"Anyone see three boys run past here with their peepees flapping in the breeze?" I asked of the crowd. This produced more laughter.
One woman flipped the ash off her cigarette and said, "Sure did! They just ran past here like the Devil himself was after them."
I dropped the bundle on the oil-stained parking apron in front of the store and said, "Well, if any of y'all know those boys, you might give them their clothes back. Or not. It makes no nevermind to me. Oh, and if you see them, tell them I'll be back to visit again real soon."
I trundled into the store to check it out. It looked really nasty from the outside and no better inside. The walls and ceiling had either been painted the ugliest shade of brownish-yellow that could be found, or the paint had just faded to that shade over the years. The place had an atmosphere of age and decay that made me feel dirty just being in it. It looked like the only thing that had changed in the last eighty years was the stock, the flickering fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling, and the heavy wire mesh over the front door and windows. Certainly there had been little effort to keep the place clean. The floor was so grimy that it was hard to tell if it was wood or linoleum.
Most of the place was devoted to stacks of cases of beer and overpriced snack food. There was a wooden magazine rack near the single register that held pawed-over copies of garish porn magazines. On the wall behind the counter was a large display of cigarettes and smokeless tobacco, along with some things that I figured must be drug paraphernalia. Who buys plumbing supplies in a convenience store?
The man behind the counter looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. He had short gray hair above a deeply creased face. He wore a stained, wife-beater undershirt and had in a holster on the front of his belt a very large, very shiny revolver. The wooden grip looked worn, as though the man had the habit of rubbing it with his hand. He was looking at me with curious and habitually suspicious eyes.
I shuffled up to the counter and gave him the once-over. "You the owner?" I asked.
He nodded. "Name's Winslow," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Good evening, Mr. Winslow. I came to give you some news. There is something out there." I waved my hand toward the door and cackled, "It's mean. It's ugly. It's horrifying. It's coming, Mr. Winslow. The Dragon is coming. And it's hungry."
I shuffled toward the door. When I reached it, I put my hand on the bar and looked back. "You tell them, Mr. Winslow. You tell them The Dragon is coming. Ask them if it's coming for them. And while you're at it, ask yourself. Is it coming for you, too?"
When I went back outside, the bundle of clothes had vanished. Somehow I doubted that some Good Samaritan had hurried off to return them to their owners.
As I walked away from the store, I could feel the eyes following me. I tried to look weak and defenseless, but after I had gone another two blocks, there were still no more takers.
I reached the spot where Neeka was waiting for me without so much as seeing another person.
"Everything all right," I asked her.
"Fine and dandy," she said. "A couple of guys tried to pick me up. They were about to insist on my company when there was a call on the radio. They suddenly remembered that they had a pressing engagement elsewhere."
"Bad guys?"
"Just pushy. I've met jocks that were worse about not taking a hint. I could have handled them even if the radio hadn't scared them off. It's odd; I think that in this neighborhood, running from the cops is a reflex. How bad does the place have to be for you to grow up doing that?" She shrugged. "Now, what was all that 'The Dragon is coming' business? I thought you were going to tell him help was on the way."
"I was. But when I got in there, something didn't smell right. The place is really run down. It can't be worth anything. Why does he stay? Loyalty to the neighborhood? Give me a break. Business too good? If so, why not use the profits to keep the place up better. Business bad? Then where did he get the money to buy the stock he has? All those cases of beer stacked to the ceiling. Something's not right. I want to know more about Mr. Winslow before we assume he's on the right side. It's possible that he's not the victim we assumed he was."
I resumed my normal face and pulled off the disguise. Neeka stowed it in one of the storage compartments on the bike. I might be able to use it again. The fishing trip idea had worked out better than I had hoped. Old ladies on this street would be safe for a while.
During the ride back home, I thought about how well the disguise had worked. In the dark of the street, I had passed. The crowd outside the store hadn't had a much better look at me, so I passed there too. Winslow had the best look, under the harsh fluorescents in the store, but even if he hadn't bought the 'old lady', even if he saw straight through it, what had he seen? My height? Maybe. I had tried to hunch over, but you can only fudge your size so far. My hair? Hidden under the cowl and the scarf. Skin tone? The suit covered my skin except for my face. The suit was colorless. It would be the average of the color in the room. In dim light, it was impossible to see. In the store it had looked brown — halfway between the filthy floor and the walls. My shape? Distinctive in normal clothes, my outline and contours were hard to make out under the suit. Just as the dazzle-art on the walls of the workshop made it hard to judge the size of the room, the suit made it hard to see my body under it. If I was moving, it would be impossible to say much more than I was small and possibly female.
My face? That was my ace. I could make my face look like anything at all. My ability to do the moving dragon so effectively was the best demonstration of that. The uneven gray, seamed complexion I adopted along with the clothes completely obscured my true appearance.
I decided that I didn't have to have Oscar-caliber acting skills or an elaborate collection of makeup appliances. I didn't need to be a credible old woman, or whatever disguise I wanted to use. I just needed to be unrecognizable as me. I was sure I could handle that.
Thinking of handling things reminded me of the way I had handled the three young thugs who tried to steal my purse. I was disappointed that I couldn't think of something better than taking their clothes and sending them home naked. It seemed kind of juvenile. Still, until I had much better control over my strength, I wanted to avoid thumping people unless there was a real good reason for it.
Maybe taking their clothes wasn't too bad a lesson anyway. It was embarrassing, it was memorable, and it made them feel as defenseless and vulnerable as their victims felt.
When we got home, Bambi was waiting for us in the workshop.
"You were gone longer than I expected," she said. "I decided to listen to the radio to see if anything was going on."
"We went fishing," Neeka said.
"Unhunh. Why do I get the feeling that no worms were harmed on this fishing trip?"
"Hey," I said, "speaking on behalf of bait in general, I object to that sarcastic tone! Us woims have a tuff life, OK?"
"So, did you catch anything?" Bambi was trying hard to hide how concerned she was that I had been out putting myself deliberately in harm's way. She really wanted to know how close I had come to being in actual danger, but she couldn't just ask right out.
"We caught three little fishes, but I skinned them and threw them back," I said.
"You what?" She got lost in my metaphor, but she still laughed.
"I caught three hoods who tried to steal my purse. I let them go, but I kept their clothes. It must be hard to pass yourself off as a tough guy when you've been stripped and run through the streets with your shortcomings on full display."
"That's funny!" Bambi giggled. "But why not just have them arrested?"
"I thought about that," I said. "But since I was the victim, it would mean pressing charges, testifying, the whole legal scene. I can't do that, obviously. Also, in their peer group, being busted just gives you status and credibility. Crooks are a stupid bunch, generally. You'd think that a crook that didn't get caught would have a higher status than one that did, but apparently it works the other way around. Failure is success. Bad is good. Getting caught just means more people know what you did. Their whole psychology is upside down."