Vampire's Dilemma

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

I smirked at him. “I’m not that kind of ghost.”

  He ignored me and kept talking, “And I know you’ve had successes finding artifacts taken in the relocation camps and returning them to their owners. But,” he lifted a hand, palm up. “How do you think you would do in a war?”

  “A war?” I was shocked. “Are the Russians coming after all?”

  Laslo shook his head slowly. “Brownie,” his voice sounded disappointed. “Surely you don’t think that because we all got out of that mess with our skins that the danger is over?”

  “We didn’t all get out of it,” I said, looking at that spot in the office again.

  “No,” Laslo agreed. “And Clean Humanity is far from done. If anything, it’s getting stronger because of what happened. We’re on borrowed time. Sooner or later someone is going to put the Supernatural Underground together with the San Pedro Street Mission.

  “We’ll do what we can before that happens, but there are only so many places we can move people to. And we have to go carefully, which means small numbers only. But not everyone can go. And not everyone will go. If things blow up, no one will be safe and we’ll need all the help possible.”

  “Keiko wouldn’t go.” I was sure.

  “I don’t think so, either. Someone will say something and they will come for her. She could be deported. She would want to go to ground before that happens.”

  I might have sighed, although I no longer breathed. Pressure from the Clean Humanity people were already forcing many harmless Supernaturals into the same hiding spaces as the predators—the vampires, werewolves, and others. The situation could only get worse. “We’d be fighting a war on two fronts.”

  “Yes. So, how do you think you would do as a team in such a situation?”

  “Fine,” I told him. “We would do fine. She’s smart and tenacious and organized. She’s also very stubborn and has a quick temper. But I can deal with that.” I might have said more, but Laslo was laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” he said, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes with his fingers. “It’s just…just that she said the same about you.”

  “Is that so?” I came over and sat on the sofa. “Well, she’s also a little rigid. She could stand to loosen up a bit.”

  This statement sent Laslo to laughing harder.

  “What? She couldn’t have said the same about me.”

  When he got his breath back, Laslo said, “Who would say that about you? No, she said…” his grin was impossibly wide. “She said you were impulsive and sometimes relied too much on your intuition instead of the facts.”

  Why, that little…

  “So desuke,” I said without thinking, and then went to get Laslo’s coffee, since he wasn’t in a condition to continue a conversation.

  When I got back, he was wiping at his eyes with one hand, while in the other he held a piece of paper. I put down the coffee cup and took the paper. It had a picture on it of what l took to be a coin or a metal button. There was a head-and-shoulders engraving of a woman on it in what I thought might be Greek or Roman costume. Faces on coins usually had a rather severe look to them, but this one was different, almost modern. The face was young and beautiful and the expression soft.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “It’s part of the third thing I wanted to talk with you about. Someone I know and occasionally work with sent me this and a photograph of a man.”

  Laslo pulled the photo out of his breast pocket. It showed a clean cut guy with a moustache in an army uniform. Colonel.

  “What about him?” I asked.

  “His name is Wright. Worked for these same people in occupied Berlin as a historian. His field is—was—Arthurian England and its relics.”

  “Relics.” I thought about that for a moment. “Like the Grail.”

  “Indeed. And other things. Did you know that Hitler’s people had been looking for the Grail before and during the war?”

  “No. But I guess he figured he might gain an advantage if his side had it—oh.”

  “Yes. Wright was part of a group looking into such things, but he had a breakdown and was sent back to California. He was hospitalized in Camarillo, but recently left.”

  “Left,” I echoed. “As in went home or as in tied some bed sheets together?”

  “The latter. I met with my sometime employer today and will be taking Wright’s place in Berlin for a while. Before I go, I wanted to ask you and Keiko to keep an eye on the Mission for me. I’ve told Martha Sue about Colonel Wright and if she sees him, she knows she’s to contact one of you.”

  Martha Sue Applebaum was the Mission’s full-time Director. The widow of a well-known Hollywood talent agent, she knew how to organize and as a Minnesota girl off a dairy farm, she knew how to work.

  “So what’s the info on the coin?”

  “Some kind of artifact or heirloom Wright found on his own in Germany. He’s apparently somewhat over-attached to it, so they didn’t remove it, but there’s some interest in its possible properties.”

  “So it might be Supernatural. And Wright?”

  “Not Supernatural. At least, not so far as is known. But you know how these things go.”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t very Supernatural myself, once.

  “Can I keep the pictures?”

  Laslo nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. He had taught me to make it the way he likes, all the time complaining about the trash coffee beans Americans buy. Since I no longer had a need to eat or drink, I took his word for it.

  “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  Laslo turned both palms up. “No idea. It could be a few days or a month. I hope not longer.”

  I tossed the pictures onto the top of my desk. “When are you leaving?”

  “Now. My bag is in the hall. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “Oh. Well, then…don’t forget to bring me back a present.”

  * * * *

  Martha Sue Applebaum looked around the lobby of the San Pedro Street Mission with more than a little satisfaction.

  When she had arrived this morning, the scene had been more like a cattle-call casting then a well-run mission. The weather was starting to turn cold—it did get cold in Los Angeles, though nothing like back home—and more men were coming in to put their names on lists for shelter or to ask for a new coat or a blanket. The volunteer manager had inexplicably put two new people on the same shift and the more experienced of the homeless men were taking advantage of that until Martha Sue had put a stop to it.

  A few dust-ups had occurred too as the drinkers and this new class of street hobo, war veterans, clashed. A few of the drinkers were hung over or antagonistic when on the booze and this did not sit well with the gaunt veterans who always seemed to be only partially living in this world, as though what they saw they suspected was an illusion.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Martha Sue saw one of these men looking wistfully at the coat another man wore. He seemed more cared-for than the others, which meant he was probably new to the streets and maybe the city. There was something familiar about him, likely because he was so similar to the others, although his moustache was more cleanly defined and he had not yet grown the beard that most of the others grew for lack of facilities to shave.

  His clothing was nondescript but seemed of good quality, if somewhat wrinkled and dirty. He wore some kind of religious medal or keepsake at his neck, which he frequently touched. He was thin, but it seemed more the thinness of illness than lack of food and she had the impression that he was an educated man. This was borne out when she introduced herself and he apologized, but declined to give his name.

  “Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration,” he told her with a small smile. “I’ve left my home and so I’ve left my name and haven’t come up with a new one as yet.”

  “That was Dickens, wasn’t it?” she asked. He beamed at her.
/>   “Well then, Mr. Dickens, let’s see if we can’t find you a topcoat.”

  He had already gone when she saw the photos on her desk and realized why Mr. Dickens had looked so familiar.

  * * * *

  I was making tea for Keiko.

  She had come in not too long after Laslo had left. When I told her she had just missed him, she shrugged in that funny way she has where the shrug is so tiny you might miss it. It’s almost as if she doesn’t really want to shrug, but can’t help herself.

  I filled her in on our conversation and couldn’t resist needling her about her categorizing me as impulsive. Trying to get Keiko to blush is always a highlight of my day.

  “I’m not impulsive.” I set down the tea tray. “You’re just stodgy.”

  There it was—that light pink color coming up as two brighter spots on her cheeks and a slow downward flush to her neck like a reverse dawn. I couldn’t help grinning.

  Keiko’s lips compressed as she struggled to maintain her dignity. As usual, she mastered herself, barely shooting me a glare as she thanked me for the tea.

  “You are vulnerable.” I sat down on the arm of the sofa. “Even if Clean Humanity isn’t specifically looking for you, you’re getting a reputation as someone with knowledge and interest in Supernatural objects.”

  “And you are a ghost haunting a space above a gallery where such objects might be found.”

  “Okay, we’re both vulnerable. But you’re probably more vulnerable than I am because more people know about you than know about me.”

  Keiko took a ladylike gulp of her tea and set down her cup and saucer. “Brownie.” She made my name a rebuke. “I hope you are not suggesting that I stop looking for the stolen objects?”

  I had to laugh at that, putting up my hands. “Not in this existence.” I sat down next to her.

  “I know that getting back the things that were stolen is very important to you—especially the one that was taken from you at the relocation camp…”

  “Concentration camp.”

  “…at the camp,” I continued. “Not only is the government going to be unwilling to give back what they took, they’re going to make it harder to look for it. This guy in Congress has set up a Committee on Supernatural Activities. They are going to make it very hot for anyone with Supernatural sympathies and you—you could be deported.”

  I saw her eyes widen as she took that in.

  “But,” she said softly, “my father is a citizen.”

  “You weren’t born here, Keiko. You were born in Japan, and for all that we’re supposed to be getting on great with them now, there are probably still lots of people who have good memories for bad things.” I leaned towards her. “Maybe you should talk to your father about it.”

  She had started to take some more tea; now her eyes narrowed and she set the teacup down. “Brownie…” she started.

  “I know, I know,” I cut her off. “You don’t want to talk to him. But if we have to go underground, we’ll be competing for hidey holes with werewolves and vampires and other unpleasant things. It’s reasonable to try to put that off for as long as we can.”

  Her expression stopped me.

  “If I had to go into hiding, Brownie, you would go with me?”

  It would have been my turn to blush if I had had any blood in me. I got up and wandered over to my desk to pick up the silver magnifying glass she had given me. I pulled on the handle to reveal the razor sharp knife that functioned as a letter opener.

  “Have magnifying glass, will travel.” I smirked, but it probably wasn’t up to standard.

  “That would not help.” She came over to me. “At least, not against a vampire. The silver in that knife would not hurt him and it is not long enough to stake him. And he could probably take it away from you easily.” She snatched the magnifying glass out of my hand.

  Her tone told me she was teasing me to lighten the mood, but she had a point. A vampire could probably shred me with one hand and eat Keiko with the other.

  “Fortunately,” I told her, “you don’t meet a lot of vampires these days, and I know how to get it back.”

  I materialized next to her and peeled her thumb away from the handle of the magnifying glass, which fell into my other hand. Her eyes widened, then narrowed.

  “People need a thumb to grasp anything,” I told her. “Take away the thumb, they can’t hold on.”

  Her mouth settled into a thin line. “I will not talk with my father.”

  I swapped the glass for the Aladdin’s Lamp charm on its silver chain. “I didn’t think you would.” I held the necklace out to her. “So how about taking me with you more often? Just in case you run into another curse monger or a vampire or just some no-good with a bad temper?”

  I caught the hint of a smile in the corners of her mouth.

  “You are too—bossy,” she told me. “You would try to run things.”

  I didn’t spare the air to be indignant. She was probably right.

  She stood up, saying she had work to do downstairs. As she picked up her bag and gloves, I dropped the charm back onto my desk. The chain made a chiming sound as it pooled on the blotter.

  Keiko caught my eye. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Taking you with me more often, I mean. I will think about it.”

  Well, it was something.

  Then the phone rang and when I heard Martha Sue’s voice on the other end of the line, I motioned for Keiko to stay. Looked like we would be going out together sooner rather than later.

  * * * *

  Martha Sue had told us Wright had asked about Pershing Square while she had been finding a coat for him, so that is where we went looking for him. We found him on a bench not far from one of the two square, shed-like entrances to the underground auto garage.

  Effeminate young men had begun to drift in, taking seats on the planter boxes and greeting one another with cries of “Hey, Mary!” and “Hiya, Miss Thing!”

  This shocked Keiko a lot less than it did me.

  I had known a few homosexuals, or men I thought were homosexuals, but it wasn’t something people talked about. Gay had meant happy when I was alive. And homosexuals did not gather together in parks to…advertise.

  Around us, business suited men and workaday women were leaving downtown to the night population. Crowds headed to car parks and bus and streetcar stops. They scattered the dozens of pigeons walking and bobbing at their feet. The rumble of traffic in the background was almost a solid noise and the smell of diesel exhaust was heavy on the air as the buses came and went every few minutes. I didn’t remember the city being so full.

  There had been older people on the benches when Keiko and I had entered the park. People about the age my mother would have been. They had now gone home to their dinners on Bunker Hill, Keiko informed me. Things would quiet when the “rush hour” was over. For the night, the park would belong to the feminine young men in their tight dungarees with their middle-aged, temporary lovers, and the drug dealers.

  What I understood from what she told me was that the city I had known was gone.

  I had been only recently freed from being tied to haunting my old office. It was clear that I had missed a lot of change. As a ghost I might be around decades or even centuries. What changes might I see in that time? And who would I see it with?

  An hour or so later Keiko was fidgeting, wondering how long Wright, or the Coin Man as she called him, was going to sit there. Other than lighting and discarding cigarettes, the only movement he had made since we had found him had been to the coin necklace under his shirt. He never pulled it out, just stroked it with the palm of his right hand and to me it seemed as though he was comforting it or being comforted by it.

  We can’t stay here all night, Brownie.

  There was an undercurrent of something more than annoyance in that silent comment. Keiko hated to talk to me in her head; she said it felt like I was reading her mind. I’ve told her I can only hear what is directed at me specifically, but that
doesn’t cut any mustard with the lady. There are times that I wish I could read her mind. But more often, the fact that I can’t fills my ghostly heart with joy.

  I know, I told her. But unless he’s planning to sleep in the bushes, he’ll be moving on. We just have to hope that he’ll go to where he’s been bedding down so we can tell the folks looking for him where to find him.

  I felt like telling her this wasn’t the longest or most boring time I’d ever spent following some fellow, but I knew she would take it as a criticism. I was not spoiling for a fight. Not that Keiko had a sharp tongue; just sharp enough to carve roast beef like paper.

  The Coin Man lit up another cigarette and sat for a while longer, smoking it and looking at nothing. Then he got up and walked towards the entrance to the underground parking garage. Probably headed for the Men’s Room.

  Let’s follow him, I told Keiko, who stayed planted on the bench.

  Why don’t we wait for him to come back?

  What if he doesn’t come back?

  Keiko sighed a tiny little sigh and stood up.

  If he is going into the Men’s Room, I am not following him.

  It’ll be dark in the garage—I’ll materialize and take a look myself.

  On the level below the park, Keiko stepped into the shadow of a concrete pillar and I appeared but promptly went invisible before moving into the men’s toilet. There was only one man in there and he wasn’t Wright. He looked like a very busy, very tired salesman to me. He had put on a lot of cologne and was trying to comb his bushy brown hair into submission but was only making things worse.

  Back out in the parking garage, the sound was strange as if it was being muffled and magnified at the same time. Tires made squealing noises as they went round from ramp to ramp, heading up or down in the gloomy concrete passages and noisy mufflers came off sounding like old biplane engines.

  No Coin Man.

  I returned to Keiko and told her what I’d found—or not found—then sent her in one direction while I went in another.

  I was on the far side of the garage, near the other set of restrooms and stairs when I heard Keiko yell in my mind.

  Brownie!

  I was with her in less than a few seconds. There were shuffling sounds and Keiko’s rapid, panicked breathing. I could just see Wright who had one arm around the neck of the businessman from the Men’s Room, dragging him down and back into a dark spot. There was a glint and it looked as though Wright had thrown the coin necklace over the other man’s head.