“Well, he’s made it this far,” said Nikki practically. She wasn’t sure how far “this” was, but he seemed to be coping.
“And it’s been longer than any of his other dry spells,” said Trista, “but that’s why I’m worried. How much longer can he hold out? Especially since he’s not writing.”
“Not writing…,” Nikki repeated, unclear on the connection.
“Songs. He’s blocked. And I don’t think he’s ever written anything sober—not a whole album anyway. I don’t know, maybe Camille’s right. Maybe he isn’t cut out to be a rock star.”
On the TV, Kit was smiling his rock star smile and lying through his teeth.
“The new record? No, it doesn’t have a name yet. But, yeah…” Kit ran his hand through his hair; Nikki caught only a tiny flash of anger before he smiled and answered. “Yeah, it’s going great.”
“I don’t know …,” said Nikki, thinking of the hotel room. “He seems rock starrish to me. Why wouldn’t Camille want him to be a singer?”
“Besides the obvious danger of exposing him to people like Cano?” asked Trista sharply. “Or the fact that it has led him to a nearly fatal level of addiction? Besides all that, I can’t think of a single reason.”
“Maybe you should tell me more about these ‘accidents,’” said Nikki, deciding not to argue. Trista sighed loudly, still annoyed. “I talked to Holly about them last night.”
“You talked to Holly? Well, I’m sure she covered it then.” Trista loosened up and then retightened a bottle lid.
“I’d rather get your professional opinion.” Sucking up never hurt.
“They’re nothing really that big; probably just accidents. I think everyone’s just been a little on edge. A tire blew out on the bus. And you might think that would make the bus flip over, but Louis, the bus driver, says buses don’t work that way anymore…”
“And maybe it was somebody who didn’t know enough about bus tires to know that wouldn’t make a bus crash. What about the helicopter?” Nikki asked, and Trista shrugged uncomfortably.
“Someone didn’t do their job, and the helicopter got fueled incorrectly. They had to make an emergency landing. Which is why Kit’s taking the tour bus everywhere now. It was rather tense for everyone on board, but Brandt and Duncan were with him. He was never in any real danger.” Nikki was about to ask how they could have possibly protected him from a helicopter crash when Trista glanced at Nikki and then back at her makeup bottles. Nikki’s instincts pricked up their ears; Trista was about to say something interesting.
“I’m a bit worried about Duncan, to tell the truth,” said Trista. “He’s always around when these things happen.”
“He’s security,” Nikki said, playing devil’s advocate. “Presumably he’s always around.”
“Yes, but like that groupie last night. Duncan vetted her. He always does. So how did she end up with drugs?”
“Mmmm,” said Nikki, choosing not to comment on the groupie. The existence of the groupie kind of grossed her out, but she knew she’d sound naïve if she said so. “You think he’s behind the accidents?” she asked, returning to the subject of Duncan. Trista shrugged in response.
Nikki thought about Trista’s theory; she didn’t think Duncan could be Tracksuit. Their physiques were quite different in her memory, but she supposed it was possible. Ewart had said that Duncan had been lurking around his machinery. Motive was a bit of a mystery, although in her experience, money proved to be all that most people needed.
“So why haven’t you investigated these accidents?” asked Nikki. Trista was ex–Carrie Mae; she should have been able to handle a few mysterious happenings.
“I’ve got a job to do, you know!” Trista exclaimed. “I can’t be haring off after unexplained accidents that might not be anything more than accidents.”
“Well, I’m just assuming that Camille made Kit hire you as extra security. I figured you’d both be concerned.”
“Why would anyone want to hurt Kit?” asked Trista.
“You don’t think the accidents are intentional?” Nikki scratched her head; Trista wasn’t making any sense.
Trista shrugged again, her back still to Nikki. “With so many people running about, something’s bound to go wrong on a tour. Like I said, no one would hurt Kit.”
“Even Cano?” asked Nikki. She couldn’t really understand Trista’s mind-set. She wasn’t worried about the accidents, but she was worried about Kit. She didn’t make sense.
“Well, Cano would,” said Trista, turning around, eyes wide. “Cano would in a heartbeat. He hated Camille. He hated Declan and … all of them. He thought they were traitors to the cause. He’d off Kit as soon as a blink.”
“Why did Cano hate them?” asked Nikki.
“They were quitting the IRA. Well, Declan was quitting. Camille never really was IRA. And after Declan’s death Camille burned him with all the groups in the region. But it wasn’t just them. The world was changing. People weren’t supporting violent movements anymore.”
“Violence is not a sustainable political tactic,” said Nikki, and Trista shrugged.
“Cano blamed Camille; he would try to hurt Kit. I suppose he could be responsible for the accidents.” Trista sounded as if the thought had just occurred to her.
“Yeah …” said Nikki. “I thought so too. But the more I learn about the accidents the more they sound sort of … half-assed. Scary, sure, but not really dangerous. Cano sounds like more of a whole ass.”
“That platform could have fallen and killed everyone!” exclaimed Trista.
“There’s an emergency brake on it. It won’t tilt past fifteen degrees without shutting down. I talked to Ewart last night.”
“Oh,” said Trista. “I guess—” Whatever she had been about to say was cut off by the ringing of a cell phone, causing both women to jump.
“It’s an unlisted number,” said Trista, handing her the phone. “It’s probably for you.”
“This is Nikki.”
“Nikki?” said a voice, and Nikki recognized Astriz’s German accent. “I’m checking in. I’m still on Cano’s trail, but I keep losing the signal and must back the track frequently. Have you had any luck?”
“Not much,” said Nikki. “Where are you now?”
“Reims,” said Astriz.
“France?”
“Ja. I think Cano is heading for Paris—away from Mr. Masters. What do you want to do?”
“The tour goes to Paris next, right?” asked Nikki, looking up at Trista.
“Yes. There will be a few days off for everyone, and then the New Year’s Eve show.”
“Hm,” said Astriz, overhearing the conversation. “It might be coincidence.”
“Or Cano may be planning to meet the tour,” said Nikki.
“Plausible. We will meet in Paris?” asked Astriz.
“Sounds like,” Nikki said. “Keep in touch.”
“Ja,” said Astriz, and hung up.
“Exactly like Val,” said Nikki, shaking her head. “Would it kill people to say good-bye before hanging up?”
“Who’s Val?” asked Trista.
“Nobody,” Nikki lied. “Where do you think Duncan is?”
“Interview’s almost over; he’d be securing the exit, I guess,” answered Trista with a shrug.
“Great,” said Nikki, “I need to talk to him.”
“Mmm…,” said Trista. It was a peculiar noise, sort of Marge Simpson–ish. “I’m not sure … Duncan is…”
“Duncan is what?” asked Nikki. “I thought you said you were suspicious of him.”
“He’s very devoted to Kit,” said Trista, looking faintly embarrassed.
“Right,” Nikki said sarcastically. “And no one would ever hurt Kit. I’ll meet you at the bus.”
Duncan was in the parking lot. He appeared to be returning from the bus, and he checked his stride when he saw Nikki.
“You talked to Ewart,” he said without preamble when they were near enough to speak.
“Yes,” said Nikki, surprised by his bluntness.
“You told him to come to Paris, and you would talk to Kit about getting his job back.”
“Yes,” said Nikki with a shrug. “He was fired without reason. That stage was rigged.”
“Yes, I know,” said Duncan. “But you will not be talking to anyone about that. Christopher does not need to know that the stage was more than an accident.” It was the first time she’d heard anyone call Kit by his full name.
“Shouldn’t you be more worried about who’s causing these accidents than covering them up?” said Nikki.
Duncan rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to pretend to be helping Trista, don’t you think you should have packed some luggage?” he fired back.
“It got misplaced,” she said lamely, and he shook his head.
“I don’t need any more Carrie Mae women around here,” he said, emphasizing his words with a pointing forefinger. “You tell Camille that Christopher is going to keep on singing.” Before she could respond, the doors swung open and Kit exited with his entourage in tow.
“All right, buddy boy,” said Brandt as they kissed the TV station execs. “I’ll see you in Paris. Have fun on the bus.”
“Aren’t you coming?” asked Kit, looking surprised.
“I can’t follow you around the whole tour like the old days, Kit,” said Brandt.
“No, I know. I just thought you were riding to Paris with us.”
“We’re taking the helicopter,” said Angela. “We’ve got to be in Paris early to set up for your press junket.”
Kit blanched slightly, but whether it was from the mention of the helicopter or the press junket, Nikki couldn’t tell.
“All right. I guess I’ll see you there, then.”
GERMANY VII
You Can Get What You Need
“Are you reading that crap?” asked Kit as he entered the bus and noticed Richie’s newspaper.
“Actually, I was thinking about putting it into the loo for personal use later,” said Richie, folding the paper down again.
“No, seriously,” said Kit, snatching the paper out of Richie’s hands and crumpling it into a ball. “I don’t like seeing that shit.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Richie, slightly sullenly. “Sorry.”
“I’m going upstairs to get some sleep,” said Kit. “I suggest the rest of you do the same.”
Nikki felt confused by Kit’s suddenly diva-like behavior. He’d seemed so easygoing last night. Why did he just assume that he could boss people around like that?
There were general murmurs of agreement as he climbed the stairs to the bus’s upper floor, but no one followed him except Duncan. Everyone else began to curl up on the far less comfortable downstairs bus seats. Nikki shook her head.
With nothing else to do, Nikki found a blanket in one of the overhead compartments and followed the suit of her traveling companions. The morning was turning into a dark, wintery afternoon when Nikki awoke, bleary-eyed, to look out the window. Periodically a small village passed by in the distance. For a while, Nikki was content to watch the scenery drift by and listen to the steady rhythm of the road. The weather was cold and bleak and made her long for the warm days of California. In her head, California was always summer and beaches and all those nonnative palm trees that had somehow become iconographic of the place. That’s what she’d wanted her Christmas to be—warm and beachy.
Nikki lay perpendicular to Z’ev with her head on his stomach. The sun beat down on them, making a dew of sweat form in Nikki’s joints and cleavage. Frisbee Man ran by for the bazillionth time. Nikki buried one foot in the sand and then, being too lazy to hold it there, watched the foot flick upward, sending sand into the air.
“Man, those Frisbee guys are making me feel lazy. We should get up and go do something.”
“We should,” said Z’ev, moving only his lips.
There was a long pause. Nikki listened to the distant screech of gulls and children overlaying the faint buzz of voices and machinery from the Santa Monica Pier.
“I don’t actually want to do anything. I just feel like I should,” commented Nikki.
“Did you pack my gun?”
“Yeah,” answered Nikki around a yawn. “It’s in my bag.” She waved negligently toward the pink straw bag that matched her flip-flops.
“Hand it to me; I’ll shoot the Frisbee players and then you won’t feel guilty anymore.”
Nikki chuckled and rolled to the side and bit him lightly on the stomach. “This is a no-shooting-people day, remember?”
“Oh, right; my bad.”
“Can you hand me the sunscreen?”
Z’ev, moving only his arm, reached down, fumbled for the bottle, and started to hand it across his body to Nikki, when he caught sight of the label.
“SPF fifty? Jeez, babe, you’re never going to get a tan.”
“He thinks I tan,” laughed Nikki as she applied another layer of sunscreen. “I’m a redhead, Z’ev. I have two colors: Day-Glo white and lobster red. Not all of us were born as lucky as you.” She poked him in his latte-colored side with her index finger. “Can you put some on my back?” she asked, holding up the sunscreen.
“Well, at least I know you’ll never come home that weird orange fake-bake color,” he said, smearing sunscreen haphazardly on her back. “You’re just always going to be my little vanilla cookie.” He added the last part in a Cookie Monster voice that he knew always made her laugh and faked gnawing on her shoulder. Nikki giggled, twisting away from his ticklish lips. “Now I’m hungry,” he said in his normal voice. “You want to go get some ice cream?”
Under the corner of her towel Nikki felt her phone vibrate. She faked a yawn-and-stretch, covering the motion of her phone.
“Ice cream sounds wonderful. I think you should go get it,” she said.
“You think I should … Lazy bum.”
Nikki stuck her tongue out at him. “If you want boyfriend privileges, this is the price you pay.”
He laughed and flicked at her nose with one finger. “Whatever, wife.” It was their oldest joke, and Nikki grinned at it. “What flavor do you want?” he asked, standing up and shuffling into his flip-flops.
“Vanilla, what else?” said Nikki, as he pulled on his shirt and reached in her bag for his wallet.
“Does that mean I have to get chocolate?”
“Cappuccino, maybe,” suggested Nikki.
“Mocha swirl,” he shot back over his shoulder, and Nikki laughed.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Nikki grabbed her phone and hit “call back.”
“Jane, I told you I’ve got Z’ev this weekend. I’m totally Do Not Disturb!”
“I know, I know,” said Jane, “but we’ve got a little situation here. Mrs. M wants you to come in.”
“And how am I supposed to explain that to Z’ev?” demanded Nikki.
“Tell him there’s an emergency with the event you’re coordinating. The florist ordered the wrong flowers and no one can figure out where the invoices are or something.”
“Yeah, OK, what event am I coordinating again?” Nikki asked, rolling her eyes. How long was Z’ev going to keep buying this crap?
“Uh … the Women’s Symposium Breakfast,” said Jane.
“We really need to come up with better names,” said Nikki.
“Sue me,” said Jane. “You can name the next one.”
Another hour passed, which Nikki filled with memories of Z’ev. The warm sunshine in her memory made her present feel even colder. A general restlessness set in—eating and sleeping had lost their entertainment value, and everyone settled into the serious business of irritating the crap out of each other.
Richie was sorting through his laundry based on smell. Hammond was jotting things down in a notebook, and Holly was laughing at the good bits of her book but wouldn’t tell anyone what the joke was. Burg beat a steady tattoo on the back of the seat in front of him, punctuating the rhythm with an occasional belch.
>
“Damn it, Burg,” yelled Richie, chucking dirty socks at Burg’s head. “Can you stop that infernal racket? I can’t hear myself think!”
“I’m bored out of my mind; why should you be able to think? Where are we, anyway?”
“Someplace near Kehl, I think,” said Hammond.
“Really?” asked Burg, looking out with more interest. “I knew a girl from there once.” There was a thoughtful pause while they watched the buildings and hedges go by. A nativity scene flashed by on the other side of a hedgerow. “I should look her up and apologize.” There was another pause, but this time everyone was considering what action the perpetually naked, belching, expectorating, and farting Burg would think worthy of an apology.
“Burg,” said Holly, closing her book, apparently bowing to the inevitable. “What’s your real name?”
“It’s Burg,” said Burg without looking around.
“No, it isn’t,” said Hammond. “I saw your paycheck; it said F. Harris.”
“It’s short for Fredericksburg,” he said, looking around with a smile only faintly tainted by embarrassment.
“Like Fredericksburg, Virginia?” asked Nikki, puzzled.
“That’s the one,” said Burg, nodding happily.
“Why would anyone name their child after a city in Virginia?” asked Richie.
“Well, my brothers are named Chicago, Dallas, and Denver.”
“Fredericksburg isn’t exactly in the same league with those. Shouldn’t you be named something like Seattle or Miami?” asked Nikki.
“It was a compromise,” said Burg. “My dad wanted to call me Frederick after Granddad, but Mum wanted to stick with the city theme.”
“Ah,” said Nikki. Burg’s oddity was starting to seem a product of genetics.
“Hey, speaking of names,” said Burg. “You know what we need?”
“A mute button for you?” replied Hammond genially.
“No, don’t be silly; I’m at least as annoying in mime. No, what we need is a band name. We can’t just be the Band.”
“That one’s taken anyway,” said Hammond.
“Dead Mimes,” suggested Holly.
“Purple Weasels!” exclaimed Richie. “I’ve always wanted to call a band the Purple Weasels.”
Compact with the Devil: A Novel Page 11
