The Girls With Games of Blood

by Alex Bledsoe

  Zginski scowled at him. “That was some time ago. The world has changed since then, as you so often inform me.”

  Leonardo started to snap back, but Zginski was right: Leonardo had pointed out the other man’s inherent racism many times, and always with the admonition that times were different. He couldn’t very well claim now that they were the same, could he? Even though he had no trouble accepting the contradiction himself.

  Zginski drove slowly up the driveway. To one side of the house was a low barn, the kind used to house other farm equipment. It, too, was in bad shape, crumbling and filled with rusted devices whose purpose Zginski could not fathom.

  He stopped in the space between the barn and the house. For a moment he worried that the place might be deserted. Certainly there was no sign of recent tending: the yard was worn down to bare dirt, dried to a clinging, clay-based dust by the drought.

  Then a beagle bounded down the porch steps, barking loud enough to be heard over the truck’s engine. In a moment an unmistakably female form emerged from the house and stood in the shadows against one of the porch columns. She seemed in no hurry to welcome them.

  Zginski opened the door just as the low, floppy-eared dog reached the truck. The animal skidded to a halt and stared at him. Then it gave one last growl and scampered away, yelping.

  Leonardo did not immediately climb out. The place recalled things he never wanted to remember, with a vividness only possible to a vampire. He had not been a slave, but the life he was born into had been little different, and the old people around him all bore the scars of whips, branding irons, and manacles. He’d seen the world change in amazing ways since then, but this brought back all those old resentments and fears. What good is being a vampire, he thought, if you still have to ride in the back of the hearse?

  Finally the woman on the porch said, “Y’all scared my dog.”

  “I merely looked at him,” Zginski said calmly.

  She stood with her back against one of the columns, her legs straight out and crossed at the ankles. She held a cigarette in one hand. “Only time I ever seen him run like that was when he started up a bobcat over in the barn. So what you want?”

  “I am here about the automobile,” Zginski said.

  “Oh! You must be that Russian fella Daddy’s waiting for.” Her tone now verged on excitement. “Hold on, I’ll go get him.”

  She disappeared back into the house. The dog ran from wherever it had hidden and rushed to follow.

  Leonardo opened the door and got out. “You gonna have to do something about that accent pretty soon, you know.”

  “This is America, a land of foreigners and immigrants,” Zginski said dismissively.

  “Uh-huh. And this is Tennessee, the land of carpetbaggers and the Klan. They hate foreigners and immigrants as much as they do niggers.”

  Zginski grinned. His teeth were very even, his fangs not visible. It was a minor trick he’d mastered, a way of sliding his lower jaw slightly forward to hide the tips of his elongated canines. Not even the great spiritualist Sir Francis Colby had detected them on that fateful night in Wales. “Then between the two of us, we shall confuse them as to which to fear the most.”

  In a moment the girl returned, followed by a larger figure whose steps resonated on the wooden porch. They emerged into the sunlight together.

  The man was wide, potbellied, clad in khaki shorts and a T-shirt. His hair was matted with sweat and sleep, and salt-and-pepper stubble covered his chin. To Zginski he said, “You the Russkie who called about the car?”

  “I am,” Zginski said, and turned to Leonardo. “And this is—”

  “Your nigger boy can just wait here,” the man said. “You can follow me.” As he turned he glared at his companion. “Girl, I done told you about that smoking.”

  She made a dismissive wave with her hand. She was tall, with bright red hair and freckles, clad only in denim shorts and a red tube top too small for her burgeoning bust. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Faint swimsuit lines were visible on her broad, smooth shoulders. She looked about sixteen.

  Her father sighed and led Zginski toward the dilapidated barn. “I tell you, I can’t keep her from smoking, drinking, or fooling around with boys. Look at her, half-naked and smoking like a chimney in front of that buck nigger. I swanney, if you ain’t got no kids, don’t have none . . .”

  When they were out of sight, the girl turned to Leonardo. “Getting an eyeful?” she said disdainfully.

  He shrugged. He knew that, to her, they appeared roughly the same age. “You showing it. I’m just appreciating it.”

  She smiled very slightly. “My daddy heard you say that, he’d drag you all the way to Covington behind his car.”

  Leonardo started to fire back another sarcastic reply, but there was something in the girl’s tone that stopped him. He realized she was attracted to him, in a way that had nothing to do with a vampire’s ability to sexually fascinate a victim. He said, “He didn’t hear me say it. Just you did.”

  She took a drag off the cigarette and pulled it from her lips with a pop. Some sort of light pink lip gloss circled the filter. She pulled the smoke up into her nose, then let it slowly out. Her exposed skin now gleamed with sweat in the hot sun. “What’s your name, boy?”

  He gritted his teeth against the term “boy.” “Leonardo. You can call me Leo.”

  “I don’t call colored boys by their names unless I’m wanting ’em to do something,” she said, her smile growing.

  He stepped closer. This wasn’t the first white girl he’d encountered intrigued by dark skin. “So is there something you want me to do, Miss Crabtree? I’s just dyin’ to be of service.”

  Now she fully smiled. It made her look very young, in direct contradiction to the paraded ripeness of her body. “I’m sorry, I was just teasing you. I ain’t got nothing against colored folks. When I was little, that’s all I had to play with besides the dogs.” The girl extended her hand. “My name’s Clora.”

  He took it lightly. “Nice to meet you.”

  Her eyes opened wide in surprise and she snatched back her hand. “Lordy, your fingers are like icicles.”

  “I was drinking a Co-Cola on the way here.”

  She nodded, then looked up and shielded her eyes. “Man alive, wish I had a cold Co-Cola. Come on, let’s get up in the shade. I don’t want my shoulders peeling for two weeks again.” She turned and went up the steps.

  Leo didn’t move. “Are colored folks allowed inside through the front door?”

  She stopped and turned, the movement both gracefully feminine and clumsily teen. “Course not. But Daddy won’t mind if you’re on the porch.”

  CHAPTER 3

  JEB CRABTREE STRUGGLED to open the barn door, which hung by one rust-seized hinge. As he dragged its edge across the ground, a swarm of disturbed yellow jackets boiled up and around him. “God dang it!” he said, swatting and waddling back a few steps.

  Zginski stepped forward, easily lifted the door, and pushed it flat against the wall. The insects did not approach him.

  Crabtree finished slapping away the wasps, verified none had actually stung him, and said, “Thank you, son. Any of ’em get you?”

  “No,” Zginski said.

  “That’s good. Saw a fella who was allergic get swarmed once. Swole up like a beach ball. Died that afternoon.”

  Crabtree led the way into the barn. Sunlight filtered through spaces between the wallboards and gaps in the tin roof, illuminating dry air heavy with dust. Junked farm machinery filled the building like the skeletons of great monsters. In the center was an automobile covered by a water-stained tarpaulin. “This-here’s your baby. Just like the ad said, less than two thousand miles and not a scratch on her.”

  “I believe the term is ‘cherry,’ is it not?” Zginski said.

  “That’s true enough. She ain’t been up over sixty on the highway, so her cherry’s still there for you.” Crabtree waved in the air until his fingers found the light string. “So w
here you from again, boy?”

  “Eastern Europe,” Zginski said deferentially. “Near Rumania.”

  “A Commie,” the man said in wonder, as if he’d seen some rare animal at the zoo. “A real Commie, here in my barn. How’d you end up in the U.S. of A., anyway?”

  “I am a political refugee.”

  “Did you go over the Berlin Wall?”

  “No, I hid myself in a cargo container.” It was close to the truth: while locked in an iron coffin, a golden dagger impaled in his lifeless heart, his corpse had been shipped from England to the United States.

  Crabtree whistled. “Have to admire that, for sure. Lots of Americans take freedom for granted these days. I served two years in Korea, and believe me, I appreciate what we got here.” He took hold of the tarpaulin. “Well, welcome to the Land of the Free, then!”

  With a flourish he whipped the cover aside. “Ta-da!” he said with a grin, then spit tobacco juice at the ground. “Ain’t she a beaut? A 1973 Mach 1 Ford Mustang.”

  The vehicle was indeed in pristine shape, chrome gleaming and glass spotless. Zginski touched the shiny yellow hood with reverent fingertips, careful not to smear the waxed shine. He knew that under it waited an eight-cylinder 351 Windsor engine designed for no other purpose than speed. He could barely contain himself. “Eleanor,” he whispered reverently.

  “ ’Scuse me?” Crabtree said as he stuffed the cover between two bales of hay.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, right, this is the car from that movie, ain’t it? Where the fella steals all them other cars.”

  “Gone in 60 Seconds,” Zginski said. He had decided, after viewing Vanishing Point, Death Race 2000, and The Seven-Ups, that cinema existed for no other reason than to showcase the automobile.

  “They show American movies over in Russia?” Crabtree asked in surprise.

  “No, I saw it here.” He knelt and examined the tires, running his fingers along their road surfaces. The tread was deep and sharp-edged, and the little rubber whiskers had not yet worn away. He had no experience evaluating cars, but had pored over stacks of automotive magazines with the glee of a virginal young caliph on his first night in the harem. He sensed that Crabtree thought this one a jewel, and saw nothing to contradict that.

  Zginski stood, brushed his hands on his jeans, and said, “You must tell me how you acquired this.”

  “I don’t reckon that’s any of your business, son,” Crabtree said coolly. “She ain’t stole, if that’s what you’re worried about. I got all the paperwork on her.”

  Zginski reached out with his vampiric influence. It was weak, but so was Crabtree’s peasant resolve. “I wish,” Zginski said firmly, “to know the provenance of this automobile.”

  Crabtree shrugged as if it now meant nothing. “A cousin of mine needed a fast car for his work, if you know what I mean.” He mimed drinking from a bottle. “He gave me the money and had me buy it under my name, ’cause he knew the Feds were watching him. Then, before he could pick it up, he got killed in a wreck over across the line in Mississippi. So here she sits, collecting dust instead of road film.”

  “And why do you wish to part with it?”

  He laughed. “I got no use for it out here. Every teenage boy in the county wants to take either it or my daughter for a ride, and at least I can lock her up in the house to keep an eye on her. I figure this’ll just end up stole if I don’t sell it, so . . .” He trailed off and spit more tobacco at the dirt floor.

  Zginski opened the door and looked inside. Wood-grain inlays offset the mechanical chrome, and the high-backed bucket seats felt firm and inviting. A tiny spider had somehow gotten inside and spun its web between the rearview mirror and the steering wheel. Zginski pinched it between two fingers. “It would indeed be a crime to waste such a jewel,” he said.

  Crabtree laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.” Then he turned serious. “So let’s talk money. I know you Commies are all about sharing the wealth, but that ain’t the way it works here. And I sure ain’t a bank, I don’t finance over time. It’s cash on the barrelhead. No pinks ’til I see the greens.”

  Zginski held up a folded sheaf of bills as he straightened. “That’s exactly the way I want it.”

  Clora Crabtree again leaned against the column with the weariness of a small-town girl longing for new horizons. The position highlighted her long, freckled legs. She lit another cigarette from the butt of the first and said, “So, Leo. How come you running around with a Russkie?”

  Leonardo laughed and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. “That’s a long story.”

  “He pay you?”

  “Naw. I’m just learning stuff I couldn’t find out about anywhere else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Technical stuff.” Until Zginski came along, Leonardo had been certain exposure to sunlight would destroy him. It certainly weakened him, but having the day back after decades in the dark was worth a little weakness. “Pretty boring.”

  “What’s he get out of it?”

  He shrugged. “Somebody to talk to.”

  “Some days I’d pay for that, too,” she said wistfully, and offered him a cigarette. He shook his head. Softly she added, “I got half a joint upstairs. Want me to go get it?”

  “Your daddy might not like that.”

  She smiled out of the side of her mouth and said, “Daddy wouldn’t like most of the things I do, if he knew about ’em. He just sees what he wants.”

  Her eyes were big, green, and somehow sad. Leonardo gazed into them, careful to mask his powers. He sensed that, with this girl, he might not need them.

  They both jumped at the sound of “La Cucaracha” played on a car horn. A big featureless Buick with one fender the distinctive color of Bondo pulled into the driveway and stopped, blocking in the pickup. The driver revved the engine several times.

  “Shit,” Clora said, and tossed her cigarette aside. “Byron.”

  “Who’s Byron?” Leonardo asked, but Clora had already hopped off the porch and trotted toward the barn.

  When Leonardo turned back, the biggest man he’d ever seen stood on the steps. Backlit by the sun, he looked like some enormous avenging angel, and there was certainly no kindness in his voice when he said, “Boy, what you doing on Mistah Crabtree’s front porch?”

  “Nothin’, suh, jus’ talking to Miss Clora.” It was the way his family had talked decades ago, and the way many blacks still did when faced with white belligerence. The trick is to blend in, Zginski often told him, not stand out, and he knew this countrified deference was what the big white man expected.

  The man snorted with cold humor. “That a fact.”

  Even with his vampire reflexes, Leonardo almost didn’t see the blow coming in time to roll with it. The big man slapped him hard enough to stun a normal person, and Leonardo let the impact toss him off the porch into the grass. If he’d resisted, the man might’ve broken his hand, and that certainly would’ve gotten unwanted attention.

  “Don’t lie to me, boy,” the big man said, not even bothering to look directly at Leonardo. “I’ll kick your nigra ass from here to the Alabama line. Now where is Mr. Crabtree?”

  “I think he in the barn, sir,” Leonardo said, and got his first look at this “Byron.” The big man had sandy hair cut long in the current fashion, thick sideburns, and a shirt with a wide collar. His face had once been handsome, but was now skewed, the chin uneven and one side of his jaw caved slightly inward. Scar tissue told the story of some terrible injury that had, apparently, done little to humble the man.

  “Thank you, boy,” he said, then headed to the barn. He walked with the swagger of a man who loved to provoke violence, and hardly ever lost a fight.

  Leonardo stood, brushed off his jeans, then sat on the porch steps. Even sun-weakened, Leo knew he could snap this giant bully in half, but the man seemed inexplicably familiar, and until he could place him, it was best to lay low literally and figuratively.

  Crabtree put the neat pile of cash int
o his pocket and shook Zginski’s hand. If he noticed it was considerably colder than normal, he didn’t mention it. He handed him a ring with three keys on it: two for the ignition, one for the trunk. “Reckon we got ourselves a deal, Mr. Zigeeinski.”

  Zginski did not correct the pronunciation as he tucked the title into his shirt pocket. “Indeed.”

  “Daddy!” Clora said urgently from the door. “You got more company.”

  A new voice called, “Jebediah Crabtree, what you doing out here? It’s a day to be inside with the A.C. running.”

  Crabtree and Zginski turned. The big man stood beside Clora, one huge arm across her bare shoulders. The gesture was both parental and possessive, and Clora quickly squirmed out from under it. “I’ll be back at the house,” she said, giving the big man a disgusted look.

  The man shrugged and strode into the barn, ducking to avoid the roof beams. He offered one enormous hand to Crabtree, who shook it with clear reluctance. “Howdy, Sheriff Cocker,” he said demurely.

  The big man laughed. “I ain’t the sheriff no more, Jeb, I’m just a lowly civilian now.” He turned to Zginski. “Don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Byron Cocker.”

  Zginski had to look up to meet his gaze, as Cocker was a good foot taller and probably eighty pounds heavier. He noted the signs of facial surgery that almost, but not quite, made him look normal. He wondered how the man had originally been injured. “I am Rudy Zginski,” he said, using the diminutive form of his first name. It seemed to make people less suspicious.

  But not Cocker. Like a dog bred for fighting he considered direct eye contact a challenge, and frowned at the way Zginski met his gaze. “You a foreigner?”

  “He’s a refugee,” Crabtree interjected. “He used to be a Red, but now he’s seen the light and wants to be an American.”

  Cocker tightened his grip on Zginski’s hand, and waited for the strain to show. Zginski simply smiled and let the man squeeze. Finally he said, “Your American handshakes last so long, I am reminded of the way lovers hold hands in my country.”

  Cocker quickly pulled his hand away, and fury sparked in his eyes. Then he smiled and said, “Aw, we just like to be sure we’re among friends, that’s all. Ain’t that right, Jeb?”