Now Playing On The Jukebox In Hell Part 5

Be nice. She'll be her sister all her life. "We're not doing that, Lucy. We're not even living together. So before you start spending three months of my salary, forget it."

"I think three months is just a guideline," she mused. "You don't have to spend that much. As long as it's nice, and she likes it..."

"No."

"What you might want to do is get a loaner to put in the box. After Christmas, she can go pick out the one she really wants."

"No. Are we done here?"

"You love her. I can tell," Lucy said, untroubled by my tone. "You were hoping it was her on the phone just now. So if you love her..."

"Don't you start with that."

"Gotta run. The kids say hi. Remember: Three months is a guideline." Click.

I slammed the phone down and put my head in my hands. When the phone rang again 30 seconds later, I hit the speakerphone b.u.t.ton without looking up. "Kerry."

"Is that any way to answer the phone at work?" my mother scolded.

Defeated, I slumped all the way over on the desktop, hitting it with a thud.

"h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? What was that noise? Devlin?"

"You weren't supposed to get through," I mumbled. "They were supposed to cut you off at the switchboard."

"They did. I disguised my voice this time."

There was nothing I could say to that to make myself feel better. Silently, I waited for her to get on with it. Before she did, though, the office door swung open, and Ca.s.sie walked in.

Ahhh. That was better. I gave her what must have been a very goofy smile.

"You're lying on your desk," she observed. "Is there anything I should know?"

The speakerphone squawked a little. "Devlin? Who is that?"

I closed my eyes. "It's Ca.s.sie. She just came in. What can I do for you this time, Mom?"

"Call me later," she said quickly.

Click.

The dial tone hummed for a while. Finally, I felt Ca.s.sie bend over me to hang up the phone.

"I was worried about you," I told her, eyes still closed. "It's snowing. Did you see any bears?"

"Bears?"

"Never mind."

"You know, we could go to the beach for Christmas," Ca.s.sie remarked, settling on my chair arm. "It's not like we have to spend every holiday with our families. We're grownups, after all." She reached over and started ma.s.saging the back of my neck. "What do you think?"

"You're not weaseling out of this. I had to do it. Now it's your turn."

"I'll give you one of these every night for a month," she bargained.

"Too late, Ca.s.s."

She said a bad word not quite under her breath but kept rubbing. That was much, much better. When the phone rang again, I knocked it all the way off the desk.

"It's almost 5," she said. "Let's cut out early. Want to pick up Greek? I've still got some ouzo."

"Perfect."

"You have to get up first," she added.

Reluctantly, I did. On the way to the coat rack, I heard tires squealing in the parking lot and idly looked out the window.

Ca.s.sie heard, too, and came over to see. "What in h.e.l.l...?"

"Right," I said glumly, pointing.

Vanessa was doing doughnuts in the parking lot in her red BMW, with the top down, spraying snow everywhere. She looked like she was having the time of her life. I didn't know what she was up to, but then, I really didn't want to know.

"We'll sneak out the back," Ca.s.sie declared. "And we'll take my car."

(c) 2000, K. Simpson To Part 5 The Devil's Workshop (c) 2000, M.C. Sak Disclaimers, Credits, & E-Mail: See Part 1.

CHAPTER 5.

Ca.s.sie's clock radio woke us, completely against our will. She groaned and tried to pull all the covers and both pillows over her head. I could relate; I just couldn't remember what freight train had hit us. G.o.d, there were a lot of pieces missing from last night.

"'S all right," I told her. "Got it."

She gave up her futile effort with the covers and flopped back down. Unable to open my eyes all the way, I felt for the radio, found the snooze b.u.t.ton, and smacked it with genuine hatred. Then we went back to sleep.

For eight minutes.

"Give you a thousand dollars to turn it off," she mumbled.

No charge. If she felt anything like I felt, neither of us had any business waking up anyway. But we had meetings. So I shut off the alarm and sc.r.a.ped myself out of bed. Ca.s.sie probably would be all right by herself for a while, and if not...well, it had been her idea and her ouzo last night.

Pulling my robe off the footboard, I threw it on and staggered to the bath. Every step made my skull hurt. Why? We hadn't had that much ouzo. Maybe it had been the food. We might've gotten hold of bad grape leaves or toxic lamb or something.

Yeah, that was probably it.

I switched on the bathroom light and almost howled in pain as my eyeb.a.l.l.s tried to explode. Not good. Between that and the red-hot knives in the brain, I might not live long enough to call an ambulance. Not that it mattered, because I couldn't even remember the number for 911.

Gripping the towel bar on the shower door for support, I waited till the world stopped spinning and then felt blindly for the faucets. With my remaining strength, I turned on the cold water full blast and got in the shower, robe and all. It felt great. By comparison, anyway.

It took a few minutes to realize that someone was hammering on the shower door.

"If you're Norman Bates, forget it. I'm already dead."

Ca.s.sie wasn't in the mood for Hitchc.o.c.k jokes; she slammed the door open and waited for me to turn the water off.

"Can I help you?" I asked politely.

"Phone."

"For me? Here?" Frowning, I pushed wet hair out of my eyes. "Who is it?"

"It sounds like your mother trying to disguise her voice. Either that, or a sick rhinoceros."

A better person would have objected to that crack, but Mom had sinus problems from decades of smoking, and she did sound a little rhinocerosy first thing in the morning. Rhinocerosy? Rhinocerish? Rhinoceresque? Oh, to h.e.l.l with it. "What does she want?"

"I don't know." Ca.s.sie grabbed a towel off the rack and shoved it at me. "You still have your robe on."

"My eyeb.a.l.l.s were going to explode," I explained. "There wasn't time to take it off."

She clearly wanted to have words about that, but then she remembered the open line in the bedroom. "Do let me watch it for you while you speak to your mother. Did I mention that she's on the phone? Right now?!?"

Grumbling under my breath, I stripped off the robe, wrapped up in the towel, and abandoned the field. The phone was in the middle of the bed, upside down; I stared at it for a while with misgivings before picking it up. "Mom?"

"You were supposed to call me back last night," she snapped.

"Good morning to you, too, Mother. Lovely to hear from you. How did you get this number?"

"A very nice girl at your office gave it to me yesterday. Vanna or Veronica or someone. She said if I called early this morning, I'd find you here."

d.a.m.n Vanessa. "Did she, now?"

"Would you care to explain that?"

"No. But thanks for asking. Now, what's so important that you had to call about?"

"You sound feverish," she said suspiciously. "Are you running a fever?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Is that all you wanted? I have to get ready for work, and..."

"I want to talk to you about Christmas."

"All right. We'll do that. But we really can't do it right this minute. What if I call you back tonight?"

"You said you were going to call last night."

A warm hand tilted my head up. Ca.s.sie was holding a gla.s.s of water and a couple of Excedrin -- the kind for migraines. Wonderful timing. Covering the mouthpiece with one hand, I raised up off the bed just high enough to kiss her. "Sorry, Mom. What was that again?"

"You said you'd call last night, and you didn't. I raised you better than that, you know."

I took the first caplet before answering. "Reared. Not raised."

"It's informal conversation," she said frostily.

Good. This would derail her. Feeling a bit more hopeful, I took the second cap. "But that's what you always told us. 'Raised is for crops. Reared is for children. Kids are young goats, not...'"

"Watch your tone -- I'm your mother. And call me later. I mean it this time."

Then she hung up.

"All clear," I told Ca.s.sie.

She sighed and sat down next to me. "About Christmas, Devvy..."

"Don't even start that. You're going."

"I know, I know. You can't blame me for asking, though."

I couldn't. But it was a comfort to know that this year, I'd be going in with backup.

It would be fair to say that neither of us was at her best that morning. Even Ca.s.sie, who was fairly bulletproof that way, rescheduled her client calls and all but one meeting; she didn't think she could be nice for more than an hour. Frankly, I had doubts about even an hour. On the drive in to work, we heard the barking-dogs version of "Jingle Bells" on the radio, and she hit the off b.u.t.ton so hard that the whole radio nearly went through the dash.

Exactly how I felt about that one. Still, I thought I'd stay out of her line of fire, just in case she forgot she loved me. We had to do a meeting together first thing, but it would be short. And after that, we could take out our mood on everybody else for the rest of the day.

Partly appeased by that prospect, I went to my office to go over some paperwork before the client got there. No sooner I had walked in than Monica materialized on the edge of the desk.

My reflexes were too impaired for me to react in any way. Without comment, I surveyed her idea of a business suit.

She shrugged. "You should see what Vanessa's wearing."

"Vanessa isn't my problem. Are you here to work? Or just to torment me?"

"I don't know yet." Thoughtfully, she examined me. "I hate to admit it, but it might not be much fun tormenting you today. You don't look well."

"I don't know how I could be expected to be. First my mother; then you. And now I have to go see a man about a dog-food account. Dog food. Do you know what's in that stuff?"

She crossed herself.