Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 26

I sat up. It wasn't beer, but it was wet and cold.

"Thanks!"

Kenny nodded.

"How's the picture business going?" I asked.

"Great! Really great. You haven't dropped by the kiosk for a sitting yet."

I shook my head. "That's right. And I won't be any time soon."

"Oh? Why is that?"

I made a face. "What woman in her right mind would sit for an artist's rendering looking like this?" I did an up-and-down wave of my hand. "Gotta be honest. That artist's eye of yours could use prescription lenses, dude."

"So...when you've cleaned up?"

I shook my head. "I wish. Even on days where I have access to soap, water, and hair care tools, my hair does its own special wild and crazy thing, the essence of which would be almost impossible to capture on canvas. Being the caring, compa.s.sionate person that I am, I couldn't in all good conscience inflict such a hopeless and daunting challenge on a poor starving artist. You understand. Right?"

"Oh. Sure. I guess so."

"You lure any celebrities to your booth yet?" I asked, feeling sort of sorry for the fledgling artist. "How about that reality star you favor? Has she stopped by yet?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"Well, it's early days," I reminded him, seeing his hangdog look. "But you said business was good, right?"

He perked up. "It's fabulous. Everybody wants a picture to remind them of the bike ride. Er, almost everybody."

My cell rang. I pulled it from my f.a.n.n.y pack.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Turner? That you?" Stan's growl left me little doubt what kind of mood my boss was in. And why.

"I think you have the wrong number-"

"Give it up. I know that's you, Blondie."

"Oh, hey, Stan. How's it going?" I took my fingertip and scratched back and forth on the microphone. "Sorry. What's that? I can't hear you! You're cutting out!"

"Can you hear me now, Turner?" Stan's voice boomed out of the phone. "You're fired!"

I blinked.

Fired!

I hauled the phone back to my ear. "Now, just a minute! You're telling me I'm fired!"

"I knew that would get you back on the phone," Stan said.

I could imagine the "gotcha!" grin gracing Stan's face.

"I'm having issues with the 4G network," I lied. "I can hear you fine now. How's everything in Grandville? What big news stories am I missing out on?"

"That's a good question, Turner. Maybe you should go to Drew Van Vleet's blog at the New Holland News to find out. Like. I. Did."

I winced.

"I can explain," I said.

"You can explain? You can explain how a compet.i.tor managed to scoop a news story my own reporter was in the middle of? This I gotta hear."

"Well, you see, I'm not quite used to this phone yet-"

"Cut the c.r.a.p, Turner. How come I have to read a compet.i.tor's blog to find out my reporter stumbled onto a big shot a.s.sault vic, after partic.i.p.ating in a seance, while spending the night in a haunted murder house with the cast of one of the most popular reality TV shows? What do you have anyway? A career death wish?"

"Hey. I'm doing the best I can. Van Vleet has an iPad at his disposal. Built-in web cam. Camera. Nice big keyboard to type on. It takes me an eternity to tap out a blog update on this teeny tiny keyboard."

"Excuses, excuses. Whine. Whine. Whine. Can't you borrow a laptop from someone and post something more substantial than 'Stumbled onto big time agent, Vinny Vincent. Literally! Location Villisca Ax Murder House.' We need pictures! We need details, Turner! Details! You know. The who, what, where, when, why, and how."

"Okay. I'll play. Let's see. Who went behind my back and made a wager on whether I'd finish TribRide or not? What kind of boss would send a novice biker employee on a tandem bicycle on a risky bike ride? Where is the appreciation for the effort this boss's ace employee is making? When will said valuable employee be appropriately compensated? And finally, why does this outstanding employee have a hint of a hemorrhoid? So, how do you like those for details, Mr. Who, what, where, when, why, and how?"

I waited, fully expecting to hear, "You're fired!"-this time for real.

Okay. So maybe I'd stepped over the insubordination line with the boss man. Still, surely there is such a thing as justifiable insubordination. If not, there should be.

"Geez, Turner? Back off on the pedals, would you? I'm not altogether displeased with your performance. After all, you're still on the ride. Which means I'm still in the game. And you've managed to garner a h.e.l.luva lot of attention with this Bikezilla war you've got going with Keelie Keller. Now if you could be so good as to actually report what's going on, too-you know-the job I pay you to do, then everything will just be hunky dory."

I made a face. Hunky dory, my half-developed hemorrhoid. Stan wasn't sweaty, gross, and disgusting and running through lawn sprinklers to shower.

"I'll see what I can do," I managed.

"You do that, Turner."

"And you keep your checkbook handy, Boss Man. 'Cause in a week, it's pay-up time!"

"Just keep telling yourself that," Stan said, and ended the call.

"You lead an interesting life," Kenny observed.

I shrugged. "What can I say? I got a gift."

"A gift? A gift for what? Stalking? Knocking old guys over the head? Having the worst hair ever?"

The scent of a pricey designer fragrance over-powered the pungent odor of my own sweat, and I knew even before I turned, who had invaded my s.p.a.ce.

The Captain of Team Reality Red and Kompany.

"Doesn't that 'same tune, different day' stuff ever get old?" I asked. "You know. You accusing. Me denying?"

"I'll quit accusing when you quit doing."

A crowd gathered, Taylor and Dixie among them. Great. Eye witnesses and video evidence.

"Ladies, ladies!" Langley stepped between us like a World Wrestling ref separates wrestlers. Okay. I hear you. Professional wrestling refs rarely wade into the fray. Let's go with boxing refs then. "Keelie. Tressa. I thought we agreed to take our differences and channel them into contests of will, determination, and stamina."

Good grief. Did this guy ever give it a rest?

"No offense intended, but I think you've got this reality ride confused with The Amazing Race," I said.

"No. Wait! Just think about the global impact settling your differences through a peaceful-and harmless-series of challenges could have. The example you two set could become a blueprint for diplomacy and communication between nations. You could spark a chain reaction of contest rather than contest! Olympians rather than Gladiators! Talk about climate change!"

Talk about a twit of a Brit.

"Listen, Lang. All I want to do is to finish the ride with all of my hide," I explained. "I'm not looking for an amba.s.sadorship or a medal."

"What about personal growth?" Lang asked.

"Overrated," I said.

"So, I guess this means you're conceding the sand volleyball match," Keelie said, lifting her chin and crossing her arms.

"Volleyball match?"

Keelie let out a long-suffering sigh.

"This evening's entertainment spectacle," she said, "which I'm sure qualifies as a hot time in this h.e.l.lish hamlet. But I suppose it's always hot in h.e.l.l. Get it? Hot. h.e.l.l."

"Oh, Keelie," Tiara giggled. "You're so funny."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Tiara, but generally if someone has to explain why something is funny, it isn't," I pointed out. "And just so you know, this 'h.e.l.lish hamlet' has a long and colorful past that includes a rich railroad heritage. Even now, Creston is an Amtrak stop-over for the California Zephyr continuing that lasting tradition of railroad history." I knew this because I'd eavesdropped on one of the townsfolk on the square while waiting in line at the Open Bible lasagna supper tent.

"What are you? Like a Wiki-Trekkie?" Keelie said.

I caught myself before I laughed outright.

Score one for the Red Queen.

"Very well. I win. You lose," Keelie said. "Game over. Uncle Frank's franchise is toast."

"The h.e.l.l you say?" Dixie took a pugilist's pose.

I waved her off. "Please. That same old, tired threat? Believe me, my Uncle Frank's food has survived bigger and nastier food critics than you," I said, sticking my own chin out.

"Oh, really? How many friends do those critics have influence with? Do you really want to take a chance that I can't put your uncle out of business?" Keelie asked. "Do you, Trekkie Tressa?"

Did I?

h.e.l.l no. I love my Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie. They're like family to me. I mean, they are family to me.

"You should know I was a volleyball player in high school," I informed the Reality Red Team, you know-in the interest of full disclosure, "and I personally hold the record for breaking the most noses."

Okay. So I didn't add that those noses I referred to belonged to my teammates.

"And that's supposed to...what? Intimidate me? Scare me? Oooh. I'm so scared!" She put her hands on her hips. "Are we playing or not?"

I could see the tweets now: Trekkie Tressa Turns Tail. Reality Red Rules the Ride. Small-town Grill and Chill Goes Bust.

"I don't think that would be-"

"Team Trekkie accepts the challenge." Taylor announced. I turned to stare at her.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Defending the good name of my state and looking out for the family, of course."

"The family? Who are you? Michael Corleone? Well, just so we're clear. Keelie made me an offer I can refuse. And need I remind you, you were the one who advised me to back off, be the bigger person, turn the other cheek-"

"Since when have you ever listened to me? You're planning to start now?"

She had a point.

"Seven sharp. And don't be late!" Keelie warned and moved off with her fan club.

I collapsed on the tailgate again.

"We'll have to field a team," Taylor said.

"How many do we need?"

"Well, they have Keelie, Jax, Tiara, and knowing them, they'll stack the course with ringers.

Great. Reporter-to-biker-to-volleyball recruiter. It just kept getting better and better.

"Who do we have so far?" Dixie asked.

"Well, there's you, me, Tressa, Frankie."

Dixie shook her head. "Count Frankie out. The last time we played volleyball, he just stood there with his hands over his head like he was bracing for impact."

"What about Van Vleet?" Taylor asked. "I can't see him pa.s.sing up the opportunity to play sand volleyball with Keelie and Kompany."

Knowing Van Vleet, he'd throw the match for the other team.

"How about Patrick? Is he available?" Dixie asked.

I felt a pinch on my arm. "Don't say it, Tressa!" Taylor hissed.