Part 27 (1/2)
”Hey! I'm the innocent party here! I was all set to follow your sage advice and gracefully decline the Red Queen's offer, but oh, no, you two had to go all Avengers on me. So, you two can come up with a roster.”
”Oh? So, you'd let Frank's business go broke, huh?” Dixie asked. ”Think about that for a moment, Miss Be the Bigger Person. No more fun money from pulling a s.h.i.+ft here and there. No more free Freezes and fries. No more belly burners, pulled pork. No more hot fudge brownie sundaes.”
I winced. Dixie the Destructor was not above hitting below the belt. So to speak.
”Any fallout will soon blow over,” I espoused.
”No more double bacon cheddar burgers with a heaping side of rings.” Dixie paused for dramatic effect. ”And...no more doggie bags.”
I bounded from the tailgate.
”Let me at 'em!” I said.
”I could play.”
That softly worded statement came from Kenny Grey. He'd hung around after the entertainer's exodus-surprising given his devotion to Keelie.
”Who are you again?” Dixie asked.
”He's Kenny the cartoonist.”
”Caricaturist,” Kenny corrected.
”Have you played volleyball before?” Taylor asked.
”Are you good?” Dixie grilled.
He shrugged. ”I've played some. I think I'm okay.”
”We don't need okay. We need super hero. We need Spiker Man!” I proclaimed. ”Oh. And just so everyone knows, I won't be wearing one of those skimpy bikini suits.”
”G.o.d, I hope not.” Dixie grabbed her stomach. ”Think of all that vomit on all that sand.”
”So? Are we ready to get down and dirty?” I asked.
Dixie sniffed the air around me.
”Looks like you're already there.”
I sniffed a pit and made a face.
Point to Dixie.
As overnight host, Creston had gone all out for the ride, turning the Midwestern city into a beach lover's paradise. Tons of sand had been trucked in. Lounge chairs and beach towels dotted the landscape. Attractive, young men masqueraded as cabana boys and fit females in itty-bitty, teeny-wienie bikinis served fruity drinks with pastel-colored umbrellas. Beach volleyball courts gave bikers a place to play, and sand sculpture compet.i.tions provided a creative outlet.
If life were fair, I would be reclining on a lounge chair, ogling a cute little cabana boy offering me a drink with a colorful umbrella.
So. Not. Fair.
”Would you look at that?”
Dixie pulled me out of my beach baby moment.
”I don't believe it.”
”Talk about your Benedict Arnolds.”
”What does the Pope have to do with this?” I asked.
Dixie shook her head.
”Oh. I get it. Talk about your traitors,” I said, staring Brutus-like daggers through the volleyball net at a guy I'd bailed out of jail, masqueraded as a faux fiancee for the sake of his ailing Aunt Mo for, and been an all-occasion, all-round, stand-up gal pal to.
”What a piece of work,” Dixie said.
”h.e.l.lo. What does his to-drool-for physique have to do with being a turncoat?” I asked.
”I'm not talking about Manny's muscles. I'm talking about his manhood.”
”What!”
”Not that!” Dixie growled. ”Manhood as in the qualities and characteristics a.s.sociated with being a man, such as courage, determination, loyalty.”
”Ah. Manhood! Gotcha!” I gave a grim nod. With Manny playing for the Red Queen's team, we were so screwed.
”Who's that other guy? The big one with arms that almost reach his knees?”
”One of the cameramen,” I said, with another look of disgust and turned to leave.
”Where do you think you're going?” Dixie asked.
”To get my bike helmet.” No way was I gonna be across the net from Mr. Muscles and Gumby the cameraman without proper head protection.
”What about Patrick? Has he called you back?” Taylor asked.
”Ten-seventy-four,” I said.
”What?”
”That's negative in police ten-code.”
Taylor shook her head.
”So we've got me, you, Taylor, probable saboteur Van Vleet, and Kenny the cartoonist?” Dixie asked.