The Color of Dying

by Carlos Colon

  Donny cocked his head to the side like a shamed puppy dog being yelled at for pissing on the carpet. “I thought maybe we could help you get started. You know, somewhere else outside the city. I mean, if you don’t want this, we can always, you know...”

  “That’s not the point, dammit!” I confronted him Travis-style. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever killed anyone? Because according to the two of you, you’re both genetically resistant. So tell me. How do you do it? Does taking someone’s life away give you any problems?” Donny remained quiet. And then it occurred to me. “Wait a minute. You never killed anyone, did you?” His eyes drifted towards the line I front of the Hindquarters. “So what then?” I asked. “How do you feed?”

  Donny thought for a moment then shook his head. “We never told you how Travis was turned, did we?” I didn’t answer. I just waited for him to continue. “During the prohibition era, Travis ran a speakeasy here in the city for the Capelli family.”

  “Prohibition Era!”

  “He doesn’t look too bad for a 100 year-old, does he?” said Donny, trying to lighten the mood. “I worked for him there. And of course back then, relationships like ours were not something you wanted to have known, especially when you were involved with someone like Capelli. So we did our best to be discreet.”

  “So what’s this got to do with—”

  “Easy,” said Donny. “You’re so impatient. You remind me of Travis sometimes.”

  “Never mind that. Where’s this story going?”

  “Well, if you stop interrupting me...”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  Donny shook his head and continued. “Simone was Capelli’s goomar. And she was a manipulative, horny little bitch that everyone in the boss’s group had had a little time in bed with. And though he always suspected something was going on, he was never able to prove anything.”

  “Was she already—”

  “Oh yeah,” said Donny. “That tramp goes back centuries”

  “So what’s that got to do with you? I’m sure neither of you were screwing her.”

  “Let’s put the sarcastic quips aside, shall we?” Donny continued. “I don’t know how, but someone found out about me and Travis because Capelli went ahead and put out the word on us. I think his exact words were, “I want that pervert and his faggot boyfriend dead.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, I guess he forgot that Travis had done a few jobs for him in the past because he sent only one man to take him out.”

  “Travis was a hit man?”

  Donny beamed. “Travis was never someone to be messed with.” He went on to describe how Capelli’s goon was found at the back door of the speakeasy with his throat slit. After that Simone mesmerized Capelli with either her mind control or her lady bits and convinced him that she could handle Travis. But after she left, one of Capelli’s other men secretly put a tail on her because he never trusted the hold she had over the boss and wanted to see what she did when no one else was around.

  “Was that when she got Travis?” I asked.

  Donnie nodded. “Well, you already know what a horny wench she is. And though she isn’t necessarily his type, she had him under the same spell that she had you.”

  I hung my head. “That doesn’t make me feel any less responsible for what happened a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I understand, but it wasn’t your fault,” said Donny. “Travis didn’t want this either. And who knows? Maybe Simone didn’t even want him to turn because if she was planning on staking him or removing his head, she never got the chance. While they were lying naked together and she was feeding off him, the doors burst open with three of Capelli’s men spraying machine gun bullets at them.”

  “Why didn’t she attack them?”

  “Well Nicholas, even though we’re dead, those bullets can be pretty painful. And they leave permanent damage underneath our projected appearances. Once our skin is torn, it doesn’t heal that well. Our projections only give that illusion. I don’t know if you’ve seen Simone’s skin without her projected appearance, but I can tell you for a fact that Travis’ body is full of bullet holes.”

  “Let’s leave Travis’ naked body out of this. What happened after that?”

  “They were on the fifth floor of a hotel. Travis had been hiding there after killing the man Capelli sent after him. When those other guys went in that room and started shooting, Simone jumped out of that bed and dove right out the window.”

  “Shit, they must have wondered how the hell she did that.”

  “You’re right about that because when they looked out that window, expecting to find her naked body splattered on the concrete, she was gone, nowhere in sight.”

  “What about Travis?”

  “They stuffed him in the trunk of their car to deliver to Capelli. But when they got to Capelli’s house and opened up the trunk... well, let’s just say that Travis always has had a taste for Italian food.”

  “He turned that fast?”

  Donnie nodded.

  “But isn’t he genetically resistant?”

  “Yes,” said Donny patiently. “But as I just explained, Travis had no problem killing before he became victim to Simone, so taking lives after his change was never an issue.” Donnie then giggled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was thinking about Buffalo Johnny.”

  “Who’s Buffalo Johnny?”

  “He’s the only one of us I know that doesn’t actually kill anyone.”

  That got my attention. “What? How?”

  “Donny!”

  It was Travis pushing through the line waiting in front of the Hindquarters. “What’s going on?” he asked as he approached us.

  “Nicholas wants to leave,” said Donny.

  “Then let him go,” said Travis. “Feel free to go on if you wish, young man. There’s really not much more to teach you at this point, so as long as you’re not feeding here in the city, you can go wherever you want.”

  “Why do you want me out of New York? This is a big city,” I asked.

  “Two reasons; first, this city is ours, three of us are too much for one city. Second, you’re a dead man, a dead man whose face has been all over the local newspapers. You can’t be here.”

  He had a point. The risk of running into people who knew the living Nicky Negrón was much too high. What if it got back to my family?

  Regardless, Donny’s Buffalo Johnny story piqued my interest. “Donny says I might not have to kill anyone to feed.”

  Travis gave Donny an incredulous look. “What are you talking about?”

  Donny giggled again. “I was going to tell him about Buffalo Johnny from Upstate.”

  “Buffalo John—” Travis looked at Donny like he was crazy.

  Now they really had my attention. “Who’s Buffalo Johnny?”

  Travis shook his head at me. “Johnny’s a rare case. It’s not the best way to—”

  “To what? There’s a way for me to get by without having to kill anyone and you’re not going to tell me?”

  “Well, if you can find someone willing to...” For the first time Travis seemed a little awkward in trying to express himself. Donny giggled some more.

  I started to lose my patience. “Why the hell are you laughing? Who is Buffalo Johnny?”

  Donny shrugged as if saying, why not. “He owns a night club like we do, near Niagara Falls.”

  “So?”

  Donny raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Well, he has some ladies that come to him once a month for a feeding.”

  “I don’t get it. I thought we have to kill them. What aren’t you telling me?” I then thought for a moment. “Wait a minute. What do you mean monthly?”

  Donny giggled again. “Johnny is very popular with the ladies.”

  “Are you telling me—?”

  Travis nodded. “The blood is of good quality, too. It’s been known to hold some of us up for close to a month. And it’s true,” Travis admitted
. “You don’t have to kill the woman if you can wipe her memory. But there lies the problem. Menstruating women tend to be difficult to hypnotize.”

  “But that’s kind of like rape, isn’t it?”

  “Well you could find yourself a girlfriend,” scoffed Travis. “But you’re probably going to want to avoid close relationships with humans. It creates a lot of problems. Questions, explanations, it goes on and on.”

  “So then my choices are rape or murder?”

  Travis gestured Donny to join him back at the club. “Whether you violate or kill your prey is your business, just don’t do it in our city.”

  16

  Back when Veronica started work here at the hospital as a part-timer, she had another job during the day as a waitress in the Ironbound section of Newark, stacking up a massive amount of work hours to support her two boys on her own. The other females here at the hospital paid no mind to that side of her and only thought of her as the local puta. It was more jealousy than anything else, but that being said, there was no question that Veronica enjoyed watching men trip all over themselves to get her attention.

  When Veronica lost her job at the diner (after slapping a regular that copped a feel of her ass), she started working here full time and became intrigued with the mysterious (and devilishly handsome) security guard that everyone called Georgie, especially since he showed little interest in her.

  At first she began playfully singing his name out whenever she’d pass him in the corridors. Such flirtations had little effect on her undead target until one night in the cafeteria she opened up a Tupperware containing her homemade chili con carne. The smell was so good, so fresh, he made a passing comment on how he missed the scent of old-fashioned home cooking. Not one to miss a beat, Veronica took that opportunity and ran with it.

  Ever since then Veronica would regularly bring in leftovers to share with me. And since my species isn’t exactly known for restraint or will power, I was not about to turn that food away. Human blood may be what I need to survive but my taste buds still love to savor the foods I enjoyed during the living years. Even in my death I can still taste those warm, home-cooked meals Mami used to prepare. And talk about torture, there is none worse than when I check in on Stefanie and smell the meals she used to prepare during the years of our marriage—except now it’s Rippey that gets to enjoy dinner time with her.

  So yes, recognizing a path that could lead towards developing a bond, Veronica jumped on the old cliché, “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Now that she’s been here a few years, she’s made a couple of friends at work. When she started sharing her meal breaks with me, they teased her about how she was wasting her time. Georgie’s a lost cause. He just likes to keep to himself, they’d say. But the more they told her I was a hopeless case, the more she wanted to pursue me.

  Now she’s not talking to me.

  It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t give a shit. It gets me out of her line of vision. Well, guess what. Now I’m the one that’s missing our breaks together. I’m missing her smile, I’m missing her singing out my name and most of all I’m missing her chili con carne.

  My behavior at the Hot Spot turned her off completely. Prior to that, I never openly judged her. She loved that about me. But on what was in effect our first date, I threw her a curve ball and barely resembled the person she thought she was getting to know. Since then she has built a wall of ice around her that I have been unable to penetrate. She goes out of her way to avoid me and refuses to make eye contact anytime we pass each other. Why does this bother me? I don’t need any relationships. This is what I should want. To make it worse, now even my predatory libido is disrupted. Since my change, I have only acted out my carnal desires with women that I feed from or know that I am never going to see again. And since I don’t want to kill Veronica nor leave my job, boning that hot little Mexicana is out of the question. But now I feel like I want her and it is disturbing my equilibrium. Why? Because it doesn’t feel like the desire of a predator. It feels like the desire of a man. I know it’s not love. If my heart still had a beat, it would beat for my very much alive and happily remarried Stefanie. But having grown accustomed to Veronica in my undead existence, I find that her current indifference is affecting me in ways it shouldn’t. Suddenly it feels wrong sitting alone in the cafeteria with just a newspaper and a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

  Her entrance into the cafeteria with her familiar little container gives me that little twirl below the ribcage—the one you get with rejection from someone you care about. Care! Did I just use that word? I’ll bet she’s got chili con carne in that container, too. Not above rubbing it in my face, are you, babe?

  Shooting for my own personal low in levels of lameness, I have my own little Tupperware. I’m planning to use it in an attempt to break the ice. Even in high school I never resorted to these sorts of cheesy tactics. Suddenly I have no game.

  “Veronica!” She does a 180. Really? “Come on, Veronica!” The other workers taking their break look up. I have everyone’s attention but hers. In fact, she’s even picking up her pace back out to the hall. No way, you’re not outrunning me, sweetheart.

  “Veronica, stop!”

  Not appreciative of the fact that I’ve jumped out in front of her and blocked her path, Veronica clenches her teeth, refusing to make eye contact. “Georgie, déjame quieta!”

  “Come on, Veronica, don’t do this.” Who is this person speaking? It can’t be me.

  “Georgie, don’t make me call somebody. Leave me alone.”

  “Veronica, who’re you gonna call, security? That’s me! Come on, let me just apologize. I behaved very badly the other night.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I know, but I feel terrible about what I did. I want us to be friends. Will you give me another chance? I miss you.” I did not just say that. “You know, us. I miss us, you know, like, talking.” Somebody please shut me up.

  Too late.

  That last line worked. I can see it. She’s quiet. That means she’s thinking. Boy, I really did it now, didn’t I?

  Our eyes make quick contact before she catches herself and diverts them away.

  “How are you feeling?” Ah, she still cares.

  “Me? I—I’m fine.” Am I stuttering?

  “You didn’t get sick again?” She cares and I’m liking it. Boy, am I in trouble.

  “No, no, I’m okay. I just miss you. And I’m sorry. I was totally out of line, the way I acted.” Man, am I hating myself right now.

  Our eyes meet again. This time she doesn’t turn away. She’s even tearing up. “Why did you act like that to me?”

  Change the subject, Nicky. “Look, I made my own chili.” Yeah, real smooth, guy. But hey, what the fuck? I haven’t dated since college. “It doesn’t taste anything like yours.” That’s no lie. “You want to try it and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

  She covers her mouth to suppress a laugh. A tear rolls down the side of her face. She probably wanted to make me work a little harder but her stifled laugh, along with her involuntary tear, has given her up. She’d been hurt and now she’s struggling to play hard-to-get, but we both know the battle’s over. I can be an irresistible prick when I want to be. And that was with no hypnosis, either. Maybe I do still have some game.

  Veronica takes my arm and so help me it feels great. I follow submissively. She’s probably leading us to our favorite waiting room. Hopefully Dr. Rothstein and Sabrina haven’t beaten us to it.

  Or maybe not, it appears we’re headed in a different direction. The newly constructed North Wing? That’s not scheduled to open until the end of the month.

  “Where are we going?”

  She’s feeling playful again. “I found a new spot where we can be solito.”

  “We’re not supposed to come here, you know. This part of the hospital isn’t open yet.”

  Some player from New Jersey Devils donated some money to make this new addition possible. It ju
st passed inspection yesterday and they are planning on opening it before the holidays after a little picture-taking ceremony.

  “It’s okay,” teases Veronica. “I have a friend who works for Security.” Her eyes, I know that look. Her tone of voice, I know it too.

  She wants it!

  The air in this section is clean, untouched, with the scent of fresh paint still dominant in the new waiting area on the second floor. Interestingly Veronica knew right where the switch was to turn on the light. Kind of makes me wonder about her familiarity with this unused section of the hospital. But I better not jump to any conclusions. That already got me into trouble earlier this week. Instead I’ll be a good boy and go along for the ride, cooperatively sitting beside her on the couch while I open my half-assed container of chili.

  I hand her a spoon. “Here, I want your honest opinion.”

  Her forced smile betrays a certain lack of enthusiasm but she gamely scoops up a spoonful of Chili a la Georgie and gives it a taste.

  “Mmm,” she lies after swallowing. “Good!”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like yours. Something is missing.”

  She wrinkles her nose at me. It’s love, baby. I make mine with love.”

  Oh, boy, I know where this is going.

  Historically, self-control has never been much of a problem for me, even when my hunger was at its worst and my temptation was at its highest. But now Veronica is pouring out heat with every word and every look in my direction. And her scent has been dancing through my nostrils from the second I spotted her at the cafeteria. This is going be a losing battle. The combined scent of the North Wing’s fresh paint and my not-so-succulent chili are doing their best, but they are not even close to curtailing my hunger. And it’s not my crappy chili that I’m hungering for.

  Travis made clear many years ago that the quality of the blood we consume directly affects our capabilities, which is probably why mine are so erratic. A steady diet of undesirables such as thugs and junkies makes it often difficult for me to maintain proper control until I steal some healthy plasma from the hospital. In this instance, control would be the operative word, because that is exactly what I am lacking right now.