think it still showed."

"Oh, just a trace. Which is why zoftig sounded so strange on your lips," he said. "Well, I'm sorry you're not a model, Peaches, truly. We're paying a hundred and twenty-five a hour, and we're shooting something like two dozen pages, so this could've come to a bit of change. Do you work full time as a nurse?"

"No. I do mostly residential work."

"Then you might be free to hellip;"

He hesitated.

"But if you're not experienced hellip;"

He hesitated again.

"I just don't know," he said. "What we're looking for, you see, is a group of women who are mature and who could be accepted as everyday housewives. We're not shooting any glamor stuff here, no sexy lingerie, nothing like that. In fact hellip; well, I don't really know. But your inexperience might be a plus. When you say you're a zoftig type, you don't mean hellip; well, you don't look too glamorous, do you?"

"I wouldn't say I look glamorous no. I'm forty-nine, you know."

"Well, Sophia Loren's what? In her fifties, isn't she? And she certainly looks glamorous. What I'm saying is we're not looking for any Sophia Lorens here. Can you imagine Sophia Loren in a housedress?" he said, and laughed again. "Let me just write down your dimensions, okay? I'll discuss this with the ad agency in the morning, who knows? You said five-nine hellip;"

"Yes."

"A hundred and twenty pounds."

"Yes."

"What are your other dimensions, Peaches? Bust size first."

"Thirty-six C."

"Good, we don't want anyone who looks too , well hellip; you get some of these so-called mature models, they're big-busted, but very flabby. You're not flabby, are you?"

"Oh, no."

And your waist size, Peaches?"

"Twenty-six."

"And your hips?"

"Thirty-six."

"That sounds very good," he said. "Are your breasts firm?" he asked.