X-Rated Bloodsuckers

by Mario Acevedo

  Paxton’s stern face broke into a smile so deep it looked like a chrome radiator grill. “Felix Gomez.”

  We had never met before, so hearing my name was like an electric jolt.

  He knew my name. He knew I was here. He certainly knew my business. Cragnow Vissoom must have told him. I pointed to the wreck under the dump truck. “You seem disappointed that my carcass is not tangled in that mess.”

  His teeth looked impossibly shiny, as if he buffed instead of brushed them. “Lucky you. Maybe fate’s telling you to buy a lottery ticket.”

  Back at Paxton’s car the driver got out and stood behind the open door, as if prepared to reach inside and grab something—perhaps a riot gun loaded with silver buckshot.

  If Paxton still wanted me dead, he could’ve signaled his driver to start shooting. Judging by his stance, the driver was human and I’d beat him to the draw. The other cops were busy with traffic, so he was the only available shooter. I was next to Paxton and wild bursts of fire would get him, too. Plus a shoot-out beside the freeway was something Paxton wouldn’t risk. I felt safe for now.

  “You got something you want to share with me, Paxton?”

  I couldn’t see his aura but I could feel it, like the heat from a stalled engine. Paxton was sizing me up, to see what kind of an opponent and threat I was.

  “Who sent you?” I asked. “Cragnow?”

  Paxton’s smile went flat. “Mr. Vissoom doesn’t control—”

  “Mister? I expected His Highness from you.”

  That smile with those blade-shiny teeth returned. His expression said: Keep it up, smart-ass, and see where it gets you.

  “Since you’re here, Paxton, maybe you can help.”

  His smile dimmed again and he raised an eyebrow.

  “Any idea where I could find Katz Meow?”

  His eyebrow took a long time to drop. “Who?”

  Liar. “A friend of Roxy Bronze’s.”

  “Felix, I don’t expect you to do my job, so don’t expect me to do yours. Aren’t you a PI? Find her yourself.”

  Paxton started to walk away. He stopped and looked back at me. “In case you don’t get it, don’t think for a second that any of this”—he meant the accident, his arrival, and his knowledge of me—“was a coincidence.”

  “You don’t need to spell it out,” I told him.

  “Really? ’Cuz I did figure you to be that stupid.” Paxton returned to his Crown Vic.

  Stupid or not, I was harder to kill than he thought. Paxton, as a deputy chief, had a lot of authority and with that, plenty of visibility. He couldn’t be brash in his attempts to finish me and blow his cover.

  Paxton drove off as two wreckers arrived. The bigger one pulled the dump truck off the rental. The other wrecker winched the remains of the sedan onto its bed. I signed a release and wondered how much time I was going to waste trying to sort this out with my insurance company.

  I walked up the block and retreated under the shadow of an awning outside a dry cleaner. I could go back to Barrios Unidos. But what kind of impression would that make? I was supposed to be the white knight, and within minutes of leaving Veronica, I all but crawl back, after barely escaping an attempt to crush me like an egg.

  I called a cab for a ride back to my hotel. As I waited, I reviewed the in-box of my cell phone and opened the text message from Veronica. It was the number she had forwarded for Andrew Tonic, Roxy’s lawyer.

  I called him. A woman receptionist answered. When I told her I wanted to speak to Tonic about Roxy, she caught herself in midbreath and immediately switched me over.

  I expected his voice mail and was surprised when a man’s voice came over the phone.

  “Andrew Tonic speaking,” he chirped.

  I introduced myself as a private investigator looking into the death of Roxy Bronze. “I understand you were her attorney at the hearing before the state medical board.”

  “I was, but I can’t answer any questions about that.”

  “Of course not,” I replied. “Wouldn’t dream of asking. I was only hoping that you and I could meet to talk about Roxy in general terms.”

  “General terms?”

  “Her background. Your impressions of her.”

  “I can tell you that right now. Roxy Bronze—Freya Krieger—was one of the sweetest, most conscientious people I’d ever met. Another Joan of Arc, which in this town meant she had plenty of enemies ready to burn her at the stake. What happened to Roxy was a travesty. It was no hearing but an administrative gang rape.” Tonic paused, as if regretting what he had just said. “That was a general term, okay? Don’t quote me on it.”

  “On what?”

  He laughed. “What do you need from me?”

  “I’m putting together a list of people who might have had a reason to kill her.”

  “That would be a long list,” he said.

  “That’s okay. I got a new pen and lots of paper.”

  Tonic sighed.

  “Something bothering you?” I asked.

  “Yeah. It’s a disgrace what happened to her.”

  “Then why haven’t you looked into this?”

  “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Gomez?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is this a hobby for you?”

  “No. It’s my job.”

  “Exactly. If I’m going to defend the moral high ground, I do it for a client and at my hourly rate.”

  “So you won’t talk about Roxy?” I asked.

  “I never said that. We agreed that I’d discuss Roxy in general terms. There are plenty of people I wouldn’t mind seeing squirm over this.”

  “People on that long list?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Gomez. You want to talk, I’m free…let me check. Next Tuesday? You know Trixie’s Bistro on Wilshire?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Let’s say lunch. Noon. A patio table. If you get there first, do me a favor and order a vodka and tonic. Make sure it’s Belvedere and Schweppes. Anything else and you’re better off letting a skunk piss into the glass.”

  “Got it. Trixie’s. Next Tuesday. Lunch. No skunk.”

  We hung up. A cab arrived and I took a long, expensive ride back to my hotel in Culver City.

  I spent the rest of the day on the phone talking to the insurance and the rental car companies. I argued with some kid, who despite assurances that he was from Ohio, his accent made me suspect he was sitting inside a cubicle in Cennai, India. Too bad we were on the phone; otherwise, I would’ve put the vampire whammy on him.

  “By this evening,” the kid kept repeating, “you should have a replacement automobile.”

  Evening came and went and still no replacement. The hassle with bureaucracy left me more drained than the recent attempt to kill me. I put on my inversion boots and hung inside the closet for the night. Sleep came slowly as I wondered: Julius Paxton had found me before; would he strike again at the hotel?

  In the stillness of the dawn, I detected a faint movement. Light appeared as a red glow through my eyelids.

  The closet door was open.

  I reached for my pistol when a rubber-soled shoe pressed upon my hand. I opened my eyes and stared at a familiar dirty sneaker. Looking up, I saw Coyote’s wrinkled face.

  “Te canto las mañanitas, huevón,” he said. I’m singing you good morning, lazy-ass.

  “How’d you get in?”

  He clucked his tongue, as if the question was too stupid to answer. “Ya levantate.” Get up. “Ponte la lisa y los calcos.” Pachuco slang for put on your shirt and shoes. “We got some investigating to do, vato.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Coyote helped himself to one of the bags of human blood that I had in an ice bucket on the dresser. He warmed the bag in the microwave by the vanity sink. After punching holes in the bag with his fangs, Coyote slurped the blood. He turned his cap backward, slouched on my bed, and watched TV while I shaved and did my morning business. Vampires aren’t supposed to use the bathroom.
True…on an all-blood diet. But if the tacos come in, they have to come out.

  I combed my hair and applied Dermablend and sunblock–makeup to cover my undead pallor. I poured from the tiny coffeemaker into a tall glass. I warmed the other bag of blood and stirred it into the coffee. As I drank my breakfast, I told Coyote about yesterday’s ambush with the dump truck. He barely seemed to listen. He kept his attention on a morning news program featuring a local cat show. A fat tabby stared at the camera.

  “A splash of olive oil. A little oregano,” Coyote said, licking his lips, “and you got some good fajitas.”

  I snatched the remote from the nightstand and clicked off the TV. “They tried to kill me,” I repeated.

  Coyote replied with an irritated look. “Vato, you say that like it’s a surprise. You think Cragnow and his diablos sang the other agents to sleep?” He leaned forward and touched the power button on the TV. The fat tabby’s hairy face returned.

  Coyote squeezed the last drops of blood out of the bag and onto his tongue. He crinkled the empty bag like it was the wrapper from a candy bar. Coyote tossed the bag toward the trash can by the TV. The bag bounced off the wall and rolled to the floor by my feet.

  “Goddamn it, Coyote.” I picked the bag up and jammed it into a corner of my open Pullman. “Why don’t you just write on the walls ‘vampires were here’?”

  I clicked the TV off again. “You said we’ve got some investigating to do. What’s the plan?”

  Turning his cap around, Coyote stood and then grasped my pistol from where it rested on the dresser. He tossed the gun, still in its holster, to me.

  I snagged it with one hand. “You expect trouble?”

  “No, pendejo.” No, dumb ass. “I’m expecting a parade down South Central.”

  Stupid question on my part. Of course we should expect trouble. “Where are we going?”

  “You tell me,” he said. “It’s your investigation.”

  “Yesterday, before I got hit by the truck, I was on my way to the La Brea Mercy Hospital in Glendale.”

  Coyote stared for a long moment. He wrinkled his nose, as if sniffing for something. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking about. Probably to see what else he could mooch from me.

  At last, Coyote responded. “Why that hospital?”

  I told him about Dr. Mordecai Niphe and Freya Krieger, a.k.a. Roxy Bronze.

  When I was done, Coyote bobbed his head in agreement. “Then that’s the plan. First, pack your shit, ese.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a new way to spell pendejo. F-E-L-I-X. Vato, how long will it be before Cragnow finds where you are? What are you waiting for, a second dump truck to climb over your back?”

  “And go where?”

  “Another hotel. Or with me.”

  “You have a home? What is it, a park bench?”

  Coyote gave an indignant snort. “Felix, it’s a palace.” He shoved his hand down the front of his trousers and scratched.

  I couldn’t see myself rooming with him, even in a crypt. But Coyote was right. He had snuck in here and surprised me. I didn’t think any other vampire could, but I’d be foolish to risk it. I filled out the express checkout card on the table and collected my belongings.

  Coyote walked to the vanity sink and took all the little soaps and bottles of toiletries, which he stuffed into the pockets of his denim jacket. There was an extra roll of tissue under the sink and he took that, too.

  We went down the stairs and out a side door instead of through the lobby.

  “How are we getting about?” I asked. “I still don’t have a car.”

  “We don’t need no car, vato. Instead we got a magic carpet ride. Think of Santa’s sleigh, only better.”

  A sleigh? Knowing Coyote, he probably meant a burro pulling a melon wagon.

  I followed Coyote around the back of the hotel to an old Ford pickup. Blotches of gray putty and primer covered the faded green paint like a mange. Rust outlined the bottom of the truck and the fender wells. A good breeze seemed enough to rip the body right off the frame.

  “This is a magic carpet ride?” I looked for the burro hitch.

  “Vato, you can always walk.”

  I wrestled the passenger’s door open. A tattered serape was fitted over the bench seat. I tipped the seat forward and crammed my bags into the space.

  Coyote climbed into the driver’s side and squeezed behind a steering wheel that seemed as large as a manhole cover.

  Boards had been nailed—not screwed—to the floor panels to support my feet over a big rusted hole.

  Coyote put the column shift lever into neutral. He reached under the instrument panel and pinched the dangling wires together.

  “Ready,” he said. “Blast off.” He twisted the screwdriver stuck into the ignition lock. The engine groaned. Coyote pumped the gas pedal. “Come on, you puta.” You whore.

  The engine spurted and rattled but wouldn’t start. After a moment of referring to the truck as every possible variation of whore or bitch, Coyote released the screwdriver and pulled his foot off the gas. He slumped forward and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

  I asked, “Do you want me to push?”

  “Por favor.”

  I pushed the truck out of the parking spot. How much better was this jalopy than walking? Coyote aimed it away from the other cars. Grasping the edge of the tailgate, I gave the old Ford a hearty vampire shove. The truck zoomed forward, belched, and slowed when Coyote tried to start the engine, then lurched forward again. Success. With a wave of his hand he beckoned me to catch him. I sprinted, jumped onto the running board, and plopped inside.

  Coyote turned the big steering wheel like he was at the helm of a tugboat. We chugged out of the parking lot, made it onto the Santa Monica Freeway heading east, then went north on Interstate 110 and Highway 2.

  Surprisingly, the old Ford held together, and we rolled into Glendale. Map in hand, I told Coyote how to get to the La Brea Mercy Hospital.

  We passed through a tunnel of stately trees lining the street in an older, upscale neighborhood. The hospital was at the next block. We circled for an empty parking spot and eventually found one that seemed as far from the building as the planet Pluto.

  We got out and hiked to the hospital. An ambulance sat in front of the entrance to the emergency room. We stopped at a sign that had an arrow pointing right: PUBLIC ENTRANCE. And an arrow pointing to the left: MEDICAL STAFF AND EMPLOYEES.

  I started to the left.

  Coyote pivoted to the right. “Dame un momento.” Give me a minute.

  “Where you going?”

  Coyote waved me off. “I’ll catch up.”

  What kind of mischief was he going to cause? This is why I preferred to work alone.

  The sidewalk turned the corner and led to an entrance on the north side of the building. I had come to see Dr. Mordecai Niphe and ask—no, interrogate—him about Roxy Bronze.

  A couple of women in blue scrubs approached from the employee parking lot and climbed up the steps to the staff entrance. As they approached the door, they held ID badges up for a security guard to inspect. At this time of day the hospital would be busy. Sneaking in and prowling about was going to be tricky.

  Coyote appeared around the corner behind me. He held a pair of dark sport coats and two plastic name tags.

  “Welcome to La Brea Mercy Hospital, Dr. Dilip Gupta.” He handed one of the sport coats and name tags to me. “They’re waiting for us inside.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Each name tag had the logo of the SoCal Cosmetic Surgery Association, the name of a doctor, and today’s date. I put on the larger of the sport coats; the other was a navy blue blazer. “Where are the owners?”

  Coyote put his hands together beside his cheek and tilted his head to indicate night-night.

  Even with a blazer, in his tattered ball cap, jeans, and sneakers, Coyote didn’t project the image of any physician I’d trust. But this was L.A. Maybe he looked like th
e typical Hollywood quack pill pusher.

  The security guard glanced at the name tags clipped to the lapels of our coats. He nodded and motioned down the hall.

  The guard hadn’t examined our name tags or he would’ve noticed that Coyote didn’t look like a Dr. Annabelle Cunningham.

  We passed hospital staff in scrubs. I searched for Mordecai Niphe, listening for his name and letting my gaze flit across the ID badges. I had no idea what he looked like, as I couldn’t find his picture on the Internet or anywhere else.

  Coyote and I stopped in the hall at a table scattered with the leftovers of a continental breakfast. A poster for the SoCal Cosmetic Surgery Conference rested on an easel beside the table. A sign on the double doors said: QUIET. MEETING IN PROGRESS. CELL PHONES AND PAGERS OFF.

  I didn’t know if Dr. Niphe was in there but I had to look. Carefully, I opened one of the doors. The room was three-quarters full with around a hundred people, doctors, I presumed, sitting and facing a stage. Large, flat-screen video monitors flanked the audience.

  A tall, handsome man in a lab coat stood on the stage, next to a gynecologist’s examination table with chrome foot stirrups. The business end of the table was turned toward the room. Music played, a cheesy corporate tune that I had heard before at a pitch for timeshare condos.

  A breathless infotainment voice on the soundtrack introduced the man in the lab coat as the cosmetic surgeon to the stars and the presenter for today’s lecture on new developments in aesthetic cosmetic enhancements and opportunities for revenue growth. Unfortunately he wasn’t who I was looking for, Dr. Niphe.

  I was about to turn away when a statuesque blonde, wearing nothing but a white robe and high-heeled pumps, stepped onto the stage. She paused beside the examination table.

  The surgeon welcomed her. She smiled, disrobed, and removed her shoes. Completely nonchalant, she sat on the table, lifted her legs, placed her feet into the stirrups, and scooted her naked butt to the edge of the table. Every eye in the room was pulled to her vulva. The men in the audience leaned forward. The women crossed their arms and legs and sat rigid.