by Garon Whited
Diogenes told me it would take more time. A laser communicator and receiver on a moving platform would require sophisticated servomechanisms and targeting. Building such a system would take a couple of hours.
On the other hand, we had two gates—one large, one small—and could drop stuff onto the moon. Simply watching the rate at which things fell, as well as how the winds affected them, could provide valuable data for parachutists. With a mini-firmament around a telescope package—and a spell to keep it in one place, relative to the moon-shield—Diogenes could take readings on the one weather balloon, even though it wasn’t sending back data.
I chucked through a wide variety of things, some heavy, some light, some dense. How they fell, how they accelerated, their terminal velocity, their changes from a straight-line fall, all these things were useful.
I felt a little like Galileo, only without the house arrest.
The trouble, as I saw it, was we ran out of things to toss down the gravity well. Oh, we could keep chucking rocks and sticks and whatnot for hours on end, building a better baseline, but we already established the base parameters and Diogenes was building new sensor packages and balloons for those.
Now what?
Maybe I’ll get Mary, go out for an evening, and we can observe Boojums. Who knows? Maybe I can examine the connection between a vampire and the spirit animating him without anyone noticing.
Flintridge, Thursday, January 22nd, 1970
Since we don’t have any concerns in Flintridge anymore, it seemed like a good place to start. I know there are Boojums there, and if they get all uppity we’re not losing anything by simply vanishing. Of course, the date was a bit farther along than I anticipated, but what’s a month or two when you’re not looking?
On the other hand, we don’t have the convenience of a shift-booth there anymore, either. It’s full-fledged gate traffic or nothing. It’s not so bad for Mary and I to step through, but Bronze is huge. She insisted on coming along, though. Something about facing horrible monsters without her. I gave in not only because she was right, but because she could keep Firebrand occupied. If I’m facing horrible monsters, I want both of them nearby.
Rather than go back to Rainbow Motors to get the Impala back, Mary and I went ahead and bought a car for Bronze. The 1969 Dodge Charger is also quite a cool car. We brought a very nice black one back to Apocalyptica at close to ninety miles an hour—the gate was only open for a second—and came to a halt practically under Bronze’s nose. She approved of her wardrobe, leaped from statue to vehicle, and we turned around to charge right back through a fresh gate.
If we get the timing right, we save power on larger gates by only opening them for a moment. The tricky part is not ripping whatever’s going through the gate to shreds. It’s not so bad with Diogenes handling the timing.
Since Los Angeles and Las Vegas knew us too well, we decided to try our luck farther east. We wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—be as well-known in New York.
New York wasn’t as well-known to us, either.
The New York of 1970 is very different from New York of the early 21st century. Parking is easier than I expected, but traffic is still awful. We arrived shortly after sunset, but people were still crowding us. Still, all things considered, Bronze navigated the not-so-rapids of Manhattan with relative ease while Mary and I played with maps, compass, and straightedge.
We got some very funny looks from other drivers. I forgot to get tinted windows.
Eventually, we narrowed down our search. I kept getting strong signals from a private club about half a block from the Roxy Hotel and almost directly across from the Tribeca Synagogue.
Does it amuse someone to have a vampire club across the street from a religious institution? I don’t know and I doubt I’ll ever ask.
We drove past the place two or three times, plotting our entrance. It was one four-storey unit in a building row, but the only one with an awning and a doorman. The doorman and a valet handled all traffic through the front door. The doorman was obviously—at least to us—a guard. The valet gave no sign of being anything but. The clientele were all expensively dressed, however, which necessitated a brief delay while we appropriated appropriate attire for ourselves.
Beyond that, there wasn’t much to be seen.
I asked Bronze to play dumb as we pulled up in front of the club. The doorman opened the car door for Mary and I tossed the key to the valet. We entered, arm in arm, to check my hat and both our coats. The girl in charge of such things took them away, leaving us in formal evening wear. I look okay in a three-piece suit, but Mary looks stunning in a long, black dress and mink stole. There’s a fine line between elegantly sexy and slinky, and she walks it in spike heels.
The room was a marble-coated lobby. It had a few deep, comfy chairs, a low table, and a courtesy phone. It didn’t look like a holding area for guests, nor like a buffer zone against intruders. On the other hand, the outer door was heavier than usual—the doorman handled it to avoid making it obvious—and the inner door was wood veneer over steel. Running tendrils through it and the wall around it, I decided I didn’t want to kick it down if there was another option.
“Memberships?” asked the uniformed gentleman behind the counter.
“We would like to apply for membership, if you please.”
“Certainly. Do you have any relatives who might be member references?”
I thought it a loaded question. I smiled widely as I answered.
“Yes.”
“Of course, sir,” he agreed, not batting an eye. He was human, but he was obviously in on the joke. “I regret to say there is a not-insignificant financial arrangement, regardless.”
“How much?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.
“Ten thousand dollars a month, sir.”
“I’ve heard things were more expensive in New York,” I replied, unhanding my wallet, “but that’s rather steeper than I expected. Is that for both of us?”
“Yes, sir. The membership on a per-person basis is five thousand.”
“Ah. That’s somewhat better, I suppose. I don’t happen to have—” I broke off, intending to continue with have that much on me, but Mary opened her black-sequined handbag and drew out a stack of bills. It thumped heavily on the counter. It still had a bank wrapper with “$10,000” clearly printed on it.
I sometimes wonder what else she’s carrying on her person. I’m not sure if I’m afraid to ask or afraid of the answer. I mean knives, yes. Money, yes. Maybe a gun. Maybe strangling wire. Possibly explosive earrings. Nerve gas pellets? Smoke bombs? A concealed diamond cord-saw in her necklace? Lockpicking tools in her hair? Batarangs? And how many grenades can she hide in a mink stole?
No, I’m not going to ask. It’s like getting an explanation of a stage magician’s trick. It spoils the magic.
The gentleman behind the counter accepted the bundle, thumbed through it, riffling the hundred-dollar notes, and put it away somewhere under the desk. He drew out a ledger, a quill pen, and an inkwell. With a careful hand, he wrote the date and asked us our names.
“Larten Crepsley.”
“Selene Crepsley.”
He also asked us to choose a number and a password, which he dutifully wrote down in the same calligraphic style next to our names.
“It is a pleasure to have you. Please, enter and be welcome.”
He buzzed us through the inner door and we went.
We entered a large chamber with several tables, all occupied. Music came from a stereo console—not a jukebox—rather than live musicians. Stairs led both up and down and a pair of swinging doors led into what was probably a kitchen. The décor was all black with crimson highlights. The lighting was subdued with a slight amber tinge to it.
As we took in our surroundings, a tall, handsome man, quite alive, stood up and offered his hand to the slim, pale lady—the undead lady—at his table. She took it and he led her up the stairs.
“Feeding time?” I asked, softly. Mary nodded, once.
/> We walked through the room, passing several tables. As we approached each table, the human at it sat up straighter, smiled wider in invitation.
I selected the empty table, instead, and we sat down together. Next to us, a Boojum bloodsucker escorted a human upstairs.
“Thoughts?” I asked.
“It’s more refined,” Mary admitted. “The room, the outfits… it’s got a certain Old-World air to it.”
“I can’t say I’m a fan of the color scheme. Why is black and red always so…”
“Stereotypical?”
“Yes. Why aren’t there vampire hangouts with decent lighting, pastoral scenes, and a brighter color scheme?”
“Like a faux plantation house on the top floor of a hotel?”
“Fair point.”
I squeezed her hand as a young man approached us. She glanced over her shoulder and fell silent.
“Good evening,” he greeted us. I nodded. “My name is Alex, and I’m told you’re new to the Night Club.”
“That’s correct.”
“May I join you?”
“Please.”
Once seated, he clasped his hands on the table and smiled.
“The Club offers many services, but the majority of them revolve around the drinks. Of course, if you only desire to drink and go, you are welcome to order whatever you like. Most of the clientele prefer to engage in a more leisurely dining experience.”
“A bit more theater?” Mary asked.
“Whatever is your pleasure, madam. For your convenience, there are several private dining rooms where one may enjoy a drink. These range from gothic bedrooms to graveyards, dungeons, even ruined chapels. Of course, there are more contemporary themes, as well. The teenager’s bedroom—either gender—is quite popular. All of which are included in the dining experience that comes with membership.”
“And is there an additional fee for a… picnic?” Mary asked.
“If you wish to take a drink with you, of course, that is perfectly acceptable, provided the container is returned, ah, intact, if you take my meaning.”
“I see. May I ask who is the owner of this establishment?”
“I regret, madam, that I am unable to answer that question. I do not know the owner. I am but a lowly employee.”
“I only ask because I find it somewhat unlikely there are enough… drinks?” Mary asked. The young man nodded encouragingly. “Drinks to supply the thirst involved. I would think the containers run dry with some regularity, causing difficulties in the supply. It would be inconvenient to rely on the club for dinner and find its suppliers are unable to meet demand.”
“A worthy concern. However, rest assured. While the staff have no need to know the particulars, there are a number of suppliers throughout the region. Once typed and cross-matched, fresh beverages are poured into the club’s containers.”
“But we could,” I suggested, “get something ‘to go,’ in a less conspicuous, more disposable container?”
“Of course.”
I turned to Mary.
“I like this place. What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to like it, but we don’t have time tonight to… indulge ourselves. Perhaps a quick drink to go? We can plan for a more relaxed evening tomorrow.” She turned to Alex again. “Is there a dress code?”
“Not as such, madam. However, the rules of the house require a certain level of decorum and subtlety. Turn up in formal wear or in denim, as you wish, but do not attract attention by your comings and goings.”
“I think I can do that. Dear? Shall we go?”
“As you wish. Young man, if it isn’t too much trouble, two drinks to go—any type, as long as it’s negative.”
“I will return momentarily, sir.” He rose, made a small half-bow, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“What I just heard,” Mary said, once he was gone, “was the staff are ‘drinks,’ they get regular transfusions, and you can either take one of them upstairs for a feeding or take one home, as long as you bring them back alive.”
“And a blood bag is to be had—of human blood, not just animal blood—if you’re in a hurry.”
“That takes organization. Contacts in the medical profession?”
“Probably. It wouldn’t even require telling anyone about vampires. Pay a doctor to falsify a positive result on a routine disease screening at the blood bank. Pay someone to miscount the blood inventory at a hospital. Lose two units a night at an emergency room and multiply that by the number of hospitals in the greater New York area alone…”
“At five thousand a month, multiplied by the number of patrons, it’s probably quite profitable, too.”
“In 1970’s dollars, too.”
The young man returned with a pair of tall, insulated cups. He placed them on the table.
“Two O negative, sir and madam. How else may we serve?”
“Tonight? That will be all.”
“We look forward to you patronage again.”
We accepted our drinks and worked our way back out, regaining coats and hat, while the valet brought Bronze around to the front.
Once in the car and moving, Mary took the lid off her cup—a mistake in close proximity. It crawled right out and splashed its way to me, soaking through my clothes and skin. Mary shot me a dirty look.
“Don’t blame me,” I told her. “I can’t switch it off.”
She grumbled a bit but was more careful with the second cup. She simply bit through the plastic lid. Fangs are useful like that.
“Human,” she observed. “I’m not tasting anything unusual.”
“I didn’t notice anything weird, either.”
“So, what do we do? There weren’t many vampires in the serving room and they didn’t seem too interested in personal interaction.”
“They came to a restaurant, not some grab-a-burger place,” I agreed. “It’s a pleasant night out, not a hunt.”
“How close do you need to be to examine one?”
“At the next table would do, but I’ll have to concentrate on them. It won’t be obvious in the flashing lights and shimmering auras sense, but I’ll be a weirdo staring at them and occasionally making strange gestures.”
“We could disguise you as a crazy person.”
“Easily. But people don’t like having a crazy person so close.”
“True.” Mary pondered. “How about we kidnap one, strap him down, and you do your thing?”
“Brutal. Simple. Effective. I like it.”
“I was kidding. We went to how much effort to make the last vampnapping look like the work of mortal hunters?”
“That was because I was being cautious about dealing with something I didn’t understand. If you don’t know if it’s radioactive, you put on the lead suit and use the tongs until you find out.”
“Fair point.”
“Now, I’ve had a good look at one of these bloodsuckers. While I’m sure the Boojum has some influence in animating and directing them, they’re mostly independent entities operating autonomously. With adequate cloaking spells, we should be able to avoid attracting notice from the Boojum or from the local vampires.”
“Unless we have the bad luck to literally bump into one or the other?”
“Pretty much,” I agreed. “With that in mind, we’ll need a place to work, with good defensive position and at least one escape route.”
“Escape route? How about a gate?”
“I’ve pulled that trick. I’ll set one up, but I don’t want to rely on it. If we do attract attention, I’m not sure how much of a higher-order reaction we’re going to get. I don’t even know how much energy it can project into a low-magic world like this. It might not be able to do anything directly, or it might possess every bloodsucker in the Five Boroughs and send them after us. It might not even be able to do that, but I worry about these things.”
“Fair enough. I’ll find us something.”
“Just let me know how I can help.”
“Keep
a lookout. I’ll do the breaking and entering.”
It didn’t take her an hour to find a disused basement. The whole building was closed up, unoccupied. She also found some lumber and whittled it down into sharpened stakes in nothing flat. I built a temporary gate spell around an old tractor tire. Why there was an enormous tractor tire in the basement of a Manhattan building, I have no idea. I’m not even sure how they got the thing inside, but it made a nice portal we could dive through in an emergency. If we had to use it, Bronze would simply drive away and we would rendezvous later.
As for kidnapping a vampire and dragging his carcass into a secluded basement, that was slightly more difficult. We lurked near the club on the theory of what goes in must come out. Several vampires did, in fact, enter the place. It was quite a while before any came out, though. Apparently, their version of dinner theater involves less dinner and more theater.
Artsy vampires annoy me. They’re kind of like wine snobs. If you like wine, you like wine. Does it matter so much if it’s a particular vintage? Maybe I’m not equipped to understand their sort of thinking. I mean, I can identify the various blood types by taste, now that I’ve tasted them, but they’re all blood. Maybe there’s a whole world of subtlety I just don’t appreciate. I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m about as subtle as a brick through a windshield.
Speaking of a lack of subtlety, the plan to kidnap someone was bold, brutal, and mostly Bronze’s idea.
Our target—Vampire X—came out of Club Noir, settled into his car, and drove off. Bronze, Mary, and I pulled up behind him. In city traffic, even at three in the morning, this isn’t usually cause for comment. We tapped his rear bumper ever-so-lightly, and Bronze leaped from her Charger into his Buick Skylark. This didn’t do anything nice to her front bumper, but it did get her in the driver’s seat, so to speak.
The Buick roared, cornered, accelerated. Vampire X wrestled with the wheel. I saw the brake lights come on, but I doubt they had any effect. I’m sure he also pulled the key, for all the good it did.
Bronze came to an intersection, didn’t quite make the turn, crossed it diagonally, and rammed the corner of a concrete-and-stone structure. This caved in the Buick’s front end rather drastically and proved a point: Always wear your seat belt. Vampire X was not wearing his.
