by Mike Arsuaga
On Valentine’s Day, Lorna sat at her desk, casting a glum stare over a squad room filled with a mixed collection of worker bees. Mike chatted on the phone, probably with a woman, which made Lorna feel worse. The irony—that his social life was better than hers—sucked beyond all expectations. Since the breakup with Jerry, she hadn’t been with a man, either socially or in the Biblical sense. Celibacy was never a lycan’s strong point.
With ten minutes left in the shift, the relief crew started to wander in. The elevator doors opened. A delivery man in an olive drab uniform stepped out carrying a long, narrow box. The gaunt young man paused to ask Mike something. After a few seconds, Mike pointed to Lorna’s office. With growing interest, Lorna watched the visitor navigate the aisle past twenty curious faces. The purposeful grin on his face never changed.
“Ms. Winters?” he asked, upon reaching the doorway.
“Yes?” Lorna answered, not taking her eyes from the mysterious box.
“Somebody must think a lot of you,” he said. With a practiced flourish, he presented the box as if it didn’t come from someone else, but from the wellspring of his generosity. After allowing a moment for her to absorb the ambience of the ribbon, bow, wrapping, and presentation, he placed an electronic signature pad in front of her. “Please sign here.”
Her gaze returned to the box after she scribbled her name. When she offered a five-dollar tip, he waved it off. “No, ma’am, it’s been taken care of.”
Mission accomplished, the delivery man walked with crisp gait toward the elevator. At his passing, Mike stood up to head her way. Ignoring her former partner, she opened the box. A dozen long-stemmed roses from Thatcher’s—Florist to the Stars—lay in a bed of expensive white tissue. Somebody wanted to make a big impression. The card read:
Forgive me? Dinner at Floubert’s. Have CI info you wanted. Car will arrive at eight. Jerry.
Floubert’s Bistro represented a good choice for keeping the “big impression” moving in the right direction.
“From your lawyer boy?” Mike asked from the door frame of her office.
Lorna looked up from the card. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“You be careful around him, Princess. I don’t like the cut of his jib.” Use of a sailing term reminded Lorna of the twenty-four footer they once tooled around Tampa Bay in before his first bankruptcy.
“I’ll be okay,” she answered, still reflecting on the card.
“Well,” he harrumphed. “You might as well have this.” A single rose with wilted edges appeared in the space between them. “I was all set to use it to get in your knickers tonight, but Clarence Darrow stole my thunder.”
Taking the rose, she sampled the depleted bouquet. Before she could thank him, he followed the deliveryman’s track, shuffling down the aisle in the direction of the elevators and home.
A second or two before he reached it, the doors opened. A blonde woman from Robbery Division stepped out. Holding the door with one foot, she kissed him on the mouth. Taking his arm, they stepped back inside, leaving Lorna alone with the oncoming shift gathering around. Her relief, a thin-faced human named Shackleton, eyed her with a guarded stare while he sipped on a cup of coffee. His expression reminded her yet again, there were no friends in Major Case, only rivals, leaving her feeling even more grateful for Mike’s presence.
Her eyes returned to the tattered rose lying across the desk blotter. The motive behind Mike’s gift dawned on her. Filling with emotion, she fought back a tear. The cheesy remark about sex had been a smokescreen. The gruff bastard knew she felt bad about being alone on this of all days, and had tried to show someone cared. Twenty years ago, such an act would never have occurred to him. Did sensitivity accompany the wisdom of age? Or did part of the Twelve-Step program bring it out?
She didn’t have an answer.
When she arrived home, she took a nap, awaking at six in the evening without calling the number on the card to accept the invitation. After getting up, she showered and dressed, putting on a green, sequined miniskirt with matching vest over a white silk blouse, her best outfit. Back during the halcyon days in Vice, with alternate weekends off, she’d acquired it at an estate sale. The style had returned, but more importantly, they didn’t make clothes of this quality anymore—at least, not at the stores she shopped. Discovering this was a stroke of luck.
Forsaking cotton panties with breakaway morph seams, she chose a silky little bikini that slid over her thighs, sending a tremor throughout her body. She pulled on a new pair of nude hose she’d been saving.
Even as the car drove up, she hadn’t decided whether to go. While adjusting the post on an earring, she tracked the path of the dark limousine to a vacant spot in front of her building. Its headlights made two white cones that thinned out to nothing in the misty night air.
The Maglev, together with clean-burning transportation all the futurists predicted for the twenty-first century, had never arrived. The old fossil fuel burners still dominated. Pollution declined because there were fewer cars and factories. Fewer people, too, after the Plague of 2026, with all of the dislocations that followed.
Still debating whether or not to go, she waited for a full minute while the large car’s idling engine burned seventeen-dollar-a-gallon gas.
“Oh, what the hell.” She snatched up her clutch and draped a knitted shawl around her shoulders against the chill.
As Lorna emerged from the building, the driver snapped the door open. “Evening, ma’am.” He offered her an arm. She ducked down, feeling the way into the commodious dark compartment with her free hand.
“I thought for a minute you weren’t going to show.” Jerry’s voice came from the black silhouette outlined against the opposite window.
“It crossed my mind.” Earlier she promised herself not to take him to bed, but her body betrayed her from the start. The best compromise seemed to at least make him beg for it. Judging from his scent, that wouldn’t be hard to accomplish.
“Well, you still look yummy.” Smiling, he added, “I’m glad you decided to accept the invitation.”
Floubert’s, a small place with twelve tables accompanied by a bar containing room for maybe six, sat deep within the cloisters of a high-end section of town. Upon entering, Lorna discovered the staff outnumbered the customers. Rumor had it reservations were booked up to a year in advance—a favorite of, as the saying goes, the rich and famous. The restaurant used linen with real china and silverware, not the plastic, much of it recycled, that had come into general use everywhere else during the last seventy years.
A second after they entered, a statuesque blonde in a black cocktail dress appeared at their side to relieve Jerry of his coat and Lorna of her shawl. Immediately, the black tuxedoed concierge, carrying bound leather-covered menus, took over. At their table, a waiter stood at attention behind each chair. One assiduously assisted Lorna with seating, while the other limited himself to pulling out Jerry’s chair and standing by to insure a safe landing. Besides the humans, Lorna caught the scents of several vampires in the room.
The table was tucked into a secluded corner near the front, one of the more desirable locations. A young woman lit a five-candled candelabrum, placing it in the center of the table, and dimmed the house lights in the immediate area before leaving. Candlelight danced in the faceted crystal of the glasses, reflecting in Jerry’s eyes, giving them richer color.
“Oh, my gosh!” Lorna gasped in a whisper. “That’s Lea Lorenzo.”
Jerry turned with the casual air a regular customer would show, of someone used to hanging out with the visiting celebrities, but it was all bullshit. Such an exclusive place wouldn’t give a mid-level attorney like him the time of day. Someone who, as ex-recreational sailor Mike might have said “drew a lot more water” arranged things. Perhaps the reclusive Ed White? After all, his company owned the place.
“Yes.” Jerry cast a crinkly-fingered wave in her direction. “I’m told she’s in town to cut a new album.”
Lea r
eturned the wave with a vague smile, gazing at them with dreamy detachment through pinhole-sized pupils.
Her celeb-in-the-flesh was high as a kite. No longer impressed, Lorna turned away.
With eyes beaming like a child’s on Christmas morning, Jerry turned back to Lorna. “Isn’t this great?”
Lorna fingered the rich weave of the tablecloth. “How did you get a reservation here?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Enjoy the moment.”
The answer didn’t satisfy, but before she could dig farther the plump sommelier appeared. He wore a red vest and white brocade shirt, set off by jet-black trousers. Jerry chose a bottle of Robichaux. Anyone in the squad room, even some of the bums in the holding cells, acknowledged New York wine didn’t get any better than that.
“Robichaux ’70. Excellent choice.” The wine steward nodded and then made a crisp departure.
“Lorna, I know you normally don’t drink alcohol, but tonight’s a special occasion. Perhaps a glass?”
Beaming at him, she showed small teeth made bright by the candlelight. Overwhelmed by the effect of the luxurious surroundings, she forgot to follow up on her question about the reason of the special occasion. Soon, the promise of providing the Coven International contact information he’d offered in his note also faded to unimportance.
“Sure, why not.”
A second wine steward, dressed in less formal professional attire, poured the ceremonial taste for approval. Jerry made an elaborate show of swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. After a pause, he consigned the rest of the bottle over for the table’s consumption. Lorna wondered what would happen if he sent it back, picturing the sommelier storming out of the wine cellar, meat cleaver in hand to defend the honor of the Hudson Valley vineyards.
Jerry took the bottle, insisting on filling her glass himself. When he leaned across, Lorna took a moment to appreciate the hard contours of his taut male form. Resolve to make him beg faltered in direct proportion the hardening of her nipples under the bodice of the silk blouse.
From the first sip, the wine seeped through her veins, warming her all over. It had been a long time since she’d had any, but she didn’t remember it ever affecting her so fast. The waiter came alongside to take their order. Floubert’s had one of the finest and most complete lycan and vampire oriented menus in the whole region. Only DelHomme’s in New Orleans rivaled it. Coven International owned that one, too.
“Petite filet mignon with capers,” Lorna said.
“The Mutton Bilbao is to die for,” Jerry suggested.
Lorna nodded in polite disagreement. “I’m a beef girl, remember?” The evening had been perfect until he decided to order for her. Presumptive males rubbed her the wrong way. The wine must’ve brought it out in him. Jerry wasn’t the only one the vine was causing to behave out of character. She too, was quick to draw a line in the sand. “It’s not like you ever eat any of this woofer food,” she found herself saying in a loud whisper from across the table.
At her use of a word known to start blood feuds in some quarters, Jerry’s festive manner vanished. “You should be careful about saying such things.” The ominous tone made her realize the gaffe she’d made.
The lycan waiter remained immobile beside them, rooted to the Mexican floor tiles. If he heard, he showed no sign.
Lorna, now anxious to get clear of the situation, glanced up at Jerry, back at her menu, and then shrugged. “I’ll have the mutton dish.”
The waiter scribbled on a note pad, complimenting their choices before departing. “Another glass?” Jerry offered, smiling.
“Young man, are you plying me with liquor to have your way?” The incident, now forgotten, faded into the aromatic vapors of the wine.
In the candlelight, he seemed to blush. With downcast eyes, he smiled reflectively, answering as if speaking to the elaborate fan fold of the napkin in front of him. “I know better than to think I can get away with that.” Raising the bottle, he refilled her glass.
The wine tasted sweet, warming her throat on the way down. “Well, mister, play your cards right and we’ll be knocking boots ‘til the wee hours.”
* * * *
Jerry had nailed it. The mutton was to die for. Lorna knew the blandness of her kind’s cuisine when compared with human. Anything more than sparing amounts of most seasonings can overload and, over time, ruin the palates of The Others. The old saying “Raw is best” was true, but catering to a growing appetite for diversity since Coming Out had become an expanding industry. The best restaurants in cities with large vampire or lycan populations, like Orlando or New Orleans, created tasty, popular recipes, some of which a few humans found attractive.
“You know,” Lorna said, nearing the end of her entrée accompanied by an uncharacteristic the second glass of wine. “The last time I drank like this was the night I celebrated emergence. I must have screwed twenty guys.”
Being well familiar with the early emergence of lycans, Jerry took the remark in stride. Then he glanced around in a manner, suggestive of expecting someone. Lorna wondered if he had another surprise in store. Was this all a prelude to the appearance of a certain tall, ginger haired CEO to show his gratitude in person?
But that wasn’t it. “Well,” Jerry said, focusing her attention back on them. “You’ll do just one tonight.”
“I don’t know.” She smiled, arching a teasing eyebrow. “The bus boy is pretty cute…”
A waiter topped off Jerry’s coffee. Lorna splurged in another direction of culinary exploration by taking a few bites of dessert, an apricot sorbet. Dimly, she contemplated the gastronomical price for all of this indulgence. Tomorrow, they’d better keep the path from her office to the bathroom clear.
“Jerry, tonight’s been beyond wonderful.” They were winding things up. With finishing the second glass of wine, the ambience of Floubert’s, along with the wonderful meal, absorbed her.
Jerry got to his feet.
When Lorna tried to rise, she stumbled slightly. The room began to spin. “Jerry, something’s wrong. This is way beyond feeling buzzed.”
While her mind moved in slow motion, waiters flashed to each side keeping her upright. Acting like nothing odd happened, Jerry attended to the routine of retrieving their things from the coat check. The behavior in no way reassured her.
Stepping into the chill of the February night didn’t have the expected sobering effect. While Jerry summoned the car, the two waiters assisted. They met at the vehicle. With gentle hands, like handling the restaurant’s finest glassware, they guided her toward the massive driver, who held the door open. Despite the effect of the wine, she could have sworn the one who helped her out when they arrived was a lot shorter.
“There you go.” While checking Lorna’s position on the large, plush car seat, Jerry smiled the crafty courtroom smile she didn’t like. Light from the streetlamp illuminated her, along with the spacious interior.
The waiters, their job done, received a brush across the forehead from the hand of the driver. Each performed a brief genuflection before returning to the restaurant.
The little ceremony distracted Lorna’s attention. With the driver’s assistance, she found her seat, humming off-key the whole time.
The driver leaned in across her. “We must buckle up, Ms. Winters.” A reddened ham of a hand pulled the belt from its socket, around her, and into its catch with a click. As he withdrew, she reached out, grabbing his sleeve.
“You have a gentle touch for a large man.” The slurred statement trailed off to silence. Then her eyes rolled up in her head. Everything faded out for a moment, but when the driver backed out of the car, Lorna stirred. The world spun around her head. The sensation of just having stepped off one of those twirling amusement park rides she remembered from childhood dogged her. The driver, wearing a full-length black overcoat, had to be part of an elaborate dream.
None of this had been real. Soon, the alarm clock would start its insane yammer, hailing the commencemen
t of another day. When the fog cleared, she’d wake up in her own bed. The large man, wider across the shoulders and a good six inches taller than Jerry, would be gone, along with the lamp light behind him and the glimmer of yellowish hair sitting atop the large dark silhouette—all swept away like smoke in a breeze.
“Your work here is complete, Mr. Pease.” The blond-haired dark mass of a man spoke from a height, vague to her confused senses.
“Will she be all right?” Jerry asked.
“It’s too late to think about that. You’ve been compensated.”
“What I mean is, you aren’t going to hurt her or anything, are you? She means something to me.”
“I see how much she meant to you. Your involvement is over. I’ll take it from here.”
The image of two men, also in black overcoats, passed before Lorna. They swept in behind Jerry. With firm grips, they escorted him in the direction of the restaurant while the last interior light winked off for the night. The driver slid behind the wheel, promptly starting the engine. After putting Jerry in a cab, the companions joined their comrade in the front seat. The car slipped into forward gear. The motion spurred Lorna to act. She lurched upward.
“Jerry, me boy, I need you. Now!” she exclaimed, forgetting she’d just seen him depart the scene. Raising her bottom off the seat, she slipped off hose, along with panties. The plan was to discard them completely, but she succeeded in tangling them in her ankles. Recognizing her readiness for sex, the three men in front exchanged knowing glances. The one with dark hair moved to join her in the backseat.
The tall fair haired driver spoke up. “No, my brother, it must not be. She’s not aware. Remember also, Father commanded she be respected.”
“Where’s my Jerry?” Lorna demanded. “What’ve you done with him?” Armed with a dim sense of mischief afoot, she lunged for the front seat again, this time morphing. Then the Kutzu kicked in, and she fell back, dead asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
