Confessions Of An Old Lady Read online

An hour later, she rinsed my hair in her sink and then dried it. “Take a seat,” she told me. “Don’t freak out.”

  I sat back down in the big swivel chair and looked straight ahead into the mirror. “Oh…my…God…” I couldn’t formulate any intelligent thoughts. It was so different from anything I would ever consider doing with my hair, but I had to admit, it was spot-on what I was going for. I looked like a completely different person. She had died my blonde hair a rich chocolaty brown and had put in chunky blonde highlights framing my face. It was both horribly tacky and perfect at the same time

  “You’re a genius, Daffney,” I told her, jumping up out of my chair to hug her. “What do I owe you?” I started digging in my purse for my wallet.

  “No, no. This one’s on me. I had a blast. Plus, I’d like to think I had some small part in your secret spy mission.”

  “Daffney, I’m not a…oh, never mind.” I shook my head and pulled my purse up over my shoulder. “I may not see you for a while. I’m going away for the job, but when I get back, I expect you to get me back to my regular cut and color, right?”

  “Oooohhh…a secret mission? Where are you going?” She saw the look on my face and said, “Oh, right. You can’t tell me. That’s cool, I get it. Yes, I’ll fix you right up whenever you get back.”

  I hugged her and then headed back home to my tiny little apartment and my boring little life.

  Chapter 4

  As I walked into headquarters the next day, heads turned and some of my fellow agents thought it prudent to cat-call me like a bunch of construction workers.

  “Yeah, yeah, really funny,” I responded as I continued on to hide in my little corner of the office.

  My boss, Special Agent Kingston, ambled up to my desk and stood there for a moment with his arms crossed across his thick chest.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I can take it.”

  “No, I was just going to say…nice look.” He chuckled and walked away, shaking his head as he left.

  Thankfully, my new buddies, Renley and Beauford walked in a few minutes later and summoned me to the conference room.

  “Okay,” said Renley, as we entered the conference room. “Good start,” He looked me up and down.

  “Good start?” What else could I possibly do to look like a biker chick? “I think I look pretty damn hot!”

  “Don’t get me wrong…you do look pretty amazing. The hair…it’s a nice touch. But it’s going to take a lot more than looks to get this guy’s attention,” Renley said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table across from me.

  “Okay, what else do I need to do?” I wondered out loud.

  “You’ve got to learn how to be a biker chick, not just look like one,” Beauford answered.

  “And you may want to consider a tattoo. Even a small one. Most of these gals are sporting at least one. You might blend in a little better if you had one.”

  “A tattoo?” They couldn’t be serious!

  “Yes, ma’am. Doesn’t have to be anything huge…maybe a little butterfly on your ankle or an angel on your shoulder. You can always get it removed after the assignment,” said Beauford with a half-smile spread across his well-chiseled face.

  “Or, if you like it, you can keep it.” Renley laughed.

  I pondered this idea for a minute. A tattoo? I hated tattoos. I had always thought they looked tacky, especially on women. But if it meant commitment to this job, I might have to consider it.

  “Moving on,” said Beauford. He pulled out a file and opened it on the table between us. “We need to fill you in on the investigation—what we know so far about the Lords of Chaos.”

  Renley pulled out some photographs and splayed them on the table in front of me. My stomach churned and I gasped out loud at the sight of them. Some of them were pictures of drugs seized in the investigation, others were more disturbing. There were dead bodies, all bloody and mangled. One didn’t even have a head.

  “What is all of this?” I asked.

  “This, my dear Agent Rockford, is what the Lords of Chaos are all about. Drugs. Guns. Even murder. They’re a very dangerous group. I want you to understand what you’re getting into before we send you down there to Kentucky. You’re putting your life on the line by agreeing to this assignment. I just don’t want you to walk in blindly. You’re young, inexperienced, and you’d be perfect prey for guys like this. I want you to know this is not a game.” Renley sat back in his chair, awaiting my response.

  “I know that. I mean, I guess I didn’t know exactly how bad it was, but I’m an agent with the DEA. I may be young and, as you put it, inexperienced, but I’m good at my job. I can do this. Just tell me what I need to know.”

  Beauford sat back in his chair as well and put his hands behind his head. “Okay, so the first thing you need to know is that these guys, as you’ve seen from the pictures, are very dangerous. They’re suspected of running a major drug operation between here and Tijuana. That’s not to mention the guns we think they’re smuggling into the United States through Mexico. So far, we’ve busted a few lower-level grunts, but they would rather take their prison sentence than rat on the crew, so we haven’t been able to get to any of the higher-ups, like Leroy and Sonny Jackson.”

  Renley interjected. “We think if we can get a good case on Sonny, we can cut the snake off at the head, so to speak. That’s where you come in. Our intelligence tells us that Sonny’s quite the lady’s man. He’s tall, good-looking, and very smooth. But so far, no woman has been able to keep his attention longer than one night. We think if you can play your little female games with him and ensnare him in your trap, he’ll let you in. Once you’re his ‘old lady,’ you’ll be close to all kinds of valuable information.”

  “If he’s such a notorious ladies’ man,” I interrupted. “What makes you think I’ll be able to get his attention and keep it? I’m not sleeping with him. Not even for the assignment.”

  “You don’t have to,” Renly said with a chuckle. “You’ll think of something else.”

  Beauford leaned forward. “Now, you won’t be allowed into any of the private club meetings, or anything, but you’re a woman. You know how to get a man to talk. Just use your feminine wiles and gain his trust. Do you think you can do that?”

  “I can try. But what if he doesn’t like me? What if he doesn’t even give me the time of day?”

  “Oh, trust me,” said Renley. “Looking like that…you’ll get his attention. The hard part will be keeping him interested. You’ve got to play hard-to-get.”

  “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

  “Of course you can. You’re a woman. That’s what you women do!” Renley said, seeming satisfied with his own sense of humor.

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

  “All right, now let’s go over some more details,” Beauford insisted.

  ***

  We spent each day for the rest of the week meeting in the conference room and going over the case files. Renley and Beauford also taught me everything I needed to know about biker lingo and how to walk and talk like a biker chick.

  It was Renley’s idea to go to a biker bar in Glenview just to get a feel for the atmosphere I was about to immerse myself into. Since I didn’t have my bike yet, I rode on the back of Beauford’s Harley, my arms wrapped around his thick waist.

  We pulled up to Dottie’s Bar & Grill just outside of Chicago in the town of Glenview around ten o’clock Friday night. Just like the boys, I dressed up in my finest biker gear, complete with torn blue jeans, a Harley Davidson hoodie, and my boots. As the three of us walked in, I immediately noticed the difference in the atmosphere from anything I had ever experienced in my life. It wasn’t very loud, except for the jukebox playing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.” It immediately reminded me of my dad, who used to play Skynyrd on the weekends while he worked on his car.

  No one really paid much attention to us, so I guessed our get-ups were working like they were supposed to. We walked up to the bar and sat down at the empty
barstools. Renley ordered us each a Budweiser. I never drank, so I looked at him quizzically. He only nodded, which I took to mean that I had to at least pretend to drink it. I held the beer to my mouth and took a tiny sip. It was as disgusting as I’d remembered from high school, which was the last time I’d had an alcoholic drink. I never really partied in high school, as I was too focused on school and getting straight A’s. Of course, it didn’t make me the most popular girl in school, but I graduated valedictorian and went to the University of Kentucky on a full academic scholarship.

  We sat there for about an hour, just shooting the breeze, quietly talking about our respective childhoods. Renley shared how he was a scrawny little weed of a boy who got picked on all throughout grade school. Then, his sophomore year, his dad bought him a workout machine and he beefed up and went back to school his junior year six feet tall and one hundred eighty pounds of pure muscle. No one ever bothered him again.

  Beauford told us the story about how he was recruited by the DEA while working as a beat cop in Los Angeles. An agent met him on an investigation and was impressed by his gumption and offered him the opportunity of a lifetime. He went through agent training and the rest was history.

  Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted by shouting behind us. We all turned to see a few of the bikers arguing and pushing one another. One of them grabbed a bottle, took a big swig, turned it upside down, and bashed the other one over the head. Blood and beer poured down the other man’s face. Suddenly, the pushing and shoving turned into blows and punches. My agent instinct itched to go in and break up the melee, but we couldn’t blow our covers. If the whole bar knew we were DEA agents, our lives would be in serious danger, so we just watched as the brawl turned violent until finally, the two guys’ buddies pulled them off one another and the bartender threw them all out on their ears.

  Renley and Beauford finished off their third beer each and I took one last sip of mine. It tasted even worse now that it was lukewarm. They both chuckled at me and we exited the bar.

  “Now you’ve seen what a biker bar looks like. You’ve seen what outlaw bikers look and act like. You think you’re ready to get into that lifestyle? To become one of them, for a year…possibly more?”

  “Yes. I’m ready. I know it.” Again, I thought of my father with the chorus line from the John Fogerty song, “Centerfield.” You know the one.

  “Whoa, whoa…hold your horses. We’re not quite ready yet. We’ve got to get you trained on your new bike. It’s supposed to be here Monday and it’ll take at least a week to get you riding that thing well enough to pass for a veteran rider,” Beauford said.

  ***

  The next morning, a Saturday, I woke up with a nervous stomach. I knew there was one more thing I needed to do to get myself ready to go undercover and pull it off convincingly. I pulled out my laptop, opened up an internet page, and Googled: tattoo parlor, Chicago, Illinois. Dozens of results popped up, but I picked the one that looked the newest and the cleanest, Tattoo Annie’s. I wrote down the address and headed out the door.

  Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to get a tattoo for an assignment? But this wasn’t just any assignment. This was life and death. My life depended on me fitting in and being as credible in my role as possible.

  Chapter 5

  I found Tattoo Annie’s and walked through the front door. Immediately, I noticed all of the pictures of different tattoos hanging from the walls and in large books sitting on tables. A tattoo-covered girl with purple hair came up to me.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a sweet voice that surprised me.

  “Uh…I’m here for a tattoo…” I exhaled deeply. I was more nervous than I’d ever been in my life. It wasn’t the pain I was nervous about, it was the commitment I was about to take on. Tattoos are forever. Sure, you can get them removed, but it’s costly and painful. So, I had to be sure that whatever I picked was something I could live with, at least for a while.

  “Do you know what you want?” the purple-haired girl asked me.

  “No, not really,” I answered.

  “So is this your first tattoo?”

  “Yes. It’s my first.”

  “Perfect!” she chirped. “Come with me.” She led me over to a table to the left of the shop. “I love first-timers. Believe it or not, we get tattoo virgins in here all the time. I’ll help you pick out the perfect tattoo. It’s my specialty.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I flipped through the large leather-bound book filled with flowers, crosses, pin-up girls, hearts, unicorns, and dragons. Nothing looked like anything I would want on my body. But I had to remember that this wasn’t for me, it was for my alter ego, the biker chick I was to become. “What do most girls get for their first tattoo?”

  “Most girls? They usually go for a low-back tattoo. Something you can show if you want but you can hide it when you need to.” I looked at the purple-haired girl and noticed she had nearly every part of her face pierced. It looked painful, but for some reason, it worked on her.

  “Do you mean a tramp stamp?” I had seen these on many young girls in the summer time and always thought they looked incredibly tacky. But maybe she was onto something.

  She laughed. “Yeah, that’s what some people call it, but if done right, they can be pretty rad.”

  I thought for a minute and then I realized this was probably the best option, if it was done tastefully. I needed one that could be seen if I wanted, but that I could keep hidden when needed.

  “But what would I get? I want it to look as good as possible. If I’m gonna have this thing on me for the rest of my life, I want it to mean something.”

  “What’s your favorite flower?” she asked.

  “White roses. But I’m not putting flowers on my body.”

  “How about a deceased loved one? Anyone you want to memorialize?”

  I thought of my late Nana, but I always thought it was tacky when people memorialized the deceased by permanently searing their likeness on their bodies. “No, not really.”

  She tapped her chin with a silver-ring-clad forefinger for a few seconds, and then she said, “Are you religious?”

  “Yes. I’m Christian. What does that have to do with a tattoo?” I answered her.

  “I’ve got an idea. Come with me.”

  I followed her to one of the back rooms where she placed a thin white sheet of paper on a table that lit up, sort of like what they use to read x-rays. She pulled out a pencil and started drawing. I watched for nearly twenty minutes until she put down her pencil and held up the thin sheet of paper. “What do you think?” she asked.

  I looked at the sketch and saw before me a beautiful design with curly black lines that wove in and out of each other and in the center was something written in a language I didn’t recognize. “What’s that there in the middle? What does that say?”

  “It’s Latin. Imago Dei. It means, ‘in the image of God.’ What do you think?”

  I stood there looking at it in awe. It was beautiful, I had to admit. And I loved the idea of the Latin writing in the middle and what it meant. This was a way I could still hang onto who I was, even though I was completely transforming into a different person.

  “I’ll take it,” I said without hesitation.

  “Good. Let’s get you prepped and ready.”

  I followed her into another room with a large reclining chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. It was pretty intimidating.

  “You’ll have to sit sidesaddle so I can reach your back. Pull your shirt up and your pants down,” she instructed.

  I’ve always been a bit shy when it came to nudity, but I unbuttoned my black business slacks and pulled them down low around my hips. I sat on the chair as she’d instructed and pulled my shirt up and tied it in a knot just below my breasts.

  I had anticipated that it might hurt, but nothing could have prepared me for the pain I felt when the needle first touched my white “virgin” skin. It felt like someone was scraping the
ir fingernails along a bad sunburn, but I managed to stay still for the hour it took for her to complete the tattoo. When she was done, she put her tattoo gun down and said, “Turn around and look at your new masterpiece.”

  I hopped down from the chair and walked over to the full-length mirror and turned around.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. I knew what I was doing was pretty serious, but I didn’t know what I expected to see when I looked in that mirror. I thought I’d be upset or maybe even cry when I saw it, but I was surprised at myself when I giggled.

  “You like it?” She sounded proud of her work.

  “I love it.” I couldn’t believe I said it, but it was true. It was actually pretty awesome. Plus, it would give me more credibility with the motorcycle crew, so there was that.

  ***

  Monday, I showed my newest artwork to the fellas, whose chins both dropped nearly to the floor.

  “That’s perfect!” said Renley, once he was able to speak.

  “I didn’t think you’d really go through with it,” quipped Beauford.

  “Yeah, well, maybe now you won’t question my commitment to this assignment,” I said.

  “No, we sure won’t,” Renley answered. “Now, are you ready for your final lesson?”

  “My bike is here?” I asked, trying not to hop up and down like an excited five-year-old on Christmas morning.

  “Yup. Follow us outside.” Beauford motioned for me to follow them.

  There, in the first parking spot in front of the DEA headquarters, were three shiny motorcycles. I knew which choppers were Renley's and Beauford's. That meant the third one had to be mine.

  “That one, right there.” Renley gestured toward the third bike in the row. It looked humongous, but magnificent…and blue. Did they know blue was my favorite color?

  “What is it?” I asked curiously.

  “It’s a Harley Davidson Superlow. It’s got smooth riding suspension, comfortable cruising position, and easy handling for someone as petite as you.” Renley seemed to almost be in a trance as he recited the bike’s attributes.