B007JBKHYW EBOK

by April Campbell Jones

  “But we don’t have any place to stay. Or any money.”

  “Well, gee,” I grimaced, tucking in my shirt, “I guess the next guy you fang you’ll just have to mug as well!”

  Mitzi sat up. “I know you think I let you down…”

  I waved at the air. “It isn’t your fault. Disbelief is their greatest strength, remember? We’ll figure something out. I’m not leaving this town without Clancy.”

  Mitzi was staring past me.

  I turned around and found Sylvie standing in the bedroom door again.

  She looked a little sad, a little chagrinned.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  She looked down at the floor a moment, then up at me with big, soulful eyes. “’Can I trust you to be here when I get back’ I asked. And you answered ‘yes.’”

  I nodded. “And meant it.”

  She heaved a big sigh. “Trust is supposed to run both ways. If I can trust you to be here, I guess I should—“

  “Sylvie! Are you saying you believe me—“

  She held up cautionary hands. “I’m not saying I buy the crazy vampire thing. But…” and she puffed out another little sigh, “…if we’re going to get your girlfriend back, I think there’s a few truths you should know about me as well.”

  “Like?”

  She turned back to the front door. “Come along with me today. I’ll explain at my job...”

  I grabbed my jacket.

  Sylvie hesitated at the door, put a warm palm to my chest, looked up with those big olive eyes that had suddenly gone vulnerable. “…and we’ll see if you still want to be here after I’m through work…”

  ELEVEN

  A short cab ride away from Marina City there’s a big auditorium called The Rialto on Sullivan Street.

  It used to be a movie theater, I found—but I mean a real movie theatre, one of those grand palaces they made in the 30’s with a foyer the size of a football field, gigantic winding staircases of crushed gold balustrades, cut glass chandeliers only slightly smaller than dirigibles, endless miles of red velvet curtains, two or three loges with private box seating…you get the idea. A place some poor out-of-work slob at the height of the Depression could visit for fifteen cents, see two features, a newsreel, a cartoon and a travelogue and pretend he wouldn’t be standing in a soup line the next day.

  Somehow—probably by accident—The Rialto missed the wrecking ball, reached the generation that finally decided architecture could be an art form and had the place put on the national register for restored buildings. The neighborhood was still in mid-gentrification, meaning you’d bump into the occasional panhandler or crack dealer. Since slicing and dicing the Rialto’s interior for multiplexes would have sort of defeated the purpose, it was refurbished, cleaned-up and turned into a legitimate stage theater. It lost money doing this, but it broke even enough times during the year by converting the center aisle into a runway and showcasing some of the country’s more prestigious High Fashion shows during the fall and spring collections.

  I was pretty impressed when our cab pulled in front of the Rialto’s filigreed façade of ancient Roman columns, gamboling cupids, original deco outdoor box office and elephantine marque that once proffered in four-foot letters names like Gable and Lombard but now announced “Mr. Black’s Fall Cavalcade of Fashion.” You had to be skinny and beautiful and poised and elegant and most of all tall to achieve the stardom of a Rialto runway model. As I said, I was pretty impressed as Sylvie took my arm and led me before the stately columns flanking the canopied entrance.

  A little less impressed when she kept on leading me past the Rialto’s ornateness to the slightly less distinguished Hurley’s Bar on the corner next to it. Unlike the courtly uniformed doorman at the elegantly venerable theater, the bouncer at Hurley’s looked like a gorilla in a fishnet shirt. The buildings weren’t fifteen feet apart but the contrast was alarming. If Sullivan Street were ever to achieve total tourist acceptance, Hurley’s would someday have to go.

  Sylvie held the front door for me when the bouncer appeared distracted-- picking his nails with a switchblade as he was.

  “Give it a chance,” she muttered when she saw my expression.

  It wasn’t a terrible saloon.

  I’d been in worse.

  But it did smell like a saloon, and was dark and loud like a saloon and the tough, grimy looking clientele was….okay, it was a terrible saloon.

  The Neanderthal bouncer balked at the dog until Sylvie told him Mitzi was part of the show.

  Sylvie walked me to the bar, pushed me toward a stool, ordered a drink for me using the kind of customer-to-barkeeper sign language that indicates a sustained relationship, then disappeared with Mitzi.

  The next time I saw her she was moving naked among the tables.

  Well, not completely naked, but her Victoria’s Secret undergarments were flesh colored and there was so little of them she may as well have been naked. As it was, she had all she could do not to pop out in front of the customers. Mitzi—brushed and combed--walked imperiously before her on a pink leash.

  Which didn’t deter the feely-grabby customers one whit.

  Including a couple of Hell’s Angel’s types who looked like they’d rape your grandmother and pay you. Tongues on the floor, chins dripping saliva, the rowdy crowd at Hurley’s was actually laying money on their beer-stained tables, betting on the moment something would pop out. Through it all, Sylvie strode professionally, spun and posed with grace and dignity, giving every table the same clear view without actually lingering long enough to break stride or get groped.

  Of course, with the kind of apes that inhabited a dive like that, some hairy arm or ham-fisted paw was bound to eventually get a free squeeze in there. When it finally happened, I was off my stool in a huff and charging a guy at least three times my size.

  Fortunately I only got part way off the stool before a hand the size of a Cleveland catcher’s mitt pushed me back down gently and our switchblade picking bouncer strolled over and stood above the offending groper. He didn’t say a thing or move a muscle—he didn’t have to. That Attila the Hun smile promised: “One more grabby, wise-guy, and I start shooting hoops with your nuts—one at a time.”

  No one argued.

  In a few minutes, Sylvie disappeared and another model came out from the back room and began parading a pink teddy so sheer it only had one side.

  There was much clapping and whistling and thunderous stamping until Hurley’s walls began to vibrate and the light above the pools tables began to sway alarmingly.

  Back went the teddy, out came Sylvie.

  Back went Sylvie, out came a redhead in red garters and red heels.

  This went on for a good two hours or more. It made for a very raucous room. It made for several very humiliated but extremely game young women. It made a lot of beer money for the saloon owner.

  * * *

  It was growing dark in Chicago streets when we finally left the bar.

  Sylvie didn’t say anything during the ride back. No, wait: she said just one thing, without looking at me, as she climbed unapologetically into her side of the cab. “It pays the rent.”

  After that she just sat staring out her side window at the gray streets and gathering dusk.

  I recall clearing my throat uncomfortably several times.

  “Say something.”

  That from Mitzi between us in the back seat.

  I turned to her. “Like what?”

  “Anything. Tell her she was sexy. No….tell her she was lovely.”

  I smiled past the poodle at the back of Sylvie’s turned-away head. “You were great!” I said.

  She stared silently out her window.

  “Tell her she made the other girls look like boys.”

  Sounded corny to me but I shrugged and leaned toward Sylvie. “The other girls didn’t stand a chance,” I told Sylvie.

  She stared out her window.

  “Tell her you’ve seen a lot of pussy in your time
, but—“

  “Mitzi, just shut-up, huh?”

  “Come on, man! The poor kid’s hurting! God, you know nothing about women!”

  “I thought you didn’t like her!”

  “I said I didn’t trust her, nothing about not liking her. She can tickle my tummy any time.”

  We rode in silence for a while.

  Mitzi turned to me. “Tell her that, Ed.”

  “What?”

  “Tell her she can tickle your tummy anytime.”

  I looked down at the dog. “You don’t date a whole lot, do you?”

  “Tell her that once you’ve rescued Clancy, a threesome isn’t entirely out of the question.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Just kidding, tell her that—oh, look! A flower shop! Stop the cab! Get in there and buy her some flowers!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “No, I mean it! Stop the cab!”

  “Mitzi, I am not going to—“

  “Forget all that other crap I said, just pull this thing over and buy her a nice bouquet of something. Roses are nice.”

  “Roses!”

  “Can’t go wrong with them.”

  “Are you out of your—“

  Mitzi barked suddenly at the top of her lungs.

  The cabby slammed on the brakes. I thought we were going to fishtail through the display window and buy the flowers without leaving the cab.

  Five minutes later I came reluctantly out of the flower shop with a handful of white tulips.

  I climbed in beside Mitzi and tried to avoid her eyes.

  “I said roses! It’s not a freakin’ funeral!”

  “It was all they had!” I was so frustrated by then, that last one came out of my mouth by mistake again and filled the cab.

  Sylvie turned from her window with surprise. Then she saw the flowers.

  She just stared at them a few moments, mouth slightly parted, long lashes blinking.

  Then her eyes brimmed. Her bottom lip set to trembling.

  “Shit!” I reproached Mitzi. “I told you this was a mistake!”

  “Oh, yeah, you think? Watch!”

  Sylvie swallowed a thick lump, tears streaming her cheeks now, and threw herself suddenly across the seat into my arms, ignoring the bouquet.

  “See!” I panicked. “She hates them!”

  “Tell her she’s beautiful.”

  “Just leave m—“

  “Will you please goddamnit do as I say for once! Now!”

  I bent down to Sylvie soft cheek, her tears soaking my shirt front. “You were so beautiful,” I said quietly.

  She made a little breathless gasp, grabbed my neck and pulled me into a tighter clench. “Oh, Ed,” she whispered, sobbing, “she doesn’t deserve you! Whoever this Clancy is, she doesn’t deserve you!”

  I glanced over at Mitzi, helpless. “Is that a good thing?”

  The poodle was smiling self-righteously ahead at early evening traffic. “That, my dear Edward, is a very good thing.”

  * * *

  Back at the apartment, Sylvie found a big vase for the flowers (which she kept smelling and cooing above and rearranging) made a fresh pot of coffee and brought down the photo albums from her bedroom closet.

  Cheesecake, mostly.

  And a few slightly less obvious “art studies.” Mostly from her late teens, early twenties. Or as Sylvie put it: “Before digital photography took over the world.”

  She caught my eye after she said that, added: “Like your vampires.”

  I flipped another page of another album there at the kitchen table. Cheesy stuff, maybe, but she was gorgeous in every picture, undressed or wrapped head to toe in the latest couture dream.

  “These are amazing,” I gushed sincerely, “you should have been a super model.”

  She smiled, wistful. “Too short. Not enough leg. And too stacked, even for these days when a bit of rack is in fashion.” She sighed. “The twins…they’ve got the proportions. And the youth.”

  I looked up, surprised. “You’re mid-twenties at the most!”

  “I’m thirty-two, Ed.”

  “No.”

  “And got the scars to prove it.”

  I shook my head. “Well, they don’t show.”

  Another wan dimple. “Internal ones never do.”

  And I got a quick vision of abortion offices and broken promises I didn’t pursue.

  But Sylvie did. “I wanted children,” she murmured in soft reflection. “I wanted kids…”

  I exchanged a quick look with Mitzi, then reached out and took Sylvie’s hand across the kitchen table. “Thirty-two…that’s not too late…”

  She shrugged. “Maybe not.” Looked me in the eye. “If I find the right guy.”

  I withdrew my hand gracefully, flipped another album page.

  “Before we get too sentimental, it’s not just me. The twins have their histories too.”

  I looked up to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.

  “Oh, maybe not pasted down in yellowing albums like little grave markers, but they’ve got them, even if only locked away safely in their little minds, their little hearts. It’s a tough world out there, Ed. Sometimes it’s a regular goddamn bitch.”

  “But the twins do legitimate runway work…”

  She nodded. “You’d be surprised what waits at the end of some of those runways.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “We all belong to the same agency, the twins and I. Seventy per cent of it is strictly legit…well, all of it is legit really. But sometimes when the phone rings it’s to work a fancy hotel room or opening or even one of the better restaurants in town. And sometimes you’re given a name.”

  “A name?”

  “Of this-and-such client. Usually rich, often with political affiliation. If you don’t happen to know his name, the agency can always supply a photo so you can spot him, at the bar, the show, whatever. Sometimes he’s already seen your photo, sometimes not. In the latter case you have to approach him…getting the picture?”

  I was. “Like…an escort service?”

  She laughed. “Oh, they wouldn’t dare admit that! No, it’s all strictly on the up and up like I said. You’re not forced to do anything. But if the…client likes you, and you happen to be modeling in the hotel he has reservations with, well…”

  “And the agency gets its cut, of course.”

  “Of course. But they’re more than fair. And the client…well, these guys are always gentlemen—almost always--very sweet, usually shy, big bashful puppies fooling around on their patrician wives for the first time. But they do pay. A lot. And they aren’t anxious to incur any risk to their over-priced Connecticut zip codes, you know?”

  I shut the photo album. “Sylvie, you didn’t have to tell us all this.”

  “Us?”

  She glanced over at Mitzi. “Oh. Right. The mind-reading dog.”

  “We would never think any less of you.”

  “Why do you think I’m parading all my skeletons? You trusted me, remember?”

  I sighed, sat back. “But you still don’t believe in me.”

  She gave me an indescribable look. “I believe in you more than I’ve ever believed in any man, Ed.”

  I smiled.

  “It’s this vampire shit I’m not so sold on.”

  And we both chuckled.

  Sylvie consulted her watch. “Ivan’s gallery will be closed in fifteen minutes…”

  “You sound like a regular customer,” I said, “or someone who’s worked there.”

  She stood with a cryptic smile. “Sweetie, I’ve worked for Ivan all over town.”

  My jaw dropped a little.

  “He knows me on sight, so we have to be careful.” She slung her purse, waiting.

  “Now?”

  “If you want to try proving to me one that of the most well respected, not to mention eligible, men in town is a vampire, we may as well get started.”

  “You’ve put your plan together?”

/>   “Retrieving Clancy, you mean? Not quite. But if you’re going to steal from somebody it’s best to know all you can about him first. His private as well as his social life.”

  “And how do we do that?” I asked, rising.

  Sylvie shrugged. “Start tailing him, I guess.”

  “On foot?”

  “If we have to. If not, I’ve got a car down in the garage. Haven’t paid the garage bill in a while but the night man knows me. Sometime it works if I get a good start.”

  “The night man?”

  “The car.”

  * * *

  The car, a beat-up Prius blind in one eye, worked.

  We drove to Kolcheck’s gallery and parked discreetly across the street. He was just closing for the night. A glimpse of the inside showed he’d added a lot more canvasses to the walls since the last time I’d been there.

  “There’s a show next weekend,” Sylvie whispered beside me. I don’t know if she realized vampires have great hearing acuity or not, but something about trying to sneak around Ivan Kolcheck made you want to whisper anyway. “We should try to attend,” she said.

  I looked at her darkened profile. ‘We’? He knows me, Sylvie. Knows my face.”

  “Clancy will be at the opening.”

  My heart hitched. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. She’s with him at every important event he honors.”

  I grunted. “Showing off his prize.”

  “You might call it that.”

  I looked at her. “What do you mean, ‘might’”?

  “Never mind, now. Look. He’s closing up.”

  Ivan was leaving the shop, switching off the interior lights, leaving one above the front door burning, locking the door. He was alone.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” I said.

  “At what?”

  “He’s alone. Important guys like that usually have at least one bodyguard in tow, especially at night.”

  “Maybe he knows karate.”

  I grunted. “Or some ancient art form.”

  Ivan walked down the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner.

  I looked at Sylvie. “Now what?”

  “He’ll come to us. His midnight-black Lamborghini is parked behind the shop.”

  “You do know this guy.”