Page 27 of If Looks Could Kill
Freyda just shook her head and trudged onward.
“What wasthatfor?” Pearl grumbled.
“I think,” I said, sotto voce, “it was for thinking our group is somehow immune to vice.”
“We’re soldiers in God’s army,” she said, as if I didn’t know this.
We reached our barracks. Freyda followed us up the steps.
“Would you like to come in?” I asked her. “Have a cup of tea?”
“Another time,” she said. “I’ve got a meeting to go to.”
“Ours?” inquired Pearl.
Freyda rolled her eyes. “First of all, no. Second of all, never. And third of all, it’s a meeting of anarchists. All right?”
Pearl reacted as though Freyda had said she was meeting with a legion of devils. Anarchists were the source of deadly bombings, the wrath of government and industry, and the dreaded bogey-men in newspaper editorials.
“Oh,” Pearl said, relief washing over her, “it’s because you’re a journalist, right? Going undercover? Attending the meeting for an article?”
Freyda watched Pearl curiously. “Sure,” she said. “We’ll go with that.”
Time to change the subject. “So what comes next?” I said. “To find our mystery girl?”
“We know where she lives—” Pearl began.
“Maybe,” interrupted Freyda.
“—and we know where she works.”
“Maybe,” insisted Freyda. “And both places, you can bet, are guarded by plug-uglies.”
Pearl and I glanced nervously at each other.
“So what’s your plan?” pressed Freyda.
“Rescue her,” I said.
Freyda folded her arms across her chest. “How?”
An excellent question.
Pearl’s reply: “Pray.”
“Well, good luck with praying,” said Freyda. “I gotta go. I’ll keep my nose to the ground. What’s this girl of yours look like, anyway?”
“Tragic,” said Pearl.
I said, “Dark hair.”
“Battered by the cruelties of life,” said Pearl.
“Young.”
“But not broken,” added Pearl.
“Thin,” I said. “Hungry. Could use a month of good meals.”
