Biting Nixie (33 page)

I looked down. Holding me was a skinny, pimply teenager. He gave me a big sloppy kiss. “You're cute!” he burbled, grinning like a maniac. “Are you a freshman?”

I gaped. Who was this little creep? “Put me down!”

He hugged me and continued to bubble. “I'm in high school too. I like your curly yellow hair. It looks like a doll's.”

“I am not a doll! And I'm not in high school! And
put me down
!”

He
giggled
. “What's your name? I bet you're Barbie. My name's Bill. Like Bill Gates, the Alpha and Omega of computers. Did you know that's why you click on ‘Start' to shut down?”

“Your name will be Dead if you don't put me down!”

That apparently did it. He finally set me down. I took a deep breath, winding up for a good lecture. Just as I opened my mouth he planted another big sloppy on me. I stood there, completely speechless. Julian was also apparently dumbfounded.

The kid's power of speech was unfortunately fine. “Are you in middle school then? I'm a junior in high school. You're cute,” he repeated happily. “Do you know why computers get Halloween and Christmas confused?”

“Now listen here—”

“Because October thirty-first equals December twenty-fifth!” The kid guffawed like a maniac, actually slapping his leg. “Get it? Thirty-one in base ten is the same as twenty-five in base twelve!” As the kid's chortles disintegrated into hiccups, I rolled my eyes at Julian, who returned my look with sympathy.

“You're
drunk
! How old are you? Where are your parents?” I demanded, for once almost sympathizing with my mother. “Do they know what you're doing?”

“Ms. Meier knows,” the kid said with a hiccup. “She's our advisor.”

I slapped my skull. The mayor's sister, advisor to the twenty little geeks I'd foisted off on my mom. Only the geeks weren't so little—and at least one was definitely drunk.

“I don't believe you. I can't believe a respectable matron would introduce you to alcohol!”

“She didn't,” the kid said, hiccups increasing. “Mr. Donner did.”

Didn't that just figure.

“Ms. Meier only bought the second pitcher.”

“What!?”

“Well, gotta go. We're going to see the bands later. You're cute!” The kid ran off, weaving a little.

“I'm doomed.”

“It's all right.” Julian pulled me tight, caressed my hair.

“No, it isn't! Do you have any idea how much the insurance deductible is for this gig if we have to make a claim? What kind of crappy parents do these little hoodlums have? Can't they control their own kids?” My mouth dropped open in horror. “I cannot believe I just said that.” I stared at Julian. “Did you change me?”

He shrugged, making his pecs jump nicely. “If I did, it was Newtonian.”

“Newton…oh. The apple-dropping guy.”

“Newton didn't drop the apple.”

“Yeah, I know. The tree did.”

“Actually, I did. To get back at him for the time he dumped a bucket of ice water on my head.”

“I do not want to hear this. Leave dead dry guys alone. The idea of Sir Isaac playing tricks is just wrong.” I narrowed my eyes. “I thought you said you emigrated by 1625.”

“I went back for a little visit in the 1680s.”

“
Sure
you did. I suppose you helped Newton develop calculus, too.”

“Of course not.” Julian looked a little offended. “That was twenty years earlier.”

I shook my head. “No. This is wrong on so many levels.”

“All I'm trying to say is that if I had an effect on you, you had an equal and opposite effect on me.” Julian pointed to the earring.

As yummy as a chocolate chip in a cookie. And even more distracting. I smacked my lips.

Julian smiled. “Come on. Let's check out the rest of the venues. Maybe it'll give us a clue as to why Billy the Kid's band wants to go first.” He took my elbow and started to lead me out.

“But the drunk little geeks—”

“Will be fine. Ms. Meier and Donner and Blitz are with them.”

“Oh, good. That's so reassuring. Dante and Randal, minding the store.”

Julian cocked a questioning eyebrow at me. “Was that a pop culture reference? Some sort of television show?”

I let him guide me. I was starting to like the feel of his square, competent fingers on my arm. “Movie. Say, want to play Scene It? I'd whomp you.”

Chapter Twenty-six

On the way to the next venue, we argued about what Ruthven might be up to, but got nowhere. At the Fudgy Delight another disaster met us.

Actually, Bo and Elena met us. But they were so worked up I knew something had gone disastrously wrong.

“It's horrible.” Elena's eyes were wide and her face as pale as I'd ever seen it.

Bo collapsed in one of the chairs and buried his face in his hands. “It's…I can't believe…oh, the humanity!”

“What?” I cast frantically around for Ruthven, or the Lestats, or at least one of the drunk teenage geeks trying to get into the beauty contestants' dressing room.

Julian snarled, all vampire-fighting systems engaged. “What's the problem?”

“It's the pageant.” Elena choked, and sank into a chair next to Bo. She shook her head, as if whatever it was, was so horrible, the words refused to come.

“What about the pageant?” I was beginning to panic. “Did Headless Horseman Cutter bite all the contestants? Did Ruthven scare off the judges?
What
?”

Elena was still speechless, so Bo answered. “Worse.” He took a deep breath. “The contestants have been rehearsing all week. Talent skits, walking down the aisle, answering questions. That sort of thing.”

I sat down next to Elena and shook my head in confusion. “But—that's good, right? Practice makes perfect?”

Elena found her voice. “We were happy about it. They were taking it seriously.”

“We thought it would make for a more polished pageant,” Bo said.

“We were
happy
about it,” Elena wailed.

I was bewildered. “So what's the disaster?”

“They were practicing all week!” Elena jumped up from her chair. “
Here
!”

“Here?” I looked around at the old wooden floorboards, the thick wood tables. The raised stage with its uneven stairs. “Is this building dangerous, somehow?” A thought struck me. “Did someone fall on the stairs? Are we going to have a liability claim?”

“It's worse,” Bo said.

“No. What could possibly be worse than an insurance claim?”

Elena took me by the shoulders. “Nixie…they got into the fudge!”

“So they ate a little fudge,” I said, relieved. “We'll take it out of petty cash.”

“It's not the money! It's—”

Just then the contestants sashayed onto the stage for a final dress rehearsal. They wore polka-dot purple/red, polka-dot eye-splitting green/orange, and other polka-dotted hues not found anywhere in nature. I thought maybe someone should have tried to color coordinate them, or at least introduce them to stripes.

I watched the ladies slink down the runway. “I didn't know we added a muumuu contest. Or is this a politically correct version of the bikini contest?”

“They
are
in bikinis!”

I stared harder. The women were indeed wearing tiny swimsuits—in solid colors. The garish polka dots weren't on the cloth. They were on the contestants' skin.

“What…what happened?” I could barely speak around the sudden tracheotomy someone had done on my throat.

“I told you,” Elena wailed. “They got into the fudge!”

“No.” I clapped hands to head. “This is a disaster!”

They looked like Binky the Clown with the measles. Or the plague. Or like they were painted by a really bad Warhol imitator with a tie-dye fixation.

Sauntering down the runway, those women looked like deadly disease on the hoof. And they looked horribly contagious.

“What will we
do
?” Normally Elena is a kick-ass detective, but this really seemed to throw her.

Then I found out why.

“Bond girl,” Bo said distinctly.

“No!” She whirled on him. “I am not taking off all my clothes—”

“You have before,” he said reasonably.

“Not on purpose!”

“You'd be wearing more this time,” her husband said hopefully. “A bra. And a gun belt.”

“You didn't want me to do this when Dirk suggested it!”

“That was Dirk. This is different.
This
is an emergency.”

I chimed in. “It may be the only thing that will distract the audience from…that.” I waved a hand at the spotty brigade.

“No. No way.” Elena crossed her arms, glared at us all.

Julian put up his hands and said mildly, “Hey, don't look at me. I didn't say anything.”

“You were thinking it!”

The first of the audience entered, took one look at the apparent smallpox epidemic, turned and left.

I joined in. “Elena, please.”

Elena: “Not in a million years.”

Me: “We could ask someone to do it with you. For moral support.”

Elena: “Like?”

Helpful fucking husband: “Drusilla?”

Elena: “Not in
two
million years.”

“We can ask other people,” I said, trying to smooth things over. “The Widow Schrimpf. Hey—how about Rocky Hrbek?”

Elena blinked at me like I had gone completely nuts. “Rocky? That chunky girl you went to high school with? Bad hair and glasses?”

“She wears glasses because she thinks her eyes are too big. And you haven't seen her lately. Tell you what. I'll phone Rocky and Josephine. Bo, why don't you call Dru?” Catching the snarling badger look on Elena's face, I amended, “No, wait, Julian can do it.”

Bo beckoned to Kurt Weiss, the pageant's aldermanic coordinator. “Even Elena, Dru, Rocky, and Josephine might not be enough to stave off this disaster.” He spoke to Kurt. “Quick. I have an errand for you. Our very lives may depend on it!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Strongwell!” Kurt, the nervous wiener dog, nearly saluted in his eagerness, turned, and took off. He was out the door in seconds. Julian and I exchanged a look. Kurt sheepishly stuck his head back in. “Er, what is the errand?”

Elena jumped in. “We need you to go shopping, Kurt. Two dozen one-piece maillots, pronto.”

“Yes ma'am.” Kurt saluted, raced briskly off. We waited patiently. Two seconds later, Kurt slunk back. “Uh, what's a maillot, ma'am?”

“A one-piece swimsuit. Get the kind with high back and front.”

“And maybe those little skirts,” Bo said.

“Yes, sir!” Kurt raced off again.

“And Kurt…” Bo didn't even raise his voice but Kurt screeched to a halt.

“Yes, sir?”

“Better pick up some opaque tights.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Next Julian and I checked out the church. With all the disasters, I was expecting a flood at the very least. But when we got there, all the kiddie games were set up. The wall at the entrance had been decorated, some sort of cartoon sponge painting. Gretchen, Elena's sister and the Common Council member helping out, was sitting calmly at the door, knitting.

Standing over her was six-foot plus of very menacing, long-haired Viking male.

“Hey, Gretch,” I said. “Have any trouble yet?”

Her needles clicked rapidly. “Thorvald and I had just a bit. A couple large men tried to get in.”

Julian hissed. I asked, tentatively, “Were they…you knows?”

Gretch nodded. “They had slight overbites, if that's what you mean.”

I looked around. No creepy gang guys now. “What happened?”

“I explained there were children's games here, and that they had to leave.”

“And they just walked away?”

“Sure.” She dimpled up at me. “After Thor showed them how to play some of the games.”

“Really? Which games?” Did vampires even play games?

“Skee ball. Did you know if you throw the ball hard enough at someone's chest, it makes a hole you can see clear through?” She smiled up beatifically at us, needles still clacking.

The sponge painting, red, took on new meaning.

“Okay,” I said to Julian. “I think this one's good.”

Approaching the Pie Delight next, Julian's nostrils flared. “Vampire.”

“Shit. How many this time?”

“Two, maybe three.”

A loud shriek came from the direction of the store. We ran, only to stop outside, dumbfounded.

Two large men lay comatose on the stoop of the Pie Delight. As Julian and I stared, the door opened and another gave a dazed sigh before tumbling down the stairs to the pavement.

I looked up. In the doorway lounged Drusilla, the most sensuous woman since Mata Hari—or Jessica Alba, if you were young enough to use the word “sweet” instead of “neat-o”.

Dru smiled down at us. Julian glanced at the fallen vampires, raised an eyebrow at her.

In answer, Dru licked one finger and touched it to her butt—
tsah
.

In case I haven't mentioned it, Drusilla of the natural DDs is Meiers Corners's top prostitute—but she could have cleaned up in any market, including Chicago, Paris, or even New York.

Today she had apparently cleaned up right here. And taken out the trash to boot.

“Well,” I said. “I guess things are under control here, too.”

Dru simply turned and sashayed back inside.

 

If I thought things were looking up, I should have remembered two non-disasters in a row was an omen like two sunny days in Chicago was a spring. Didn't mean jack shit, brother. Lake Michigan way, April showers brought May snowstorms. I'd'a had a better chance to win the Powerball.

But hope sprang eternal. Our next stop was City Hall. Actually, our last stop was City Hall. The whole shindig was starting there at four p.m. with a speech by the mayor. Since Stark had shifted to guard the Blood Center, we needed to stay for the opening ceremony.