QUEENIE BABY: On Assignment

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To my husband Jim, our children, and our family and friends.

And to all the other wacky characters I’ve met along the zigzag path of life.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

SO I'M NOT technically a rock star—yet. “Rock star” might be too strong a term for my musical ambitions. My name is Diana Hudson and I like to think of myself as a working musician. The reality is that sometimes I'm working as a musician and sometimes I'm broke and working as a temp. As in temporary worker. Not exactly the most glamorous job, but it pays the bills between gigs.

My most recent assignment was as a personal assistant to a vampire. Of course, Carol didn't tell me I was being assigned to a vampire when she offered me the three-week position.

"He's a visiting professor from Yugoslavia," she explained. "You’ll be working out of his hotel. A nice one. He’s a little eccentric, but we've worked with him before. And he pays well."

I was, of course, between gigs and it sounded easy enough. Show up at ten a.m., work until four typing a manuscript—piece of cake, right?

A little bit about me. I live in Annapolis, Maryland, but I'm originally from a little town in southern Delaware. I had just turned thirty, no man in the picture unless you count my dog, Max, and, according to most of my family, no actual career. I'm freakishly tall, with long straight blond hair and blue eyes. I might be described as having a willowy kind of elegance if I weren't so clumsy. Think one part Grace Kelly and two parts Lucille Ball.

Anyway, back to the vampire. So I showed up at the hotel fifteen minutes ahead of time, dressed in a professional Banana Republic pantsuit. He answered the door wearing—no lie—a black cape. His hair was flowing salt and pepper with a high widow’s peak. His skin was a chalky white.

"You must be Miss Hudson," he drawled. "Please come in."

Actually, he wasn't as creepy as you might think. He was handsome in an old guy way. Distinguished and gentlemanly. I took a quick look around his suite. The hotel was a small, upscale boutique-style building in the historic district. The kind of place that attracted people with yachts. Posh furnishings, although a little stuffy for my tastes. And thankfully, no sign of a coffin.

I’d been temping for five years. The last three I’d spent working almost exclusively for Carol Smith at Greene’s Staffing Services. Carol took great care of me. I rarely went a week without work. I made sure to be on time, dress professionally, and not act crazy in front of the clients. Job requirements that seemed to stump many temporaries according to Carol. And since I live two blocks from the office, most mornings I’d drop by with coffee and Carol’s favorite pastry, Monkey Bread from Shack’s Bakery. A little bribery never hurt either.

As a seasoned temp, nothing surprised me anymore.

Not the weird jobs—I once delivered mail to Baltimore prisons. Yep, Baltimore.

Or the eccentric employers—I once worked for a CEO at a manufacturing company who designated his office as the official break room, so he could smoke at his desk all day.

And I have, on several occasions, been excluded from partaking in office birthday cake because of my temporary status. Yes, seriously.

But a guy in a cape was new.

"Hello, Mr. Pyres," I began. "Carol said you need help with a manuscript while you’re in town."

He turned with a flourish. The cape billowed out around him. He floated over to a desk piled high with books and papers.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, indicating the high back upholstered chair in front of the desk. "And please, call me Vann."

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I settled myself into the chair and crossed my legs.

"Did Miss Smith mention that my writing process is rather different?" he asked with a quirky nod of encouragement.

I shook my head no.

"Well, you see, I study medieval literature and I like to keep with the old ways so to speak."

Like a chisel and stone tablet? I bit back. No, just nod in agreement.

He reached across the desk and pulled out a quill pen from an antique ink well. He waved the pen around like he was conducting an orchestra.

"Miss Hudson, I tell you, this is the only way to write!" Spit flew from his lips.

He gathered himself and said with a sigh, "Alas, my publisher refuses to accept anything unless it has been fed into that executioner of human dignity—the computer!"

I swear I think I heard Dark Shadow’s organ music as he finished.

"This is where your services come in," he said with a slight smile. "I need you to type up my manuscript on a
computer
." He could barely choke out the word. "I can't abide those things in my presence, so you will have to work in the executive office space provided by the hotel."

With what should have won me a place in the Temp Hall of Fame, I smiled brightly and said, "Sounds like an interesting project! I can't wait to get started."

* * * * *

Six hours and a dozen spindly handwritten pages later, I was headed back to my car, a well-preserved Honda Civic. It was warm for early April, so I drove the short distance with the windows down and my iPod tuned to Jack Johnson. God, what I wouldn't give for some banana pancakes right now. But I had business to attend to. First stop was Carol. She had some explaining to do. “The Count,” as I’d taken to calling Mr. Pyres to myself, was fairly easy to work with. That didn’t, however, change the fact that Carol had sent me in blind on this assignment. Second stop, the bar down the street from my condo. There was a martini calling my name.

I found a parking space strategically located between the agency and my condo. It was a good space. No way would this have happened in the summer. My condo had zero parking, especially during the day, or anytime at the height of the tourist season. Most evenings I was able to find a space close by. In the summer I rented a space in a lot three blocks away.

Greene’s Staffing Service was located in a storefront in the business district. It was sandwiched between Nails 2Go and Spellbound, a Wiccan specialty store that seemed to sell more pot paraphernalia than pentacles. The sidewalk in front of Greene’s was tidy with an old-fashioned green awning over the doorway. Through the big glass windows I could see Carol in a heated discussion with a temporary. I pulled the old wood and glass door open and stepped inside.

"There isn't anything to discuss, Angela," said Carol patiently. "You were three hours late for your first day at Dr. Mason’s office. And when you finally got there you wanted to know when lunch was. He doesn't want you back."

"Well, it was lunch time, wasn't it?" replied Angela with a roll of her eyes. "So what—I’m not supposed to eat?"

Looked to me like Angela had been eating just fine, but I kept my mouth shut. Carol was a master at these situations.

"Angela, you went to school to be a medical office assistant. You know you have to show up on time. The patients are depending on you."

"All I know, Miss Carol, is that this is your fault!" Angela exclaimed and shook a long red acrylic nail emblazoned with the Red Cross symbol at Carol.

Carol stared at her blankly for a second. Her eyes were magnified through her thick glasses. With bobbed brown hair and almost no makeup Carol looked middle-aged, but I couldn’t even begin to guess how old she was. The glasses made her look a bit like a wise old owl.

I couldn't wait to watch her deal with this one.

Cool as can be, Carol asked, "And how's that?"

"Well, you told me to look nice and professional."

"Yes, I did," Carol agreed.

Now whether or not Angela looked nice and professional was up for debate.

"Look at my nails." Angela flashed them around Carol’s face. "And look at my hair. Do you know how long it takes to get hair like this?" Angela patted her pink braided weave that rose six inches off her head and cascaded in braids down her back. Tiny lime-green beads on the ends clacked with every shake of her head.

Carol remained silent.

Angela rolled on. "I've been up since five this mornin’. My hairdresser got me in special just for this new job. An’ you tellin’ me that bougie doctor don't want me back?"

"That's correct," replied Carol.

Now at this point things could go either way. Carol was either going to get told to fuck off or Angela was going to cry and ask for a second chance. My bet was Angela was going for a second chance. After all she’d just gotten her hair done, right?

"Oh, please give me a second chance, Miss Carol," Angela wailed. "I want to be a medical office assistant. You know I got good grades in all my classes. Can't you call the doctor back?" Angela's braids clanged noisily as she sobbed.

Carol handed her a tissue from the strategically placed box. "No,” she said, “I'm not calling Dr. Mason back, and this
was
your second chance. Remember what happened at the clinic last month?"

Angela blew her nose. "That bitch had it comin’. She been messin’ with my baby daddy and comes into the clinic where I'm workin’ to get a pregnancy test? Oh, hell no!"

"You threw urine at her," Carol reminded her.

"Yeah, but it was hers. It's not like I threw some stranger’s urine at her."

Oops—Angela just blew it with Carol. ‘Fess up and apologize and Carol would work with you. Defend throwing urine on your baby daddy’s ho at the free clinic and you were terminated.

"I'm sorry, Angela, but we will no longer be able to place you." Carol extended her hand in a smooth move I'd seen her use with a dozen others. Keep one hand busy in case they tried to swing at you. "I wish you the best in your career," she said with a sympathetic smile.

Angela shook her hand. I had never seen anyone refuse Carol. It was almost compulsive to shake someone’s hand and Carol knew it. And it made people less likely to punch you in the face afterwards, too.

Angela tossed her head and spun around towards the door. In a clattering of braids and beads she was gone.

"Another satisfied customer," I said.

"Yeah, it's been one of those days. Two no call-no shows and Angela.” She shook her head.

"Oh, you haven't heard about my day yet." Carol eyed me warily.

She held up her hand. "I know, I know. He handwrites everything. No fun, but he pays well. It's a good job."

"He's a vampire, Carol," I said. "You sent me to work for a vampire."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said waving her hand dismissively.