Immortality Is the Suck

by Riley, A. M.

  his family? Walking home from the 7-Eleven.”

  I couldn't respond. My throat was closed and my mouth was dry.

  “I'm thinking of moving to Europe,” said Alli. “Some place north, maybe.

  But if you found a way to stage your own death—”

  “It wasn't exactly like that,” I interrupted her. “It was more an accident.”

  “Oh.”

  Alli had had a boyfriend when we'd first brought her into the operation.

  She had an impressive record with the ATF, but needed more field creds.

  Toward the end of the first year, she'd told me that the boyfriend had had

  enough.

  “He knew what it would be like, and he was all right with it?” I'd said,

  refilling her drink.

  “He knew everything I knew. He knew I'd be living with another agent. He

  knew I wouldn't be able to receive calls or see him as often as I'd like. That's not

  the problem. He says I've changed.”

  “What, it's about the clothes?” We both had adapted a little. I'd stopped

  cutting my hair and wore it in a ponytail. Peter hated the thick mustache that

  covered my upper lip. After I'd shown up at his complex in Mongol colors, a

  couple of his neighbors had complained about his visitors. Alli dressed, quite

  honestly, like a slut. Tight T-shirts, low jeans that exposed her rear. High-heeled

  boots and so much eyeliner she looked like a panda “I thought all men secretly

  wanted their girlfriends to dress like that.”

  “You don't know a lot of normal men, do you?” she'd said. “But it's not the

  clothes. He's right. I have changed.”

  She hadn't seemed too broken up about it. But, with a twinge, I knew that

  I should have checked up on her before this. I'd had Peter to talk to. Who had

  she had?

  “Listen, would you like to meet and talk?”

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  “Adam, it's three o'clock in the morning.”

  “C'mon, Alli, no way you're asleep this early.”

  A sigh. It always amazed me how long it took for people to get fed up with

  me. Apparently Alli had not yet reached her limit because she said, “Where

  were you thinking? Our old place?”

  “Too risky,” I said. “We might be recognized. How about the Hollywood

  coffee shop. You remember? The one we met at the first time?”

  “I remember,” said Alli.

  “In, say, half an hour?”

  “We'll see,” she said. And hung up.

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  Chapter Twenty

  An hour later I was watching the clock on the wall and starting to worry

  about where I'd spend the daylight hours. Alli had possibly decided not to

  show, after all, and dawn was approaching. I hadn't slept in a couple of days,

  either. So a dark, safe place with a bed and maybe some blood? Would have

  been heaven.

  While I was stirring my sixth cup of coffee and actually daydreaming

  about the open faucet of willing “blood cows” at Ozone's, a familiar young Goth

  chick came through the glass doors at the front of the restaurant. Rather, she

  banged against the door, causing it to open, and staggered through. A very

  young child followed, probably because she had hold of his upper arm. He was

  struggling.

  I was behind her in two seconds. “Let him go, Betsy.”

  She jumped and squeaked but did not release her apparent dinner. “If I

  do, he'll run away again.”

  I grabbed hold of her small hand and attempted to pry her fingers loose

  from the boy's arm. She resisted me. We struggled in the aisle of the restaurant

  while the surrounding patrons blithely continued eating. Good old Hollywood.

  Finally, I freed the boy's arm; he dashed for the doors.

  “No, stop him,” cried Betsy, taking off after him.

  I managed to hold onto her until we saw him outside, hanging a right and

  running, disappearing beyond the bushes bordering the restaurant parking lot.

  Betsy slumped against the tiled wall, looking like she might cry. I knew

  how she felt. I was pretty fucking hungry myself and the smell of the blood of

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  all the humans in the restaurant was starting to gnaw at me inside. “It'll be

  okay,” I said.

  “You fucking jerk,” she said to me, slapping at my chest.

  “I know. I know.”

  “No, you don't know. He's running right back to the same son of a bitch, I

  bet.” A fat tear rolled down Betsy's face. She scrubbed at it angrily, leaving a

  black mascara smear across her cheek.

  “What?”

  “I'd finally gotten him away and…and now…” She sank into a booth.

  “Damn.”

  “Got him away?”

  “You stupid cop,” she wept. “Why are cops so stupid? Do they give a

  stupidity test before they let you join or something? And what are you doing

  here anyway? I thought they'd dusted your stupid cop ass ages ago.” She wiped

  at her face some more. Now the mascara streaks were an op artist painting

  across her cheeks.

  I dipped a napkin in water and clasped her chin. “Hold on.”

  While I scrubbed the makeup off Betsy's face, she said, “I thought I could

  do something, you know? Finally. I thought, well this is why this happened to

  me. Now I can do some good. But it doesn't matter. I can't help anyone.”

  I stopped my motions and looked hard at her. “Do some good?”

  She leaned across the table and said, “Look at us; we're like superheroes,

  aren't we? So, I figured I could save all of the other kids.”

  “We aren't superheroes,” I told her.

  “Don't you get it, cop? We're gonna live forever. Doesn't that mean

  anything to you?”

  Come to think of it, well, I hadn't thought of it. “No?”

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  “We are as gods. I remember, Freeway used to tell me that to be a Mongol

  was to be special. Maybe he'd die but somehow he'd also live forever. And that

  meant everything to him. It gave him purpose. I felt a little jealous sometimes

  when he'd talk about it.”

  Belonging to the club could make you feel like that. It was dangerously

  seductive. “And now you've found your purpose?”

  “There's monsters and then there's monsters. I free the kids and…take

  care of their abusers.”

  “So, that's how you solve the blood issue. Clever.”

  She caught my sarcasm and her face changed just a little. Distant and

  careful. “What do you do?”

  “I don't know. I hooked up with Ozone for a while.”

  “Then you can't judge.”

  “No, you're right, I can't. Betsy, have you heard from Freeway recently?”

  The odor of Coco by Chanel and the click of high-heeled boots.

  “Christ, Bertoni, can't a girl be a few minutes late without you picking up

  some bitch off the street?”

  An arm draped around my shoulders; long, silky dark hair swept into my

  face as Alli's cool soft lips pressed against my cheek. “Hello, lover,” she said,

  dark eyes three inches from mine, mocking. She turned her head and said to

  Betsy, “Who's this?”

  “Alli, this is Betsy. She and I have been working together.” I watched them

  size each other up.


  “You called a cop?” said Betsy.

  “Alli's an old friend.”

  “Right.” Betsy popped out of the booth and started walking for the exit.

  “Wait a minute.” I intercepted her, but she slid under my arm like a

  greased pig.

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  “Later,” she said, pushing her way through the glass doors. I followed.

  “Betsy, we aren't through talking.”

  “I am.” She turned around, walking backward, to say, “Caballo says hello.”

  “What? Hey, wait a minute.”

  But she had turned and was gone in a blur. I thought, for a second, of

  giving chase. But Alli was still waiting in the restaurant and, while Betsy's

  activities were of interest to me, they didn't seem immediately related to a

  pending gang war.

  “So it looks like you really are alive,” said Alli, chin lifted in a considering

  manner as I rejoined her at the table. “Though somewhat the worse for wear.”

  My hand went to my cowlick. “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus, Bertoni, sit down.” I sat and she reached across the table to do

  some collar straightening, hair pulling and, as I had with Betsy, she wetted a

  paper towel and dabbed at my face. “Looked in a mirror lately? You're a sight.”

  “No, actually, I haven't really had time—”

  “You said on the phone. Something going down?”

  “It sounds so cracked I have trouble believing it and I was there. I know

  there's at least one undercover agent, but I don't know who the agent in charge

  is, or even if he knows what just went down…”

  “Stop,” said Alli. “Start from the beginning.”

  “There's a new OMG in town,” I said. “Big as the Mongols. Maybe even

  bigger. And they are determined to start a war. Last night a fight erupted in the

  ranks and now the lot of them are scattered all over the LA basin.”

  “Christ. Did you call the gang unit?”

  “Well…” I hedged. “That's the thing. Legally I'm still dead.”

  This is too weird for the straightforward, pragmatic woman who partnered

  with me for three years. “What the hell are you up to, Bertoni?”

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  I brought out my wallet and extracted the piece of paper with my notes on

  it. “Just get someone to check out this address. I don't think they've been there

  long. There must be something you can dig up to give reasonable cause for

  search and seizure.” I wrote out the address on a napkin and she took it from

  me.

  The waitress came by and refilled out coffees. “Are you ready to order?”

  The clock on the wall was approaching five a.m. “I can't, sorry. I've got to

  find someplace to crash and…and…” I had to find some blood soon. Alli was

  exuding a rich odor like Kahlúa and crème. Every time she shook that glossy

  hair behind her shoulders and licked her lips, I wanted to lunge across the

  table and sink my teeth into her throat.

  “I've got a bottle of Johnnie Walker and the latest Harley catalog back at

  my place.”

  “Oooh, biker porn,” I replied. “You temptress.”

  “I'll open up the sleeper sofa,” she said. “C'mon, it'll be like old times. We'll

  stay up all night talking guns and hogs and planning what to do next.”

  It was the best option, I thought. “Okay.”

  “You ride here?” she asked, standing.

  “Of course.”

  “I'm the black Sportster in the parking lot. My place isn't far from here.

  You can follow me.”

  * * * * *

  “Christ, you could always drink me under the table.” Alli wove across the

  floor, miraculously keeping her glass upright, and then surprised me by

  planting her well-shaped fanny on my knees. “Oops, am I too heavy for you?”

  she said.

  “Only your ass,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to move her off of me.

  “Freeway said you have nalga de angel.”

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  She leaned back, batting thick black eyelashes up at me, her eyes

  sparkling. “You think he'd be my boyfriend, Snake? Because, damn, I could

  use one lately.”

  “C'mon Alli, slide over.” I pushed her off of me. Alli was just joking around,

  I hoped. But I was still relieved when my cell phone rang.

  “Yeah.”

  “Adam? Thank God,” said Albert.

  “Albert? Fuck. I thought you were done for. Where are you?”

  “The Flaming Tart on Vermont. It's an hour to sunrise,” said Albert.

  “Where are you?”

  The last time I'd seen Albert, he'd been trying to cut my head off with a

  sword. I wasn't giving him Alli's home address. “I'll meet you at the Tart,” I

  said.

  “Who was that?” asked Alli as I pocketed my cell phone, standing and

  picking up my jacket.

  I should have been warned by her expression, but I was too edgy from

  hunger and the impending sunrise. All of my nerves were jangling. “I've got to

  meet this guy.”

  The sparkle in her face immediately fell flat. “Of course.”

  “Alli, I meant to call you before this. And I'll call you again soon. We'll have

  a drink or something, I swear. But this connection might know something that

  could help me stop the war.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “The supposed OMG war, which prompted you to

  call me at three a.m. And then, true to form, chicken out.”

  “Chicken out?”

  Alli followed me to the door. “Give me a call when you make up your mind,

  Adam.” And she shut it in my face.

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  Chapter Twenty-one

  Okay, I know what she's talking about but that's not the issue here. I had

  had to come up with something when Alli and I were living in the same house.

  Our friends and family drifting away. A beautiful, sexy woman walking around

  in her Victoria's Secret underwear, giving me those looks.

  So I developed a crippling fear of commitment. Which also helped explain

  my infrequent but necessary forays over to Peter's. I was a real slut, is what I

  was. Horrible boyfriend material. I had thought that had cooled her ardor

  somewhat, but I guess not.

  But that's not the issue, as I said. What's at issue is I've been trying to

  ring the bell, sound the alarm, and rally the troops. And I'm left feeling like the

  proverbial twat that cried wolf.

  Nobody believes me. Wait, Adam, maybe that's because you've been lying

  to them for years? Self-examination was creeping around the corner and

  coming at me again.

  So I outran it. I climbed on my bike and peeled out down Sunset, hung a

  left and then another onto Santa Monica, so that I could approach the Flaming

  Tart from its back alleyway.

  Nothing looked amiss at first glance so I tried to enter through the back

  door. I was repelled by a man with shoulders broader than mine wearing high

  heels and a tight leather miniskirt who informed me that I had to pay at the

  front to get in.

  Albert was waiting for me at the door, though.

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  He embraced me as if he hadn't tried to kill me and said, “This is the only

  bar I know we won't see any OMG.”<
br />
  The Flaming Tart was a drag bar during working hours. A cute little

  neighborhood drag bar where the “girls” put on a show that was more an

  homage to the concept of drag. Most of them barely concealed their masculinity

  and a few even brought girlfriends to see them perform.

  Albert was right about bikers. You'd have to dose them with GHB and hold

  a revolver to most of their heads to get them to even walk into a place like this.

  It was long after the bar must legally close, and the Tart had devolved to

  its other identity. An all-night diner. So Albert ordered some kiddy cocktail that

  was an unnatural shade of pink and I ordered a Coke. “Unopened,” I told the

  waitress.

  “Sure, honey,” she said, batting thick fake eyelashes at Albert; a luscious

  meal practically thrusting her silicone bosoms in his face. She was a

  temptation to me, hungry now to the point of near insanity, but Albert

  appeared calmly oblivious.

  Albert looked good. Plump, pink, and rested.

  “Where are you getting your blood?” I asked when the waitress had left.

  He looked mildly surprised. “Blood banks. Their security sucks, 'mano.

  Listen, I'm leaving town.”

  “Good idea.” The waitress returned and plunked a cold, wet can of diet

  Coke down in front of me. She placed a strong, brown hand on one narrow hip

  and said to Albert in a sultry falsetto, “My shift's over in five minutes. Can I get

  you anything else?”

  Albert looked her up and down. His expression was insulting. “No sé.”

  After our angry server had stomped off, I said, “Where are you staying?”

  “Anyplace I can find, 'mano. You?”

  “I might know a place,” I said. “You turn me on to blood, I'll share a

  mattress in the dark with you.”

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  “Sounds sexy, you fucking marcena. Don't get ideas.”

  “In your dreams, asshole. It's almost sunrise; let's get out of here and you

  can tell me what you have planned.”

  “I'm thinking you might be up for it too.” He threw down a wad of money.