Crooked Fang

by Carrie Clevenger

  “You come in here like the goddamn Devil chewed your ass, boy.” He grinned back at Linda. She was a Spanish gal in her forties and looked a lot like a movie star but sold houses instead. She ran a real estate office in Pinecliffe and had a long client list for log cabins and shit the out-of-staters liked to rent and buy. The moment Charlie addressed me, she excused herself and went into the bathroom, leaving me and him alone. Charlie shuffled over behind the bar and clicked a few more lights on, killing the cozy mood. “What’s got you all pissed off? Girl problems?” He laughed. “No, really. You look troubled, and that’s more than I can say for a kid that couldn’t usually give a damn.”

  I lit a cigarette and took one of the bar stools. “Yeah, women.” I glanced past Charlie. Linda was taking a while. She probably figured me and Charlie needed to talk, or...

  “Police were here today, Xan.” A different reason. Charlie’s mouth formed a thin line. “Some kid gone missing. Twenty-year-old. Some folks say they saw him here last on Halloween.”

  “That sucks.” I rested my hands on the bar so they wouldn’t shake. My face was numb. The slayer. Had to be. Twenty years old. I guess I really was a monster. I’d let it get out of hand and gotten arrogant about being a vampire, but hell, he’d sent that Wretched thing after me. It was a bad situation all the way around.

  Charlie pulled out a Xerox copy of a photo and laid it on the bar under my nose. “You know anything about this kid? He go by Freddie. The police is asking everybody that was here that night about him.”

  “What’d you tell them?” I pushed the paper away. It was the slayer all right. In the picture he was younger, maybe a senior year picture. Smiling. Innocent. Alive.

  “They came to look around Pale Rider. They talked to everybody here but you.” Charlie took the picture back and stuck it under the bar before leaning down in front of me.

  “And they left this.” He laid a business card on the bar with a gold-foil shield on it. The word Sheriff glared up in neat black block letters at me.

  “Call ’em. I’d hope you know nothing, because you’re a good kid. Don’t matter what anybody say.” He patted my shoulder. His serious expression broke into a wrinkled grin, gold-capped tooth and all. “Just give them a ring and see what they want. Probably just making sure you aren’t suspect for nothing.”

  He was so confident in my integrity, and something broke deep inside me. I nodded, took the card and excused myself then went to my room in order to stare at the wall until dawn, bottle in hand. When sunrise tickled the blinds, I fell asleep–fully clothed and shit-faced drunk.

  I didn’t have to call after all. Right around ten in the morning someone beat on my door.

  “Fuck off,” I mumbled into my pillow, feeling waves of subsiding sleepiness shimmer behind my closed eyes. My visitor was persistent, though, so I jumped up, snatched the door open, ready to read them the riot act, but it was Charlie. My fuse fizzled immediately as he raised an eyebrow.

  “The sheriff is here to talk to you, boy.” He turned and made his way back down the stairs.

  I ran my hands through my hair and looked around my room. Everything looked normal, that is, like a tornado had ripped through my stuff. Clothes strewn across the floor. Half-written songs on notebook paper. Small pile of books tumbled over. Sasha on her stand. A couple other guitars in various stages of disassembly under the window. Through my open door, voices from downstairs echoed in the narrow corridor. It’d been a long time since I’d felt real fear, and this was definitely a case for consideration. If the sheriff suspected anything, he could haul my ass in and it was bright sunlight outside. I’d self-immolate. Then they’d stand around scratching their heads afterward at the pile of ash that used to be an arrested bass player. Still, I couldn’t stay in my room and hope for him to go away. I clomped downstairs with the most stoic expression I could muster and faced the lawman.

  The barstool creaked as a heavy-set Bubba slid off of it. He clamped on a cowboy hat and adjusted his chrome-plated belt buckle. His shoes were shined to perfection, but his buttons strained to maintain their dignity in keeping his sand-colored uniform covering his generous gut.

  “You Xan Marcelles?” His big frame somehow allowed for something other than a duck-waddle.

  I lit a cigarette and shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Figured. You look like one of them rock-star types.” He had the tone of one that Doesn’t Take Shit Off Punk Ass Kids. “My name is Deputy Rogers. I wanted to ask you about this missing kid from Denver.”

  I swallowed. “Sure, officer. No problem.”

  He pointed to chair. “Sit.”

  I did.

  He pulled a little Moleskine notepad out of his back pocket. It was warped in the shape of his ass. Inside it, he had a wrinkled photograph. I poked my tongue with a fang. The image was of the little slayer asshole. One that didn’t exist anymore.

  “Name’s Freddie Dickerson. Last seen here in these parts. Got two witnesses that swear they saw him follow you outside this place on Halloween.”

  “I wouldn’t remember him from any other night.” I flicked an ash. “I see a lot of people, officer.”

  The policeman smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Marcelles, but I’m asking you if you’ve seen this person.”

  I looked at the picture again as if thinking hard. I shook my head. “Never seen him before. I don’t remember him coming in here.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. I won’t take anymore of your time. Charlie here let me look around yesterday.” His eyes were damn near black. He had a little mustache. Smokey. I suppressed a snort. “Thing is, Mr. Marcelles, if there’s anything to be found, we’ll come across it eventually.”

  It took all I had to keep a straight face. I wanted to tell him so badly about the undead thing that attacked me and the fact that the little sonovabitch tried to kill me by stabbing me in the heart with a pointed stick. Instead, I said absolutely nothing.

  Deputy Rogers replaced the photo back in his notepad. “Don’t leave town if you don’t have to. We might need to get in touch with you again.”

  His words were sharper than the stake Freddie’d used. He talked like he had a mouth full of marbles and it wasn’t ’til I watched him that I realized he had a wad of tobacco stuffed behind his lip. I wrinkled my nose.

  Charlie walked him back outside and I let out a sigh of relief. My hands were tied, Tabby was a little more than miffed with me, and knew my worst secret, and now I had a cop breathing down my neck in connection with a missing kid. I say kid but hell he was twenty, but what was I supposed to do? Card my fucking victims? Give them a pop quiz to see if they’re a real threat or not? Freddie had intended to kill me. That was all the justification I needed, but deep inside I wondered if my life was really a good trade for his.

  Annoyed at that point by both the fact that I had been woken up entirely too fucking early and also that I was known to the police, I returned to my room, stripped down to shorts and threw myself back in bed. When a tap sounded at my door again however long later I didn’t bother searching for my jeans again when I answered it. It was Serv. Of fucking course.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Yeah. Give me a minute,” I mumbled, staggering around in search of bottle or cigarette and finding neither. I must’ve slept off the day because it was dark outside.

  “Were you asleep?”

  “Not anymore, thank you for that.”

  “I detect sarcasm.”

  I snorted. “What’s up?”

  “Remember Karla from Lobos?

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe. Karla. The gal with the big...connections. “Vaguely. Why?”

  “She just called me.” His eyes got all shiny. “She had an act drop out. Headliner. She wants us to play at her place. Headlining.”

  “No,” I said without missing a beat and started to close the door.

  Serv jabbed his foot in the way. “No? That’s it? Just no?”

  I shook my
head. “Serv, what the hell? Didn’t we have a fight over this already? You remember what I said. Crooked Fang stays in Pale Rider.”

  “Music is your fucking life, Xan. Here’s your big chance. Our big chance to headline a show. Doesn’t that tempt you even a little?”

  I licked my lips and stared a hole through the floor. Crooked Fang was my life? It was all I had left of a human life. The music. Headlining was a big deal. Usually, a band had to work its way up, opening time after time for nothing or just next-to. Headliners got the biggest cut of the door and bar.

  “I can’t,” I said, controlling my voice the best I could. “We can’t. Charlie has a contract.”

  “I cleared it with him.”

  Red flickered in my vision. How dare he come here with this kind of news? And already cleared it through Charlie. That old man knew better. He knew damn well how I felt about playing other bars. “Charlie said it was okay. For his motherfucking house band to leave and play elsewhere. That is bullshit, and you know it.”

  I met his eyes finally and he shook his head.

  “Charlie said you’ve been acting weird and had girl problems, and well, shit. I just want to get the hell out of Dodge for one night. Try something different. Don’t you want to try something different?”

  I nodded at him. “Smoke.”

  Serv pulled out a full pack and offered the open box to me. I backed away from the doorway and eased back down on my bed. Smoking and thinking. Thinking and smoking. Arguing with myself. Pissed off for even considering it. I looked up at him. “When?”

  “Soon?”

  I sighed through my nose and crushed the cigarette out. “One show, Serv. We’ll give it a shot.”

  Chapter 4

  I got away with a month before talks of outside shows came up again. We all met over at Allen’s Landing across the lake, just for a change of scenery and to not have to drive up to Denver. Serv caught a ride with me, because he still didn’t have a car. Allen’s Landing was newer than Pale Rider, but seemed older, because Allen didn’t do much to it. The juke had music I knew well, but no one under forty would really identify with. Shuffleboard. Those little electronic casino game things. Still, it was a place the band liked to go to because of the food.

  Allen had a full kitchen, open from eleven in the morning to twelve at night, and served a mean batch of curly fries, slathered with chili, onions and some other shit I couldn’t identify. Josh and Darrell each ordered at the counter while Serv and I got our drinks and made ourselves comfortable in a booth.

  “Ugh.” Serv scrunched up his nose. “I hate the smell of onions.”

  “Eh, they’re okay. Used to it.”

  He laughed. “Where have you been around onions?”

  “Back when...you know. My dad ran a restaurant. Onions and garlic were kind of a big deal there.”

  “Mexican restaurant?”

  I snorted. “Italian food. Marcello’s. It’s not there anymore. I think it was either torn down or turned into a hunting gear shop or something.”

  Serv leaned forward, making the leather of his jacket creak. “See, that’s cool. You have all that to remember.”

  I nodded once. “Yeah, I guess I do. Lucky that. I don’t try to say I was disadvantaged.”

  Josh and Darrell showed up at the table with their food, Darrell with what looked like a chili burger, stacked with bacon and jalapenos, and, of course, those twisty fries. Josh was a little more conservative with a chicken sandwich and chips. Serv was staring at Darrell’s plate in horror.

  Darrell raised an eyebrow, burger in both hands raised halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  Serv pulled a cigarette from his pack and tapped it butt-first on the table. “I can’t believe you eat that shit.”

  Darrell shrugged and chomped into his burger. “From Texas,” he said around a mouthful of food. “We like a lot of weird shit on our hamburgers there.”

  Serv stuck out his tongue. “No kidding.”

  I shook my head and looked at Josh, who was quietly nibbling at his sandwich. “So, what’s been up with you?”

  He shook his head and took a sip of cola. “Not much. Work. Bea’s been looking at going back to school, so we’re trying to figure all that out.”

  “Oh yeah? What for?” I reached for my glass.

  “Interior design. I guess some people pay good money for someone to tell them how to decorate their house. But it’s got several parts to the course, and it’ll take her a little bit to finish. Was thinking of taking a mortgage out on the house to pay for it, unless she can get a loan.”

  “Eh, you’re responsible. Pretty sure you and her will get approved for a loan.”

  Serv jabbed me in the arm. “You two are talking like old men. Loans and mortgages and shit.”

  Darrell gave us a massive tension breaker in the form of a massive Texas-boy belch and we all covered our faces.

  “Dude! That was sick!” I was trapped on the inside of the booth and couldn’t escape. “Anyway, so we’re here, may as well talk about this show you all keep bugging me about.”

  “Oh, right.” Josh finished the last bite of his sandwich and shoved his empty plate aside. “So, I gave Karla a call for Serv, since he sleeps all day, and she was talking about this month. She said she really likes us and wants to maybe give us a little exposure. That, and her headliner is wanting to tour, so she’ll be losing her main attraction for a couple of weeks.”

  “So we’re filler.” I lit a cigarette. “You think their crowd would like a bunch of dudes that play covers?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. Covers do well, no matter where you go. People know the songs, and we know Serv can pull it off.”

  He was right. Cover bands were doing well. With all the shit bands were churning out those days, the in-between crowd, like people in their thirties, were looking to find something familiar. Most were approaching that age where new sounds just didn’t make sense. I knew that feeling. It’d passed me over several times. Given my longevity, it was kind of a case of adapt or be lost. But I don’t think I’d ever get used to songs manufactured and produced completely by fucking Auto-Tune. To me, a lot of new bands sounded...beige. Playing at Lobos sounded like a great gig. I just had my misgivings about venturing into Denver for any reason, since I pretty much grew up there. I risked enough by staying so close by.

  We’d been there maybe about forty minutes and all but talking in circles about the goddamned show when Allen came up to our table reeking of cheap cigars and grease. His appearance reminded me of a retired politician, white, probably so conservative it hurt. “You boys buying anything else, or do I have to start charging you rent?”

  I rolled my eyes. The other three probably figured it was time to go anyway. No wonder Allen’s Landing attracted mainly old bastards.

  Serv and I paid our tab, while Josh and Darrell filed out to the parking lot. We joined them a couple of minutes later.

  “You know, one of these days, Allen’s gonna come up to our table and tell us shit like that and get taken down.” Serv was apparently deeply offended.

  “Nah, that’s just Al. He’s an asshole.”

  “But the food is good.” Darrell grinned. “Maybe if you two tried it...”

  “Ugh, no thanks.” I wanted to finish my sentence with I wouldn’t even if I could. I looked at Josh. “So we have a booking yet, or what?”

  Josh scratched an ear with his car key. “Actually, yeah. She was talking a Friday three weeks from now. That sound all right? Gives us time to rehearse and get a set together. I’d recommend we go with hit bands.”

  I toed a larger pebble and flipped it over before kicking it toward the cars. It struck the undercarriage of one. “Maybe some creative B-sides.”

  “So you’re good with that?” Josh asked.

  We broke up as a group and I walked backward toward my RS. “Sure. One night can’t hurt.”

  Serv and I got into my car and waited until Josh and Darrell took off.

  “So, did the deputy talk to
you about Freddie?” I put the car in reverse and backed out of the lot without waiting for an answer. As we pulled back out onto the main road, he nodded.

  “I told him I had no idea. He asked me if anybody else was around that night besides customers. I had to mention you. He asked me for your full name and wanted to know where you were from.”

  I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. “So what’d you tell him?”

  “I don’t know where you’re from. That’s what I said. He had the guy with him run your name on their radio. They had nothing on you. Clean record.”

  I grinned. “Good. I see I still got people looking out for me.”

  I felt his stare. “What do you mean by that?” He lit a cigarette too, and cracked his window a few inches.

  “Means just that. Even though I left, they still keep my nose clean.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I shrugged. “The rest of them. People like us. Vamps. Or maybe it’s just been too long. I haven’t had a ticket in years.”

  “Ever been arrested?” Serv raised the window a hair.

  “Once. But it was in Mexico. Maybe about ten years ago. I was sloppy on a kill in Tijuana. High-and-mighty bloodsucking drug lord that was slippery as a monkey dipped in motor oil. Police took me in one night and let me go the next. Pretty sure it wasn’t just my pretty face that convinced them to release me.”

  Serv said nothing. He’d asked before if I’d ever killed anyone, and now he had his answer. It was better that he never knew the extent of my murder record. He might not be so eager to ride in a car alone with me next time. And I was done, anyway. That kind of existence, although exciting, just pushed me further away from who I wanted to be. I fought the change like hell, but in the end, I was Xan Marcelles, whoever that was.

  “Charlie thinks a lot of you, you know.” Serv stared out the window. “Probably because you help out the most around there. Who knows? But you ever wonder if maybe he’ll figure either of us out for what we really are?