Cocktails at Seven, Apocalypse at Eight: The Derby Cavendish Stories Page 3

  “So the cruise has a fabulous itinerary. We leave Fort Lauderdale and visit Jamaica, the Dominican Republic, Cozumel . . . we’re going to visit the ruins at Tulum and then go to a cocktail party on the beach—”

  “We’re going to have margaritas with the Mayans,” said Dr. Silverman, and everybody laughed on cue. I caught Aaron’s eye, grimaced, and gulped from my glass, which was probably a mistake as Dr. Silverman immediately topped it up again. After that, everything seemed to blur together as one Silverman after another tried to catch my attention.

  “They have a surfing simulator on the cruise ship. Can you imagine me hanging ten?”

  “You get the dreidel, eh, Ari? Sucks to be you.”

  “So when the doctor was called as a witness, he said, ‘Judge, you’re trying my patients—’ No, wait that’s not right. . . .”

  “Have you considered the importance of getting your cholesterol checked regularly?”

  “Of course, you can’t light candles on the cruise, but we found these tiny, little glow sticks. . . .”

  “More wine?”

  “Have a latke.”

  “We’re doing natural childbirth,” said Ruth.

  “Of course you are,” I said. The leathery thing didn’t look like she’d ever even taken an aspirin and as I watched her sip her water—room temperature—I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if I slipped her some ecstasy.

  Fortunately, Aaron wrenched me to the side before my bad self could speculate further. “Derby!” he said under his breath. “David just asked me what I’m doing later and said we should go catch a game after dinner. He knows about my show! I’m sure of it.” He started twitching and his voice dropped an octave. That wasn’t a good sign. I pulled him farther away from the others.

  “Calm down, Mitzy. David is just a douche. He doesn’t know anything.”

  Aaron gulped air and his twitching settled. “I think he does.”

  “How could he?” I looked over at David—and at Rachel, still hanging around him. Suddenly I remembered why she looked familiar. “Mitz, you said David got married in Niagara Falls. Didn’t you play hostess to a stagette party there a couple of years ago?”

  He looked at Rachel again, too. “You don’t think? No. She couldn’t be.”

  “She might.”

  “Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit—”

  His voice dropped deeper with each shit and I swear I could see his hair grow longer and thicker as I watched. “Easy,” I urged him. “Easy! Just because there’s a chance she recognized you doesn’t mean she did. You’ve met her before tonight and she’s never said anything, right?”

  Aaron took a deep breath. “You’re right. It’s good. I’m fine.” He took a sip of wine—

  —just as his mother walked into the room with a big bowl. “Who wants some gelt?”

  Wine sprayed from Aaron’s mouth, extinguishing several candles and coating Ruth who let out a squeal and scrubbed frantically at herself as if the wine was going to soak straight into her blood stream. David started laughing, the most genuine—if mean-spirited—laughter I’d heard all night. Mrs. Silverman pursed her lips and started handing around little bags of foil-covered chocolate coins. “Ben. Ruth. David. Rachel. Yes, one for you, too, Derby.” She stopped in front of Aaron, who had gone stark white, and reached down to the bottom of the bowl. “And a special Hanukkah treat for our baby!”

  It was the heirloom dreidel—and it shone with a polished lustre in the candlelight. Aaron looked at it, then at his mother . . . then at me. “It’s silver,” he said.

  “Well, of course it’s silver,” said his father. “The Silvermans were silversmiths long before we were doctors. What, you thought it was going to be clay? Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel . . .”

  Everyone else started singing along. I held my breath. Aaron reached for the dreidel, hesitated, then took it. Everyone except me cheered. I waited until Aaron looked up and smiled in triumph. No wolf. In spite of his family, the full moon, and a silver dreidel, he’d managed to control himself.

  “Hurray for the baby,” said David. “Let’s eat.” He tossed back the rest of his drink and headed for the dining room. The rest of the family fell in behind him with me and Aaron at the back of the pack. I leaned close to Aaron.

  “Well done, Mitz. Nothing to worry about, right?”

  Then we walked into the dining room, a flashing vision of silver and blue streamers with an enormous paper menorah hanging from the ceiling while on the table . . .

  On the table was a centrepiece featuring a big photo of Aaron in full drag and a huge pile of knishes.

  Aaron and I froze. I took me a second to register that the Silvermans had all gathered on the far side of the table—and that they were all smiling. Mrs. Silverman actually looked . . . proud. I glanced over at Aaron.

  His gaze was locked on the knishes and he was shaking like a virgin in a bathhouse. The silver dreidel fell from his hand to clang on the floor. Five o’clock shadow swept across his face before my eyes, heading straight for a full-on beard. He threw back his head and howled.

  I threw myself across the table. “Get back!” I shouted at the startled Silvermans. Standing on the tabletop with knishes squishing under my feet, I seized the photo of Aaron and spun back to him. A werewolf’s transformation is not a pretty sight. Bones and joints crunched and groaned. Aaron’s skull and jaw reshaped themselves into a muzzle. More hair than Whitesnake, Bon Jovi, and ZZ Top combined burst from his hide. At least the change was fast though, and in only moments, Aaron stood as a nearly seven-foot-tall wolf-man, his chest heaving and his claws digging gouges into the hardwood. Before he could do anything he’d regret later, I held up the photograph so he could see it.

  “Mitzy!” I said. “Mitzy Knish, remember who you are!”

  Aaron’s eyes focused on the picture, then on me—and the rage drained out of them. For a moment, the room was silent.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Silverman. “I didn’t expect that.”

  Aaron held up one massive hand, trying to hide his face. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m an animal. I’m a monster.”

  Dr. Silverman coughed, then stepped around the table. “You’re my son—well, except when you’re my daughter. Oh hell, what am I supposed to say in a situation like this?” He looked up to me. I shrugged.

  “Keep going,” I said. “You’re doing fine.”

  Aaron’s father looked back at his big gay drag queen werewolf son. “We were surprised when Rachel told us about—”

  “I’m sorry, Aaron,” called Rachel. “I thought they knew!”

  “—but we just wanted to show you that we love you whoever . . . err . . . whatever you are.”

  Aaron dropped his hand and howled again, but this time it was clear that he was crying. He swept up the silver dreidel with one hand and pulled Dr. Silverman into a huge, hairy hug with the other. “I love you, Dad!”

  Mrs. Silverman burst into tears, too, and rushed over to hug them both. Soon the whole family had surrounded Aaron in a messy pool of love. When they separated, he had shrunk back down to his normal human self.

  Well, normal except for an astonishing amount of hair. The big problem with his transformations is that they always leave him needing a weed whacker and a full body wax. And tonight his timing couldn’t have been worse. “Oh my God, look at me, Derby! I can’t get rid of all this before my show!”

  I hopped down from the table. “You know what they say, Mitz. If you can’t wax it, wear it. I think it’s time for you to embrace the beast.”

  ※

  And that’s how, a few hours and some fancy grooming later, “Gelt in Showers: A Hanukkah Extravaganza” went on stage at the Lumber Yard featuring a brand new look for Miss Mitzy Knish—the full-body poodle bob. It was a huge smash.

  Mitzy’s show and look weren’t the only things to make their debut a
t the Lumber Yard that night. The entire Silverman clan came down to cheer her on. Dr. and Mrs. Silverman were the hit of the party. Ben picked up some new clients for his practice and even Ruth seemed to unwind a bit. Rachel did shots with some of the watching queens and found herself with a lot of new friends at the end of the night. David, on the other hand, managed to pick a fight after hitting on some of the same queens and was last seen trying to unwedge himself from a urinal in the ladies’ room.

  I had a feeling that Aaron’s time as the only unmarried Silverman wouldn’t last long.

  I’m sure you all remember my associate Matthew Plumper. Matt is a dear friend and he’s been at my side—or more often hiding behind me—through many dangerous situations. Against zombies, against demons, against hordes of shoppers at the mall on Boxing Day, he’s never failed me. I may not let him play with fire after the infamous blue angel incident—I know he still regrets it, as do most of the unfortunate witnesses—but in every other situation, I trust him entirely. That’s why when he recently asked me to help out at a fundraiser with him and his boyfriend Aidan, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Although perhaps I should have.

  You may not remember Aidan. Matt and I first met him at the Bluewater Belles and Beaus Christmas Potluck—yes, that potluck—and he and Matt ended up dating. Which just proves once again that some people prefer a top shelf cocktail while others will drink screech out of a boot, but well done, Matthew. Aidan is a fine specimen: blond hair, broad shoulders, square jaw, and a carpenter by trade. And, as we discovered, quite the athlete. It’s basketball in the spring, soccer in the summer, and football in the fall. Matthew enjoys the full benefits of it all, if you know what I mean. Aidan has arms for the NFL, legs for the Premier League, and the best basket this side of the NBA.

  But his passion in the winter is hockey, and he’s got the meaty ass to prove it. Imagine two beefy Turkish wrestlers packed into oiled leather pants and straining for dominance. That’s Aidan’s ass. And he’s only one man in a thriving gay hockey league. Watching one of their games is like a sixty-minute orgasm with line changes and a referee. No wonder Matt has turned into quite the rink bunny.

  Even the league’s fundraisers are legendary. Every December, they take over the Lumber Yard for a night to put on a standing room-only jockstrap auction. There’s very little sexier than a magnificently muscled derriere framed by a jockstrap and peeking out from under a hockey sweater. The auction is always a wild success—even if you don’t have a winning bid, no one is ever really a loser. You can imagine my excitement when Matt and Aidan asked for help with it. It seemed like a good omen to find that the auction also happened to fall on Krampusnacht, that night when the ancient Yuletide spirit is said to roam in search of misbehaving children. Maybe Krampus doesn’t get around much anymore, but there were bound to be plenty of naughty boys at the Lumber Yard.

  So you can also imagine my disappointment when I arrived to discover that the league had decided at the last minute to try something new.

  “A bake sale?” I demanded of Matt.

  “Some of the teams said they were starting to feel uncomfortable. They said it was too sexualized.”

  “Really?”

  Matt shrank back a bit. “They felt like meat.”

  “That’s kind of the point!”

  “It’s not just a bake sale,” said Aidan. “We have games, too.”

  “Are they sexy games?”

  “They’re bake sale games,” he said tentatively.

  I turned away in disgust, but there was no respite from the horror around me. The Lumber Yard had been transformed from a den of iniquity into a wonderland of sugary treats. Shortbread and rum balls. Fruitcake and sugar cookies. More varieties of gingerbread than I cared to think about. The liquor had been stacked away and the beer taps turned off while steaming pots of hot chocolate stood on the bar. The hockey players were all there in their team sweaters—but also in pants. One daring soul wore a kilt, but before I could thank the great spirits for small mercies, he squatted down and I caught a flash . . . of underwear! A gasp may have escaped my lips.

  Thank heavens none of the auction guests had arrived yet or the league’s fundraiser might have turned into a fun-drainer. There was still time to fix things. Something was very wrong at the Lumber Yard. The management wasn’t the type to pass up a chance to sell hooch to an eager crowd and I couldn’t believe that the same teams who had last year serenaded the crowds with a very interactive version of “The Little Drummer Boy”—not to mention such festive classics as “The Twelve Dicks of Christmas” and “Fellatio Navidad”—would feel uncomfortable this year. I really couldn’t believe that Matt was capable of saying “sexualized” without giggling. Unnatural forces were clearly at work.

  It was at that moment that Matt stiffened next to me and not in the good way. “Derby,” he said, “don’t turn around.”

  Well, what could I do? Matt might as well have asked a fish not to swim or a stripper not to grind. I turned around, of course. And I stiffened, too.

  Walking toward us through the Lumber Yard, all attitude and eye liner, was a quartet of teenage girls. No, not so much a quartet as one supreme alpha bitch with her trailing trio of fawning bitchettes—a queen with her handmaids, a diva with her entourage, a cheerleader with her pep squad.

  A cheerleader whom I knew all too well. She met my burning gaze and her cute little nose crinkled as she smiled. My breath whistled through my clenched teeth. Matthew grabbed my arm. “Derby, there’s not going to be a scene, is there? This happens every time you two run into each other.”

  “She’s a nexus of darkness and chaos, Matthew,” I said. “She’s evil incarnate in a mini-kilt and padded bra.”

  “Ummm . . . who exactly is this?” asked Aidan.

  “Her name is Bethany,” I told him without taking my eyes off her, “and she’s my nemesis.”

  Matt sighed. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing. That you think you have a nemesis or that she’s a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  “She’s a lot older than she looks,” I reminded him. “Do you really think a bunch of school girls could just walk into the Lumber Yard?”

  His eyes crossed as he tried and failed to reconcile that idea with what he clearly saw strutting across the floor. Bethany’s presence has that effect. Most people’s minds simply refuse to acknowledge what they can’t make sense of. Many pretend she doesn’t exist. Some simply shut down. Some try to come up with any plausible explanation.

  “They must have really good fake IDs,” said Matt.

  “Bethany and her harpies don’t need IDs.” I drew myself up and faced my foes as they approached. “That’s close enough, Bethany.”

  “Derby, so nice to see you, too. Have you lost weight? No? Oh, you’re just hanging out with hot people.” Her eyes lingered on Aidan, producing a defensive squawk from Matt. Bethany laughed, a silvery tinkling sound I’ve always imagined to be the last thing mountain climbers hear as they freeze to death. “Easy there, blue angel,” she said and Matthew flinched. Bethany flipped a hand over her shoulder. “Derby, you know my girls. Sara—?

  “Ssssara . . .” hissed the willowy redhead on Bethany’s left. Her eyes were like glowing embers.

  “Rani—”

  “Rrrrani . . .” growled the black-haired girl on Bethany’s right. Her delicate nostrils pulsed as if she smelled something tasty.

  “—and, of course, Cleo.”

  The girl behind Bethany looked as drawn and pale as age-yellowed linen. She didn’t say anything but just smiled, her mouth stretching wide to reveal sharp teeth and black gums.

  “Ladies,” I said coolly.

  Aidan, however, shuddered and shook his head as if trying to un-see what the strange world had put in front of him. “Let’s go try out the games,” he said to Matt, his voice on the edge of cracking. Matt hesitated. I knew that he’d experienced enough with me t
o resist some of Bethany’s horrors, but his eyes were crossing again, and he was clearly leaning toward Aidan’s denial.

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “Go ahead.”

  His expression melted with relief, and he dragged Aidan away faster than a horny frat boy dropping his pants. “If you want us,” he called over his shoulder, “we’ll be at the cookie toss!”

  With the two of them safely out of the way, I turned back to Bethany. “What are you up to, she-devil? Manipulation on this scale is big time, even for you. Have you got something against hockey in general or jockstraps in particular?”

  “Unh—that they’re both full of sweaty, hairy nuts?” Sara and Rani both snickered at that and Bethany tossed her hair back. “You’re always looking at the small picture, Derby. Why do you think I’d turn this little auction into a bake sale? Why would I bother to come here at all?”

  “Fashion tips and makeup advice?”

  Cleo made a dry, rasping sound that might have been laughter. Bethany glared at me. “I don’t need makeup tips from you!”

  “Well, not me obviously. Now Bruce over there, he may be a beast on the ice but he’s a beauty in the boudoir. I’m sure if you asked nicely—”

  “It’s you, Derby!” Bethany shrieked, “I’m here for you, you meddling fruit loop!”

  On the bar, one of the pots of hot chocolate broke with a crack beneath the blistering force of her anger, sending a steaming brown flood cascading to the floor. All around us, strapping gay hockey players froze for a moment as the slur pricked the surface of their befuddled minds . . . then slid away like the spilled chocolate. With barely a blink, they went back to ignoring Bethany and her girls. And, I realized suddenly, me.

  Bethany must have seen revelation in my eyes because she smiled, her outburst fading like a fart in a jacuzzi. “That’s right,” she said. “No one to help you—just the way I planned it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist an invitation from your little buddy Plumper and that as soon as you realized something was wrong, you’d try to fix it. And that as soon as you did that, people would start ignoring you like they should have all along.” Her smile turned cruel. “You’re alone, Derby. Alone and helpless. Get him, girls!”