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.

In the limo on the way, Julian and I had a pretty good discussion about how Ruthven planned to get the blood out of the Blood Center. Julian argued for the possibility of transporting blood through a hose running out a window. I argued for a blow job. I won. Mmm.

A huge line of people snaked outside City Hall. Since only VIPs were invited, a couple guards worked the door (turning people away with a free beer token. The mayor’s no dummy). As we negotiated our way to the front, I asked Julian, “Do you think those toothy guys at the Pie Delight and the church were Ruthie’s or Nosy’s?”

“Only the band at the Roller-Blayd factory was Ruthven’s. All the others were Nosferatu’s.”

“I wonder what that means. Ruthie’s gang is trying to horn in on the bands, and Nosy’s is disrupting the rest of the festival events. But neither of them are attacking the Blood Center directly.”

“That we know of.”

“Bo would have heard from Stark and called us. Oh, look. We’re finally at the front of the line.”

Just as we were about to get in, Murphy’s déjà vu struck. A puckered powder blue suit whisked in front of me.

It was Vice-Principal Schleck.

Apparently he didn’t recognize Julian in his punk attire. “Excuse me, sir.” Julian tapped gently on the vice-principal’s shoulder. “I believe you have, er, taxed our place.”

I nearly snorted to hear the phrase in Julian’s highly cultured tones. Like carving lewd statues out of crystal. It was just weird.

“Not now, punk.” The veep threw Julian a sharp frown. “Dirty punk.”

The door in front of us opened. Schleck moved.

Julian’s jaw worked like his fangs were jumping to get out and play. And his eyes fired up, more red than violet.

I was going to enjoy this.

Vampire-fast, Julian grabbed seersucker coat. “I believe you’re out of line, sir.”

Schleck scrabbled like a bicyclist in neutral. “Let me go, shit-for-brains!” The veep got exactly nowhere.

Julian lifted the veep off the ground, twisted his coat until Schleck swung gently face to face. “Actually, you were never in line in the first place.”

Slowly, Julian grinned. Schleck was treated to the sight of two very long, very pointy teeth. Julian clicked his teeth together in a couple deliberate chomps.

Schleck screamed. The powder blue turned indigo across the front of Schleck’s pants. His legs started pistoning well before Julian set him down. When his tread hit pavement, he shot off like Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell.

“Bullies.” I shook my head. “Always the first to pee and run.” Julian held out his hand, and we entered City Hall.

 

The opening speech was going to be delivered in the council chambers, where I’d held band auditions. All the tables and chairs had been cleared from the room. The raised dais at the far end had a podium, but no mic. Apparently the mayor had joined the zeros and would use a wireless.

The first person I saw inside was Bart Bleistift, and he was not happy. His boyish face was dark with anger, his generous mouth tight. I thought maybe Mom had told him he had lost pole position in the Mother Race. That idea was reinforced when I saw him staring at Julian like he tasted month-old turkey loaf with mayo. Working himself up to confront us, I guessed—confirmed a moment later when he motored in our direction.

Bart grabbed Julian by the sleeve, walked him two paces forward. “What the hell are you doing here, old fuck?”

Hearing that, seeing them side by side, I reevaluated my two contenders in the Nixie Race. Bart admittedly had solid shoulders, but Julian’s were broad and muscular. Bart’s butt was trim, but Julian had a really tight ass. Bart ignored what he didn’t understand, but Julian had learned my language for me. I wondered what I’d ever seen in the good Saint. Maybe my mother’s approval, but even that had veered in Julian’s favor.

His voice icy with disdain, Julian answered, “I might ask you the same thing, child.”

Men. More “my rocket’s bigger than yours”.

Bart clenched his teeth. “Negotiations are over, Boston legal. Why don’t you pack up and go home and lie in your grave like a good little bloodsucking lawyer?”

“The battle’s over, but the war is far from won.” And, to my utter shock, Julian flashed Bart a lavish length of fang.

“Julian!” I slapped a cautionary hand on his wrist.

Julian’s unblinking violet eyes did not waver an inch from Bart. “Bleistift knows all about us, Nixie. He’s Nosferatu’s human minion.”

“Nosferatu’s what?”

Staring right back at Julian, Bart hissed, “I told you not to get mixed up in this, Nixie.”

“You didn’t tell me anything of the sort! You told me I shouldn’t be at the Kalten’s Roller Rink, remember? Just before it…before it…oh my lord. Just before it exploded. You knew!”

Revelation on top of revelation. Good thing I was quick on my feet. First, Bart was a vampire’s human minion. I didn’t know everything that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good.

And second, the explosion at Kalten’s. I already suspected the Lestat gang was involved somehow. But apparently Nosferatu had ordered the destruction. And Saint Farty Booger was in it up to his trim pimply ass.

“I told you to stay out of it!” Bart snapped, spinning on me. He didn’t have fangs but his anger was scary enough.

And I had thought he was nice. “How can you be working for Nosferatu? Don’t you know what he’s trying to do to people here? What about Denny Crane?”

“Denny Crane?” Julian asked, distracting me.

“Bart’s boss,” I snapped. “Not the Boston Legal character.”

“Boston Legal character?”

I sighed and turned to Julian. “You know. Played by William Shatner?”

“Star Trek’s William Shatner?”

I was surprised. “Shatner was in a TV show before Boston Legal?”

“For shit’s sake!” Bart sneered, snagging my attention back. “Stick to the point.”

Oh, yeah. My rant. “What about Denny Crane? What about Meiers Corners?” I glared at Bart. “What about my mother!” What about me, I wanted to add, but didn’t. I had some pride.

Bart stared at me, his upper lip curled in disdain. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

Any residual sympathy or affection died. “I was just thinking the same thing,” I muttered. Louder, I asked, “Did you do it, Bart? Did you blow up the Rink?”

He snorted. “You really think I’m going to tell you?”

I did. With him doing “my fang’s longer than your fang” with Julian, I thought he’d boast to high heaven if he’d been playing with explosives.

But he wasn’t boasting. Either he had amazing self-restraint, or he hadn’t done it. I knew which I favored. “Nosy doesn’t let you play with matches, hmm?”

Bart flushed. “I was the one who told them about your using Kalten’s. I planned it.”

“But you didn’t do it. I guess it was too important for a human minion,” I taunted. “Some fangy guy did it, then. Cutter?”

Bart’s red face told me I’d hit it. “Yeah, well, as a disruption it was second rate.” He speared me with a nasty look. “You screwing up the negotiations by screwing Emerson far surpassed my feeble attempts.”

Now it was my turn to flush. “How can you side with Nosy? Don’t you know what he wants?”

“Nosferatu wants blood. No different from any of the suckers. No different from him.” He sniffed at Julian. “Or will you try to tell me beastie-boy here hasn’t sucked your blood?” He made “suck” sound like a dirty word.

“He has, yes. But that’s different.”

“Because he’s too pretty to be a monster? Because he asked?” Bart scoffed. “Oh, please, purty please, Miss Nixie. Let me sippy your sweet neck. Sure, that makes it all okay.”

I was starting to get angry. Didn’t Saint Barty get it? Could he possibly be that dense, or was he willfully ignorant? “It’s okay because it’s not Blood Center blood. Not the blood slotted to save human lives. Julian is protecting that. Which is more than I can say for you, human.” With my own sneer I added, “Between you and Julian, I know which is the monster.”

Bart, whose job was arguing, was speechless.

Julian poked Bart in the chest. “Which returns me to my first question. What exactly are you doing here, Blei?”

Julian, I realized, was right to worry. If Bart was on the Nosferatu team, he wasn’t here to cheer the mayor on.

Bart was here to throw a monkey wrench into the works.

I grabbed Bart by the wrist, yanked him close. “What are you going to do? Tell me!”

Blei-shit had the balls to laugh. “Oh, look at me, I’m the evil villain, gloating over the hero and spilling my guts.”

“At least you know which character you are.” I released him with a small shove. “Julian…can you see or smell any fangy monsters here?”

“Any other fangy monsters, you mean,” Bart corrected.

St. Bart was starting to get on my nerves. Starting? Make that three repeats and into the coda. “Julian?”

“No.” Julian’s eyes were narrowed. “But you don’t have to worry, Nixie. Nosferatu won’t stoop to frightening tourists.”

“Not with supernatural weirdness, no. But if Team Nosy means to disrupt the opening ceremonies, they could use gangland weirdness.” I scanned the crowd. “But if no fangy-gangy guys are around, then what?”

“Blei’s here to do something,” Julian said. “Obviously.”

Yeah, obvious. But what? Bomb, or something Mr. Pencil-pusher had up his sleeve?

“Goot EFFNINK, mine goot LADIES”—a high squeal—“entlemen.” Mayor Meier stood behind the podium, fiddling with his lapel. Wireless mic, yes. But that still didn’t mean he’d joined the Higgs Boson age.

As he fiddled, Heidi marched onto the dais. Heidi was Twyla Tafel’s cohort in the mayor’s office. She looked like the title character from the book Heidi, all blonde braids and airhead blue eyes. Except she tended toward leather, spike-heeled hip boots, and lots of studs. She was almost as sharp as Twyla, and a hell of a lot more tyrannical. Even I was a little scared of Heidi.

Heidi slapped Mayor Meier’s hands away from the mic. It sounded like the crack of a whip. “Stop fussing, Mayor!” we heard at eight hundred decibels. He stopped. Finally she got it fixed.

The mayor cleared his throat. “Welcome, welcome everyone to the First Annual Meiers Corners International Fun Fair, Sheepshead Tournament, and Polka Festival!” He smiled, all jolly Wiener schnitzel. The crowd on the floor quieted instantly, and several people started smiling in response. Mayor Meier was really good at this, I thought. If anyone could get a bunch of tourists happy-happy enough to spend several hundred thousand dollars, he could.

I was distracted only for an instant. In that instant, Bart vanished.

So did Julian. He snapped, “Stay here,” so it wasn’t like he dipped out without a word. But he puffed into smoke so fast I couldn’t say boo, much less follow.

But did Julian really think I’d stay put?