Down These Strange Streets

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

“I’ll have to go back to the parlor for it. You mind waiting here?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, wearing a brave smile.

  He left the room, and Arturo was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed.

  “Ricardo.”

  “Arturo,” he answered.

  “You brought her here because you want to hide her. Why?”

  “She’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The straightforward kind. In over her head with the wrong people.”

  “Small-town girl trying to make it in the city?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hmm. Quaint. Well, I’m always happy to do a good deed for a pretty girl. But you owe me a favor now, yes?”

  Rick ducked his gaze to hide a smile. He handled Arturo by letting him think he was in charge. “That’s how it usually works, yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I assume the alcohol cabinet is included in the favor?”

  “What? You’re having to get your girls drunk first now?” Arturo said in mock astonishment.

  “Thank you, Arturo.” Rick slipped around him and into the parlor.

  He returned to the room with a tumbler of ice and a bottle of whiskey. Helen was on the bed. Her jacket was off and lying on the dresser, her shoes were tossed in a corner, and she was peeling off her stockings. Rick started to apologize and back out of the room again, when she called him over.

  “I’m sorry, I just wanted to get comfortable since I’m going to be here awhile,” she said.

  He set the tumbler on the dresser and poured a finger.

  “Ricardo, is it?” she said. “Are you Mexican? Because you don’t look Mexican.”

  “Spanish,” he said. “At least, if you go back far enough.”

  “Spanish, hm? That’s romantic.”

  He handed her the whiskey, which she sipped, smiling at him over the glass. “You only brought one glass. Don’t you want any?”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Will you sit here with me?”

  This was a turning point. He’d been in enough situations like it to recognize it. “Helen, I didn’t bring you here to take advantage.”

  “Despite the bed and this being a brothel?” Her smile turned wry.

  “You really will be safe here,” he said, though his protestations were starting to sound weak. Truth be told, he wanted to sit by her, and his lips grew flush from wanting to press against her skin.

  She’d touched up her lipstick while he was gone. The top button of her blouse was undone, the hem of her skirt lay around her knees, and her legs were bare. She thought she was seducing him. But as soon as he sat on that bed, she wouldn’t be in control of the situation. She didn’t know that. And if he played it right, she never would know. So. What was the right thing to do, really?

  She drained the whiskey and patted the bed next to her—right next to her—and he sat. He laid his arm across the headboard behind her, and she pressed herself against him.

  “I don’t meet a lot of nice guys, working the way I do. You’re a nice guy, Rick.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Pressing her hand to his cheek, she drew him close and kissed him on the mouth. She was eager, insistent. Who was he to deny her? She tasted of whiskey and heat, alive and lovely. He drew the tumbler from her hand and set it on the floor, then returned to kissing her, wrapping his arms around her, trapping her. She scratched at the buttons on his shirt.

  The fire that rose up in him in response wasn’t sexual. It was hunger. A visceral, primal, gnawing hunger, as if he hadn’t eaten in centuries. His only nourishment, his only possible release, lay under her skin. If he let that monster go, he would tear into her, spilling her over the bed, swimming in her innards to better feed on her blood.

  There was a better way.

  He worked slowly, carefully, kissing across her mouth and jaw, sucking at her ear as she gasped, then moving down her neck, tracing a collarbone, unfastening her blouse button by button, pulling aside her brassiere to gain access to a perfect handful of breast. She wriggled, reaching back to unfasten the whole contraption. When he’d first encountered the modern brassiere, he’d thought it was so much easier than a corset. But the undergarment had its own idiosyncrasies. And like undoing corsets always did, it gave them both a chance to giggle.

  She sat up enough to yank at his shirt, and he let her pull it off and throw it aside. Then, once again, he pressed her to the bed and took control, peeling away her clothing—the girdle and garters were more pieces of modern clothing he was still coming to terms with—and running his cool hands over every burning inch of her, kissing as he went. Only after she came for him did he take what he needed, from a small and careful bite at her throat.

  Her blood was ecstasy.

  Her heart, aroused and racing, pumped a strong flow for him. He could have drained her in moments, but took in only a few mouthfuls. Not enough to completely satisfy, but enough to keep him alive for a couple more days. Vampires had learned this long ago—how much more efficient to keep them alive and producing. And how much richer to coax it from them, instead of spilling it.

  He licked the wound, encouraging the blood to clot. She’d gone limp, and her breathing had settled. Propping himself over her, he turned her face so that he was looking straight down at her. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Her brow was furrowed, her expression both amazed and confused. Maybe even hurt. Holding her gaze, he focused on her, into her, and spoke softly.

  “You won’t remember this. You’ll remember the bliss and nothing else. I’m just a man, just a lover, and you won’t remember anything else. Isn’t that right?” Slowly, she nodded. Her worried expression, the wrinkles around her eyes, faded. “Good, Helen. Remember the good, let the rest go. Now, sleep. Sleep until I wake you up again.”

  Her eyes closed, and she let out a sigh.

  Dawn had nearly arrived. The room had no windows, but he could feel it. The warm and sated glow that came after feeding joined with the lethargy of daylight. He was safe and calm, so he let the morning pull him under until he fell unconscious, still holding her hand.

  THE NEXT NIGHT, RICK HAD A MESSAGE FROM DETECTIVE HARDIN WAITING for him. He called back immediately.

  “Hello, Rick?” she said. “Do you even have a last name?”

  “Have you found something, Detective?” he said.

  “Yeah. Charles Blake? I looked him up. Not only is he still alive, he got out on parole four months ago.”

  The air seemed to go still for a moment, and sounds faded as he pulled his awareness to a tiny space around him—the phone, what Hardin had just told him, how that made him feel. Cold, tight, hands clenching, a predator’s snarl tugging at his lips.

  He drew a couple of calm breaths to steady himself, and to be able to speak to the detective. “You think he killed her?”

  “I think he hired someone to do it for him. He might have collected favors in prison and called them in when he got out. Guy was a real peach, from what I gather. I can’t go into too many details, but the crime scene is pretty slim on evidence, which speaks to someone with experience. The back door was unlocked. We think he might have come to see her earlier in the day. That must have been when she called you.”

  How small, how petty, to carry a grudge over such a length of time. How like a vampire. And yet, how human as well. That grudge might very well have kept Blake alive all this time.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. “This must come as a shock to you.”

  It sounded like something she said to any victim’s family. He smiled to think she’d next offer to refer him to grief counseling. “I’m all right, Detective. It wasn’t a shock. I’ve been expecting this for sixty years. About Blake—do you know where he is? Have you arrested him?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation any further. I just thought you’d want to know about Blake.�
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  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  They both hung up, and he considered. He could find Blake. He’d be an old man now, ancient. Not much to live for, after spending most of his life in prison. He’d exacted his revenge, and Rick didn’t think he’d spend a lot of time trying to get out of town or hide. And this was Rick’s city, now.

  Detective Hardin hadn’t arrested Blake yet because she was building her case, searching for evidence, obtaining warrants. Rick had every confidence that she’d do her job to the utmost of her ability and that through her, justice would be served.

  In this case, he wasn’t interested in waiting.

  After killing Arturo and replacing him as master of Denver, Rick had transformed the lair. The parlor was now an office, with functional sofas and a coffee table, and a desk and bookshelves for work. He paced around the desk and considered. Blake would have a parole officer who would know where he was. The man might even be living in some kind of halfway house for ex-cons. After so long in prison, it was doubtful he had any family or friends left. He had no place else to go. And if he was right about Blake’s state of mind, the man wouldn’t even be hiding.

  He flipped through a ledger and found a name, recently entered. A woman who’d run a prostitution ring in the seventies—with blackmail on the side. She’d served her time, she knew the system, and she owed him a favor.

  “Hello, Carol. It’s Rick. I need to know who the parole officer is for a recently released felon.”

  NIGHT FELL, AND RICK WOKE.

  Helen had turned over on her side and curled up, pressing against him, her hands on his arm. She looked sweet and vulnerable.

  He leaned over and breathed against her ear. “Wake up, Helen.”

  Her eyes opened. Pulling away from him, she sat up, looking dazed, as if trying to remember where she was and how she’d gotten here. Her clothes were hanging off her, loose, and her hair was in tangles.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She glared. “Did you put something in my drink?”

  “No.”

  She looked herself over, retrieving her clothes, fastening buttons, and running fingers through her hair. Wryly, she said, “You never even took your trousers off, did you?”

  He answered her smile. “Never mind. As long as you’re all right.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. More than fine. You’re something else, Rick, you know that?”

  “There’s a washroom across the hall.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nightfall,” he said. “I’m about to head to Murray’s to see if Blake shows up. You should stay here.”

  She closed up at the mention of Blake, slouching and hugging herself. He smoothed her hair back and left a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  “I’ll be safe here?” she asked.

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “What happens if Blake does show up? What can you possibly do? Rick, if he hurts you because of me—”

  “It’ll be fine, Helen.”

  He washed up, found a clean shirt, ran a comb through his hair, and left the lair.

  Blake did, in fact, show up at the bar that night. Rick kept his place behind the taps and watched him scan the room before choosing a seat near the bar.

  “Bourbon,” he muttered. Rick poured and pushed the tumbler over.

  Scowling, Blake drained the liquor in one go. After some time, when it was clear Helen wasn’t going to appear, he set his stare on Rick, who didn’t have any trouble pretending not to notice. Leaning on his elbow, Blake pushed back his jacket to show off his gun in its shoulder holster.

  “So. Did she ever show up?” the man said.

  “Who? The girl?”

  “You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Can I ask why you’re looking for her?”

  “I just want to talk to her. We can work something out. You know where she’s hiding, don’t you?”

  “Sir, I really can’t help you.”

  Blake narrowed his gaze, looking him up and down—sizing him up, and Rick knew what he was thinking. He was thinking he was looking at a wimp, a coward, a young guy who’d sat out the war, who’d be easy to take down in a fight. Blake was thinking all he’d have to do was wave the gun around, break his nose, and he’d take him right to Helen because no broad was worth sticking up for like that.

  Rick smiled, knowing it would make him crazy. Blake scowled and walked out.

  Rick had the rest of the night mapped out. He knew what would happen next, how it would all play, a bit of urban theater, predictable yet somehow satisfying. Last call came and went; he offered to close up. After locking the doors, he set chairs upside down on tables, gave the floor a quick sweeping and the bar a wipe down, turned out all the lights, and went out the back, where Blake was waiting for him.

  Blake lunged from the shadows with a right hook, obviously intending to take Rick out in a second and keep him from gaining his bearings.

  Rick sidestepped out of the way. Blake stumbled, and Rick pivoted, grabbing Blake’s shirt, yanking him further off balance, then swinging him headfirst into the wall. The man slid to the ground, limbs flailing for purchase, scrabbling at Rick, the wall, anything. The sequence took less than a second—Blake wouldn’t have had a chance to realize his right hook had missed. He must have thought the world turned upside down.

  Wrenching Blake’s arm back, Rick dragged him a dozen feet along the pavement in the back alley. The shoulder joint popped; Blake hollered. With a flick of the same injured arm, Rick flipped Blake faceup—bloody scrapes covered his cheek and jaw. Jumping on him, Rick pinned him, holding him with strength rather than weight—Blake was the larger man. He brought his face close to smell the rich, sweet fluid leaking from him. Rick could drain the man dead.

  A floodlight filled the alley, blinding even Rick, who shaded his eyes with a raised arm. Squinting, he needed a moment to make out the scene: a police car had pulled into the alley.

  “You two! Break it up!” a man shouted from the driver’s-side window.

  Climbing to his feet, Rick held up his hands. Next to him, Blake was still scrambling to recover, scratching at the cut on his face, shaking his head like a cave creature emerging into the open.

  The cop had a partner, who stormed out of the passenger side and came at them, nightstick in hand. He shoved Rick face first to the brick wall and patted him down. “What’s this? A couple of drunks duking it out?”

  Rick didn’t speak and didn’t react. He could have fought free, stunned the officer, and disappeared into the shadows. But he waited, curious.

  “What have you got there?” the driver asked.

  “A couple of drunks. Should we bring ’em in?”

  “Wait a minute—that guy on the ground. Is that Charles Blake?”

  The cop grabbed Blake by the collar and dragged him into the light.

  “That’s it, bring ’em both in.”

  Rick rode in the back of the squad car next to Blake, trying to decide if he should be amused or concerned. Dawn was still a few hours away. He had time to watch this play out. Blake was hunched over, breathing wetly, glancing at Rick every now and then to glare at him.

  Within the hour, Rick was sitting in a bare, dank interrogation room, talking to a plainclothes detective, a guy named Simpson. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Rick, who declined.

  He said, “You were picked up fighting with Charles Blake behind Murray’s.”

  “That’s right,” Rick answered.

  “You want to tell me why?”

  Rick leaned back and crossed his arms. “I expected to be thrown in the drunk tank when I got here, but you’re interested in Blake. Can I ask why?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s been bothering a girl I know.”

  “Your girl?” Rick shrugged, and the detective flicked ashes on the floor. “That’s why you were beating on him? I don’t suppose I can blame you for that.”

  “Is Blake dangerous?”


  “Do you think he is?”

  “Yes,” Rick said.

  The detective studied him, but Rick didn’t give much away. If he needed to, he could catch the man’s eye and talk him into letting Rick go. It would certainly come to that if he was still here close to dawn.

  Finally, the detective said, “You’re right. He’s the primary suspect in a murder case. You have anything else about him you want to share?”

  This gave Rick an idea. “I might know someone who can help you.”

  “If I let you go—I know how that works.”

  “I’m the bartender at Murray’s—I won’t disappear on you.”

  “And how good is this information of yours?”

  “Worth the wait, I think.”

  “You know what? You’re a little too cagey for a bartender. Is that all you do?”

  Rick chuckled. “Right now it is.”

  “I need evidence to lay on Blake if we’re going to keep him locked up—and keep him away from your girlfriend. Can you help me out?”

  “Stop by Murray’s tomorrow night and I’ll have an answer.”

  The detective let him go.

  Rick knew he’d be followed—for a time, at least. He returned to Arturo’s by a roundabout route and managed to vanish, at least from his tail’s point of view.

  Helen was waiting for him in the parlor, sitting with Arturo on a burgundy velvet settee. Rick calmed himself a moment and didn’t instantly leap forward to put himself between them. She was smiling, and Arturo wasn’t doing anything but talking.

  “Ricardo! I was hoping you wouldn’t return, and that you’d left Helen here with us.”

  Helen giggled—she held an empty tumbler. They’d probably been at this for hours.

  “Thanks for entertaining her for me,” Rick said.

  “My pleasure. Really.”

  “Helen, we need to talk,” Rick said, gesturing to the doorway.

  “Your friend’s a charmer, Rick,” she said.

  “Yes, he is. Let’s go.”

  She pushed herself from the seat. Glancing over her shoulder, she waved fingers at him, and Arturo answered with an indulgent smile. Rick put an arm over her shoulder and guided her into the safe room.