Biting Nixie (9 page)

“Not implying.” His tone was more grouchy than angry. “Why do you have to taste so good?”

“Why do I…huh? I taste good?” A compliment? Backhanded, but it was the last thing I expected. Especially from Julian Emerson.

“Too damned good.” He muttered it through barely open lips. Stopped, adjusted his pants. “Go in, Nixie.”

For a moment I thought he meant his pants. But no, somehow we were in front of my townhouse. “This isn't over, Emerson.” I meant the treating-me-like-a-kid thing. But my body shuddered—it meant the sex thing. The inexplicable, über-hot response my body had for his. I could only hope he didn't notice.

His eyes darkened.

He'd noticed. Fuck.

Which was what I still wanted to do.

“Go in,” he repeated. He jammed his hands into his pockets like he wanted to do something else with them. Like maybe grab me again. His eyes were almost black, his nostrils were flared, and his lips were so tight I thought they'd snap.

I wondered what those lips would feel like between my legs.

And then, cursing my own imbecility, I turned and fled into my townhouse.

Chapter Seven

Julian thought I was a kid. He didn't want me out alone at night. And to top things off, I was dangerously attracted to him. There was only one solution.

Find a guy, take him on a hot date, and bam his bones.

There weren't a lot of single guys in Meiers Corners. There were even fewer that I'd want to date, much less go to bed with. Most were either too old or too young. They were all way too hidebound.

Except for Bruno.

At first glance you'd think Bruno Braun buried the needle on the ultra-conservative meter. He was a big ex-SEAL dripping hair, tattoos, and conspiracy theories. A redneck bear with an
X-Files
fetish. Bruno ran the city's survivalist store, Armageddon 3.

But he was also Meiers Corners's only cross-dresser.

Bruno was just as out of place in Meiers Corners as me. Which was why we got on so well. And which was why, when I wanted to forget Julian Emerson, I called Bruno.

I keyed in Bruno's home phone number. At least I think it's his home phone. Bruno had a land line. Didn't want cell phone satellites GPSing his position. But no one really knew where Bruno lived, not even me. I counted three rings, hung up. After waiting two seconds I hit redial, counted three rings and hung up again. When I redialed another two seconds later, Bruno answered. “Have to make this fast, Nixie.” His voice was sort of a low growl. “Can't tie up the line.”

“Hey, Bear. What's so urgent?”

“I'm expecting a call. Information about The Coterie.” He lowered his voice. “They're trying to take over Meiers Corners, you know.”

“So I heard. Annex us to big daddy Chicago.”

“If only that was all there was to it.”

“Yeah, I heard about the gang problem, too.”

There was a short silence. “You know about…the
gang
?”

I was about to pitch out some flip answer when it struck me. The music in his voice when he said
gang
. It was the same music as when Bo said gang. Like gang…was
unnatural
. “I know some. Not everything. Maybe you could tell me more.”

“Not over the phone.” He whispered it, a tight rasp very unlike the Bear's usual booming roar.

Discussing conspiracies in Meiers Corners. Some hot date. But I was on a mission. “Actually, that's why I'm calling. I thought maybe we could get together tonight. For dinner or a movie or something. And something…after.”

“Dinner?” Bruno sounded confused. I forgot he didn't hit the social scene much.

“Yeah, or even just for drinks.” Which might help with the after. Wrestling in bed with heavy and hairy suddenly didn't seem near as appealing. At least, not as appealing as lean and legal.

I slapped myself. Brawny and bearish was
exactly
what I needed. “You could give me the 411 on”—I lowered my voice—“the
gang
.” I put the same strange emphasis on the word.

“Um, okay. Drinks. Nieman's Bar?”

“Sure. What time?”

“Four?”

“In the morning?!” The only time I was up at four was when I had a gig and was still up from the night before.

“This afternoon.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Why so early?”

“Before the sun sets,” Bruno whispered, and hung up.

I cradled my own handset more slowly. Things weren't adding up. Yeah, okay, Bruno had more conspiracy theories than The Home Shopping Network had “Wait! There's more!” But it wasn't just Bruno who put that odd, unnatural emphasis on
gang
. Bo Strongwell, typically the most normal of men, had, too. And I'd been attacked by unnaturally fast growly guys, not once but twice.

And Julian Emerson had bitten me. Really sank his sharp teeth into my skin.

But when I looked, there were no holes.

If I didn't know better—

My phone rang and I snatched up the handset. “Bruno, can you at least give me a hint about this
gang
?”

“I would, Dietlinde,” a booming, jovial voice answered. “But then I'd have to kill you ha-ha!”

“Mayor Meier?” The mayor of the city, calling me? Mayor Meier never called
me
. Oh, not because he's too full of himself. Mayor Meier was the epitome of jolly
Deutsche
friendliness. He's Lawrence Welk in a Santa Claus suit. Throw the cow over the fence some hay, and let's go down by the lake,
ain'a
. “Call me Nixie, Mayor. If I may ask…why are you phoning?”

“
Ach
, Dietlinde! It is warming to my heart to know you are doing the running of the First Annual Meiers Corners International Fun Fair, Sheepshead Tournament, and Polka Festival. Just what we need to bring a little
gemütlichkeit
to our wonderful festival.” He pronounced it “just vat ve need” and “vondehful”. “
Ach ja
, our own little Dietlinde Schmeling—who I have known since diapers you were wearing!”

The diaper ploy. Emotional blackmail. “Please, Mayor. I prefer Nixie. And thanks, but it's not like I had a choice—”

“
Ja, ja
. There was no one else—no one, you understand? Then, when Twyla Tafel suggested your name, I said, ‘Of course! Our
kleine
Dietlinde is perfect,
nicht wahr
?' And then I said—”

“It's nice of you to pick me,” I interrupted brightly. Twyla set the dogs of doom on me? I was going to kill her.

No, I wasn't. Killing was too good for the haas. I was going to get
revenge
. “But you know who would really be perfect to run the festival? Someone who runs things for a living. Someone like Twyla!” Revenge this, Twyla.

“Of course, that is who I thought of at first!
Ach, ja,
great minds think alike, little Dietlinde.”

And if he said
Dietlinde
one more time I was going to string him up by his
ja'
s and beat him about the genitals with his
ach'
s. “Mayor—call me Nixie, please. So why not go with Twyla now? I'll just return the packet”—of Doom—“and we'll be all set.”

“
Ach
, but Dietlinde! You know why Twyla can't do the running of the First Annual Meiers Corners International—”

I took a nano-nap. Tuned back in on “—pregnant.”

“Twyla's pregnant?” I screeched.

“
Nein, nein
,” Mayor Meier chuckled. “Twyla's
sister
is having the little
liebchen
. But of course
mein gut
Twyla will be out of town to attend the birth.”

Mein gut
Twyla? My good Twyla, my ass. My friend had not only pointed the finger at me, she'd turned it up in salute! “I thought Twyla was running the beauty pageant!”

“Only the pre-pageant organization, little Diet—”

“Nixie, please!” Sheesh. “What about Heidi? She runs your office…practically runs the city!”

“
Nein, nein,
Dietlinde. The festival must be jolly! Heidi would snap her whip and command merriment. While that is fun in the office, for the tourists—”

I did
not
want to hear about the mayor and Heidi's merry whip. “I get it. It's me or nothing.” And my pride would see that I did the job right. I sucked in a resigned breath, let it out on a sigh of acceptance. “Will
anyone
from your office be around to help me?”

“
Ja
, of course. We are not out in the cold leaving you. The alderpersons have all been pressed…er, have volunteered their services.”

A bunch of bureaucrats? Oh, great. I knew from experience they'd be no help running things. They'd just argue, table the motion, and go to Nieman's Bar for a couple of drinks.

“Now, I know what you are thinking, Dietlinde. But we have gotten a little new blood on the Common Council since you were the student representative.”

“Shh! Don't say that so loud.” I flushed. I can't believe I was actually a part of student government. Talk about bad for my hard-ass reputation! Added to the diaper ploy…yeesh.

“
Ja
, well I was just wanting to reassure you. We have that nice young Josiah Moss of the Stark and Moss Mortuary. And Kurt Weiss, manager of the Allrighty-Allnighty. Both are very energetic. Oh, and Detective O'Rourke's sister. Gretchen Johnson. I remember when she was in diapers.” He laughed, all jolly Santa. “I remember when
you
were in diapers.”

Sheesh. Did this man have a diaper fetish? “Are Donner and Blitz still on the Board?” Donner and Blitz were two old drunks, perpetuees of Nieman's Bar. I actually kind of liked Donner and Blitz. After the council meetings they were the ones who took me to Nieman's with them. And gave me beers. Don't tell Mom and Dad.

“
Ach, ja
. And bartender Buddy, and the lovely Brunhilde Butt, as well.”

I groaned. Lovely was definitely in the eye of the beholder where Brunhilde was concerned. Affectionately known as Granny Butt, Brunhilde moonlighted as an exotic dancer at Nieman's Bar. If you could classify stripping out of a girdle and orthopedic hose as exotic.

“Oh, goodie,” I said. “Sounds like a lot of help.”

The mayor didn't catch sarcasm quite as well as certain overpriced attorneys (with great hands). No, I didn't think great hands. I was
not
thinking about competent square hands and what they could do sure and strong between my legs. Not…thinking…shit.

“
Ja
, great help. So I just want to thank you. And remind you of the Summerfest playing for the Guns and Roses if we make our target of the five hundred t'ousand dollars. That is vunderful,
nein
?”

Council blackmail, diapers, and the threat of murder by every member of my band if I screwed up this gig op. “Oh yeah. Vunderful.”

“Well, that is all, little Dietlinde. Oh, except make sure you have the twenty tickets set aside,
bitte
.”

“Twenty tickets?”

“
Ja
, to the bands. You know my sister is the teacher,
ja
? In Wauwatosa?” He pronounced it Va-va-tosa. “Well, she also does the advising for the Wauwatosa Applied Mathematics Organization.”

Great. Now I had to babysit twenty little geeks, on top of everything else.

But the mayor was continuing. “They are interested in the acoustics,
nicht wahr
? So they looking forward to hearing the bands are.”

Shit. That reminded me—I had forgotten to reschedule auditions. And this was Thursday night. Unless I set auditions up for tonight, most bands would be unavailable, playing their weekend gigs.

“Twenty tickets. I'll get them to you, Mayor.” I hung up and sighed. Then I caught a look at the clock and jumped up. Only two hours to get ready for my date—and worse, to clean my bedroom.

 

 

 

I ended up calling the bands with my cell as I walked to Nieman's. I had just finished when I reached the bar. Swiveling the phone and stowing it, I pushed open the door to the old-style corner tap—and immediately went blind.

Oh, yeah. Nieman's keeps its lights
way
low, for when Granny Butt is wiggling on the bar. I mean, how many dewlaps can you see flapping and not lose your fifth boilermaker?

“
Psst
—Nixie. Over here.”

Hunkered down—if you could call a mountain trying to crouch hunkering—in the back corner of the bar was Bruno.

I slid onto the barstool next to him, raised two fingers to the barkeep. “Hey, Bear. Come across any good field artillery lately?”

Bruno brightened. “Last week. I sold Elena a replacement for her bazooka. Nice SMAW. Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon.”

I blinked. “Elena has a bazooka?”

“Had. For disabling
you-know-whats
.”

“I-know-whats?”

“Yeah. Like the
gang
of you-know-whats.”

“Oh! The
gang
of I-know-whats. Uh-huh.” Okay, usually I was quicker than this. But we were speaking a language that had no known alphabet. I felt a flash of sympathy for Julian Emerson. “Bruno, what the hell are you feening about?”

He straightened, looking offended. “I don't obsess, Nixie. I'm not like those conspiracy nuts, you know. I only deal with truth. Cold hard facts.”

The bartender came over with two glasses and a pitcher of bock. I traded him an Abe, which included the tip. If there's one thing I love about Meiers Corners, it's the cheap beer. “I'm sorry Bear.” I poured beer for both of us, slid his over to him. “I didn't mean to insult you. So you have cold hard facts about the…
gang
?”

“Yeah. Here's what I found out. There's an organization called the Cook County Indemnity Corporation. They're really a front group for a bunch of fucking operators. They're the ones pushing the Chicago government to annex Meiers Corners.”