High Bloods

by John Farris

Because Artie Excalibur’s office on Santa Monica was a crime scene, Beatrice said she could probably use her home computer to access Artie’s business files and compile a list of associates.

  Before I dropped her at the Radcliffe, a forty-story tower on Rexford where she had a one-bedroom apartment, I took from the safe in my home office a set of three throwing knives and showed them to her. The knives were Japanese-made, Damascus steel with laminated silver; each edge could cut through a railroad spike.

  She studied the knives on dark blue velvet with her low, two-note whistle of appreciation.

  “These are finer than anything I could hope to own,” she said with a trace of wistfulness. “Priority hunk. The workmanship is so gorgeous.”

  “Want to try them?” I said.

  Outside we crossed the arched red bridge over the koi pond to a sunlit expanse of lawn where there was room to throw at a scarred old piece of upright timber.

  Beatrice was fast on the draw, her motion as deft as that of a conjuring magician. She whipped the knife from the quick-release scabbard that she wore midthigh and fired it underhand at the target. Like a fast-pitch softballer but with no windup. There was only a glint in the air, then that solid thock a second later as the blade bit deep into dry old wood.

  She worked up some perspiration throwing each knife several times from a distance of eighteen feet. All of her throws were in a painted target area less than six inches in diameter.

  I tried it Beatrice’s way a few times to see how difficult it was. It was damned difficult. I was out of the money every time and a little embarrassed by my ineptitude.

  “You’re very good,” I said.

  “I know. If you’re going to tote one, better know how to use it.” Her eyes were alight with the pleasure of accomplishment. “My father taught me.”

  “What does he do for a living, travel with a circus?”

  “No. MERC. Twenty years of it. All those places where egomaniacs were putting on wars that are largely forgotten. Now he aqua-farms salmon in Oregon. About half his moving parts are pross. I don’t get up there often enough to visit him. But my stepmom spoils him rotten and I think he’s a happy man.” She whistled another low tune, sounding mournful. Then she looked up at me, possibly with a touch of nerves.

  “How old are you, R?”

  “Forty.”

  It may have been a happy surprise. “Oh—that’s not so—I was thinking maybe—”

  “Both my parents were white as doves when they were about my age. It’s a family-gene thing.”

  “I’ll be twenty-four in a couple of months,” Bea said.

  “Big for your age.”

  She laughed and gave me a shove. She might have been relieved that I wasn’t a well-preserved fifty. She was going to use a handkerchief to blot her face when I stopped her.

  “I like your sweat,” I said, kissing her.

  When we took a break from kissing she said regretfully, “I suppose we have to get going.”

  “There’ll be tonight.”

  “Yes? That had better be a promise.”

  With a forefinger Beatrice sketched the letter B on my cheeks.

  “There. You’re branded. Glam rustlers beware. They’ll have to get through me to get to you.”

  “Armed and dangerous. Which of these knives would you like to have?”

  “You can’t be serious! Each of them must be worth—”

  “Right now they’re only taking up space in a safe drawer.”

  “Well, then—” Bea looked them over again with an eye toward acquisition. “They’re all choicely good.” After a few moments she decided. “This one. The balance is exactly right for my grip, it might’ve been made for me.”

  Silver is too malleable to take a sharp edge. But the Japanese master craftsmen seamlessly melded carbon steel with razor edges and tips to the pure silver blades that meant sayonara for werewolves.

  “Does this mean we’re engaged?” she said, a hand on the hilt of the knife she slipped into its scabbard. Then, with a quick look at me, “Just kidding.”

  I felt a little better now that she had a weapon. I hadn’t said anything and maybe Beatrice hadn’t thought of it, but whoever had sent the out-of-phase Hairball Artie’s way might have had two victims in mind. By sheer chance I’d been there, between the she-wolf and Bea. But if Bea as Artie’s Girl Friday knew or could find out something about Artie’s business dealings that represented a threat to the perpetrator—

  I wished I could be with Beatrice constantly, but that wasn’t possible. I had other investigations to run. I thought Bea would be secure locked in her apartment while accessing Artie’s files. Either Sunny or I would be in touch with her at all times.

  Even so, the night I had promised her and looked forward to with an unfamiliar but welcome ache around my heart seemed a very long way off.

  5

  unny Chagrin was looking flogged and sounding cranky when I made it to the office on Burton Way, a campus of white stone, five-story buildings devoted to the diverse activities of the ILC, and an acre of satellite dishes.

  “Go home,” I said to Sunny. “You look like a molting seagull.”

  “Fuck you. Something I need to show you first.”

  A couple of our technicians, Joel Picón and Tink Ladue, who were unrelated but looked like twins, had been at work for hours reviewing the surveillance discs from de Sade’s. Sunny had directed them to clean up and enhance a promising segment recorded at three minutes and twenty seconds past midnight.

  “Our gal in the flapper dress,” Sunny said, when Chiclyn Hickey appeared in 3-D.

  “That’s our OOPs,” I acknowledged. “Do we have her going into the ladies’ lounge around one-thirty, twenty minutes to two?”

  “Yes. But I wanted you to see this guy.”

  Chickie was talking to a couple of other girls, each of whom wore not much more than thongs and full-body appliqués, when the Guy showed up. There was what might be called an Awkward Moment, then the Guy and Chickie participated in what might be called a Heated Exchange. Enough heat involved to cause the Laminates to promptly move away. Because of the camera angle there was no way to read their lips. But Chickie’s body language revealed growing hostility.

  When she tried to walk away from him the Guy put a hand on her arm. Not aggressively, as far as I could tell. He seemed to be pleading with her. He looked briefly toward the entrance to de Sade’s. Let’s get out of here. Chickie shook her head vehemently and pushed him away from her. For a couple of seconds her face was toward the camera, her lips moving. Eyes fierce and blazing.

  Tink said, “Something about ‘he wants me to—’ All I can pick up.”

  Two seconds more and all that was visible of Chickie was the back of her blond head.

  But the expression on the Guy’s face was clear enough.

  “Poor Bucky,” Tink said. “She really gave him the axe.”

  “So you’ve got a name?” I said.

  “That’s Bucky Spartacus.”

  “Elucidate,” I said.

  Sunny yawned and was about to pop a tab of something unfamiliar to me when I blocked her.

  “Uh-uh. Sleep first. You know how you get on that stuff.”

  She growled softly but put her pill container away. “It’s just vitamins, R.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, about this Bucky—”

  “Don’t you know your rock stars?” Sunny said.

  “Why would I? So he’s a rock star.”

  “Not as big as he’s going to get.”

  Tink said, “Bucky and Chickie have been all over the e-sites and fanzines. Should they or shouldn’t they? Hottest couple in Hollywood. Just last week I was reading in Teeze magazine where she said, ‘until Bucky I never met anyone who could deal with all the aspects of who I am.’ “

  “We know what Chickie’s biological status is. Or was. So I’m guessing Bucky is High Blood.”

  “It’s almost like Romeo and Juliet,” Tink said, sniffing a little.

 
; “High Blood, or passing,” Joel suggested, and looked at Sunny.

  She smothered another yawn with the back of her hand. “Anyway, he’s not in our system.”

  “So they were having a lover’s quarrel,” Tink said, still caught up in the romantic aspect of the scene we’d witnessed.

  “I might buy that,” I said, “if Chickie hadn’t turned up a little while later to give Artie more than the sharp edge of her tongue.” To Sunny I said, “Who reps the rocker?”

  “Bucky? EiE, of course. What else?”

  Lew Rolling, a recent hire I was beginning to think a lot of for his intuition as a detective and all-around smarts, looked in on us.

  “Morning, R. The director says his office, ten sharp.”

  “Thanks.” I looked at my watch. I had time for a couple of phone calls. Lew was walking away. I whistled him back.

  “Yeah, R?”

  “I’ve got a name buzzing around the back of my brain. It won’t go away. Unrelated case already adjudicated. Sometimes I just have to humor myself. The name is Max Thursday. I want to know more about him and his case.”

  I told Joel and Tink I was pleased with their work. I told Sunny to go home and, privately, not to dip into her stash of feel-good pharma when she got there. Sunny was subject to sudden tailspins after back-to-back eighty-hour weeks. She’d had one lengthy stay in rehab. Another, and she couldn’t be my chief investigator and trusted confidant anymore. That would have hurt both of us deeply.

  In my office I told my wristpac what I wanted and eight seconds later was connected with a male assistant of Johnny Padre’s.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Padre is in a meeting.”

  “Get him out of the meeting,” I said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir, but he will return your call as soon as—”

  “Now,” I said. “My name is Rawson.”

  “And this would be in reference to—”

  “Just tell him Rawson. And I hate to wait.”

  I didn’t wait long.

  “Chrissake, I’m loving this like a handjob from my ninety-three-year-old grandmother.” He paused to claim some air, changed his tone, lowered his voice. “Is this about Chickie? She turn up? You know, alive?”

  “No break there. You didn’t mention that she was getting it on with somebody named Bucky Spartacus.”

  “So she’s wailing on his meat flute. That’s cold dish. Everybody fucks everybody in their set, it’s a way of saying hello. Basically their big romance is a superhype number. Our promotions people put them together. With Miles Brenta’s okay, of course.”

  “What does Brenta have to do with the kid?”

  “Personal manager and father figure. Bucky was orphaned by Hairballs, some shitcan town in the Midwest.”

  “What’s Bucky’s rank in the Pantheon?”

  “Ascending. He was front man for Farewell Order, now his solo album’s looking triple-platinum. I just lined up a key supporting role for the Buckster in Disney’s latest! It’s the kind of movie that’s landfill for the adolescent brain, but it’ll gross a billion. Tomorrow night he’s headlining with Chimera at that fund-raiser where the Rose Bowl used to be.”

  “Fund-raiser for what?”

  “First Church of Lycanthropy.”

  “Whose bright idea—”

  “Bucky’s a very religious guy,” Johnny said defensively. “And he’s up-front about promoting harmony between the, you know, species.” Johnny drew a deep breath. “I got people waiting, so give with the bad news.”

  “I don’t have any right now.”

  “Chrissake, you get me out of a meeting—” He sounded almost disappointed.

  “I know that Spartacus was with Chickie last night at de Sade’s. They had a fight, she blew him off.”

  “So?”

  “I didn’t get the impression that it was a manufactured romance. Not on his part, anyway. Where would I find Spartacus?”

  “At the beach, I suppose. Carbon Beach. He’s renting until he hits the majors in take-home.”

  “I could use a phone number.”

  “You have to bother him?” Johnny said anxiously. “I mean, it’s happening for him. But if he was into Chickie as deep as you seem to think, the news could bust him up pretty bad.”

  “I don’t bother people, Johnny. Sometimes they get bothered all by themselves when I show up at the door. Anyway, I won’t be saying anything about Chickie to the kid, so rest easy.”

  “A phone call from you is about as soothing as a double nitroglycerin on the rocks.”

  But Johnny had the assistant I’d talked to earlier provide me with Bucky’s home phone number.

  I called out there before going up to the director’s office on the fifth floor. I watched an ILC helicopter lift off from one of the pads across Burton Way while I counted the rings. Eleven of them. Apparently the voice mail slot was full. Finally I got a sleepy voice, but no face on my wristpac.

  “‘Lo?”

  “Bucky Spartacus?”

  “No. This is Cam. Who’s this?”

  “Someone who wants to chat with Bucky.”

  “Yeah?” He went from sleepy to surly. “How’d you get this number?”

  “Johnny Padre gave it to me, Cam.”

  “Oh.” I heard him yawn. “Okay. I’ll get him for you. What time’s it anyway?”

  “Five minutes to ten.”

  “Jesus. Hang on.”

  He was gone from the phone a couple of minutes. I heard background voices. Other members of Bucky’s entourage, I supposed. Then Cam returned.

  “Doesn’t seem like he’s here, dude.”

  “Maybe he’s jogging on the beach?”

  “The Buckster? No way. Buck don’t like exercise. Running, anyway. He’s got that trick knee. So you try his girlfriend? She’s down the beach about half a mile from here.”

  “Chickie Hickey?”

  “Yeah, man.” Cam paused to talk to someone else who had wandered into the room, then said to me, “Fitz is sayin’ Buck didn’t show last night. I’d try him at Chickie’s. He was planning on hooking up with her. De Sade’s or someplace. Didn’t want any of us with him. Drove himself. I told him, man, you got to be careful now that you’re happening. Thinks because he knows Tae Kwon Do he’s invulnerable. I hope this ain’t somethin’ to worry about. Anyway, you need Chickie’s cell?”

  “Yes.”

  He scrolled through his own directory and gave me her number.

  “When Bucky does show,” I said, “have him call me.” I spoke slowly and had him repeat my number back to me.

  “You’re with the agency, right?”

  “One of them,” I said.

  After talking to Cam I called SoCal DMV and got the license number and make of Bucky Spartacus’ wheels. He drove an old Cadillac Escalade. I found that interesting.

  Then I called Chickie Hickey’s number, and after two rings heard her voice again.

  “Apologies, mate. Whoever you are, I love ya. Leave a goddamn number. Ciao.”

  I sighed, thinking of Chickie bright-eyed on whatever her favorite popsie was when first we’d bumped into each other. And then those reminiscent eyes in the gross figure of a mortally wounded werewolf, staring out at me from the bloodied cabinet elevator in the basement garage of the Montmorency.

  Piss in your face, Wolfer.

  Chickie had feared or hated me for what I was. I didn’t hate her for what she was. Nor could I totally blame Chickie for Artie’s fate. I was pretty sure that someone had done Chickie a terrible wrong.

  It was one of those low moments when I hate my job.

  Even more, I hated what the world had become.

  Before going upstairs I stopped by Lew Rolling’s desk and diverted him to finding Bucky Spartacus, by means of the GPS tracker in his Escalade.

  Booth Havergal was a Brit who had put in time with the ILC in Paris and São Paulo before accepting the top job in SoCal. His background, like mine, was money. He dressed the part: three-piece pin-
striped suits that were timeless in style, handmade shoes. When it came to clothes I made only a minimal attempt each day to clad my body in combinations that didn’t provoke hysterical laughter from the fashion-conscious women in our offices. Booth was a little taller than I was and had a much better haircut. His nails were always buffed. He was smooth with the ladies and loved the charmed social circle of the Privilege. But beneath his polished surface and urbane nonchalance he was a tough guy who stayed on top of things.

  Booth was researching OOPs when I walked into his penthouse office.

  “Not much to go on, is there?” he grumbled. “The buggers just pop up now and then off-Observance. Scientific opinion amounts to conjecture, guesswork, and bullshit. What’s your opinion?”

  “We need a body,” I said.

  Booth nodded. “For genetic analysis. Do you think you’ll come up with one, R?”

  “No. The business at de Sade’s was planned and carried out very efficiently.”

  “Leads?”

  “Tenuous.”

  He stroked a cheek with his forefinger. “Just tell me what you’re thinking, then.”

  “It’s obvious someone went to a lot of trouble to kill Artie Excalibur when a long-range shot to the back of the head would’ve done the job just as well, without the theatrics. So if they wanted him to die gaudy it could’ve been payback for something unforgivable on Artie’s part, or a warning to someone else we don’t know about, or—”

  “But in any case you’re convinced it was premeditated murder.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Inasmuch as werewolves have no reasoning ability that we have been able to discover, they simply act out in the bloodiest ways imaginable, we seem to have a potentially catastrophic scenario on our hands.”

  “Programmable Hairballs. Artie knew something about this.”

  Booth nodded pensively. “He was a very intelligent man. I’ve never understood why he pursued a third-rate career in the ring.”

  “He liked the punishment. Needed it. As simple, or as complex, as that.”

  “So you had a chance to talk to Artie before the attack.”

  “For one thing, he was concerned about that little business in No Gal last Observance.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Booth took a turn around his well-appointed office, stopping to watch the activity in a tropical aquarium.