Compact with the Devil: A Novel (7 page)

Nikki dropped the woman and pushed her way through the racks of costumes. Sure enough, a back door stood open, revealing the expanse of backstage area. Tracksuit was nowhere in sight.

“Bastard piece of shit!” exclaimed Nikki. It was one of Z’ev’s favorite swear phrases.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate Carrie Mae language, dear,” said the woman, peering over Nikki’s shoulder.

Nikki pivoted slowly to look at the woman.

“Who are you?” she demanded, thinking of a few other examples of un–Carrie Mae–like language.

“I’m Trista,” said the woman, patting absentmindedly at her towering hair. “Who are you? What are you doing here if Camille didn’t send you?”

“I’m asking the questions,” snapped Nikki. “What’s your mission?”

“I’m not on a mission,” said Trista primly. “I retired from Carrie Mae. I’m now the head makeup artist to Kit Masters.”

“Son of a bi—”

“Young lady!” exclaimed Trista. “I just do not know what is
happening in Carrie Mae these days that they would hire women who use that kind of language.”

Nikki took a deep breath and counted to ten.

“What concert is this? Where am I?”

“It’s the Hotel Hell tour,” answered Trista. “Kit Masters?” she added when Nikki’s expression tightened.

“Kit Masters, Camille Masters’s son?”

“Yes,” said Trista. “Is there some kind of trouble? Who are you?”

“Nikki Lanier,” said Nikki. “Antonio Cano escaped from prison; I’ve been sent to apprehend him.”

“Oh God,” said Trista, going pale and clutching the nearest clothing rack for support. “Please tell me he’s not here.”

“I was chasing someone he was talking to,” said Nikki, withholding the information that the meeting had been interrupted by Camille.

“Oh God!” exclaimed Trista again, her hand dramatically covering her heart. “We have to do something! That’s too much; Kit can’t know about that.”

“No one’s telling him anything yet. Doesn’t he have security?” asked Nikki impatiently.

“Of course, but he’s just come out of rehab, and he doesn’t know anything about Cano or Camille’s job. You can’t tell him!” Trista was wide-eyed in horror.

Somewhere an alarm went off, beeping in a rapid rhythm.

“Oh!” exclaimed Trista, jumping slightly at the noise. “Oh! We have to go. It’s time!”

“Time for what?” asked Nikki.

“Uh … uh…” Trista was hurrying around the room, collecting bits of clothing and strapping on a tool belt full of makeup. “Just … come on. I’ll explain it on the way.”

They walked rapidly through the backstage area, passing a strange desk full of switches, manned by an overfed roadie in a tour T-shirt and a donut clasped in one hand. A panoply of wires connected the desk to what looked like an air compressor, which ran hoses for pneumatic mechanical legs that rose into the dark recesses above their heads.

“That’s the elevating stage,” said Trista, noticing the direction of Nikki’s gaze. “The band’s up there, and when Kit comes out after intermission, he’ll get on that.” She pointed to a small platform that was ringed with an iron railing. “It’ll shoot him up on the stage. Then he’ll get on the elevating stage with the band, and then they’ll all rise another twenty-five feet in the air and hover while the fireworks go off.”

“Great,” said Nikki, feeling that some sort of response was called for. She wasn’t sure where they were going or why. She needed to question Trista about likely suspects for Tracksuit’s identity, but instead Trista seemed to be giving her a tour. They climbed steep, corrugated metal stairs, the concrete floor beneath them disappearing rapidly.

“We need to focus on Cano,” said Nikki, feeling that she was losing control of the situation and raising her voice over the music that was getting louder as they approached the stage. “Assuming Cano’s targeting Kit, who on the tour would meet with him?”

“No one,” said Trista. “Everyone loves Kit.”

Nikki rolled her eyes. “Well, someone met with Cano. Someone I chased back here; someone who conked you on the head.”

“No one would want to hurt Kit.” Trista’s face folded into an angry pout.

“All these people ‘love’ Kit?” asked Nikki skeptically, gesturing around ascurrying roadies. “No one would give up security details for a fat lot of cash?”

“Duncan vetted everyone,” said Trista.

“Who’s Duncan?” Nikki asked.

“Duncan Kilkenny, Kit’s bodyguard,” said Trista, looking distracted as they came out into the wings of the stage. “He takes care of all the security matters. Here, hold this.” She pushed a pile of clothes at Nikki.

“No, really,” said Nikki, fumbling the clothes. “I don’t have time for this. I have a mission. Cano—”

“That’s why you have to stay!” exclaimed Trista. “You have to protect Kit.”

“He’s got bodyguards. You just said.”

“What’s he doing?” asked Trista, checking her watch. “He should be offstage by now.”

Onstage Kit Masters was screaming lyrics into a microphone, leaning way out over a speaker. His sleeveless T-shirt was soaked through and clung to his body. The square stadium was jammed with people. Banners littered the swarming pile of fans. As the band jammed, Nikki craned her head and watched sweat fly off the drummer in post-bath-dog shakes of his flailing arms. Kit finished the song, throwing up his hands in exultation. The fans screamed in reaction, and Kit stepped back from the microphone and looked around, seeing who was with him. He lifted his hands and made small patting, shushing movements. The stadium quieted to a mountainous whisper. Kit hitched up his pants with an almost embarrassed movement.

“Now, look, people, ordinarily at this point in the show I go sponge myself off, but we are having such a good time that I think we need to do one more song. Which one do you think we should do? What do you think, guys?” He turned around to look at the band.

“One more song,” muttered Trista. “He must be having a really good time. He never does an extra song. He’s always prompt about his halftime break.”

Out onstage, Nikki could hear the band shouting suggestions.

“‘God Hates Elvis,’” said the guitar player; the bass player shrugged.

“‘Less Than Second,’” said the keyboardist, and then the drummer yelled, “‘Heaven-Sent!’”

Kit laughed. He turned back to the microphone.

“Burg wants to do ‘Heaven-Sent.’”

There was a terrific roar of approval from the crowd. Kit shook his head in disbelief. The guitarist began playing a riff, a little tease of music. Kit laughed and the bass player joined in, her braids swinging with the
thunka-thunka
bass line. The guitar players exchanged glances and then began the chord again, a little more seriously this time. Kit looked between the two of them and then shrugged. With a sly grin he turned back to the microphone. Burg, the drummer, started the drums with a light tap.

“He’s not really…,” said Trista, turning to Nikki.

“Not really what?” asked Nikki, mystified

Kit began—“Girl, you are my shining star…” then stopped, laughing. “God, I haven’t done this song in ten years. I don’t think I can sing this on my own; let’s try it again with your help.”

“Girl, you are my shining star…” He leaned the microphone out to the crowd.

The stadium shouted the words along with him, incomprehensible in their multitude.

“It’s an @last song!” yelled Trista as the music swelled. “He always swore he wasn’t ever going to sing those songs again!”

Kit and the stadium hit the bridge and finally rocked into the
chorus, the words becoming clearer as the crowd became more synchronized.

Oh my sweet angel, my heart, my dear…

Baby you’ve been heaven-sent

Yeah you’ve been heaven-sent…

“But I’m in hell without you here!” Kit sang a little before the beat, his voice carrying above the noise. Nikki knew the song was ridiculous boy-band nonsense, but somehow the way he sang, the way his voice soared, nearly took her breath away.

They finished the song, and Kit leapt in the air, pumping his fist in Tom Cruise–like enthusiasm. He bounded offstage, and the backup girls came circling down to the front to take his place. Trista handed him a bottle of water. Kit chugged most of the bottle in one gulp and poured the rest over his head.

“Who’s she?” he demanded, pointing at Nikki.

“Never mind her,” answered Trista, yanking off his shirt. “She’s helping me.” She shoved a towel into his hand and pushed him down the stairs.

Kit began walking down the stairs, toweling himself off. At the midway landing a small entourage awaited him, spearheaded by a woman in a headset, gray slacks, and a white blouse. In one hand she clutched a clipboard and phone. Her bottle-blond hair was slicked back in an overly gelled bun and Nikki frowned at her. Tracksuit could have been a woman. Was it gel or was her hair simply wet?

“Mike and the sound guys say—” she said, but Kit cut her off.

“I don’t give a shite what the sound guys say,” he said.

Two men completed the waiting group. One was another headset-clad man who looked to be following the woman around. The
other was a large man with a handlebar mustache and blue eyes peering out from bristling eyebrows. He faded to the back of the group immediately upon seeing Nikki, but she was aware of his presence all the same.

“Fix it or do it or don’t do it, just don’t bother me with it,” Kit said, handing the towel back to Trista. Trista tossed the towel to Nikki and began to unbuckle Kit’s belt.

“Who’s she?” demanded headset girl, pointing at Nikki.

“She’s helping Trista,” said Kit as Trista slid his pants down.

“Shoes,” Trista commanded. Kit stepped one foot on the heel of the other and stepped out of his shoe, then reached down to yank off the other.

“She’s not on my list,” said the blonde, rifling through the papers on her clipboard.

“Do I look like I care?” shouted Kit, and the woman blanched.

“Uh, no, sorry.”

He was down to his Jockeys and socks by this time and heading for the spring-loaded platform that would shoot him back up to stage level. Singing and dancing for two hours a night had given Kit a sports-star physique, and Nikki was unprepared for the surge of pure physical attraction she suddenly felt. Nikki tried to look somewhere else that didn’t involve a mostly naked, glistening Kit Masters. No one else seemed to care, but she felt she was crossing some professional boundary line—as if it were impolite to notice that the emperor had no clothes on. She glanced back and caught Kit’s eye; he winked, clearly enjoying himself, and Nikki looked away again, blushing.

“Pants!” Trista snapped at Nikki, who dutifully handed over the rough-grained leather pants. “Step,” she said to Kit. Kit stepped into the pants, and the mustache-wearing man and Trista grabbed at the waistline and yanked upward until he was fully in
the pants. Shoes came next, but when Nikki held out the shirt Kit waved it away.

“It’s blistering under the lights, don’t need it.”

“Fine,” said Trista, and set about powdering him. He stood for it, but impatiently. “You’re going to be great,” she said, pinching his chin and smiling. Kit was nodding before she’d even finished.

“I’ve got to get back out there!” Kit said to Trista, grinning from ear to ear. “The crowd is awesome tonight!” He stepped onto the platform, squatting a little before nodding to the technician, who pushed a button. The platform shot upward, and Kit was gone.

Nikki checked her watch. The entire change had taken less than four minutes. She scanned the area for mustache man; she wanted another look at him.

“Trista, if you’re going to have guests you need to clear it with me or Mr. Dettling,” said the girl in the headset.

“Well, thank you for that information, Angela, but I believe that it’s Kit’s tour, not Mr. Dettling’s,” snapped Trista. “And Kit knows that I bring in anyone who helps me get the job done. Now, why don’t you go do your job?” Trista took Nikki by the elbow and swept back toward the dressing room. Angela’s face was frozen in a scowling mask of fury.

The mustache man was standing between them and the dressing room.

“I don’t care if you clear it with Kit or Brandt, but new hires get vetted through me. I want her info in my hands by the end of the night.”

“No problem, Duncan,” said Trista, smiling tightly. “It’s just a last-minute thing.”

Duncan didn’t return the smile and instead gave a curt nod before stalking away. Trista muttered something Nikki didn’t
catch and continued to drag Nikki back to the dressing room. Nikki watched him go. He was far too tall and broad-shouldered to be Tracksuit, but he still set off little alarm bells.

“I need to borrow your phone,” said Nikki.

“My phone?” repeated Trista.

“To call my team,” said Nikki, holding out her hand.

“Ooh, you have ‘teams’ now, do you? In my day, all a Carrie Mae lady had was her wit, her charm, and herself.”

Nikki threw her eyes heavenward and counted to ten. “Well, these days we try not to leave anyone stranded. Phone?”

Reluctantly, Trista handed over the phone. “I’ll just give you some privacy then, shall I?” she asked rhetorically, exiting quietly.

Nikki waved distractedly and stared at the phone, only then realizing that she had no way of contacting Astriz. Without a company phone or a computer, she was out here on her own. So much for her pep talk about teams. Frowning, she dialed a number that she knew by heart.

“This is Jane,” said Jane after two rings. She sounded very businesslike and slightly annoyed.

“Jane, it’s Nikki. I need your help. You still bored enough to come in off the beach?”

“You better believe it!” exclaimed Jane. “What’s up?”

Briefly Nikki recounted her evening’s adventure, backtracking periodically to answer Jane’s questions.

“OK,” said Jane at the end. “So you have several problems here.”

“Lay it on me,” said Nikki. This was Jane’s usual method: assess, dissect, offer methods of attack.

“Cano and this guy Voges … Just who and what did Voges set him up with? We’d know a lot more about Cano’s intentions if we knew what kind of stuff he’d picked up.”