by P. N. Elrod
I should have found that out. “Next time why don’t you come along to ask the questions. Malone might have had a clue on that. As for the rest of them—Jeez, if just once I could catch someone while they were still sober . . .”
“There, there,” she said, gliding into the kitchen. “That was such a sweet thing for you to do for him. Just like Robin Hood.”
I dropped into my usual chair at the table. “I didn’t rob anyone tonight, just took my percentage off the bets.”
“In this town, that’s close enough.”
She pulled a pitcher of grape juice and some butter from the refrigerator, and bread from its box. She cut two slices and dropped them in a toaster, fiddling with the browning lever. I couldn’t help comparing the bright, white-painted newness of this place to Malone’s humble kitchen with its aging icebox and cracked linoleum, and wondered how he’d ever get his smart little girl to college.
“That business of you giving Nevis a migraine is spooky,” Bobbi said, staring intently down at the toaster slots. “What do you think happened ?”
“Beats me. Guess I better not press him so hard when I try again; he’ll end up with another one. Wouldn’t want him breaking a blood vessel.”
“I’ve got a friend who gets migraines something awful, but she went to a doctor who hypnotized her out of them. Maybe you could do the same for Nevis.”
“Yeah, maybe.” If I kept my temper, and if he stayed sober.
“On the other hand, it was your hypnosis that set him off in the first place. You sure you want to talk to him again?”
“I have to.” And it wouldn’t be pleasant for either of us.
The toast popped up too soon to brown. She jumped back, scowled at its underdone state, and mashed the lever down again. “I gotta get another one of these that works,” she muttered. “It either comes out too soft or like charcoal unless I watch it.”
“You make me glad I don’t have to worry about such things.”
She threw a glance my way, a curl from her platinum crown drooping artistically over one eyebrow. “Don’t you ever miss eating? Having different kinds of things to eat?”
“At first I did, but only because that’s what I was used to doing for my whole life.”
“And now?”
“I’m used to what I do now instead. It’s different but easier.”
“How so?”
“When you only have one thing you can consume, and that only every other night or so, it simplifies life. I don’t have to think about what I want to have. That’s all solved.”
“And you never get tired of it?”
“Never.” Which was the absolute truth. There was no way I could really express to her how the stuff made me feel, the profound, fulfilling effect it always worked on my body and mind. That would only happen when and if she became like me.
The toast popped up again, this time just a shade on the dark side, but she liked it that way. She gingerly plucked the hot pieces from their slots onto a plate and tried scraping the still cold butter over them. It was not cooperating too well. She grumbled as crumbs scattered across her pristine counter.
“At least with what you do you never have to clean up a mess,” she said, brushing them into the sink.
There was no need to mention what shape my shoes were in after a rainy night at the Stockyards. Or all those bloodstained handkerchiefs when I wiped my mouth clean that had my laundry thinking I suffered from chronic nosebleeds.
She gave up on the butter, poured a glass of grape juice, and brought it and the somewhat mangled toast to the table. In the short minutes it had taken to make her little repast I’d have not only drunk my fill of cow’s blood, but have walked back to the car and be driving away. By not having to work out how to fill my stomach every few hours, I had a lot of spare time on my hands.
“You sure you don’t miss regular food?” she asked, watching me watch her eat.
“What I really miss is sitting around the table and talking.”
“You still do that.”
“With you and sometimes Charles when he’s home, but in public I still have to pretend to drink a cup of coffee or something, just not to draw any attention.”
“Who would notice? A waiter maybe.”
“It’s a good habit to keep. Waiters get upset if they can’t bring you something.”
“It’s that important not to be noticed?”
“With the way I am, yes. That poor crazy guy from New York who was after me . . .”
She twitched her shoulders, grimacing at the unpleasant memory.
“There might be more where he came from. I got lucky that time. The next would-be van Helsing might be smarter than Braxton. More dangerous.”
“God forbid that there is a next one,” she said fervently.
“Amen. Anyway, I just do what’s expected, keep away from opera capes and determined little guys with Dutch accents, and I should be safe enough.”
She made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a hiccup. I thought she’d choked on the toast, but it was laughter. When she recovered, her expression went mildly serious. “But drinking cow’s blood, is it for you? Forever and ever?”
“As far as I know. Why you so interested? Not that I mind talking about it.”
“Just wondering what it’s like for you night after night. What I might have to deal with if . . . you know.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid. Of being a vampire, anyway. It’s—”
“What?”
She shrugged, making a face. “It’s just that I’m kinda chicken. If something happens to me, I don’t want it to hurt is all.”
I put my hand on hers. “Join the club.”
“But it hurt for you, didn’t it?”
“Not the change. What hurt were the guys beating the hell out of me before they shot me.”
“Did it—?”
This was hard, going back to that memory, but important that I do so. For her sake. “I saw what was coming and couldn’t do anything to stop them. That was the really bad part. But when it happened I didn’t feel much of anything. Maybe it was too fast for there to be any pain.”
“What about afterward? When you were in the water?”
“That I’m not too clear about. I just remember being . . . unhappy, helpless. Then confused. I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I don’t remember being afraid.”
“Did you feel anything changing inside?”
“How do you mean?”
“Like in that Fredric March movie a few years back. When he turned from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde, he was writhing around and—”
I chuckled and gently waved her down. “No, nothing like that. It was disorienting, but that was only because I was in the water. Looking back, I think that’s when I vanished for the first time, which was how I was able to survive the dunking.”
“But other than that?”
“No writhing around or groaning in agony. I promise.”
She snickered again and chewed more toast, looking thoughtful, no longer anxious. Good. Maybe we could get on to more pleasant subjects than my untimely and singularly temporary demise.
“What’s this?” I asked, gesturing at her throat. She’d changed from her elegant stage gown to a regular dress, but still wore its blue silk scarf wrapped under her chin. “Trying to tease me?”
“Just something to hide the marks,” she said, taking it off. “You’re not the only one who wants to be careful. It’s hot, though.”
“Looks like I bruised you last night.” I tilted her head to better see. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it was worth it.”
The damage wasn’t much to look at, just a slight discoloration and the tiny red flares of broken capillaries around two larger marks, but I took pride in my ability to do what I do without hurting her or leaving needless traces. Next time I’d be a lot more careful while in the throes of passion.
“I’ll just d
ab on extra powder or wear a high collar tomorrow,” she said. “They fade pretty fast these days.”
“They do?” That was interesting. “You always been a fast healer?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. I mean you’ve got my blood in you now. Maybe it’s changing things inside. Maybe that’s the sign you’re searching for.”
She gave me a melting look, half longing, half sorrow. “Oh, Jack, I can hope so, but don’t hope too much about me for yourself.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s dangerous to want something too much. You might get it, but not the way you pictured.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know once in a while I get these weird feelings. Not in a bad sense, but just—like there are some things that I know will be in my life if I want them hard enough, like my going to Hollywood when the time is right.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Oh, yeah? Not so long ago I was wishing for a rich, handsome man who would help my career. I wished so hard for him and all the time that I was positively demanding for him to happen. And when he did happen, what I got was Slick Morelli—and you know what he was like.”
I knew.
“So if I’m changing to be like you, it’ll happen because it’s supposed to and when it’s supposed to. I just don’t want you to wish for it so hard. I’m not ready to die yet.”
My gut took a sickening swoop. “Jeez, Bobbi, I never meant anything like that for you!”
“I know, but I thought you should know how I feel.”
I couldn’t just sit there with her looking at me like that. Neither could she. We both hastily got around the table and held each other tight, and I tried not to think of death. Of real death. Of her death.
For the change to vampire to take place in me I’d had to die, and Maureen had warned me many times that it still might not work. She’d heard stories about others who’d exchanged blood, but when their human lovers died, they stayed dead. She didn’t know why it was like that, why some returned and others did not. There was absolutely no way you could tell, she’d said.
Now I understood that hollow look she’d get in her eyes when she spoke of such things.
There were no guarantees for me and Bobbi, supernatural or otherwise. She could live to be a hundred—and I prayed she would—or she could get hit by a car tomorrow. She could return or—as was more likely from what little I knew—she would not. And that thought always stabbed me right down to the soul and beyond, so I tried never to think it.
As with everyone else, better to live our lives one full hour at a time and try not to worry about dark futures without each other. Easier said than done. Ever at the edge of my mind hovered the wondering, the bleak, futile wondering of what lay in store for her.
“If it helps,” she said, her lips close to my ear, “when I was with Slick, I began wishing for another man to come along.”
“And what? Save you?”
“No, I’d learned my lesson with Slick. Only I could save me, but I did wish for a man who would be the best for me.”
“Did I make the grade?”
She pulled back far enough to give me a long, thorough look. Thinking before giving an answer, as she always did when it was something really important. “So far . . . so far, so very, very good.” Then she drew me toward her, gently insisting on a kiss.
We didn’t have a lot to say to each other for the next few hours. You get to a point where words spoil things.
WAKING fast and fully alert in my hidden room exactly at sunset, I heard someone descending the basement steps. It was probably Escott, but I dragged on my bathrobe and sieved through the wall to make sure. His house had been invaded too many times for me to take anything for granted.
False alarm, the best kind. Escott was crouched by the wall he’d built up to enclose the dead space under the stairs. It had a hidden door in the bricks concealing a safe. Since the big crash neither of us trusted banks much, and it was a good place to park certain items we weren’t yet ready to declare to the world at large. Among other things, it held the bulk of my hard-won mob money and a share of his own honest earnings. He’d drawn one of his envelopes of cash out and was transferring funds into it from his wallet. He must have had a profitable day, then.
“Going somewhere?” I asked, pausing a few feet behind him.
He almost didn’t jump. “Damn! Rap on something or call a warning, why don’t you?”
“That’s against union rules for vampires. You should be used to it by now.”
“I forgot the time, or else I’d have been prepared for your evening’s emergence.”
“What gives?” I motioned to take in his traveling clothes, which were a nondescript dark coat and sober gray suit, not expensive, not cheap. He’d carefully chosen them to be able to blend into nearly any city background. Except for his height and distinctive face—both of which I’d known him to adjust when he wanted—he could make himself into the human equivalent of wallpaper. “Going on a trip?”
“Yes, an overnight train to New York to recover a kidnapped canine.”
“You’re kidding.”
“My client is paying extremely well,” he stated with huffy dignity. Sure, he turned down divorce work, but there was damn little else beneath his notice if the money was good.
“What’s the story?”
“Nothing terribly exciting. My client’s divorce was finalized some time ago, but her ex-husband was not satisfied with the arrangement concerning the family dog. He, or some agent of his, absconded with the creature, so I’m off to fetch it.”
“What kind of dog?”
“No specific breed. I was given a photograph. It’s small and fluffy, and I expect excitable and prone to yapping, but when a client puts a hundred dollars in my hand, I will cheerfully assume the guise of Frank Buck and bring the beast back alive.”
He finished putting half his hundred in the safe, keeping the other half for what would be more than generous travel expenses. Maybe he planned to take in some shows while he was in New York. After closing the safe and securing the brick opening, he went upstairs. I followed in the normal way rather than vanishing to waft through the ceiling; impressive as it was, there might be a big night ahead, and I wanted to save my strength.
Escott went into the kitchen. He wasn’t one to cook, only using the room to make and drink his coffee in the morning or eat directly from the Chinese food cartons he usually brought home at night. Still, out of habit he’d cleaned things enough in anticipation of his trip to make it look like no one lived here. The garbage pail was empty and swabbed out, the counters wiped clear of crumbs and corner dust. His stringent neatness might have annoyed others, but I didn’t mind since he was sensible enough to leave my stuff alone. Of course, I was sensible enough to keep my stuff in my own rooms.
He pulled the Chicago book from the shelf under the wall phone and flipped through its flimsy pages.
“When you due back?” I asked, lounging against the fridge.
“A day or so. You can check with the answering service if there’s any change in my plans. I’ll notify them.”
“If you do the same for me.”
“Yes, I read about your case.” He indicated some pages on the kitchen table where I’d left them just before dawn. What began as a note turned into a near novel. He told me he wanted to be kept up-to-date on things, so I’d not been sparing in the details. Good thing I could type fast, or I wouldn’t have finished in time to make it to cover before dawn.
“It’s not a case,” I protested.
“You’ve a better description for it?”
He had me there. It’s just the way he canted his head and arched the one eyebrow was annoying. Having found a number, he put the phone book away and dialed, calling for a cab to take him to the train station. Rather than risking the perils of public parking, Escott preferred leaving his precious Nash safe in his garage when he travele
d.
“I could have given you a ride,” I said.
“Most kind, but you’ve some preparations of your own for the evening to see to, unless I’m mistaken.”
“Royce Muldan’s party, yeah.”
“You will be careful, won’t you?”
“You know me.”
“Indeed. And I share Shoe’s opinion: I’ve no liking for scraping you off sidewalks.”
“That was just the one time. It was months ago.”
“It was more than sufficient.”
For us both. He and his friend Shoe Coldfield had saved my butt more than once, and sometimes took a perverse delight reminding me about it. None of it bothered me much since I could rib them right back. With interest.
“I’ll watch myself,” I said. “What about today? Anything new?”
“Miss Smythe called and asked you to telephone her at her place of work at five minutes after nine. She’ll be on a break then.”
“She say what it was about?”
“Something to do with Lena Ashley’s funeral service.”
Cheering subject.
“As for the rest of the city, the papers are trying to keep things animated, but there’s damned little for them to go on about. Whatever you did last night to that swarm of reporters you encountered seems to have worked. The stories are now below the fold and quite a bit shorter except in certain of the more lurid tabloids. Since you persuaded them to lose interest in you, they’re now badgering the police for a swift solution to the ‘Sensational Jane Poe Mystery.’ By its very nature I suppose it can hardly be anything else. Oh, that was one of the more restrained headlines.”
“I guessed.”
“Overly dramatic,” he sniffed. “As for the others . . .”
“They gotta tempt people to spend their two cents in the right place. What about the cops? Anything from them?”
He crossed his arms and parked his backside against a counter. “Lieutenant Blair was once more most obliging when I called. He has no exact date on the woman’s death but, like you, is privately estimating that it took place about a month after the club closed, around May of 1932. That coincides with Miss Ashley’s disappearance and the receipt for the sale of the dress. He spoke with the officers who investigated the grenade-tossing murders, and none noticed a freshly bricked-up wall in the cellar at that time.”
