He stared her down, his expression grim.
She took a deep breath when she saw his look of concern. “Sorry, I’m grudging, and I’m tired—makes for a crabby Delaney, but when I come back I’ll be all better, okay?”
His sweet, gentle face floated in front of hers while he shook his head no. When he spoke, she found herself confused by his words. “Lang Memorial.” The words drifted from his lips long after they’d moved.
“I don’t remember that. Was it a movie you were in?” Delaney shook her head. “Never mind, I don’t have time tonight. I’ve got a plane to catch and I’d really appreciate it if you guys didn’t make an appearance on said bird of flight. The flight attendants frighten easily. Plane crashes and doling out half a shitty can of soda they can handle. Ghosts? Not so much. So shoo—go haunt Jane Wyatt. She’d probably love to catch up, don’t you think?” she muttered with distraction, trying to dig out all the dog food bowls for Mrs. Ramirez, lining them up on the counter.
Robert next appeared on top of the counter. He’d folded his hands over his knees, crossing his legs. His white medical jacket was crisp and clean as though it’d been freshly pressed. He said once more, “Lang Memorial,” enunciating each word with long drawn-out syllables that lingered long after his mouth had moved.
Delaney put her face in his. “Again, I’m on the fly—totally don’t get your drift and probably can’t hang around to try and figure it out. I have no idea what movie that was so I can’t tell you how awesome you were in it—if that’s what you’re looking for. But I loved you in reruns on TV Land, how’s that? I especially loved Marcus Welby, M.D., and I always sided with you against that whippersnapper doctor James Brolin. He was a cocky sonofabitch, huh? Now skedaddle.” She flapped a hand at him.
Robert reached out a hand to her, cocking his slick, dark head and giving her a beseeching look. He knew she couldn’t take his hand, but she indulged him anyway, her fingers slipping directly through his milky, transparent flesh. “Father Knows Best,” he tittered, his intent gaze asking for something she just didn’t get.
What the hell had gotten into this bunch of dead actors lately? Everybody was so serious when they showed up these days. Used to be they hung out, had a giggle, and then they were gone. Now they were all downers. Charlie, and then Greta, Michael, and now Bob. She clenched her eyes shut to ward off the headache she was feeling the beginnings of. “Yep, I liked that show, too. And now I really, really have to hit it.” She opened her eyes only to find him gone.
“What is with you knuckleheads lately? Lighten up, already, huh?” she told the ceiling.
Christ on a cracker. She could use a little levity.
A little would go a long way.
“Uh, Boss?” He entered the room with soft footsteps—with reverence—with terror.
“Clyve?”
He cleared his throat, shuffling from foot to foot. “Problem.”
“Continue.”
“Well, it went like this—”
“Cut to the chase, Clyve. Now. Or I’ll singe your sorry ass,” was the muffled response.
“I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”
“And where is it you’re supposed to be, Clyve?”
“With that Delaney woman.”
“Delaney Markham?”
Whatever. “Yes, Boss.”
“Interesting. Explanation?”
“There was a screwup somewhere.”
The laughter from the burgundy leather table was deep, rumbling—insidious. “Why don’t you tell me where, Clyve, and I’ll see what I can do to make everything rocking horses and rainbows for you. Wouldn’t that be all sunshine and roses?”
Clyve gulped. He was in the shit. When he’d been alive, nobody talked to him with that condescending, bullshit tone. Nobody. He’d run the show. Things were just a little fucking different down here. “I’m not sure, Boss.”
Satan clucked his tongue. “Not sure? That’s a pity.”
No lie. “Yes, Boss.”
“So why don’t you sit with me, Clyve, and tell me all about your woes,” Satan invited with a sweep of his hand to the chair beside the massage table he lay facedown on while a nubile young woman kneaded his flesh. “Go on, Clyve, make yourself comfortable. Your comfort is my reason for being.” He lifted his head briefly and flashed Clyve a smile, a brilliant, maniacal smile, before settling back into the hole carved out of the table made especially for his face.
Clyve eyed the chair suspiciously—when Satan was being so accommodating, something wasn’t kosher. With his luck, the chair’d sprout teeth and gnaw his balls off.
“Do you doubt that I only want your comfort, Clyve?”
Fuck, yeah. “No, Boss.” He sat with a hard thunk, figuring he’d better front fast and slap on his suck-ass minion face. If he had no balls by conversation’s end, he’d have no balls with a fine display of bravery to keep his pride warm at night in the pit.
“Then, please, sit and clarify.”