Dallas Dodgeball

The Dallas Grand Gala was a symphony of clinking champagne flutes and hushed, important conversations, a shimmering sea of silk and diamonds. It was also, Maggie McArthur had deduced with a grimace that was only half-exaggerated, the perfect goddamn circus for Dymez to pull her next stunt. Maggie herself was currently occupying a less-than-glamorous position within said circus, crammed into the bowels of a laundry cart, the stale scent of detergent and desperation clinging to her borrowed tuxedo. The tuxedo, a relic from a past case involving a particularly flamboyant mortician, was a size too small in the shoulders and a mile too large in the waist, making her feel like a sausage stuffed into a too-tight casing.

“Just a little further, Bessie,” she muttered, patting the side of the cart. Bessie, a hulking, surprisingly silent laundry attendant Maggie had “persuaded” with a promise of a hefty tip and a story that would make his grandma blush, grunted in response. The cart lurched, threatening to spill its precious cargo – Maggie and a small arsenal of lock picks and a slightly squashed protein bar – onto the polished linoleum.

“Hold it together, girl,” Maggie wheezed, pushing aside a stack of starched white sheets. “We’re almost there. Think of the glory. Think of the… well, mostly think of not going back to jail for a crime I didn’t commit, which, frankly, is a real downer.”