He wanted to go somewhere he hadn’t been since he was twenty years old. He wanted to sit in the confessional booth. The green light above the booth’s door was lit. He grabbed the handle, then let go as if a cobra had bitten him. The handle felt as hot as a glazed pot fresh out of the kiln. His attempt at entry had left the door slightly ajar, however, so Jules gingerly pushed it open with the toe of his shoe.
The booth was much smaller and tighter than he remembered it being. He barely fit on the kneeler, and his knees were jammed into his overhanging stomach. The church was air-conditioned; still, Jules felt like a king cake baking inside a McKenzie’s Pastry Shoppe oven. Sweat coursed down every square inch of his body, but it failed to cool his burning skin. The stale air inside the booth was soon clouded with white, oily smoke.
After a moment, Jules heard the wooden door on the other side of the screen slide open. He waited for the priest to say something, but then he remembered that the parishioner always speaks first. Embarrassed, he tried to recall the proper opening words.
“Uh, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… let’s see… eighty years since my last confession; maybe eighty-five years. Lemme think here… uh, I have purchased pornography-”
“Excuse me, my son. Surely you realize that smoking is not permitted in the confessional booth.”
Jules was slightly stunned at having been interrupted midconfession by the priest. “But I’m not smoking, Father.”
“I smell smoke.”
Jules waved his arms around, trying to disperse the smoke, but his exertions only made his skin burn faster. “Uh, yeah-I came from a bar, see, a real smoky bar-not that I wasdrinkin‘ or nothin’… me and my pals, we were havin‘, uh, a Bible study session in the back…”
“Please, my son, do not add to your sins. Just stub your cigar out. I realize the terrible power of nicotine addiction, but surely you can wait until after you’ve completed confession.”
“Uh, okay.” Jules made a noise with his foot like he was stubbing out a cigar on the floor. “Back to what I was sayin‘ before… my sins… I have purchased pornography on, uh, numerous occasions. I used the pornography to commit, y’know, onanism. On, uh, numerous occasions. I have fornicated-although the last time I did it, I didn’t go all the way. I have thought disrespectful thoughts regarding my mother. Oohh, this is a bad one-I had sexual intercourse with a dog.”
“Adog?”
“Yeah, but there were extenuating circumstances. Getting away from the whole sex thing, Father, what I really came to talk to you about is this-is it a sin to kill for food?”
The priest paused before responding. “Are you telling me that you killed someone and stole their food?”
“Uh, no. Not exactly. What I’m talkin‘ about is killing some-, uh, somethingand eating, uh, part of it. That’s what I done.”
“I see. Before Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden, they ate only the fruits and plants that were permitted them; they were vegetarians. However, once they committed Original Sin, carnivorousness became part of the natural order of things, and since then man has been permitted to eat of the lower animals. However, if you have stolen an animal that belonged to another and slaughtered it for food, this could be considered sinful. Not for the act of eating meat, but for the act of theft.”
Jules coughed. His throat was parched, and the oily smoke from his own skin was irritating it even more. “That’s not it, either. See, I’m sort of a hunter. I hunt to eat. Only… well… I don’t hunt lower animals. Not exactly.”
“Whatdo you hunt?”
Jules sighed heavily. “People. Human beings.”
“You huntpeople and youeat them? You’re telling me you’re a cannibal?”
“No, Father,” Jules said hastily. “I don’t wanna give you the wrong idea. I don’teat people, not really. How can I explain this, in some way that’ll make sense to you-? Okay. Here goes. I drink people’s blood. I’m a vampire.”
The priest was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was angry and dismissive. “The confessional is no place for pranks or jokes. Please take your warped ‘sense of humor’ somewhere else and leave this booth for those who truly wish to use it.”
The door behind the screen partition began to slide shut. “Father, wait! I’m not bullsh-, I mean I’m not feedin‘ you any baloney here! I reallyam a vampire! That smoke you smell-that’s not from a cigar, it’s myskin that’s burning! I’m burning because I’m inside a church! I swear to the Big Guy in Heaven I’m tellin’ you the truth!”
The door stopped sliding shut. Jules pressed his advantage. “Father, I couldshow you stuff. I can change into a bat. Or a wolf. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. Or you can take a crucifix and press it against my skin. It’ll brand me like an iron right outta the fire, honest truth so help me-”
“Stop. I’m willing to take you at your word. Whatever else, I believe thatyou honestly believe what you are telling me.”
Jules sucked in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “Thanks, Father. That’s really white of you. I mean that.”
“Hrrmm…” The priest cleared his throat. Jules had the sudden realization that he might not be speaking with a white clergyman. “How about telling me why you decided to enter the confession booth tonight? That’s not usual behavior for a vampire, is it?”
“No… it’s not.” Jules wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Flecks of parched skin, gray as ash, drifted down through the smoky air.“It’s just that… Father, I don’t think I’m gonna be on this earth much longer. I think I’m gonna get killed, and this time it’s gonna be permanent. I’ve drained a lotta folks over the years… to live, to survive. I always explained it away by tellin‘ myself I’m no worse than the hunter who loads up his deer rifle, then goes out into the woods to bring home some venison. But lately-well, just tonight, this friend of mine, a good friend, he told me some things-and I can’t look at it in the same way no more. All them killings, they’re eatin’ me up inside. I don’t wanna go down to the grave with all that on my conscience.”
“How many people have you killed, my son?”
“In the last eighty, eighty-five years… I’ve gotta figure about two fangings a month, sometimes three… minus the thirty-odd years I worked for the coroner’s office… I’d hafta estimate a thousand to twelve hundred.”
Jules heard a soft choking sound from the far side of the screen. “Have you-have you ever tried subsisting on the blood of lower animals?”
Jules sighed. “I been there, Father. Believe me. Been there and tried that. Way back in World War One, right after I became a vampire, I tried doin‘ the patriotic thing and not munch on my fellow Americans. Instead, I put the bite on anything I could get my hands on-stray dogs and cats, mules, even a dairy cow once. I found out it’s like tryin’ to live on water and crackers-boy, did I feel like shit after a while. Later on, after Pearl Harbor, I tried the same thing again. Thought maybe I’d tolerate it better, since I’d been a vampire longer. No such luck. But I found a better way to be a good American-the docks and factories were teemin‘ with fifth columnists, filthy spies and saboteurs… I ate good during the war.”
“Help me to understand-is human blood absolutelynecessary for you to survive? Or is it a substance like heroin, a drug you’ve become addicted to? If you had to, could you subsist on the same foods ordinary humans eat?”
Jules didn’t care for the direction their discussion was taking. All he’d wanted to do was confess, get his assignment of penitent prayers, receive absolution, and leave as fast as possible. “No, Father. I can’t eat no normal foods. Not for the last twenty-five years or so. They won’t stay down. They shoot out both ends-it’s amess, believe me.” His conscience stung him like a nestful of aroused wasps; he wasn’t telling the Father a big, fatlie, not exactly, but he was withholding a good part of the truth. “Eh, I guess, y’know, I suppose I need to qualify that a little. I can’t eat no normal foods while I’m in myregular shape. There’ve
been a few times-really rotten, low times, times so lousy I don’t even wanna think about them-when I been forced to change into a wolf and scrounge around for some scraps or dog food to eat. I guess I been able to tolerate solid foods good enough those few times-”
“So then, conceivably, you would be able to survive by-ahem-changing into awolf whenever you feel the need to eat?”
Jules sensed himself sliding down a slippery slope. “Well, eh, it’s possible, maybe, just not realprobable — ”
“Indulge me a moment-you could subsist on solid foods, and drinking human blood would no longer be necessary?”
“Look, Father, you’re takin‘ me into real uncharted territory here. What you’re suggestin’ has never been tried for any long period of time-and besides, it’sway beneath my dignity as a vampire. If you’ll excuse me sayin‘ so, you askin’ me to dothat is like me askin‘you to screw a nun. It just ain’tdone. No vampire in America would even look me in the eye if they knew I’d donethat kinda eatin’. Well, practically no vampire. Anyway, I don’t know why we’re even discussin‘ this, seein’ as how I probably won’t be eatin‘ or drinkin’ anything much longer.”
When the priest spoke again, Jules could tell he was on the verge of slamming the partition door shut. “I’ve been very patient. Exactlywhat do you want from me?”
Jules tried to make his tone as respectful as possible (considering that his lips were beginning to blister). “Father, I thought that wasobvious. My mother, bless her soul, raised me in the Church. I’ll admit I ain’t been the greatest Catholic the last eighty years or so, but it hasn’t been my fault. I just want the same thing any parishioner wants when he walks outta the confession booth-a list of ‘Hail Marys’ and rosaries to say, so I can get this awful weight off my shoulders. I’ve done what I’m supposed to-I’ve come in here and told you all the crummy stuff I’ve done. I’ve confessed, and I’m not even on my deathbed yet. I want you to ’poof‘ me, Father, so that I’m sin-free when I sail off into the Last Roundup.”
Jules felt satisfied with himself. His plea had been heartfelt, spiritual, and well worded. But suddenly the Father’s voice took on that hair-raising, Satan-slamming resonance that Jules recognized from theOmen movies. “There is no penance unless the sinner intends to sin no more. Will you foreswear the drinking of human blood and dedicate the rest of your unholy existence to the service of Christ?”
“Aww, c’mon, Father, we just been through this. I said I’m sorry. I just want to clear my slate, that’s all. Look, I never had no choice over whether I became a vampire or not-”
“Insincere penitence is like unto blasphemy in the eyes of our Lord. Vampire or not, you defile this holy church with your lies and deceptions. Get out. Do not return here until you are ready to sin no more.”
The priest closed the sliding door with a resounding smack. “Father, just a few ‘Hail Marys,’ that’s all I’m askin‘ here-”
“Out!Getout! Leave at once, or I’ll have the policethrow you out!”
When he found himself back out on the trash-strewn sidewalk, Tulane Avenue looked even more desolate and abandoned than before. Jules kicked an empty can of Dixie Beer into the street, then brushed flakes of dead skin from his arms and neck.
“Boy, he sure was in a snit,” Jules muttered to himself. “Maybe the altar boy had a headache last night.”
He was immediately sorry that he’d said it. His head involuntarily jerked sideways as he pictured his mother hauling off and slapping his face, every one of her ninety-eight pounds behind the blow.
It was a fortuitous hallucination. While his head was cockeyed from the imaginary blow, Jules’s gaze fell upon the billboard mounted on the roof of the furniture store across the street. A mariachi band played in front of an outdoor cafй, the musicians grinning ludicrously big grins, as if they were all hooked up to IVs brimming with tequila. Continental Airlines was advertising new direct flights to Mexico City and Cancъn.FLY TO MEXICO CITY FASTER THAN YOU CAN DRIVE TO MORGAN CITY, the billboard commanded.
Like a bursting grenade, the name hit him.Doc Landrieu! Hadn’t Doc Landrieu practically begged him to move to Argentina and become an assistant in the doctor’s liposuction practice? Hadn’t his old boss enticed him with visions of grateful Latin women and endless supplies of delicious fat-laden blood?
Sure, he’d put the doc off at the time. Having just escaped from five nights of hell in Baton Rouge, Jules had been in no frame of mind to even consider leaving New Orleans again. But that was then, and this was most definitely now. Going off with Doc Landrieu was the perfect solution. Even if Argentina had its own indigenous vampires, Jules wouldn’t have to worry about turf battles, because he and Doc Landrieu would be harvesting their own supply of blood in a nonintrusive, completely private fashion. They wouldn’t be stealing resources from anybody.
He stood on the desolate sidewalk and thought about it some more. Hooking up with the doctor would ensure Jules a constant supply of those miraculous antidiabetes pills; a good thing, especially since he was down to his last two or three. After a year or two of their working together, the doctor could probably come up with a cure for him, making the pills unnecessary. Argentina wasn’t New Orleans, but it would be all right.
Jules crossed the street to his car with a renewed sense of purpose. Maybe he’d bombed in St. Joseph’s, but salvation was only a ten-minute drive away.
The Mid-City side street next to the Jewish cemetery was silent and empty of people when Jules pulled up in front of Doc Landrieu’s house. No Night Out Against Crime block parties were going on in the neighborhood. The street lamp on the corner was out, leaving the otherwise well-tended block in uncustomary gloom.
In contrast, Jules’s mood was bright as the midday sun in Buenos Aires. He’d decided on the drive over that he would invite Maureen to fly south with him. Relief and happiness had swelled his heart with a sense of forgiveness; he was sure they could work out their differences in the big open spaces of Argentina, freed from the pressure-cooker atmosphere of New Orleans. And wouldn’t Doc Landrieu be thrilled to remove not one buttwo vampires from his home city!
Brimming with eager anticipation, Jules rang the doorbell. While waiting for Doc Landrieu to come to the door, he continued grinning like a kid who’d just won a shiny ten-speed bicycle. But Doc Landrieu didn’t come. Jules rang the bell again. The house remained dark.
He checked the driveway. Doc Landrieu’s car was there. Maybe he was down in his workshop and hadn’t heard the bell? Jules squeezed past the doctor’s car and circled to the back of the house. No lights shone through the narrow windows of the basement workshop.
Maybe the doctor had gone to bed early. That had to be it. He was a heavy sleeper, perhaps, and the bell wasn’t loud enough to wake him. Or maybe the bell was busted. Sure. It could be any of those things.
Whatever the deal was, Jules sure couldn’t wait for morning to talk with his ex-boss. It was kind of rude to wake the old man up if he was sleeping, but considering how eager Doc Landrieu had been to take Jules away from New Orleans, surely the doctor wouldn’t get too miffed over missing a few hours of shut-eye.
With his vampiric strength, Jules was certain he could knock a heck of a lot louder than any doorbell. Hoping he wouldn’t crack the door’s fresh coat of forest-green paint, he rapped the stout wood panels.
Yielding to his assault, the door swung open.
Jules was frozen with surprise. He hadn’t hit itthat hard. Not hard enough to bust the lock. Not even hard enough to dislodge the latch. Someone had left the door only partially shut.
Jules pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Doc Landrieu? Hey, Doc? It’s Jules Duchon.”
The house was quiet. Jules’s fingers fumbled along the wall until they located the light switch. The front parlor was unoccupied, but seemingly undisturbed. The big-screen television and stereo set were still where he remembered them. So the house hadn’t been burglarized. Maybe the doc was getting forgetful in his advanced age?
>
“Doc?” he called, louder than before. “It’s Jules. Hate to wake you, pal. But I decided to take you up on your offer.”
Still no response. Jules walked deeper into the parlor. Behind the sofa, between the edge of an expensive Persian rug and the hallway leading to the study and the kitchen, he found a brass floor lamp. It had tipped over and fallen onto the hardwood floor. Shattered pieces of colorful Tiffany glass were scattered across the polished teak.
Jules felt his heart sink. His boots crunched bits of broken glass. Dreading what he might find, he checked the kitchen, then the study, turning on lights as he went. He climbed the stairs, fear making his heart pound more unbearably than exertion ever had. The three upstairs bedrooms were empty and mute, betraying no traces of violence.
There was only one place left for him to check. He descended the stairs to the first-floor basement, where Doc Landrieu had his workshop and lab. Halfway down the stairs, the odor hit him. Jules’s last, brittle hopes disintegrated. After eighty-plus years in the vampire business, he knew the stench of decaying flesh all too well.
He found Doc Landrieu stretched out on his main worktable. His clothing and loose folds of his skin had been pinned to the table with long, skinny nails, as though he were a beetle on a high school biology dissecting tray. Broken lengths of glass tubing, tubing that the doctor had used for distilling his compounds, projected from his corpse like the quills of a porcupine.
Transfixed by this desecration of a man who had been his friend and mentor, Jules stumbled closer to the table. The unfrozen part of his mind noted that the fragments of glass tubing had not been driven into the doctor’s body haphazardly. The entry points had been chosen very carefully, sited to intersect with major veins and arteries. Dried residue of blood marked the inside of each hollow piece of glass.
Fat White Vampire Blues Page 35
