Day Shift (Midnight, Texas #2) (25 page)

There was some actual laughter, and Magdalena, who wanted to punch him, instead smiled in an arctic way. Manfred was relieved she didn’t shove him off Fiji’s porch.

“Magdalena,” called the man who’d almost stepped on Mr. Snuggly’s tail, “how are you gonna kick Jess Barnwell’s butt?”

“Barnwell’s a fine lawyer,” Magdalena said seriously. “But he’s got an unreliable client.”

“As opposed to a phone psychic?”

“Ouch,” said Manfred, smiling. “But I’ve heard much worse.” He thought,
Barry, get out now! Now!

He didn’t know if Barry could pick up on Manfred’s particular
thought pattern, but he did sense that Barry was on the move, and he saw a car pull out of the alley running behind the hotel. It turned left to drive west on Witch Light Road. That would take him to the nearest highway north, which would get him into Oklahoma in a few hours.

Manfred turned his attention back to the here and now. “I may be a phone psychic, among other things, but I don’t make false accusations against people to the police or the media,” he said.

“You’re saying Lewis Goldthorpe has slandered you?”

“I’m saying that he should remember that he lives in a glass house,” Manfred said, and he thought Magdalena was going to blow a fuse. “It may be in Bonnet Park, and I may live in Midnight.” He swept his hand around theatrically to indicate his surroundings. “He may be the son of a millionaire, and I may be the grandson of a great psychic.” (He owed his grandmother Xylda that, he figured.) “But when he makes statements that besmirch the memory of his mother, he has forfeited his right to my respect and consideration.”

That got their attention, and there was a lively back-and-forth between Manfred and “the media” until Magdalena shut it down with a graceful statement thanking them all for coming today. The little crowd dispersed, the fangbangers gathering to engage in a low-voiced conference, the reporters to straggle back to their vehicles and depart.

“That was a good idea,” Magdalena said. “I think. What made you so determined to do it?” He’d only been able to get her to agree to show up by telling her he’d do it without her. Instead of dropping him as a client, she’d figured being on television was not so bad.

“It was a diversion, plus I wanted to get up in Lewis’s face,” he said. “He’s tried to say I’m a thief. Well, maybe he’s a murderer. He needs to be worried about himself.”

“You baffle me,” she said, looking at her client with frustration all over her face. “And if you think I did this for free . . .”

“That never crossed my mind,” said Manfred honestly. “I expect your bill in the mail. Listen, as long as you’re here, would you like to have an early dinner at Home Cookin?”

The lawyer’s face was a picture of
startled
. She hesitated. “A regular gathering?” She was gauging the social texture of the meal. Manfred didn’t blame her.

“It’s almost always just us Midnight people,” he said. “But I’m giving Arthur a call.”

That decided her, as he had suspected it would. She looked at her watch. “I am through for the day,” she said. “All right. As long as you know we’re just . . . lawyer and client.”

Magdalena was attractive, but he’d rather date a barracuda. “Of course,” he said, hoping he sounded just a little regretful.

Fiji came out of her house, where she’d been secluded in the back during the press conference. He could tell she was feeling pretty today, though she always seemed pretty to him.

“Fiji, you coming with us?” he asked.

She smiled. “I guess so. I don’t feel like cooking and making my kitchen hot, you know?” Her smile brightened when Bobo emerged from the pawnshop. He crossed the road to walk with them. “
Hola
, Magdalena,” he called.

Manfred was not at all surprised to find that Bobo knew his lawyer.

“Hey, Feej, are you going to charge Manfred? Since he used your garden as a backdrop for his press thing?”

“Nah,” she said. “The shop sign was probably in the photos.”

Mr. Snuggly rubbed against Manfred’s denim-covered leg before vanishing into the backyard in his mysterious cat way. They passed the closed chapel with its sign, and none of them said anything, though Magdalena gave it a curious look. Manfred, who’d been texting, grinned. “Arthur’s showing up in a few minutes,” he said.

“Cool,” Bobo said. “I haven’t had a talk with him in months.”

“Okay,” Fiji said. “I kind of like him.” She sounded faintly surprised, as if she were not in the habit of liking law enforcement officers.

Fiji and Bobo walked ahead. While Manfred and Magdalena were out of hearing, he asked, “Just out of curiosity, can you find out the terms of Morton’s will?”

“It’s a matter of public record,” Magdalena said. “If you want to pay for my time, of course I can get a copy.”

“I do, and the sooner the better.”

“I’ll tell Phil tomorrow.”

When they were about to cross the Davy highway, they saw Chuy and Joe emerge from their shop doorway. They, too, were eating out tonight. Now that the strangers were gone, and so was Rick Horowitz (né Barry Bellboy), everyone was happier except maybe Shorty Horowitz. Manfred was glad Barry was on his way to safety; he was glad no vampires would come to Midnight. Crisis averted.

And, he had to confess to himself, it was a relief to have the telepath gone from their midst, as much as he’d been curious about what Barry was “receiving” from his companions.

“By the way,” Magdalena said.

“What?”

“I only agreed to your little press conference because the Bonnet Park police had already called me to tell me they’d found the jewelry. You’d just been cleared. So it was safe for you to deny all the charges in public.”

Manfred stared at her, his mouth hanging open. “I should have wondered harder why you agreed to do it,” he said. “You know what? I’m just happy it’s over. I couldn’t have killed her, and I didn’t steal anything, and it’s all public knowledge.” He felt amazingly lighthearted.

Chicken and dumplings was on the menu that night, along with baked tilapia. These were new, so they were all more interested than usual in their food.

Manfred wasn’t the only one to notice that Arthur chose a chair by Magdalena, or perhaps Magdalena had arranged to have an empty seat available. She was a lawyer and used to strategizing. But after Arthur had ordered, his phone buzzed, and he stepped outside to take the call. Dillon was in the kitchen getting another pitcher of iced tea, and Madonna was cooking.

Manfred had been able to see the tension in the way his landlord was sitting. There was something Bobo wanted to say, and since he couldn’t get rid of Magdalena as well, he leaned forward with sudden resolution.

“I wonder where our missing citizens are,” Bobo said. Since they were all seated around the big round table that dominated the little restaurant, they could all hear him even though he didn’t raise his voice. He meant the Rev and Diederik.

“Just one more night,” Fiji said, even more obliquely.

Manfred wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what the Rev was up to. “I guess we’ll find out if we’re supposed to know,” he said, and grabbed a piece of corn bread from the basket in the middle of the table.

Arthur came back in, Magdalena stopped looking from one to the other of them as though she expected them to speak in tongues, and Dillon eased through the swinging doors to the kitchen with a brimming pitcher of tea. He refreshed their drinks, but he seemed subdued. Manfred had a moment of doubt. Was the atmosphere of Midnight contagious? Dillon had always seemed like a normal ranch teenager. Now he was preoccupied.

“Dillon, you doing okay?” Bobo asked, just before Manfred could get the words out.

“Yeah, just broke up with my girlfriend,” Dillon said, and smiled weakly. “I made her mad. I told her I saw . . .” He hesitated, and the smile faded away. “Well, never mind. She just got mad at me. When she cools off, we’ll talk.”

“That’s a good plan, Dillon,” Bobo said. “Give her time to come around.”

He ducked his head. “Can I get you guys some more bread?” The basket for rolls and corn bread was almost empty.

“Sure,” Manfred said, not because he wanted any more but because he wanted to give Dillon a reason to exit.

Arthur looked after the boy. He seemed lost in thought for a moment.

Magdalena was unexpectedly entertaining at table talk. She had a number of stories that Manfred suspected were stock stories, anecdotes she told to keep the social ball rolling: terrible clients, terrible judges, funny lawsuits. Arthur was more engaged in that world than any of the others, and he laughed the hardest. He was inspired to tell “best arrest” stories. And Bobo told a few “weird things people wanted to pawn” anecdotes—the used coffin, the grenade, the blank tombstones.

This was high entertainment for a Midnight dinner. Manfred looked at the smiling faces around the table: at Joe and Chuy, who were clearly enjoying themselves; at Fiji, who laughed out loud; at Olivia’s guarded smile and Bobo’s animated face. Dillon brought out a buttermilk pie with Madonna’s demand that they all try it, since it was a new recipe. It was already sliced, and they each took a piece. It was rich and delicious, but Manfred thought it too sweet. However, Madonna was so formidable that he didn’t say anything.

At eight thirty, the diners scattered for home as though they’d heard a warning bell sound. The glow in the sky was golden pink, and Magdalena’s and Manfred’s shadows preceded them as they strolled back to his house, where her car was parked. They didn’t talk: It was hot, and they were full, and Manfred had things to think about. Apparently, so did his lawyer.

Magdalena unlocked the car and opened the driver’s door. A blast of furnace-hot air gusted out. There was no question of leaning
against the metal; she stood, shifting from foot to foot, a woman whose shoes were definitely pinching.

“You call my mom yet?” she asked.

“Nope, but tomorrow for sure.”

She seemed to consider, her eyes on her feet, as if she could make them ache less by looking at them.

“You people here are all very odd,” she said at last, and then she left.

T
he sun seemed to plummet; the light vanished abruptly, and only the glow of the moon illuminated Midnight. From time to time, it was obscured by clouds. Despite what the weather report had told Chuy two days before, the chance of rain was heavy in the air.

Fiji stood on her back porch, looking out over her garden, until the light was absolutely sucked away. She saw lightning cut through the darkness miles away to the south. She noticed a little piece of the darkness moving in the bushes, and then Mr. Snuggly was by her feet.

“Get in,” he said, in his bitter little voice. “Foolish woman.”

Fiji, who’d been mesmerized by the lightning, flung open the back door and skittered inside, Mr. Snuggly dashing in past her. She had the door shut and locked while he investigated his water and food bowl. He looked up at her with wide, sad eyes, and she could almost imagine tears.

“You piker,” she said, not without affection, and opened a can of
cat food. She put half of it in his food bowl and cleaned and refilled his water bowl. There was silence for a few moments, while Mr. Snuggly made his food disappear with a neat dispatch that had her shaking her head incredulously.

When the cat finished, he began to clean his paws. He paused for a moment to say, “Did you know Joe has wings?”

“Yes,” she said. “I suspect he’s an angel.”

“Everyone else thinks they’re fake,” Mr. Snuggly observed, and resumed his cleaning program. “The wings, that is. The ones he and Chuy ‘wear’ at Halloween.”

“They’re just not always visible.” She sat down in one of the chairs by the kitchen table. She scrubbed her face with her hands. “Did you see anything else out there that I should know about?”

He nodded. “The Rev and Diederik are out and about,” he said. “Everyone else . . . besides you . . . is properly in a house.”

“And now I am, too,” she said, determined not to be miffed with the cat.

“The big man is almost back,” he said. “Diederik was talking to him on the phone.”

“Diederik’s father? That’s wonderful. The boy will be so happy. He’s grown so much! I wonder if his dad knew he would.” Fiji beamed at the cat.

“He told his son he was sorry to have missed the boy’s first moon time. I have very sharp ears.”

“I’m glad he’s coming back.”

“Tonight is very, very dangerous.”

The smile vanished from Fiji’s face. “More dangerous than the past two nights? Why?”

“Don’t need to know,” Mr. Snuggly muttered. “Long as you stay inside like a sane creature.”

“Why would I not?”

Muttering something unpleasant under his breath, Mr. Snuggly stalked into the front room. Making his way between the display cases and chairs and the table, he went over to the window and jumped onto a padded stool Fiji had placed there just for him. The light was off in the big front room, and Fiji went to look out with the cat. There weren’t any streetlights in Midnight, of course, and the traffic light and the moon were the only sources of illumination.

Fiji caught her breath.

In the middle of Witch Light Road (smack between Manfred’s house and hers) stood a tiger.

It was huge.

When she finally exhaled, she whispered, “Bengal. Holy Goddess, look at those teeth!”

“Told you so,” said Mr. Snuggly.

“But is that . . . ?”

The first tiger was joined by another. It was larger.

“The Rev? And Diederik?” she breathed.

“Maybe his dad is here by now,” Mr. Snuggly said. “I can’t tell ’em apart unless I smell ’em.”

“Do they . . . Would they know me? If I went out there?”

“Do you want to risk them
not
knowing you?” the cat asked acidly.

“Ah. No.”

“Then keep your butt indoors.”

“I will.”

She was glad the light in the shop was out, for though she didn’t imagine the tigers would notice her at the window, she felt very strongly that avoiding their attention was better than drawing it. Shoulder to shoulder, the two huge cats paced slowly down the street until they reached the empty house two doors east of Manfred’s, where they simply vanished into the shadows. Their smooth movements, their silence, the massive heads turning slightly from side to
side to survey the night around them . . . it was as eerie and powerful as anything Fiji had ever seen.

Perhaps they’d vanished because they’d heard the car coming. The road was empty for only a few seconds before it appeared. It was an antique car with big tail fins. Fiji had no idea what make and model it was, and she was not interested. She didn’t know the driver, who seemed almost irrelevant to the behemoth he was driving. He was a short, plump man with thick blond hair and a lot of rage. She could see it simmering and shimmering in the night like a red nimbus. He’d pulled into Manfred’s driveway, blocking Manfred’s car, and he got out of the car to walk rapidly to the front door, his arms pumping with energy. He banged on the door with his fist and began yelling.

“Oh, no,” Fiji said. “Oh, no! This is awful!” She rushed over to her own door and suddenly felt a lot of needles sticking in her back. She shrieked.

Mr. Snuggly hissed,
“Do not open that door!”
He’d launched himself from the stool to land on her upper back, and he was clinging desperately to her with his claws.

“I have to stop him! He doesn’t know!” she said. “Dammit, get off my back!”

“Just back over to the stool,” Mr. Snuggly said. “I’ll drop off.”

Clumsily, she did so, and he landed on the stool, righting himself immediately and with as much dignity as he could.

“You silly woman,” the cat said.

“I can’t let—” Then a noise from outside made her look through the window.

One of the tigers was peering around the corner of Manfred’s house at the newcomer, who was still banging and screeching. Above the pawnshop, in Bobo’s apartment, a light came on. Bobo flung open a window. She could see the silhouette of his head.

“Get back in the car, man!” Bobo called.

“What?” The man stepped back and peered upward.

“Get back in your car and leave. Right now!” Bobo sounded very serious.

“See?” Mr. Snuggly said. “He has a whole floor between him and the creatures. Let
him
speak.”

“I will not!” The man fairly twitched with indignation, and Fiji pulled up her own window.

“Get back in your car, you moron!” she yelled. “You’re in danger!”

“Don’t threaten me,” he yelled back, and he banged on Manfred’s door again.

The first tiger padded silently around the corner of the house. Perhaps the man smelled the tiger or caught its movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to look. And he froze. Fiji hoped that was a good thing.

The tiger made a “chuff” noise, like a cough. Hearing it in the Texas night was hair-raising, literally. It was as out of place as a hyena’s cackle.

Fiji was awed into silence, and she didn’t hear a peep from Bobo.

She had never read a brochure advising her on what to do if she had to deal with a loose tiger. Or two.

The second one joined the first. Fiji could feel the fear emanating from the stranger. It had gathered in a tight black ball around him. The two tigers took a step or two closer to the man. Then several things happened as quick as a wink. Manfred’s front door opened, his tattooed arm shot out, his hand grasped the man’s shirtfront, and he yanked him in.

In theory, this should have worked like a charm, ending with the door slamming shut in the tigers’ faces. In actuality, the stranger’s feet got tangled, and he sprawled in the doorway, leaving it wide open.

Fiji leaned out her window and yelled, “Hey! Tiger!”

And Bobo did the same thing at the same moment.

Both tigers turned their heads, one to look up at Bobo and one to turn slightly to look at Fiji, and while they were distracted, the man was dragged inside. Manfred’s door closed.

“Shut your window,” Mr. Snuggly said. He was hiding somewhere in the room, Fiji could tell, but she couldn’t see the cat. Hearing him was enough. She shut the window and locked it.

“I wonder who the idiot is,” she said, collapsing into a chair.

“I expect,” said Mr. Snuggly, “that’s Lewis Goldthorpe.”