by Jon F. Merz
"Man named Cosgrove."
"Friend of yours?"
I looked at him, and he broke into a toothy grin. Simbik knew if I was looking for someone, they definitely weren’t a candidate for sainthood.
"So, what’s your boy look like?"
I looked further down the street. "Don’t know."
Simbik cocked one of his bushy eyebrows. "Great job you got, Lawson. If I wasn’t so happy being a doorman here, rejecting little kids with bogus IDs and all, I might threaten to come aboard."
"What can I tell you – cosmetic surgery makes my life a bitch. No one’s got a recent photo of him."
He nodded. "Figures." He adjusted the radio earpiece he wore. "So, how you gonna do it?"
"He’s got a certain style. I’ll watch for it."
"Hey, man, Landsdowne’s a short street, but it’s got eight clubs, thousands of people, and only four hours to check them all out. You ain’t got that many eyes, my friend."
"Simbik, I’m a professional. I use cunning, experience, and a lot of good detailed information."
His left eyebrow arched higher on his forehead.
I shrugged. "All right, so you’re the only friend I’ve got down here. Your place is as good as any to start with, y’know?"
"Yeah." Simbik lit an unfiltered cigarette and took a long drag, expelling a thin stream of smoke into the night air. "Always knew my number would come up someday."
"Mind if I check it out?"
"Hey, bana gore hava hos."
"Thanks." I started inside but Simbik stopped me.
"Lawson."
I looked at him.
He blew more smoke into the night air. "You sure he’ll be inside?"
"Not really."
"You find him in there, what happens?"
"I kill him."
He regarded me for a moment. "Can you whack him quietly? I got a job here and all."
"Simbik, if I find this guy in your club, I’ll kill him any damned way I can. You’ll thank me for it a million times and then buy me all
the Bombay Sapphire I can drink."
"He’s that bad, huh?"
"No." I shook my head. "He’s even worse." I ducked under the blue velvet curtain and vanished into the shadowy recesses of the club.
Into the unknown.
Chapter Two
Inside, I felt the pulsing rhythm of amplified dance music rocket into my ear drums. Blue lasers and flashing lights pierced the darkness before being swallowed up again by the shadows. The dark kept me safe. If Cosgrove caught sight of me, he’d either try to escape or kill me.
Not knowing what Cosgrove looked like put me at a real disadvantage. Spend the kind of money Cosgrove had and you could put a new face on an elephant, call it a mouse, and no one would know any better.
Christ, he could look like anybody now.
Fortunately, the only thing more demanding than his bloodlust was Cosgrove’s vanity. Any changes to his appearance would have to make him look more attractive. He’d be a good-looking guy, probably with a couple of women around him. Cosgrove loved flaunting himself.
He hadn’t always been like that. Time was, Cosgrove’s looks ranked right down there with the kind of road rash you’d find at a motorcycle accident scene. But a huge trust fund and family money enabled him to get the wrongs righted and come out looking like some GQ model, albeit a deranged one.
By comparison, my short bristly permanently graying hair poked straight out of my scalp at odd angles, accentuating my large forehead and reasonably strong jawline that hadn’t yet succumbed to age. McKinley once called me a walking military recruitment poster.
Maybe I could use some time in Sweden.
I stopped at the first bar, leaned into the Naugahyde padding and ordered a Bombay Sapphire with tonic from a guy with far too much metal lancing his skin. I slid a ten dollar bill on the counter then turned to sip the drink and watch the crowd.
In Simbik’s club there was only one VIP area. It overlooked the dance floor from an upper balcony wrapped in maroon padded couches. I felt sure Cosgrove would be sitting up there surveying potential victims like he was on some kind of sick shopping spree.
"Is that a gin and tonic?"
Brunette. Too much makeup. In my peripheral vision I could see her holding her drink up next to mine in some kind of vain attempt at playing Match Game. "Good choice," she said.
I took another sip and continued watching the floor. "What kind of gin did you order?"
The look on her face told me she had no idea. "Try Bombay
Sapphire next time," I said and moved into the crowd. That
would count as my contribution to human society tonight. A little education for the masses on what constituted a damned fine drink. And if I took Cosgrove out, that’d be my angel’s wings for sure. I might just make this a banner night.
I took the steps to the upper balcony slowly, using the black metal rail to cover my approach. Cosgrove would be sitting near an exit. A pompous bastard maybe, but he wasn’t entirely stupid.
Unfortunately, he knew that I always worked alone. The price of being the best at what I do.
Sometimes being good really sucked.
A club security guard barred my way; apparently I wasn’t wearing this season’s appropriate Gucci fashion apparel. I smiled. "Simbik sent me."
He nodded and let me pass.
At the top of the stairs, I paused, scanned the recessed shadows for any signs that Cosgrove might be there. Even with the onslaught of steady musical rampage, I could hear the juicy sounds of several people swapping spit and Southern Hemisphere body fluids. So much for safe sex. It was only a matter of time before humans wiped themselves out. Even with AIDS killing thousands of people, they still wouldn’t listen. I wouldn’t even care but continued epidemic levels of a killer disease threatened the food chain. And that meant my existence might even come into question.
I zeroed in on the recessed circular couch to my right. A man being wooed by two women and a possible threesome reclined against the back wall. Lucky bastard.
I walked over, standing in front of him. He was about six-one and weighed maybe two hundred pounds. That was about right for Cosgrove. And it gave him about a twenty pound advantage over yours truly.
I’m usually much more subtle. I wouldn’t normally dream of making an approach this way. Unfortunately, McKinley sending me out without even a vague idea of what Cosgrove looked like, complicated things to the point where subtlety lost out to a frontal attack.
I cleared my throat.
Whoever he was, he wasn’t happy with my sudden appearance.
"What the fuck do you want?"
I took a sip of my drink, felt the delicate flavoring of juniper and licorice as it coursed down my throat. I smiled.
"Mav kola an gurok."
It was a simple enough greeting in the old language. I wasn’t quite sure what I hoped to gain by saying it. Maybe lull Cosgrove into replying which would have been a dead giveaway.
I didn’t get my wish.
"Fucking immigrants," said the man in front of me. He stood and tried to shove me away. I pivoted, used his momentum and sent him sprawling down the stairs with me close on his heels.
I caught up with him just as he came to rest at the base of the steps. I tugged down the collar on his shirt and examined the base of his clavicle for the birthmark that would identify him as Cosgrove. The birthmark was the one guarantee I had that Cosgrove could never erase. Even with all the Swedish doctors working on it. It branded us all, the mark of my race. A tattoo of sorts that was as much a means of identification as it was a stigmata.
Nothing.
Shit.
I looked up in time to see three bouncers closing in one me. One of them grabbed me around the upper right arm and another went for the same grip on my left. But they hadn’t moved in unison, giving me valuable seconds to elbow the one on my right and drive him off. He floundered but came right back. This time I drove my elbow into his diaphragm and
he backed off. But there were two more.
The second one flew in for a tackle around my waist and I dropped both elbows on to the top of his back, driving him down into my bent knees. He slid off, out cold.
The third one hesitated, having seen me deal with his two much bigger co-workers with apparent ease. Instead of trying to deal with me alone, he reached for his radio.
Time to go.
I sprinted for the fire exit near the back of the club on the ground floor. As I ran, one of the patrons raised his champagne flute in my direction. A shock of brown hair topping a set of piercing blue eyes. Prominent cheekbones narrowing to a fine nib at the chin. He smiled in the darkness, catching one of the blue lasers across his gleaming perfectly capped teeth. And four elongated incisors.
Cosgrove.
I stopped short – already reaching for my pistol – but at that moment I caught another flying tackle around the waist that sent both me and my attacker into the alleyway behind the club, toppling over trash cans, beer bottles and garbage. Amid the smell of dank urine and week-old garbage, I knew instantly who had rushed me out of the club.
"Simbik!"
He got to his feet. "Allah karetsin, Lawson! You trying to get me fired? People saw us talking, man. You can’t pull this kind of shit here. Even for you, I gotta draw the line."
I brushed myself off. "I would have handled it much quieter if the big lug upstairs hadn’t tried to prove himself."
"Your mistake, your problem," said Simbik. "Aren’t you supposed to be a professional, man? Shit, I know fourteen year olds who woulda pulled a hit cleaner than that."
"I told you I didn’t know what my mark looked like. I had to be sure."
"So you go hassling everyone else? Forget about it, man. You can do better than that."
I started for the door. "All right, all right, it won’t happen again-"
Simbik’s hand on my chest stopped me. "Hold it, paisan."
"What’s the problem?" I pulled his hand off of me.
"You know I can’t let you back in there."
"You have to. Cosgrove’s in there."
"You mean the guy you’re after?"
"Yeah."
Simbik frowned. "If he’s in there, why’d you go after the other guy?"
"I didn’t know he was in there at that point. I just saw him as you graciously escorted me out."
"It’s dark in there, man. Maybe you just thought it was him. The shadows and lighting can really mess with your vision. Trust me. I go home with a headache at least twice a week."
"I saw him. You have to believe me."
Simbik sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I do." He frowned. "But I can’t let you back in. I’m sorry."
I knew it was no good arguing. If history taught me anything, it was that Turks stuck to their decisions. Especially Turks named Simbik. I wasn’t getting back inside.
"Okay, but watch that guy. He’s the one by the door at the exit here. He’s dangerous."
"Yeah, I heard you the first time." Simbik turned back to the club door. "Be good Lawson."
I watched him knock on the door and then disappear into the club. Back into the pulsating darkness. And the danger within.
Chapter Three
I’m not crazy about setbacks. They disrupt the flow of things and I’m a big fan of flow. So when Simbik put his foot down and forbid me re-entrance to the club. I hoofed it around to the front and flagged a cab down. I slid into the back seat and handed the driver a fifty dollar bill through the supposedly bullet-resistant Plexiglas.
"Where to?"
"Nowhere. How much wait time does a fifty buy me?"
"Make it a C note and you get ’bout an hour. ‘Less of course a hot blonde offers me sex. That case, you’re history."
"Fair enough." I slid another bill through.
He took the two fifties, turned the meter off, and picked up the paper next to him on the seat.
I leaned back against the vinyl and sighed. Always did hate surveillance. It was mind-numbing boredom, plain and simple. Let me tell you, it wasn’t like Hollywood out here in reality. Joe Blow Detective did not roll up on a stake-out, have a burger and a cola and only wait five minutes before his mark came out.
What a laugh. Even for me, caffeine ran through my system like water through an open hand. And the wait was always, repeat, always long.
My watch read 1:05. An hour would just cover the mass exodus from the clubs. When Cosgrove would make his move.
Pangs of hunger gnawed at my insides. Despite the meal McKinley and I shared earlier. Despite the candy bar I’d had on the way down here…
I was hungry.
But business came first. I could always eat later. In this town, if you knew where to look, you could always find something to eat. Even if you had to hit an all-night convenience store.
I could see myself in the cabby’s rearview mirror. What a sight. The years were really starting to take their toll. Oh, not that you could tell, but I could. Stay around this damnable planet long enough and things began to take root on your face. The small crow’s feet clawed at my eyes. Even a second chin was trying to gain a beachhead. I might actually start looking middle-aged soon.
Youth was always a prize for me. For us. We all needed it. We all desired it. Those born into the society craved it like some young teenager on a first-time heroin high. Second only to the life force a mother could give, the need for youth was paramount.
It wasn’t all about vanity. Never had been, despite what’d been written. Youth held the keys to our power. Our magnetism. Our success as a people.
It didn’t come easily, though, especially nowadays. Everyone was into liposuction, plastic surgery, and whatever else they could do to try to keep the unstoppable assault of time from happening.
It made it real hard to find someone genuine.
Someone you could borrow from.
Well, that’s what I called it. It was a lot more politically correct to say "borrow" as opposed to "suck the blood of."
We were, after all, scarcely noticed by human society. We blinked in and out of your lives as easily as you drew a breath. We were the darkness on the edge of your peripheral vision, the flash of light speeding past you. We were apex predators; we were invisible.Except when nut jobs like Cosgrove came into town and threatened our anonymity by draining their victims of every ounce of precious fluid.
We didn’t require all that much to sustain ourselves. And we didn’t always go for the neck. A bad hangnail would do in a pinch. It was a lot less romantic to be sure, but it got the job done with little notice. It was a lot harder explaining bite marks on the neck, although with the S&M crowd, it was easier than it once was. But easier only if you were into the kink of that whole scene.
I’m not.
Maybe I was sexually old fashioned but the things that turned me on were beautiful women in nice lingerie. Especially thigh-highs. And two were always better than one. But that was it. I was not into seeing how much metal I could spear through my body or how much candle wax I could scald my skin with. And don’t even mention animals. Christ.
So, for a supposed prude like me, the hunting could get scarce sometimes. But I always made do.
Even if I didn’t particularly care for it. Yeah, you heard me right. I wasn’t really into the whole process. I didn’t have a choice, of course. But it was like when you were a little kid and had to eat your vegetables. You didn’t want to, but you did anyway. Had to grow up big and strong after all.
It’s funny how fast time flies by when you’re thinking about something else. My fifty bucks ran out just as the first wave of drunken club-goers tumbled out of the doors spilling onto the damp asphalt like so much candy from a piñata.
I gave the cab up to two guys who would probably need a crowbar to pry themselves apart within an hour and headed across the street, wading into the frenzied albeit sluggish mass.
The sirens interrupted my concentration. Two cop cars and an ambulance were trying to part the sea of limousines a
nd taxis clogging Landsdowne Street. They eventually succeeded and as they drew near, I knew Cosgrove’d already struck. I was too late.
I whirled around, frantically scanning the crowd for him. I knew he’d stay around. Cosgrove was a huge fan of his work. And if he’d spotted me he’d do it just for spite. But he was nowhere right then that I could see.
The ambulance stopped and the paramedics dragged a gurney into the club. No defibrillator unit. It was like they already knew it was no use trying to revive what couldn’t be brought back. Five minutes later they reemerged with a sheet-covered body.
It was then that I caught a snippet of conversation among the security crew of the club. And what I heard made me approach the paramedics and stop them.
I drew the sheet back.
Simbik’s vacant eyes stared at me from beyond the curtain of death.
Then…laughter.
I turned. Across the street. Cosgrove. He laughed so softly no one else heard him. No one but me. He smiled and waved me on.
Then he ran.
I chased him down the rain-slicked darkened streets. We ran past the office supply store. Past one side of Fenway Park where the Red Sox played baseball, sometimes badly. Our feet made no noise as we skirted broken beer bottles, used condoms, and an odd syringe. Cosgrove seemed to skip away from me with ease but he always stayed just close enough to tease me. I hated him all the more for that. After all, he’d just fed and the vital energy coursing through his system made him stronger than me at the time.
But he’d killed a friend of mine and I was hoping my wrath would sustain me even when the last drop of Simbik’s vitality was burned in the furnace of Cosgrove’s dementia.
We spilled onto Brookline Avenue down near the old Sears building that was vacant pending renovation and some new construction. They wanted to turn it into another useless shopping mall.
Cosgrove turned and smiled at me through the darkness, then he streaked towards the battered hulk of the building, leapt and crashed through a window two stories up.
I didn’t follow.
One of Cosgrove’s specialties was ambushes. He was a downright sneaky bastard and before I’d known any better, I had had the pleasure of first-hand experience. I didn’t like repeating mistakes so I made my entrance on the ground level.
