Compact with the Devil: A Novel (13 page)

When the room had been cleared Kit flopped onto the couch next to Nikki and Angela took a seat in the makeup chair. The producer made ass-kissing noises until Duncan politely asked him to leave.

Nikki critically examined Angela; a woman had called to ask for the champagne to be added to the list, and Tracksuit could have been a woman. Beside her, Kit was playing with the zipper on his hoodie, running it up and down to his own internal rhythm, until it sounded like a DJ scratching.

Angela was twentysomething and tall in her high heels. Long and slender, she was the kind of woman whom other women love to hate. But Nikki was startled to realize that she didn’t. Like someone being shown how a magic trick worked, Nikki could spot all the tricks Angela was using to look like an alpha female. High heels, lacy undershirt peeking from the décolletage of her power suit, black-rimmed glasses to offset the sexiness, bleached hair pulled up into a French twist. Nikki had worn that very outfit
at least twice to go undercover. She wondered what Angela looked like on a dateless Saturday night. She was willing to bet it was sweats, a ponytail, and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s all the way.

Angela was still on the phone, speaking halfway-decent French, but she was having trouble coming up with the French vocabulary to describe stage assembly parts. Angela flipped through her day planner and then covered the phone’s receiver with one hand.

“Does anyone know the French for ‘black nylon’? I’m on the phone with the supplier.” Everyone stared blankly at her, and Kit waved his hands as if warding off an oncoming plane.

“
Tissu en nylon noir
,” said Nikki.

“Uh-huh,” said Angela, narrowing her eyes at Nikki, and then went back to the phone. “
Non, non.
I need thirty meters of
tissu en nylon noir
.” While Angela harassed the supplier, Nikki became aware that she had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. Nikki smiled awkwardly; when was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut?

“Brilliant,” said Kit, looking impressed. “You’ll come in handy.”

“Everyone’s met Nikki, right?” asked Trista, clearing her throat somewhat reprovingly. “She’s going to be helping out for a few days, and then she’s going to fill in for me when my granddaughter’s born. I know she didn’t get properly introduced last night, but it was rather last-minute.” Nikki sighed in annoyance; they should have gone over her cover story together before Trista just blurted it out to the assembly.

“Hi,” said Nikki.

“But you’re American,” rumbled Duncan, as if he didn’t approve of multilinguists, and Nikki winced. One word and she’d managed to reveal herself.

“Who’s American?” asked Brandt, slipping through the
door. “It is a mob scene out there! They love you, Kit!” Kit shrugged. Brandt scanned the room and seemed to see Nikki for the first time. “You must be the American; I know all these other bums here.” He stepped forward to shake her hand. “Brandt Dettling.”

“Nikki Lanier,” said Nikki, and shook his hand. His was a firm handshake—not firm enough to crush and not weak enough to insult her either. He added a raffish grin to the handshake, turning on the charm. “I’m going to be helping Trista for a few days.”

“Great! The more the merrier, as someone said.” But she could tell that he was disappointed; he’d wasted his smile on a mere makeup lady. “Well,” he said, turning back to the room. “Let’s get this show on the road. Kit, you’re not really going to wear that, are you?”

Kit was lighting a cigarette and stopped with the flame of his lighter still flickering.

“I’d been planning on it,” he said grimly, flicking the lighter closed.

“You look like you just got up!”

“I did,” said Kit, taking a drag. “When you schedule these things last-minute, you get last-minute fashion.”

“Would you two stop fussing?” clucked Trista, flapping her hands at Angela, who vacated the makeup chair but didn’t get off the phone. “You know I’d never let my boy go out looking less than his best.” She patted the canvas seat invitingly and Kit grinned his charming smile that probably made girls of all ages trip over their feet.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Kit. “I can’t imagine what we were thinking.” He stood up, stretching his hands over his head, before moving to the makeup chair, unlit cigarette still dangling
from his lip. Trista started vigorously brushing his hair; Kit seemed unperturbed.

Angela handed Brandt a piece of paper, jabbing it at him to get his attention, since she was now arguing about the cost of an additional electrician. Brandt took the paper reluctantly and looked over it.

“The question list from the producer is in,” he said casually. “Usual stuff—who’re you sleeping with, how’s the sobriety going, new album.”

“The new album is off the list,” said Kit.

“Kit, we need to generate excitement for it now, so that when it drops we’ve got the kids waiting in line.”

“Brandt, what am I supposed to talk about? There is no new album. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in two months.”

“You’re just stressed out,” said Brandt. “You’ll come around in time.”

“Maybe,” said Kit. “And maybe I won’t, but I’m not going to talk about my writing with some German twat of a television host.”

There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, and then Brandt crumpled up the sheet with a loud crackling noise.

“Fine,” said Brandt, shooting the paper ball into the wastebasket with a surprising athleticism. “It’s off the list.”

Trista began applying cleanser and unzipped Kit’s hooded sweatshirt to reach his neck,
tch
-ing over the ratty KISS T-shirt underneath.

“I stole it from Richie.”

“Richie should invest in some new clothing,” said Brandt severely.

“It was either this or his Rainbow Brite shirt,” said Kit cheerfully as Trista applied moisturizer to his face.

“Well then I’m glad you went with Kiss, but you couldn’t find something without holes?” asked Trista, trying for a lighthearted note.

“In Richie’s bag? No.”

“She’s right, Kit, you’re moving onto the international stage here. You could at least dress the part,” said Brandt, looking vaguely around the room as if he’d misplaced something and rattling a few M&M’s in his hand. Kit’s face twitched in a paroxysm of annoyance, but his voice was relaxed when he spoke.

“I don’t tear down your suits, Brandt. Leave me my T-shirts.”

“No need to get all stroppy,” replied Brandt. “It’s your career, after all. I’m just trying to be helpful.” Brandt tossed the M&M’s in his mouth.

Nikki was certain that Kit would blow a gasket here, since he hadn’t actually been getting “stroppy”—whatever that was. Instead he picked up one of the lids from Trista’s bottles of goop and screwed it into his eye like a monocle.

“I would like to speaken to ze manager!” said Kit in a terrible German accent.

“I am ze manager,” Brandt responded, but half-reluctantly.

“Please to tell ze singer he must wearen ze pants!”

“He says you have to wear pants, old boy,” answered Brandt, smiling in spite of himself.

“But I am wearing pants!” exclaimed Kit, popping the monocle/lid out to speak in his own voice and then popping it back in to use his German accent. Brandt joined him for what was obviously the punch line of the joke.

“But they are not on your bottom!”

Brandt gave a chuckle that filled the room; Kit grinned and let Trista take the lid back.

“The rules never said we had to wear pants on our legs,”
said Kit around Trista’s makeup sponge. “I really think we were unfairly treated. We should sue. Remember that old man’s face? I thought he was going to have an apoplexy.”

“He was a bit red in the face. That was a good night!” Brandt’s nostalgic smile held a trace of sadness.

“If I could remember more of it, I’m sure I would agree,” said Kit.

“Ten minutes,” said a headset-clad woman, popping her head in the door. Kit waved his acknowledgment as Trista finished, applying some powder. Smearing hair gel between her palms, she spiked his hair with expert fingers, giving his makeover the final touch. Nikki had to admit that in a matter of minutes, Trista had somehow managed to take Kit from frazzled and sleepless to trendily dirty.

Brandt and Angela disappeared shortly after Kit went onstage, leaving Trista and Nikki to watch the show from the greenroom. There was some banter from the host in German, which Nikki didn’t understand, and then Kit came out to massive cheers from the audience and the host switched to English.

“They’ll subtitle it later,” said Trista.

“The champagne’s on the fax sheet of dressing room requirements,” answered Nikki, following her own train of thought.

“What?” asked Trista.

“I gave the champagne that was in here to someone, and he showed me a faxed list of dressing room requirements. Someone called in and added it to the list.”

“This is the third time that’s happened!” Trista began to stack her brushes and bottles back into their purple Carrie Mae case, slamming them down harder than necessary.

“Well, he’s made it this far,” said Nikki practically. She wasn’t sure how far “this” was, but he seemed to be coping.

“And it’s been longer than any of his other dry spells,” said Trista, “but that’s why I’m worried. How much longer can he hold out? Especially since he’s not writing.”

“Not writing…,” Nikki repeated, unclear on the connection.

“Songs. He’s blocked. And I don’t think he’s ever written anything sober—not a whole album anyway. I don’t know, maybe Camille’s right. Maybe he isn’t cut out to be a rock star.”

On the TV, Kit was smiling his rock star smile and lying through his teeth.

“The new record? No, it doesn’t have a name yet. But, yeah…” Kit ran his hand through his hair; Nikki caught only a tiny flash of anger before he smiled and answered. “Yeah, it’s going great.”

“I don’t know …,” said Nikki, thinking of the hotel room. “He seems rock starrish to me. Why wouldn’t Camille want him to be a singer?”

“Besides the obvious danger of exposing him to people like Cano?” asked Trista sharply. “Or the fact that it has led him to a nearly fatal level of addiction? Besides all that, I can’t think of a single reason.”

“Maybe you should tell me more about these ‘accidents,’” said Nikki, deciding not to argue. Trista sighed loudly, still annoyed. “I talked to Holly about them last night.”

“You talked to Holly? Well, I’m sure she covered it then.” Trista loosened up and then retightened a bottle lid.

“I’d rather get your professional opinion.” Sucking up never hurt.

“They’re nothing really that big; probably just accidents. I think everyone’s just been a little on edge. A tire blew out on the bus. And you might think that would make the bus flip over, but Louis, the bus driver, says buses don’t work that way anymore…”

“And maybe it was somebody who didn’t know enough about
bus tires to know that wouldn’t make a bus crash. What about the helicopter?” Nikki asked, and Trista shrugged uncomfortably.

“Someone didn’t do their job, and the helicopter got fueled incorrectly. They had to make an emergency landing. Which is why Kit’s taking the tour bus everywhere now. It was rather tense for everyone on board, but Brandt and Duncan were with him. He was never in any real danger.” Nikki was about to ask how they could have possibly protected him from a helicopter crash when Trista glanced at Nikki and then back at her makeup bottles. Nikki’s instincts pricked up their ears; Trista was about to say something interesting.

“I’m a bit worried about Duncan, to tell the truth,” said Trista. “He’s always around when these things happen.”

“He’s security,” Nikki said, playing devil’s advocate. “Presumably he’s always around.”

“Yes, but like that groupie last night. Duncan vetted her. He always does. So how did she end up with drugs?”

“Mmmm,” said Nikki, choosing not to comment on the groupie. The existence of the groupie kind of grossed her out, but she knew she’d sound naïve if she said so. “You think he’s behind the accidents?” she asked, returning to the subject of Duncan. Trista shrugged in response.

Nikki thought about Trista’s theory; she didn’t think Duncan could be Tracksuit. Their physiques were quite different in her memory, but she supposed it was possible. Ewart had said that Duncan had been lurking around his machinery. Motive was a bit of a mystery, although in her experience, money proved to be all that most people needed.

“So why haven’t you investigated these accidents?” asked Nikki. Trista was ex–Carrie Mae; she should have been able to handle a few mysterious happenings.

“I’ve got a job to do, you know!” Trista exclaimed. “I can’t be haring off after unexplained accidents that might not be anything more than accidents.”

“Well, I’m just assuming that Camille made Kit hire you as extra security. I figured you’d both be concerned.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt Kit?” asked Trista.

“You don’t think the accidents are intentional?” Nikki scratched her head; Trista wasn’t making any sense.

Trista shrugged again, her back still to Nikki. “With so many people running about, something’s bound to go wrong on a tour. Like I said, no one would hurt Kit.”

“Even Cano?” asked Nikki. She couldn’t really understand Trista’s mind-set. She wasn’t worried about the accidents, but she was worried about Kit. She didn’t make sense.

“Well, Cano would,” said Trista, turning around, eyes wide. “Cano would in a heartbeat. He hated Camille. He hated Declan and … all of them. He thought they were traitors to the cause. He’d off Kit as soon as a blink.”

“Why did Cano hate them?” asked Nikki.

“They were quitting the IRA. Well, Declan was quitting. Camille never really was IRA. And after Declan’s death Camille burned him with all the groups in the region. But it wasn’t just them. The world was changing. People weren’t supporting violent movements anymore.”

“Violence is not a sustainable political tactic,” said Nikki, and Trista shrugged.

“Cano blamed Camille; he would try to hurt Kit. I suppose he could be responsible for the accidents.” Trista sounded as if the thought had just occurred to her.