A Very Alpha Christmas

by Anthology

  She looked at me as if I were nuts, but at least she’d calmed down. “Briefs,” she finally muttered. “He always wears briefs. I bought him boxers twice and he never, ever put them on. Granted, one had glow-in-the-dark Christmas trees, but the other pair was red silk. Said he didn’t like ’em. The silk unmanned him.” She snorted. “I’ll unman him. Cut his dick off, that’s what I’ll do.”

  Whoa. If she kept talking like this, I wouldn’t be the only one in prison for the New Year. I hoped Darren didn’t come home early. Given my sister’s homicidal state, she might very well yank off his penis and frappe it. “Uh … what am I missing here? Can you tell me what boxers have to do with Darren’s spending habits?”

  “According to the relationship experts, it’s one of the top ten signs of adultery. I’ve read three self-help books on how to detect an adulterous spouse, so I know that motherfucker is cheating on me!”

  I had never seen Deirdre lose her emotional center... or her mind. Like I said, she was goal oriented. She determined the course of her life and stuck to the plan with dogged persistence. If blindly and enthusiastically marching through obstacles didn’t work then Dee just ignored the situations until they’d resolved themselves.

  I might not like Darren, and believe me the feeling was mutual, but I’d always believed he was totally in love with Dee. The man was an attorney—of course, he was an asshole. But I was surprised as hell that he would cheat on her.

  “What are the other signs?” I gulped some tea. Its alcoholic fire raced all the way to my stomach.

  “Late nights at the office, going out with friends I’ve never met, and a dwindling interest in sex.” She sighed. “There are only three weeks left until Christmas. I can’t believe he’d pick this time of year to do this to me. To us. How can I get through the holidays knowing he’s a Cheater McCheaterPants?”

  Yikes. My sister had too much time on her hands. She needed a hobby. Or maybe some therapy. I had to admit Darren, who had always adored Deirdre, was acting totally out-of-character. “Maybe it has something to do with his cases. He prosecutes really creepy people. Could be he’s trying to protect you.”

  “Yeah, that crossed my mind, too.” She slid back the chair, shuffled to the sideboard, and jerked open a drawer. She grabbed a book and tossed it across the table. As she got resettled in her chair, I stared at the cover.

  “This is a cookbook.”

  “Yep. Our six-year anniversary was last month. That was my present. Oh, and a gift certificate for cooking classes.”

  I grimaced. Was Darren really that stupid? “And you haven’t killed him yet?”

  “Still plotting,” she murmured. She slung back more tea. “You never liked him.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t like anybody.” Except maybe Matthew Stone. I couldn’t seem to get the blue-eyed cop off my mind. Or our night of hanky-panky. He really curled my toes. I looked down at my flip flips. Those tootsies could use another good curling. I fought against the impulse to dig his card out of my pocket. My sister was in complete distress—a real hot mess, which meant it was opposite day, and I had to be the adult in our relationship. Adulting sucked.

  “You have a good instinct about people,” she said.

  I blinked. “Are you crazy? I just got sued by my ex-boyfriend for nearly gouging out his eye with the only designer heels I own.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she pointed an accusing finger. “You tried to murder him with your six-hundred-dollar stilettos?” She shook her head, and I could read the disappointment in her tone. “You should only use cheap shoes for weapons. If the blood doesn’t come out, you’ve only lost twenty bucks.”

  I stared at her, and she stared at me.

  We both burst out laughing.

  My sister stopped first and her face became serious. “You didn’t come here because of my problems with Darren. Court went badly, right? Tell me the whole story.”

  I told her everything, from threatening Enrique in court, the judge’s order to give up the necklace, and the horrible woman he’d hung my talisman around.

  “He has your necklace?” She looked around. “Are you seeing ghosts?”

  “Just one, at the courthouse. But you know what’s coming. More and more will start to show up and then bad things will start happening again.”

  My sister lifted a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “You got the gift because Grandma picked you to take it, Vie. She was sure you could handle it. I think she was right. You can’t keep blaming it for your bad luck.”

  “Yes, I can.” I lifted my hand and began to tick off reasons using my fingers. “One. I was sixteen when the gift was bestowed upon me. That was year we lost Grandma and Daddy.”

  “That had nothing to do with—”

  “Two,” I practically yelled. “I used it at eighteen, and you nearly died in a car wreck.”

  “Because I was stupid enough to get into the car with my drunk-assed boyfriend.”

  “Three. Twenty-one years old. Mom moves to California.”

  “I thought you called that one a win.”

  “Totally. But that was also the year I broke my vagina.”

  “You shouldn’t have done the splits. You were never that flexible.” She reached across the table and grabbed my free hand. “None of those things were your fault. And they didn’t happen because you talked to ghosts.”

  “No. I asked ghosts to do things for me.” I squeezed her hand, amazed at her gesture of comfort. Dee and I hadn’t been close—not since she married Darren. It was nice to connect with her again. “There’s a price, Dee. If I use the ghost juju for gain, the ledger gets balanced by creating loss.”

  “That’s all in your head. Grandma used the gift all the time and no one died.”

  “She was a better person than I am. All this is irrelevant. Enrique has my talisman and I can’t afford to get another one. It’s gonna be ghost central soon.”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You need money, don’t you, Vie?”

  “Nope. Just wanted to see you and the squirt.”

  “Liar.”

  “Well, I don’t want anything now,” I corrected.

  She frowned, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. “Justin’s quiet. It’s never good when he’s quiet.”

  “I’ll get him.” Before she could protest, I was outta my chair and on my way to the second floor. I was breathing hard when I reached the top of the stairs. Jesus. It was like climbing Mount Everest.

  I found my nephew in his room passed out on the floor. I’d woken up on the floor a time or two, but never in a cape and cowboy boots. I didn’t know the etiquette for putting a sleeping child to bed, and I sure as hell didn’t want to wake him. I grabbed a blanket from the closet and covered him. Then I shut the door and returned to the dining room.

  “Justin’s asleep.” I slid back into the chair.

  “Oh, good. He should nap for a while.”

  Dee’s phone rang, and she left the dining room to answer it. A minute later, she came back seething. She plopped down, dumped a pad and pen onto the table, and then eyed her sweating glass of gut punch tea. “My darling husband is going to be late tonight. Suggested Justin and I order in pizza.”

  “Generous of him.”

  “Isn’t it?” She flashed her teeth the way a predator did right before it took down its prey. Then her gaze changed from murderous to thoughtful. Dee straightened her shoulders, and her expression held absolute resolve. Uh-oh. My sister had shifted into planning mode.

  She tapped her forefinger against her chin. I saw her eyes light up as she looked at me, a smile curving her lips. She picked up the pen and started to write.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m creating a to-do list for getting your necklace back. Do you still have a key to Enrique’s condo?”

  “No. Even if I did, the necklace wouldn’t be there. He knows how much I value that pendant. He wouldn’t put it anywhere I could get to it.”

  “What about pawn shops?”r />
  “He’s vengeful prick. He’s probably carrying it around like some kind of war trophy.”

  “Do you think he’s still letting that chick wear it, or was giving it to her just another ploy to piss you off?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. She still had it on when they left together.” Her convertible had been as fancy as her jumpsuit, which meant she had money. Enrique was a user, and if the woman had any brains, she’d run before he conned her out of all her wealth. “Whatever he’s done with it, I have to get it back.”

  She nodded. “Okay. We’re going to investigate.”

  “We’re going to… Wait. What?”

  “I’ve watched forensic and crime-solving shows for years. I know some shit.” She pointed the pen at me. “And you have street smarts. Do you have any CIs?”

  “What’s a CI?”

  “A confidential informant. You know, drug dealers, hookers, and homeless people. They keep their eyes and ears open on the streets. Cops recruit them. Sometimes, the law pays the lowlifes to get the dirt on bigger crooks.”

  “Being a snitch is a paying gig?” Now she had my interest. This was a whole new aspect to my sister. She seemed almost … devious.

  She shrugged. “Or they negotiate for lesser charges or minimal jail time.”

  “I don’t have CIs.” I knew drug dealers, call girls and yeah, homeless people because I’d worked in casinos in one capacity or another since I turned twenty-one. Like all big cities, Vegas had its seamier side. Anyway, none of those so-called underworld players were as my sister imagined. They were mostly normal, down-to-earth people whose self-employment opportunities were on the wrong side of the law. I suspected Dee thought the underworld was exactly like a TV show. Surely she wasn’t that naïve. Her husband was an assistant district attorney, after all. He met all kinds of scum every single day.

  “Where does Enrique hang out?” she asked.

  “Mostly at the Riot.”

  “That downtown comedy club with the sticky tables?”

  Her look of horror made me laugh.

  “Oh my God. You are so hoity-toity.”

  “I am not.” She paused, and drew in a breath. “I totally am.” She smacked her palm against the table. “New me!” she exclaimed. “I’ll get a babysitter for Justin and we’ll begin our night of debauchery.”

  I looked at her, and she shrugged. “If we’re going to commit a crime, Vie, we should definitely debauch.”

  “You had me at crime,” I said.

  She grinned.

  3

  The Riot Comedy Club was squeezed between the S&M Wedding Chapel (free whip with every two-hundred dollar wedding) and a liquor store (free T-shirt with every twenty dollar purchase). Just a couple blocks away, we saw the blaze of lights and blare of noise from Fremont Street. The four-block long metal canopy housed 2.1 million lights, produced 540,000 watts of sound, and induced squinting, cringing, neck aches, and deafness for those unlucky bastards wandering the promenade when the show started.

  The club was dark and smoky and crowded. I scanned the small space and spotted Enrique in his usual spot, a large booth in the corner. As usual, it was filled with his friends and a number of big-boobed women in tight dresses. I clasped my sister’s arm and hauled her to the opposite side of the room. There was the small matter of a restraining order. I couldn’t be within so many feet of the louse. That’s why Deirdre had to get the necklace. We hadn’t quite figured out the “how” part. Dee said alcohol would jump start creative thinking.

  We found a two-person table near the front of the tiny stage. The back wall was painted black, and in the middle of it shone RIOT in purple neon lights.

  My sister looked around, her expression suspicious. “What if someone slips us a roofie, takes us to a hotel room, and cuts out our kidneys? We could wake up in a bathtub full of ice reading a note that says, ‘Call Nine-One-One.’”

  My sister. Always the optimist. “How much do kidneys go for?” I asked, half-serious. I had two kidneys. I could live without one. Probably.

  “You are not going sell off parts of your body,” said Dee. “If you do, I’ll call Mom.”

  “Tattle-tell.”

  “Yep.”

  We sat down in the high-back wood chairs at a bar-height table. I put my elbows on the surface and put my chin on my fists; my bare skin got stuck in a gluey substance. I shuddered to think what it could be … gum, soda, semen. Ew. I pulled up, using more force than necessary and popped myself in the chin with both hands.

  Dee’s brows rose. “You haven’t even had a drink yet.”

  I caressed my throbbing jaw. “Shut up or I’ll wipe the table goo all over your face.”

  “Not if you knock yourself out first.” She took a package of antibacterial wipes out of her purse and tugged three sheets out. Total mom gear. She scrubbed the scummy surface. “This is gross.”

  The waitress arrived, and she was the kind of waitress bred in clubs like Riot. Her outfit proved it: Brassy blonde hair, thick make-up, short black leather skirt, and a tight T-shirt with enough cleavage to smother a kitten. I liked her already. I respected any woman in her late forties who could pull off blue eye shadow and a silver nose ring.

  “I’m Sabie. What’s your poison, ladies?”

  “Bourbon on the rocks,” ordered Dee.

  “Whatever you’ve got on draft. Surprise me.”

  “We need an ax to destroy the table,” added my sister. “It’s icky.”

  “Yeah. It’s a frickin’ biohazard.” She swept the soiled wipes from the table. “Be back in a sec, ladies.”

  At the table next to us sat three college-aged girls with shiny straight hair, diamond-studded ears, and the kind of faces that required only a dab of blush and a dash of mascara to look good. They wore jeans and shirts, and they tucked large canvas purses between their feet. They leaned in, creating a triangle of careless beauty. What experiences in their short lives could they possibly have that would take longer than two minutes to discuss in depth? Boyfriends? Tyrannical professors? Jobs at the mall?

  “Couldn’t find an ax,” said Sabie as she put down a cold mug of beer and the squat glass with Dee’s bourbon. “This gonna be a tab, honey?”

  “Keep bringing ’em, Sabie,” said my sister, “and give me the check.”

  She winked. “You got it.”

  “You are the best,” I told Dee.

  She flashed an evil grin. “Thank Darren. I’m using his credit card to finance our little adventure.”

  A couple minutes later, the house lights dimmed and a bright white spotlight haloed a short, overweight woman waddling onto the stage. She wore a low-cut fuchsia caftan that glowed a ridiculous pink in the glaring light. Her hair was black and spiky, shorn above her ears, showcasing the huge gold hoops dangling from her ears. As she adjusted the microphone stand, my gaze was drawn to her hands. She wore rings on every finger, chunky gold pieces with hunks of stones—diamond, ruby, amethyst, jade, and turquoise. Her fingernails were long and painted black. I realized that she was the same woman who’d picked up Enrique at the courthouse earlier today. Yeah. That’s right. I didn’t remember her name, but I’d seen her at the club. I thought she was a bartender. I squinted at her neck. The chunky silver chain she wore, not mine thank heavens, was as loud as her outfit, dotted with large pink and purple jewels.

  What had she and Enrique done with my ghost-repellent pendant?

  “I’m Andrea Keller,” she announced. “Guess what, gang? I’m happy to announce that Enrique Santos is now half-owner of this little laugh joint.” She waved toward the corner booth. Raucous applause erupted. Enrique raised his drink, his toothy grin shining even in the darkened corner.

  “Are you ready laugh?” shouted Andrea.

  Whistles and the low howls of the already drunk filled the building.

  “Please let me introduce a very talented comic, someone who will give you laugh lines with his punch lines … Donald Joyfield!”

  Donald was more than six fe
et tall and so thin, his jeans and knit shirt fluttered around him like scarecrow rags. His hair was neatly combed, brown and long, tied behind his neck. At least he wasn’t wearing one of those trendy man-buns. His face was narrow, his chin pointed, his green eyes large, luminous. His nose was wafer-thin, so flat and sharp, yet strangely bumpy on the sides so that it looked like a sheared off whole-wheat biscuit.

  “Hello, Las Vegas!” he called out in a high-pitched voice.

  Dee and I looked at each other and snickered. Sabie brought our second round of drinks. We turned, expectant, and waited for Donald to make us laugh.

  “I just got engaged…”

  A few claps and some drunken boos filtered through the club. Donald’s smile flashed. “I see some of you have dated my sister.” He paused for the laughter. “My sister has been engaged five times. Always dumped the guy before they made it down the aisle. So the last time she got engaged, I said, ‘Look, sis, if you don’t marry this guy … I will.’” Donald wiggled his left hand; a diamond glittered on his finger. “Robert and I set the date for next spring.”

  The crowd roared. Sabie arrived and plunked a box on the table with tubes of glowing goop in ’em. “Gelatin shot, ladies?”

  Dee and I each took one. We tapped the plastic tubes and downed them. It was like drinking tangy cold snot. The biting sweet of the liquor sloshed in my belly, heating my insides and making my brain mushy.

  “Ugh!” I put down my tube and looked at Dee. “Wanna another one?”

  “Yep.”

  We each picked up another one and dumped the contents down our throat.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s not do that again.”

  She nodded and picked up her drink. She gulped it down, looked at me, burped, and uttered, “Blech.”

  “Well said.” I was copping a powerful buzz, which probably made me the worst private detective in the world. I should be keeping an eye on Enrique, but instead, I was enjoying hanging out with this new relaxed, fun girl version of my sister.

  Sabie took the jellified poison away, and Dee and I turned our attention to the comic.