Part 13 (1/2)

”It was meant as a light-hearted gift,” I explained. ”A funny sc.r.a.pbook moment to look back on later in life.”

”Really? Like Frankie wants to remember flip-flopping around on the ground in the middle of a row of tires like a bluegill out of water,” Dixie said.

”It was a private family joke,” I told her. ”Frankie gets it.”

”Oh? And I don't get it because I'm not family,” Dixie said.

I lifted one shoulder. ”Not yet. At least, not officially. However, rest a.s.sured, once you tie the knot, you too will become fair game for my little gag gift proclivities,” I a.s.sured her.

'”Gag' being the key word here,” Dixie said. ”Thanks for the warning, Miss Practical Joker. Just bear in mind that no good deed goes unpunished.”

”A sentiment worthy of toasting!” I raised my gla.s.s. ”Here's to good deed doers!” I gave a quick salute before draining the contents. A burp that could have come from a man twice my size resulted.

”Biker Barbie better lay off the beer. Beer and bikes don't make a good combo for the road, if you get Manny's drift.”

I turned. Manny DeMarco stood over me, arms crossed, biceps bulging.

”Oh. Hey, Manny. I didn't think you went for the boot scootin' boogie scene,” I said. ”What's up?”

”Gotta be here, Barbie. Job's here.”

I gaped. ”Wait! What? Keelie Keller is here?” I grabbed one of his arms of steel and hoisted myself to my tippy-toes and peered around the room. ”Where? Where?”

”Reel it in, would you, Miss Celeb Stalker?” Dixie said. ”You're attracting attention.”

From where I stood (in Manny's enormous shadow, that is) it seemed like Manny was the one attracting the most attention. His ma.s.sive physique and tall, dark, and dangerous good looks bill-boarded ”bad boy” and made the guy a chick magnet of epic proportions. His own, uh, er, own epic proportions didn't hurt.

Manny checked his watch. ”Runnin' late,” he said, with a slight shake of his head. ”Typical woman.”

I poked him in the chest. Okay. So I tried to poke him in the chest. It was like poking plywood.

”There are no typical women, Mr. DeMarco,” I responded.

Manny DeMarco smiled down at me. ”If you say so...Barbie.”

Barbie. The distance one little word created.

”How'd you get such a sweet gig, Manny?” Frankie asked. I saw Dixie's head pivot in Frankie's direction like a heat-seeking missile.

”Sweet gig?” Dixie said. ”You think providing security for some big-b.o.o.bed publicity wh.o.r.e is a sweet gig?”

”And presto!” I said with a wave of my hand in Frankie's direction. ”May I present what is known as your typical male?”

”I didn't say it was my idea of a sweet gig. You know, for me,” Frankie's sudden fancy footwork put the two-steppers on the dance floor to shame. ”I meant it was a sweet gig for a, uh, single guy, you know. Like Manny here.”

”Right,” Dixie said. ”Right.”

Manny suddenly put a hand to his right ear.

”Yo. 'k. Got it.”

I frowned.

”What are you doing? What's that in your ear?” I asked. ”Who are you talking to?”

”Gotta go.”

”Is that a headset?” I asked. ”You're outfitted with electronic headsets? What is this? Men in Biker Black? Manny DeMarco, Junior G-Man?”

”Standard security equipment,” Manny said.

For Sarah Palin maybe. For a reality celeb? Overkill.

”Oh? Is that right?” I said.

Manny shrugged. ”Gotta look the part.”

I narrowed my gaze.

”You've done this before, haven't you?”

Beyond a slight lifting of gi-normous shoulders, as usual, Manny DeMarco de-man-of-mystery gave nothing away.

”Manny catches on quick,” Mr. Evasive said.

”What kind of qualifications did you have to have to get this 'sweet gig', Mr. DeMarco?” I asked. ”You know. What kind of resume?”

I'd Googled and Binged the guy until my fingers were calloused, and so far I hadn't discovered anything about Manny DeMarco/Dishman. It was just plain spooky. And frustrating as a swimsuit diet pledge undertaken just when the unsold Halloween candy went on markdown.

Manny grinned down at me. The bright white of his teeth almost blinded me.

”Like I've said before, Manny knows a guy.” He recited his well-used mantra, as if that answered all my questions.

”You know a guy.”

”Who knows a guy.”

I nod. ”I get it. Who knows a guy, who knows a guy, who knows hi-tech stuff.”

My head hurt. The chance that I would get a straight answer from Manny DeMarco was the same as me suddenly growing manageable hair.

Manny put his hand to his ear again.

”Duty calls,” he said.

”You mean your 'sweet' duty,” Dixie hissed, shooting another dark look at Frankie.

Manny smiled. ”See you,” he said, and walked off, parting the crowd with Red Sea precision.

”What a guy,” Frankie said, hero wors.h.i.+p evident in the tiny bubble of drooly spit that collected in the corner of his mouth. He followed in Manny's wake like a devoted lap dog.