“See? Nobody notices or cares here, except for her and her fucking mascara. Left or right?”
“Left.” Jenny removed her new red hoody. “Or right. I really don’t care. You’re the expert.” She held out both of her skinny bruised arms.
Mary’s phone jingled. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and read a text. “Seamus said he doesn’t know this Carl person. He says that the person that is looking for you is Eddie Riordan—and he’s paying a pretty penny to find you.”
Veronica inserted the needle into Jenny’s arm. “See, I told you I was good. I bet you didn’t even feel that.” Veronica patted Jenny’s slender shoulder. “I’m sorry I yelled. I was a little freaked out about that whole thing back at the motel. I think we all were.” Jenny’s iron rich blood flowed from the tube into the dirty travel mug. Veronica instantly felt calmer knowing a meal was in her future. “Do you feel alright?”
“I’m okay, but can we stop at that Dairy Queen across the street when you’re done? I want a Blizzard.”
“Sure.” Veronica leaned towards the front seat. “What did you say about Seamus?”
“Eddie Riordan is looking for you. That’s what Seamus said, anyway.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“I didn’t. I texted him. That’s his preferred method of communication.”
“Like most people,” Jenny added.
Eddie Riordan’s name didn’t ring a bell. Was it someone whose soul was stuck inside her? Was he somehow involved in the Jenny situation? Was he a cop from the Grapevine PD? “Who is this Eddie Riordan?”
“Apparently he’s someone you turned. You don’t remember doing that? Hmm.” Mary studied her phone’s screen to avoid Veronica’s reaction.
“No.” Veronica’s memory was foggy, but she figured it had to have happened in the fifties when she couldn’t find a job. He was either a drunk or an AA member. Maybe both.
In ’52, Veronica had become a fixture at the downtown Detroit AA meeting, which wasn’t exactly keen on letting a lone woman into the fellowship of their male-dominated group. At the time, a female member was considered a distraction that might potentially lead to hanky-panky. Unbeknownst to them, Veronica had no intention of sleeping with any of the reformed drunks. All she wanted was a meal. Like a lion surveying the Serengeti, she laid low in the back of the room, kept her mouth shut and zeroed in on the particularly wobbly, forgettable newcomers that she could follow home after the meeting.
“I have no idea who this Eddie Riordan is but ask Seamus to arrange a meeting with him.” Veronica withdrew the needle and stuck a crumpled napkin on Jenny’s arm.
“So you can make amends for something you don’t remember doing? That should go well.” Mary’s voice sang with sarcasm. “Hell, if it didn’t work with an old friend, how is it going to work with a stranger?”
“You are NOT my friend.”
“Who wants ice cream?” Jenny pressed the napkin to her tiny wound and raised her arm above her head.
The Dairy Queen was cold and empty inside, but the drive thru was packed with a line of cars. Jenny sidled up to the red Formica counter and stared at the menu. Veronica and Mary slid into a booth near the freezers.
“Do you have any other clothes you could put on?” Veronica said in a low voice. Her gaze darted around the room to avoid looking at Mary.
Mary frowned. “Why?”
“People are staring.”
“What people? I don’t see any people.” Mary looked around the empty restaurant. The lone counter person was leaning half way out the drive thru window.
“Well, if there were, they would be. Do you always dress like this? Or is this ensemble reserved for special occasions?”
Mary rested her head on her clasped hands. “Astrid, I’m a lady of the evening. This outfit is my billboard.”
“Jesus.” Veronica shrunk down into her seat and rubbed her forehead. “So, are you killing all of your customers?”
“You wish. Why would I do that?” Mary stretched, and her tiny shirt became a tube top.
“I don’t know. To survive?”
Mary leaned forward exposing her ample breasts. “Do you want to know how I survive?”
“I imagine you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not. Go for it.” Her voice dripped with resentment, fueled by the ever-increasing pressure that Mary wasn’t going to leave until she could reflect.
“Well, you know that old saying, whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? I apply that philosophy to those customers that are visiting for the weekend. After we’ve done our business, I fetch them a glass of water or whatever with a little something extra in it. While they’re zonked out, I take a pint, sometimes two, and then I simply slip out of the room. No harm, no foul. I learned that from you at the hospital. They have no idea what hit them and if they do, it’s not like they’re going to call the police to rat out the prostitute that slipped them a roofie.”
“And that’s working for you?”
“They don’t call it the oldest profession in the world for nothing. I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet or not,” Mary looked up at Veronica’s dour expression. “I’m guessing not. But our bodies are amazing. Nasty case of the clap? Gone in six seconds. Listen, I’m very ethical. I don’t steal from my Johns. I do exactly what they pay me to do.”
“But you do steal their blood.”
“And?” Mary rubbed her arms. “Blood regenerates. It’s not like I’m removing one of their kidneys and selling it on the black market. What happened to you? You’re such a sour puss.”
“I’ve always been a sour puss.” Veronica’s lip beaded with sweat despite the chilly temperature.
Mary dropped her bangled arm on the table. “Bullshit. You used to be fun.”
“This is so not bullshit.” Jenny plopped down next to Veronica. “Bullshit is best served warm. Blizzards not so much.” She turned the cup upside down. “Would you look at that? It’s ice cream magic.”
Veronica couldn’t remember the last time she’d had fun. Monotony? Yes. Resentment? Yes. Fun? No. She brought the travel mug to her lips to swallow her feelings. “It’s not very fun to live as a fifty-one-year-old menopausal woman. You’re all about seeing yourself, Mary, but let me tell you—now that I can finally see myself, I just want to disappear. Fifty will never be the new forty. It’s not even the old forty.”
Mary reached across the table and grasped Veronica’s arm. “Do you need a hug?”
Just a tiny bit of compassion from someone filled Veronica’s grey blue eyes with tears. Unsure of what to say, Jenny handed her a wad of napkins and dug into her ice cream. Veronica buried her face in the mound of stiff paper.
Mary slid out of the booth, waved Jenny towards her with a playful wink, and scooched towards Veronica. “I’m sorry my lack of clothes hurt your feelings. I’m also sorry that you’re having a tough time of it.” Mary’s voice teetered between playfulness and sincerity.
Veronica patted the tears from her naked face. Mary’s face was still smudged from her bout of tears at the motel, but she didn’t want to tell her.
“It’s a good thing you don’t wear mascara, even though you totally could if you wanted to. Come here.” Mary pulled Veronica’s stiff body into an awkward embrace.
“No offense, but I need out.” Veronica pushed her way out of the booth, stood and fanned her shirt. “I’m so freaking hot. I can’t take it.” She scanned the restaurant, opened one of the doors to the freezer in the dining area and lifted her shirt.
“And I’m the embarrassing one? She’s flashing the Dilly Bars.” Mary rolled her eyes at Jenny, then looked down at her buzzing phone. “You have a date with Eddie at the Field Museum in Chicago tomorrow at 2 p.m. sharp. Meet him at Sue. What does he mean by Sue?”
“Sue? She’s a T-Rex. How far is Chicago?” asked Jenny.
“Probably about six or seven hours. We’re going to have police hot on our trail as soon as Carl wakes up.” Veronica said.
31
In their room on the thirty-third floor, Veronica attempted to relay the craziness of the last few weeks to Frank in coded snippets. Despite the posh surroundings, her voice trembled, registering between a low whisper and a full-blown panic attack. Jenny and Mary were within earshot, but she didn’t care if they heard or not. Frank’s end of the line stayed mostly silent. Every few minutes, he would simply say, “I’m sorry, Astrid.” Her real name uttered in his deep, resonant voice felt like a cozy blanket.
She could have listened to the sound of his voice all night, but the phone beeped steadily, causing Mary to scamper over like a treat-starved dog to peek at the screen. Vegas was texting. A lot.
Veronica tried to pay no mind to the intrusion. She was beyond grateful to reconnect with Frank.
“Any chance you’ll be making it back to Texas any time soon, Astrid?” Frank’s voice sounded hopeful.
“No. This ninth step work is going to take longer than I expected. Call me tomorrow when you’re at the group.” She hoped he’d get the hint and call her from someone else’s phone.
He said he would. With the phone still pressed to her ear, she watched Jenny sneak several bottles of Ketel One and a Diet Coke from the mini-bar into the bathroom. She wanted to throw her shoe at the girl but opted instead to admit her own powerlessness over alcohol—well, Jenny’s craving for it, anyway—and do nothing. She chuckled to herself. It was much easier to admit powerlessness over Jenny when Mary was footing the bill for the room.
Later that night, Veronica studied Mary painting her toenails by the light of the desk lamp, while Jenny restlessly tossed and turned in a tangle of sheets.
“I love nail polish.” Mary extended her leg and examined the paint job. “Pretty, huh?”
Veronica picked up the dark red bottle of polish and squinted to examine the name. “Fussy Hussy?”
“It’s just a name. Want me to do yours?” Mary reached out for Veronica’s hand and inspected her nails. “Nice nails, but geez, your hands are cold.”
“I hate to break it to you, Mary, but I imagine that yours are too. Do your clients ever wonder why your body feels refrigerated?” Veronica let her hand linger inside Mary’s.
“They don’t ask too many questions.” Mary shook the bottle and placed the hotel magazine under Veronica’s hand. “Between nerves and desire, they usually have enough heat for the both of us.” She unscrewed the top and brushed a line of crimson on Veronica’s thumbnail.
“Have they ever tried to hurt you?” She knew the answer but needed to drum up some sort of compassion.
“Who hasn’t?” Mary leaned back in her chair and studied the ceiling. “Actually, this one creep kept me chained to the hotel bed for three days while he experimented on my body with a utility knife. As soon as he’d slice something off, he’d attempt to take a picture with his phone, but as you know, it didn’t take long for my amazing body to be good as new. He thought he was going crazy. Well, he was crazy, but you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“It wasn’t a totally bad experience. I learned about the sun.”
“I just learned about the sun like two weeks ago.” Veronica rolled her eyes.
“Didn’t that piss you off? All that planning and hiding? I felt so cheated when he opened the curtain and I didn’t burst into flames.” Mary moved the brush to Veronica’s other hand.
“So, what happened to the guy? What did you do?”
“Once he realized he couldn’t kill me, I convinced him to loosen the restraints. I told him I was a vampire and that I promised to turn him into one, too. That sounded awfully exciting to him.”
Veronica leaned forward, genuinely curious. “Did you turn him?”
“Hell no. I ripped his dick off and shoved it down his throat.”
So much for compassion. “That’s overkill, don’t you think?”
“He tortured me for days! He deserved it and it’s not like I could have him screaming at the top of his lungs. It was the classiest place in Vegas with the fountains and all that colorful glass on the ceiling. I had to shut him up.”
“Weren’t you afraid the police would find you?”
“Not really. I scrolled through that asshole’s phone. I wasn’t the first woman he dissected. I figured the police would let me slide since I did them a favor.”
“You sure did.” Veronica held out her hands. “Hey, this looks pretty good.”
“Well, you want to look your best for your date with that Eddie guy tomorrow.” She screwed the top back on the bottle and gave it another shake. “Now don’t go touching anything or you’ll mess them up.”
“I don’t even know if I should go. Hell, he could be a psycho killer.”
“He can’t kill you. But maybe he’ll be able to help you.” Mary smiled.
“I don’t know. It didn’t work with you, so what’s the point? I just want to go home to Texas.”
“What’s stopping you?”
Veronica blew on her nails. “Well, let’s see. I kidnapped the future president’s daughter and, according to my husband, I’m wanted for questioning by the Fort Worth PD for two separate murders.”
Jenny snored loudly and rolled over to her stomach.
“You’re married?” Skepticism enveloped Mary’s tone.
“Yep. I’m actually on husband number five because I believe in the sanctity of two paychecks and a roof over my head. Did you ever marry Dr. Dan?”
“No.” Mary smiled wistfully. “I totally forgot about Dr. Dan. I think I killed him, but at one time, I was thoroughly convinced we were going to live happily ever after and have six ridiculously good-looking kids.”
“You could still have that, you know.”
“Dr. Dan is dead, and I have breast cancer, remember?” Mary lifted her shirt. Her right breast was still swollen, red and dimpled like the skin of an orange. “If I ever became mortal, I’d be dead in six months, tops.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. That’s right.” Veronica hit her forehead with her hand.
“Nails!”
“You were dying of cancer. Oh, god. I’m sorry. I thought eternal menopause was bad, but that must be horrible. Does it hurt? Oh, Mary. I’m such a shit.” Veronica looked down at her nails. Three of them had smudged. Instant karma.
“Ow!” Mary doubled over and fell off the chair. “I think I’m dying right now.” She clutched her stomach. “Shit. And I just ruined my fucking toes.”
Veronica stood and stared down at Mary lying in a fetal position on the plush carpeting. “How many people have you turned?”
“Too many to count. Why?” She rolled over onto her back.
“I have good news for you.” Veronica reached down and pulled Mary to her feet. “Your mascara nightmares are over.”
Mary bolted from the floor and jumped from side to side like an amped-up go-go dancer upon seeing herself in the mirror. She eyed herself from several angles while sucking in her stomach, sticking out her chest and fiddling with her long auburn hair. She leaned in closer to her heavily made-up face and licked her lips. “I lied about the mascara thing. My vanity runs much deeper. What I really want is to do video.”
“Video?”
“There’s more money to be made and less physical contact with ugly men.” Never breaking contact with her reflection, she made a duck face as if she’d been posing in front of a bathroom mirror with her cell phone for years and smiled. “I’m going to make a killing.”
32
Detroit 1954
Eddie Riordan was a bouncer at Detroit’s Stonehouse when he was plucked by “Black Bill” Tocco to be one of his featured enforcers. Ready Eddie was a man of few words with a hulking body and a deep red scar accentuating his right cheekbone. If some chump didn’t pay back a loan or make good on their bet, hi
s job was to show up with a bat clutched in his giant hands. His intimidating presence was all it took, making the bat more of an accoutrement, like a man purse, rather than an actual weapon. The first time he swung it with the intention of breaking a bone, he was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and shame. Throwing someone out of a bar or breaking up a fight was far different than breaking someone’s kneecaps. To drown his uncomfortable thoughts, he began a relationship with illegally imported Crown Royal—a regular gift from his boss.
When bats were replaced by bullets, Eddie wanted out. He figured it didn’t matter who was holding the gun, as long as their hands didn’t shake. And Eddie’s hands shook, especially when he woke up. After his wife left him, taking their two young children and the stash of cash he hid in the cellar, he’d hit his bottom. One of the bartenders at the local dive, tired of dragging his drunken ass off the dirty floor every other night, suggested he might try this thing called AA.
It was at his first meeting that Eddie and Veronica’s paths crossed. He was drunk on cheap whiskey when he entered the door and was even more drunk by the time he stumbled out into the cold January night. Veronica, intimidated by his size, but desperate with hunger, followed him anyway. Two blocks down, he slipped on a patch of ice and clonked his enormous head on the chrome bumper of a ’52 Bel Air. Shrouded by two vehicles and the darkened street, she seized the serendipity of the moment and dove mouth first into his thick neck.
“What the hell?” He slurred, attempting to focus his gaze. “Stop doing that, Linda. It hurts.”
“I’m almost done,” Veronica said cheerily, as if she were reassuring a child.
“I don’t feel so good.” He rolled over with Veronica still latched onto his neck. His stomach heaved, drenching her dark hair in bourbon and bile. Blood gushed from his gaping wound as he collapsed on top of her.
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