The Laughing Corpse abvh-2

by Laurell Kaye Hamilton

  I had changed into black shorts, royal-blue polo shirt, black Nikes with a matching blue swish, black and white jogging socks, and a black leather belt. The belt was there so the shoulder holster had something to hang on. My Browning Hi-Power was secure under my left arm. I had thrown on a short-sleeved dress shirt to hide the gun. The dress shirt was in a modest black and royal-blue print. The outfit looked great. Sweat trickled down my spine. Too hot for the shirt, but the Browning gave me thirteen bullets. Fourteen if you’re animal enough to shove the magazine full and carry one in the chamber.

  I didn’t think things were that bad, yet. I did have an extra magazine shoved into the pocket of my shorts. I know it picks up pocket lint, but where else was I going to carry it? One of these days I promise to get a deluxe holster with spaces for extra magazines. But all the models I’d seen had to be cut down to my size and made me feel like the Frito Bandito.

  I almost never carry an extra clip when I’ve got the Browning. Let’s face it, if you need more than thirteen bullets, it’s over. The really sad part was the extra ammo wasn’t for Tommy, or Gaynor. It was for Jean-Claude. The Master Vampire of the City. Not that silver-plated bullets would kill him. But they would hurt him, make him heal almost human slow.

  I wanted out of the District before dark. I did not want to run into Jean-Claude. He wouldn’t attack me. In fact, his intentions were good, if not exactly honorable. He had offered me immortality without the messy part of becoming a vampire. There was some implication that I got him along with eternity. He was tall, pale, and handsome. Sexier than a silk teddy.

  He wanted me to be his human servant. I wasn’t anyone’s servant. Not even for eternal life, eternal youth, and a little compromise of the soul. The price was too steep. Jean-Claude didn’t believe that. The Browning was in case I had to make him believe it.

  I stepped into the bar and was momentarily blind, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Like one of those old westerns where the good guy hesitates at the front of the bar and views the crowd. I suspected he wasn’t looking for the bad guy at all. He had just come out of the sun and couldn’t see shit. No one ever shoots you while you’re waiting for your eyes to adjust. I wonder why?

  It was after five on a Thursday. Most of the bar stools and all the tables were taken. The place was cheek to jowl with business suits, male and female. A spattering of work boots and tans that ended at the elbow, but mostly upwardly mobile types. Dead Dave’s had become trendy despite efforts to keep it at bay.

  It looked like happy hour was in high gear. Shit. All the yuppies were here to catch a nice safe glimpse of a vampire. They would be slightly sloshed when it happened. Increase the thrill I guess.

  Irving was sitting at the rounded corner of the bar. He saw me and waved. I waved back and started pushing my way towards him.

  I squeezed between two gentlemen in suits. It took some maneuvering, and a very uncool-looking hop to mount the bar stool.

  Irving grinned broadly at me. There was a nearly solid hum of conversation in the air. Words translated into pure noise like the ocean. Irving had to lean into me to be heard over the murmuring sound.

  “I hope you appreciate how many dragons I had to slay to save that seat for you,” he said. The faint smell of whiskey breathed along my cheek as he spoke.

  “Dragons are easy, try vampires sometimes,” I said.

  His eyes widened. Before his mouth could form the question, I said, “I’m kidding, Irving.” Sheesh, some people just don’t have a sense of humor. “Besides, dragons were never native to North America,” I said.

  “I knew that.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He sipped whiskey from a faceted glass. The amber liquid shimmered in the subdued light.

  Luther, daytime manager and bartender, was down at the far end of the bar dealing with a group of very happy people. If they had been any happier they’d have been passed out on the floor.

  Luther is large, not tall, fat. But it is solid fat, almost a kind of muscle. His skin is so black, it has purple highlights. The cigarette between his lips flared orange as he took a breath. He could talk around a cig better than anyone I’d ever met.

  Irving picked up a scuffed leather briefcase from off the floor near his feet. He fished out a file over three inches thick. A large rubber band wrapped it together.

  “Jesus, Irving. Can I take it home with me?”

  He shook his head. “A sister reporter is doing a feature on local upstanding businessmen who are not what they seem. I had to promise her dibs on my firstborn to borrow it for the night.”

  I looked at the stack of papers. I sighed. The man on my right nearly rammed an elbow in my face. He turned. “Sorry, little lady, sorry. No harm done.” Little came out liddle, and sorry slushed around the edges.

  “No harm,” I said.

  He smiled and turned back to his friend. Another business type who laughed uproariously at something. Get drunk enough and everything is funny.

  “I can’t possibly read the file here,” I said.

  He grinned. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

  Luther stood in front of me. He pulled a cigarette from the pack he always carried with him. He put the tip of his still burning stub against the fresh cigarette. The end flared red like a live coal. Smoke trickled up his nose and out his mouth. Like a dragon.

  He crushed the old cig in the clear glass ashtray he carried with him from place to place like a teddy bear. He chain smokes, is grossly overweight, and his grey hair puts him over fifty. He’s never sick. He should be the national poster child for the Tobacco Institute.

  “A refill?” he asked Irving.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Luther took the glass, refilled it from a bottle under the bar, and set it back down on a fresh napkin.

  “What can I get for ya, Anita?” he asked.

  “The usual, Luther.”

  He poured me a glass of orange juice. We pretend it is a screwdriver. I’m a teetotaler, but why would I come to a bar if I didn’t drink?

  He wiped the bar with a spotless white towel. “Gotta message for you from the Master.”

  “The Master Vampire of the City?” Irving asked. His voice had that excited lilt to it. He smelled news.

  “What?” There was no excited lilt to my voice.

  “He wants to see you, bad.”

  I glanced at Irving, then back at Luther. I tried to telepathically send the message, not in front of the reporter. It didn’t work.

  “The Master’s put the word out. Anybody who sees you gives you the message.”

  Irving was looking back and forth between us like an eager puppy. “What does the Master of the City want with you, Anita?”

  “Consider it given,” I said.

  Luther shook his head. “You ain’t going to talk to him, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?” Irving asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “Off the record,” he said.

  “No.”

  Luther stared at me. “Listen to me, girl, you talk to the Master. Right now all the vamps and freaks are just supposed to tell you the Master wants a powwow. The next order will be to detain you and take ya to him.”

  Detain, it was a nice word for kidnap. “I don’t have anything to say to the Master.”

  “Don’t let this get outta hand, Anita,” Luther said. “Just talk to him, no harm.”

  That’s what he thought. “Maybe I will.” Luther was right. It was talk to him now or later. Later would probably be a lot less friendly.

  “Why does the Master want to talk to you?” Irving asked. He was like some curious, bright-eyed bird that had spied a worm.

  I ignored the question, and thought up a new one. “Did your sister reporter give you any highlights from this file? I don’t really have time to read War and Peace before morning.”

  “Tell me what you know about the Master, and I’ll give you the highlights.”

&nbs
p; “Thanks a lot, Luther.”

  “I didn’t mean to sic him on you,” he said. His cig bobbed up and down as he spoke. I never understood how he did that. Lip dexterity. Years of practice.

  “Would everybody stop treating me like the bubonic fucking plague,” Irving said. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

  I sipped my orange juice and looked at him. “Irving, you’re messing with things you don’t understand. I cannot give you info on the Master. I can’t.”

  “Won’t,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Won’t, but the reason I won’t is because I can’t.”

  “That’s a circular argument,” he said.

  “Sue me.” I finished the juice. I didn’t want it anyway. “Listen, Irving, we had a deal. The file info for the zombie articles. If you’re going to break your word, deal’s off. But tell me it’s off. I don’t have time to sit here and play twenty damn questions.”

  “I won’t go back on the deal. My word is my bond,” he said in as stagy a voice as he could manage in the murmurous noise of the bar.

  “Then give me the highlights and let me get the hell out of the District before the Master hunts me up.”

  His face was suddenly solemn. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. Help me out, Irving. Please.”

  “Help her out,” Luther said.

  Maybe it was the please. Maybe it was Luther’s looming presence. Whatever, Irving nodded. “According to my sister reporter, he’s crippled in a wheelchair.”

  I nodded. Nondirective, that’s me.

  “He likes his women crippled.”

  “What do you mean?” I remembered Cicely of the empty eyes.

  “Blind, wheelchair, amputee, whatever, old Harry’ll go for it.”

  “Deaf,” I said.

  “Up his alley.”

  “Why?” I asked. Clever questions are us.

  Irving shrugged. “Maybe it makes him feel better since he’s trapped in a chair himself. My fellow reporter didn’t know why he was a deviant, just that he was.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “He’s never even been charged with a crime, but the rumors are real ugly. Suspected mob connections, but no proof. Just rumors.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “An old girlfriend tried to sue him for palimony. She disappeared.”

  “Disappeared as in probably dead,” I said.

  “Bingo.”

  I believed it. So he’d used Tommy and Bruno to kill before. Meant it would be easier to give the order a second time. Or maybe Gaynor’s given the order lots of times, and just never gotten caught.

  “What does he do for the mob that earns him his two bodyguards?”

  “Oh, so you’ve met his security specialist.”

  I nodded.

  “My fellow reporter would love to talk to you.”

  “You didn’t tell her about me, did you?”

  “Do I look like a stoolie?” He grinned at me.

  I let that go. “What’s he do for the mob?”

  “Helps them clean money, or that’s what we suspect.”

  “No evidence?” I said.

  “None.” He didn’t look happy about it.

  Luther shook his head, tapping his cig into the ashtray. Some ash spilled onto the bar. He wiped it with his spotless towel. “He sounds like bad news, Anita. Free advice, leave him the hell alone.”

  Good advice. Unfortunately. “I don’t think he’ll leave me alone.”

  “I won’t ask, I don’t want to know.” Someone else was frantically signaling for a refill. Luther drifted over to them. I could watch the entire bar in the full-length mirror that took up the wall behind the bar. I could even see the door without turning around. It was convenient and comforting.

  “I will ask,” Irving said, “I do want to know.”

  I just shook my head.

  “I know something you don’t know,” he said.

  “And I want to know it?”

  He nodded vigorously enough to make his frizzy hair bob.

  I sighed. “Tell me.”

  “You first.”

  I had about enough. “I have shared all I am going to tonight, Irving. I’ve got the file. I’ll look through it. You’re just saving me a little time. Right now, a little time could be very important to me.”

  “Oh, shucks, you take all the fun out of being a hard-core reporter.” He looked like he was going to pout.

  “Just tell me, Irving, or I’m going to do something violent.”

  He half laughed. I don’t think he believed me. He should have. “Alright, alright.” He brought out a picture from behind his back with a flourish like a magician.

  It was a black and white photo of a woman. She was in her twenties, long brown hair down in a modern style, just enough mousse to make it look spiky. She was pretty. I didn’t recognize her. The photo was obviously not posed. It was too casual and there was a look to the face of someone who didn’t know she was being photographed.

  “Who is she?”

  “She was his girlfriend until about five months ago,” Irving said.

  “So she’s...handicapped?” I stared down at the pretty, candid face. You couldn’t tell by the picture.

  “Wheelchair Wanda.”

  I stared at him. I could feel my eyes going wide. “You can’t be serious.”

  He grinned. “Wheelchair Wanda cruises the streets in her chair. She’s very popular with a certain crowd.”

  A prostitute in a wheelchair. Naw, it was too weird. I shook my head. “Okay, where do I find her?”

  “I and my sister reporter want in on this.”

  “That’s why you kept her picture out of the file.”

  He didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. “Wanda won’t talk to you alone, Anita.”

  “Has she talked to your reporter friend?”

  He frowned, the light of conquest dimming in his eyes. I knew what that meant. “She won’t talk to reporters will she, Irving?”

  “She’s afraid of Gaynor.”

  “She should be,” I said.

  “Why would she talk to you and not us?”

  “My winning personality,” I said.

  “Come on, Blake.”

  “Where does she hang out, Irving?”

  “Oh, hell.” He finished his dwindling drink in one angry swallow. “She stays near a club called The Grey Cat.”

  The Grey Cat, like that old joke, all cats are grey in the dark. Cute. “Where’s the club?”

  Luther answered. I hadn’t seen him come back. “On the main drag in the Tenderloin, corner of Twentieth and Grand. But I wouldn’t go down there alone, Anita.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t look like you can. You don’t want to have to shoot some dumb shmuck just because he copped a feel, or worse. Take someone who looks mean, save yourself the aggravation.”

  Irving shrugged. “I wouldn’t go down there alone.”

  I hated to admit it, but they were right. I may be heap big vampire slayer but it doesn’t show much on the outside. “Okay, I’ll get Charles. He looks tough enough to take on the Green Bay Packers, but his heart is oh so gentle.”

  Luther laughed, puffing smoke. “Don’t let of Charlie see too much. He might faint.”

  Faint once in public and people never let you forget.

  “I’ll keep Charles safe.” I put more money down on the bar than was needed. Luther hadn’t really given me much information this time, but usually he did. Good information. I never paid full price for it. I got a discount because I was connected with the police. Dead Dave had been a cop before they kicked him off the force for being undead. Shortsighted of them. He was still pissed about that, but he liked to help. So he fed me information, and I fed the police selected bits of it.

  Dead Dave came out of the door behind the bar. I glanced at the dark glass windows. It looked the same, but if Dave was up, it was full dark. Shit. It was a walk
back to my car surrounded by vampires. At least I had my gun. Comforting that.

  Dave is tall, wide, short brown hair that had been balding when he died. He lost no more hair but it didn’t grow back either. He smiled at me wide enough to flash fangs. An excited wiggle ran through the crowd, as if the same nerve had been touched in all of them. The whispers spread like rings in a pool. Vampire. The show was on.

  Dave and I shook hands. His hand was warm, firm, and dry. Have you fed tonight, Dave? He looked like he had, all rosy and cheerful. What did you feed on, Dave? And was it willing? Probably. Dave was a good guy for a dead man.

  “Luther keeps telling me you stopped by but it’s always in daylight. Nice to see you’re slumming after dark.”

  “Truthfully, I planned to be out of the District before full dark.”

  He frowned. “You packing?”

  I gave him a discreet glimpse of my gun.

  Irving’s eyes widened. “You’re carrying a gun.” It only sounded like he shouted it.

  The noise level had died down to a waiting murmur. Quiet enough for people to overhear. But then, that’s why they had come, to listen to the vampire. To tell their troubles to the dead. I lowered my voice and said, “Announce it to the world, Irving.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “How do you know newsboy over here?” Dave asked.

  “He helps me sometimes with research.”

  “Research, well la-de-da.” He smiled without showing any fang. A trick you learn after a few years. “Luther give you the message?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You going to be smart or dumb?”

  Dave is sorta blunt, but I like him anyway. “Dumb probably,” I said.

  “Just because you got a special relationship with the new Master, don’t let it fool you. He’s still a master vampire. They are freaking bad news. Don’t fuck with him.”

  “I’m trying to avoid it.”

  Dave smiled broad enough to show fang. “Shit, you mean...naw, he wants you for more than good tail.”

  It was nice to know he thought I’d be good tail. I guess. “Yeah,” I said.

  Irving was practically bouncing in his seat. “What the hell is going on, Anita?”