The Laughing Corpse

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  "Could we talk?"

  "Sure," she said. "You got a room?"

  Did I have a room? Wasn't she supposed to do that? "No."

  She waited.

  Oh, hell. "We just want to talk to you for an hour, or two. We'll pay whatever the going rate is."

  She told me the going rate.

  "Jesus, that's a little steep," I said.

  She smiled beatifically at me. "Supply and demand," she said. "You can't get a taste of what I have anywhere else." She smoothed her hands down her legs as she said it. My eyes followed her hands like they were supposed to. This was too weird.

  I nodded. "Okay, you got a deal." It was a business expense. Computer paper, ink pens medium point, one prostitute, manila file folders. See, it fit right in.

  Bert was going to love this one.

  25

  WE TOOK WANDA back to my apartment. There are no elevators in my building. Two flights of stairs are not exactly wheelchair accessible. Jean-Claude carried her. His stride was even and fluid as he walked ahead of me. Wanda didn't even slow him down. I followed with the wheelchair. It did slow me down.

  The only consolation I had was I got to watch Jean-Claude climb the stairs. So sue me. He had a very nice backside for a vampire.

  He was waiting for me in the upper hallway, standing with Wanda cuddled in his arms. They both looked at me with a pleasant sort of blankness.

  I wheeled the collapsed wheelchair over the carpeting. Jean-Claude followed me. The crinoline in Wanda's skirts crinkled and whispered as he moved.

  I leaned the wheelchair against my leg and unlocked the door. I pushed the door all the way back to the wall to give Jean-Claude room. The wheelchair folded inwards like a cloth baby stroller. I struggled to make the metal bars catch, so the chair would be solid again. As I suspected, it was easier to break it than to fix it.

  I glanced up from my struggles and found Jean-Claude still standing outside my door. Wanda was staring at him, frowning.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "I have never been to your apartment."

  "So?"

  "The great vampire expert . . . come, Anita."

  Oh. "You have my permission to enter my home."

  He gave a sort of bow from the neck. "I am honored," he said.

  The wheelchair snapped into shape again. Jean-Claude set Wanda in her chair. I closed the door. Wanda smoothed her long skirts over her legs.

  Jean-Claude stood in the middle of my living room and gazed about. He gazed at the penguin calendar on the wall by the kitchenette. He rifled the pages to see future months, gazing at pictures of chunky flightless birds until he'd seen every picture.

  I wanted to tell him to stop, but it was harmless. I didn't write appointments on the calendar. Why did it bother me that he was so damned interested in it?

  I turned back to the prostitute in my living room. The night was entirely too weird. "Would you like something to drink?" I asked. When in doubt, be polite.

  "Red wine if you have it," Wanda said.

  "Sorry, nothing alcoholic in the house. Coffee, soft drinks with real sugar in them, and water, that's about it."

  "Soft drink," she said.

  I got her a can of Coke out of the fridge. "You want a glass?"

  She shook her head.

  Jean-Claude was leaning against the wall, staring at me as I moved about the kitchen. "I don't need a glass either," he said softly.

  "Don't get cute," I said.

  "Too late," he said.

  I had to smile.

  The smile seemed to please him. Which made me frown. Life was hard around Jean-Claude. He sort of wandered off towards the fish tank. He was giving himself a tour of my apartment. Of course, he would. But at least it would give Wanda and I some privacy.

  "Shit, he's a vampire," Wanda said. She sounded surprised. Which surprised me. I could always tell. Dead was dead to me, no matter how pretty the corpse.

  "You didn't know?" I asked.

  "No, I'm not coffin-bait," she said. There was a tightness to her face. The flick of her eyes as she followed Jean-Claude's casual movements around the room was new. She was scared.

  "What's coffin-bait?" I handed her the soft drink.

  "A whore that does vampires."

  Coffin-bait, how quaint. "He won't touch you."

  She turned brown eyes to me then. Her gaze was very thorough, as if she were trying to read the inside of my head. Was I telling the truth?

  How terrifying to go away with strangers to rooms and not know if they will hurt you or not. Desperation, or a death wish.

  "So you and I are going to do it?" she asked. Her gaze never left my face.

  I blinked at her. It took me a moment to realize what she meant. "No." I shook my head. "No, I said I just wanted to talk. I meant it." I think I was blushing.

  Maybe the blush did it. She popped the top on the soda can and took a drink. "You want me to talk about doing it with other people, while you do it with him?" She motioned her head towards the wandering vampire.

  Jean-Claude was standing in front of the only picture I had in the room. It was modern and matched the decor. Grey, white, black, and palest pink. It was one of those designs that the longer you stared at it, the more shapes you could pick out.

  "Look, Wanda, we are just going to talk. That's it. Nobody is going to do anything to anybody. Okay?"

  She shrugged. "It's your money. We can do what you want."

  That one statement made my stomach hurt. She meant it. I'd paid the money. She would do anything I wanted. Anything? It was too awful. That any human being would say "anything" and mean it. Of course, she drew the line at vampires. Even whores have standards.

  Wanda was smiling up at me. The change was extraordinary. Her face glowed. She was instantly lovely. Even her eyes glowed. It reminded me of Cicely's soundless laughing face.

  Back to business. "I heard you were Harold Gaynor's mistress a while back." No preliminaries, no sweet talk. Off with the clothes.

  Wanda's smile faded. The glow of humor died in her eyes, replaced by wariness. "I don't know the name."

  "Yeah, you do," I said. I was still standing, forcing her to look up at me in that near painful angle.

  She sipped her drink and shook her head without looking up at me.

  "Come on, Wanda, I know you were Gaynor's sweetie. Admit you know him, and we'll work from there."

  She glanced up at me, then down. "No. I'll do you. I'll let the vamp watch. I'll talk dirty to you both. But I don't know anybody named Gaynor."

  I leaned down, putting my hands on the arms of her chair. Our faces were very close. "I'm not a reporter. Gaynor will never know you talked to me unless you tell him."

  Her eyes had gotten bigger. I glanced where she was staring. The Windbreaker had fallen forward. My gun was showing, which seemed to upset her. Good.

  "Talk to me, Wanda." My voice was soft. Mild. The mildest of voices is often the worst threat.

  "Who the hell are you? You're not cops. You're not a reporter. Social workers don't carry guns. Who are you?" That last question had the lilt of fear in it.

  Jean-Claude strolled into the room. He'd been in my bedroom. Great, just great. "Trouble, ma petite?"

  I didn't correct him on the nickname. Wanda didn't need to know there was dissent in the ranks. "She's being stubborn," I said.

  I stepped back from her chair. I took off the Windbreaker and laid it over the kitchen counter. Wanda stared at the gun like I knew she would.

  I may not be intimidating, but the Browning is.

  Jean-Claude walked up behind her. His slender hands touched her shoulders. She jumped like it had hurt. I knew it hadn't hurt. Might be better if it did.

  "He'll kill me," Wanda said.

  A lot of people seemed to say that about Mr. Gaynor. "He'll never know," I said.

  Jean-Claude rubbed his cheek against her hair. His fingers kneading her shoulders, gently. "And, my sweet coquette, he is not here with you tonight." He spoke wit
h his lips against her ear. "We are." He said something else so soft I could not hear. Only his lips moved, soundlessly for me.

  Wanda heard him. Her eyes widened, and she started to tremble. Her entire body seemed in the grip of some kind of fit. Tears glittered in her eyes and fell down her cheeks in one graceful curve.

  Jesus.

  "Please, don't. Please don't let him." Her voice was squeezed small and thin with fear.

  I hated Jean-Claude in that moment. And I hated me. I was one of the good guys. It was one of my last illusions. I wasn't willing to give it up, not even if it worked. Wanda would talk or she wouldn't. No torture. "Back off, Jean-Claude," I said.

  He gazed up at me. "I can taste her terror like strong wine." His eyes were solid, drowning blue. He looked blind. His face was still lovely as he opened his mouth wide and fangs glistened.

  Wanda was still crying and staring at me. If she could have seen the look on Jean-Claude's face, she would have been screaming.

  "I thought your control was better than this, Jean-Claude?"

  "My control is excellent, but it is not endless." He stood away from her and began to pace the room on the other side of the couch. Like a leopard pacing its cage. Contained violence, waiting for release. I could not see his face. Had the spook act been for Wanda's benefit? Or real?

  I shook my head. No way to ask in front of Wanda. Maybe later. Maybe.

  I knelt in front of Wanda. She was gripping the soda can so hard, she was denting it. I didn't touch her, just knelt close by. "I won't let him hurt you. Honest. Harold Gaynor is threatening me. That's why I need information."

  Wanda was looking at me, but her attention was on the vampire in back of her. There was a watchful tension in her shoulders. She would never relax while Jean-Claude was in the room. The lady had taste.

  "Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude."

  His face looked as ordinary as it ever did when he turned to face me. A smile crooked his full lips. It was an act. Pretense. Damn him. Was there something in becoming a vampire that made you sadistic?

  "Go into the bedroom for a while. Wanda and I need to talk in private."

  "Your bedroom." His smile widened. "My pleasure, ma petite."

  I scowled at him. He was undaunted. As always. But he left the room as I'd asked.

  Wanda's shoulders slumped. She drew a shaky breath. "You really aren't going to let him hurt me, are you?"

  "No, I'm not."

  She started to cry then, soft, shaky tears. I didn't know what to do. I've never known what to do when someone cries. Did I hug her? Pat her hand comfortingly. What?

  I finally sat back on the ground in front of her, leaning back on my heels, and did nothing. It took a few moments, but finally the crying stopped. She blinked up at me. The makeup around her eyes had faded, just vanished. It made her look vulnerable, more rather than less attractive. I had the urge to take her in my arms and rock her like a child. Whisper lies, about how everything would be alright.

  When she left here tonight, she was still going to be a whore. A crippled whore. How could that be alright? I shook my head more at me than at her.

  "You want some Kleenex?"

  She nodded.

  I got her the box from the kitchen counter. She wiped at her face and blew her nose softly, very ladylike.

  "Can we talk now?"

  She blinked at me and nodded. She took a shaky sip of pop.

  "You know Harold Gaynor, right?"

  She just stared at me, dully. Had we broken her? "If he finds out, he will kill me. Maybe I don't want to be coffin-bait, but I sure as hell don't want to die either."

  "No one does. Talk to me, Wanda, please."

  She let out a shaky sigh. "Okay, I know Harold."

  Harold? "Tell me about him."

  Wanda stared at me. Her eyes narrowed. There were fine lines around her eyes. It made her older than I had thought. "Has he sent Bruno or Tommy after you yet?"

  "Tommy came for a personal meeting."

  "What happened?"

  "I drew a gun on him."

  "That gun?" she asked in a small voice.

  "Yes."

  "What did you do to make Harold mad?"

  Truth or lie? Neither. "I refused to do something for him."

  "What?"

  I shook my head. "It doesn't matter."

  "It can't have been sex. You aren't crippled." She said the last word like it was hard. "He doesn't touch anyone who's whole." The bitterness in her voice was thick enough to taste.

  "How did you meet him?" I asked.

  "I was in college at Wash U. Gaynor was donating money for something."

  "And he asked you out?"

  "Yeah." Her voice was so soft, I had to lean forward to hear it.

  "What happened?"

  "We were both in wheelchairs. He was rich. It was great." She rolled her lips under, like she was smoothing lipstick, then out, and swallowed.

  "When did it stop being great?" I asked.

  "I moved in with him. Dropped out of college. It was . . . easier than college. Easier than anything. He couldn't get enough of me." She stared down at her lap again. "He started wanting variety in the bedroom. See, his legs are crippled, but he can feel. I can't feel." Wanda's voice had dropped almost to a whisper. I had to lean against her knees to hear. "He liked to do things to my legs, but I couldn't feel it. So at first I thought that was okay, but . . . but he got really sick." She looked at me suddenly, her face only inches from mine. Her eyes were huge, swimming with unshed tears. "He cut me up. I couldn't feel it, but that's not the point, is it?"

  "No," I said.

  The first tear trailed down her face. I touched her hand. Her fingers wrapped around mine and held on.

  "It's alright," I said, "it's alright."

  She cried. I held her hand and lied. "It's alright now, Wanda. He can't hurt you anymore."

  "Everyone hurts you," she said. "You were going to hurt me." There was accusation in her eyes.

  It was a little late to explain good cop, bad cop to her. She wouldn't have believed it anyway.

  "Tell me about Gaynor."

  "He replaced me with a deaf girl."

  "Cicely," I said.

  She looked up, surprised. "You've met her?"

  "Briefly."

  Wanda shook her head. "Cicely is one sick chickie. She likes torturing people. It gets her off." Wanda looked at me as if trying to gauge my reaction. Was I shocked? No.

  "Harold slept with both of us at the same time, sometimes. At the end it was always a threesome. It got real rough." Her voice dropped lower and lower, a hoarse whisper. "Cicely likes knives. She's real good at skinning things." She rolled her lips under again in that lipstick-smoothing gesture. "Gaynor would kill me just for telling you his bedroom secrets."

  "Do you know any business secrets?"

  She shook her head. "No, I swear. He was always very careful to keep me out of that. I thought at first it was so if the police came, I wouldn't be arrested." She looked down at her lap. "Later, I realized it was because he knew I would be replaced. He didn't want me to know anything that could hurt him when he threw me away."

  There was no bitterness now, no anger, only a hollow sadness. I wanted her to rant and rave. This quiet despair was aching. A hurt that would never heal. Gaynor had done worse than kill her. He'd left her alive. Alive and as crippled inside as out.

  "I can't tell you anything but bedroom talk. It won't help you hurt him."

  "Is there any bedroom talk that isn't about sex?" I asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Personal secrets, but not sex. You were his sweetie for nearly two years. He must have talked about something other than sex."

  She frowned, thinking. "I . . . I guess he talked about his family."

  "What about his family?"

  "He was illegitimate. He was obsessed with his real father's family."

  "He knew who they were?"

  Wanda nodded. "They were rich, old money. His mother was a hooke
r turned mistress. When she got pregnant, they threw her out."

  Like Gaynor did to his women, I thought. Freud is so often at work in our lives. Out loud I said, "What family?"

  "He never said. I think he thought I'd blackmail them or go to them with his dirty little secrets. He desperately wants them to regret not welcoming him into the family. I think he only made his money so he could be as rich as they were."

  "If he never gave you a name, how do you know he wasn't lying?"

  "You wouldn't ask if you could hear him. His voice was so intense. He hates them. And he wants his birthright. Their money is his birthright."

  "How does he plan to get their money?" I asked.

  "Just before I left him, Harold had found where some of his ancestors were buried. He talked about treasure. Buried treasure, can you believe it?"

  "In the graves?"

  "No, his father's people got their first fortune from being river pirates. They sailed the Mississippi and robbed people. Gaynor was proud of that and angry about it. He said that the whole bunch of them were descended from thieves and whores. Where did they get off being so high and mighty to him?" She was watching my face as she spoke the last. Maybe she saw the beginnings of an idea.

  "How would knowing the graves of his ancestors help him get their treasure?"

  "He said he'd find some voodoo priest to raise them. He'd force them to give him their treasure that had been lost for centuries."

  "Ah," I said.

  "What? Did that help?"

  I nodded. My role in Gaynor's little scheme had become clear. Painfully clear. The only question left was why me? Why didn't he go to someone thoroughly disreputable like Dominga Salvador? Someone who would take his money and kill his hornless goat and not lose any sleep over it. Why me, with my reputation for morality?

  "Did he ever mention any names of voodoo priests?"

  Wanda shook her head. "No, no names. He was always careful about names. There's a look on your face. How could what I have told you just now help you?"

  "I think the less you know about that, the better, don't you?"

  She stared at me for a long time but finally nodded. "I guess so."

  "Is there any place . . ." I let it trail off. I was going to offer her a plane ticket or a bus ticket to anywhere. Anywhere where she wouldn't have to sell herself. Anywhere where she could heal.

  Maybe she read it in my face or my silence. She laughed, and it was a rich sound. Shouldn't whores have cynical cackles?

  "You are a social worker type after all. You want to save me, don't you?"

  "Is it terribly naive to offer you a ticket home or somewhere?"