by David Lee
“How did you know?” Finkelstein asked. “We didn’t see the danger.”
“We have resisted the Vampires since they first appeared in the Northwest. We noticed you were about to come under…. pressure,” he paused when he said the word, as if searching for a diplomatic phrase, “so the council decided to send you assistance.”
“Thank you,” mumbled Finkelstein, flummoxed at the transformation of the person he’d casually categorized as the Big Indian to Lee the Vampire Slayer, sent by a tribe of Indians to help. “What tribe did you say you’re from?”
“I didn’t,” said Lee. “You wouldn’t recognize the name; we’re not one of the treaty tribes.”
From the dumbfounded look on Finkelstein’s face, Lee took pity, explaining, “we don’t sign treaties, we don’t surrender and we don’t give in. We’ve survived the whites and we will survive the dead.”
“How’d you get so good at shuffleboard?”
“Tribe doesn’t pay much per diem so I got to earn my beer money,” Lee explained, practical as any travelling man on a limited expense account.
“From now on, beer’s on the house,” said Finkelstein.
“Killing Vampires is thirsty work, you might come to regret your offer.”
“Forget about it, I buy beer by the barrel,” with a dismissive wave of his spotted hand.
“I drink it by the glass; I guess we’re fair.”
Meanwhile, the others lovingly prepared Mort’s remains in the rituals prescribed by the rituals of their lives, carrying their compatriot to the stairway, waiting for the instructions from Malloy telling them where to deliver Mort’s remains so Jesse Ortega could discover another tragic crime in a Seattle alley.
Perhaps, thought Mr. Finkelstein, it was better that neither of his sons was interested in the Blue Anchor, the glorious and secret history of the Finkelstein clan ending with him, his and his forefathers’ deeds disappearing into his death.
CHAPTER 20
Anonymous and grey, the district squatted between the University, the Lake, downtown and Capitol Hill. The dispossessed resisted gentrification with a savage commitment to public urination, while the anarchists and civil libertarians made it no fun at all for Seattle’s finest to abuse the homeless.
Perched on a concrete hillside, the storefront’s tarpaper roof hid from the storms, protected by the freeway span aiming for Lake Union. Anonymous among foreign bars and second hand lives lived in rusted out station wagons moved nightly, it was the perfect place to put a blood donation center with a side of sperm repository and long-term cryogenically frozen heads.
Sterile with stainless steel counters and industrial Formica walls, the interior was faintly modern in a cheap sort of way. Eastlake Blood did a consistently profitable walk-in business of bums and students eager for book and beer money. Lucien the Vampire secured the rights to the neighborhood by promising and delivering a healthy ten percent of the gross to the house on Queen Anne.
Displaying an entrepreneurial bent, once the plasma/whole blood operation was profitably established, he branched into a big seller, sperm from students, good Catholic boys, they were prolific producers, and lately into cryogenic head freezing, more for the fun of cutting the heads off than the profit.
A twist of geography in the tunnels beneath Capitol Hill made Eastlake Blood accessible from the Underground by a simple and direct route. Vampires out for an evening gravitated there to assuage their needs. Lucien could always be counted on to advance a down-and-outer a bag of day old, tiding him over till things got better. Completely apolitical, Lucien served whoever had cash and made his payments on time. If a tasty treat came in, he made sure to send some with his compliments to Her Majesty. Lucien’s life was good.
Older, more established members of the Clan resided on the other side with those closest to the Queen on her hill, lower down but nonetheless on the hill. Her plasma center was modern, sleek and cheerful with a clientele vetted by a full time medical staff adept at spotting annoying infections, diseases and conditions that might affect the taste of the product. Over time, the two centers became main suppliers of Vampire blood supply, rather like competing supermarkets with the Queen taking hers off the top of both.
So it came to pass that Arabella was summoned to Highland Drive and, ascending the stairway behind Petru, wondered if she was there to receive orders or for Petru to kill her, so unsettled had the society become. Disappearances were common and Vampires rarely traveled alone any more. The Underground resembled 18th century London; Vampires with swords disguised as walking sticks to ward off the packs attacking any inebriated stragglers going home.
The household staff no longer dressed like maids and butler unsettled her as they crowded up the stairs behind, sealing off any escape. Her paranoia abated slightly when she entered the upstairs room and saw that the Queen had transformed it into her war center. Gone was the hideous overstuffed furniture, replaced by sturdy Navy chairs surrounding a conference table covered in maps and charts.
The Queen absently waved her to a seat at the table while the others ranged about, some sitting at the table, others behind against the wall. If nothing else, Arabella thought this was an opportunity to see who was who for the moment. Petru took his accustomed place behind every one, guarding the door, while Prunella sat at the Queen’s right, comfortably taking her position as chief of staff.
The assembly resembled birds of prey perched on the chairs, bloodless eyes on the Queen, raptors or, more properly, vultures, thought Arabella looking around the room. Each wore a partially satiated look; no doubt they had stopped for a quick nip from the Queen’s personal blood cellar, definitely one of the perquisites of being on her side.
Prunella launched into a concise summary of the war to date, detailing dead and wounded, territory lost, territory gained, plans and schemes.
“That’s all very nice, isn’t it, Petru,” said the Queen as Prunella took a deep breath, winding up for the logistics report.
If Petru had an opinion, he didn’t say. Arabella uncharitably gloated a bit, happy as Prunella floundered adrift. “But they feed, do they not,” the Queen continued, “how can that be, answer me that, Petru.” Petru actually began to consider the question, his face registering sustained thought. Not waiting for him to process the question, the Queen answered it for him, “They must be venturing above ground to feed. They had a small herd of Humans, did they not?”
“I will kill them,” announced Petru, cutting to the chase, “all of them.”
Around the table Vampires went into shock. There were members of the Clan who had never heard Petru make a sound besides the obnoxious snuffling he emitted when feeding. His reputation was such that no one wanted to strike up a conversation with him, and he had no interest in anyone besides the Queen, so in periods of peace he lapsed into the background rather like an old coat no one actually wanted to wear.
“That’s the spirit,” said the Queen, “A little more of that and this will all be over.”
Scrambling to catch up, Prunella sputtered, “Exactly who should we kill?”
“All of them,” screamed the Queen, evidently tired of the meeting, tired of explaining matters that even Petru understood.
Prunella jumped to her feet, “I’ll get right on it,” she blurted, rolling up maps and stuffing papers into, of all things, Arabella noticed, a leather Coach briefcase.
“You,” pointed the Queen, extending a finger in Arabella’s direction.
Uh oh, thought Arabella, my turn.
“You will go with Petru.”
“Of course,” replied Arabella, trying to figure out what it was she’d been handed.
“I don’t want them feeding,” she said, “I want them starving.”
Arabella nodded as the Queen rose and swept out of the room.
As she reached the door she turned, “Be sure and return dear Petru in good condition when you are finished with him.” She was a bit daft, thought Arabella, as if Petru was a favorite lap dog entrusted
to her for a walk in the park rather than the disgusting murderer he was.
All the Vampires made their loyalties known by moving to stand behind Prunella, except for Petru who didn’t budge. Prunella smoldered a bit while Arabella considered the situation.
“Well,” Prunella demanded, “what do you propose to do?”
“No idea,” said Arabella, turning her back to Prunella, “not the foggiest.”
“You will submit your plan to me.”
“How about you, Petru; any plans besides kill everyone?”
If Petru had a plan he was keeping it a secret. Prunella made to confront her, which was a really bad idea as Petru took the Queen’s orders seriously and flared up a bit, causing all the Vamps to shrink back, lest he decide to start the ‘killing everyone’ part of the plan now.
And that is how Arabella came to find herself hunched over in the dark rain, watching Vampires pop out of an alley off Denny and casually saunter up the hill before turning into the alley behind the Eastlake Plasma Center. Came in jittery left relaxed, junkies scoring drugs. Occasionally, one would arrive with a small cooler, the kind construction guys used to carry their lunch, and left toting it like it was heavy.
After she’d explained the situation to Jessie, he push pinned a street map with every possible blood center in the city, painstakingly located every access point to the Underground within a four block proximity of each pin, eliminated some locations, added others, and narrowed the list after some research to find out who owned which location. Then he’d systematically staked them out, watching pedestrian traffic patterns until he presented her with a list of his top three candidates for illegal blood-dealing Vampire businesses in Seattle.
Impressed, she’d gone with him to sit in his car watching alleys and back doors, pronouncing the activity, “boring beyond belief.” He informed her, “it was damn fine police work,” and she agreed when she identified the customers of Eastlake Plasma as likely renegades.
After a few nights watching the comings and goings, she got to know the routine and could predict rush hour. She had a plan. Petru didn’t care about the details, merely nodding when she met him in the alley and explained things to him. Emphasizing silence and stealth, she went over the plan several times; he nodded, which could mean he agreed or that the cold rain was dripping down his neck, it was difficult to know and he didn’t encourage pop quizzes.
She entered the clinic through the alley just like a hungry Vampire from the Underground. They actually used a secret code, two quick knocks, a pause, then two more. Banging her knuckles on the door, she realized it was steel enclosed in a steel frame. The lock released electronically and she popped through the opening into a narrow corridor with security cameras aimed at the entrance. The door at the end of the hall was steel and locked. She knocked but it didn’t open. Looking up at the camera, she politely announced, “Lucien, open the door or Petru will be coming in through the front door.”
The door opened and she entered an interior office decorated like pictures of Sigmund Freud’s study. Lucien was behind a faux baroque desk angled before the opposing corner. There was a comfortable couch against the wall and two client chairs in front of the desk.
“Welcome,” said Lucien, “It is so nice to finally meet you.”
Lucien wore a white lab coat over a white shirt and tie. In human years he was about fifty, she guessed, very healthy with that plump look of successful yuppies gone to seed at the country club. He had black hair tipped with grey; looking closer she guessed he had his tips done to give him the distinguished look of a television pitch man.
“Get up,” she said, “You’re in my chair.”
He did, scurrying around to stand in front of the desk.
“This thing,” she tapped the desk, “is awful.”
“I know, but our clientele expects some atmosphere,” he replied, professionally servile.
“There are concerns.” She stopped to give him time to consider what those concerns might be.
“I’m a businessman supplying a product, one necessary to us all. Can I get you a taste? We have several excellent samples.”
“Powerful people have concerns.”
“Certainly we should address their concerns,” he replied, unctuous but still with a taste of defiance in him.
“Sit down,” she said.
He did, maintaining a calm demeanor. She’d already decided he was nothing more than a war profiteer, completely apolitical.
“You are gaining a partner.”
“I see,” he said, fidgeting about like he had to go to the bathroom. “Well, welcome partner,” he stuck out his hands to shake and seal the deal.
“Not me, I’m no shopkeeper.”
Confused, he tried to reason it out but, coming up blank, asked, “If not you, then who?”
“Petru.”
“Petru, here?” The thought seemed to make him nauseous and his defiance slipped away.
“Yes, there is going to be a change in client services. Petru will be providing the personal touch.”
Lucien took the news well; he seemed to be considering his future or lack thereof.
“If you do your part you will live, if not, then ….,” she left the future open to the possibilities of his imagination.
“I will do whatever the Queen requests,” a true businessman. Once the ledger balanced, the decision was easy.
“She will probably think you are dead; you should disappear for a while,” Arabella counseled, “at least until she gets used to the idea of you being alive.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Petru is in the alley; why don’t you go get him.”
The operation was a complete success. Lucien sat behind the desk to welcome the clients as always, and Petru stood behind the door. Arabella watched the monitor and signaled to Petru whether the client was just a Vampire shopping or one of the insurgents. For the known insurgents it was straightforward. Arriving, they were so looking to slake their thirst they didn’t notice anything amiss till it was too late and Petru dispatched them. Sometimes with a slash to the neck, sometimes with the stake to the heart, the result was always the same, a cone of ashes on Lucien’s carpet.
The casual shoppers were unnerved at the sight of Petru standing behind the door and one even turned and fled at the sight of him, prompting Lucien to moan about lost business.
After the first insurgents it became apparent that something would have to be done, and Lucien was enlisted to run the vacuum cleaner.
Lucien spent the time between clients on his computer researching vacation spots, settling on a country in the Balkans that appeared lawless. When they were finished, Arabella paused on the way out to fire the shop, using a jelly jar full of gasoline as an accelerant. She promised Lucien she would send word when it was safe to return.
The last chore before ducking into the tunnel to downtown was to place a call on the phone purchased for the purpose, informing the Fire Department of a blaze in a building off Eastlake. Down the street the Indian, nonchalantly leaning against a pole, gave a wave before melting into the shadows. Jesse stood by the sewer entrance stoically ignoring Petru, who passed by and then flashed, anxious to return to his Mistress. Arabella pulled the temporary phone apart, throwing the battery down one drain, the sim card down another and the phone into a trash basket.
“Hungry?” she asked. “I am.”
“Good,” he answered, taking her hand, “standing around in the rain is hard work.”
“Get used to it, we need to close down every supplier serving them.”
“The smart ones are already on their way out of town. When they read the Times and see what happened, they will be gone.”
“Hope so,” she said, “it will make our job easier but we need to make sure.”
“Tomorrow I’ll drive by the other shops and let you know.”
“Anyone still open we will verify that they are legitimate, otherwise ….”
“Yep,” he said, “I’m on i
t, let’s eat.”
CHAPTER 21
Nasty flakes of snow blew down Yesler, heralding the arrival of a southerly storm. Better than thirty-three and sleet, thought Arabella, clenching her Burberry to her throat to block the ice from her neck. The worst of all possibilities was hammering cold driven by wet gusts off the Sound. With any luck, the snow would be light, not amounting to much, so when the melt came the streets and sidewalks wouldn’t be deep in slush.
Jesse slogged beside her, his face bent into a double-breasted pea coat woven so tight the wind couldn’t penetrate. She liked the way he looked in the blue, so deep it was almost black, with the two rows of metal buttons. She’d found it in a second hand store in Fremont and snapped it up when she realized it was US Navy from many years ago and made of Melton cloth.
Right now, he’d folded the collar up and bent the lapels about his neck and face so he had the visage of a fighting man from long ago standing his watch on the deck of a destroyer in the North Atlantic. She took his arm so he could properly escort her on the slick walk way and leaned into him as he broke the gusting wind. For the moment she was content to shelter next to him, admiring the way he bent to the task without complaining.
Leaving the apartment had been acts of will on their part, her cozy warm apartment conspiring to keep them inside watching the white caps building as the ferries with their dainty Coast Guard escorts plowed through building swells. They’d watched the sky go from gloomy rain to low clouds pregnant and black with moisture and watched as the temperature veered to freezing.
They talked about going back to bed declaring the day a personal day, laughing at the thought of the Queen’s employment benefit package. Arabella said, “Could you imagine the Vampires forming a union and going on strike?” She’d laughed so hard she rolled off the couch onto the floor at the thought. Finally, Jesse said, “Why don’t we go out and show the flag? Then we’ll come back, order some Chinese and watch the storm.”
