"I can't believe you're staying! You know, and you're fucking staying!"
"Well, what about you, white boy?" Hmm. Jessica must be mega-pissed... "white boy" and "white girl" tended to come out only when she was furious, or scared. "You somehow forgot to mention that you're using my best friend to help you look good for the chief."
Wait. What?
"Not to mention, you expect her to take bullets for you if things get nasty. Slip your mind?"
"I'm not taking bullets for anyone," I announced, pushing open the door, "unless it's Beverly Feldman."
"Stay out of this, Betsy."
"Yeah, fuck off, blondie."
Sinclair's head came up with a jerk (he'd been seated at the counter, pretending to read the Journal), and he opened his mouth to hiss or roar something, but I overrode him with a breezy, "And a verrrrrry pleasant good evening to all of you, too."
The pleasantness of my greeting appeared to take the wind out of everyone's sails, not just his. I poured myself half the pitcher of orange juice and sat my ass down just like I belonged there.
It could be tricky, busting in on a fight. There was the "oh my God, I'm so sorry you didn't see me, I'll just scuttle back out the way I came" method, always popular with roommates of the female persuasion.
And there was my "hey, you're doing this in a public place - sort of, our kitchen - and you're fighting about me, so guess what? I'm staying" method, which I normally didn't have the nerve to try.
Jessica was eyeballing my head. "Nice hair."
"Thanks."
"It's very," Sinclair said carefully, "bright."
"Felt like a change."
"Mmmm. Detective Berry," Sinclair tried again, in a much calmer tone, but no less frightening, if you knew him, which we all did, "please do not speak to my wife that way in her own home."
"It's my girlfriend's home," Nick said, sounding sulky, but at least he was quieting down, too.
"Yes, so you delight in reminding me, and as I said earlier, I would be delighted to purchase the place from her at a fair market price. She could then move in with you, or not, as she liked, and as you liked, and several of your so-called problems would be over."
Nick had nothing to say to that, of course, and why would he? Sinclair was only telling the truth. In fact, I could see on Nick's face how very, very badly he wanted that option for Jessica.
Too bad he'd have about as much luck making her do anything she didn't want as I'd had in the past. Put it this way: I'd had more luck persuading the Ant not to wear so much polyester.
In fact, the only way he could maybe get her to leave would be if she moved -
Abruptly, Nick was on one knee. This startled Jessica, who kept her finger pointed at the space where his chest had been two seconds earlier. "I don't like you talking like - what the hell are you doing?"
He looked up at her soulfully, grabbed the hand that wasn't stabbing the air above him, and clutched it to his chest. "Jessica, will you marry me?"
"What?"
"Or at least move in with me? Right now?"
"Tr��s romantic," Sinclair muttered, and I winked at him. I noticed his green teacup was empty, rose, and poured him a fresh cup, ignoring his raised eyebrows. It was possible I had never done such a thing before. Damn, I was in a good mood tonight! It could only mean doom was on the way. Doom, or the Ant.
"How sweet of you to ask." She yanked her hand out of Nick's no doubt sweaty grip. "And I'm only being half sarcastic when I say that, because you do think you're protecting me. But what a rotten way to begin living together or being engaged - so you can move me out of my best friend's house."
"It's your house!"
"That's true," I said, guzzling more juice. "It is."
"And you," he said, rounding on me. Definitely should have stayed out of this one. "Jessica's in mortal fucking danger - again! And this one is one hundred percent at your door, Oh Great Queen of the Suckheads! "
"You quit it," Jessica ordered, as the three of us pretended he wasn't one hundred percent right. "You were chortling over the possibility of the Fiends eating my friend - except if those things take out Sinclair and Betsy - "
"Actually," I said, "we prefer 'Betsy and Sinclair.' "
"We certainly do not."
" - just what do you think they'll do to the rest of us?"
"Force us to buy time-shares in Cabo San Lucas," Tina suggested in a low voice, passing the local newspapers to Sinclair. I stifled a snicker.
"If they take out Sinclair and Betsy, who's gonna be safe?" Jessica asked. "Don't you get it, white boy? Half the time, those two walking wood ticks are the only thing between us and the real monsters."
"That was wonderful," Tina said, scuttling in with her head down, as if Nick and Jess were throwing frying pans in addition to words, "except for walking wood ticks. Good morning, Majesties. Good morning, Detective. Jessica."
They ignored her. Nick was still on his knees, but at least Jessica had stopped pointing at air. "Yeah, but you have to admit, most of the stuff they 'save' us from wouldn't be threatening us if not for them in the first place."
Oooh, ouch, good one. I certainly had no come-back.
"Yeah, well, with rank comes responsibility. Or is it with great power comes - anyway, that's what happens when you decide to shack up with dead monarchs, or even just a friend, something I knew long before Betsy and I were shacking up here, my come-lately lover." That was as close, normally, as Jess would come to "good point, you're right." "I remind you that she's been on the scene a lot longer than you have."
"You think I don't know that?"
"And that I wouldn't be on the scene if it hadn't been for her," she continued quietly. "I'd be a month dead by now. But she saved my life. Better: my appendix grew back, and so did my tonsils, and I've never felt better."
"Say what?" I asked, choking on my juice. Tina had frozen in the act of handing several faxes to Sinclair. And he just looked at me with those dark, expressionless eyes and said nothing. "Stuff that got cut out of you grew back?"
"Of course I'm grateful to her, she's alive, isn't she?" he snapped. "She's walking around not arrested, right? I didn't mention her secret to any of the thirty-some Pioneer Press reporters I know. Did I?"
"Yikes. Thanks." Reporters? Arrested? Man, I was getting an awful lot of new information to process at once. Time for more juice.
"You haven't done any of those things, because you don't want me to dump your sorry ass, not out of gratitude to Betsy."
Oh, and the quarterback scores!
Nick slowly got up off the floor, brushed off his knees, and turned to me. "You know this is your fault."
"I do know. I'm sorry, Nick. I tried to make her leave."
"I can make her leave," Sinclair said pleasantly, watching Nick.
"No, no," I said, pouring the rest of the pitcher into my glass and draining it in three gulps. Other liquids didn't kill the thirst for blood - nothing but, well, blood could do that - but they helped a little. The household was used to watching me go through a gallon of juice at breakfast. Though breakfast tended to be at ten o'clock at night these days. "Nobody's gonna make Jessica do anything, I think we got that established in the seventh grade. And Nick's right. The Fiends thing - it's my fault. I just - I just sort of forgot about them for a while."
"Typical," Guess Who sneered.
I could feel my good mood draining away, sort of like the OJ out of the pitcher. Because I made this mess, I made it happen - or allowed, through inaction, it to happen. I felt shitty about it, but it was way beyond late for that. Feeling shitty wasn't going to solve the problem. Probably more people dying would, and I absolutely hated that.
The really awful thing was, the thought of the deaths to come didn't depress me so much as it made me tired.