Imelda shifted on her trailer trash chaise lounge. "But as I 'member, darlingggg" she pouted, "you veddy fond of butter. And I no mean on your Vegemite toast darlingggg."
"Shut yer god-damned, collagened-up-the-ass trap. I don't have much time." Imelda's caller had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
"Speak to me darlingggg," Imelda purred. "Make Imelda happy and tell her that Missy Shandalier, she in duh clink."
"You'll be pleased to know that your plan worked like a witch's charm. She's here all right."
"Perrrfeeeect darlingggg." Imelda kicked off her vulva-pink plastic mules and stretched out like a 10-buck Hong Kong knock-off Eartha Kitt. "I knew my plan--"
But Imelda's caller cut her off. "Not so perfect."
Imelda did not like the smirk that laced her crop-haired informant's gravelly baritone voice. "What the fluck do you mean, darlingggg? What happen?"
"Dirk Flynn is what happened."
"Dirk Frynn? Who dat? Who dis Dirk Frynn?"
"Dirk is a six feet four smoldering pile of irresistible, hulking, hunking, muscley, musky manliness with a dash of Eau Sauvage...if you go in for that sort of thing. And from what I just saw, Miss Shandalier goes in for that sort of thing big time."
Imelda crossed over to her retro-60s Ikea bar and poured out some of that fake Scotch she nabbed the last time she was in Honkers buying her new tits. It was rough shit but it did the job. She slammed a gulp down her throat. "So darlingggg, what are you saying...?"
"Dirk Flynn is the best prober in the business. Give him ten minutes with Miss Fabulous in there and he'll have her on her knees begging him to let her give him more."
"Sounds rike a nice position to be in, if you ask me, darlingggg."
Imelda could hear her caller drag her thick sausage fingers through the spikes in her heavily-gelled hair. "Not more of that. I mean more information. I'm telling you - Flynn is like a walking lie detector test. He's going to know within the first five minutes that Shandalier is innocent and has no connection with the fire at Thai Me Up."
Imelda's lips - a mad mess of Maybelline - pouted again. "But what about Black Magic, darlingggg? That is the perfection of my plan. She was caught with a dead body in her bathroom. If we don't get her for arson, we get her for murder. Either way she's history, darlingggg, rather like your sensible shoe collection ought to be, but I fear it is not."
Imelda's partner-in-cahoots gave an earthy grunt. "From what I know of Miss Shandalier, she can wiggle out of anything. Except for maybe a Size Four. I say let's get her. Let's get her good."
Imelda slugged another mouthful of Honkers firewater down her gullet. "Just because she dumped your sweet little brother for some new meat in town--"
"She broke his heart! He was never the same after their backstage affair and I'll never forgive her. NEVER!"
Imelda sighed at these amateur dramatics. Honestly, do these dykes really think they can pull off high drama better than drag queens? Hardly. "So what do you suggest, darlingggg?"
"It's meal-time in 20 minutes. I could slip something into her beef stew. Couldn't be easier."
Imelda's eyes squinted down into sleazy slimey slopey slits. "Even better darlinggg: why don't you give the beef stew to Mr Frynn. He can take it into her. The poor bitch must be starving by now. He can play the White Knight and deliver the stew right into her mouth...as well as...well, whatever else..."
* * *
"Fuck I'm starving," Sandalier muttered to herself within the shadowy confines of Cell Block H. At least the lighting is low in here, she thought, I must look positively tragique. And with that divine Flynn creature within blowing distance, tragique is not the look I'm going for.
Just then the cell door swung open and in walked Dirk Flynn, in his meaty hands a tray and on the tray a large steaming bowl. "Why Mr. Flynn," Shandalier fluttered her two inch false eyelashes, "all that and you cook too?"
Flynn flashed her one of his disarmingly charm-laden smiles. That's not all I hope you'll be flashing me, she thought. "I thought you'd rather get it from me, rather than Vera Head," he said.
"Oh, you bet I would," she breathed in her best huskiness.
He laid the tray out in front of her. "I have some questions if you don't mind answering them you eat."
"Oh my good Mr Flynn, I can do many things and eat at the same time." Shandalier continued with the eye-batting. "Mmm, smells quite good." Actually it smelled like last week's horsemeat that's been sitting out in the sun next to the Collingwood City Morgue, but Shandy was too ravenous to care. She picked up the battered spoon that lay next to the bowl, filled it with stew and brought it to her provocatively full lips. "So, what's on your mind...?"
Just then the cell door swung open and in walked Dirk Flynn, in his meaty hands a tray and on the tray a large steaming bowl. "Why Mr. Flynn," Shandalier fluttered her two inch false eyelashes, "all that and you cook too?"
Flynn flashed her one of his disarmingly charm-laden smiles. That's not all I hope you'll be flashing me, she thought. "I thought you'd rather get it from me, rather than Vera Head," he said.
"Oh, you bet I would," she breathed in her best huskiness.
He laid the tray out in front of her. "I have some questions if you don't mind answering them you eat."
"Oh my good Mr Flynn, I can do many things and eat at the same time." Shandalier continued with the eye-batting. "Mmm, smells quite good." Actually it smelled like last week's horsemeat that's been sitting out in the sun next to the Collingwood City Morgue, but Shandy was too ravenous to care. She picked up the battered spoon that lay next to the bowl, filled it with stew and brought it to her provocatively full lips. "So, what's on your mind...?"
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