Biting Nixie

by Mary Hughes

  I slewed another glance at the dark drops on the pavement. “Were those homies from a gang? Is that the gang you were talking about?”

  “You see the danger now? Nixie, you have to promise me.”

  Blood. But no bodies. “What happened to them? Where did they go? Will they be okay?”

  “Oh, for…they ran off. Dragging one, but he’ll be fine. And back before we know it.” Julian looked like he wanted to shake me. “So it’s important that you stay home at night. That you stay inside. Understand?”

  Maybe Julian was right. Maybe Meiers Corners had become dangerous. “I understand you think it’s important. But I can’t. I can’t stay home nights.”

  Julian’s eyes flared a bright violet. “Do you care so little about your life?”

  “No! I’m not my sister.” His eyebrows raised at that, but I only repeated, “I can’t stay home nights.”

  “Nixie, what does your sister—”

  Not going there. “I can’t!”

  His brows raised a notch at my tone. “You must. Whatever parties—”

  “Not parties. I earn my pay after dark.”

  His eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

  I winced. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

  The eyebrows stayed up. “What did you mean, then?”

  “I’m a musician.”

  He closed his eyes, maybe searching for strength. “A musician.”

  “Guns and Polkas.” Digging in my pocket, I pulled out a card. “Bars, parties, weddings, you name it.” The small pasteboard in my fingers made me feel almost normal. “Reasonable prices,” I added hopefully as I gave it to him.

  Julian opened his eyes slowly, as if he were afraid of what he’d see. “Nixie…Schmeling? N. Schmeling?” He frowned, and his eyes scanned like he was reading an internal PDA. “Not Dietlinde N. Schmeling?”

  Dietlinde. My daggy first name. Symbol of everything I hated. My intro to the power of names, when my parents millstoned me with it. Trying to drag me down into the hell of Normal Life.

  I snapped, hearing him say it. Hearing Julian Emerson, Suitguy extra-stodginary, say Deet-fucking-linda. Any residual shakiness fled in the rush of mad. “Yeah. Wanna make something of it?”

  He was obviously surprised by my reaction. But he only held up his square hands. “Peace. We’re on the same side.”

  I wasn’t placated. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes. Nixie…I’m the lawyer who’s going to keep Meiers Corners free.”

  After I picked up my jaw from the sidewalk, I realized I should have known. A fucking HDTV-an-hour lawyer. It was all there. The suit, the money, the classic good looks. I should have recognized the name, Emerson, from Fogey, Stuffy, and Emerson.

  And I had responded to him! I thought he was sexy. Which, of course, only pissed me off more. Without another word I stalked off. He followed me.

  I stomped all the way to my flat. Like a lithe shadow, Julian glided along silently behind. He must have been freezing in only his suit coat but he didn’t complain once. Just followed, without a word. He waited silently on my stoop while I fumbled out my key and unlocked my door. He stood without comment when I slammed the door in his face.

  He waited, hands folded patiently behind his back, until I locked the damned door again.

  And then Julian Emerson, lawyer, suit, melted away into the night.

  “It was right here,” I said, dragging on my captive’s hand. I pointed. “Right here. I swear it!”

  Detective Elena O’Rourke Strongwell hunkered down and scanned the sidewalk where I had pointed. “Nixie, there’s no blood.” Her fashion-model face was smooth, untroubled, but her eyes were sharp.

  I dug my hands into my jacket pockets, staring at the hygienically clean concrete. A bloody mugging had happened here. Conservative attorney Julian Emerson had gone all violent here. Bloody violent. Ploppy-wet violent.

  Nothing showed. “But it happened!” I blurted.

  “You’re sure it was here?” Elena rummaged in a duffel she’d brought. Her long dark curls whipped in the wind.

  Elena was five feet nine inches tall, and every inch was cop. Her Irish father was a public defender. She got her unswerving sense of justice from him. Her Hispanic mother was a model. Elena got her incredible beauty and slender grace from her. But the fierce intelligence and off-beat sense of humor was all Elena. It’s why we were friends.

  And why, if Elena didn’t believe me, no one would.

  “Someone must have cleaned it up.” I felt bewildered. It was here. “Wouldn’t there still be traces? Isn’t there something you can use to make the blood pop? Please, Elena?”

  She rolled her chocolate eyes. “Saints preserve us from TV detectives. Yeah, this.” She brought out a pump bottle. “Luminol.” She sprayed the sidewalk with quick, sure sprays. I waited for the flash of fluorescence spatter to show.

  Nothing.

  “It was there. We were attacked. Maybe it’s too bright to see the reaction—”

  “Nixie. I’m not saying you’re imagining things. But…” Elena shrugged and left the rest hanging.

  “Blood was splashing. I heard it!”

  “Uh-huh.” She rose to her feet. “And how well did you see it?”

  “Well…” I couldn’t meet her eyes, and not just because they were nine inches above mine. “Emerson pushed me behind him and…he’s kind of big.”

  “Julian Emerson?”

  At the clear surprise in Elena’s voice, I looked up. A frown flashed across her forehead, gone instantly.

  Then she shrugged. “Maybe Emerson was faking a fight. Guys do that sometimes to impress a woman.”

  “Hardly. Emerson’s way too arrogant to fake anything.” Besides, he was Suitguy. Defender of the Hidebound, Righteous Protector of the Old School Tie. He would never try to wow punk little ol’ me. “Someone attacked us. Three someones.”

  Elena busied herself with her bag, putting away the bottle. “And Julian Emerson fought them. Three of them. Yet there wasn’t a scratch on him?”

  “Well…”

  “Or any blood?”

  I thought of that strange fuzzing out thing. Had that zapped the blood somehow? Fixed any wounds? “I don’t think he was injured.”

  “Nixie.” Elena gave me the full benefit of her intelligent dark stare. “You’re saying an attorney, a man whose most demanding activity is filing briefs, fought three men—and won? Not only won, but didn’t have a single injury?”

  It sounded impossible, put like that. “He’s pretty tall…” I mumbled.

  “Nixie, honey.” Elena clasped my shoulders warmly. “To you, everyone is ‘pretty tall’.”

  “Fine.” I kicked at the stupidly clean sidewalk. Stubbed my toe for my trouble. “So what should I do?”

  Elena shouldered her bag. “Well, you could report it. But there’s no evidence. And you didn’t really see anything. So it wouldn’t do much good.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “However. I would be careful. Going out after dark.”

  “What? Oh, come on now.” First Julian, and now Elena. I put my hands on my beruffled hips. “This is Meiers Corners, not Chicago.”

  “Yeah, but—hey, do you want to grab breakfast? You’ll feel better with some food.” Elena started off on her long, strong legs. “How about we go to the Caffeine Café?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.” I trotted to keep up. “Yeah but what?”

  “I’m not changing subjects. You get crabby if you go too long without eating. That tiny body of yours.”

  “Yeah—but—what?”

  “Damn, you’re persistent. I can’t believe you’re not an older sister.”

  “I babysat. Last chance. Why shouldn’t I go out after dark?”

  Elena shrugged, looked a little uncomfortable. “With the Coterie moving to annex us, Meiers Corners has drawn attention. And not just from the businessmen and politicians, I’m afraid.”

  “Who else has noticed—” I stopped dead
. “You mean real gangs? Like Vice Lords? Or one of the Popes? The 12th Street Players?”

  Elena shrugged again. “Probably none of those. But Bo’s fielded some threats.”

  I ran to catch up. “Bo has gotten threats?” Her husband, Bo Strongwell, managed an apartment building on the upper east side. “Why Bo? Why not the police, or the mayor?”

  Strangely, that made Elena look even more uncomfortable. “Bo does this neighborhood watch thing. I think that’s why he got involved.”

  I was confused. “What does a neighborhood watch have to do with gangs from Chicago?”

  Elena’s eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Well…I think it’s part of a larger network. Bo’s, uh, neighborhood watch.”

  Yeah, I thought. Suuure. I could practically hear Jon Lovitz saying, “That’s the ticket.” Elena might be telling some part of the truth but by no means all of it.

  We reached the Café. Before going in, Elena faced me. Her eyes were dark and serious. And lurking beneath, she might have even been worried. “Do me a favor, Nixie. Just be careful.”

  Elena Strongwell, super cop. Worried. “Are you okay, Elena?”

  “Dine and fandy.” She turned and pushed open the door.

  I shut my mouth and followed. Elena had invoked the Dine and Fandy.

  Dine and fandy was a mix-up of fine and dandy. It was what we said when shit was flying but we were coping. When we didn’t want to talk about it.

  So even though I was deathly curious, I dropped the subject. Besides, we were friends. I could always attack her later about Bo’s mysterious neighborhood watch.

  Elena made her way to a table in the corner. “So tell me about the fundraiser. Is Guns and Polkas playing?”

  I groaned, remembering the manila Pack of Doom. “The band’s playing. I guess.”

  “You guess?” Elena grabbed a chair and put her back to the wall. A cop thing, probably. “Is something wrong?”

  I sat opposite. “Yeah. I got mammomashed by the mayor.”

  Sympathy immediately touched her face. “Tit in a wringer?”

  “Yeah.”

  I broke off as a beautiful, regal blonde sashayed in from the back room. To my surprise the woman immediately hurried over to us. To my further astonishment she rapidly laid gleaming silverware in front of Elena and me. To my absolute shock she smiled and said, “Your usual, Elena?”

  This was no barista. This was the proprietor of the Caffeine Café herself, Diana Prince. Diana was normally as majestic as her name. Her barstool was her throne. She rarely waited on customers and never personally came to a table.

  Except, apparently, for Elena O’Rourke Strongwell.

  Elena nodded. “My usual’s fine. And whatever Nixie wants.”

  I had expected to have to slog in line for my caffeine, to have plenty of time to figure my order out. “Uh,” I said, for a moment at a loss. “I guess I’ll have a red eye. And a…a scone.”

  “The orange frosted are very good today.” Diana’s tone was actually coaxing.

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Shall I heat it?”

  I blinked. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

  As Diana the Princessy Proprietor glided away, I transferred my confused face to Elena. “What got into her?”

  A blush stole over Elena’s fair cheeks. “She, ah, owes Bo.”

  “She must owe him her life to be that grateful…no. Not really?”

  The flush deepened. “We don’t talk about it. So tell me about the fundraiser. I heard it was to pay for that attorney you were talking about. Julian Emerson.”

  Another thing about friends is that they don’t play fair. Wanting to switch subjects, Elena had sucker-punched me. And she knew just where to hit. I launched into my own rant. “We have to raise five hundred thousand dollars. Can you believe it? Half a million to pay for a snarky lawyer.”

  “Some of that might be for legal research.” Elena toyed with her silverware, not looking at me. “And, uh, processing fees.”

  “Maybe. But you can be sure most of it’s going in Emerson’s perfectly tailored pockets. There’s a reason they’re called sharks, you know.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Emerson seems nice.”

  I think my jaw dropped. “Have you met him? He’s not nice, Elena. He’s a lawyer. The two terms are mutually exclusive. Like military intelligence. An oxymoron, emphasis on moron.”

  “My father was a lawyer,” Elena said, turning stiff.

  “That’s way different. Your father didn’t charge five-fucking-hundred dollars an hour.”

  Elena picked up her fork. Thoughtfully balanced her knife between its tines. “If Emerson can fend off the Coterie, he’ll have earned it.” Slowly, almost reluctantly she added, “And…I think he might donate some of his fee. To charity.”

  “And he’s kind to small dogs and pigeons. For goodness sake, Elena. Emerson’s a bloodsucking monster in an old school tie. A fucking vampire, not a hero!”

  The knife clattered to the table. Elena’s face drained completely of blood. “A…a what?”

  “A leech! A man who enriches himself on the pain and suffering of others. A lawyer.”

  Her color returned. “I don’t think Julian Emerson is like that. But,” she said, holding up a hand to stop any further argument from me, “it really doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he keeps us safe from a takeover. And that we raise enough money to pay him.”

  Our orders came then. Diana laid cup and plate in front of each of us. Good smells wafted from mine. I was hungry. But I was more upset. As Diana sashayed away I dug a fork savagely into my scone. “I suppose that’s all that matters to you.”

  Elena smiled at me over her mocha latte. “Eat. You’ll feel better. Not another word on snarky lawyers, okay? Now, tell me about the fundraiser.”

  I gave her such a glare. “Damn, you’re persistent. I can’t believe you’re not an annoying older sister. Oh, wait. You are.”

  “Damn tootin’. So get a-shootin’.”

  “Very funny.” I mashed scone crumbs onto the back of my fork. “But since you’ll just hassle me to death if I don’t…the fundraiser is more like a bunch of fundraisers. This thing’s going to be Summerfest, Germanfest, and the Grand Ole Opry all rolled into one. Everything and anything that will raise money. Even cheese balls.” I squashed the scone a couple more times with my fork.

  “You going to eat that thing or torture it to death?” Elena said, her tone amused.

  I glared at her again. Honestly, she should have burst into flames by now. Since she didn’t, I shoved mashed scone into my mouth.

  Heaven burst on my tongue. Sweet, tart, tangy. Warm oozing frosting, moist scone. Five tons of mad simply…dripped away.

  “Better?” Elena’s smile turned smug.

  I should have resented that self-satisfied smirk, but I did feel better. “Yeah.” I washed down heaven with my red-eye. Caffeine and sugar. Perfection.

  “You’re always a little crabby until someone feeds you.”

  “Am not,” I objected through another mouthful of scone.

  “Am too. So we’ll have rides, like a county fair? And music tents?”

  “No rides. Plenty of music, though. In fact, I’m auditioning bands tonight at the Kosmopolitisch.”

  “But no rides. Huh. I think I’m disappointed.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Elena.” I swallowed. “It’s almost winter. You want a bunch of kids slipping out of an icy Ferris Wheel and going splat on the pavement? We’ve got plenty of other attractions. A beauty pageant. Midway-style games with fussy little prizes. Fudge. Oh—and a sheepshead tournament. You should enter.”

  “Oh, no.” Elena set down her fork. “I’m not playing schafkopf against you. You get a handful of fail and still slaughter your opponents.”

  “You don’t pick unless you have five queens.”

  She sniffed, picked up her fork. “I’m just a conservative player.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, the point is, we need to raise money every way we
can. Music, dancing, food—”

  “—and beer?”

  “Duh, yeah. It’s Meiers Corners. A whole tent is just for beer tasting. Five big-names and thirty microbreweries. Bock, pilsner, stout, even raspberry and chocolate. Twenty-five bucks to the public, all you can drink.”

  “I hope you’ll have plenty of porta-potties.”

  “Um…yeah, sure.” I pulled a small spiral notebook out of my jacket pocket, made a note. Winced. I was making lists. Like my mother. Ye gods. I really was going to do this thing.

  But if I was going down, I was taking Elena with me. “I want you to run the beauty pageant.”

  Elena sprayed muffin. “You what?!”

  “I want you to run the beauty contest,” I repeated, trying not to get a kick out of her shock. Elena’s normally the ultimate of cop cool.

  “You want me to run…?” She stared at me. “Oh, no. You’re joking, right? Like someone died and made you Elvis.”

  “Mayor Meier made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Well, I could refuse it, but I’d piss off every member of my band. ’Course, the mayor will probably wish he’d died when he sees how I run things.”

  “Wait. You’re really in charge?”

  “I’m really in charge.” I flipped a page in the notebook, wrote “PAGEANT” at the top. “And I really want you to run the beauty pageant.”

  “You’re kidding. You’ve got to be.” Elena’s brown eyes had gone a little wild. “You’re either kidding, or you’ve gone insane. It’s the only explanation.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Elena. Your mom was a model, right?”

  “My mother died when I was an infant, Nixie! I don’t know anything about modeling.”

  “It’s in your genes. You’ll be fine.”

  “Nixie, I’m a cop. I don’t know the first thing about a beauty pageant.” She took a slug of latte. Behind the steam rising from the cup her eyes bulged, and I didn’t think it was just from the heat of the drink.

  “Fine.” I shrugged, shutting the notebook. “I’ll ask your partner, instead.”

  Elena started choking. I reached over and pounded her on the back. She gasped, “Dirk!? You want Dirk Ruffles to run…anything?”