X-Rated Blood Suckers

by Mario Acevedo

  Sliding my sunglasses down my nose, I read auras. Specifically, I searched for a vampire's orange blur. There weren't any. None of the red human auras betrayed a threat. When humans schemed violence, no matter how well they cemented a poker face, their auras advertised their emotionals like movie posters.

  It was six minutes past noon. I folded my sunglasses into a shirt pocket, put in my contacts, and cut across the intersection.

  The maître d', an anorexic brunette sporting a crispy tan she must have gotten in a rotisserie, welcomed me. I said I had a reservation with Andrew Tonic. She traced a finger across her seating chart, waved to a server, and asked that I follow him. We snaked around crowded tables and were engulfed by the din of conversations and rattling dishes.

  The server stopped beside a table on the left alongside the white fence. A balding man in a dark tailored suit put down his cocktail glass and stood to greet me.

  I recognized Andrew Tonic from photos on the Internet. Tonic at an award's banquet. Tonic in tennis whites from a country club newsletter. A young and hairy Tonic graduating from the Columbia School of Law.

  He had an egg-shaped head, wide at the top and tapering to a dimpled chin. A series of horizontal wrinkles creased his brow, as if the weight of his legal career had caused his skull to sag. Strands of thinning hair covered his smooth pate. I gave him points for this. In L.A., the land of make-believe and cosmetic anything, Tonic chose to forego the vanity of a rug or hair plugs.

  Tonic motioned to the chair opposite his. The server pulled it out for me, and I thanked him. Tonic and I sat.

  "How's the vodka and tonic?" I asked, knowing how particular Tonic was about the ingredients he used to season his liver.

  He smacked his lips dramatically. "Every sip is like Christmas." An alcoholic haze dulled the shine of his gray eyes. He was on seconds, maybe thirds. Tonic rested his elbows on the table. He wore a thick wedding band and gold cufflinks.

  I scanned the menu. Why did I agree to meet for lunch if I couldn't drench my food with blood? Should I try raw beef? I set the menu aside. "Andrew, I hope you are as eager to talk today as you sounded last week."

  "Even more so."

  "I'm curious about your motives. What do you have to gain by sharing information with me?"

  "Felix, like any lawyer, the skin around my ego is this thick."

  Tonic pinched a thumb and index finger. "I don't like what happened to Freya Krieger and how that made me look. It's one thing to lose a case, quite another to watch my client get tied to a rack and pulled apart."

  "Why didn't you appeal?"

  Tonic rubbed the stem of his cocktail glass and stared at his drink. "Freya gave up. The process broke her. Spiritually and financially." He cupped the glass and sipped. "I've got to give her credit, though. After resurrecting herself as Roxy Bronze, she walked into my office and handed me a check to square the outstanding balance of my fees."

  "And now she's dead."

  Tonic nodded and took a sip.

  "You can't undo that," I said. "And you didn't answer my question. Why are you talking to me?"

  "Vicarious petty revenge." Tonic set the glass down.

  "Against whom?" I asked.

  "For starters, Dr. Mordecai Niphe."

  "You believe he was involved with her murder?"

  Tonic looked up and opened his hands, as if pleading to the heavens. "Please, God, what I wouldn't give to see Niphe do the perp walk while singing 'Folsom Prison Blues.' " Tonic folded his hands and turned his eyes back to me. "But the answer is no."

  "What do you have against him?" I asked.

  "Plenty. He's the hatchet man for the California chapter of the AMA. Niphe has a take-no-prisoners reputation for protecting his fellow members against the state board."

  "Isn't that your specialty?" I asked. "Defending doctors before the board?"

  "Yes. But in Roxy's case, it was the unusual situation of Niphe siding with the board to attack her. After the board issued its judgment, exonerating Niphe of course, and dumping on Freya, Niphe made sure the AMA publicity machine painted me as her overreaching and inept counsel. The implicit message, Don't screw with Dr. Mordecai Niphe."

  The waiter stopped by. Tonic ordered a grilled salmon spinach salad. I asked for a steak so rare it mooed. Tonic picked at the basket of bread, tore loose a piece of ciabatta crust, and buttered it.

  I asked, "What do you know about the Reverend Dale Journey?"

  Tonic brought the bread to his mouth and paused. "What's he got to do with Freya or Niphe?"

  "I'm getting to that. How about if I tell you that Niphe might have been a silent investor for Journey."

  Tonic put the bread down. "If Niphe's portfolio has anything to do with Journey's church, it's in deep doo-doo. Journey's ministry is in debt up to here." Tonic slashed his fingers across his chin.

  "How do you know?"

  "Back nine conversation on the golf course between lawyers. Journey's fending off foreclosure."

  "How can Journey go broke? He must have tithes delivered to him by the truckload. Plus the federal government sends him blank checks."

  Tonic gave a lawyer's barracuda smile. "Greed disguised as mismanagement. The gross comingling of funds and the stink of embezzlement. Fleets of luxury cars. A corporate jet. Junkets to five-star accommodations. Seems the only thing the good reverend can't afford is an honest accountant."

  "What do you make of this?" I asked. "I followed Niphe when he detoured in the middle of the night to Journey's church."

  "Why would he go there?"

  "I was hoping you could fill in the blanks. Later I visit Journey at his church. Guess who he's got on the payroll as an aerobics instructor?"

  Tonic motioned with his hands for me to tell him.

  "Roxy's little sister," I said.

  Tonic reacted like an experienced legal brawler. His expression remained stonelike. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I didn't know Roxy—Freya—had a sister. What's her name?"

  "Lara Phillips."

  "Phillips?"

  "Married name," I said. "She's divorced."

  "Any indications she might be more than an instructor?"

  "You mean, are she and Journey screwing? Like minks, I'm sure."

  Tonic laughed. "If he can keep it up, then hurray for the randy old bastard. Is there the possibility of hanky-panky between them that led to the breakup of her marriage?"

  "Haven't checked into that," I said.

  "Was this something Roxy discovered?" Tonic asked with glee.

  "I have no idea," I answered. "Suppose Lara and Journey were hiding the salami while she was married, so what?"

  Tonic chewed the bread and washed it down with a swallow of his drink. "It would mean a collapse of faith in Journey as a pastor. His evangelical flock might forgive him for robbing them blind, but they won't take it kindly if he's playing loosey-goosey with his dick. He'd lose his church. Everything."

  "Then keeping the affair a secret might be worth murder," I replied.

  "It might. Why are Dr. Mordecai Niphe, the Reverend Dale Journey, and Roxy's sister, Lara Phillips, sneaking around?" Tonic's hands pulled apart, as if stretching an imaginary length of string. "What ties them together? Roxy's murder?"

  "It gets more complicated when you add Lucky Rosario, Cragnow Vissoom, and Councilwoman Petale Venin."

  "Venin?" Tonic repeated. "Damn Felix, you're cutting a wide swath. And you expect to bring them all down?"

  "Depends on what I find."

  "I hope you find a lot." Tonic looked around and snapped his fingers to get the waiter's attention. "As soon as I get another drink, I'll toast your future success."

  A ruby red glow sparkled on my silverware. I glanced and saw a red dot the size of a pea flicker on my left shoulder.

  The red dot of an aiming laser.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE DOT HOVERED on my shoulder.

  I bolted from my chair and darted to the right.

  A bullet
ripped through the tablecloth and sent the bread basket flying. A second bullet drilled Tonic through the middle of his necktie. He gasped and fell face first into his vodka and tonic. The cocktail glass tipped over and rolled off the table to shatter against the floor.

  Sitting at a table along the fence, I had been in a perfect spot for a drive-by and I hadn't noticed. I stayed crouched, out of the line of fire.

  For the next few seconds it was as if God had turned off the volume and everyone in the restaurant pantomimed their reactions in slow motion.

  A tight-faced, middle-aged woman at the next table noticed blood flecked on the sleeve of her white silk blouse. She turned her blond head to frown at me, looked back at her sleeve, and glared at Tonic's slumped form. Blood dripped from a red stain on the tablecloth.

  The woman's eyebrows inched up, crinkling her forehead. Her fingers clutched the air and she let out a scream.

  That wail was the signal for everything to jerk into fast-forward and at maximum volume.

  People shrieked, sprang from their chairs, and crashed into one another. Food splattered on the floor. Feet and shins pummeled my sides and knocked me off balance. A pair of dainty feet in Manolo Blahniks scrambled across my hands and scraped my knuckles.

  A metallic lump glittered under my table. The lump was the size of a fingertip and looked like a deformed mushroom. The thick stem was serrated with flat grooves—like the kind engraved by the lands in a gun barrel.

  A bullet. It lay under the gash it had ripped through the table.

  I picked up the slug, felt it burn, and flung it away.

  A silver bullet.

  Meant for me.

  I grasped a napkin and reached again for the bullet. It could provide clues about the shooter. A black oxford kicked the slug under a dozen feet stampeding for the exits.

  The scream of sirens echoed down the boulevard.

  Forget the bullet. I had to get out of here before the police arrived. If Paxton was responsible for the shooting, then his goons in uniform could be coming to get another crack at me.

  Tonic's arm swung lifelessly beside his chair. Wasn't much I could do now except feel sorry for the dead bastard.

  I melted into the panicked mass crowding the front exit, both to hide my departure and mask myself in case another shooter waited. I kept in the middle of a group walking briskly on Wilshire to the end of the block.

  Patrol cars barricaded the intersection. Cops ran out with guns drawn and surrounded the bistro.

  The group I was with crossed the street, gabbing excitedly on cell phones.

  "It was a shooting. My God, I thought we were in Compton."

  "Sally. I'm okay. No biggie, I was almost done with lunch anyway. I got out without paying. Tell my two o'clock I can see him earlier."

  I had to get back to my car. I left the group by ducking through a gap in a tall hedge and found myself facing a private patio behind an executive office complex. Men and women in business clothes lunched at tables and stopped in midchew to stare. I waved and ran off.

  Nimble as a fox, I sprinted around shrubs and leapt over fences. I reached the street where I had left my Chrysler. I should've felt safe. Instead my fingertips tingled.

  Up ahead one block, a white limousine turned the corner and came at me.

  Fingers and ears buzzed. My kundalini noir bunched and writhed.

  A dark blue Escalade followed the limousine. Tinted windows prevented me from seeing the interior. Both vehicles approached as silently and forebodingly as assassins' shadows.

  Behind me, a second Escalade closed the trap from the opposite direction. Polished wheels reflected the sun like rotating scythes. The two Escalades halted, their boxy shapes as menacing as battle tanks.

  Whoever was in the limousine and Escalades knew I was coming this way. Was I followed? Who tracked me? Vampires? They could be anywhere, and my aura wouldn't escape their eyes. The trees and tall buildings crowded around me with claustrophobic intensity.

  Was the one who shot at me and killed Tonic in one of the vehicles? If so, why not open fire?

  The limousine veered across the street to stop along the sidewalk close beside me. The driver's outside mirror almost touched my leg.

  The driver's window lowered. Rachel, the receptionist from Cragnow's porn business, smiled from the driver's seat of the limousine. A vampire's red glare beamed from her eyes. She showed off a pair of shiny new fangs.

  The rear door lock clicked. "Get in."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  THE REAR WINDOW of the Escalade on the left lowered like a gun port on a man-of-war. An orange aura shimmered inside.

  "I'd rather not," I replied as I considered Rachel's invitation. "I had other plans."

  The rear window of the Escalade on the right lowered, revealing another orange aura.

  "You don't have much choice," Rachel said.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To an interview."

  "I have a cell phone," I said. "We could do a conference call. Save you the trouble of driving."

  "Felix," Rachel said, "you're not going to get any warning shots."

  The snouts of gun barrels slid from the darkness of the open windows.

  "Rachel, you'd better think this through. If they shoot, you're in the crossfire."

  Something sharp pressed into my crotch. Rachel pushed one of her talons against my scrotum.

  "This wouldn't be fatal, but I'm sure you don't want me to play marbles with your balls."

  With only the thickness of my clothes between her talon and my jewels, I couldn't move fast enough to avoid singing contralto forever.

  "Rachel, keep this up and we won't be friends."

  I waved at the Escalades and entered the rear of the limousine. The interior was a plush cocoon of black leather and dark glass. I settled into a wide leather seat, the only passenger in all this room.

  Rachel looked through the partition between the driver's and rear compartments. "Get comfy and enjoy the ride." A window of dark glass scrolled upward, isolating me in the back. The door locks snapped, and we glided forward.

  An interview with whom? Or was this a trap? If so, why not end it here? They—whoever they were—showed no reluctance at opening fire upon a restaurant.

  Rachel drove south. The two Escalades trailed close. I removed my contacts and tried the doors, windows, and sunroof. Everything was locked tight. I didn't like being caged like a dog going to the vet. If I was along for the ride, might as well be under my terms.

  I scooted to the front of the passenger compartment, grasped an overhead strap, and kicked the partition window. The glass shattered and fell apart.

  Rachel gave a very unvampirelike, girly scream.

  I dove through the partition and landed beside Rachel. Her orange aura looked like a ball of burning gasoline. Her fangs and talons extended to maximum length.

  She lunged for me. I parried her arms, grabbed a handful of hair, and pressed her open mouth against the steering wheel. She hissed and chomped but I was too strong. The limo whipped back and forth across the lane. Cars scooted out of our way. Their horns honked in disbelief and anger.

  I used Rachel's head to steer and straightened our path. "How many vampires have you killed?"

  "None," she mumbled, the steering wheel pushing into her mouth like a horse bit.

  "Same as me. But I've killed a lot of humans. You want to be my first vampire?"

  Her aura dimmed to a pale, weak orange. "No."

  "You going to behave yourself?"

  "Yes."

  I let go of her hair. She spit bits of plastic. Bite marks crimped the steering wheel.

  The limousine slowed and glided toward a parked car. Rachel grasped the wheel, jerked the limousine back into the lane, and accelerated.

  A cell phone clipped to the dashboard began chiming.

  "It's probably your posse." I took the phone and flipped it open. "Hello?"

  A gruff voice said, "Who the hell is this?"

 
I handed the phone to Rachel. "They want to speak to the vampire in charge. I think that's you."

  Rachel held the phone to her ear. A firecracker string of expletives made her wince.

  "It's under control," she said, sounding like a mewling kitten. "We'll get there."

  More expletives. Rachel closed the phone. "You got me in trouble."

  We stopped at a red light.

  "So what happens? Detention?" I brushed pieces of safety glass off my seat. "Where are we going?"

  "I told you. An interview."

  "You can either cut the bullshit or go back to eating the steering wheel."

  Rachel kept her gaze straight ahead.

  "Well?" I asked.

  "To see Councilwoman Venin."

  The one individual I hadn't yet seen. So far Venin had been in the margins of my investigation, and now she summoned me with a gesture worthy of a czarist monarch.

  The light turned green, and we rolled forward.

  "What does she want?"

  "To talk."

  "She's a vampire, right?"

  Rachel shook her head.

  "Human?"

  "That. And more."

  Rachel's vague reply pissed me off. "What's that mean?"

  "That's all I know about her," Rachel added.

  I reached over and tapped the bite marks on the steering wheel.

  Rachel scowled. "Cut me some slack, okay?"

  "Maybe. Who's in the Escalades?" I asked. "Vampires?"

  "They're to make sure you meet Councilwoman Venin."

  "Is one of them the shooter who tried to nail me at the restaurant?"

  "Kacy. He's in the Escalade behind us."

  "You say that like I'm supposed to know him."

  Rachel replied, "You met in Hollywood. He drove a Jaguar."

  That Kacy. I left him broken and bloody on the hood of his expensive car. "He carries a grudge, I bet."

  "A big one," Rachel said.

  "Then why not do me in now?"

  "Because Venin wants to talk to you. She said if you survived the shooting, then you are a vampire worth keeping."

  "Keeping for what?"

  "You'll have to ask her."