Fat White Vampire Blues

by Andrew J. Fox

  “Slow down. Who is this you’re talking about? You’re not making much sense.”

  Jules took a few seconds to gather his thoughts. “There’s a rogue vampire in town. A colored guy. Young. A real badass. He says he’s got a whole army of other vampires backing him up, and they’ve been watching everything I been up to. He told me I better stop fangin‘ black folks, or else he’s gonna have his goons lean on me. Can you believe this shit?”

  Maureen was silent for several seconds. Her cheek twitched. “What’s-what’s his name? This rogue?”

  “What the hell does that matter? His name? It sounded like that crazy preacher guy from the sixties. Like a girl’s name… Alice. Malice X.”

  Maureen turned her head away suddenly and glanced at the empty stage. “Acolored vampire, you say?” Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “Where do you think he’s in from?”

  “He says he’s from here. New Orleans born and bred.”

  “That’s impossible. No one here would’ve made him.”

  “Youargue with him. I’ll send him over to your place the next time he drops by for a chat.”

  Maureen looked back at her companion. Jules noticed anxiousness in her eyes. Maybe even fear. “Do you think he’s on the level? About having an army of vampires, I mean?”

  Jules considered this. “An army? Well, I dunno. But it makes sense that he’s got others with him. He knew too much about me and where I been to be working on his own.”

  Maureen’s face brightened, as though she’d experienced a sudden revelation. Her voice returned to the motherly, half-cajoling, half-commanding tone he knew so well. “Have you thought about maybe doing what he said? Laying off the colored victims?”

  “What?Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, you big dummy. Weren’t you just bragging to me five minutes ago about how you plan on going on a diet?”

  “Well, yeah, sure, but-”

  “Well, how do you think you got so damn fat in the first place? Me, I’ve been a vampire twice as long as you have, so I’ve had a lot more time to earn my blubber. But you, you’ve always preferred the colored victims. Always said they were tastier. Do you know what those peopleeat? Fatback. Pigs’ knuckles. They fry theirvegetables, for Varney’s sake! You want to slim down? If you do-if you really,honestly do-then this is the best thing that could’ve happened to you.”

  Jules mulled this over. Could Maureen be right? Maybe this whole awful experience was really a blessing in disguise? “Well… well, maybe…”

  But then he thought about his coffin again. His coffin, streaked with drying urine. All the helpless indignation he’d experienced in the past fifteen hours came boiling to the surface. “No.No way! I can’t let that little asshole get away with that shit. You weren’tthere, Mo. It wasn’tyour coffin he pissed on. My own house! This whippersnapper has the nerve to bust into my own house and try and muscle me around! Well, Jules Duchon don’t knuckle under to nobody. The High Krewe’ll tell that little snot-nose where to get off. You gonna give me that address or not?”

  Maureen’s voice dropped fifty degrees. Celsius. “If you’re so bound and determined to make an ass of yourself, heaven forbid I should stand in the way. Just don’t come crying to me after those buzzards give you the bum’s rush.”

  She gave Jules the address he was looking for. He wrote it down on a ragged little pad of paper. She volunteered some additional information, the lines of a poem that would act as a code to get him through the gate.

  She grabbed the pad away from him once he was done writing and checked it for accuracy. “All right.” She flung it back at him. “Now get the hell out.”

  Jules felt a great, big lump grow in his throat. He didn’t want it to end like this. Until he’d actually been sitting across from her, he’d barely realized just how much he’d been looking forward to seeing her again. “Look, Mo, about what you said before-y’know, layin‘ off the colored victims… I’ll think about it, okay? One way or another, I’m gonna slim down. For you and me both. Have a little faith in me. Just alittle. Huh?”

  Her voice was flat as a bottle of Big Shot soda left open for a week. “Sure, Jules. You’ll come back in a year. Or five years, or ten. And you’ll be bigger than a house. We’ll both be. The people around here eat the most fattening crap in the world. And we eatthem. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it’ll stay. Good night.”

  He could tell from her voice that there was nothing more he could say. He scooted back from the table, which was poking painfully into his liver. He pantomimed a tip of his hat to Maureen, but she had already turned away and started walking back to the stage door.

  Jules tried shrugging his shoulders. The gesture felt false, somehow. He started shuffling toward the exit. At least those damn stairs would be easier to get down than they’d been to get up.

  He was halfway to the door when he heard her voice behind him. “Jules. It’s a different world out there than it used to be. Watch your ass, honey. Okay?”

  Leaning on his cane, he swiveled back around and smiled a winning smile. “As big as my ass is, baby, it’s impossiblenot to watch it!”

  He was pleased with himself. That had been a good line to exit by. But as he made his way cautiously down the steep steps, her parting words of warning made him uneasy. And unlike a crotch itch, the uneasiness wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he scratched it.

  Next stop, Bamboo Road,Jules thought to himself.

  In all his years as a cabdriver, he’d never had the opportunity to drop a fare off on Bamboo Road. Not too surprising-the folks who could afford to live there either drove their own imported luxury cars or hired chauffeurs to drive them.

  As he neared the address, he drove past acres and acres of aboveground marble crypts. Metairie Cemetery was the largest, most elaborate “city of the dead” in all New Orleans. Its crypts and miniature cathedrals housed the earthly remains of Confederate heroes, several mayors and governors, and much of the royalty of the Krewes of Rex, Comus, and Proteus. Jules estimated that even the smallest crypt in Metairie Cemetery was worth more than all the houses on his block of Montegut Street added together. Here and on neighboring Bamboo Road, the dead did well for themselves.

  Jules turned off Metairie Road onto the loose gravel path, shadowed by ancient oak trees, that led to his destination. He parked his Caddy a dozen yards from where the path ended at an iron gate. Perhaps it was due to the abundance of trees and shrubs that lined the drive, but the air became tangibly cooler as Jules approached the lordly stone wall that surrounded the mansion and its outlying buildings and gardens.

  When he reached the gate, Jules pressed what he assumed was a doorbell on the stone gatepost. To his surprise, a small door at face height slid open, revealing a glowing picture tube. A second later, a man’s face filled the screen. He appeared to be in his late sixties and was dressed in a butler’s livery.

  “Yes? What can we do for you?”

  The face didn’t look entirely natural; it was too smooth and regular. Jules wondered whether it was a computer-generated image. In any case, the man’s (or image’s) patronizing tone made Jules’s ears burn. He looked for the camera that he assumed was pointing at him. He couldn’t see any lens, but he figured the butler could see as well as be seen, so he squared his shoulders before replying. “I need to talk with Krauss, Katz, and Besthoff.”

  “Are the masters expecting your arrival?”

  “No. But it’s important. I’ve got news they’ll want to know about.”

  The butler’s expression didn’t change. “May I inquire as to the nature of your business?”

  “Just tell them it’s important.” When the other man said nothing, Jules added, “I can’t talk specifics with the help.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t let you in. The masters see no one without a prior invitation.”

  Jules felt his face redden. “Look, Jeeves. I’m practically a member of the family. Iknow they’ll want to see me. You gotta know I’m
a vampire, don’t you? I mean, take a good look through that camera of yours. Do you see my face? Or do I look like a bunch of empty clothes held up by wires?”

  The face on the screen didn’t twitch a muscle. “Ofcourse I realize you are a member of the undead. But that makes no difference. Since you are incapable of enlightening me as to the nature of your business, I must return to my other duties and pray that you will have a pleasant evening.” He turned away from the screen. The concealed door began to slide back into place.

  “Hey! Wait!” Jules grabbed Maureen’s poem from his coat pocket, hurriedly unfolded it, and started reciting as quickly as he could, before the screen was entirely closed.

  “At end of day

  In deepest night

  We feel the thirst Spread wings, take flight

  No power on earth

  Deters our bite

  Some think us cursed

  But blessed we are With eternal life.“

  Almost reluctantly, the metal panel covering the screen slid open again. For the first time, the butler’s too-smooth face betrayed an emotion: exasperation. “Oh, very well,” he spat. “I’ll let you in, and at least one of the masters will see you. Do try not to step on any of the roses in the garden as you come through.”

  An electric motor whirred to life, and the thick doors of the front gate pivoted inward. The air that drifted out to greet him was scented with orchids, lilies, and exotic strains of roses. Jules stepped into the compound somewhat cautiously, half expecting a pack of guard dogs (guard wolves?) to descend on him. But the only movement within the front courtyard was the rising and falling of spurts of crimson-tinted water within a series of fountains leading to the main house’s marble front steps. Jules glanced at the colorful tile mosaic on the bottom of one fountain as he walked past. It was a medieval-looking portrait of a severe, wiry, bearded king on horseback, driving a long lance through a Turkish enemy’s chest. Jules recognized the portrait. It was Vlad Tepes of Transylvania.

  He climbed the steps to the mansion’s grand front door. The butler opened it before Jules could lay a finger on the brightly polished wolf’s-head knocker.

  “Please step inside,” the butler said, his face once more an expressionless mask. At least his kisser looked real in person, though. “Master Krauss is out of town, and Master Katz is otherwise engaged at the moment, but Master Besthoff will see you. Please follow me.” The butler shut the door, a massive fabrication of oak nearly ten feet high and a foot thick, with an effortless press of his fingers. The door shut with a resoundingboom. Jules followed behind him and stared at his guide’s stiffly erect back. So it had been a computer-generated image on the screen. Krauss, Katz, and Besthoff must be pretty high muckety-mucks in the undead community to have a butler who was a vampire, too.

  The servant silently led Jules through gilded, marble-floored hallways lined with Italian Renaissance statuary and tapestries. Turning a corner, Jules half hoped to see twin rows of human arms jutting from each side of the hall, holding lit flambeaus in their ghastly white fingers. He was disappointed; there were only more tapestries of knights beheading swarthy Turks.

  “Here we are,” the butler said, stopping in front of a gold-rimmed door. “The library. Master Besthoff is expecting you.”

  Jules walked into the fanciest reading room he’d ever seen. No moldering paperbacks or pulp magazines here; the gleaming oak shelves were lined with thick leather-bound volumes, many of them in languages Jules didn’t even recognize. But even more impressive was the man who rose from a plush red leather reading chair in the center of the room. Well over six feet tall, with steel-gray eyes and carefully coiffed black hair tinged with flashes of silver, Besthoff didn’t look any older than his early forties, although Jules guessed he was probably centuries older than that. And he couldn’t help but notice that, in polar opposition to his own physique, beneath his host’s expensive Italian suit were the sleek shape and well-defined musculature of an Olympic swimming champion.

  Besthoff flashed Jules a cold but correct smile and held out his hand. “Mr. Duchon? I am Georges Besthoff. I understand that you have news you wish to share with me?”

  Jules shook the proffered hand. Besthoff’s grip was viselike. “Yeah. Uh, nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you. I’ve got me a problem, see, and I think it’s the kinda problem that maybe could affect both of us. So I was hopin‘ you and yours could give me some help. Especially since y’all are the senior vampires in the community.”

  “I see.” He gestured to a Queen Anne-period couch facing the leather chair. Jules sat down as delicately as he could, afraid of damaging the fragile antique. Besthoff returned to his seat. “Shall I have Straussman make you a cup of coffee? Or would you prefer a brandy?”

  So these vampires still had the stomach for alcohol? Jules wondered why his host didn’t offer a goblet of blood. Oh, well. “Uh, yeah, a cuppa coffee’d be great.”

  Besthoff pressed a small stud set into the marble top of the end table next to his chair. “Straussman? Please bring a cup of coffee for our guest.” He turned his attention back to Jules. “I understand you recited part of ‘Night of Blood’ for Straussman. Only a small handful of persons have ever been exposed to that particular poem. My own composition, by the way. A product of my romantic younger days in Romania. Where did you find it? Not on the Internet, I hope?” He smiled briefly, his eyes never leaving Jules’s.

  “Maureen Remoulade gave it to me. She’s a friend. She wanted to make sure I could get in to see you.”

  Besthoff’s eyes ignited with sudden interest. “Ah, Maureen! The breakaway. I am surprised she still retains any memory of that poem, as I assumed she never intended to use it to return to us here. Tell me, is she still employed as a dancer at that so-called gentlemen’s club in the Vieux Carrй?”

  “Yeah, she’s still packin‘ ’em in.”

  Besthoff smiled. “What a spirited girl she was. I am almost sorry to see her reduced to her present state. But I could’ve predicted that she would fall to this. Indeed, I did, although she paid me no mind.” His host’s eyes drifted to a small portrait set between two towering bookshelves. Jules realized, with a start, that the willowy limbs and delicate cheekbones of the girl in the portrait belonged to a much younger Maureen; after so many decades of gradual expansion on both their parts, he’d forgotten she’d ever looked that way. Besthoff tapped his long fingernails on the end table. “But enough of nostalgia. What is this news you have to share with me, Mr. Duchon?”

  Jules cleared his throat. He chose his words carefully, for maximum impact. “There’s a new vampire tryin‘ to muscle in on our territory. Ablack vampire.”

  Besthoff slowly interlaced his long, slender fingers. “A ‘black’ vampire? Come, come, Mr. Duchon. There is no need to hide behind such euphemisms here. Please speak plainly.”

  “All right. A colored vampire. Anyway, this wiseass little snot-nose says he’s got a whole army of other vampires behind him. You’ve gotta figure they’re all colored, too. This asshole-Malice X, he calls himself-he’s trying to scare me outta town. He barged into my house, messed up my coffin, and told me I couldn’t be puttin‘ the bite on any more black, uh, colored victims anymore. How’s that for nerve, huh?”

  Jules leaned forward in his chair, eager to catch every iota of indignant outrage that he expected would soon darken his host’s face.

  But Besthoff’s expression did not change. “And exactly how,” he asked calmly, “do you anticipate this could affect me and mine?”

  Jules’s jaw dropped, but no words came out. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Maybe his host’s advanced years had left Besthoff with a hearing problem? “Er, Mr. Besthoff, maybe you didn’t, y’know, understand what I’m saying. This is some pretty heavy-duty shit I’m talkin‘ here. I mean, somewhere out there in the darker parts of town, there’s Lord-knows-how-many colored vampires who mean to push you an’ me out-”

  Besthoff stopped Jules’s rant with a regal gesture of h
is hand. “No, Mr. Duchon. They mean to pushyou out.”

  Jules’s mind swirled like the spin cycle on a crapped-out washing machine. Straussman entered the library and set a silver tray holding a carafe of coffee, a sugar bowl, a small pitcher of cream, and a white china cup on the table near Jules’s elbow. For want of anything coherent to say, Jules snatched the cup from the butler’s fingers, poured himself an overflowing helping of steaming black coffee, and gulped three deep swallows.

  The combination of anger and caffeine focused his mind somewhat. “Whadda ya mean,” he sputtered, “ me? You an‘ me an’ everybody else in this fancy palace of yours, we’re all in this thingtogether! How much simpler do I hafta make this? We’re allwhite,Caucasian,pale-skinned vampires-”

  Besthoff stood. “Obviously, Mr. Duchon, there is much you do not understand.” He walked toward the door and gestured for Jules to follow. “Come. Let me show you something. Please, bring your coffee with you, if you would like.”

  Straussman refilled Jules’s cup and handed him the saucer to take with him. Cup and saucer clattered noisily in Jules’s hands as he followed Besthoff. The butler opened a pair of leaded-glass doors, which sparkled with reflected gaslight, and Besthoff and Jules walked through a topiary garden to a second house. This other structure was much less elaborately embellished than the main house and only a single story, although still quite large.

  Besthoff unlocked the front door with a massive iron key. Jules was surprised to enter a long, wide, open ward, lined with four rows of narrow cast-iron beds, which were covered with simple white starched sheets. Nearly all the beds were occupied. Soft grunts, moans, and wordless intonations filled the air as a crew of uniformed aides fed and tended to the prone figures.

  “Welcome to our pantry, Mr. Duchon.”

  Jules downed his last mouthful of coffee. “Your ‘pantry’? This place looks like one of Charity Hospital’s wards from eighty years ago.” He took a closer look at the people lying in the beds closest to him. Their eyes seemed too small and too widely spaced. Their arms and fingers were stunted, and their expressions were unfocused and oddly cowlike. “Who are all these people?”