Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(66)

I start literally wringing my hands.

“It’ll be fine,” Josie says.

I swallow hard and nod. “Josie?”

“Yeah?”

I pause for a beat or two. “Nothing.”

“What?”

I gnaw on the inside of my lip. “Remember how I told you my dad lives in Florida now?”

“Here?”

“Boca Raton. A few hours away.”

“Did you think you saw him here?”

“No…but…” The words catch in my chest. “I’m thinking of trying to go see him.”

“DeeDee,” Josie says quietly, in almost a gasp.

“I know. I can’t decide if I should.”

“Part of you must have wanted to, or you wouldn’t have tracked him down.”

“I know, I know.” I make my hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“If you want to go, you can take my car. Lawson and I can handle the meeting with Divine.”

I stop and look up at the ceiling. “Arrrrrrrgh. Why did I put myself through this?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“Because you had to. Go see him.”

“Should I?”

“You’ll torment yourself forever if you don’t. I know you.”

“You’re cool handling our meeting?”

“I definitely don’t know horror stuff like you do, but yeah, I’m cool.”

I believe her. If only one of us has to handle this meeting, it should be Josie. She’s got an easy confidence that naturally draws people in. Better that than my knowledge of horror film and hosting history and culture. “I don’t think he’s going to quiz us or anything. You’re better at dealing with people than me, anyway.”

“So. Confronting your dad.”

I cover my face with my hands. “I know,” I say from between my fingers. “I’m fully freaking out here.”

“I mean, yeah.” Josie hugs me. She must be able to feel me trembling.

“Like I think I would be useless to you if we met with Jack Divine. I’d be obsessing over how I’m missing a chance to visit my dad.”

“Do it. Go see him.”

“I’m doing it.” I try to say it with enough resolve to convince myself.

“Are you gonna leave now?”

“I came all this way. I have to at least meet Jack Divine first. Then I will.”

“We’re still wearing our show clothes,” Josie says. “I’m so tired, I didn’t even think about it. Do we have time to change?”

“I think it’s fine,” I say. “I’ve been reading up on Jack Divine, and he definitely seems like the type who’d be okay with costumes. Might even help.”

We go to the meeting place I planned out with Divine’s assistant, in the lobby of the convention center. We wait in apprehensive silence. Five o’clock comes and goes. Then 5:05. Then 5:10.

“Should we…contact him?” Josie asks.

“I don’t know.” My stomach feels like a burlap sack of baby spiders. “Let’s give it a few more minutes.” It’s 5:15. Come on. Come on.

At 5:19, we spot him. He’s stalk-thin and maybe five-foot-three. He looks to be in his sixties, but he has a shoe-polish-black pompadour that gleams purple-blue under the harsh convention-center lighting. His skin is gas-station-hot-dog orange from some industrial-grade fake tanner. A thin black worm of a mustache sits just atop his upper lip. It looks penciled on. He’s clothed in a shiny red suit that he does not so much wear as he is festooned by, a lemon-yellow dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, and white alligator shoes with black tips.

Behind him lumbers a hulking slab (also slob) of a man, who’s grizzled and gray in every way—his buzz cut, his skin, his teeth, his watery eyes, his dour facial expression. He looks like he’s made of scrap iron smeared with Crisco. He’s probably six-foot-three and 275 pounds, wearing a long leather jacket (that appears to have been slapped together by the makers of my skunk pants) with cheap-looking black dress slacks and those old-man dress shoes that are sorta sneakers. Elaborate tattoos of stars, skulls, and some big, ornate Russian-looking church with a bunch of onion domes peek out from under the cuffs and above the collar of his yellowed-white dress shirt.

We stand at attention and try to smile as they approach. They walk right past us.

“Mr. Divine?” Josie calls after him.

He holds up his hand without turning around. “Can’t. Meeting someone.” He talks with that weird old-timey radio accent from the 1940s that doesn’t exist anymore.

“I think we’re who you’re meeting?” I say.

He and his henchman turn and eye us.

“I set up this meeting with your assistant, Celeste?” I say.

“Celeste?”

“…St. James?”

He still looks flummoxed for a moment. Then, “Ahhh, haha, yes! Celeste. Of course. Dear Celeste.”

We laugh nervously. He forgot his assistant’s name? Weird.

He walks up. “Jack Divine, as you obviously know. And you are?”

“Josie Howard. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Lawson Vargas. Good to meet you.”

“Delia Wilkes, sir. Pleasure. My dad and I used to watch your show. And SkeleTonya, obviously.”