I took a deep breath and squeezed Alex’s hand. “So, about the other night . . .”
“Now, what can I get you two?” The perky blond waitress bounded between us and the spell was broken. Alex broke his hand away from mine to pick up his menu, and I took an enormous glug of water, my stomach knotting. I blinked at Alex as he spoke to the waitress and lost all my nerve. After she took our orders and left, Alex leaned toward me again. “What were you saying?”
I smiled and chewed on my bottom lip, scanning the restaurant. “Um . . . check out that guy, three p.m.”
Alex looked to his right, his gaze blanketing the slow-moving traffic. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Your other three p.m.,” I hissed, jutting my chin.
“Okay, my right is your left. And your three p.m. is roughly nine-twenty.”
“Way to be precise. Do you see him?”
“Who? Nineteen-ninety-six?”
The man in question was clean cut, his bouffant at least three inches from his scalp and so stiff it moved in one giant mass in the light breeze. He was sitting by himself at one of the tiny patio tables, his rayon color-block shirt buttoned up to his neck. I felt my mouth drop open when he scooched back from the table and crossed his long legs.
“Shut up,” I whispered.
“What now?”
“Z. Cavariccis.”
Alex’s expression was blank. “I’m sorry?”
“Z. Cavariccis. The pants? Don’t tell me you don’t know what Z. Cavariccis are.”
Alex just shrugged and I gaped. “They’re pants. Really ugly pants, but like, the quintessential ugly pants of the nineties.”
“Oh,” Alex said, his mouth full of cheesy garlic bread. “Forgive me for misplacing that little nugget of Americana.”
I pointed at him with my own piece of bread. “You should know this shit if you don’t want to be found out as, you know . . . angelic.”
“Z. Cavariccis. Right.” He tapped a finger to his head. “Locked away. Have you seen our waiter?”
“He has a girlfriend!”
The woman who took the seat across from Nineteen-ninety-six was petite and elegant, wearing a silky one-shouldered sundress straight out of Paris fashion week.
“How did Fashion Forward end up with Ninety-six?”
“Who had the penne?” our waitress asked.
Alex raised his hand and shot me a triumphant grin. “I guess we’ll never know.”
I buried my fork into five inches of pasta-cheese, cheese-pasta perfection, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from wandering back to the fashion time machine going on behind Alex. There was something off about the couple.
I dipped my hand in my purse. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”
“Must be serious if you’re leaving lasagna.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I passed Fashion Forward and Ninety-Six with my cell phone pressed to my ear. Nina picked up on the second ring and I slipped behind a potted plant, where two pub-crawl zombies were groping each other lovingly. They scattered when they saw me.
“What’s up, buttercup?” Nina asked.
“Fashion question.”
“Ooh, my favorite kind. If I have to be cooped up in this hell hole, at least I can give fashion advice to make your world more beautiful.”
“Color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis.”
I could practically hear the horror etching into Nina’s face across the phone line. “What did you say to me?” Nina whispered.
“You heard me. A color-blocked rayon shirt and Z. Cavariccis. And he’s got one of those Jordan Knight bubbly bouffants.”
“Does he have an earring?”
I chanced a glance around the palm and narrowed my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Ah, just as I suspected. He’s new.”
“New?”
“Old.”
“Old?”
“Stop repeating everything I say. He’s dead, Soph, dead. No one steps out in rayon, Z. Cavariccis, and a single stud. It’s the dead man’s triumvirate. He’s newly made, newly out, and he’s probably on the prowl.”
I rolled up on my tiptoes when a waiter blocked my view. Ninety-six laced his long, thin fingers through Fashion Forward’s and she gazed into his eyes, batting her thick, over-mascarraed lashes. The adoration oozed off her.
“His nails are probably all broken from digging out of the coffin—check for dirt, too.”
I squinted, and although I could see the shape of their linked fingers, I wasn’t close enough to see the telltale graveyard dirt or broken nails.
“I can’t tell if his hands are dirty. What else you got?”
“Well, once awakened, he’d be thirsty. Confused, but mostly thirsty. He’d be looking for easy prey.”
I bit my thumbnail. “Would he take his prey to dinner?”
“No, he would eat his prey for dinner. What’s going on out there?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Thanks for the tips.” I clicked my phone shut and arced around the potted palm, then nonchalantly brushed Ninety-six’s outstretched arm as I went back to my table.
“Everything okay?” Alex asked, his plate of pasta half empty.
“He’s warm.”