Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) (7 page)

I craned my head in that direction.

The steel hook was the first thing to
catch my eye. Boyoncé hung precariously from the driver’s side window, shaking
his bloody stump at us, at me, a fresh butcher’s meat hook jutting from the
flayed skin and sinew. He really needed to get that looked at, by someone other
than me, or at the very least secure it with a sturdy wrapping of duct tape. It
wobbled feebly.

It didn’t look that delicious when there
was a hand attached. My foot crept to the brake.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Wendy
screamed, reaching her foot across to pound down the accelerator and my foot,
since it was kind of in her way.

The Volvo lurched forward and I got a
look at exactly what was following us. A purple corvette straight out of a
Prince video, though the symbol on the hood was likely the result of having sat
beneath a shedding pine tree than any intentional obtuseness.

“I show them,” Abuelita growled, pausing
her video and grabbing her gat.

“Oh shit,” Gil ducked.

Wendy grinned wickedly and I just sort of
swerved, as you do when bullets are about to start flying and you can’t figure
out what the hell to do. The highway jogged to the left then right and I was
certain I was going to flip the Volvo. The crazed Chola got off her first round
and missed. Apparently.

Malibu Barbie flanked us, shook his
bloody hook in my direction.

“Your people are insane, Gil.”

“Don't box me in with the Golden Boys.
Anal sex doesn't make you insane or Wendy would be wearing a straight jacket
instead of that fake Gucci.”

“It isn't fake and...wait, did you just
say...I don't do anything related to the brown area. No. Just no.”

“That's not what I heard,” Gil said, a
little snort of laughter escaping.

“Well, you talk to rather seedy
individuals, mostly over the internet because you're a fucking flower in the
attic at this point. Too bad you don't have a Chris to call your very own,
Cathy.”

The car took another hit, this time from
directly behind, but instead of freaking out, I got the bright idea to slam on
the brakes, the Corvette scooped up under the Volvo's bumper for a moment and
all of us screamed, particularly Gil, but not Abuelita who continued to fire
out of her window, aiming at nothing in particular and certainly not hitting
any of the Golden Boys who had somehow managed to put the top down on the
convertible and were swinging their arms in the air like they had lassos, also
hooting and hollering in a way much more suited for the dance floor than a high
speed chase. They really needed some instruction on proper villainy.

I kicked the pedal to the floor and
pulled off of their hood, the Volvo dropping to the concrete with a jarring
thud. I stood on the accelerator as we tore away from the go-go boys, the
corvette's speed dwindling.

“I think we've lost them,” I said, but no
one responded.

Wendy sat beside me, her arms crossed
tightly across her chest, mouth scrunched up like cat butt and clearly pissed
at Gil's accusation.

I decided to intervene—God knows
why, it never benefits me. “There's nothing to be ashamed of Wendy. There are a
lot of nerve endings in the anus, or so I've heard. If that's what you like, I
say more power to you. Let ’em fuck that ass. If anything, it ups your sexy
quotient.”

Wendy sneered. “It's an exit,” she
hissed.

“Whatever!” Gil said and then coughed. “Booty
Love.”

Wendy spun, her index finger rigid,
twitching. “Don't you ever call me that again.”

Gil's hands shot up protectively. “Fine.
I'm just repeating what I've heard.”

“Seriously, though,” I said. “You have to
be careful with butt sex, Wendy. Your pooper isn't getting any more flexible
post death; you might prolapse. Even the finest Natori lingerie can't make that
look cute.”

Wendy huffed, turned away and Gil had the
good sense to shut his mouth. For once.

Back
on the road, I called my ex-assistant, Marithé—she’s not required to do
anything for me, but we have some perceived blackmail thing going on that I
don’t quite understand but take advantage of, of course. I’ve only ever nodded
coyly when she suggested that I knew some damning information. Truth is, over
the course of three years in my employ, I didn’t really know anything about her
or her personal life. She could be a vampire hunter or an accountant, hooker or
nun—though, I probably would have noticed a drab habit and sent her home
for a more appropriate office outfit. And while we’re on the subject, why are
those outfits floor length? A husband likes to see a little leg, even if he is
an omnipresent being. Now, other than a brief stint as Ricardo’s girlfriend, Marithé
seemed to be largely sexless. But whatever it was weighing heavy on her mind
must have been atrocious. And in our world—one with a set of morals you
could count on a single hand—that was really saying something.

“Did you make the arrangements with the
hotel?” I asked, flicking the turn signal and pointing Wendy to the glove
compartment.

“They couldn’t accommodate you, so I had
to make alternate arrangements. But…”

“But?”

Wendy popped open the hidden bar in my
dash and squealed with delight. “Hooch!” she cried and desperately began her
shotgun mixology duties.

“You’re not going to like it,” Marithé
went on.

“Oh Goddamn it. Not a B and B is it? Tell
me it’s not a bed and breakfast.”

“It’s the only thing I could come up with
on such short notice.”

“No!” Wendy and Gil shouted in unison.

Marithé babbled on hurriedly about the
establishments’ stellar attributes, one of which was a basement where Gil could
hide out during the day. What didn’t occur to her was that bed and breakfasts
were the most risky of accommodations for supernaturals, particularly ones with
certain needs. The innkeepers were often overly involved, interested, nosy
motherfuckers who like to watch guests eat their damn muffins and probably not
a rack of human ribs.

I nodded, horrified, myself. “Just text
me the address. And if I need something else, I can count on you, right,
Marithé? I can count on you…can’t I?”

“Y-yes.” The phone clicked off. Still
terrified of me.

Good.

Wendy heaved a sulking sigh into the air,
while Gil’s glare reflected his despair at sub-par accommodations all over the
side window. Only Abuelita seemed unaffected by the news, grinning as she was
into the glare of her phone, watching telenovellas on Youtube and snorting with
laughter.

It occurred to me that over the years,
the three of us had actually become more similar rather than keeping our own
unique character traits that drew us to one another—and by that, I mean
Wendy and Gil were acting exactly like me, and I wasn’t loving it. It was
probably one of the reasons we weren’t getting along.

Time for a big fat come-to-Jesus.

“How about this?” I stabbed my hand inside
my Birkin and dug for my secret Wendy weapon, tossing the king-size Twix bar
into her lap. “Chew on that while I take the floor. It seems that things have
changed between the three of us and I don’t know about you, Gil. But I’m pretty
sure we’re reacting to Wendy’s stress over her new role as Johnny Knuckles.”

Wendy sneered. “I don’t get it.”

I waved my hand in her general vicinity. “This
whole Scarface routine you’ve got going on has really buried the fun-loving
blonde corpse we knew and loved. You’re getting bitchy. That’s my role.”

Gil chimed in. “That’s true, girl. You’ve
got to embrace the fun parts of your job. After all, you’re like the vampire
pharmacist. People love you.”

“Wrong!” Wendy said, spinning back to
stare Gil down. “They love what I have. They love the cloud. I’m incidental.
And clearly being targeted by someone who wants to squash my empire.”

“So, it’s an empire, now?” I reached over
and snatched up a martini, savoring the juniper heavy gin, the perfectly
spritzed vermouth. “This cocktail is aces, by the way.”

She nodded. “Hell yeah. It’s a
motherfucking empire.”

“Word,” Abuelita chimed in from the back.

Gil stabbed a blood juice box with a
straw, slurped. “What if this is about something else entirely?” he asked,
licking his lips.

“What do you mean?”

“The bitch that stole your shipment,
didn’t rush it away to some secret Seattle location to start undermining your
business and stealing your clientele. She took that shit on a cruise, like her
elderly mother. If it’s going to end up in San Francisco or L.A. then vamps
would still be looking to you for more cloud. You’re still in charge. You’re
still needed. At least in Seattle.”

Wendy thought about it, absently tearing
open the Twix bar—a habit with potentially explosive
consequences—and sniffing the chocolaty goodness. “I suppose you’re
right. But I still need my shit.”

“Of course, you do.” I patted her thigh. “Let’s
just try to have fun. Chill out and know that we’re going to end up taking that
bitch down in the long run.”

Her plump lips stretched into a thin
smile and for a second I caught a glimpse of the old Wendy, trapped inside her
new “all business” exterior. She brought the chocolate to her mouth and didn’t
so much bite it as inhale it directly into her pie-hole.

I gave Gil a wink. He volleyed one back.

Little did he know, his shit was on deck
next.

The Pacific Coast Highway, 101, begins at
a juncture with Interstate 5 and cuts a winding swath through farmland and
forest alike. Not heavily trafficked from the look of it—the only thing I
noticed on the drive besides the fact that Wendy’s chola had a wheezy snore
when she slept—was Las Felicitas’ healthy billboard budget. Nearly every
mile marker featured some reason to live there—Spacious Homes! Waterfront
Living! —And none of the reasons
we
were going—Wholesale Slaughter of the Innocents! Delicious Sweetbreads!
But as we passed Aberdeen and traveled south, I started to develop a little
hope that my event would be well attended. Sand Flea Days was in full swing
according to the banners, a festival that I’d one, never heard of, and two,
would never attend unless someone either paid me or had a gun to my head, but
seemed to be an honest to goodness draw. P.S. What do you even wear to an event
that celebrates a bug you can hardly see but which scars your extremities with hideous
red welts? Certainly not Versace.
    

“Seriously, did they make those with
magic markers?” I threw my hand out toward the flapping tarp hanging over the
corner of the latest Las Felicitas signage.

“Ooh,” Wendy cooed. “That one said Miss
Sand Flea Pageant!”

“No,” I said, chuckling. “That’s not
possible, is it?”

“Oh it is.” Gil stabbed himself between
the seats, cell phone at the ready and started reading. “Join us for a celebration
of all things beachy. That’s what it says, it says beachy. As we kick off Sand
Flea Days with the crowning of Miss Sand Flea.” He stopped, flicked over to his
large clock face on the phone. 9:30, it read. “If you floor it, we’ll be able
to catch the last hour of pageantry!”

I didn’t have to be told twice. I stepped
on the gas and the tires ate into the concrete, rocketing the little Volvo SUV
forward into the night.

“This is going to be amazing and
ludicrous. I can't believe our luck.”

“You three are disgusting,” Abuelita
sneered, the mole on her upper lip connecting with her nostril. “Making fun of
those poor girls.”

“Making fun?” I feigned shock. “We’re
going to scout out food options, or in this case…snacks.”

“You just ate, I can smell it on you.”

Gil nodded. “Smells like hippie and
shame.”

I sniffed and looked at Wendy, whose nose
was equally scrunched in offense. “I don't smell anything, except my Issey
Miyake.”

“Well,” Gil said.

“Well what?” Wendy spun.

“You two must have picked a couple of
stinkers. They hadn't seen a bar of soap in days, weeks maybe. I could smell
them a mile away. And I'm guessing at least one was an adolescent boy so it
goes without saying that his hygiene was already suspect.”

I tried not to think about the dreadlock
I'd freed from my throat. “Whatever, Gil.”

Ahead of them a banner stretched across
the two-lane highway that announced they'd arrived in Las Felicitas and none
too soon as the revelry was already underway. Bunting clung to every black wrought-iron
rail and window sash like icing on the Spanish themed town. Tents lined the
sidewalks crammed with whatever crap people could carve out of driftwood and
those little clay pots with cork stoppers that proclaimed Bingo Money and
Divorce Money and Hooker Money—I made that last one up, obviously. Any
prostitute worth her salt will gut a john that paid in nickels.

I slowed to a stop in the alley across
from the Felicity Theater in all its Mission-styled glory. Stucco walls soared
to a pitch of red tiles and the wooden doors appeared to be absolutely ancient,
studded with black bolts and bands of rusted metal.