Now Playing On The Jukebox In Hell Part 27

"Awfully touchy for someone in leather," he said, unfazed. "And by the way, I kind of like your outfit too, boss. Have I told you how glad I am that you're coming back?"

Unsure which comment to jump on, I waited to hear what he had to say next.

"It hasn't been any fun without you. I thought it would be, but it's not. Abner's a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He's like Jack used to be when he couldn't get laid, only worse." Hitching up his diaper, he looked around furtively. "You haven't seen him yet, have you?"

"Abner? No. But I'm not looking for him. Why would he be here anyway? Parties are evil, right?"

He leered at Ca.s.sie again, this time including me at the very end. "With any luck, they are. You two going to dance?"

"If we do," I said wearily, "I'm selling tickets. Now, what's the problem with Abner?"

"Well..."

He never got any farther. A large, Baptist-shaped shadow fell over us, and we didn't even have to look to know.

"Mr. Wheeler," Abner intoned.

Kurt tried to squirm behind me. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Abner. Sir."

"Does Mr. Jenner know about..." He gestured at the diaper. "That?"

"I haven't seen him yet, sir. But it's a funny thing, you know? At the Halloween party, he was dressed up like a c..."

I cut Kurt off with a well-placed grip on the windpipe. Abner was not impressed.

"I'm going to go find him," he declared. "We'll discuss the new dress code. I'll make sure it includes a clause specifically about diapers. Excuse me."

Ca.s.sie and I stood back so that no part of him would touch us as he pa.s.sed. But before he cleared us, something occurred to him, and he backtracked. "Aren't you two supposed to be fired?"

"Not anymore," I said.

Abner's brows contracted. He essentially had only one. "I'll talk to him about that, too."

Ca.s.sie stuck out her foot to trip him; I barely managed to pull her back in time. Then I happened to glance after Abner's retreating bulk.

Vanessa was following him, looking as happy as I'd ever seen her. I hoped no one else noticed the bright-red blaze in her eyes.

All the usual suspects were on the scene now, and the closer it got to midnight, the more nervous I got. Demons in one corner, Baptists in another, Kurt in a diaper, and advertising people with access to alcohol. And Ca.s.sie. Something had to happen.

Something worse than just the music, anyway. Jenner had a Wurlitzer that I'd always coveted -- one of those huge jukeboxes with neon and bubble tubes and enough chrome for a T-Bird -- but his music collection was too retro. We'd been listening to the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, and that crowd all night, and most of us were getting restless. Didn't Jenner have anything harder? Or at least a little more current?

On the other hand, maybe I wouldn't have to dance with Ca.s.sie after all if this kept up. She'd started leaving the room every time someone played "Wipeout," which seemed to be every few minutes.

Bored myself, I wandered over to the jukebox to see what else was in there. Chip joined me. "Find anything good?"

"Depends what you call good." I checked again; one t.i.tle caught my eye. "How are you for car songs?"

"Car songs?"

After a brief mental debate, I punched the numbers. "Car songs. I always thought the Go-Gos wrote 'Skidmarks on My Heart' to get even for this whole genre. Want to dance?"

He did. "Little Deuce Coupe" wasn't bad as car songs went, and we weren't going to do much better, so we had a little fun.

OK, maybe more than a little. So Ca.s.sie got even by dancing with Randy Harris. Then with Walt. And after that with Kurt. That last one wasn't pretty, to the point that I might have made a trip too many to the bar.

Then, without warning, it was almost midnight, and Ca.s.sie was back to oppress me. "One dance. With me this time. No excuses. Ready?"

"There's nothing good on the jukebox," I protested.

"Don't worry about that. Vanessa's got it covered."

I tried another tack. "I think I broke my leg a few minutes ago."

"No problem," she said calmly. "I'll lead."

"Dancing's against my religion?"

Ca.s.sie shook her head. "Give up, Devvy. You're outnumbered."

"Counting who? Demons?"

"Not them. Them." She indicated everyone in particular; they were all watching with great interest. "It'll kill them if we don't."

"Problem with that?"

She ignored the question and pulled me out to the dance floor. I tried limping, but it didn't work.

Ca.s.sie closed in and searched the room for Vanessa. The demon was standing by the jukebox, trying to look casual; when she caught Ca.s.sie's signal, she kicked the machine. "Louie Louie" cut off, and to my dismay, "Hot Stuff" cut on.

To her credit, Ca.s.sie was dismayed too. "That's not what I asked for. I asked for Sade."

She turned to glare at Vanessa, who pretended not to understand what the matter was. Meanwhile, the crowd was getting impatient.

"We're not seeing any dancing!" someone yelled.

A second voice added, "Or anything else!"

That caused general merriment at our expense, and more encouragement from the peanut gallery. Even Ca.s.sie was starting to look like she was having second thoughts. I was about to suggest that we run for it when I saw Howard Abner standing a few feet away, grim as a stone idol.

And that single instant pushed me over the line. Enough was enough was enough. Political Correctness and censure are two sides of a very thin coin, and thanks to Ca.s.sie's parents, my parents, my brothers, our co-workers, the Family Foundation, and ninety percent of the population, I'd finally had all of both that I needed -- enough for a lifetime, probably. It was time to start the payback. And Howard Abner was as good a place to start as any.

So I pulled Ca.s.sie in and locked eyes with her. "If they want a show," I told her, "I say we give them one. Want to make this a slow dance?"

She smiled, closing the rest of the distance between us. "Very slow."

We never heard the thud.

"Did you have a good time tonight after all?" Ca.s.sie asked, kicking her shoes off.

"Mostly." I kept searching through the CDs; it was here somewhere. "The best part was Abner."

I'd liked that part, all right. True, I hadn't meant him to have a heart attack, not even a mild one like that. But when the paramedics came, and opened his s.h.i.+rt, and found the tattoo on his chest...

Well, Kurt had said it best: G.o.d save the Queen.

It was Vanessa's doing, of course. Even at my most suspicious, I knew Abner wasn't gay. But it had been very fine just the same to see him with a heart-and-snake tattoo with MITCH in the middle. And if the paramedics -- and everyone else at the party -- had seen it, who was I to say it wasn't real?

Ah, there it was. I opened the jewel case and stuck the disc in the player just as Ca.s.sie leaned into me.

"The best part?" she asked menacingly, her breath warm in my ear.

Oh-oh. "Second-best," I corrected.

She didn't back off. In fact, she got closer. "I had all kinds of offers tonight, you know. I could have gone home with anyone. Did I tell you Walt offered me a kidney?"

"You don't need any more kidneys." I pressed Play, cued the disc to "A Common Disaster," and then turned toward her. "Last dance?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

There are worse ways to wind up New Year's Eve. We took one last spin in Ca.s.sie's peach-and-white bedroom while Cowboy Junkies told our future: We weren't out of the woods yet. We were still going to have trouble -- maybe even disaster -- and it might never get any easier. But when they're playing your song on the jukebox in h.e.l.l, you might as well dance.

(c) 2001, K. Simpson.

To continue in.

That Voodoo That You Do.

Stories page.

The Devil's Workshop.

end.