The very last thing she said to me was “Ask those scary questions.”
I tried to call her a few days later, and was informed by another girl, informed very matter-of-factly, that she was dead. When I asked how it had happened, I was told there had been an argument with one of her regular johns. This unfamiliar whore, she kept talking at me, how a void dissipation spell had been involved, how Clemency probably never knew what hit her, but by then I wasn’t really listening anymore. Before I hung up, I caught one last thing, though. The voice on the other end wanted to know if I was Siobhan Quinn. I didn’t answer her; I figured the demon already knew the answer.
I sat on my crummy fucking mattress in my crummy fucking apartment, half starved, and I cried for the first time since the night in the warehouse when I “killed” the ghoul. I cried until I finally couldn’t cry anymore, and fell asleep. I dreamed of Lily and Clemency and a friend from elementary school, along with a stingy handful of other precious things I’d known and lost. When I woke, it was a little after midnight, and there was bright moonlight streaming in the window.
Hey, bummer, I know. But comedy and horror, they dance that wicked danse macabre. So, it can’t all be shits and giggles, right? Feel free to stop reading at any time. I won’t be insulted.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE BLUNDERBUSS, BOSTON HARRY, AND THE BEAST
I’ve never much cared for dream sequences in books. Well, to be fair, speaking of those books I’ve read that have included dream sequences, I’ve never cared for them. For the dream sequences. Not even sure I can explain why. Mostly, if I set my mind to it, I suspect I dislike dream sequences, as portrayed in books, because I don’t think they resemble actual dreams. Dream sequences in books have always seemed to me like pointing to one of those little green plastic Monopoly houses and hoping people will mistake it for the Taj Mahal. And maybe there are some people who’d accept the one for the other. Just don’t number me among them. Anyway, this is my long-ass winded way of saying that a couple of days after learning of Clemency’s death (or whatever), I had a dream. And I suppose it was portentous, and I could pause to read all manner of things into it. Maybe the Bride’s hoodoo had left me a dash of the second sight, or maybe it was a parting gift from a demon whore, slipped into me on a kiss. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now.
I dreamed of Mr. B sitting there in his booth at Babe’s on the Sunnyside, with this row of dominoes lined up on the table in front of him. Hector was there, and the other guys from my street. Mr. B knocked over one domino, and watched as the others dutifully fell, one after the next.
Pretty lousy dream, yeah.
When I woke from the dream, it was late in the day, only a couple of hours until sunset. I sat in my bedroom awhile, smoking and staring at the wall and listening to WRIU on the radio. Then I wandered into the front room and peered out through the curtains. The boys were playing dominoes on the sidewalk, just like usual (loop back to the dream, so I stared at them a moment). And then I noticed what was parked by the curb. My fucking car was parked there, the Honda I hadn’t seen since that night out at the Reservoir, that night I had my run-in with Grumet and the Bride. Someone had even gone to the trouble of having it washed (though, frankly, that only made it look that much dingier).
Could’ve been Mr. B, that was my first thought. But that didn’t make much sense, not really, and so my second thought, returning the car, that must have been Mercy Brown’s doing. Who the hell else was there left to suspect? Sure, I reasoned, Mercy Brown, she must have minions of her own. Alice Cregan couldn’t have been the long and short of it. No doubt, there was a whole clique of little shits who did her bidding, and one of them had been told to bring the car back to me. As to the why, I hadn’t the foggiest idea.
I found the Ray-Bans and slipped them on. I wasn’t in the mood to bother with the contacts (or the makeup, for that matter). I’d just have to take my chances. I stepped out into the too, too bright day. I asked the boys if any of them had seen who’d left the Honda, and none of them knew shit. I’d sort of suspected they wouldn’t.
“Car was there when we set up,” said Hector (or Hugo or . . . I’m never gonna figure that out, so let’s just stick with Hector). “But it’s your ride, yeah, chica?”
“I thought it was lost,” I replied.
He looked at it and spat tobacco juice on the sidewalk. “Looks like someone found it.”
The doors weren’t locked, and the keys were in the ignition. In that neighborhood, it was a miracle no one had appropriated my p.o.s. Honda for their own purposes. Oh, and when I started it, I discovered the gas tank was full. And the broken speedometer was working again, and the left headlight had been replaced, the one that had only worked when it felt like it. So, whoever left the car, they’d gone to the trouble to have it cleaned and seen to a bit of fix-up beforehand. Regardless, at least there’d be no more taxis and buses. I went back and locked my front door, and then I drove. I wasn’t sure where I was driving at first, just driving so I wouldn’t be sitting on that filthy mattress waiting until I was too hungry not to murder the first poor, dumb schmuck who crossed my path.
I drove beneath Aloysius’ bridge, and then took the entrance onto I-195, and realized that I was driving to Cranston. I realized I was on my way to find Bobby Ng, even if I wasn’t exactly sure why.
Here’s another news flash, darling. The grapevine leads one to believe Mr. Bobby Ng isn’t long for the world.
Who the hell would bother killing Ng?
Delivers pizzas on the side. Didn’t that used to be your neck of the woods, Cranston?
She was mine. They promised. She was supposed to be mine. You fucking cheated, Quinn.
They promised.
Dot to dot.
Ask those scary questions.
They promised.
And I exited onto I-95, heading south, and I started thinking about Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep, Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. They sure as hell wouldn’t lounge around their shitty apartment waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or the next domino to fall, if you’d rather I not go mixing my metaphors.
I left I-95 and followed Doric to Park Ave. Must be ten, fifteen pizza joints in Cranston, right? And, naturally, I hadn’t a fucking clue which one Bobby Ng was working for. But I knew he drove an ancient AMC Gremlin the color of an overripe avocado and even more banged up than my Honda. I knew there was a bumper sticker on the hatchback window, “I Want to Believe.” You know, like Fox Mulder. Pure Bobby, through and through. Anyway, I drove. It’s not like I was in a hurry, was it? Hell, I could spend hours and hours driving around Cranston looking for the avocado Gremlin. Well, at least until the rumbling in my belly got too loud to ignore. Every now and then I tried to call B, even though I knew it was futile.
But luck be a lady and all that, right? Fourth pizza place I passed, there was Bobby’s green-black Gremlin parked right out front. Looked like someone had rear-ended him since the last time I’d seen the car, and the back fender was held on with two bungee cords. Guess delivering pies and chasing nasties wasn’t quite lucrative enough to pay the bill from a body shop, or maybe, like me, he just didn’t give a damn what the car looked like, as long as it ran. I pulled up across the street from the place, lit a Camel, and tried to figure out what to do next.
Had I come to warn him, because of what Clemency had said? Had I maybe come hoping he knew something I didn’t about all this crazy shit? Was I just looking to rid myself of a few drams of frustration by kicking his ass in a convenient alleyway? Or, was I just desperate for a familiar face, even if it was Bobby fucking Ng, demon hunter?
That dream about Mean Mr. B and his dominoes, there was more. I suppose my inherent dislike for dream sequences led to me skimming past those parts. Not like I could trust my memory of the dream, right? Anyway, he wasn’t alone in that booth at the back of Babe’s. The Bride, she was there, too, all china-doll pale and wispy silken hair. She sat watching the tumbling dominoes, and the way she watched them
made me think of a cat stalking a bird. Just crouching for the pounce. And there was a bullet hole right between Mr. B’s eyes. His brains stained the wall behind him. Right, right; helluva lot to leave out, sure. But there you go, take it or leave it.
If there are sketchier pizza joints in Cranston, I’ve never seen them. I figured, right off, the place had to be a front for something. Money laundering, dealing dope, take your pick. Not my business, but I did wonder how much someone was slipping the health inspector to keep the doors open. Or maybe he wasn’t on the take. Maybe threats from certain quarters were enough to score a clean bill of health. Place like that, Uncle Paulie’s Original Pizza, I couldn’t help but think cockroaches and flies had a place of honor on the menu, along with the pepperoni and Spanish olives.
I sat there listening to the radio for, I don’t know, however long it takes to hear one song by Echo and the Bunnymen, a song by the Cars, another by ’Til Tuesday, and a few I can’t remember. Truthfully, no, I don’t recall any of the songs. I’m guessing and writing stuff down because it sounds better. But it was an eighties nostalgia show, I’m sure of that much, and those are all bands I happen to like. I sat there across from the banged-up Gremlin and tried to figure out what I was going to do when Bobby Ng stepped out onto the sidewalk. Would I follow him? Would I open the door and maybe shout something like, “Hey, dick cheese!” There weren’t all that many options open to me, and I knew he’d bolt the second he saw who I was. Especially if he saw what I’d become. Fuck those business cards of his. Talk is cheap. Embossed business cards are probably even cheaper.
Anyway, yeah, I decided to follow him and hope that when he delivered someone’s extra large with all the toppings that there’d be someplace a little less public to have a chat with him.
Let’s cut to the chase. (By the way, I got curious and just looked up the origin of that phrase. Thought it would lead me back to Starsky and Hutch or Adam-12 or some shit. Nope. Turns out, the phrase “cut to the chase” first appears in 1929 as a line of direction in a script adapted from Joseph Patrick McEvoy’s novel, Hollywood Girl. No, I’ve never heard of McEvoy, either, and you gotta figure, he probably didn’t invent the phrase, and so it’s likely older than 1929. But . . . it occurs to me that it’s pretty stupid to say “cut to the chase” and then embark upon a goddamn eighty-five word exposition on the etymology. . . . )
Cut to the chase.
Though it wasn’t actually a bona fide chase. It was more like a crawl. So, cut to the crawl. Bobby Ng drives like an old woman, but then maybe the Gremlin won’t go any faster than fifteen miles per hour. Either way, gotta figure Uncle Paulie gets a buttload of complaints about cold pizzas and calzones. But, as I was saying, Ng was creeping along Park Avenue in his skeezy old car, finally turned left onto Roslyn. Then he proceeded to creep along another, I don’t know, but let’s say another two or three hundred yards. He finally pulled over in front of a house and made the delivery. I was guessing there must have been a bag of weed or coke inside the box, but, like I said, that’s none of my business. What happens at Uncle Paulie’s stays at Uncle Paulie’s. I pulled in close behind him, and it wasn’t until he was back behind the wheel that he realized I was sitting in the passenger seat.
I said, “You really do need to start locking this door, Bobby. All sorts of bad guys sneaking about. Never know.”
He made this sort of squawking noise and tried to get out again, but by then I had a good grip on his right shoulder, and we both knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
“I didn’t come here to kill you,” I said, though I’m absolutely sure he didn’t believe me. “But it would increase your chances of survival, and decrease the chances of me changing my mind, if you started the car and drove.”
“Where?” he all but whispered. “Where is it you want me to drive?”
“I have in mind something scenic. But we’ll figure that out as we go,” I replied, though I was already thinking about the Pocasset Cemetery, just above Print Works Pond. Lots of privacy up that way.
“You look like shit,” he said and turned the key in the ignition. A blue-gray puff of smoke leaked out from under the hood, and he had to try a couple more times before the car started.
“Feel even worse,” I told him.
“You know . . . I still have a limp from when you shot me with that arrow. Probably always will.”
“I didn’t shoot you with an arrow. I shot you with a bolt. It was a crossbow, and crossbows use bolts, not arrows.”
“Same goddamn difference,” he said, did a three-point turn around, and the avocado Gremlin chugged back towards Park Avenue. “I still got the limp.”
“Yeah, well. Poor fucking you. My heart cries crimson piss. I got lots worse than a limp cause of that night, but you’ve already noticed that, haven’t you?”
“Didn’t want to come right out and say a thing like that, Quinn.”
“Is that some sort of demon hunter etiquette?” I asked.
“No. Just common courtesy. How’s it gonna sound, you come right out and ask someone if she’s a vampire?”
I gave his shoulder a firm squeeze, sort of like Spock on Star Trek, right? He made the chicken noise again, but kept his eyes on the road.
“You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?”
“Let’s just say it’s a fluid situation, Bobby. You play by my rules, maybe I’ll just put you in a wheelchair.” I didn’t mean that, but it sounded good. I watch way too many gangster films. Guy Ritchie. Jason Statham. Quentin Tarantino. Et al.
“So you’re dead?”
“Jesus, Bobby. Ain’t that the way it usually works?”
“Who?”
“Who what?”
“Who did it to you?”
“Mama bear of that nasty I killed back in February. You know, the bitch I took down to save your sorry hide?”
“Yeah, Quinn. Sure. Right before you almost crippled me,” he muttered.
I squeezed his shoulder again. Any harder, and I’m pretty sure I’d have broken his collarbone.
“Fuck!” he yelped and almost ran a stop sign. He stomped the brakes so hard I slid forward and smacked against the dashboard. “Stop doing that! You break my arm, I won’t be driving anywhere.”
Gotta admit, he had a point.
I let go of his shoulder, and turned on the radio. There was nothing anywhere on the dial but static, so I switched it off again.
“Yeah, it’s toast,” he said, and nodded towards the radio. “Some asshole snapped the antenna off a while ago.”
I sat back in what was left of the bucket seat and massaged my right breast, the one I’d mashed against the dashboard. I shut my eyes a moment. “I’m not gonna kill you,” I told him. “But I hear someone else has it in their head to do that very thing. So, I figure we should talk. Hang a left.”
He took a deep, hitching breath and turned back onto Park. I told him when we reached the intersection with Haven, to take a right. He was a good boy, and did as he was instructed.
“So, who’s after me?”
“Well, given you’ve pissed off just about every preternatural son of a bitch in Rhode Island . . . and sizable chunks of Massachusetts and Connecticut, might be hard to narrow the list down.”
I don’t think he said anything else until after we’d crossed the Pocasset and turned north onto Dyer Avenue. I think you could probably see the stagnant green water of the pond by then. Both the windows were down—because, of course, the AC didn’t work, but also because the window handles didn’t work and there was no way to roll them up. I didn’t bother to ask what he did when it rained. The breeze through the window did nothing much to cool the stifling air inside the Gremlin.
“Didn’t know vamps sweated,” he said.
“Well, learn something new every day, don’t you?”
“Though, if I ever had stopped to think maybe they did sweat, I’d have guessed maybe they sweated blood, like—”
“Hey, Bobby. You got any idea just who that nasty’s mama be
ar was?”
“No, not really. I mean, I didn’t ask. But the way she changed, the wings and all, made sense had to be something wicked big.”
“Ever heard of a vamp calls herself the Bride of Quiet?” I took that whiter shade of pale he turned as a yes.
“She’s the one wants me dead?”
“I’m just guessing here, but that’s where I’d put my money. Offhand, can you think of anyone with a better fucking reason? Inconvenienced any archdukes of Hades lately?”
“Oh holy God,” Bobby Ng said, and the way he said it, probably the way someone on death row might say the same thing first look he or she gets at the gas chamber or the electric chair. Well, not that Rhode Island has the death penalty, but you know what I mean.
“God? When has he ever bothered to lend half a helping hand?” And he told me I shouldn’t blaspheme and pointed at the five rosaries and various other religious doodads dangling from his rearview mirror. That’s something I haven’t mentioned. I’ve seen altars less decked out with Catholic tchotchkes than the inside of Bobby Ng’s Gremlin. There was a plastic Virgin Mary glued to the dashboard, along with a pair of those disembodied praying hands that have always given me the willies.
“I’m a vampire, Bobby. Even if I believed in all this Jesus shit—and I don’t—wouldn’t you think the big guy in the sky has already written me off his holy guest list?”
“Maybe not.”
“Turn here,” I told him, jabbing a thumb at a bridge leading into the cemetery. The bridge was shaded by a grove of trees, and I almost told Bobby to stop right there. I had that tingling on the back of my neck, and maybe vamps don’t combust by light of day, but they sure as fuck get hot. I looked down at the river and imagined how cool the water would feel flowing over me.
“You made me drive to a cemetery, Quinn?”
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