Before the Rain Part 23: Any Resemblance to Persons Living or Dead is Purely Coincidental

Oh, so real. This woman I’ve seen in a
dream, Loomis cried out. Now he heard
her alto rippling laughter, velvety in its
consistency. But you’re no dream woman,
you are real, lady. What is going on. She
drew him close, into the mink folds of
her stole. Loomis almost lost sight of the
temptress’ origins, for in his mind, when
he lost Lorena, the hostess at Upperline,
way way way before Lyndsey was even
a glint upon his event horizon. And was
that gal’s name even Lorena? Shoot, he
couldn’t get a fix on it — especially not
right now, as this majestic lady spoke in
a crisp whisper to Reader. In a most compromised
position! Caught-in the horns of
a most wondrous conundrum!
“Yes, dear fellow, you DO recognize
me, I can see. I’m Ovetta Rheems. We
are headed
for what used to be the I-10 overpass.”
Ooomph, Ovetta silenced him
with a mouthful of her wrap. A tough
lady, no doubt.
“Whoa,” thought Loomis. “The Eye-
Ten Hiway is like, vamoosed. Just like
in a flash”
“As I was saying, we’re switchin’ over
to my peach Cessn, shortly. See it over
there a ways, dear boy? Okay, good.
Well we’re off on a little jaunt, to.. New
YORK. CITY!”
Loomis whimpered, “Why not Louie
Armstrong Airport? What about these
folks–”
“Now, now, love,” Ovetta brushed a
well manicured tapered hand with just
a hint of leopard spots, but trimmed out
in enameled emerald green nail polish,
across loomis’ bruised cheek. “Nothing
we can do about it now, just to get
away. Let’s simply SHUT UP now, and follow
Mister Chang to the hatch.”
From this departure point things
got utterly blurry for Loomis Jon Akula
Reader. Onboard this woman’s aircraft,
he vaguely recalled the swooshing of the
mink wrap, then an unzipping sound, followed
by someone’s gasps of joy. In any
case, save for a jounce or two aloft, the
flight went seamlessly.
“So, Reader, are you happy, you dog
you,” Ovetta purred confidently.
“Uhh, I, ahh, believe so, ma’am,” responded
Loomis, his best etiquette suddenly
recalled.
“B-but look at them huge cloud formations,
uh-uh M-Miss Ovetta, Cumulonimbus?”
Ovetta cackled with glee. “God, Loomis,
I didn’t know you did Weather, too.”
“Well, they do rock!” Now the spires
of Gotham City began to spiral into view.
Cross-fade to Lyndsey Pattison, freshly
debarked to Houston off the ship channel,
courtesy of a robust Army jeep convoy
who had received her good as lifeless
from an amphibious landing out a dense
and massive swamp hard by the leading
edge of Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana.
She was now dolled up in a spiffy Muumuu
adorned with starburst motif over
stylish clingy jeans and clutching a Cricket
phone, containing a host of numbers she
in no way on God’s earth could recognize.
A most sultry sirocco breeze washed
over her at this moment. She had just
ejected from the stultifying Astrodome,
having exchanged salty barbs with none
other than Mrs. Barbara Bush, mom to
the President. The latter having famously
declared, “Oh those poor refugees from
that wretched New Orleans are doing just
fine here!”
Yes, Lyndsey had her say, all right.
“Mrs. Bush, now you know doggone well
that is just a crock — why, the very notion
of what you call ‘doing well,’ it makes
me want to PUKE!”
Right after that, Lyndsey did lose gastric
control, momentarily; fortunately a
sympathetic and rather dapper Secret
Service agent on the Bush detail spirited
her into his Suburban, and offered her a
modicum of comfort therein.
Once Lyndsey felt right with herself
once again, she prevailed upon the stalwart
young operative if he knew the way
to Minute Maid Park. “My inner voice
tells me I need to seek out a gentleman
therein, in the locker rooms, a guy
named Houston Street!”
Ned, her rescuing agent, reluctantly
left her in the passageway beneath
team locker rooms of the vast Minute
Maid park in the fine city of Houston.
Right above them the Astros pep band
was riffing on a salute to New Orleans,
their sister city in distress.
A darkly handsome, somewhat lanky
man in a billed cap and buff-and-brown
baseball uniform, appeared before Lyndsey.
She panted. “I’m on a mission to
find Houston Street,” she said, as restrained
as she knew how under these
baffling circumstances.
“Wa’al, miss, I am that man, but you
are plum lucky.”
“Why,” she peeped, choking visibly.
“Because I’m on an inter-League mission.
I’m not an Astro, I’m a San Diego
Padre, sometimes the closin’ pitcher for
the game.”
“Are-are you from Houston, Mister
Street?”
“No, miss, actually I’m not. I’m from
Austin, the capital of our fair state.”
“D-d’you know a Loomis Reader?”
“No, ma’am, but you’re free t’ stay
and watch th’ game!”
(to be continued)