In the movies, cowboys always had names for their favorite guns, usually something stupid like Betsy. I named my gun Shalonda because she was big, black, and when she shot her mouth off someone was going to have their day ruined.
I named her after an unfortunate encounter with a woman at the DMV. I had been standing in line for the better part of the morning to renew my driver’s license. Sometimes I have to play chauffeur in addition to bodyguard and getting in trouble for something stupid like an expired license is just dumb.
Unfortunately, after finally reaching the front of the line, I am not too politely informed by Shalonda that my license was expired and I would have to retest. Given my already prickly disposition, my lack of patience, and being forced to stand nuts to butt with what I generally feel are cattle, I let Shalonda know exactly how I felt about that.
She proceeded to open a verbal can of whoop ass the likes of which I had never seen much less been the target of. She reduced me to a pile of my elemental components right there in the lobby of the DMV. When she finally finished berating me like a vile child she loudly let everybody know that she was going on break and wouldn’t be back for a half hour after that “Matrix-looking, cracker mother fucker” in the trench coat was gone.
It did not help that I got the stink eye from everyone that now either had to wait for her to come back or slide over to another line. That incident left me so traumatized it was three years before I went back and finally renewed my license. I don’t know what kind of masochist resides inside of me, but I think I could have married that woman.
The gun slides comfortably into the holster built into my left coat pocket. The special construction of the pocket makes it nearly undetectable to the naked eye. Given where I have to go, nothing less than a howitzer would make me feel truly safe, but I have to talk to people to find out about Martin, and unfortunately those people are werewolves.
Another thirty-minute cab ride takes me to an alley bar on east Tremont. I step out of the cab near the end of the alley, navigate my way past the refuse that lines the tall brick walls to either side, and stride confidently but carefully towards the huge, leather-clad man guarding the door.
He does not even try to hide the sneer carved onto his face as he watches me stroll down the alley. As I reach for the handle of the steel door, he stops me with an open palm that nearly covers my entire chest.
“Where do you think you’re going, leech?”
I really hate being touched.
“Inside,” I growl as politely as I can, which means with barely suppressed hostility.
The man shakes his big, shaggy, greasy, reddish-brown, head. “Not gonna happen.”
“Fine, maybe you can help, Mr…?” I ask him with a sigh.
“Meat.”
“Meat? Oh that’s charming. Is that short for dead meat or something?”
“Ain’t short for nothing.”
I sigh again. “Fine, Meat, do you know Martin Goldstein?”
“Why the hell would I tell the likes of you if I do?”
I’m not the least surprised at his contrariness. Weres are an unpleasant lot at the best of times and me being a vampire does not bring out their best behavior, and me being me tends to bring out outright hostility with a high probability of violence so I need to tread carefully.
“Meat, it is important that I talk to someone about Mr. Goldstein. Now if you don’t want to talk to me then I will need to talk to someone inside. So you can A: answer my question, B: let me inside so I can ask someone in there, or C: continue to be an enormous pain in the ass in which case I will go through you and talk to someone inside.”
Meat gets the type of grin on his face that says he really wants to go with option C, but he surprises me by answering my question.
“Yeah, I know Marty.”
“Now we are making progress. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday, getting his dick sucked by your mother on the corner of fuck you street and kiss my ass avenue.”
Son of a bitch, I walked into that one. I don’t know what pisses me off more; getting slapped with a “your mother” joke or the fact that I just got out smart-assed by a talking dog. I have to work very hard to suppress my mounting irritation.
Meat is playing me but all I need to do is show some restraint and patience and I can get him to tell me about Martin or let me inside. Unfortunately, I have neither of those things so I shoot him dead in the face with my bear spray.
Meat immediately begins howling and clawing at his face. I step away from his wild thrashing and move around him to the door he is no longer doing a very good job of guarding. I glance behind me and see he is quickly shifting, so I nonchalantly point my arm behind me and give him another long blast as if I’m trying to put out a fire before stepping into the dimly lit hall of the werewolf bar.
I turn and throw the thick bolts of the door, securely locking it to keep the extremely pissed off werewolf outside while I ask my questions. The gloomy entry hall opens up into a reasonably well-lit interior. There are not many patrons, being only mid afternoon, but they all cease their talking and shoot me full of hostile glares as I enter.
“Don’t worry, fellas,” I tell the small crowd, “I won’t be staying long so don’t everyone start pissing on the furniture.”
Several of the patrons do stand up now and look about to do more than just glare at me, but fortunately the man behind the bar restores a small measure peace in the room.
“Calm down, guys. Drinks are on the house as long as the bloodsucker is here—beer only. How’d you get past Meat?”
The owner and bartender is Rick. One of the more decent weres I’ve met. I did some work for him a few years ago so I figure that gives me a shot at not being summarily torn to shreds like a cat tossed into a dog kennel. I also hope it will get me some information.
“I snuck past while he wasn’t looking. I think he had something in his eye—or eyes.”
“Leo, what the hell are you doing in here, you have a death wish?”
“I am hoping you can tell me about Martin Goldstein.”
“Martin?” Rick echoes in confusion. “Something happen to Martin?”
“I never said there was anything wrong. Why, do you think there is something wrong?”
“You only climb out from under your rock when something’s wrong. Since you’re asking about Martin I assume something’s happened to him.”
I ponder how much I want to tell him and realize I will have to let slip a tiny bit of my paltry hoard of information if I am going to get any in return.
“He didn’t come home the other night and his family asked me look into it, that’s all.”
“I see, so you aren’t looking to pin those killings on him them? I won’t give you one of ours no matter what he’s done. If there’s a problem, we’ll take of it.”
I should have known they would already know about the alley killings. Their information network may not be as sophisticated as ours but it worked.
Rick continues. “Did Katherine come to you? Why didn’t she come to us if she was worried about her dad?”
“Maybe she wanted him found and not just taken care of. It wouldn’t be the first time someone overreacted and made a mistake.”
Rick shook his head. “Not Martin, no way he was involved.”
“So you know Martin pretty well then?”
“Not really. His daughter comes in here more than he does and that’s usually just on business. He’s not big into the werewolf scene. He’s a pretty antisocial sort but not in the dangerous kind of way. ”
“So he’s not much of a brawler and bar hound kind of guy like most of you?”
Rick gave a snort of amusement. “Marty ain’t much of a werewolf. I’ve never seen him at a shifter party, never seen him mad, and never seen him as anything but the little bookworm accountant that he is. Like I said, no way Marty did those losers. Not that anyone should really care.”
Shifter parties are where a bunch
of werewolves gather around a big fire in the country, howl at the moon, fight, drink, and screw all night. It’s like a hairy, disgusting burning man festival.
I was going to ask Rick a few more questions but I am interrupted by what sounds like someone repeated driving a truck into the bar’s steel door.
I look from the direction of the door back to Rick. “Rick, you wouldn’t happen to have another way out of here would you?”
“Sorry, only for people I like.”
“You wound me, Rick, you really do,” I reply in a voice full of false hurt.
“Not nearly as much as Meat’s going to when he gets a hold of you. I don’t know what you did, but it sounds like Meat is very unhappy. Knowing you, it was something way out of line.”
I ignore Rick’s accusation and ask, “That’s a really strong door isn’t it?”
Whatever answer Rick is going to give me is cut short by the sound of the thick portal being bashed in and thudding heavily to the floor after leaving a rather big crater in the brick wall off which it bounces. It would not have mattered if it had been the side of a battleship. Meat was tough even for his kind and nothing was going to stop him from tearing me apart.
I shoot Rick something resembling a pleading look and I think for a moment that he is going to have mercy on me.
“Leo,” he says, “do me a favor and step away from the bar. Cleaning you up off the floor is a whole lot easier than having to rewash all the glasses. Plus there’s a lot less to break over there.”
“Sure, wouldn’t want my death to inconvenience you,” I reply and step near the middle of the room to give myself space to fight my way past the furious werewolf and hopefully make my escape.
Contrary to popular belief, or at least sappy teen movies, vampires and werewolves don’t fight that often. We generally avoid each other out of a mutual grudging respect and our own self-preservation. It is this unfamiliarity that makes me forget how incredibly fast they are compared to humans.
As Meat launches himself across the room, I have a brief second to realize how big a tactical mistake I made in bullying my way inside a brick building with only one way out accessible to me.
Most werewolves are like a light switch. They are either on or off; human or big ugly wolf. However, a rare few, like Meat obviously, have the depth of control to maintain a partial shift; the quintessential wolfman like you used to see in the movies. It is this kind that is the most dangerous, especially in an enclosed environment. They have all the freakish strength of a werewolf with the dexterity, opposable thumbs, and some of the intelligence and cunning that comes with being human. In short, I am really screwed.
Meat smashes into me before I can bring my bear spray up for another blast to his furry face. I can hear my ribs break from the punch he lands and fly back half the length of the bar to slam up against the wall with a sound like a wet pillow thrown against the bricks. Where my bear spray lands, I have no clue.
I am almost tempted to pull out Shalonda but I know that would turn every wolf in the place on me, so my only option is to try to talk my way out, or at least distract him long enough to get past him. I really doubt he will chase me out into the streets of New York.
I stand shakily back onto my feet, holding one hand out before me while I use the other to hold myself up against the wall.
“Meat, I realize that shooting you in the face with pepper spray was not a diplomatic way to get inside. I should not have done that.”
That is the closest thing anyone will ever hear from me in the way of an apology and I only say it to try and save my life and that doesn’t count.
“I was just trying to get some information on a job I was hired to do and you were being difficult so I overreacted. You just broke most of my ribs so I think we’re good now. How about you let me leave?”
Meat responds in a barely intelligible snarl, “We are not good! I’m going to tear your arms off, you bloodsucking bastard!”
Despite its uselessness, I reach for a chair to hurl at him just as he is readying himself to spring at me again. Just as he is about to pounce, I catch a blur out of the corner of my eye and watch a glass beer mug shatter against the back of Meat’s head.
Meat spins on his new attacker with a roar of fury and stops with a look of shock and confusion on his face as Katherine is winding up for second throw.
“Calm down, Meat. You know me and I have helped keep you out of prison many times,” she reminds him in a calm voice all the while keeping her right arm cocked back for second throw.
It is all I can do to keep from laughing at the ridiculousness of the entire scene. Here I am, the tough-guy vampire that fills even most of my own kind with fear, with my ribs crushed and a monstrous werewolf that is about to make me his bitch is being held off by a pretty little blonde girl with a one hundred mile per hour beer mug pitch.
To my surprise, Meat shifts back to his very naked human form and presses his hand against the gash in his head that is already healing closed.
“Kate, what did you go and do that for?” the big werewolf asks, the pain of betrayal evident in his voice.
“Because he is here helping me find my dad and he can’t do that if you kill him,” she replies, seemingly oblivious to his nakedness. I wish I was.
“Oh, meat, now I get the reference.”
He turns towards me and says, “If she hadn’t shown up you really would have gotten the reference.”
Then he shakes his hips at me and makes it dance like kid playing with a garden hose. I swear to God if he helicopters that thing, I’m going to puke right here and now. Thankfully, he turns back to Katherine, which does little to make me feel better.
“Sorry, Kate, he didn’t say anything about working for you.”
Rick calls out from behind his bar. “Katherine, be a dear and get him out of here while he and my bar are still in one piece.”
“Sure thing, Rick. Let’s go, Leo, I think you wore out your welcome.”
“I’m pretty sure I did that before the cab dropped me off.
I cast my eyes about in search of my bear spray. “Anyone see where my dog spray rolled off to?”
“I think you best just leave it here and go,” Rick answers.
I shrug and try to shoulder my way past Meat in an act of defiance that says I’m not intimidated by him, but that image is ruined as I jump away when he swings his junk at me like a horse swatting a fly with its tail. He and the rest of his pack think this is the funniest thing they have ever seen and laugh uproariously. Weres are such disgusting creatures.
Katherine and I step out of the gloomy bar and into the dreary grey light of a cloud-covered New York afternoon.
“You parked close by?” I ask her as we step past the ruined doorframe and into the alley.
She looks up at me quizzically and answers, “Yeah, right at the end of the alley. Why?”
I pull a small remote out of my pocket, similar to those used for car alarms, and press the little red button. A muffled pop responds from inside the bar and is quickly followed by a chorus of shouted cursing.
“Leo, what did you just do?” Katherine asks in a mix of concern and amusement as I take her by the elbow and hustle her towards her waiting car.
Another little customization to my bear spray. Other than being roughly two and a half times as potent is the tiny bit of C4 inside the can with a blasting cap and receiver just in case I ever need a CS grenade effect—like now.
“What did you do?” She demands more forcefully as she yanks her arm from my grasp.
I look over my shoulder and see the patrons of the bar come spewing out, wiping their eyes and coughing up great globs of phlegm.
“I’ll tell you in the car. Speed is really of the essence right now.”
Thank God for remote locks on cars these days. I can just imagine Katherine fumbling about with her keys while she tries to unlock the door as a pissed off pack of gassed werewolves start tearing down the alley towards us.
Thankfully
, none of them shifts into wolf form. Not only would they be unlikely to have the sense not to chase us like dogs after a delivery truck, Katherine would have a hard time explaining to her insurance company how her door was ripped off its hinges. They’d probably piss on the seats just out of spite, and she’d never get that smell out.
“Now tell me what just happened,” she demands as we drive back towards Brooklyn.
“How should I know? One of them probably got bit on the ass by a flea and went into a fit.”
The look she gives me makes it quite clear that she does not find me amusing or believable.
“Fine, I think my can of bear spray may have exploded.”
“And why would it have exploded?”
“I don’t know; the heat? It felt pretty warm in there to me.”
Again the look.
“Fine, I may have triggered a small explosive built into the can.”
“Why would you do that?” She demands to know. “We were outside! There was no reason to do that.”
“Hey, I asked for my spray back and they wanted to be dickheads about it.”
“Oh please, this has nothing to do with your stupid pepper spray.”
“Then you tell me what it was about, Nancy Drew-Freud,” I respond hotly.
“It’s about you picking a fight and not being used to being on the receiving end of an ass kicking!”
Well damn it all to hell, a friggin bullseye.
I cross my arms defensively and ask crossly, “What are you, a freaking lawyer?”
“Assistant prosecuting attorney,” Katherine answers with an annoying self-satisfied smile.
I quickly decide to change the subject to one not involving me or my motivations.
“You seemed awfully chummy in there considering the fact that you’re a mutt.”
If she was offended, she didn’t show it. “I’ve kept a lot of them out of jail many times, especially Meat. Lucky for you he owes me.”
“It must be nice having a guardian angel in the prosecutor’s office when you’re an uncontrolled freak of nature.”
Shrouds of Darkness Page 9
