Werewolf Smackdown

by Mario Acevedo

  I said to the vampire gangster, “Tell your little buddy to put away the gun.”

  The kid asked, “Or else what, motherfucker?”

  “Or else I take that gun and shove it up your ass.”

  He tensed up and his nostrils flared in anger. His index finger stretched over the trigger.

  In another second he’d be learning how to walk with that TEC-9 lodged deep in his rectum.

  The vampire said, “Ease up, TL.”

  The kid scowled, his lips curling to show his grille: a mouthful of rhinestones and white gold.

  The vampire raised his voice. “I said, ease up.”

  TL pursed his lips and put the gun aside.

  I said, “Remove the magazine.”

  TL slapped the TEC-9 and jerked out the magazine.

  I climbed into the Escalade. The interior smelled of pine air freshener, gun oil, and testosterone. I scooted against the far door and set the bag with the whiskey in my lap.

  The vampire sat next to me and closed the door. He gathered his shirt about his waist to show a large pistol.

  The driver glanced back. “Hey, TL. You okay back there? I got some Midol in case your period is bothering you again.”

  The front passenger and the vampire laughed.

  TL said, “Fuck y’all.”

  We trailed after the Impala and the other Escalade. The driver turned up a rap tune. Loud. With more bass than a barrage of howitzers. Something by 50 Cent. Or Two-Bits. Shiny Penny. What the hell did I know about rap music?

  The gangsters mouthed the words. In a display of vigilance, the front passenger panned his gaze from side to side. I know he had seen the unmarked police car but didn’t act concerned.

  These gangsters snuck wary glances at me, which was okay, as I didn’t trust them. I mentally rehearsed a counterattack, just in case. I would decapitate my biggest threat, the vampire gangster, take his gun, and bail out the door.

  The other gangsters in the SUV weren’t vampires. They didn’t act like chalices either. None of them wore collars or bandannas around their necks marking them as blood supply. Maybe they were in an undead apprenticeship program.

  We turned right, straight for a few blocks, then a left on America Street.

  Charleston ghetto central.

  I tightened up.

  The white Crown Vic still tailed us.

  We cruised past government projects with wash on the line and big plastic toys on the lawn. Our parade halted in front of a small house, white stucco surrounded by a weedy yard with a slack chain-link fence.

  The vampire gangster got out and motioned that I join him. TL crawled out from his seat in the Escalade and hustled to the driver’s door of the Impala. The other gangsters dismounted. One crossed the street and stood sentry. Another took a position behind our Escalade. A third stood in front of the lead Cadillac.

  The vampire and two other gangsters (human, I was sure) waited beside the Impala. TL popped open the driver’s door and stood to the side like an aide-de-camp. The scene had the drama of the entourage for an African warlord.

  An older black man, with a complexion the color and texture of tarnished, nut-brown leather, emerged from the Impala. Broad ears jutted from under a cylindrical skullcap, honey-colored leather on top with kente cloth around the crown. Oversize sunglasses in plastic chrome frames sat on his chiseled nose. He sported a dashiki of ocher material covered in white swirls with gold trim along the sleeves and collar opening. His legs were draped in loose white trousers, and he wore cordovan loafers.

  Stretched to full height, he wasn’t any taller that I was, though he projected a regal bearing. Like a king.

  Who else could this be but King Gullah?

  He paused to study TL. The sunglasses covered Gullah’s eyes but couldn’t hide the depth of his scowl.

  “Where’s the ammo for your weapon?”

  TL shifted his feet and rubbed his hands across the empty magazine well of the TEC-9. His eyes widened and he was no longer a street tough but a frightened kid ditching school. He swung the muzzle of the TEC-9 to the Escalade. “I…I…must have left it back in the—”

  Gullah slapped TL’s head. “You’re not here because I like looking at you. You’re my guard. Someone jumps me, what are you going to do? Stare them down with those frog eyeballs of yours?”

  Gullah addressed the vampire gangster. “Rooster. Take his gun away and give this boy something he can handle. Start with a box for shoeshine.”

  Two young black women—each about twenty pounds past voluptuous and well into chunky—came out of the house. They wore matching low-cut vests and hot pants in metallic red. Both had scarves tied around their necks. Chalices.

  They carried a length of slate-blue cloth and wove the cloth through a wire trellis that arced over the front door.

  The ceremony with the guards I understood. But the meaning of the blue cloth mystified me.

  Gullah strode for the house. The guards formed a cordon around him, two in front, two at his heels. One of the women held the door open and the other touched Gullah’s shoulder and pecked his cheek.

  Rooster tapped my arm and motioned that I go in. Down the block, the men in the unmarked police car watched.

  I wanted to take out my contacts, but with Rooster and King Gullah being vampires, I couldn’t chance it. If I did, I’d be signaling that I didn’t trust them. Which I didn’t, but I couldn’t afford to advertise my suspicions.

  I quickened my sixth sense. My ears gave a slight tingle, but that was more from my nervousness than any threat.

  Rooster closed the door behind us. We were in a small living room and the pea-green walls made the space shrink. Not so much cozy as claustrophobic.

  Gullah sat in an Aeron executive chair centered on a Persian rug with a border of that slate-blue color.

  I asked, “What’s with the blue cloth?”

  “The color’s haint blue,” he replied. “Keeps the haints, the boo hags, our local ghosts away.”

  “Why blue?”

  “Haints confuse the cloth for water. They won’t cross it because they think they’ll drown.”

  “Does it work?”

  “You see any haints?”

  Rooster handed him a cane with a crystal knob. One of the women draped a stole of golden silk on Gullah’s shoulders. He remained impassive, allowing the woman to complete her ritual. He placed the cane across his lap like a scepter and let the other woman remove his glasses.

  After all the ritual, I expected a dramatic unveiling of his eyes. But they were an ordinary set of peepers with contacts. The whites yellowed. Deep wrinkles crowded the rim of his orbits. An old man’s eyes.

  He pointed to one of the leather ottomans arranged before him. I took the middle seat. I pulled the whiskey from the bag and rose from the ottoman to offer the bottle to Gullah.

  He grinned. “Lemuel told you to bring this?”

  “He said it would be a good idea. A tribute to your hospitality.”

  I waited in mid-crouch and held the bottle for Gullah to accept. All he had to do was lean forward or signal me to get closer.

  He remained relaxed. One of the gangsters took the bottle from me and handed it to Gullah.

  He grasped the bottle and gave it back to the gangster as if what was important was that King Gullah had anointed it with his touch. He motioned that I sit.

  I said, “You know there’s an unmarked police car down the street.”

  Gullah sighed. “It’s the end of the month. Time for my insurance premium.” He clicked his fingers. One of the women left the room and returned with a cash box. She held it open for Gullah. He fingered a stack of hundreds, counted out a pad—I’d say fifty bills—and handed it to one of the human gangsters. He fit the money into an envelope and slipped the envelope into a box of Little Debbie snack cakes. He tucked the box under his arm and disappeared through the kitchen.

  Gullah crossed his legs. He tapped the cane against the bottom of one shoe. “Rooster, privacy if you
please.”

  Rooster faced the others. Without a word to command them, they left through a door into the adjacent kitchen. Rooster stood in the kitchen, pulled a pocket door from the wall, and slid it across the threshold.

  Once we were alone, Gullah said, “Felix Gomez.”

  “Lemuel told you my name?”

  “No. I had to learn about you on my own. A vampire comes visiting a nidus, it’s only common courtesy to pay respects to the head vampire. You didn’t, which makes me curious about you and your business.”

  I wasn’t aware of this protocol. Must be another of these arcane Southern customs.

  “My business here? I’m a private detective. I came to speak to a prospective client.”

  “And who would this prospective client be?” Gullah knew. He was batting me around the way a cat does a ball of yarn.

  “Eric Bourbon.”

  “And what did Eric Bourbon want?” Gullah kept the beat of his cane against his shoe.

  I didn’t like being toyed with like this. “Before I answer that, with you being the head vampire, could you tell me about Julius Paxton?”

  CHAPTER 29

  Gullah stopped tapping the cane. “Who the hell is he?”

  I started by telling him of the crab attack by the vampires. Gullah smiled at first—why was the idea of killing me with a giant fiberglass crab so goddamn funny?—but as I talked about Paxton, he gripped the cane hard, his knuckles showing like a row of rusted bolts. I read the anger in his unease. If he had been colluding with Paxton, then my presence meant the attack had failed. If that was the case, why did he let me get this close? No, he didn’t like learning that another vampire was running amok in his fiefdom.

  Gullah chewed his lower lip. He held the cane upright and tapped the tip against the rug.

  His gaze softened, and he held the cane still. “It embarrasses me to admit this, but I know nothing about the attack or Paxton.” He pointed the cane at me. “But as the nidus leader, I’ll look into it. Now tell me about your business with Eric Bourbon.”

  If I mentioned Bourbon’s desire to have me kill Randolph Calhoun, would this revelation work to my advantage or sink me further in this mess?

  Gullah recognized my hesitation. “You want information, you give information.”

  Good point. I decided to start with the worst of the news. “You know there’s a pending war between the werewolves?”

  “The Araneum told me.”

  All this time I’d been floundering in a vacuum and yet Gullah knew the situation. I said, “If trouble explodes, we vampires could get sucked into it.”

  “I’m the king, no one’s going to mess with me. There’s a war, I tell you exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Enjoy the festivities. I’m going to pull a chair on the roof of this house and watch those mongrels tear themselves to pieces. Have me a bombardment party.”

  “A what?”

  “During the blockade of Charleston Harbor, when the Union navy shelled the city, folks would picnic and take in the poor displays of gunnery.” Gullah leaned forward. “I’ve been the head of this nidus for close to seventy-five years. I’ve learned that the key to survival as a vampire, as a black man, is to lay low when trouble comes. After it passes, then I stand tall when I can take care of things on my terms. What do you know of the Gullah?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “The first Gullah were the African slaves who built the Lowcountry.” He swung the cane. “You see plenty of statues and plaques commemorating this white guy and that white guy as building this place. But it was the Gullah who dug the trenches, laid the foundations, toted brick and lumber on their backs. Charleston became a port of wealth because of the slave trade.”

  “That the reason you’ve taken the name of King Gullah?” I asked.

  “Not entirely.” He rubbed the crystal knob of his cane. “It’s my homage to Gullah Jack. Two hundred years ago he organized a revolt, intending to hit the white man hard and taking this land for our own. But Gullah Jack underestimated the wiliness of white folk and the timidity of his own people. They lost their nerve and sold him out. Gullah Jack and his crew were captured and executed.”

  Gullah’s eyes narrowed. “I’m never going to make that mistake. I’d slit the throat of my brother if it bought me an extra day.”

  “You sound like a werewolf. What about my throat?”

  “Do I have to worry about you?”

  I said, “No,” but I meant, It depends. “And you’ve been the head gangster since then?”

  Gullah laughed. “Oh no. It’s only recently that the opportunity presented itself that I take my place as the head of the economically disenfranchised. Especially during this recession. Duty called. Consider me a working philanthropist.”

  “What kind of philanthropy?”

  Gullah gave a wide smile, both too wide and too smug. “A lucrative one.”

  “If there’s a war between the werewolves, how much longer would you get to enjoy this ‘lucrative philanthropy’?”

  Gullah chuckled. “Are you worried about my financial well-being?”

  “Do I look like I give a rat’s ass?”

  Gullah’s smile deepened. “Then we understand each other.”

  “Fair enough,” I replied. “Let me find out who’s trying to kill me and why. I’m sure the werewolves and this attempt on my life are related.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I was brought to Charleston because of Paxton. I’m certain of it. And there’s more. I’m worried about Wendy Teagarden.”

  “Yeah, I know who she is. That hippie dryad working on Market Street.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “No. She likes keeping company with the werewolves.”

  Calhoun in particular. If Gullah knew she was working for the Araneum, he would’ve said so. But he didn’t, so he probably didn’t know she was a spy.

  He asked, “What do you need from me?”

  “A gun.”

  Gullah nodded pensively. He banged his cane on the floor and yelled, “Rooster.”

  Nothing.

  More yelling and banging of the cane.

  Still nothing.

  Gullah huffed and slid in the chair to pull a cell phone from his trousers. He hit a few buttons and put the phone away.

  Rooster pulled the pocket door open and stuck his head through the gap.

  Gullah ordered, “Send Yo-Yo in here.”

  Rooster hollered over his shoulder. “Yo-Yo.” Footsteps approached. The front passenger of the other Escalade entered. Rooster closed the door and watched us.

  Yo-Yo the gangster was short and wiry, with a bony head, and ears that stuck out like radar dish antennae. Tattoos covered his arms. His earlobes were decorated with rhinestone earrings in the shape of pistols. His baggy jeans were embroidered with Broad River Posse down the leg seams.

  “Broad River?” I asked. “That some musical group?”

  “No, fool,” Yo-Yo replied, “it’s the state pen.”

  “Handy way to advertise your credentials.”

  Gullah cleared his throat to draw the conversation to himself. “Mr. Gomez, so you know, I am a law-abiding citizen, honest as a councilman.” He beckoned for Yo-Yo to come close. “On the other hand, my man here is as dishonest as a councilman.”

  “I’m curious,” I said. “Yo-Yo?”

  “’Cause the man keeps sending me away, and I keep coming back.” Yo-Yo sat on the ottoman next to mine. He smelled of fried okra, Velveeta cheese…and undead cadaver. One of us.

  He rested his elbows on his lap and relaxed, cocky as a rich frat boy. “So what you want?”

  “I need a gun.” In a deliberate motion, I pulled the snub-nose from my pocket. “Something better than this.”

  I opened the cylinder to show it was empty and held the revolver by the barrel.

  Yo-Yo took the gun, his face scrunched in disdain, and laid it on the carpet between his Nikes.
He wiped his fingers against a trouser leg. “What are you looking for?”

  “A handgun. Three fifty-seven. Nine-millimeter. Forty-five.”

  Gullah said, “Show him your inventory.”

  In the movies, at this point, the gun broker brings a metal valise. He opens the valise and reveals several handguns nestled in black foam. I’d touch the selection, choosing a couple and inspecting the barrels and chambers with a macho racket of slides yanked back and slammed home.

  Here, Yo-Yo dug into his jeans and took out an iPhone. “How much you rollin’?”

  I had to think a moment to understand. Did he mean how much was I going to pay? “You mean money?”

  “Yeah, money.”

  Gullah interrupted, “Show him what you got.”

  Yo-Yo mumbled, “Jus’ so long as you ain’t jacking me with bullshit.” His index finger danced across the screen. He brought up an array of thumbnail photographs. “Here’s what I got in stock. All in new or in gently used condition.” He touched one picture and it grew into a side view of a semiauto pistol.

  “Colt Double Eagle. Forty-five.” He touched the screen. The picture turned into a short video of the gun firing. He touched the screen again and brought back the thumbnail photos. He selected another pistol. “Here’s a nine-millimeter. Taurus PT92.”

  We spent several minutes going through his cyber inventory. I preferred the old-fashioned way.

  “Springfield Panther. Browning Hi Power. Mauser 90DA.”

  I liked the Browning. “How do I get the gun?”

  “We’re like Domino’s,” Gullah replied. “We deliver.”

  Yo-Yo quoted seven Benjamins. I opened my wallet. I’d only brought three hundred bucks. I showed him the money. “Could you carry the difference until you deliver the gun?”

  Yo-Yo’s dark face hardened in annoyance. He looked at Gullah, who frowned at me.

  Yo-Yo said, “You either got the money or you don’t.”

  “What have you got for this?” I handed him the three hundred dollars.

  Yo-Yo took the money, played with his iPhone, and showed me a picture of a large revolver. “Webley Mark V.”