Wicked Game by Jeri Smith-Ready Page B

the corner. When I turn to glare at it, I see the row of putty-colored metal mailbox slots. I make my delivery.
    On my way back to the stairs, I pass the door to the studio. The ON THE AIR light is off, so I quietly turn the knob.
    I find myself in a narrow hallway. The studio sits behind a thick glass window. It’s like a museum exhibit of twentieth-century-radio history: reel-to-reel decks and turntables sit beside CD players and a computer monitor with glowing green numbers.
    No one’s inside, since a syndicated show is playing, but I wonder why the vampires can’t broadcast during the day. They’d be protected from sunshine down here. Then again, this is their sleepy time. Asking them to work during the day would be worse than asking a human to work the night shift.
    At the end of the corridor to my right, a thick metal door reads DANGER: KEEP OUT in red block letters.
    I step up to it and place my palm on its surface, just below the sign. It’s cold and smooth, like a restaurant’swalk-in freezer. The handle is heavy, a lever rather than a knob. It would take some effort to open it, which, being smarter than your average horror movie victim, I decline to do. But I notice that the door’s bottom edge is made of rubber, creating a seal against the linoleum floor.
    My hand whips off the stainless steel surface.
    KEEP OUT is cold storage for the station’s most valuable assets.
    I back away, rubbing my hand against the rough fabric of my denim miniskirt. The chill takes a few moments to subside.
    As I stare at the door, an idea awakens, twisting and groping for freedom like a moth trying to pop out of a cocoon a few days early.
    I look at the studio.
    Nah
.
    Then the door.
    Maybe
.
    And back at the studio.
    Why the hell not?
    Waxing Nostalgic is the kind of store that makes you wish you’d been born without a nose.
    Franklin and I stop halfway through the door, slammed by ten thousand scents that don’t get along. Thick pillar candles, grouped by color family, line the wall shelves of the claustrophobic shop.
    I urge my feet forward against their will, toward a front table Fourth of July display. Founding Fathers with wicks coming out of their heads seem to beg us to buy them, burn them, release them from their waxy hell.
    Franklin lets the door shut behind us, jangling a cowbell tied to the handle. A brown terrier lies on a mat near the register to our right. It blinks at us, and nothing more. No doubt its brain is fried from the olfactory assault.
    “Be right out!” A shrill voice emerges from behind the curtain of a back room.
    Franklin turns to me and says, “Don’t act surprised. Just play along.” He hastens to straighten his tie and his posture.
    I nod, more bemused than confused. I work at a radio station with vampire DJs. What could possibly surprise me?
    “Bernita!” Franklin swishes over to the woman who just came out from the back room. “Hey, girlfriend, it’s been a million years.” He gives her an expansive hug, complete with fluttery back-pat.
    She beams, then pinches his cheek like an aunt. “Frankie, how
are
you?”
    “I’m fabulous, thanks for asking.” His voice is an octave higher than I’ve ever heard it. I struggle not to gape. “And you—” He holds her at arm’s length, tilting his head. “—you look spectacular! Have you lost weight?”
    She preens at the attention and pats her formidable girth. “Two hundred pounds the moment I got divorced.”
    “You are too rotten!” Franklin squeezes her arm and stamps his foot. His breezy manner makes him look fifty pounds lighter himself. Suddenly his clothes appear perfectly tailored, no longer drooping over his body like wet washcloths on a towel rack.
    “Oh, just look at our little Reginald.” He leans over to
koochie-koo
the dog. “I tell you, I could eat him up with a spoon.”
    I think a little piece of Franklin died as he uttered the last word with a lisp.
    Bernita sweeps her arm toward the merchandise. “Need some