Chasing Clues in Jimmy Choos

Chapter 1

The stop sign at the end of Bishop Street had the words ‘Go Chris’ spray-painted on it. Opal didn’t know who Chris was or what he had done to warrant his name getting painted on a road sign, but the thing had been there for nigh on twelve years now. It was the only sign that the troubled neighborhood kids had never stolen, so it must have always held some sort of mystical significance to them. Opal kind of liked it too, and on days that she was in a particularly good mood she would give the sign a little nod, saying ‘Go Chris’ as she passed by. She liked to imagine that Chris was still out there somewhere after all this time, still going.

But the sign also served as something of a meeting place, and Opal didn’t like that at all. Four young men were standing around the thing at that very moment, drinking beer and talking. They better not be up to any funny business or they would have her to answer to. She decided she’d keep an eye on them.

Opal was in her late eighties and rather hefty. She wore a vibrant lime green dress with a feathered cocktail hat so large that it looked more suited for the Kentucky Derby than for daily use. Her nails were painted to match the dress, and her jewelry was equally bright and colorful. She considered herself a shrewd judge of clothing and accessories and was proud to say that amongst her friends, she had always been considered to have the most discerning taste.

Opal’s house was less run-down than many of the others in the neighborhood, which was something else she was quite proud of. On a street like this one, it was easy to let your game slip because few others really had the money or inclination to take care of their property. Opal had learned over the years that house maintenance was less about money and more about continual effort and attention. She didn’t have the energy to get out every day and do something, but when she did she planted flowers and kept a little garden out front. If something needed painted or fixing or the gutters needed cleaning, she’d hire one of her neighbors to do it, but she preferred to do as much as she could herself.

Next to her on the porch was Ethel. Though she and Opal were the same age, Ethel looked a little worse for wear. She hadn’t worn makeup for at least twenty years and as far as her clothing was concerned, she was markedly less ambitious than her stylish friend. She had a pair of powder blue sweatpants she wore nearly every day and her long-sleeve white shirt hadn’t been changed since there was snow on the ground. She wore an ancient pair of thick-rimmed glasses and had hazy distant eyes that made you wonder if she was even there at all. In her purse, she kept a pill case with each day of the week printed on it and it was filled to the brim. Opal knew for a fact that half of those she didn’t even need, she just liked the buzz. But hell, to each her own.

A beat-up old Pontiac with spinner rims and tinted windows crept slowly by a house at the end of the street, its stereo system thumping like war drums. After a moment, it came down and parked at the house next door.

Opal reached over and grabbed the pitcher of lemonade between them and poured herself a glass.

Get ready for this shit, Opal said.

What? Ethel asked.

Just watch.

The door to the Pontiac opened and out stepped a handsome, muscular man with glittering diamond earrings. He wore fine work pants and a tight-fitting shirt.

Whoa, Ethel said. Opal gave her a nod as if to say ‘I told you so.’

The man saw them and nodded. Hello Ms. Harper.

Don’t you Ms. Harper me, Terence, Opal said. You just call me Opal. She winked.

Terence nodded, laughing a little. Yes ma’am.

When you gonna come see me? I got something special I wanna give you.

He looked puzzled. You do?

I sure do, Opal said, licking her lips. You come here and I’ll give it to you right now.

Terence blinked, then blushed a little. …I’m sorry Ms. Harper, my mom’s expecting me for dinner.

Oh, are you hungry? Me and Ethel can cook you up something real fast. Ain’t that right Ethel?

Oh yeah, Ethel said, leering at him. We’ll take care of you.

Terence gave an uneasy laugh and kept walking. That’s very nice, but…I really gotta go.

Alright then, honey. Be sure to say hi to your momma for me. And if you get lonely tonight, you just come on over to my house. I’ll keep you company.

Terence walked off, red in the face. Ethel craned her head so she could see him better as he went.

Boy oh boy, Ethel said. What I wouldn’t give for some quiet time with him.

You ain’t kidding, Opal said. Nineteen years old and built like a damn football player. He could toss me around like it was nothing.

Bit of an age difference though.

Well that’s not such a big deal to me, Opal said. I prefer a younger man. And Terence there would probably prefer a more mature woman, anyway.

Still, seventy years? That’s quite a gap.

What a boy like him needs is a woman who knows what she’s doing. Someone who can teach him things. That’s the best thing for a man that age.

My great grandson is nineteen, Ethel said. I don’t know how I’d feel about him dating somebody our age.

"He ain’t gonna learn nothing from some nineteen year-old hoochie momma. Girls like that can’t even get themselves off. How’s he gonna learn anything?"

I guess I never really thought about it.

Down the street near the stop sign, the four young men started tossing their used beer bottles onto somebody’s roof. They laughed as the bottles bounced off and broke on the pavement below.

Look at this… Opal let out a tired groan as she stood up. There’s only so many times old knees can bend before they give out, and every time she stood up from a chair she wondered if that would be the moment when her joints finally rose up in unison and said ‘no more.’ She went to the edge of her porch so the boys could see her. Hey, you cut that out! You don’t want Mr. Robinson stepping on glass, do you? He can’t hardly walk as it is.

The youths snickered and mocked her, but stopped throwing things. Opal went back and eased slowly into her chair.

Damn kids. Their parents are probably sitting in the house watching TV, not giving a damn about what their children are up to. To me if you ain’t gonna take care of ‘em, you shouldn’t have ‘em.

That’s right, Ethel said. Nowadays it’s like parents don’t even try.

I’ve had seven children, sixteen grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren, and I love them all to death and there isn’t a thing in the world I wouldn’t do for them, Opal said. But if I caught one of them throwing bottles at somebody’s house, honey there would be one less place at the table for Thanksgiving dinner, you hear me?

I hear you, Ethel said. I think we should have a system where people have to get interviewed by an expert to see if they’re fit to be a parent. That way we only get the good ones.

So what do they do if somebody isn’t fit to be one?

Easy, Ethel said. You have them sterilized.

Like a dog?

Sure, like a dog.

Opal gave her a look. …That sounds like something Hitler would have done.

Yeah, but there would be fewer kids throwing bottles at houses.

Up ahead, a car was trying to pass by but the youths had it blocked. They stood out in the street laughing and daring the driver to try and go around. Each time he tried, the youths would move and block it again. The car honked.

Good Lord… Opal strained and got up, her knees once again barking their objections. You boys leave that car alone.

One of the youths glanced back at her. Or what?

"You don’t wanna know or what, Opal said. Now get your sorry asses out of the road."

The kid waved her off and went back to his friends. One of them kicked at the bumper of the vehicle. It honked and honked, but they wouldn’t let it pass.

Opal reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small 9mm handgun. She put it in the air and fired.

The youths whirled around at the sound of the gunshot. Then, in a split second, they scattered and ran off.

Opal put the gun back in her pocket, then let out a sigh. Kids these days…

Chapter 2

Opal drove a long 1993 Cadillac Coupe De Ville painted titanium white. She’d bought it brand new; the nineties had been her prime blackjack playing days and she’d just come off a run for the ages. She was normally a poker player, but a buddy of hers had taught her how to count cards and once she got good enough in practice, the two of them took their talents to Las Vegas to see just how much damage they could do.

And as it turned out, they could do quite a bit of damage. In one bleary-eyed three-day weekend, they had managed to win over a hundred thousand dollars each. But just when they thought their luck couldn’t run out, one of the managers of the casino caught on and busted them. Her partner had been faint of heart and confessed to it all, so now Opal was blackballed in every major casino in the United States.

Ah, the nineties. Good times.

Opal cruised down the street, nodding her head and singing along with the radio. There wasn’t anything she liked more than driving in a fine automobile with the tunes cranked up loud. It made her feel twenty years old again.

The console was aglow with a dozen warning lights. Opal squinted and put her face closer to the dash. Damn that itty bitty print. I never know what this thing is trying to tell me.

Smoke began to drift up from the hood of the car, but Opal was still trying to read the warning messages. She turned down the radio. Now I know I just put gas in here…Maybe I need windshield wiper fluid?

A horrible grinding sound came from beneath the hood. The machine groaned like some great dying beast.

Aw hell… Opal said, wheeling the car to the side of the street.

Opal opened the door and got out. After waving the smoke out of her face with her wide-brimmed hat, she went to the front of the car and popped the hood.

A big ball of fire burst upward, catching the edge of her hat on fire. The engine and surrounding parts were a conflagration of smoke, fire, and burning rubber. The stench was metallic and terrible.

Opal smacked her hat on the side of her leg until the flame was out. She took a look at the engine.

Knew I should have put in that wiper fluid.

Opal stood at the entrance to the garage where they had her Cadillac on the riser. A large lumbering man with a full red beard and squinting eyes came walking over.

Ma’am, I think you’re going to want to sit down for this.

Opal pulled out a little plastic baggie of candy corn and downed a couple. Give it to me straight, doctor. I can take it.

Alright then. The mechanic took a breath. She’s totaled.

Totaled?! Opal took a step back, as if struck. "The hell are you talking about totaled?"

The electrical system is shot, the carburetor is clogged, the transmission is jammed, and you’ve got a cracked fuel pump, a bent axel and a defective piston. You’ve got an oil leak, a fuel leak, a coolant leak, and one of my guys just found what looks like a bird’s nest in your glove compartment.

They looked so cute in there I didn’t have the heart to take them out, Opal said. But I still don’t see how it would be totaled.

Well, the car is eleven years old now. It isn’t worth as much as it used to be. By the time you fixed everything plus time and labor, it’s going to cost a lot more than what you could sell it for.

You’re talking a bunch of bull, Opal said. This here is a Cadillac Coup De Ville, son. They don’t break down.

The mechanic smiled a little. They don’t, huh?

No they don’t. That’s why I bought the thing in the first place and that’s why they’re so damn expensive. All you gotta do is keep ‘em pretty, and they’ll run fine.

Well I’m sorry ma’am, but that’s just not right. All cars need maintenance.

I give her all the maintenance she needs. I pay one of the boys on my street to wax and wash the thing every two weeks whether it needs it or not.

The mechanic laughed. Now that you tell me that, it’s no small wonder that the warning dials are all lit up.

Well I don’t have time to be sitting around here talking, I gotta go to work. Pull her down off that thing and lemme go.

…Ma’am I’m not sure you fully understand. There’s no way you can drive this thing right now. If you decide you want us to fix it up, then-

Of course I want you to fix it up. Why else would I bring it here?

Okay then, it’s going to take about three weeks.

Opal’s eyes went wide. Three weeks? What the hell am I supposed to drive for three weeks?

Well…do you have somebody who can give you a ride?

What do I look like, Ms. Daisy? I ain’t getting a ride with nobody.

Then I guess you’ll have to take the bus.

Opal’s jaw dropped. "The bus!? Oh hell no. Opal Harper doesn’t ride on the damn bus. What kind of nonsense are you talking?"

A few of the other workers were watching them argue, chuckling amongst themselves. The mechanic blushed. Ma’am, I’m sorry, but-

Don’t you sorry me! I don’t ride on the damn bus, you hear?

The mechanic shook his head and walked away.

Mark my words! Opal said. Opal Harper does not ride on the damn bus!

Chapter 3

…Riding on the damn bus. I stopped riding the bus when I was in high school. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.

Opal sat right behind Martin the bus driver, a man in his late sixties with graying hair and a look of perpetual exhaustion chiseled into his features. He was the only one paying her any mind, occasionally grunting or nodding at the appropriate times but never taking his eyes off the road. The other riders wouldn’t look up from their phones and seemed to be pretending not to hear Opal as she went about her tirade. She knew, of course, that they were listening and probably thought she was crazy, but Opal didn’t care. Hearing that her prized automobile was on the fritz had jolted her beyond the point of giving a damn.

I hadn’t ridden the bus in twelve years when Rosa Parks and everybody started boycotting ‘em. I was twelve years ahead of the damn curve. Nobody could tell me to sit in the back because I didn’t even want to sit in the front. I’ve always been independent. I’ve always had my own car. Even when I was young, I might not have had money for food, but by God I had a car. Opal Harper doesn’t walk, and she sure as hell doesn’t ride the damn bus.

The bus driver cleared his throat. Yes ma’am.

That damn mechanic is trying to cheat me, Opal said. Tried to tell me that my Cadillac broke down. Can you believe that? A Cadillac breaking down…that’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard. I have that thing waxed to a bright white shine twice a month, whether it needs it or not. That’s what I told him, too. Whether it needs it or not. You know what I call my Caddy?

The bus driver shook his head.

White Lightning. That’s what I call it. White Lightning.

That’s a fine name for a car.

Well, it’s a fine automobile. Ain’t never given me problems and I’ve had her twenty years. One of my boys comes around every couple months and tinkers with her. I bet him fiddling with it is what messed it up. I’m gonna have to have a talk with him.

Maybe he was trying to fix it. That’s probably what kept it working this long if all you do is polish it.

Opal pulled out her bag of candy corn and had a piece. You don’t know nothing about Caddies. What kind of car do you drive?

I drive a Volkswagen.

I won’t drive one of them, Opal said. You know who founded that company?

The driver shook his head.

The German Labour Front. And you know who started them? The Nazis.

Hmm.

I won’t drive a Nazi Wagon. I might if they were pretty, but they ain’t, so I don’t.

They drive really well. And they’re reliable.

I was fourteen when World War Two started. I remember it clear as day. I was listening to the radio when they were talking about Hitler getting people all riled up. My daddy was sitting there on the couch smoking a pipe and reading the newspaper. I turned to him and I said ‘Daddy, we’re gonna have a problem with that Hitler fella.’ That’s just what I told him. And he said he thought it was gonna be fine. Fine, he said. Ha! There I was fourteen and I knew damn well it wasn’t gonna be fine. I saw it coming a mile away. And to this day, I won’t drive a Volkswagen.

They’re really good cars. If you have to rent one, you could do worse.

Opal Harper don’t rent. And she doesn’t buy anything that she can’t pay cash for. My daddy taught me that. He didn’t know a damn thing about international power politics, but he at least taught me that.

The bus came to a halt at the end of a long winding street lined with trees. Opal looked out the window.

Ain’t you gonna turn in?

No ma’am, this is the stop.

No it ain’t, either. The house I gotta go to is in that suburb at the end of Riker Street.

Well, this is the stop.

Opal blinked. You’re kicking me out?

No, no, the driver said, laughing. See that bench out there? That’s where we pick people up and drop them off.

Well I didn’t take a bus all the way across town just to get dropped off by a damn bench. I gotta go to the Winkle residence and they live at the end of Riker.

I understand ma’am. But this is as far as the bus goes. We stop here, we don’t go down to Riker Street.

You’re telling me I have to walk?

Yes ma’am.

…In my Jimmy Choos?

Your what?

Opal pointed down to her shoes, a pair of patent leather slingback heels. My Jimmy Choos. I just bought these.

Well I’m sorry, but this is the stop.

I can’t be walking all that way in a pair of Jimmy Choos. They hurt my damn feet as it is. They’re a size and a half too small.

Why’d you buy them that way, then?

Opal gave him a look. Honey, you talk like you’ve never met a woman before. I bought them small cause it was all they had and I liked them.

Okay. Well, they’re fine shoes. But-

I know they’re fine shoes. I went without breakfast for two weeks so I could buy them. I can’t even tell you how much they cost because it wouldn’t be decent.

Well that’s okay, I don’t want to know.

It was expensive though. Really expensive.

That’s okay. But-

Eight hundred dollars these things cost me. Do you believe that?

"…I do if you say they cost that much. But ma’am I’m sorry I can’t