"Shall I?"
She managed a dazed nod. As he stepped closer to reach around her neck, he could feel himself responding to the pure animal heat coming off her, and to her scent, a bitter but not unpleasant coffee-bean sort of smell. Or it might have been the sense of danger—in any event he took care not to brush against her as his fingers expertly fastened the delicate catch.
Meanwhile Sherman had retrieved her chair, while Lourdes hung the poor cracked corpse of a clock back on the wall. As January and Whistler returned to their seats, Nick began the applause—alone at first, one slow clap at a time like Citizen Kane at the opera, and then faster as the others joined in, until finally a weeping January rose from her chair again, this time not to throw it, but to take a bow.
"And now the floor is yours, Miss January," said Whistler, terribly pleased with himself. The cost and quality of the chip alone had represented a more than grand enough gesture—the timing had elevated it to the level of a major coup. "We'd be honored to hear anything you have to tell us."
January sat back down, sniffled once or twice, and the tears disappeared as completely as the rage they had replaced. "Well okay, I been trying to think what I was gonna say tonight. You guys except Lourdes know I always get a little emotional when I start telling my story, but lately, not just at this meeting but at my Violence Addicts Anonymous meeting before it broke up, I hear people all the time starting off their shares talking about dysfunctional families this and dysfunctional families that, until it makes me want to either laugh or scream, one. On account of—and this is the only meeting I can tell the whole truth at, which is why I love it so much and need it so bad—at least most of the people talking at least had families. I had Glory.
"Glory—that was my mom's name. She would be qualified for every meeting you can think of. Southern Comfort, pot, speed, smack, coke, uppers, downers.
"I was only allowed to smoke pot, but of course I snuck everything. But not blood—Glory didn't know about blood. Neither did I, until her last boyfriend. He was a Chinese guy named Wayne. One of those tall bony Chinese—if you squinted your eyes you could kind of picture him in a silk beanie and a long droopy mustache.
"We were living in a tiny little two-room house in Stinson Beach. I slept in the living room, but even with their bedroom door closed you just couldn't miss how they were screwing all the time, her and Wayne. I used to go for long walks on the beach at night, but I could of walked all the way to Bolinas and they'd of still been at it when I got back.
"This went on for a year—I was like, twelve—finally I learned to sleep through it, and then in the summer it was kind of cool, 'cause they'd sleep all day with the bedroom blacked out, and screw all night, and I could basically kick with my friends, you know, come and go whenever.
"How I found out I was a vampire too, was I guess Wayne was hitting on Glory a little too hard—you couldn't even miss how she was getting paler and paler every day and had these little cuts—always another band-aid here or there—and I was never exactly clear whether she was in on it or not, but one night he put some chloral hydrate in my Dr Pepper and took a little drinkie outta me, and guess what?
"Right. He didn't get high. But he didn't tell her, either. He just waited, and the next night he came to me real late. I was sleeping on the porch out back, facing the beach. I remember the full moon was over the ocean and the clouds were all silver and he woke me up out of a deep sleep and said here drink this and I wasn't even sure I wasn't dreaming but I wasn't scared.
"It was Glory's blood, it was my mother's blood. We shared the cup, and when I was good and high we went into the bedroom and told Glory I was a vampire, and drank some more and fucked each other in every combination there was—the three of us. I wasn't a virgin or anything, but it hadn't ever been anything like that night.
"But then at sunrise, after me and Wayne took our chloral hydrate and fell asleep, she stabbed him through the back with a pair of scissors, and took off her clothes and walked out into the ocean—a couple guys saw her, but they were so busy scoping her bod that they didn't figure it out until she didn't come back.
"She never did come back, either, unless you count when her body floated in the next day. I saw it. It was pretty awful, but by that time I'd already been through waking up next to Wayne's dead body with the scissors sticking out, so it wasn't like, unbearable.
"Only, like I said, don't talk to me about dysfunctional families."
TWO
"And what insights did you carry away from the meeting tonight?" asked Whistler archly as the waitress at the Dessert Inn left with their order.
"Two things. One, I want some baby-blood. Two, January scares the shit outta me."
"I knew that Chinese fellow she spoke of, that Wayne," replied Whistler. "The mother, too. He used to bring her to our parties in Bolinas before Selene eighty-sixed him. A sleazebag of the first order—no one was particularly sorry when he was found dead. But we'd always assumed another vampire had done it—it's not as easy as it sounds, driving a scissors that deep."
"You think January—"
"No, I believe her—she's not difficult to read. And wasn't that a sweet scenario—mother, daughter, Chinaman, all abed together?"
"I have to admit, it did get me a little turned on—up to the scissors part, any—Oh, thanks." Her espresso had arrived—she took a scalding sip. "Jamey?"
"M'dear?"
"That week that Beverly gave me off for detox is over. She's switching me back to days so I can make the meetings. I mean, she's expecting me to show up at work on Monday morning."
"Well we'll just have to disappoint her, won't we?"
"But I could get fired. Or she could call an intervention on me."
Whistler spread his hands out flat on the table, palms down, fingers splayed, thumbs touching, as if he were participating in a seance. "Those are two separate problems. And of the two, the first is not a problem—I'll have a year's salary transferred into your bank account in the morning. As for the second, I think it's time to get serious about Operation Dismount-the-Tiger—did you bring your disguise?"
Lourdes was still trying to digest the part about the year's salary—clearly even her wildest imaginings had underestimated Whistler's wealth. Why, if he could toss off $19,850 just like that, he must be a millionaire or something. "I'm sorry, a what?"
"Disguise—remember I asked—"
"Oh, right. Yeah, a hat with a brim, and some big sunglasses. But you still didn't tell me what for."
"For step two of Operation Dismount-the-Tiger, of course."
"I never even heard about step one."
"Ah, but that's the reason we can't go after any baby-blood just yet." He explained about having borrowed the Doe only a week before. "If I'd known I was about to meet you, I'd have waited. As it is, I think we should let a little more time pass before going after another infant. But I promise you, what I have in store for you tonight will be nearly as much fun."
"That's easy for you to say, you just had some last—"
He reached across the table to take her hand. "I promise you, my darling. When the time is right, you shall have all the baby-blood your thirst desires. In the meantime, let's cruise the Ave tonight, pick ourselves up a donor and a playmate all in one."
"You know a hooker who gives blood?"
"Oh, they can all give blood, m'dear. You just have to poke them in the right places."
San Pablo Avenue runs from downtown Oakland all the way to Hercules. Darlene, who worked the Oakland end (but closer to the Berkeley border, as was fitting for a white girl), thought she had seen everything in her year and a half on the Ave, but when the Chevy Caprice pulled up to her corner with a lone white woman behind the wheel, she thought again. Never seen a dyke cruisin the Ave before. Trip.
She sauntered to the curb and tapped on the glass—"You lost, sweet cakes?"—but when the driver leaned over to roll down the passenger-side front window, Darlene stooped down so her assets were practically hanging over
the sill, same as if it had been a man.
"No, not lost," said the woman, showing her teeth in a smile; she was wearing a floppy hat and oversized dark glasses—those teeth were about all Darlene could see of her face. "In fact, I think I found what I was looking for. My boyfriend keeps talking about a threesome—tonight's his birthday, and I thought I'd surprise him."
"Surprises are cool," said Darlene. "Might take some deep bank, though."
"Beg pardon?"
"Deep bank. Might could be expensive."
"Well, we might could be rich."
Driving a Chevy? Darlene thought, but when the woman unlocked the door, she opened it and eased herself into the passenger seat, tugging her long-sleeved low-necked black stretch minisheath down to the top of her thighs. It was nice to be out of the wind that came whipping down the Avenue every night, but the car had a funny smell, like somebody'd been cooking crack with ether. "So where is this boyfriend?" she asked teasingly, as the car pulled away from the curb.
"Closer than you think," said a man's voice behind her—she started to turn—the last thing she remembered was the cotton pad over her face, and that sick sweet sleepy smell.
Darlene opens her eyes: everything's still black. A blindfold. The urge to remove it is barely a thought before she understands that her wrists are tied, her ankles too; she's on a bed, still dressed. Then she remembers the smell of the ether and knows she's going to die.
Though it's a shock to her body—for a second she thinks she's going to vomit (that'll kill you too, she knows, spewing on your back: her friend died that way, choked on chunks in a China-white sleep)—somewhere deep inside she feels almost peaceful. Ever since she ran away from home at twelve, people have been warning her she'd end up this way if she didn't get straight and get out. And now here it is.
Then she thinks about the possibility of pain, and the peaceful feeling dissolves. "Is any—" She has to clear her throat. "Is anybody here?"
"Oh yes," says a man's voice—rich or old or English, something like that—sounds like he's standing at the side of the bed. "It's very like a party, in fact."
"Are you gonna kill me?"
"Oh no. That would spoil the party—we're not even going to hurt you."
"Then could you take off the blindfold? I'm getting kinda scared."
"Ah, but then we would have to kill you, I'm afraid—if you saw us."
Jesus-fuck, she thinks weakly. "Look, mister, I'm a ho on the Ave—you think the five-oh's gonna give two shits whether you fuck me tied down or upside down or—"
"Now just relax." That's the woman who picked her up. Sounds like she's standing on the other side of the bed; Darlene feels the mattress shift as she sits down. It's quiet here—no city noises; she wonders how far they've taken her. "I promise, we're not going to hurt you."
"Then why am I all tied up?"
"So you won't dislodge the I.V. Your veins are in terrible condition, y'know." The man's voice reeks of concern. "If my friend here hadn't needed the lesson, we'd have simply opened a vein. As it was, it took me three tries to find a decent one for the I.V., and then I had to run a catheter in to keep it from collapsing. We're taking a little blood from you, you see. So if you would keep still for just a little while longer, we'll finish up here. Then we can have a drinkie and send you on your way."
The tone is calm and soothing; it makes her feel like a little girl—tender and tired and sad. "I'm cold," she says; her own voice seems farther away than his.
"Here, I'll fix the spread for you."
The woman's voice again; her weight comes off the bed. Darlene smells perfume—jasmine—hears a soft rustle in the air above her, feels the puff of breeze and then the blanket being tucked in around her; for the first time she senses the needle in her left arm. "Did you tell me why?" asks Darlene.
"Why what?" She can feel the woman sitting on the side of the bed again, feel the warmth against her hip, and a soothing hand on her shoulder.
"Taking… blood." Sleepy now.
"We drink it. We're vampires."
The thought occurs to Darlene again—this time she says it aloud, a confidence, as if she were among friends: "I'm dead."
"Oh no no no," says the man. "Tch tch tch tch." Clucking as his voice comes nearer. "You're just a bit out of sorts from the chloroform. You'd be surprised how little blood a person really needs." His thumb presses cotton against her vein—the pain wakes her a little—he slides the needle out—that doesn't hurt, but then the catheter slithers out after it, and that stings.
When they loosen the ropes she feels pins and needles as the blood flows back into her hands and feet; with it comes a flow of possibility. "I won't tell anybody, you know. I promise, I swear I won't tell anybody." Desperately: "Even if anybody cared, nobody'd believe me."
"Ah, but I want you to tell someone, Darlene. I have in mind one particular person for you to tell, and no one else. I want you to tell that person that vampires took your blood. Nothing else, though—just that vampires took your blood. Then I want you to take the money I'm going to leave in your purse, and never mention what happened here—never even think about it—again. If you do, then I will kill you, and that would be a loss and a shame."
Darlene cannot trust her voice. She nods; her eyes are open wide behind her blindfold. "Who—" She tries again. "Who—who do you want me to tell?"
"A very nice woman—you'll like her. A minister, in fact." Then Darlene smells that sick sweet sleepy smell again—her chest heaves as she tries to hold her breath, tries to fight the thundering grayness stealing over her.
THREE
Midnight found Nick in his office again, seated before the old XT. All those unbearable memories and feelings that Whistler and the meeting had stirred up made sleep pretty much out of the question anyway—it hadn't taken him five minutes of lying there in the dark for that particular revelation to dawn. But all other avenues of escape from his feelings—blood, booze, weed, sleeping pills—being closed off to him by one program or another, he'd found himself thinking about how much like a drug the act of starting My Life on Blood last week had affected him.
He'd forgotten that about writing: how it had always taken him out of himself; how for a few hours at a time, anyway, he could leave the regrets and anxieties of his life behind on another continent, while he drifted off into that timeless sea.
Then he remembered Beverly's share at the meeting, and it occurred to him that perhaps My Life on Blood was really his true Fourth Step, his Searching and Fearless Moral Inventory; that instead of trying to escape from those unbearable memories and feelings, he could use them for his recovery, as yeast for the process.
And what yeast he would have to work with tonight: his friendship with Whistler—and his rivalry; that terrible night on blood and acid; the nightmare of baby-blood. No, not baby-blood. He couldn't face that yet. But that night on acid, that night after which it was no longer possible to pretend that blood was only a recreational drug, that being a vampire was a relatively harmless pursuit—maybe he was ready now, at long last, to drag that out into the light.
Or maybe not—he decided to start with something easier. Whistler, perhaps. That first Halloween. Now there was a nice high jumping-off place. Suddenly he thought of Selene, and a song fragment sprang to mind before he could suppress it. Those were the days, my friend. Those were the fucking days. Not exactly the most appropriate sentiment for a Fourth Step, but sometimes, he knew, you have to be like the Fool in the tarot: you just have to trust in the process, and step off the cliff.
I'm afraid that Leon rather spoiled me—we drank live blood at least twice a week, and fresh blood, not live but recently drawn, the rest of the time. We had donors, whom we paid, and stoners, like our friend on the Parthenon roof; druggees, whom Leon mickeyed at the Pistachio Palace, and thuggees, low-riders from the Mission or white boys from Concord descending on the Castro for a night of fag-bashing.
Meanwhile my education continued. I learned about the vampire red eye, a
nd never went out without my Visine. I learned sunlight burned my eyes like a sonofabitch the day after the night before; soon, when every day was the day after the night before, I learned how to protect my eyes, how to rearrange my life, where to find an all-night this or a twenty-four-hour that. I learned anatomy—the vascular system, anyway—and how to use a hypodermic needle; I learned when to stalk, and when to lie in wait. I learned that one out of a hundred people's blood would not get me high; I learned that that person was a vampire; I learned to let Leon decide whether he or she should be Awakened.
I remember I'd only been a vampire for about three weeks when I started bugging Leon about the other vampires I now knew existed: where were they, how many, when could I meet them? To which he answered, with disappointing consistency: everywhere; more than you think; and Halloween.
Now Halloween was already the biggest day of the year in the Castro—we didn't have so many tourists back then as later, but it was still Mardi Gras on acid, even when you weren't on acid. When you were, of course, it was Mardi Gras on acid, on acid. And when you were on blood—oh lordy!
I wasn't at first, mind you. Ripped to the tits on Thai Stick, sure, but Leon had cautioned me neither to hunt nor drink before he picked me up, and just to be sure he picked me up twenty minutes after sunset.
I got a wolf-whistle out of him, at any rate, when I appeared at the door in my finery. My high-necked red-lined opera cape was silk, my shirt a dazzling white-on-white, my dinner jacket black on black, and my fangs—my crowning glory—not the cheap plastic Hong Kong variety, but enamelled denture-grade ceramic.
As for Leon, he merited, not a whistle, but a quiet nod of admiration: his cape and tuxedo and silk opera-hat fit him so easily, and he wore them so naturally that they didn't seem to be part of a costume at all: he might well have been a Victorian gentleman out for a night on the seamy side of town: there should have been a London fog, carriage wheels squeaking, and the jingle of traces and the clopping of hooves.
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