Now Playing On The Jukebox In Hell Part 3

"It's supposed to be locked," I told her. "How did you get in?"

"It was open."

I mentally penciled in a call to Rita Sanchez. The cleaning people were getting lazy about this sort of thing; she might want to look into changing contractors. In fact, I'd call her right away, before either of us got distracted by the first crisis of the day.

But Heather pulled me back before I got all the way over the threshold. "Are you crazy? There's something in there!"

Pointedly, I tugged my coat loose and went on in, tossing my attache in one of the guest chairs and surveying the room. Nothing under the desk, nothing behind the chair, nothing curled up and hissing in a corner.

"It was sitting in your chair," Heather insisted from the safety of the doorway.

"'It'?"

"It was reading your mail, Dev. I saw it."

An unpleasant possibility crossed my mind. "What did you see?"

"Well, nothing. There was nothing there. Just the papers moving around. And then..."

"Then?"

"Then it started laughing." She shuddered. "It was awful. Like scratching on a blackboard or something."

What was it Ca.s.sie had said once? "Or cats in heat?"

Heather perked up considerably. "Yes! Like cats in heat scratching a blackboard. It was really..." Then it dawned on her. "Wait. You've heard it?"

No point explaining, now or ever. "A few times. Usually late at night, when I've been working too hard. Dr. Shapiro says it's stress." With a grave expression, I pretended to study her face. "You may be coming down with it, too. It's been a tough few weeks around here."

She didn't look convinced. "Well, yes, but..."

"And then there was last night. That Dave person. He can't have helped."

"No," she admitted. "He didn't."

"So I think you should take the day off. Hallucinations aren't good. And we've had too much of that going around. Look at Jack and Kurt."

Heather went pale. "You don't mean..."

I shrugged. "Hard to say. But I don't think you'd be happy in the bin. Did you know they have dinner at 5 there?"

"You're kidding."

"Nope. They do group hugs, too. Peg was trying to tell me they read Inspiring Thoughts for the Day out loud after breakfast, but that sounded too cruel, so..."

"I'm out of here," she said sharply. "I'm going to go home and lie down. I don't feel so good. Are you sure you don't need me for anything?"

"Not till tomorrow. Go home."

She bolted. The last I saw of her, she was shoving one of Walt's artists out of her way in the hall, and by the thud he made hitting the wall, she meant business.

Oh, well, she probably needed a day off anyway. I'd have to take up the slack for her if anything came up, but it beat telling the truth -- let alone losing one more copywriter to the shrinks.

Resigned, I hung up my coat and settled in at my desk to check e-mail. In the very next instant, a bad Presence loomed over my shoulder.

"Cats in heat?" the Presence asked menacingly.

"I was quoting. What do you want now?"

"Want?" Monica's tone turned suspiciously sweet. "Really, Devlin." She settled on the arm of my chair, with a little smile that matched the tone. "What makes you think I want something?"

"If you're breathing, you want something."

"Then this should be familiar. How is the irritating blonde?"

It came out before I thought. "Irritating."

"Yes. That was my guess." A set of long, sharp talons started to play in my hair. "She's trying to close the sale. It would be more honest if she just put a ring through your nose."

"Cut that out," I demanded, pus.h.i.+ng her hand away. "And don't try to make trouble. Everything's fine."

"Is it? I thought she loooooooved you."

"She does. It's mutual."

"You both have an interesting way of showing it."

"Why? Because we argue? Because she's a little possessive?"

Monica laughed -- and I did hear something a little feline in it this time.

"It's just how we work this relations.h.i.+p," I told her. "This is how it was before. It works for us. We don't want things to get all mushy."

"Horrors," Monica said mockingly, and reached down to rake her claws through my hair again.

This time, I threw her off so hard that she nearly went over the chair arm. "You were going to tell me what you want. Tell me, and then get out."

"You don't trust me."

I greeted that remark with the silence it deserved.

"All right, never mind," she said, a little sulkily. "I'm here to do you a favor. Do you remember my offer?"

"What offer?"

"You're headed for trouble, Devlin." She leaned forward a little too far, and I had to forcibly remind myself not to look down her cleavage. "But I can still make it all go away."

"Tell you what," I said coolly. "You just make yourself go away, and we'll have a deal."

Monica just laughed again. "That ring through the nose will be very attractive. I'm sure your family will admire it. You are taking her home for Christmas, aren't you? Planning to explain her?"

There was no explaining Ca.s.sie. And there was no point in having this discussion, either. Irritated, I got up and started to leave the office.

"The offer stands," Monica said. "I'll be around when you change your mind. In fact, I'll be right here. I am your admin now, you know."

That stopped me.

"Of course, I'm having a stress problem," she added. "I'll need to take the rest of the day off. With pay."

"Fine. Just go," I snapped.

She vanished from the chair arm and materialized in front of me -- much too close. "Let me leave you with one thought, Devlin. You haven't seen fantastic in bed yet."

This time, I bolted out of the office. The artist Heather had shoved into the wall was blocking the hallway again, rubbing his head; I shoved him into the opposite wall and kept going.

Just to be safe, I spent the rest of the morning down in Video. And I made an intern check my office before I went back up.

Late that afternoon, someone knocked.

"Go away," I said, intent on a rewrite.

The intruder knocked again. Annoyed, I swiveled around toward the door. "Who is it?"

"Candygram," a m.u.f.fled voice said.

Against my will, I smiled a little. Too bad "Sat.u.r.day Night Live" was no good anymore. "It's open."

The door opened, and I couldn't see who or what came in, because it was carrying an enormous bouquet of snapdragons. Surprised, I got up to help.

"Thanks," the courier said. "Should've brought this up on a dolly. Where do you want it?"

Good question. There wasn't a square inch of clear s.p.a.ce on my desk. "The credenza, I guess. Over here. Watch out for the coffeemaker."

We managed to set the thing down without damage. Then we just stood there, looking at it.

The courier shook his head. "That's a s.h.i.+tload of flowers. What did you do?"

"I have no idea. Is there a card?"

"I'm not looking through all that," he informed me. "Have a nice day."

I waited for him to leave and then started poking through the arrangement with a letter opener. Finally, a little white envelope fell out. I opened it and read the card.

You're not half-bad yourself, sweetie. Dinner at 7?

C.

Well, it was her version of an apology. I had a feeling that dinner could be arranged.

But we were going to have a little talk about nose jewelry, just in case she really had any ideas.

(c) 2000, K. Simpson To Part 4 The Devil's Workshop (c) 2000, M.C. Sak Disclaimers, Credits, & E-Mail: See Part 1.

Chapter Notes:.

For any readers outside the United States, AAA is a motor club. And the part about the mayor who wouldn't plow the streets is true, except that he didn't run for re-election.

CHAPTER 4.

December *

Several bad things happened the very first Monday of December: Kurt came back to work part-time.

My mother called.

Lucy called.

My mother called again.

Kurt was the easy part. He was still on heavy meds, so he wasn't up to being much trouble yet. I gave him bunny shots to start with -- a new spot in an existing series, a couple of rewrites, a make-good for Walt's team -- and pretty much left him alone after that. If he continued to be a good boy, I'd let him run another audition soon. If not...well, there'd be another Kester Mortuaries spot to write. Or I could give him Ca.s.sie's father's bank's account. That would teach both of them not to cross me.

But my mother was another story. She always was.

I was in a meeting when she called the first time. After that, I went straight to another meeting, so I missed the second call too. It wasn't till lunch that I finally got the message -- on Ca.s.sie's pager.

"It's for you," she said, handing it across the table.

I squinted at the tiny display.

HAVE DEV CALL URGENT R SANCHEZ. What could be urgent? Jenner was still home in bed. Jack was still locked up. Kurt was under sedation. Monica hadn't been back, and neither had Vanessa. But Sanchez wasn't the type to panic, so if she said it was urgent... "Borrow your phone?"