Dexter is Delicious: A Novel

by Jeff Lindsay

  “Come on where?”

  “Where do you think?” she snarled.

  “No, wait a second,” I said. This wasn’t making any sense. “How did the token get in there with Deke’s shirt?” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Debs said.

  “There’s no pocket in the shirt,” I said. “And it’s not the kind of thing you hold in your hand while you get rid of a body. So somebody put the token in there. On purpose.”

  Deborah stood absolutely still for a moment, not even breathing. “It could have fallen in, and …” She stopped, hopefully realizing how stupid that sounded.

  “It couldn’t have,” I said. “You don’t believe that for a second. Somebody wants us to go into that club.”

  “All right,” she said, “then let’s go.”

  I shook my head. “Debs, that’s crazy. This has got to be a trap.”

  She set her jaw and looked stubborn. “Samantha Aldovar is in that club,” she said. “I’m going to get her out.”

  “You don’t know where she is,” I said.

  “She’s in there,” Debs said through her teeth. “I know she is.”

  “Deborah—”

  “Fuck it, Dexter,” she said. “It’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  Once again I seemed to be the only one who could see the runaway locomotive hurtling down at us. “For God’s sake, Debs, it’s way too dangerous. Somebody put that thing in there to get us into the club. It’s either a trap or a red herring.”

  But Deborah just shook her head and pulled on my arm, leading me away toward the perimeter. “I don’t give a shit if it’s a red herring,” she said. “It’s the only fish we got.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE CLUB WAS ON OCEAN DRIVE IN SOUTH BEACH, ON the edge of the area that TV programs always show when they want to portray the glittering superhip world of Miami nightlife. Every night of the week, the sidewalks were crowded with people wearing minimal clothing and showing off bodies that made that seem like a good idea. They strolled and rolled past the Deco hotels lit up from the inside with neon, loud music, and throngs of even more people who looked just like them, spilling in and out of the buildings in a kind of ultra-chic Brownian motion. A few years ago those same buildings were all cheap retirement hotels, filled with old people who could barely walk and had come south to die in the sun. Now a room that used to cost fifty dollars a night went for ten times that, and the only difference was that the tenants were prettier and the buildings had been on television.

  Even at this hour of the night there were people on the sidewalk, but these were the leftovers, the ones who had partied too hard and couldn’t remember how to get home, or those who just didn’t want to call it a night and lose the glow, even after all the clubs had closed.

  All but one: Fang was at the end of the block in a building that was not as dark and quiet as the others, although the front side was subdued for South Beach. But down the alley on the far end there was a glow of black light and a relatively small sign that said FANG in a sort of nouveau Gothic script, and sure enough, the initial “F” matched the one on the black token we had found with Deke’s shirt. The sign hung over a dim door that appeared to be painted black and studded with silver metallic brads, like a teenager’s idea of what an old dungeon door should look like.

  Deborah didn’t bother trying to find a parking spot. She just jammed her car up onto the sidewalk and jumped out into the thinning crowd. I got out quickly, but she was already halfway down the alley before I caught up with her. As we got closer to the door I began to feel a rhythmic thumping deep in the folds of my brain. It was an annoying and insistent sound that seemed to come from inside me and demand that I do something, now, without making any concrete suggestions about what. It pounded relentlessly, at twice the speed of a healthy heartbeat, and turned into actual sound only when we were finally standing in front of the glossy black door.

  There was small sign with raised gold letters in the same script as the token and the sign above the door. It said, PRIVATE CLUB. MEMBERS ONLY. Deborah didn’t seem impressed. She grabbed at the doorknob and turned; the door stayed closed. She thumped her shoulder into it, but it didn’t budge.

  I leaned past her. “Excuse me,” I said, and I pushed the small button set into the doorframe below the sign. She twitched her lips angrily, but didn’t say anything.

  After only a few seconds the door opened, and I had a very unsettling moment of disorientation. The man who opened the door and stood looking down at us was very nearly a dead ringer for Lurch, the butler on the old Addams Family TV show. He was close to seven feet tall and wore a classic butler’s outfit, complete with morning coat. But happily for my sense of unreality, when he spoke to us it was in a high voice with a thick Cuban accent. “Joo rang?” he said.

  Deborah held up her badge; she had to hold it straight up in the air, as high as her arm could reach, to get it anywhere close to Lurch’s face. “Police,” she said. “Let us in.”

  Lurch put a long knobby finger on the sign that said PRIVATE CLUB. “Hee’s a pribait clope,” he said.

  Deborah looked up at him, and in spite of the fact that he was almost two feet taller and had a cooler costume, he took a half step backward. “Let me in,” she said, “or I will come back with a warrant, and la migra, and you will wish you had never been born.” And whether it was the threat of INS or just the magic of Deborah’s glare, he stepped to the side and held the door open for us. Debs put away her badge and stormed in past the man, and I followed.

  Inside the club, the thumping sound that had been annoying outside turned into a pure agony of overwhelming noise. Riding over the top of the torturous beat was a reedy electronic sound, two notes played together that did not quite harmonize but went through a ten-second pattern that repeated over and over. Every two or three times the pattern repeated, a deep electronically distorted voice would whisper something over the music, low and wicked and suggestive and sounding far too much like the nearly heard voice of the Passenger.

  We went down a short hallway toward the place where the hideous din was coming from, and as we got closer I could see the reflected fluttering of what appeared to be a strobe light, except that it was black light. Somebody shouted, “Whoo!” and the lights went wine red, flickered rapidly, and then, as a new and more horrible “song” started up, the light turned bright white and then back to ultraviolet. The beat never stopped and never changed, but the two reedy notes went into a new pattern, accompanied now by a shattering screech that might have been a distorted and badly tuned electric guitar. And then the voice again, this time audible—“Just drink it,” it said, and it was answered by several voices calling “Whoo!” and other syllables of modern encouragement, and then as we got to the doorway, the deep malignant voice gave a kind of old-movie evil chuckle, “Moo-hahahaha,” and then we were looking into the main room of the club.

  Dexter has never been a real partygoer: Large gatherings of people generally make me feel quite grateful that I am not ruled by human impulse. But never before had I seen a more compelling example of all that is wrong with trying to have fun with others, and even Deborah stopped dead for a moment in a vain attempt to take it all in.

  Through a thick haze of incense we could see that the room was packed with people, almost all apparently under the age of thirty, and all dressed in black. They were writhing back and forth across the floor to the beat of the horrible noise, their faces twisted into expressions of glazed delirium, and, as the black light strobed, it lit up the sharpened fangs that many of them had so that their teeth glowed weirdly.

  Off to my right was a raised platform, and standing in the middle of it, rotating slowly on two facing turntables, were two women. They both had long dark hair and very pale skin that turned almost greenish in the flickering lights that played over them. They wore sleek black dresses that looked painted on, with high collars that completely covered their necks and a front that opened up in a diamond-shaped cutout to show the area
between their breasts. They stood very close together, and as they turned around past each other their faces would touch gently, and they would brush their fingertips lightly over each other.

  Along the side of the room three thick velvet curtains hung down and as I looked, one of them slid open to reveal an alcove containing an older man dressed all in black. He held a young woman by the arm and wiped at his mouth with his other hand. For a moment a flash of the lights glistened off something on the woman’s bared shoulder and a small voice whispered to me that this was blood—but the woman smiled at the man and leaned her head on his arm, and he led her out of the alcove and back onto the dance floor. They vanished into the crowd.

  At the far end of the room was a giant fountain. A darkish liquid burbled up from it, lit from underneath with a colored light that pulsed and faded from one color to the next in time to the relentless drumbeat. And standing behind the fountain and lit from below with a terribly theatrical blue light was none other than Bobby Acosta. He held up a huge, two-handed golden goblet with an enormous red gem on the front, and he poured from it into every cup raised up by the passing dancers. He was smiling a little too hard, obviously showing off his expensive pointed crowns from Dr. Lonoff, and as he raised the goblet high above his head and looked happily around the room, his eyes fell on Deborah and he froze, which unfortunately made whatever was in the goblet slop out onto his head and roll down into his eyes. Several of the partiers held their cups up imperiously and bounced in place, but Bobby just stared at Deborah, and then dropped the goblet and ran into a back hallway. Deborah said, “Motherfucker!” and lurched forward onto the crowded dance floor and I had no choice but to follow into the madly twisting herd.

  The dancers were moving in one direction in a tightly packed mass, and Deborah was trying to cut straight across them to get to the hallway where Bobby Acosta had disappeared. Hands clutched at us, and one slender hand with black-painted fingernails held a cup up to my face and sloshed something onto my shirtfront. I looked down the arm and saw it belonged to a svelte young woman wearing a T-shirt that said TEAM EDWARD. She licked her black-painted lips at me, and then I was bumped hard from behind, and I turned toward my sister. A large and vacuous-looking guy wearing a cape and no shirt grabbed at Debs and tried to pull her shirt open. She slowed down just long enough to plant her feet and throw a perfect right cross at the guy’s jaw and he went down. Several people nearby shouted happily and began to push harder, and the rest of the crowd heard them and turned, and in just an eyeblink they were all pushing toward us and chanting rhythmically, “Hai! Hai! Hai!” or words to that effect, and we were slowly forced backward, back toward the door guarded by Lurch where we had come in.

  Deborah struggled, and I could see her lips moving in the right shape for some of her favorite X-rated syllables, but it was no good. We were slowly and inevitably pushed off the dance floor, and as we got close to our original entrance, very strong hands clamped onto our shoulders from behind and pulled us up and out of the room as if we were small children, and set us down in the hallway.

  I turned to face our rescuers and saw two exceptionally large guys, one white and one black, both with enormous sculpted muscles bulging out of their sleeveless tuxedo shirts. The black man had a long and gleaming ponytail tied back with what looked like a string of human teeth. The white one had a shaved head and a very large golden skull in one ear, and they both looked like they were perfectly ready to pull off our heads if anybody wanted to see them do it.

  And in between them, as they stood at a kind of bored attention, stepped someone who seemed like he might suggest exactly that. If the doorman was Lurch, here was Gomez Addams himself: forty-ish, dark-haired, with the pin-striped suit, blood-red rose pinned to the lapel, and a pencil-thin mustache. But this was a very angry Gomez, and he jabbed a finger at Deborah as he spoke over the din of the music. “You got no right coming in here!” he said. “This is harassment and I will sue your ass!”

  He glanced at me and away, and then he looked back again and our eyes locked for just a moment, and suddenly there was a chill in the stale fug of the club’s air and a faint leathery huff rattled through me as the Passenger sat up and whispered a warning, and something black and reptilian formed in the air between us and a small piece of a neglected puzzle fluttered up into my brain. I remembered where I had heard of Fang before; it had been in my recently shredded file of potential playmates. And now I knew who this other predator was. “George Kukarov, I presume?” I could see Deborah look at me, startled, but that did not matter; all that mattered was that two Dark Passengers were meeting and exchanging sibilant warnings.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Kukarov said.

  “I’m with her,” I said, and though it sounded mild there was a message in it that only another predator would hear, and the message was, Leave her alone or you will deal with me.

  Kukarov stared back and there was a distant, just-below-sound roaring of hidden monsters, and then Deborah said, “Tell this asshole to get his hands off me. I am a police officer!” And the spell was broken as Kukarov jerked his eyes away and back to Debs.

  “You’ve got no fucking right to be here,” he hissed, and then he yelled again, just for the effect. “This is a private club and you are not invited!”

  Deborah matched his volume and raised his venom. “I have reason to believe a felony was committed on these premises—” she said, but Kukarov cut her off.

  “You got due cause?” he snarled. “You got no due cause.” And Deborah bit her lip. “I got lawyers who will eat you alive!” he said. The white bouncer thought that was pretty funny, but Kukarov glared at him and he wiped the smirk off his face and went back to staring straight ahead. “Now you get the fuck outta my club!” he said, and he pointed at the door. The two bouncers stepped forward and grabbed Deborah and me by the elbows and half carried us down the short hallway. Lurch held the door open and they threw us out onto the sidewalk. We both managed to avoid falling onto our heads, but it was a near thing.

  “Stay the fuck outta my club!” Kukarov shouted, and I turned to look just in time to see Lurch smile brightly and slam the door shut.

  “Huh,” said my sister, “looks like you were wrong.” And she spoke so calmly that I looked at her with very real concern, thinking that she must have hit her head in all the scuffle—because the two things she cared about most in the entire world were the authority of her badge, and not letting anybody push her around, and both of those had just been trampled. And yet here she was standing on the sidewalk and dusting herself off as if nothing at all had happened, and I was so astonished that her words didn’t really register for a moment. When they did, they seemed like the wrong words.

  “Wrong?” I said, and I felt like I was in the wrong conversation. “What do you mean, I was wrong?”

  “Who gets thrown out of a trap?” she said; it took me a second to realize what she meant, and by then she had gone right on. “What kind of red herring has bouncers that toss us onto the sidewalk after two minutes?”

  “Well,” I said.

  “Goddamn it, Dexter!” she said. “Something is going on in there!”

  “Quite a lot, actually,” I admitted, and she punched my arm, hard. It was nice to see her recovering her spirits, but on the other hand, it really hurt.

  “I mean it!” she said. “Either somebody goofed and that token fell in by accident—which is stupid—or else …” She paused, and I understood what she meant. There was definitely an “or else” here—but what was it? I waited politely for her to supply it, and when she didn’t, I finally said it.

  “Or else … somebody connected with this wants us to take a look at what’s going on without anybody else knowing it.”

  “Right,” she said, and she turned back to glare at the glossy black door. The door didn’t even flinch. “Which means,” she said thoughtfully, “that you are going back in there.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out except air, and after a moment
I had to believe I hadn’t really heard her. “I’m sorry?” I said, and I admit it was a bit squeaky.

  Debs grabbed both of my arms and shook me. “You are going to go back inside that club,” she said, “and find out what they’re hiding.”

  I pulled my arms out of her grasp. “Debs, those two bouncers will kill me. To be honest, it would probably only take one of them.”

  “That’s why you’re going in later,” she said, almost like she was suggesting something reasonable. “When the club is closed.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. “So I won’t just be trespassing and get beaten. I’ll be breaking and entering, too, so they can shoot me. Great idea, Deborah.”

  “Dexter,” she said, and she looked at me with more intensity than I could remember seeing from her in quite some time. “Samantha Aldovar is in there. I know it.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “But I do,” she said. “I can feel it. Goddamn it, you think you’re the only one with a voice inside? Samantha Aldovar is in there, and she is out of time. If we back off, they kill her and eat her. And if we take the time to go through channels and go in with SRT and all that, she disappears and she’s dead. I know it. She’s in there now, Dex. I got such a strong feeling; I’ve never been more sure about something.”

  It was all very compelling, but aside from one or two minor problems with her argument—like how she knew it—there was one overwhelming flaw with the whole thing. “Debs,” I said. “If you’re so sure—why not do it right, get a warrant? Why does it have to be me?”

  “No way I get a warrant in time. No probable cause,” she said, and I was glad to hear that, since it might mean she wasn’t completely insane. “But I can trust you,” she said. She patted my chest, and it felt wet. I looked down, and saw that there was a large brownish stain across the front of my shirt, and I remembered the girl who had spilled her drink on me on the dance floor.