Stalking the Vampire

by Mike Resnick

  “Well, that's my pen name,” said the dragon apologetically. “Actually, I'm Nathan Botts. But who ever heard of a hard-drinking, womanizing, tough-guy writer called Nathan Botts?”

  “Well, Nathan…”

  “Scaly Jim,” the dragon corrected him.

  “Well, Scaly Jim,” said Mallory, “I'd love to look at your manuscript, but I'm right in the middle of a case, and Aristotle Draconis may hold the key to it.”

  “A case?” The dragon's homely features lit up. “Is it…murder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Goddamn, that's exciting!”

  “The victim would disagree with you.”

  “Look, Mr. Mallory…” began Nathan.

  “Just Mallory will do.”

  “Yes, right, of course—no shamus wants to be called ‘Mister’. Look, Mallory, I can make up mysteries with the best of them, but I've never been out in the field, so to speak.” He paused, shifting his weight uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “And I was wondering…that is, if you wouldn't mind…could I…uh…?”

  “Tag along?” suggested Mallory.

  “Yes.”

  “If there's still a case after I talk to Draconis, I don't see why not,” replied Mallory. “What the hell, I need all the help I can get.”

  “Great!” cried the dragon enthusiastically. Then: “I thought private eyes liked to work solo.”

  “This private eye likes to live to the end of the case and isn't too proud to accept help whenever it's offered.”

  “Come on, now,” said the dragon disbelievingly. “Next you'll be telling me you don't have an oversexed secretary called Velma.”

  “I don't.”

  Nathan frowned. “Well, that cuts a quick three hundred pages of gratuitous sex and violence out of the book,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment. “I thought you guys were more self-sufficient.”

  “Only in novels.”

  The dragon sighed. “I've got a lot to learn.”

  “And the sooner I see Draconis, the sooner you can start,” said Mallory.

  Nathan stood aside and pointed to a door behind him. “Right through there, Mallory.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  “Scaly Jim.”

  “How about just Jim now that we're going to be friends?”

  “We are?” The dragon's homely face lit up. “You know, my girlfriend calls me Cuddles.”

  “Let's stick to Jim,” said Mallory. “It's more professional.”

  “Right. We're colleagues, aren't we?”

  “As soon as I talk to Draconis.”

  “You want me to sit in on it while you grill him?” asked Nathan. “Maybe add a little muscle if it's needed?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “Okay. I'll be right out here.”

  Mallory turned to Felina. She was curled up the floor, snoring peacefully.

  “When she wakes up, tell her I'll be out in a minute,” said Mallory. “You hear anything that sounds like furniture or people being knocked around, both of you come in on the double.”

  “Got it, partner.”

  Mallory opened the door and walked into a dressing room. Aristotle Draconis sat at a table that held the evening's readings. He was dabbing some sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. Above the table was a mirror. Draconis himself left no reflection, but he saw Mallory standing behind him and turned to face him.

  “I saw you in the audience,” he said. “You were the only one who met my gaze. I admire that.” He paused. “You should know that I only give autographs by prior arrangement.”

  “I'm more interested in when you give hickeys,” said Mallory, flashing his credentials.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You're a vampire.”

  “I don't deny it,” said Draconis. “There's no law against being a vampire.”

  “No, there isn't,” agreed Mallory. “But the last time I looked, there's a law against murder.”

  “I haven't murdered anyone.”

  “That's what we have to talk about,” said Mallory. “You came over here on a ship.”

  “Yes, the Moribund Manatee out of Liverpool,” Draconis confirmed.

  “There was a young man on the same ship,” continued Mallory. “His name was Rupert Newton.”

  “Ah, young Newton. A very engaging fellow. I spent a few pleasant hours playing canasta and rummy with him.”

  “He was a very engaging fellow when he boarded the boat,” said Mallory. “He was well on his way to becoming a very engaging vampire when he got off.”

  Draconis nodded his head. “Yes, I know. Terrible pity. I assume you know him?”

  “He's my partner's nephew.”

  “Give him my regards.”

  “That'll be a little difficult,” said Mallory. “He's in the morgue.”

  “And you think I—?”

  “That's what I want to know,” said Mallory. “You bit him on the boat. He was scared to death that you were following him around the city. And now he's dead.”

  “You have it all wrong, Mr. Mallory,” said Draconis.

  “Tell me why.”

  “I didn't bite that boy.”

  “He says he saw you leaving his stateroom right after he'd been bitten.”

  “That is true,” said Draconis. “I was trying to prevent his being bitten. I was too late. What he saw was me chasing the creature that did bite him.”

  “You want to expand on that?” said Mallory.

  “I am a poet. That has been my whole life. Like many others, I was initiated into the legion of the undead, but unlike most, I did not accept my new station in life. My entire existence revolves around elevating people, not harming them. I have never bitten another human being, not once.”

  “How do you stay alive?”

  Draconis walked over to a small, portable refrigerator and opened it. “Do you see these half-gallon containers, Mr. Mallory? Each is filled with blood. This is my own private supply. It travels with me, and I am never without it.”

  “Whose is it?”

  Draconis smiled. “It comes from my private herd of cattle,” he replied. “I raise them not for meat or milk, but as blood banks. I have that in common with the Maasai of Africa.”

  “I thought you had to drink human blood,” said Mallory.

  “It is more nourishing, to be sure, but it is not essential. After all, my kind takes its name from the vampire bats of South America, and what do they live on?”

  “Cattle,” said Mallory.

  “That is correct.”

  “Then why don't more vampires do what you do?”

  “Many lose their moral compass when they are bitten,” answered Draconis. “Others cannot stand the constant hunger, for as I have said, the blood I drink is not as satisfying as that which flows through your veins. And for some, it is simply not practical. Where are you going to find an unprotected herd of cattle in New York City?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Then you accept my story?”

  “For the moment,” said Mallory. “But if you didn't bite the kid, who did? You must know, if you were trying to save him.”

  “I don't think you'll believe me,” said Draconis.

  “Perhaps not,” said Mallory. “But why don't you tell me and let me decide?”

  “He was bitten by the worst of our kind, a terrible, centuries-old creature from Transylvania itself.”

  “And his name?”

  “Vlad Drachma.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Take my word for it, Mr. Mallory, you don't want to,” said Draconis sincerely. “Rupert Newton is already dead. Why should you join him?”

  “You were willing to go up against this Drachma. Why shouldn't I?”

  “I am already dead,” answered Draconis. “What further harm can he do me?”

  “Just tell me where he is,” said Mallory.

  “I can't give you an exact location,” replied Draconis. “He travels with his own coffin, of c
ourse. There are places—very specialized mortuaries—that rent out space to traveling vampires. Your best bet is to try one of them, and your best hope is that you never find him.”

  “Thanks,” said Mallory, walking to the door. “If you're telling the truth, we probably won't meet again. If you're lying, you're going to find out just how long the undead can suffer.”

  “Fair enough,” said Draconis. Then, just as Mallory reached for the door, he added: “What did you think of my poetry?”

  “I think H. P. Lovecraft would have admired it,” said Mallory. And probably seven other people in the world, he added mentally.

  Draconis smiled for the first time. “Thank you, Mr. Mallory. You have made my night. I just hope I haven't unmade yours.”

  Mallory walked into the outer room.

  “Do we still have a case?” asked Nathan Botts the dragon.

  “Yeah,” said Mallory. “Look, if you have to stick around and guard Draconis…”

  “To hell with that,” said Nathan. “He's got fifty times my strength and even better teeth. Let's go.”

  Mallory nudged Felina gently with his toe. “Wake up.”

  “I wasn't sleeping,” she said defensively, getting to her feet.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Resting my eyes,” she said. “And my arms, and my legs, and my back, and my ears, and—”

  “Skip it,” said Mallory, leading them out into the corridor, where McGuire was waiting nervously.

  “Bats, say hello to Scaly Jim Chandler,” said Mallory. “He's joined the team.”

  “Hi,” said the little vampire.

  “Good evening,” replied the dragon. Suddenly he looked embarrassed. “Excuse me—hiya, pal.”

  “Bats,” said Mallory, “where do you sleep?”

  “In a bed, of course,” answered McGuire.

  “I thought you guys had to sleep in soil from your homeland.”

  “Manhattan is my homeland,” said McGuire.

  “And the soil?”

  “So I don't change the sheets,” said McGuire defensively. “It works.”

  “Okay, but if you were traveling with a coffin, where would you park it for the night?”

  “Why don't you just ask Draconis where he sleeps?”

  “We're not after him,” said Mallory. “We're after a vampire who's probably left his coffin at some mortuary that caters to the undead. Which is the likeliest one?”

  “Ah!” said McGuire, his homely face lighting up. “I know just the place.” He headed off toward the Garden's main exit. “Follow me!”

  “So where is this place?” asked Mallory as McGuire led their mismatched party of four down Madison Avenue.

  “Not far,” answered the vampire. “It's just off the corner of Death and Despair.”

  “Are those local streets?” asked Mallory, frowning. “I never heard of them.”

  “They have different names in the daytime,” answered McGuire.

  Suddenly Felina stopped and began sniffing the air.

  “What is it?” asked Mallory.

  “There's something dying in the alley,” she said. “Something small and fat and tasty.”

  “Leave it alone,” said Mallory. “We've got work to do.”

  “One of them can protect your front and one can protect your back,” she said.

  “I can't waste any more time,” said Mallory. “Come or stay, it's up to you.”

  “I'll catch up with you,” said Felina.

  “You don't know where we're going.”

  “I'll follow your scents,” she said. She pointed toward the dragon. “This one really stinks. He'll be easy to follow.”

  Nathan turned to Mallory. “I don't know if I've been complimented or insulted.”

  “Let's let it be one of life's little mysteries,” said the detective. “Come on, Bats—let's get moving.”

  “Right,” said McGuire.

  They walked a block in silence, then turned right, right again, and right a third time.

  “You know if you turn right again we're going to be back where we started,” said Mallory.

  “Only in daytime,” answered McGuire, making a fourth right.

  Mallory looked around, frowning. “Where are we, and what happened to Madison Avenue?”

  “We're at the corner of Death and Destruction,” said the vampire. “Despair is the next street down.”

  They began walking toward Despair. Only one building was lit, right at the corner. A flickering, buzzing neon sign, clearly in need of repair, told the world that this was Creepy Conrad's Cut-Rate All-Night Mortuary.

  “And this is where all the vampires go?” asked Mallory.

  “Of course not,” answered McGuire. “There are thousands of us in Manhattan. This is just the likeliest spot.”

  “What makes it the likeliest spot?”

  The vampire offered a weak smile. “It was the only one I could think of.”

  “Well, we're here,” said Mallory. “Let's go in and see what they've got.”

  “Don't you want to case the joint first?” asked the dragon.

  “We're looking for a vampire,” explained Mallory. “The only way we'll know if this is where he's holed up is if we find his coffin, agreed?”

  “Right,” said Nathan.

  “Do you see any coffins outside?”

  “Ah!” said the dragon. “Good thinking, Mallory.”

  “Praise from on high,” muttered Mallory. “Okay, let's go in.”

  They entered the mortuary, which was illuminated by a few hundred candles. A morbidly obese man in a tuxedo that was four sizes too small for him waddled up to them, his hands clasped together in front of his chest. Mallory wondered if his arms were long enough to clasp his hands in front of his stomach, and decided they weren't.

  “Good evening, dear friends,” said the man, “and welcome to Creepy Conrad's in your hour of need and suffering.” He looked around. “May I ask where the deceased is?”

  “We haven't decided where he should lie in state,” answered Mallory. “We came by to see your facility.”

  The man nodded his head knowingly. “Of course,” he said. “And what kind of service will you require?”

  “We're not sure,” said Mallory. “What kinds do you offer?”

  “We run the entire gamut,” said the man.

  “Are you Conrad, by the way?”

  “Oh, no, dear friends. Creepy Conrad has passed to another plane of existence, though he does come back and visit us for Scrabble on Tuesday evenings.”

  Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of gunshots and screeching rubber.

  “Excuse me, dear friends,” said the man, “but I have a feeling that I shall soon have to preside at one of our short-term services. You are welcome to accompany me if you wish.”

  He abruptly turned and waddled down a darkened corridor, and Mallory's party followed suit. A moment later they emerged at a large picture window, and seconds after that a car, its body studded with bullet holes, skidded up.

  “Good evening, dear friends,” said the man, pressing a button that closed a gate in front of the car. “Welcome to our drive-by service window. Would you like the three-minute funeral with all the trimmings?”

  A police siren began wailing.

  “No time,” said the driver, and Mallory could see that there was a bullet-riddled corpse in the back seat. “Just take him.”

  The fat man pushed a button and a drawer six feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep shot out. The driver and another passenger lowered the back window and managed to shove the corpse onto the drawer.

  “Our one-minute service is a bargain at only two hundred dollars,” said the fat man.

  Bullets began raining down on the car.

  “Perhaps our ten-second special for fifty dollars?”

  The driver threw a fifty on top of the corpse.

  “Our father who art in heaven, here comes another one,” intoned the fat man, releasing the
gate and pulling the drawer in as the car peeled off. An instant later a police car raced by in hot pursuit.

  “Our drive-by funerals are always a bit on the awkward side,” commented the man as a crew of gnomes and elves suddenly appeared and began carting the body off. “Still, it's a necessary adjunct to our business.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” said McGuire.

  “Now, dear friends, perhaps you can tell me something about the deceased, so that I can show you the proper line of coffins and services available.”

  “Well, it's a bit awkward,” said Mallory.

  “Not to worry, my good sir,” said the fat man. “I'm sure no court in the land would find you guilty.”

  “That's a definite comfort,” replied Mallory dryly. “But I'm afraid the problem is that our friend is not dead at the moment.”

  “You plan to commit the heinous deed this evening?” asked the fat man. “I understand completely. Not to worry, sir. My lips are sealed.”

  “Try not understanding me so fast,” said Mallory. “My friend is one of the undead.”

  “Certainly,” said the fat man, studying the undersized McGuire with an expert eye. “We can even save you some money with a child's coffin.”

  “Not him,” said Mallory. “The friend in question is out on the prowl right now, but he's going to need a place to stay come morning.”

  “Will this be a long-term or a transient arrangement?”

  “Long term,” said Mallory, and the fat man inadvertently licked his chops. “First I have to make sure the accommodations are suitable.”

  “I shall be happy to show you around.”

  “We'll want a tour of the place, of course,” said Mallory. “But there's something we have to address first.”

  “No problem, my good sir,” said the fat man. “We accept dollars, pounds, francs, yen, rubles, drachmas, zlotys, rupees, gold, silver, diamonds, platinum, bearer bonds, and all major credit cards.”

  “Fine,” said Mallory. “But we still have something to address.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “My friend comes from Transylvania…”

  “Ah!” said the man, rubbing his hands together. “The old country!”

  “And his coffin is still in transit.”

  “As I said, we have an full line of coffins—wood, metal, even Styrofoam for those who awake in the middle of the endless sleep feeling claustrophobic and must get out right away.”