“And she comes back as Roxy Bronze, the porn star working for that pinchi Cragnow Vissoom,” Coyote said. “I’m with you.”
“Then for reasons I still don’t fathom…”
“Fathom?” asked Coyote.
“It means ‘understand,’” I explained. “Roxy teams with Veronica Torres at Barrio Unidos to stop Project Eleven—the plan to redevelop Pacoima. Which they do.”
“And that pissed off a lot of rich people because they lost money,” Coyote said.
“One of those people is Lucky Rosario, who it turns out has been siphoning…” I waited for Coyote to interrupt again.
“I understand siphoning,” he said. “That’s how I get gas for my ride.”
“Rosario funds Cragnow’s movies and in return gets to play with some porn tail. Now it turns out that Dr. Mordecai Niphe is sending thank-you gifts to Cragnow.”
“Let’s not forget the dump truck treatment, ese.”
“I haven’t.”
“¿Porque?” asked Coyote. Why?
“Don’t know,” I said. “Does it have to do with money? Sex? Or something else? If that’s not confusing enough, now we’ve got Dr. Niphe sneaking off to meet with the Reverend Dale Journey.”
Coyote slowed at a traffic light and gunned the engine to keep it from stalling. “You sure, vato?”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Niphe only went to Journey’s church.” The light turned green and Coyote let the truck jerk forward. “We’re not sure who he went to see.”
“True. But I’ll bet that Niphe wouldn’t have been invited unless Dale Journey knew about it. Notice that the security guards didn’t show up until we got there.”
Coyote frowned. “Vato, that’s too much shit for me to think about. And you still haven’t gotten to why Katz Meow is missing or why someone killed Rebecca Dwelling.”
Or mentioned a lot of other people I knew wanted Roxy dead.
“Don’t forget the real reason you’re here, raza…”
I hadn’t been called raza in a while. Short for La Raza—the race—meaning us mestizos.
“…to find out what this has to do with vampires and humans.”
Whatever had been going on in L.A. was serious enough to alarm even the Araneum. They expected me to infiltrate the suspected vampire–human collusion and bring the offending bloodsuckers to undead justice. Trouble was, I hadn’t done much so far except practice push-starting Coyote’s wreck of a pickup.
Discussing the investigation with Coyote should have helped. Instead, reviewing the details of the case and coming up with zip made me feel like one big dumb ass.
Coyote grasped my shoulder. “You okay, Felix?”
I brushed his hand off. My aura should’ve told him how pissed I was. Plus I hadn’t eaten anything since morning, so I was cranky with hunger.
Working in the daytime, no matter how much we vampires tried to adjust to the cycle, left us with perpetual jetlag. After a few days of having the sun leach psychic energy from our bodies, we needed a nice blood meal and a good nap in a coffin to refresh us and smooth the kinks out of our attitudes.
“Relax, ese,” Coyote said. “We’ll go to my place, get something to eat, and take a snooze.” He circled a finger next to his temple. “Mientras”—meanwhile—“you get those gears turning in your head and see what we have to do next.”
I had plenty of gears to turn; problem was, I couldn’t get any two of them to mesh.
One traffic light from the freeway on-ramp, a red Ferrari rumbled beside us. The young man at the wheel looked up at Coyote’s truck and sneered. He gestured to someone beside him, and a woman’s face appeared in the driver’s window, laughing no doubt at the heap Coyote and I were in.
Bad timing on the part of these two yuppies. I was pissed at the world and hungry. Might as well get these two birds with one stone, or rather one stare.
I turned my face to them and flashed my fangs.
CHAPTER 19
The two yuppies in the Ferrari responded with slack-jawed, blank-faced stares. In their red auras they looked as if they had been dipped in sweet-and-sour sauce.
“Coyote,” I said, “time for dinner.”
He smiled with anticipation.
“Just me. You’ve already snacked. Follow me and wait until I’m done.” As I was about to get out, I clutched Coyote’s thin, sinewy arm. “And for God’s sake, if this truck stalls, I’m not pushing it again. I’ll make you carry me piggyback to your house.”
“Vato, I got a bad hip and—”
“Try me.” I let go of his arm and got out of the truck.
I told the driver of the Ferrari to unlock his door. I swung the door up and pushed him over the center console to jam him on top of his stylish female companion.
I settled into the driver’s seat, snapped the door closed, and reflected on how low the rumbling Ferrari sat against the road. I examined the controls and instruments. Detecting a whiff of cocaine, I searched about and found a vial of the white powder in the console.
Naughty yuppies.
Grasping the steering wheel, I released the clutch and eased the gas pedal. The rear tires spun out, and the car swerved through the intersection. Regaining control, I veered into an alley, scraping the bottom of the Ferrari, and halted next to a brick wall and a Dumpster.
Since the guy was on top, I fanged him first. He was bulky and firm—obviously a muscle head—and his blood luxuriously tasty. Male blood had the full-bodied richness of testosterone. I detected notes of gin, dry vermouth, anabolic steroids, and cocaine.
To get to the woman, I had to reach over them and fumble for the release catch to fold the passenger’s seat down. I wrestled with their bodies, as if rearranging sacks of potatoes. When I finally had her on top of the pile, I stretched her neck back and feasted like an undead king. Little Miss Nordstrom also enjoyed the nose candy.
I relaxed against the driver’s seat and burped. The traces of booze and dope gave me a nice buzz, and suddenly the world and my problems appeared much more tolerable.
I had lapped plenty of saliva into the fang punctures to accelerate the healing, so by morning, when these two yuppie coke heads came to, there would be nothing but faint yellow bruises on their necks. To give them something else to think about, I got the vial of cocaine and dusted their rumpled forms with the white powder. If finding themselves disheveled and tangled like this wasn’t enough to get them both into a 12-step, then they were beyond my magnanimous help.
Coyote’s truck rattled beside the curb outside the alley. I got in and slouched on the bench seat.
Coyote narrowed his eyes. “¿Somos amigos, no?” We are friends, no? “You should’ve shared.”
“You can share this.” I gave him the bird and motioned to get going.
The old Ford sputtered onto the freeway. The jostling of the truck and the dreamy haze from dinner made me sleepy. I remembered the woman’s trim body under mine. I could’ve had my way with her. The longing for the heat of female skin turned my thoughts away from the yuppie woman and toward Veronica.
Her ripe body was more delectable by comparison. An affair with Veronica could seriously complicate my investigation.
A worthwhile risk.
We arrived at a confusion of concrete and asphalt where the Santa Monica, Golden State, Santa Ana, and Pomona Freeways tangled together. We exited and clattered down Whittier Boulevard through a neighborhood marked with signs in Spanish. Young people clustered under streetlamps or in the doorways of the tienditas—small, corner markets. Spray-can graffiti murals declared the area as Atzlan.
“Where are we?” I asked. “East L.A.?”
“Technically we’re in Boyle Heights.”
A homeless man pushed a shopping cart heaped with his junk possessions.
“More upscale, vato.”
We turned on Euclid and after a few blocks headed onto a short street that dipped into a wash. Coyote halted at the top of the incline.
He pointed. At th
e bottom on the right, past the other ramshackle houses, was a sagging chain-link fence along the cracked sidewalk. Behind the fence and next to a ravine was a small home cobbled together from discarded materials.
“Your palace?”
“Símon, ese. The queen of England once asked to stay, but I had to turn her away. We’re not zoned for royalty.”
Coyote shut the engine.
“Why are we stopping up here?” I asked.
Coyote pointed down the hill. “You wanna push again?” He meant letting the truck coast to start.
“What if it stalls out and we’re stuck at the bottom?”
“Then we push uphill, pendejo.”
We dismounted. The one streetlamp was broken but no matter, with my vampire vision I had no problem seeing through the darkness. Shoes dangled from the power lines.
I grabbed my bags and followed Coyote over the sidewalk and through an opening in the fence. The yard was dirt, rock, trash, and weeds. Piles of dog crap here and there. Frayed corrugated fiberglass sheets were tacked against the wall of his house. Roof joists jutted unevenly from under the eaves. We could’ve been in any Third World slum.
A large dog’s skull rested on a metal stake like a warning.
“What’s that about?” I asked.
“Some culo up the street was hassling me about parking in front of his house. One day he sicced his rottweiler after me.” Coyote patted his belly. “I ate the best tamales for a month.”
A dim yellow light shone through a curtained window by what I guessed was the front door. I smelled frijoles simmering in boar’s blood. A short roof extended over the door and a slab of concrete to make a small porch. Coyote stepped up to the porch and peeled back a sheet of fiberglass siding. He reached through and opened the door from the inside. The door swung open, and the dim light washed over Coyote. The aroma of blood and frijoles got stronger.
I followed Coyote into a kitchen. A blackened stockpot, the source of the aroma, sat on a battered gas stove. An illuminated happy face lamp rested on the windowsill. Bags of pinto beans and rice lay against the wall along with a pile of rat traps.
I dropped my bags on a table covered with faded red-and-white-checkered contact paper. One of the table legs was splinted with a crooked two-by-four.
“Maybe you recognize my home from last month’s Architectural Digest,” Coyote said. He hooked a loop of coat hanger wire over the knob to secure the front door. A threadbare woman’s knit sweater hung from a nearby nail.
“You have a woman?” I asked.
“Had,” replied Coyote.
“Chalice? Vampire?” I couldn’t imagine a woman of any kind stepping foot in this squalor.
“More than a chalice,” Coyote said. The lines on his face deepened. “Era mi vieja.” She was my old lady.
“She lived here?”
“We had a different place.”
Good for her. “Your vieja’s name?”
“Heather.”
The idea of a woman named Heather shacking up with Coyote was so ridiculous I wanted to laugh out loud. Any girfriend of his would’ve been a hag. Heather was the name of a coed, rosy-faced and plump as a strawberry. “Where is Heather?”
Coyote’s aura tightened in sadness around him like orange shrink-wrap. “She went to the place all humans go when they get old and die, ese.”
“What was Heather—”
Coyote cut me off. “You’ll sleep downstairs.” This conversation was over. He pointed to the short, narrow door on the wall adjacent to a stove.
“You have a basement?”
“I told you I lived in a palace.” Coyote unfolded a towel covering a stack of flour tortillas on the counter by the stove. He turned one of the stove handles with a set of pliers and let the gas hiss.
“Where are you sleeping?” I asked.
Coyote motioned at a tattered curtain hanging over the threshold to another room. “In there.”
He struck a match and tossed it into one of the burners. A fireball whooshed and settled into a blue ring of flame. Coyote set a tortilla over the lit burner.
When the tortilla began to smolder, Coyote picked it up and bounced it in his hand to let it cool. Folding the tortilla, he spooned from the stockpot to make a burrito. He offered it to me. “Unlike you, I’ll share.”
“No thanks, I’m full.”
“No kidding, buey.” Ball-less asshole. Coyote chewed the burrito. Some frijoles dribbled down his shirt and onto the floor. He bent over to pick them up. He brought them to his mouth and stopped. Coyote glanced back to the sweater, sighed, and tossed the beans into the sink. Maybe one of Heather’s rules had been “No eating off the floor,” and this act of cleanliness was his homage to her.
Coyote pulled the small door open and stooped to enter. “Bring your shit, ese.”
The creaking, wooden stairs—made of fence posts, plywood signs, and lumber scraps—led to a basement with a low ceiling. A string dangled from a ceiling bulb, but there was no point in turning it on. The dirt floor was swept smooth. Cabinets and a workbench cluttered with tools stood along one wall. A big sturdy table sat in the middle of the room. A gray metal coffin rested on the table.
“Heather?” I asked.
“Chale. What am I, a ghoul? That’s your bed, ese.”
In that case, tired as I was, this coffin looked more inviting than a Posturepedic mattress.
Coyote plodded up the stairs. “I’ll see you mañana.” He closed the door.
I put my bags on the workbench and climbed on the table to inspect the coffin. Knowing Coyote, I expected mice and roaches to spring out when I opened the lid. But it was empty, smelling as it should, like stale vampire. No crumbs anywhere from midnight snacking. The satin lining was dry and free of stains. Nothing worse than sharing a coffin with a bed wetter.
I changed into pajamas, folded my street clothes on the table, and stepped into the coffin. I wiggled my hips to settle into the lining, laid back, and stretched my legs and arms. I yawned and reached to close the lid. I let sleep overtake me until a rustling and the squeaking of wood awoke me.
What was that? I wondered how long I had been asleep. I opened the lid only enough to grope for my watch. Even though I had night vision, I liked pressing the stem of the Timex and watching the face glow. Time was 6:40 P.M. Saturday. I had been out awhile.
Pushing the lid open, I felt refreshed and invigorated enough to arise vampire style, keeping my body rigid and rotating upward on my heels. But I had forgotten about the low ceiling and thumped my head. Dust sifted over me.
Massaging my forehead, I climbed out of the coffin and sloughed off the dust. The floor above groaned as someone, I assumed Coyote, moved about the kitchen. I sniffed the odor of rodent blood. Breakfast? I hoped not.
During my sleep, the details of the investigation had circled my head like orbiting moons, distant, yet exerting their pull. As I got dressed, I realized who might provide information that I needed.
Veronica Torres. There was one question I had forgotten to ask her.
I got my cell phone. Reception in the basement was lousy. I climbed the stairs, and when I got a good signal, dialed her number. Voice mail picked up. I said hello and added, “Veronica, did Roxy Bronze leave any files that the police missed? If so, call.”
Call regardless, we need to get together.
I entered the kitchen and was overwhelmed by the smell of animal flesh and spicy peppers.
Coyote stood beside the table, scooping bloody lumps out of a bucket and cramming them into a meat grinder. “Buenos tardes, flojo.” Good afternoon, lazybones. “I’m making rat chorizo. Know what my secret ingredient is?”
Industrial waste? I shrugged. “El amor?”
“Love? You’re a funny guy, ese.” Coyote laughed. “No, the secret to good rat chorizo is to leave the tails on.” He plucked a tail from the bucket and slurped it like a strand of spaghetti.
I wondered if the cuisine had killed Heather, not old age. Looking to the nail by the
door, I saw that the sweater was gone.
A percolator with hot coffee sat on a front burner. Coyote kept bags of human blood in his refrigerator. I heated one in the microwave. I filled a tall cup with coffee and blood. After toasting a couple of tortillas, I tore them and dipped the pieces into my drink, doing my best to ignore the stink of Coyote’s sausage making.
While he busied himself with rat chorizo, I filled a basin with warm water to wash and shave.
My cell phone buzzed. I had a text message from Veronica. She didn’t waste words. Her reply was: YES
I texted her back: WHEN CAN I GET THE FILES?
A minute later she answered.
NOW
CHAPTER 20
Veronica texted me her address in Hollywood. By the time Coyote dropped me off at her place, it was already after nine. Since Veronica had asked me to visit on a Saturday evening, and remembering she had said earlier we’d get together for dinner, I inferred that her offer included breakfast as well. Being the optimist that I am, I brought along my overnight bag and condoms.
Her home was in a two-story four-plex in pastel green stucco. Lush grapevines, thick as quilts, draped the walls. Small balconies with wrought iron railings jutted from the upper levels. The fragrance of jasmine shrubs and orange trees wafted through the night air like incense.
I scoped the area with my contacts out to check one last time for suspicious auras. The coast clear, I put my contacts back in and climbed the short concrete steps.
Veronica’s address was curiously 518 1?4. I entered a tiled breezeway and stepped around small palms and ficus plants growing in terra-cotta pots. Newspapers wrapped in plastic bags and junk mail were piled in one corner.
Her apartment was to the left at the top of the stairs. I rapped on a scuffed and tarnished wooden door. Veronica peeked through the small window at eye level. The dead bolt clicked and the door opened. An aroma of apricot-scented shampoo escaped.
X-Rated Bloodsuckers Page 12
