Stalking the Vampire

by Mike Resnick

  Let us say that something goes wrong, that the inevitable happens when your prey realizes that he is as close to you as you are to him, and you receive that dreaded first bite. Most people rush to the hospital for an emergency transfusion of blood or plasma, which does absolutely no good, since the bloodstream is already infected and this does nothing to eradicate it. My own suggestion is that you immediately apply leeches to the wound; even ten minutes after being bitten is too late, so carry some leeches with you on the hunt. If sunrise arrives and you still haven't come face to face with a vampire, well, the leeches make a hearty breakfast, especially when fried, breaded, and served alongside some scrambled gorgon eggs.

  A final warning: Numbers mean nothing, so leave your faithful trolls behind. Strength means nothing, so don't take along your pet leopard or lamia. Your only advantage is your brain, and I wouldn't become overconfident, as the last two vampires I killed were a professor of ethics at Harvard and a successful Hollywood agent, truly awesome bloodsuckers both.

  So study your prey, learn the territory, sharpen those stakes, gather those leeches, and good hunting to you!

  —end of speech—

  A lot of myths have grown up about the vampire, most of them almost entirely mythical. It is time for the Museum of Unnatural History to debunk them, or, failing that, to show them to be totally false, except for the ones that aren't.

  Vampires are a misunderstood lot. Most people think they take enormous joy in ripping out the throats of their victims and drinking their blood. Wrong. They are psychologically compelled to do so, just as the lion would prefer to lie down with the lamb but for his conditioning.

  The average vampire spends ten hours a day sleeping in his native soil. Not a bed, mind you, or even a recliner chair in front of the television set. No, he sleeps in dirt, which lends to his feelings of isolation and inferiority.

  His skin is extremely sensitive to the sun. He burns easily. He must beware of skin cancers. So of course he prefers to go out at night, a lifestyle choice which is invariably misunderstood, even though its advantages are obvious to anyone who takes the trouble to consider them. I mean, seriously now, how many nightclubs are open at noontime? If the lonely, downtrodden vampire seeks a companion, have you ever heard the expression “Ladies of the Afternoon”? He hides his insecurity by wearing formal clothes and even a cape, which appear ludicrous when observed at 11:03 AM or even 2:45 PM.

  And since society disapproves of his meager attempts at self-respect, he in turn develops what can only be termed antisocial aspects to his behavior. Yet even here vampires are both maligned and misunderstood.

  For example, precious few men and women know that the average vampire is incredibly farsighted. He can spot a gorgeous young woman standing in the moonlight at six hundred yards, but he cannot make out her features at three feet. He does not seek to bite the necks of the women he loves (or, let us be honest, merely lusts for). When embracing he closes his eyes, which cannot focus at such short distances, and invariably his lips come into contact with his partner's neck rather than her own lips. This so humiliates and embarrasses him that he pulls his lips back, forgetting that one of the features of vampirism is long and razor-sharp canines.

  It has been suggested that garlic will keep a vampire at bay, and indeed it will—but not by hanging it. If you have an unnatural prejudice against vampires, simply chew some garlic right before you come into contact with them. If garlic is unavailable, onions will do. Or simply don't brush your teeth for twenty-four hours in advance. Vampires, as I've pointed out, are very sensitive souls.

  It has been suggested that no vampire can enter your domicile unless you invite him in. This of course is ridiculous. The truth of the matter is that vampires have impeccable manners and hence no vampire will enter your premises unless you invite him in.

  Can vampires cross water? Clearly this is a corruption of a long-lost observation, doubtless made by a religious fanatic. Priests cross themselves, and Jesus walks on water, and I am at a loss to understand what either of them has to do with vampires. True, I have never known a vampire to take a boat across water, but that is because vampires are exceptionally thrifty—there are very few night-shift jobs available, compared to the number of vampires applying for them—and since they are already dead and have no need to breathe, they tend to walk from one shore to the other under water, saving them the cost of passage aboard a commercial vessel. (It is true that cargo ships charge their few passengers far less, but vampires are a social lot, and the lack of passengers acts as a deterrent.)

  There's another myth to the effect that vampires leave no reflection in mirrors. Absolutely false. Doubtless it stems from the fact that vampires cannot see themselves in mirrors, but this comes from their extreme farsightedness. In point of fact, any vampire can see his image in a mirror, provided that you hold the mirror up at a distance of four hundred paces or more. (This also explains why male vampires have such a frightening appearance. Without access to mirrors, their hair must be slicked down with oil since they cannot see it to comb it; they are unable to perceive the shadows under their eyes and hence do nothing to cover them up; and aware that they cannot go out in the sun without risking severe sunburn or worse, they rouge their faces and apply bright red lipstick to their lips, which gives them the appearance—of which they are totally unaware—of having just drunk tomato juice, a ham sandwich with too much ketchup, or a voluptuous young maiden's lifeblood.)

  The most egregious myth of all is that vampires can be killed with a steak to the heart. I am here to tell you from long and painful personal experience that they cannot be killed with a steak, or with veal, chicken, guinea fowl, or roast turkey. If anything can kill them, I suspect it's my wife's jambalaya, especially after she's seasoned it with all that green pepper.

  I trust this dispels the more notorious myths and lies about vampires.

  What do they really want?

  The same as you and me: a full stomach, a safe place to sleep, and a loving partner of the opposite sex who is always there when the need arises.

  Next week: Our Friend the Gorgon.

  She was prime stuff. She had long blonde hair, cool blue eyes, curves in places where most broads didn't even have places, and only the floor stopped her legs from going on forever. I looked at that full heaving neckline and figured if she heaved it just a little harder I could catch it without getting up from my chair.

  “You were recommended to me, Mr. O'Bannon,” she said.

  “Was it Fifi?” I asked. “Fatima? Bubbles? Mitzie?”

  “Malcolm Burke,” she said.

  “Oh,” I replied. “So it's business.”

  “I'm in desperate trouble, Mr. O'Bannon!”

  “Call me Wings,” I replied.

  “I'm being blackmailed, Mr. O'Bannon!”

  “Wings,” I said.

  “All right—Wings,” she said. “You've got to help me.”

  “What seems to be the problem?” I asked.

  “It's so humiliating.”

  “Yeah, it usually is,” I said. “You want a hit from the office bottle?”

  She shook her head. “I am Mrs. Wilbur Carlisle…” she began.

  “Are we talking about the Wilbur Carlisle?” I asked. “The eccentric reclusive millionaire?”

  “Yes.” Then: “Well, no, actually. He's a billionaire.”

  I frowned. “Isn't he something like seventy-five years old?”

  “Ninety-eight,” she corrected me.

  “If we add your 38-22-36 all together, he's still got you beat by a couple of years.”

  “Wilbur and I are very much in love,” she assured me.

  “He's probably mistaking you for your great-grandmother,” I suggested.

  “Are you going to help me or insult me?” she demanded.

  “I thought I was insulting your husband,” I said. “But let's get down to business. I get seventy-five a day plus expenses.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Velma—that
's my secretary—is on her lunch break,” I told her. “I'll have her draw up a contract when she gets back.”

  She pulled a handful of C-notes from her purse and held them out to me. “Will this be enough, Mr. O'Bannon?”

  “Wings,” I said, taking the cash and sticking it in a vest pocket. “Yeah, it'll do fine. Now suppose you tell me about your problem.”

  “We were at a high-society party,” she said. “Do you know the Cuthbertson-Smythes?”

  “How many of them are there?” I asked.

  “Just two.”

  “All right,” I said, “fill me in. All my experience has been in low society.”

  “We were all drinking and laughing and having a fine time,” she said. “And then…well, I guess I must have drunk more than I thought, because I can't remember another thing.”

  “Sounds like someone slipped you a Mickey Finn,” I said.

  “Is that his name?”

  “Whose name?” I asked.

  “I guess I'd better explain. You see, I woke up in a strange hotel room—and there was a dead man on the floor. His throat had been slit from ear to ear. Is he Mickey Finn?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “And someone's blackmailing you, threatening to expose you as a murderess?”

  She shook her head. “He was a nobody. Wilbur could have bought the police off in a minute, if anyone even cared who killed him.”

  “I can believe it, Mrs. Carlyle.”

  “My name is Moira,” she said.

  “If you don't mind sharing a hotel room with a stiff, I fail to see what your problem is, Moira.”

  “That was yesterday.” She reached into her purse. “Today I received this in the mail.” She pulled out a plain manila envelope but didn't offer it to me.

  “I get plain manila envelopes in the mail all the time,” I said. “Usually girlie magazines, sometimes bills.”

  “This contains some very humiliating photographs of me with a man I've never seen before,” she said. “If Wilbur saw them…”

  “He'd throw you out?” I suggested.

  She shook her head. “He'd get so excited he might keel over with a heart attack.”

  “Let's have ‘em,” I said, reaching my hand out.

  “I'm too embarrassed to show them to you.”

  “I've got to know what they are before I can do anything about it.”

  She walked around the desk. “I'm ashamed to show you the pictures. I'd rather just show you what I did.”

  “That's less embarrassing than the photos?” I asked.

  “My hair was a mess,” she explained, slipping out of her clothes.

  She was a Moira, all right, with an emphasis on the “Moi.” I slid my hand down her back, over the lush smooth curve of her hips, and

  {censored}

  “Oh!” she moaned. “Don't stop!”

  {censored}

  “Oh God God God!” she breathed.

  {censored, next three pages of manuscript burned, octogenarian proofreader hospitalized}

  “Okay, Moira,” I said, fixing my tie. “I'll be in touch.”

  “Again?” she said hopefully.

  “By phone,” I said.

  She looked like someone had run over her pet chimera with a car—probably a Mercedes convertible with gull-wing doors, or maybe a Lambroghini, given the circles she traveled in—and undulated out of the office.

  “Can I come in now?” Velma's sultry voice came through the side door.

  “Why not?” I said. “Have you been there long?”

  “Long enough to be jealous,” she said, slinking into the room.

  “You could have joined us,” I said.

  “You have a filthy mind, Wings,” she chided me.

  “Yeah, but I clean under my fingernails,” I shot back.

  “So is she your new client?” she asked.

  “Yeah, looks like it.”

  “What's her problem?”

  “I'll show you,” I said, reaching out for her. Her blouse came away in my hand.

  “Velcro,” she said. “It was getting expensive, replacing all the clothes you're always ripping off me.”

  “And some people still think I didn't hire you for your brains,” I said as I grabbed her and pulled her to me.

  An hour later we began getting dressed again.

  “Wow!” said Velma, her face still flushed. “That's some problem!”

  “That's why she came to me,” I said. “She's being blackmailed.”

  “Blackmail is an ugly word,” said Velma with a shudder that would have had most men baying the moon.

  “So is myxophyceae,” I said. “But myxophyceae's not against the law except in Albania.”

  The phone rang and I picked it up. For a moment all I could hear was the sound of heavy breathing.

  “It's for you,” I said, offering the receiver to Velma.

  “No, it's for you, Shamus!” said a voice at the other end of the phone. “It took me a minute to catch my breath. I had to beat an old lady to the phone booth.”

  “Why don't you get a cell phone?” I said.

  “You gonna listen or you gonna criticize?”

  “Who am I talking to?” I asked.

  “Don't worry about that now,” said the voice. “I got an important message for you.”

  “If it's that important, use Western Union and stop keeping little old ladies from calling their grandkids.”

  “Listen to me and listen good, Shamus!” said the voice. “We're gonna be watching your every move. Don't take the Carlisle case or you're a dead man.”

  “Carlisle who?” I asked innocently.

  “You know,” said the voice. “She's the dame who…” It took him half an hour to finish describing what was going on in the photos, by which time I was breathing as hard as he was, and he was drooling so much that he finally shorted out his phone.

  “Who was it, Wings?” asked Velma, who was sitting at her desk reading a gossip magazine.

  “Just another death threat,” I said with a shrug.

  “That's your ninth this week,” she noted.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Business has been slow.” Then I did some serious thinking. “Listen, Angel,” I told her, “I've got to start working on the Carlisle case before she asks for her retainer back, and I don't need any interference from a bunch of hired gunsels, so I think we're going to outsmart them.”

  “How?” she asked, wide-eyed with wonder.

  “I've got an extra suit in the closet,” I said. “I want you to get into it, wear my hat, and go for a nice long walk in the park. They'll think it's me, they won't shoot as long as you're not following leads for Mrs. Carlisle, and that'll leave me free to operate.”

  “It'll never work, Wings,” said Velma.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I'm a 44-D,” she said, taking a deep breath and thrusting back her shoulders.

  “No problem,” I said. “My chest is 44 normal and 46 expanded.”

  “Gee!” she said with a smile. “Maybe it'll work after all.”

  “Right,” I said. “Anyone approaches you, just grunt, lower your voice, and talk about baseball. They'll never spot the difference.”

  “You're a genius, Wings,” she said admiringly.

  “Hey, thinking is my business,” I said. “Getting shot at all the time is just for exercise.”

  It took her about five minutes to change into my suit, and then she left by the front door. I waited another ten minutes, then cut out the back way.

  I knew that my first order of business was to find out who had taken the photos. There weren't more than six, maybe seven thousand professional pornographers in town, plus another twelve thousand talented amateurs, which meant I had my work cut out for me, hitting porn studio after porn studio, beating time with all the naked oversexed girls until the photographers had time to speak to me. Still, it might prove distracting; there were probably as many as twenty girls I'd never met before.

  Then I started doing the ma
th and realized I'd never hit all the pornographers before I ran through my retainer, so even though it wasn't going to be as much fun, I decided that the easiest way to get the job done was to go have a chat with Blind Benny, who works the ritziest part of town, tin cup in hand.

  It took me about twenty minutes to get there, and it wasn't long before I heard Blind Benny begging for alms while adding that he'd also settle for any bill that had Ben Franklin's or Andy Jackson's likeness on it.

  “Hi, Benny,” I said, walking up to him and giving Buster, his guide dog, a friendly pat on the head.

  “Hiya, Wings,” he said, studying me through his dark glasses. “You're looking well.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I haven't had a shoot-out in a week. How are things with you?”

  “Just trying to get used to this new dog,” said Blind Benny.

  “Isn't that Buster?”

  “Nah. I sold Buster to some guy who needed him for an art film.”

  “I thought you loved that dog,” I said.

  “Loving dogs is another union,” said Blind Benny. “I liked him. Still, this guy paid through the nose for him. I guess he planned to make a killing off that rich Carlisle broad, and—”

  “Moira Carlisle?” I interrupted.

  “Unless there are two knockouts married to billionaires named Carlisle,” said Blind Benny.

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Carlisle? Penthouse of the Diamond Tower.”

  “No, the guy who bought your dog.”

  “It's kind of complicated,” said Blind Benny, pulling a pen and a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “I'd better draw you a map.”

  “He won't be using it,” said a voice from behind me.

  I spun around and found myself facing two tough-looking gunsels.

  “I never saw a tail,” I said, surprised.

  “We didn't follow you,” said the taller of the two.

  “Then what are you doing here?”