“What gives?” I whispered, once we were again alone(ish).
“Welcome to our sleeping quarters,” she whispered in reply. “We’ve been given sanctuary, at least for the time being.”
I smirked. “You mean until she deems otherwise, right?”
“Presumably. But, for now, it seems we’re in the blissful courting phase of our relationship.”
“Mainly because she idolizes you,” I couldn’t help but say.
She shrugged, mostly. “Be that as it may, we’re safe, for now.”
My smirk turned smile. “As are our husbands.”
She sucked in her breath, or at least made a valiant effort to. It came out, in fact, more like a grinding hiccup. “They’re down here? You saw them? Did you speak to them? How’s Lester?”
I patted her shoulder. “Calm down, sweetie,” I told her. “They were in the room next to yours, not down here.”
She tilted her head my way. “Um, huh?”
I turned my beams on, scanned her really quickly and replied, “Your dress is a size four, made in France and is dry clean only.”
Her head tilted further. “Um, huh?”
“You said that already.”
“Bears repeating.”
I bowed, though about two inches was all I could muster. “Superqueen at your service, Madame.”
“Not a clue what you’re talking about,” she admitted. “Plus, I’m a size two, Creature.”
“Not what the tag on the back of your dress says.”
It took her a minute to figure it out and, when she did, she covered up her boobs. “Stop that.”
I grinned even wider. “Little good those hands do. I can see through walls now, ceilings even. Flesh ain’t nothing to Superqueen.” She dropped her hands. “Besides, they are rather lovely boobies.” Her hands again flew up. “Are they real?”
She smacked me. “Next topic, please,” she admonished. “And, yes, very, very real.”
“Fine,” I told her, quickly filling her in on my newfound powers and the room full of explosives and Blondella’s supposed ideas for world (what was left of it) domination. “As to that aforementioned next topic, any thoughts on our plan to trick the bitch and thwart said plan? I mean, we can’t stay in her good graces forever, let alone this booth.”
Her smile suddenly matched mine. “In fact, I have had thoughts on that matter and I’ve already shared them with said bitch.”
“So quickly?” I asked, duly impressed. “How did you think of something in the scant few minutes you had?”
She winked. “You’re the one who called me a genius. I was just driving the point home.” She aimed her index finger at our cramped quarters. “Welcome home.”
It was easy to see why Lola was a star. Even in death she radiated it, that hidden something that set her kind apart from the rest of the miserable world, from us lowly peons. Lucky Ricky, I realized, and even luckier me, now. “And this plan of yours?”
“The Fountain of Youth?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that.”
She held her hands out in a ta-da! stance. “Sleep!”
I scratched my head. “To quote a genius I know, um, huh?”
“Tissue repair occurs only in sleep, Creature,” she explained. “All living things require it. It allows cells to grow, to replenish themselves, to, as I said, repair.”
I stared at her, lost as usual. “But we aren’t living things. And, more importantly, we don’t sleep.” I pointed to my arm, to my tissue. “What you see is what you get. Forever.”
“Really?” she asked, her smile quivering. “Forever?”
I shrugged. “No clue. But certainly a long, long, really long time. In any case, your secret, like Blondella’s head, is full of holes.”
“As you see it,” she retorted.
“And how does she see it?” I asked.
“She sees it like I explained it to her, namely that I’ve found a way for us to sleep, to rejuvenate, to . . .” She ran her hands around her face. “To ultimately look like this.”
“I’ll say it again,” I said again. “Genius.” I paused before adding, “But that’s the why, not the how. Because we really can’t sleep, not anymore.”
“And yet I look like this and, for all she knows, I did it by sleeping.” Before I could question her further, she added, “Which I can train her to do, though it requires a great deal of practice, all of it alone, in peace and quiet. No groaning to distract her.”
“Can I say it again?”
She snickered. “Genius, yeah. Yada, yada, yada. In any case, we can now get on her good side, trick her into thinking we’re a team . . .”
“And get her alone, presumably away from the disco, away from her guards, and then kill and/or rekill and/or unkill the fuck out of her, pardon my French.”
She snickered. “Right, so now we just need that first part, to get her alone.”
“Before the salt runs out.”
She paused. “Whose salt?”
“Ricky’s,” I repeated. “Dara’s. Because if that happens in the meanwhile, and she releases them, and we’re not there when she releases them, then all the fake sleep in the world isn’t going to save them.”
Her snicker turned like so much sour milk. “Any more monkey wrenches you feel like throwing our way?”