Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 27

"Hey! I'm the innocent party here! I was all set to follow your sage advice and gracefully decline the Red Queen's offer, but oh, no, you two had to go all Avengers on me. So, you two can come up with a roster."

"Oh? So, you'd let Frank's business go broke, huh?" Dixie asked. "Think about that for a moment, Miss Be the Bigger Person. No more fun money from pulling a s.h.i.+ft here and there. No more free Freezes and fries. No more belly burners, pulled pork. No more hot fudge brownie sundaes."

I winced. Dixie the Destructor was not above hitting below the belt. So to speak.

"Any fallout will soon blow over," I espoused.

"No more double bacon cheddar burgers with a heaping side of rings." Dixie paused for dramatic effect. "And...no more doggie bags."

I bounded from the tailgate.

"Let me at 'em!" I said.

"I could play."

That softly worded statement came from Kenny Grey. He'd hung around after the entertainer's exodus-surprising given his devotion to Keelie.

"Who are you again?" Dixie asked.

"He's Kenny the cartoonist."

"Caricaturist," Kenny corrected.

"Have you played volleyball before?" Taylor asked.

"Are you good?" Dixie grilled.

He shrugged. "I've played some. I think I'm okay."

"We don't need okay. We need super hero. We need Spiker Man!" I proclaimed. "Oh. And just so everyone knows, I won't be wearing one of those skimpy bikini suits."

"G.o.d, I hope not." Dixie grabbed her stomach. "Think of all that vomit on all that sand."

"So? Are we ready to get down and dirty?" I asked.

Dixie sniffed the air around me.

"Looks like you're already there."

I sniffed a pit and made a face.

Point to Dixie.

As overnight host, Creston had gone all out for the ride, turning the Midwestern city into a beach lover's paradise. Tons of sand had been trucked in. Lounge chairs and beach towels dotted the landscape. Attractive, young men masqueraded as cabana boys and fit females in itty-bitty, teeny-wienie bikinis served fruity drinks with pastel-colored umbrellas. Beach volleyball courts gave bikers a place to play, and sand sculpture compet.i.tions provided a creative outlet.

If life were fair, I would be reclining on a lounge chair, ogling a cute little cabana boy offering me a drink with a colorful umbrella.

So. Not. Fair.

"Would you look at that?"

Dixie pulled me out of my beach baby moment.

"I don't believe it."

"Talk about your Benedict Arnolds."

"What does the Pope have to do with this?" I asked.

Dixie shook her head.

"Oh. I get it. Talk about your traitors," I said, staring Brutus-like daggers through the volleyball net at a guy I'd bailed out of jail, masqueraded as a faux fiancee for the sake of his ailing Aunt Mo for, and been an all-occasion, all-round, stand-up gal pal to.

"What a piece of work," Dixie said.

"h.e.l.lo. What does his to-drool-for physique have to do with being a turncoat?" I asked.

"I'm not talking about Manny's muscles. I'm talking about his manhood."

"What!"

"Not that!" Dixie growled. "Manhood as in the qualities and characteristics a.s.sociated with being a man, such as courage, determination, loyalty."

"Ah. Manhood! Gotcha!" I gave a grim nod. With Manny playing for the Red Queen's team, we were so screwed.

"Who's that other guy? The big one with arms that almost reach his knees?"

"One of the cameramen," I said, with another look of disgust and turned to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" Dixie asked.

"To get my bike helmet." No way was I gonna be across the net from Mr. Muscles and Gumby the cameraman without proper head protection.

"What about Patrick? Has he called you back?" Taylor asked.

"Ten-seventy-four," I said.

"What?"

"That's negative in police ten-code."

Taylor shook her head.

"So we've got me, you, Taylor, probable saboteur Van Vleet, and Kenny the cartoonist?" Dixie asked.

"Caricaturist. And our roster sounds even worse when you say it," I said.

Someone (okay, me) had insisted on the new Trekkies wearing red s.h.i.+rts. Misery loves company and all that. Van Vleet had somehow managed to come up with gold Enterprise Insignias to pin on each enlistee's s.h.i.+rt.

Our opponents, by contrast, sported hot pink bikinis (the girls not the guys) bare chests, (the guys not the gals) and knee-length gray shorts trimmed in hot pink. Well, with the exception of Manny, who wore s.h.i.+ny black shorts and a rich mahogany six-pack that made Langley Carlisle look like a walking ad for anemia.

We took our places on the sand, a ragtag group of interstellar patriots defending our home planet.

I stood across from Manny and tried for my best (or, rather worst) Bada.s.s Barbie look.

"I wish you well with the alliance you've chosen," I said.

"Biker Barbie's displeased?" Manny asked.

"Of course, not. You're free to align yourself with whomever-or whatever-you chose. It's nothing to me. Live your life."

Manny shook his head.

"It's just a job," he said.

I smirked.

"Right. A job. Very well. I just have one small request. You know-from the person who freed you from incarceration and gave your dear aunt something to hold onto at a difficult time in her life."

"What's that, Barbie?"

A whimper escaped me.

"Be gentle."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

If Keelie was the Red Queen, we were Resident Evil's Umbrella Corporation Commandos, getting picked off one by one as we attempted to infiltrate the hive.

I hadn't seen so many flailing arms and out-of-control b.a.l.l.s since the time I talked my dad into taking me golfing with him. (I was responsible for the whack-a-doodle b.a.l.l.s. My dad did all the arm waving.) I dove to the sand so many times, I had sand where sand should never be-and where it would be tricky to remove.

"Match point!"

Positioned across from me, Keelie let us know the blessed end was nigh in a contest that surely must qualify as the shortest (and ugliest) sand volleyball match on record. You listening, Guinness Book of Records?

"For crying out loud, get on with it!" I yelled.

"Yeah. Put 'em out of their misery!" Someone in the peanut gallery contributed.

Big flippin' deal. Team Trekkie had become the target of so many catcalls, insults, and heckles-not to mention a downright rude play-by-play-that our collective morale had to be lower than Cubs' fans at play-offs time.

Better luck next time. See you next year.

Manny held the serve.

"Come on, Manny! For the win!" Keelie cheered.

Manny shrugged, tossed the ball in the air, brought his arm up, and smacked the ball. Into the air it went.

"Get it! Get it!" I yelled to Taylor behind me. "Set me up! Set me up!"

And then I saw it. An opening. My opening! The Red Queen, still magazine-cover pristine, was mere inches away-vulnerable-representing what is referred to as an irresistible target.

One shot. Just one harmless bounce off the bean so we wouldn't be totally humiliated. That's all I asked. Just. One. Measly. Noggin. Shot.

Taylor moved into position, palms up, wrists together, textbook set shot posture. She bent her knees.

Whop!

The ball sailed upward in a perfectly executed set-shot, the placement spot on.

I watched the ball reach its apex, tracked the ball's descent, and timed my jump.

I brought my hand up.

Just. About. Now!

With my final reserve of energy, I leaped into the air, stretching ligaments and tendons that screamed, "What the h.e.l.l are you doing to us, woman?" and thrust my arm up-and elbow out.

Thwack!

Smack!

Crunch!

Next to me, Dixie the Destructor dropped to the sand.

The follow-through instinct kicked in. I snapped my wrist and sent the ball downward over the net.

Bam! Boom!

The Red Queen went down like a basketball guard defending against a power forward's drive down the lane.

Back at ground level, I surveyed the carnage. Across the net, Keelie Keller, flat on her back, her arms outstretched, stared up at the sky, a dazed look on her face.

Next to me, Team Trekkie enlistee, Dixie the Dragon lady, lie curled up in a fetal position. Her hands covered her nose, but not her moans.

I grimaced. Another "red s.h.i.+rt" bites the dust.