“There we are. Four hundred and sixty-three pounds,” the doctor said. “That’s quite a gain since the last time I weighed you.”
Damn lying scale,Jules thought.I must’velost weight during those hell-nights in Baton Rouge. ‘Course, I did eat four or five sacks of dog chow…
“One of the reasons I took regular blood samples from you,” Dr. Landrieu continued, “was to determine whether your unusual diet was having any long-term effect on your health. But I had other reasons, as well.” He handed Jules a small clear plastic cup. “Please expectorate in this.”
“Huh?”
“Expectorate.Spit. ”
“Oh. Okay.”
After Jules swished and spat in the most polite way he could, his host continued. “I never mentioned this to you, because I wasn’t sure how you’d react, but at first the primary goal of my researches was to find a cure for your vampirism.”
“You’re shittin‘ me, Doc-really?”
“Oh yes, really and truly. Unfortunately, I soon found that my reach exceeded my grasp, I’m afraid. The issues involved were well beyond my limited knowledge and resources. As you might well imagine, I was quite disappointed by my failure. However, I soon consoled myself by turning my researches in another direction. I was fascinated by your apparent resistance to many of the outward signs of aging, with the exception of your considerable weight gain. I wanted to determine whether your kind of person would be susceptible to the range of diseases medical science believes are brought on by advancing years or by various ‘unhealthy lifestyle’ factors. Diseases such as diabetes.”
“So what exactly are you tellin‘ me, Doc?” Jules handed over his cupful of saliva.
“Oh, thank you. Just one more extraction left. I’ll need a bit of your blood.” Jules followed Dr. Landrieu over to a table covered with an assortment of sterile syringes, alcohol swabs, and other medical implements. “Roll up your left sleeve, would you? So many fascinating questions. Even after we were no longer working together, I continued with my research. How does insulin work within the body of a vampire? Does it serve any function at all? Will diseases of the pancreas progress in the same fashion as they do with normal human beings?”
Jules bit his lower lip as Dr. Landrieu poked the syringe through the white skin of his biceps and slowly drew back the plunger, collecting about an ounce of blood. It seemed so disturbingly unnatural for someone else to be drawing blood fromhim. “So give me the short version, huh, Doc? You able to help me or not?”
Dr. Landrieu carefully transferred the blood sample from the syringe to a test tube. “The ‘short version,’ Jules, is that if my tests indicate that you are indeed suffering from some form of adult-onset diabetes, I have on hand an experimental compound that may serve for you the same function that insulin injections do for a normal diabetes sufferer.”
“You’re sayin‘ you’ve got a cure for me? You’re a miracle worker, Doc! I knew my shit luck was bound to turn around!”
“Now hold on a minute there. I didn’t say anything about a cure. What I may have for you is atreatment. A drug that, if it’s effective, you’ll need to take every day for the rest of your, er, life. Just as many normal diabetes sufferers need to take their insulin injections every day in order to keep their blood sugar levels stable.”
“Hey, that’s good enough for me! So when will we know the results of your tests?”
“Oh, that shouldn’t take very long. Go relax up in the living room. I’ll be up in a few minutes. And then we’ll have that pot of coffee.”
Jules waited patiently upstairs, perusing the doctor’s bookshelves, which, apart from the expected medical and anatomy tomes, also held a respectable collection of nineteenth-century Persian erotica. He felt a jagged twinge in his heart when he recalled his own lost collections. After a few moments, Dr. Landrieu appeared in the doorway.
“Everything is ‘cooking,’ as they say. We should have our results shortly. Why don’t you come with me into the kitchen?”
Jules forced the memory of his recent losses from his mind. “Sure thing.”
“I don’t believe I ever told you this,” Dr. Landrieu said while pouring bottled water into his coffeemaker, “but the most crushing disappointment of my professional life was losing those last two races I ran for city coroner. Not because I was out of a job-I stood to make far better money in private practice, particularly with my connections. No, I suffered the torments of the damned because I knew that, out of office, I no longer had the opportunity to lure you away from live victims. How many lives did I save during those nearly thirty years you were in my employ? A thousand? Fifteen hundred? I was a good and conscientious public servant-with the possible exception of a kickback or two, and that was rather small beer-but I always considered my greatest service to the people of this city to be keeping you off her streets at night. Here. Here’s your coffee. I have some nondairy creamer, if you’d like.”
“Uh, thanks. No creamer, though.” Jules’s first sip of coffee tasted especially bitter. “Gee, Doc, I never knew you felt that way. If I’d a known, I dunno, maybe we could’ve worked out some kinda arrangement or something, y’know, after you weren’t in office no more…”
“I have a proposal for you.” Dr. Landrieu sat across from Jules and lanced him with a penetrating stare. “What I suggest may sound somewhat unusual, or even outlandish, but you must believe that I am absolutely serious. I have been thinking about this for a long time. You can’t know how many nights I turned on the evening news to see the police pulling a dead body from a swamp or a vacant lot, and always I wondered,Is this the work of my old friend Jules? And illogical though it might be, each time I asked myself that question, an arrow of guilt pierced my heart.”
The doctor sighed, his gaze dropping to the steam rising from his mug of coffee. His moment of self-absorption did not last long, however. “But that is neither here nor there. This is my proposal-come to Argentina with me. Now that my Eudice is gone, there is no longer anything to hold me to New Orleans. Work as my assistant again, train with me, and you will never again need to hunt.”
“What’re you talkin‘ about, Doc? Argentina? What, you got a new job as a coroner lined up down there?”
The doctor allowed himself to smile. “No, not as a coroner. A much more lucrative job than that, both for me and for you. Down in Argentina, you see, there is a national craze for cosmetic surgery. All segments of society, both rich and poor, indulge in it. Among Argentine women, body sculpting is especially popular. A procedure you might know as liposuction. There is a tremendous shortage of cosmetic surgeons in Argentina. For anyone with a medical degree and a few years of experience in virtually any specialty, acquiring a license to practice cosmetic surgery in Argentina is child’s play.”
Jules took another sip of coffee while he tried to put the pieces together. “Uh-huh. I see as how that might be good news for you. But how do I fit into all this?”
“You obviously don’t know much about the liposuction procedure.”
“Nope.”
“To put it simply, liposuction involves the insertion of a cannula, a sort of combination scalpel and vacuum cleaner, into areas of a patient’s body that harbor intractable and unsightly fat reserves. The surgeon sweeps the cannula beneath the patient’s dermis, snipping away and then suctioning out masses of fatty tissues.”
“Yeech! I mean, dieting’s bad enough, but this-”
“Don’t be so quick to pass judgment, my friend. Liposuction, as it currently stands, is a very crude procedure. Along with every ounce of fat tissue extracted, two or more ounces of subcutaneous fluids are also removed. Including”-and here Dr. Landrieu paused for effect-“blood. The resulting slurry is an extremely rich organic mixture, typically composed of nearly two-thirds plasma components. Virtually all cosmetic surgeons dispose of this slurry as medical waste. I, however”-he raised his right eyebrow pointedly-“could very well imagine other uses it might be put to.”
Jules felt his mouth beg
in to water, even though his mind hadn’t yet struggled through all the implications. “You mean, uh, me, eh, like, drinkin‘ it?”
Dr. Landrieu brought his hands together in a thunderclap. “Yes, Jules! Imagine dining on milk shakes and caviar for the rest of your unlimited existence! For I have little doubt that eventually, with a judicious application of bribes, we could set you up in your own practice in the hinterlands. So that after I pass on to my inevitable reward, you would not want for anything.” He reached across the table and grabbed hold of Jules’s free hand. “Now tell me, am I makingsense?”
Jules felt beads of sweat trickle down the interior seams of his new safari suit. He felt he had come to a decisive juncture in his undead existence. The bitter coffee roiled in his stomach like a boiling black gumbo. “Wait-I can’t think about it all at once. Doc, I can’t change my whole fuckin‘ life in just five minutes. You’ve gotta give me some time to think this through.”
Dr. Landrieu released his hand. “Of course. I hope my enthusiasm didn’t intimidate you. Let me go downstairs and check on your results. Then we’ll have more to talk about.”
Jules rested his forehead heavily on his hands. Argentina sounded like a paradise. But could he bear to leave New Orleans? Hadn’t his miserable five-day exile proven to him that living outside the Big Easy was like trying to survive without air?
Dr. Landrieu reentered the kitchen and sat down across from Jules. “It’s as I’d expected. You’re suffering from the beginning stages of a condition analogous to adult-onset diabetes mellitus. Fortunately for you, since we’ve caught it early, and little permanent degeneration has occurred, my experimental compound should prove very effective in staving off further symptoms.”
“Doc, I just thought of somethin‘-if this diabetes has been caused by what I’ve been eatin’ all these years, wouldn’t going down with you to Argentina and livin‘ off those ’milk shakes’ make it a whole lot worse?”
Dr. Landrieu smiled. “As your physician, I’m a step or two ahead of you. Should my compound be as efficacious as I have every right to expect it will be, your dietary worries will be at an end. You will be in the envious position of being able to eat whatever you damn well please. So tell me, what do you think of the notion of relocating down south?”
Jules paused before answering, slowly stirring his coffee with a teaspoon. “Well, Doc, I’ve gotta be honest with you… it’d be awfully hard for me to leave New Orleans.”
The doctor leaned forward across the table. “Why?”
Jules shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s just… well, this old town’s a part of me, like my fingernails or the calluses on the bottoms of my feet. I never have to wonder where my pals are or where I can get me a good cup of joe. I can drive through the French Quarter and roll down my windows and hear my kinda music floatin‘ through the air, for free. I can hardly imagine evenvisitin’ some other place.”
The doctor was silent. Jules avoided meeting his gaze, instead staring into the murky depths of his stone-cold coffee. “So, uh, do I still get to try out that medicine of yours?”
Dr. Landrieu slowly stood. “Of course, Jules. I’m a physician, not a blackmailer. I have a small supply in the refrigerator. Let me get it for you.” He opened the refrigerator behind Jules and was hidden by the door as he fumbled with the contents inside. “Just give me a moment longer; I need to make sure there is enough to get you started on your regimen… Yes. We are in good shape.”
He closed the refrigerator and handed Jules a small white plastic bottle with a child-resistant cap. Sticky shreds of an old label still clung to the bottle’s sides. “Please pardon the looks of that bottle. I try to recycle as much as I can. Well. You have enough tablets there for fifteen days. Take two each night, one upon rising and one before you retire.”
“Thanks, Doc!” Jules placed the bottle in one of his trench coat’s many pockets, then took out his wallet, which Maureen had generously restocked with forty dollars of walking-around money. “What do I owe you?”
Dr. Landrieu pushed the money aside. “Nothing. I can’t ethically charge you a fee for an experimental drug. Come back in fifteen days and tell me how you feel, and then we’ll discuss payment. In the meantime, the only favor I ask of you is that you not reject the idea of accompanying me to Argentina out of hand. Promise me you’ll reconsider over the next two weeks?”
“Sure thing, Doc. It won’t hurt me none to think about it some more. So anyway, what do I need to know about this here wonder drug of yours? Is it safe to take it with coffee?”
“Certainly. There should be no adverse caffeine interactions.”
“Should I go ahead and take my first one now?”
“I don’t see why not. The sooner you begin, the sooner you’ll experience relief from your symptoms. Actually, you may experience a marked improvement in as little as a day or two.”
“Really? Hey, that’s terrific!” It took Jules a few seconds to get the bottle open; those child-resistant caps had always given him trouble. He tapped a small, round, white tablet into his palm. Jules was surprised to see that it had the letterA engraved on it. Perhaps theA stood for “Amos,” Dr. Landrieu’s first name? He popped the tablet in his mouth and downed it with the dregs of his coffee.
Dr. Landrieu picked up Jules’s empty cup and saucer and deposited them in the sink. “Well. I’m glad we’ve had this little reunion, Jules. I’ll see you again in fifteen days?”
“Sure thing. I hope these pills’re as good as you say they are.”
Dr. Landrieu led him through the living room to the entrance foyer. “Oh, I suspect you’ll be very pleasantly surprised.”
Jules drove along the edge of the Jewish cemetery until he reached Canal Street. Then he made a right turn toward the French Quarter. No doubt about it, his luck was beginning to turn. By the time he reached the garage across from Maureen’s house, he was already feeling the tinglings of a fresh surge of energy. Shuttling his packages from the Lincoln’s trunk, down the garage’s stairs, up Maureen’s front steps, down her hallway, and up more stairs to the closet she’d assigned him, he could swear that his knees already hurt less than before. His stride had more zing in it. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he felt twenty years younger and two hundred pounds lighter.
He sat for a moment on Maureen’s front stoop, pondering how he should spend the rest of his night. A Lucky Dog vendor wheeled his wiener cart along Bienville Street, and Jules waved and wished him a good evening.
“You want I should fix you a dog, pal?” the vendor asked. He looked to be in his late sixties, with a well-tanned, deeply furrowed but personable face.
“Wish I could, buddy,” Jules answered mournfully, eyeing the bin of wieners and tray of condiments with an expression just short of lust.
“I understand,” the vendor said in a consoling voice. He cocked an ear toward the tiny portable radio he carried on his cart and turned up the volume. His gentle smile faded into a grimace. “You been listening to this crap on the news? Those dopes on the North Shore want that asshole Nathan Knight to get back into politics again.”
“What’s this?”
“You’ve gotta remember Nathan Knight, right?”
“He ran for governor or somethin‘, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, and the bum got his racist ass kicked. But now this committee of ‘concerned citizens’ over there across the lake are trying to convince him to make another run for office. They’re holdin’ a big rally a couple of nights from now.” He shook his head sadly. “People like that give me the willies. I don’t know what your politics are, pal. But me, my folks brought me over from Germany when I was five years old. Just before WW Two. So people like that… well, they give me the willies, is all.”
Jules had never given Nathan Knight and his followers much thought. Or any politics, for that matter. He’d always been too concerned about where his next meal was coming from to pay any attention.
The Lucky Dog vendor switched off his radio. “
Sorry I disturbed you. Have a good night.” He hefted the handles of his cart and began moving off down the street. Too late, Jules realized that the man had probably interpreted his lost-in-thought silence as disagreement. He hated the notion that the vendor had pegged him as a Knight supporter. But the man was already halfway down the block.
The scent of boiled wieners lingered in the air. Jules thought some more about what he’d just heard. A huge rally of black-hating white people on the North Shore?Hrrmmm… nowthat smelled like an opportunity. A foul-smelling opportunity, for sure; Jules didn’t relish the thought of associating with people who wouldn’t be caught dead sharing a cup of joe with Erato. But Jules had watched enough trash haulers make a good profit from stuff that stank to know it could be done. He could wash his hands of the whole lot of them after it was all over and his life had returned to normal.
Jules smiled at the ingenuity and sheer audacity of his idea. Maureen had wanted him to come up with a plan of action. Well, he just did.
If Malice X could form his own vampire army, then by golly, so could Jules Duchon.
EIGHT
Action Plan Step One: He needed to find out more about this Nathan Knight rally-when and where it would be held, how many supporters were expected to show.
Action Plan Step Two: As a reward for formulating and accomplishing Action Plan Step One, he needed to do something really nice for himself. Maureen had given Jules some walking-around money. Although he couldn’t even begin to replace his one-of-a-kind record collection, there was another vital personal collection he could begin replenishing. Nudie books. And the best thing about Jules buying new nudie books was that he could accomplish Action Plan Steps One and Two at the same time and in the same place, a valuable saving of effort.
Fat White Vampire Blues Page 14
