Kit laughed. He turned back to the microphone.
“Burg wants to do ‘Heaven-Sent.’”
There was a terrific roar of approval from the crowd. Kit shook his head in disbelief. The guitarist began playing a riff, a little tease of music. Kit laughed and the bass player joined in, her braids swinging with the thunka-thunka bass line. The guitar players exchanged glances and then began the chord again, a little more seriously this time. Kit looked between the two of them and then shrugged. With a sly grin he turned back to the microphone. Burg, the drummer, started the drums with a light tap.
“He’s not really…,” said Trista, turning to Nikki.
“Not really what?” asked Nikki, mystified
Kit began—“Girl, you are my shining star…” then stopped, laughing. “God, I haven’t done this song in ten years. I don’t think I can sing this on my own; let’s try it again with your help.”
“Girl, you are my shining star…” He leaned the microphone out to the crowd.
The stadium shouted the words along with him, incomprehensible in their multitude.
“It’s an @last song!” yelled Trista as the music swelled. “He always swore he wasn’t ever going to sing those songs again!”
Kit and the stadium hit the bridge and finally rocked into the chorus, the words becoming clearer as the crowd became more synchronized.
Oh my sweet angel, my heart, my dear…
Baby you’ve been heaven-sent
Yeah you’ve been heaven-sent…
“But I’m in hell without you here!” Kit sang a little before the beat, his voice carrying above the noise. Nikki knew the song was ridiculous boy-band nonsense, but somehow the way he sang, the way his voice soared, nearly took her breath away.
They finished the song, and Kit leapt in the air, pumping his fist in Tom Cruise–like enthusiasm. He bounded offstage, and the backup girls came circling down to the front to take his place. Trista handed him a bottle of water. Kit chugged most of the bottle in one gulp and poured the rest over his head.
“Who’s she?” he demanded, pointing at Nikki.
“Never mind her,” answered Trista, yanking off his shirt. “She’s helping me.” She shoved a towel into his hand and pushed him down the stairs.
Kit began walking down the stairs, toweling himself off. At the midway landing a small entourage awaited him, spearheaded by a woman in a headset, gray slacks, and a white blouse. In one hand she clutched a clipboard and phone. Her bottle-blond hair was slicked back in an overly gelled bun and Nikki frowned at her. Tracksuit could have been a woman. Was it gel or was her hair simply wet?
“Mike and the sound guys say—” she said, but Kit cut her off.
“I don’t give a shite what the sound guys say,” he said.
Two men completed the waiting group. One was another headset-clad man who looked to be following the woman around. The other was a large man with a handlebar mustache and blue eyes peering out from bristling eyebrows. He faded to the back of the group immediately upon seeing Nikki, but she was aware of his presence all the same.
“Fix it or do it or don’t do it, just don’t bother me with it,” Kit said, handing the towel back to Trista. Trista tossed the towel to Nikki and began to unbuckle Kit’s belt.
“Who’s she?” demanded headset girl, pointing at Nikki.
“She’s helping Trista,” said Kit as Trista slid his pants down.
“Shoes,” Trista commanded. Kit stepped one foot on the heel of the other and stepped out of his shoe, then reached down to yank off the other.
“She’s not on my list,” said the blonde, rifling through the papers on her clipboard.
“Do I look like I care?” shouted Kit, and the woman blanched.
“Uh, no, sorry.”
He was down to his Jockeys and socks by this time and heading for the spring-loaded platform that would shoot him back up to stage level. Singing and dancing for two hours a night had given Kit a sports-star physique, and Nikki was unprepared for the surge of pure physical attraction she suddenly felt. Nikki tried to look somewhere else that didn’t involve a mostly naked, glistening Kit Masters. No one else seemed to care, but she felt she was crossing some professional boundary line—as if it were impolite to notice that the emperor had no clothes on. She glanced back and caught Kit’s eye; he winked, clearly enjoying himself, and Nikki looked away again, blushing.
“Pants!” Trista snapped at Nikki, who dutifully handed over the rough-grained leather pants. “Step,” she said to Kit. Kit stepped into the pants, and the mustache-wearing man and Trista grabbed at the waistline and yanked upward until he was fully in the pants. Shoes came next, but when Nikki held out the shirt Kit waved it away.
“It’s blistering under the lights, don’t need it.”
“Fine,” said Trista, and set about powdering him. He stood for it, but impatiently. “You’re going to be great,” she said, pinching his chin and smiling. Kit was nodding before she’d even finished.
“I’ve got to get back out there!” Kit said to Trista, grinning from ear to ear. “The crowd is awesome tonight!” He stepped onto the platform, squatting a little before nodding to the technician, who pushed a button. The platform shot upward, and Kit was gone.
Nikki checked her watch. The entire change had taken less than four minutes. She scanned the area for mustache man; she wanted another look at him.
“Trista, if you’re going to have guests you need to clear it with me or Mr. Dettling,” said the girl in the headset.
“Well, thank you for that information, Angela, but I believe that it’s Kit’s tour, not Mr. Dettling’s,” snapped Trista. “And Kit knows that I bring in anyone who helps me get the job done. Now, why don’t you go do your job?” Trista took Nikki by the elbow and swept back toward the dressing room. Angela’s face was frozen in a scowling mask of fury.
The mustache man was standing between them and the dressing room.
“I don’t care if you clear it with Kit or Brandt, but new hires get vetted through me. I want her info in my hands by the end of the night.”
“No problem, Duncan,” said Trista, smiling tightly. “It’s just a last-minute thing.”
Duncan didn’t return the smile and instead gave a curt nod before stalking away. Trista muttered something Nikki didn’t catch and continued to drag Nikki back to the dressing room. Nikki watched him go. He was far too tall and broad-shouldered to be Tracksuit, but he still set off little alarm bells.
“I need to borrow your phone,” said Nikki.
“My phone?” repeated Trista.
“To call my team,” said Nikki, holding out her hand.
“Ooh, you have ‘teams’ now, do you? In my day, all a Carrie Mae lady had was her wit, her charm, and herself.”
Nikki threw her eyes heavenward and counted to ten. “Well, these days we try not to leave anyone stranded. Phone?”
Reluctantly, Trista handed over the phone. “I’ll just give you some privacy then, shall I?” she asked rhetorically, exiting quietly.
Nikki waved distractedly and stared at the phone, only then realizing that she had no way of contacting Astriz. Without a company phone or a computer, she was out here on her own. So much for her pep talk about teams. Frowning, she dialed a number that she knew by heart.
“This is Jane,” said Jane after two rings. She sounded very businesslike and slightly annoyed.
“Jane, it’s Nikki. I need your help. You still bored enough to come in off the beach?”
“You better believe it!” exclaimed Jane. “What’s up?”
Briefly Nikki recounted her evening’s adventure, backtracking periodically to answer Jane’s questions.
“OK,” said Jane at the end. “So you have several problems here.”
“Lay it on me,” said Nikki. This was Jane’s usual method: assess, dissect, offer methods of attack.
“Cano and this guy Voges … Just who and what did Voges set him up with? We’d know a lot more about Cano’s intentions
if we knew what kind of stuff he’d picked up.”
“I agree,” said Nikki. “But Astriz seemed to think Voges was too much for one agent to take on.”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” said Jane. “We don’t need to take him on. We need to take on his computer.”
“OK. Let’s just say we’re in agreement on the solution for problem number one, but since I’m not a computer whiz and you’re on vacation, we’re going to have to table it for right now.”
“Mmm,” grunted Jane, clearly dissatisfied with that answer. “Problem two. You need to reconnect with Astriz, figure out where Cano is, and then smack the crap out of Camille.”
“Sort of a three-part problem, but yeah.”
“I’ve got Astriz’s number here now. Got a pen?”
“Uh-huh,” said Nikki, digging through Trista’s equipment for a piece of blotting paper and a stick of eyeliner to jot down the numbers Jane recited.
“I think I’ll make a few calls when we’re done,” said Jane abruptly after finishing. “Astriz may have phoned in to her home branch. Won’t hurt to check it out.”
“You’re supposed to be on vacation,” protested Nikki.
“Whatever,” said Jane. “Anyway, problem three is Kit Masters. Do you think he’s really Cano’s target?”
“At this point, yes,” said Nikki. “Cano has knowledge of Carrie Mae and Camille, and whoever was wearing that gray tracksuit had a backstage pass and came directly here.”
“So what are you going to do? Chase Cano or chase Tracksuit?”
“I’m not sure,” answered Nikki. “I feel like Tracksuit is still here. Which makes Tracksuit an easier target than Cano.” Nikki sighed and rubbed her head. “I need to talk to Astriz, see what her situation is.”
“Good thinking.”
“Thanks for talking to me, Jane.”
“No problem. It’s what I do. Ooh, wait … final question,” said Jane.
“OK, final question,” said Nikki tolerantly.
“How hot is Kit Masters in person?”
“Very hot,” said Nikki. “You should see him in his underwear.”
“Underwear?” shrieked Jane.
“Gotta go, Jane, duty calls,” said Nikki maliciously, and hit the “off” button.
Before she could dial Astriz, the phone began to buzz violently. Scrambling to stop the buzz, Nikki hit the “view” button on the incoming text message.
“Call me after,” was the entire message, and with a shock, Nikki realized that it was from Camille.
“Everything all right?” asked Trista, reappearing in the doorway.
“Uh … yeah,” answered Nikki. “Just making one last call.” She dialed Astriz’s number.
“Hallo, hier ist Astriz. Bitte hinterlassen Sie eine Nachricht nach dem Piepton.” Grumbling, Nikki hung up the phone and dialed again; the phone went to the answering message.
“Astriz,” said Nikki. “It’s Nikki. Call me back at this number. I chased Cano’s contact to the backstage of the Kit Masters concert. I’m with a former Carrie Mae agent. Call me.” She hung up the phone and tapped her fingers on the countertop of Trista’s work space. If Astriz was as much like Val Robinson as Nikki thought, there would be no call back.
She needed to find Tracksuit, which was going to be difficult. She needed to see more of the crew and stage area. Nikki sighed and went to stand beside Trista in the doorway.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Trista.
“I’m going to wait for my German contact to call me back and then we’ll see.” Nikki hoped it wouldn’t occur to Trista to ask what she would do if the German contact never called.
“But you have to stay and help protect Kit!” exclaimed Trista.
“I’m going to help Kit by finding whoever was meeting Cano,” answered Nikki. “I can’t spend a lot of time worrying about the internal politics of a rock concert. He’s got bodyguards, right? Let them do their job and I’ll do mine. I’m going to have a look around, see if I can spot Tracksuit. I’ve got your phone. Call me if you see anything suspicious.”
Trista opened her mouth, but Nikki didn’t give her a chance to speak, walking away before the makeup lady could protest.
GERMANY III
Tilt!
Nikki toured the perimeter, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her. The mechanical stage apparatus took up the center of the room with a snaking octopus of wires that all fed into a central panel manned by the plump, donut-eating tech she had noticed earlier. She could see Kit and the band on a small TV monitor at the currently unmanned desk; the tech was back at the craft services table. Taking a deep breath, she sidled up to him.
“Hey,” she said, “I’m Nikki. I’m helping Trista out.” Donut Eater nodded and wiped his fingers on a napkin to shake hands. “Am I the only new person on board today?” She added a winsome smile.
“Well,” said the tech, looking around as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him, “there’s the walk-on help.”
“What’s walk-on help?”
“Them,” he said, waving at the black-clad men currently carrying equipment toward the loading bay. “The tour can’t bring enough people to really do just labor, so we hire out. Some towns are better than others. The Germans, at least, seem to live up to their reputation for efficiency. Things are going pretty well tonight.”
“What about—”
The tech’s watch beeped, interrupting her. “Time to start the prep for raising the stage,” he said, pivoting on his heel and leaving without another word.
Nikki watched him leave and shook her head. Nerds … so smart and yet so stupid. Why were the technologically savvy so frequently undersocialized?
She followed some of the walk-ons, keeping a wary eye out for security. Somewhere there was a large man who would be pissed at her when he woke up.
A groupie was waiting by the back entrance, a backstage pass dangling from her neck and a cigarette from her fingers. Nikki leaned against the wall and scrutinized her; she’d never seen a real live groupie before. Plaid mini and spike-heeled boots that left the pale expanse of her thighs exposed for all admirers to see. A cascade of pale blond hair that fell down her back in a straight curtain of corn silk. A thin, youngish man in a dark suit, his blond hair in a faux-hawk, approached her and the two talked for a moment before he escorted her outside.
The way in which the man rested his hand on the small of the girl’s back reminded her of Z’ev. Z’ev’s fingertips would rest with the lightest of touches on her spine as they walked through restaurants or onto the dance floor. Nikki could never quite figure out if she liked it as an old-fashioned gesture of courtliness or disliked it as a patronizing gesture of ownership. She couldn’t quite shake the idea that he thought she needed his guidance to do things, as if she couldn’t take care of herself. Even when he had proof otherwise, he still didn’t seem capable of accepting it.
“What the hell was that!?” demanded Z’ev, slamming the door on the apartment. “You go out for butter and forty-five minutes later I find you answering questions from the cops.”
“I was helping,” said Nikki.
“You were helping?” repeated Z’ev. “The policeman said you did a flying side-kick across the counter and beat the guy unconscious with a brandy bottle.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Nikki. “It was tequila. Longer neck, better grip.”
“Nikki!”
“What? What do you want me to say, Z’ev?” asked Nikki, heading into the bedroom to take off her sweatshirt. Z’ev followed after her. “Poor Mr. Singh was getting robbed. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there?”
“You could have called the cops!” suggested Z’ev, glaring.
“Yeah, and by the time they got there Mr. Singh could have been dead and definitely would have been out all the money in his till. He’s putting his son through college, saving for his daughter’s dowry, and sending money back home. He can’t afford that!”
“Nikki, yo
u are not bulletproof! You could have been killed.”
“Meh. That guy didn’t know what he was doing.”
Z’ev sighed and sat down on the bed. “You are not a professional. You can’t keep doing things like this,” he said, reaching out his hand for her, and she went to him. “One day you won’t be so lucky.”
What did he mean, “lucky”? She hadn’t been lucky; she’d been good. Clearly he hadn’t seen the surveillance footage. Although, she decided, she should call work in the morning and get that quashed. Mrs. M wasn’t going to want to have that appear on one of those reality clip shows.
He put his arms around her and buried his face in her stomach. Her anger dissipated and she wrapped her arms around him tightly, wanting to hold on forever.
“And besides,” he said, leaning back to look her in the face, “you’re going to give me a heart attack.” Nikki laughed and leaned down to kiss him.
“Cut back on red meat,” she suggested.
Shaking her head, Nikki made her way back to Trista, trying to forget about Z’ev. She knew she’d better face facts: she and Z’ev were broken up and she’d lost Tracksuit entirely.
Trista was standing by the stage tech’s desk, watching the concert on his monitor. On the little TV, she could see Kit was surrounded by the dancing girls and had wrapped himself in a red feather boa that someone had managed to toss onstage. She didn’t understand the girls who did things like that—losing it over a celebrity defied her comprehension. The stage rose higher and even at this level Nikki could hear the swell of cheers and applause.
“So what happens now?” asked Nikki.
“Fireworks,” said Trista, and, as if on cue, fireworks shot in arcing streams of light across the crowd-filled soccer pitch.
The technician rolled smoothly from one side of the table to the other and began flipping switches, ignoring the TV footage.
“Cool,” said Nikki. The fireworks were blowing out the contrast on the tiny screen.
The platform was nearly five feet up from the main stage, and more than twenty from the cement floor and the machine that powered the pneumatic arms that lifted the stage into the air, when there was a sudden grinding jerk and it tilted dramatically to the right. One of the drummer’s drumsticks flew out of his hand and hit the bassist in the head. Next to her, the keyboard player clutched his keyboard in a full-body hug. The guitar player and Kit, who had been in the midst of moving, both fell and slid toward the edge of the platform. From the other side of the stage, Duncan, the bodyguard, hurtled through the flames and landed on the stage.
Compact with the Devil: A Novel Page 6