Vampire Games

by J. R. Rain

  "But in the last twenty seconds of the third round, you punched Caesar Marquez. Hard. For no apparent reason, and against protocol. Some called it a cheap shot. I call it something else. "

  Andre Fine turned into a cornered wild cat, unleashing a ferocious onslaught of kicks and punches and spinning jumps, lashing out with elbows and knees and fists and feet. It was a pretty display. I had seen him unleash similar onslaughts against his opponents during his many filmed matches. During those matches, one or more of the punches or kicks would land home, sending his opponent to the mat, and making a winner out of Andre Fine. A five-time champion, in fact.

  But here in the spacious area between the foot of his bed and his adjoining bathroom, the area where his big dresser had sat but was now conveniently moved across the room, I blocked punch after punch, kick after kick. Sometimes, I didn't block, but simply moved my head a fraction of an inch. At one point he tried a helluva fancy kick, jack-knifing his body splendidly, swinging his foot around so fast that, had I been mortal, I was certain my jaw would have been broken. I wasn't mortal though, so I saw the kick coming a mile away. Instead, I caught his ankle and spun him around like a ballerina.

  We did this dance a few more minutes until I finally found the opening I was looking for, and delivered a straight punch. Nothing fancy. Just a straight shot delivered from shoulder height, and hard enough to send him stumbling backwards where he collided into his footboard, which he held onto briefly, before sinking down to the floor.

  I walked over to him, knelt down, lifted his chin with my finger and said, "Now, we're going to talk. "

  Chapter Forty-three

 

  We were sitting on his balcony.

  Jiggly Jill was long gone. It turned out that Jill wasn't much of a girlfriend. She had been someone he'd picked up tonight at a party. I doubted she would go to the police. Truth was, she hadn't a clue what had happened to her or what was going on, and just before she left, just as she was pulling on her clothes, I gave her a very strong suggestion to not go to the police.

  She merely nodded, grabbed her stuff, gave Andre one last, fearful look, and headed out front to wait for her taxi.

  "Don't look so sad," I said. "There's more where she came from. "

  Andre was presently pressing a bag of frozen peas to his right eye and alternately smoking. It was multi-tasking at its best. I suspected the cigarette might be accelerating the rate at which the bag of peas was melting, but decided to keep my hypothesis to myself.

  When we listened to a car door open and heard what we both assumed was the taxi speeding off, Andre ground out his cigarette and looked at me.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  "A private investigator. "

  He blinked. "You're kidding. "

  "Nope. "

  "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

  I shook my head and motioned to the pack of cigarettes. He reached down and shook one out for me. I plucked it out deftly. He next offered me a light and I leaned into it and inhaled. I exhaled a churning plume of blue-gray smoke, and said, "If I told you, I would have to kill you. "

  "Fine," he said. "I've never come across someone like you. "

  "And I doubt you ever will again. "

  He studied with his free eye; the other being, of course, hidden behind a melting bag of Green Giant peas. "I believe it. "

  I had a thought, and wondered just how far I could go with this mind-control business. I waited until he caught my eye with his one good eye, and said, "I will tell you what I am, but when I leave your house, you will forget it completely. Understood?"

  He looked at me - and looked at me some more - and finally, his one good eye went blank. He nodded. My suggestion had sunk home. A moment later, the dazed look disappeared, and he looked at me again as he had a moment or two before: with confusion and maybe a little awe.

  "I'm not human," I said. "Not really. I'm something else. Some call me a vampire. "

  He lowered the bag of peas. His other eye was nearly swollen shut. I saw it working behind all the puffy folds, trying to see through. "You're serious?"

  "Deadly. "

  "And that explains why you're so fast?"

  "Yes. "

  "And strong?"

  "Yes. "

  He had witnessed my skills firsthand, had seen me doing things he had never seen another human do. It wasn't hard for him to accept that I was perhaps something different.

  "But I thought vampires were, you know, only in books. "

  "A form of them are, yes. "

  He was about to ask me another question and I shook my head. "We're not here about me, Andre. Do you understand?"

  He nodded again, resigned. He returned the peas to his swollen eye and sat back a little in his chair.

  I said, "When did you learn the dim mak?"

  "Years ago. From a master in Japan. "

  "Have you used it before?"

  He brought his cigarette to his lips. "Can't vampires read minds or something?"

  "Often. "

  "So it would do me little good to lie. "

  "Little good. "

  "And what will you do with this information?"

  "I haven't decided yet. "

  "Will you go to the police?"

  "Maybe. But I doubt they'll believe me. "

  He chuckled lightly. "True. "

  Andre Fine was thirty-six years old and well spoken, but I sensed an urban roll to his words. No surprise there, since he had grown up in New Jersey. I knew he had a long list of priors, some of them violent. He had spent six years of his life in various prisons. He was a street fighter - no doubt, a natural fighter - one who had honed his skill into something deadly.

  As I sat there looking at him, I suddenly knew why he did what he did. And how he could afford such a lifestyle. Whether it was a psychic hit or not, I didn't know. But I suddenly knew the truth.

  "You're a hired killer," I said.

  He glanced at me and shook his head and smiled. "You're good, lady. "

  I waited. He waited. I knew his every instinct was rebelling against talking to me, but I knew he would, even without my prodding.

  "Yes, I am. Of sorts. "

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I can't always guarantee death. Some survive the dim mak. " He shrugged. "Others don't. "

  "Caesar Marquez was one of those who didn't. "

  He shrugged again. The sign of a true killer. Nonchalance about life and death. Would I ever be that way? God, I hoped not.

  "So, people hire you to kill people?" I asked.

  "That's how it works, lady. "

  "Only you can't guarantee death. "

  He nodded. "It's impossible to guarantee death. "

  "The victim dies two weeks later," I said, "so no one expects foul play. "

  He grinned at me, his cigarette dangling from his lower lip. "That's the beauty of it, lady. "

  "Your hands are registered as lethal weapons, are they not?"

  "They are. So, you're really a vampire?"

  "I really am. "

  "Jesus. "

  "He's not a vampire, as far as I'm aware. Give me your hands. "

  He did, hesitantly, setting aside the peas. I wasn't compelling him to do what I wanted, but I think he thought I was, and that was good enough. I took his hands and instantly had image after image of bar fights and street fights and back alley brawls. In all of them, Andre was wearing a hood and shades. In disguise.

  "So, you often pick fights with your unsuspecting victims. "

  He shrugged. I'd seen the dim mak being delivered, a ferocious blow that left his opponents reeling and dazed.

  "You've killed dozens of people," I said.

  He shrugged again. "Who's keeping track?"

  I stared at him, unblinking. He looked back at me, and promptly blinked and looked away. I sensed his fear, I also sensed he was about to do somethin
g stupid.

  I said, "Who hired you to kill Caesar Marquez?"

  He shook his head. "Sorry, babe. That's where my cooperation ends, vampire or no vampire. "

  Except as he spoke the words, I saw a brief flash. An image. It appeared briefly in his thoughts and was gone. I released his hands and he sat back with the bag of peas.

  "You can't prove any of this," he said. "No one would believe you. "

  "True," I said. "They wouldn't believe me, but they would believe you. "

  He sat there and thought about it and smoked, and high above us, a low cloud briefly obscured the stars. The wind also picked up. Somewhere in the Malibu Hills, a coyote howled.

  "No one can know about what I've done," he said.

  I said nothing and watched him closely. I was certain I hadn't blinked in many, many minutes. He went on.

  "My family is so proud. Everyone is so proud. That feels good. It feels good knowing that I did my family proud. We were so poor. The money was so easy. " He was babbling now, and I saw the tears. "Just one punch and I make thousands, tens of thousands. Sometimes, even more. "

  I watched and waited, catching a brief glimpse of what he was planning on doing.

  "I can't let my family down. I can't. They're so proud. "

  I said nothing, and watched as Andre Fine, a five-time champion fighter, was reduced to tears and incomprehensible mumbling.

  I got up and left him there on the balcony.

  Chapter Forty-four

 

  It was two days later, and I was back at the gym in downtown Los Angeles.

  I watched from the shadows as a cadre of boxers did their best to punch the stuffing out of everything from punching bags to speed bags to padded mitts.

  Seated with me was Allison Lopez. I held her hand in a comforting, reassuring way. I didn't worry about my cold flesh, and, indeed, she seemed to revel in it. She wanted to meet me here, a place she always found comforting. Apparently, she loved hearing the sounds of boxing. The scuffing feet, the smell of sweat. It was here, after all, that she had watched Caesar Marquez blossom into a world-class fighter.

  Now, we were watching a young flyweight, smaller than me, even, punching the unholy crap out of his trainer's mitts.

  "His own brother," she said again, shaking her head.

  "Yes," I said.

  "But why?"

  I looked at the posters that surrounded the gym. Most were of Caesar Marquez. None, as far as I could tell, were of Romero. "My best guess," I said, "was that he was jealous. "

  "Romero was an accomplished trainer. He was never a boxer. "

  "Never a boxer of note," I corrected. "His official record was nine wins and twenty-three losses. "

  She blinked and squeezed my hand. "I had no idea. "

  "Few did. A very unremarkable career. "

  "But he was so successful as a trainer. "

  I shook my head. "He was successful at training his successful brothers. Many of whom have had title shots. And Caesar, according to all reports, was the best of the lot. "

  "Still, why kill him?"

  "Maybe he never expected him to die," I said. "Or he never believed he would die. "

  "He had to believe that some injury would occur. "

  I nodded. I assumed so, too.

  "But how did he know to hire Andre Fine?"

  A good question. Two days ago, after meeting with Andre Fine, I had spent the morning doing some investigating. A quick call to Caesar's promoter, Harry, confirmed that Romero had arranged for the exhibition against Andre Fine. This had surprised Harry, as Romero was rarely involved in fight promotions, or even publicity events. And what Harry told me next surprised me, although it shouldn't have: Andre Fine had once been an up-and-coming boxer, until he turned to martial arts.

  "Let me guess," I had said to Harry over the phone. "Romero had been his trainer. "

  "Bingo," said Harry.

  I had next called Allison Lopez and asked her the one question that I knew would break this case wide open. She confirmed my suspicions, and a few hours later, I was at the LAPD in downtown Los Angeles, meeting with a homicide investigator named Sanchez. Sanchez was a big guy with wide shoulders, who sported pictures of his UCLA football days on his desk. His desk also sported pictures of a very lovely wife.

  Sanchez listened to my story, listened to the wild tales of dim mak and of hired killers and touches of death. To his credit, he didn't laugh or joke or even crack a smile. I told him of Romero's connection to Andre Fine, of Romero setting up the exhibition, and who had benefited the most from Caesar's death. Romero. Romero also happened to be the beneficiary of his brother's life insurance.

  Detective Sanchez listened to all of this, then told me he would get back to me.

  And he did, a few hours later. They had sent a squad car out to Andre Fine's residence in Malibu, where they had found his body swinging from a rope off his third-story balcony. All indications suggested a suicide. I tried to feign shock and horror at hearing this news, but in truth, I had seen it coming.

  They next picked up Romero for questioning. To his credit, he admitted to almost everything. Apparently, Romero was looking to get out of the family business. And he also confessed that he planned to fly the coop, all the way to Bermuda.

  Now, I caught Allison up on my investigation.

  She said, "God, I remember now. Romero practically forced Caesar to do the fight. He claimed it was great exposure and publicity. Caesar didn't want to do it but his brother reminded him it was for charity and finally, Caesar gave in. " She shook her head. "Jesus, set up by his own brother. What a bastard. I fucking hate him. "

  We were quiet. The gym wasn't. It was a cacophony of grunts and thumps and pounding. It sounded sexier than it was.

  "Has the insurance money been awarded to Romero?" asked Allison.

  I shook my head. "Not yet. These things take some time on the insurance company's part. "

  "And now?" she said.

  "He paid to have his brother attacked. That will nullify the life insurance policy. "

  "So, what will happen to Romero now?" she asked.

  "He'll be charged for soliciting Andre Fine to hurt his brother. There's no way a murder charge will stick, not with something like dim mak. "

  "Maybe he never meant for his brother to die," she said.

  "Maybe," I said. "But he was willing to take that chance. "

  Allison nodded. "His brothers won't look kindly on what he did," she said.

  "I don't expect they will," I said. "I have no doubt that Romero's life will be a living hell from this moment on. "

  She nodded and squeezed my hand and rested her head on my shoulder, and, as she wept silently, I watched two young fighters in the center practice ring exchange a flurry of punches. Both were wearing padded helmets. Both were sweating profusely. More importantly, one of them was bleeding from his lip.

  I was dismayed to discover that it was the blood, above all else, that interested me the most.

  Chapter Forty-five

 

  On Wednesday evening at 6:30, Russell Baker and I were jogging at Huntington Beach.

  He was shirtless and jaw-droppingly sexy, and it was all I could do not to stare at him as we spoke. Staring at him while we spoke might have led to me running into a trash can. Still, I stole glances, every chance I had. I wondered if it was unethical to lust after my client.

  "That's a wild story, Samantha Moon," he said. He always sounded so damn polite when he spoke to me. Too polite. I wanted him to sound. . . interested. This surprised the hell out of me. A few weeks ago, when he'd first appeared at my house, I had not thought of him as anything other than a client. But watching his fights, watching his skills, seeing the compassion in his heart, and his surprisingly peaceful aura for a fighter, well, something shifted.

  That, and the fact that Kingsley had broken my heart all over again.

>   "It's more than a theory," I said.

  "How can you be so sure, Samantha?" he said easily, smoothly, confidently.

  "Call me Sam," I said.

  "Sure thing, Sam," he said and looked at me and winked and something inside me did a sort of flip. My stomach? Or, perhaps, something further down?

  I considered how much to tell Russell, and decided to keep things fairly sanitized for now. "Romero hired Andre Fine to deliver the dim mak to his brother. "

  "The dim mak," said Russell, shaking his head, "is only a myth. "

  "Myth or not, Caesar Marquez died two weeks later during your match, from no apparent punch or series of punches from you. Most people I'd spoken to - from the referee to Jacky - don't think you hit him hard enough to do any real damage. "

  Russell shook his head. "I'm not sure if I should feel relieved or discouraged. "

  "It is what it is," I said, hating myself for using such a generic idiom, but I was finding being in Russell's presence, jogging together at the beach, so damn exciting that I wasn't thinking straight anyway.

  "I suppose so," said Russell smoothly. "Caesar was a tough fighter. It was hard to land anything on the guy. "

  "Could he have been champ?" I asked.

  "Maybe," said Russell, and he looked at me and winked again. "'Course, he woulda had to go through me first. "

  "Of course. "

  I smiled. He smiled. His stomach muscles undulated. I somehow just missed running into a blue trash can.

  Russell said, "You believe there's something to the touch of death?"

  "I do. "

  "Why?"

  "The police have gone through Andre Fine's records. There's evidence that he'd been paid for many such hits. For someone who wanted to preserve his legacy in fighting, he sure kept a nice paper trail of his illegal dealings. "

  "What exactly do you mean by evidence?" asked Russell. He breathed easily, smoothly, his elbows relaxed at his sides.

  "Investigators found evidence of nine paid hits, totaling hundreds of thousands of dollars. Seven of the targets are dead. "

  "Let me guess," said Russell. "They died of unknown brain trauma. "

  I nodded, although I don't think Russell saw me nod. "Good guess. "

  "Weird," said Russell.

  "Weird is right," I said.