Live Girls

by Ray Garton

  “When was the last time you talked to him?"

  “Last night. In the early evening, really. We were supposed to get together and he called to back out."

  “Get together?"

  She eyed the detective as she sipped her coffee. “For dinner. We were going to discuss the possibility of introducing a new magazine. Does that matter?"

  “No. Did he say why he was changing his plans?"

  “No.” She sat at one of the tables.

  “Miss Schuman, do you have any idea if Mr. Wilkes had any enemies that disliked him enough to kill him?"

  “God, no. Chad worked during the day and went out at night. He wasn't particularly popular here because he was a climber, but nobody hated him that much."

  “Just the same, I'd like to talk to some of his associates."

  “Wait a second.” Miss Schuman scratched a fingernail up and down the side of her cup. “A couple days ago a man named Davey Owen quit his job because he was very upset. Chad had gotten a promotion that Davey thought he deserved."

  “Do you know where I can contact him?"

  “My secretary will have his address and phone number."

  They started back down the corridor toward Jasmine's desk.

  “Mr. Riley, this might be a, oh, a crass thing to ask, but how was Chad murdered?"

  “His throat was torn open,” Riley answered in a whisper. “He bled to death. The man who found him claims he saw a large bird, maybe a bat, flying around the bathroom. The guy thought this bird or whatever had killed him had something that looked like blood all over it. That's impossible, though, because the teeth marks on Wilkes's throat are human."

  “Teeth marks?"

  “Yes."

  “Jesus.” At Jasmine's desk, Miss Schuman said, “Davey Owen's address for the detective, Jasmine."

  Riley thanked Miss Schuman for her time and said he would be back later in the day to talk to some of her other employees.

  “Did you call maintenance, Jasmine?” Miss Schuman asked.

  “They're coming,” she said as she flipped through the Rolodex.

  Miss Schuman went into her office and got a cigarillo from the box. The detective had seemed almost disappointed that she did not burst into tears.

  When he was gone, she stepped outside the cold room again.

  “Miss Schuman?"

  “Hm?"

  “Come here, look at this."

  She looked over Jasmine's shoulder at the Rolodex. One of the cards had been torn out; only the bottom half remained, still clinging to the rings. The cards before and after had black-red smears on them.

  “This was your card,” Jasmine said. “Did you take it?” She touched one of the smears. It seemed to be dry; none stuck to her fingers.

  “What's this?” she asked.

  Miss Schuman silently shrugged.

  Endless, she thought, the annoyances are endless. For some reason, however, this felt like more than just an annoyance. Touching Jasmine's shoulder, she said, “Just a second."

  Miss Schuman went to the corner and looked down the corridor. Detective Kenneth Riley was gone. She decided she'd mention it to him when he got back, maybe have him check with security to see if anything odd had happened the night before.

  “Fix it,” she said to Jasmine, waving her fingers at the Rolodex as she passed the desk. She went back to the office door to close it and cut off the icy draft. Her eyes locked onto the hole in the window.

  A large bird, maybe a bat ... blood all over it...

  Miss Schuman stared at the broken pane for a long time, her cigarillo between two fingers, unable to understand the sudden discomfort she felt.

  Endless, she thought again, closing the door.

  “Jesus H. Christ in sneakers,” Benedek grunted as he poured himself a glass of orange juice.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Riley said flatly, coming into the kitchen.

  “No, no, I shoulda been up a couple hours ago.” Benedek shuffled to the table and dropped into a chair, gesturing for Riley to have a seat.

  The creases on Riley's forehead were so deep they looked like cuts. He cradled his sharp chin in his right palm, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

  “How are you, Walter?” he asked quietly.

  “I'm okay, I guess.” Benedek polished off the orange juice in a couple of gulps. “You want coffee?"

  “Sure."

  Benedek got up and took a filter from a drawer and spooned in some grounds. “So what's up?"

  “There was a murder last night, Walter."

  “This is New York. There were probably a couple dozen."

  “Yeah, but this one was just like your sister's."

  Benedek's thumb stopped half an inch from the BREW switch. He flipped it and turned slowly to Riley.

  “What do you mean?"

  “A man's throat was torn open. Chewed open. He bled to death, but there wasn't much blood around the body."

  “And you think Vernon did it?"

  “Well, not exactly. The teeth marks weren't his. But there were ... similarities."

  “Like what?"

  “I'll get to that. Since the murder was identical to that of your sister and niece, we naturally thought there might be some connection to Vernon Macy."

  Benedek leaned against the counter and heaved a sigh. He would have to be careful; Riley was sharp and would quickly pick up on the fact that he knew something. It sure as hell wasn't Vernon who'd committed the murder last night, but Benedek would have to play dumb.

  “So what do you want from me?” he asked.

  “The victim was Chadwick Morgan Wilkes. He was an assistant editor at Penn Publishing. Ring any bells?"

  “No,” he lied. “Should it?"

  “I thought maybe you'd know of some connection between your brother-in-law and Penn or this Wilkes guy."

  “Maybe”—he cleared his throat—“Vernon had nothing to do with it."

  “It's a possibility. I went to Penn today and learned a former employee was pissed off at Wilkes, so I'm going to check that out. But the details of both murders were so similar..."

  The coffeemaker began to gurgle and Benedek turned his back to Riley to get mugs from the cupboard. He was willing to bet his next paycheck that Riley was talking about Davey Owen.

  “Walter,” Riley said as Benedek poured coffee, “this is all off the record, isn't it? I mean, you're not going to run to your word processor when I'm gone and put all this in print, are you?"

  “No.” Benedek took the mugs to the table and returned to his chair. “No. I'm working on something else anyway.” He sipped his strong black coffee, desperate to change the subject.

  “You wouldn't keep anything from me, would you, Walter?"

  “Why would I do that?"

  Riley shrugged. “Maybe you're hoping to find your brother-in-law before I do?"

  “Nope. That's your job."

  “Yeah.” Riley chuckled humorlessly. “My job.” He curled his fingers around the coffee mug handle but didn't lift it. “Sometimes I wish I was a plumber."

  “Riley. Do I hear a little discontent in your voice?"

  “Something like that.” He wrapped both hands around the mug and looked at Benedek. “Walter, we haven't been the best of friends over the last few years."

  “No, we have not."

  “But even though you've been a pain in the ass at times, I've always thought you were a good reporter. I mean, you're not one of those jerks who goes around juicing things up just for a story."

  Walter couldn't hold back his laughter. “Why thank you, Riley. You're mellowing with age. Either that or you're getting at something."

  Riley stared at the table for a moment. “Yeah, sort of. Walter, how superstitious are you?"

  Benedek's smile twitched away. Maybe Riley was even sharper than he'd thought.

  “Well,” Benedek said slowly, “if you're talking about walking under ladders or stepping on—"

  “Not exactly. I mean, well, are you very religi
ous?"

  “Not at all."

  “Do you believe in evil?"

  Benedek leaned closer to the detective. “Look, Riley, before you start asking for my opinion, why don't you tell me what you're talking about?"

  Riley fidgeted in his seat like a child in church. Benedek had never seen him so nervous and uncertain.

  “The fact that your sister and niece bled to death and there was so little blood in the apartment is strange. Too strange. About six, seven months ago, we found some pimp dead in an alley. Stabbed. He bled to death. But there was very little blood around the body. It was decided he was killed somewhere else and moved, but between the coroner's estimated time of death and the time that the body was found was maybe ten minutes at the most."

  It was Benedek's turn to fidget.

  “I saw the body, Walter. That puppy was drained, white as a sheet.” Riley chewed on his thumbnail, his eyes staring thoughtfully over Benedek's shoulder.

  “The pimp's body disappeared from the morgue the next day. No locks busted. Just gone. Like he walked out."

  Benedek got up from the table and got the sugar bowl from the counter. He never put sugar in his coffee, but he wanted to get away from Riley, feeling as if his secrets had suddenly become visible and he had to act busy to keep them hidden.

  “The pimp,” Riley went on, “your sister and niece, and now this Wilkes guy. And there've been more. I checked. Now and then, somebody gets torn open—sometimes carefully cut open—and bleeds to death, but, like magic”—he spread his arms—"no blood!" Riley stood and walked slowly around the table holding his mug.

  “I ran across something kind of odd, Walter,” he continued. “In January, a woman called us to report that someone was turning her eight-year-old boy into a zombie. Said he was acting very strange, losing weight. Looked really pale, she said, like he was anemic. And she said there was a cut on his throat that wouldn't go away. She was told to take him to a doctor but said she couldn't until her next welfare check came."

  Riley walked to the counter and leaned against it, facing Benedek's back.

  “Two days later, Walter, she called to say she'd found him dead in his bed. She was hysterical, of course, and someone was sent out immediately.” He touched the mug to his lips. “The mother was in the living room crying and carrying on. The boy was gone. A few drops of blood were found on his sheets. Never found the body.” He seated himself again.

  Benedek was idly turning a spoon around and around in his coffee. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, “Okay, Riley. What are you saying?"

  “Something very un-right is going on, Walter, something very bad, and nobody seems to be paying any attention. Do you know that there are people living beneath this city? Naked, crazy people who've become like animals, eating shit from the sewers, sleeping on piles of maggoty garbage? Do you know that there are rats in this city big enough to carry off a two-year-old child?"

  “Well, I've heard—"

  Nodding, Riley interrupted: “Yeah, you've heard, but you haven't given it much thought, have you? Nobody does. When something is too off-center, too awful, it gets ignored or excused. That's what I think is happening here. Something very off-center is going on, and it's being explained away."

  “Maybe it's just not strange enough for anyone to think—"

  “Look, Walter, I'm telling you this because we've known each other a long time and, despite everything, I trust you to keep it to yourself. And because it was, well, you're directly involved. I mean, it was your sister...” He hesitated. “The teeth marks on your sister and niece were definitely Vernon Macy's. But they were different from the dentist's X rays. There were two, um..."

  Fangs. Benedek finished the sentence in his mind.

  “Well, they were long and thin, like ... like fangs.” Riley looked away, seemingly embarrassed. “There's evidence that Chadwick Wilkes's killer also had them. I said there were similarities between the teeth marks? Well, the teeth are different, but they both seem to have fangs."

  “Maybe they, you know, used something,” Benedek said.

  “Yeah,” Riley replied with a curt nod, “that's what the M.E. says. ‘Well, it looks like he's got fangs,’ he says, ‘but we all know that couldn't be, so he must've used some kind of needles, or something.’ He's ignoring the obvious."

  “The obvious?"

  “Walter,” Riley said, then paused. When he spoke again, the words came quickly. “Walter, if you were covering this story and I said it was my opinion that there were vampires—or at least people who thought they were vampires—roaming around New York sucking blood, would you make me out to be a nut case in the paper?"

  Benedek tugged on his chin. He could tell Riley the whole story right now, tell him where to find the dead pimp and all about the Midnight Club and Live Girls, and Riley would believe him, he'd believe every word because he was ripe for it. But something made Benedek hold back, something told him the time wasn't right.

  “No, Riley,” he said. “I wouldn't. I would quote you objectively and nothing more."

  Riley nodded and smiled. “I appreciate that.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Gotta lot of work to do today. I should go. Thanks for the coffee."

  Benedek stood, too. “You'd be laughed out of your job,” he said simply.

  Riley didn't speak again until he was standing in the corridor outside the apartment.

  “Not if I can prove it."

  Benedek was surprised by the man's confidence.

  “You've never met my wife, Walter. She's a social worker, God bless her. She spends her days working in parts of the city I don't even want to know about. And I've got a sixteen-year-old daughter, too. Every day I worry about them, and that's just from knowing they're out there with all those crazy human beings in New York City. I'm not at all nuts about the idea of them being at the mercy of something inhuman. I can take a few laughs if I have to.” He patted Benedek's shoulder once and said, “Have a good day, Walter."

  Benedek closed the door and immediately went to the phone. He had to get to Davey before Riley did. When he realized he didn't have Davey's number, he got it from directory assistance.

  He stopped counting the rings at fifteen, and it was sometime after that that Davey finally answered.

  “Yeah?” His voice was thick with sleep.

  “Davey? It's Walter Benedek."

  “Walter?” He sounded as if he'd never heard the name before.

  “Davey, remember me? Walter Benedek?"

  “Just a second, I'm ... just let me...” He coughed and sighed, trying to wake up. “Okay, yeah,” he said.

  “Listen to me, Davey, you might be in trouble. A police detective will be coming to your apartment today. Don't answer the door to anyone but me. And don't answer your phone. Just stay out of sight, okay? I'm coming over in a while. Do you understand?"

  “Y-Yes, but why is—"

  “We'll talk about it later. Just wait for me."

  He hung up the phone and hurried into the bathroom to shower and dress. He had a lot to do.

  After Benedek's phone call, Davey sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. Sleep seemed to cling to the inside of his skull like drying mud.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw his reflection in the mirror across the room. Something dark was smeared around his mouth. Touching it, he found it was dry and caked.

  Davey turned to the nightstand, hoping to find a washcloth or tissue to wipe away the smear, but instead he spotted a torn, red-stained index card. He read the name and address and the previous night began to come back to him in pieces.

  He went into the bathroom and washed his face with cold water, then stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, remembering the fear in Chad's eyes.

  Chad Wilkes had been an asshole, a real prick, but Davey had killed him.

  And it felt so good, he thought, like a fix for a junkie, like sex, for God's sake.

  That was why a detective was coming to see him.

&nb
sp; He turned on the shower and stepped under the stream. The hot water washed away his sleep and made what he'd done even clearer.

  A mountain lion doesn't worry about whether a doe deserves to die, he thought. The lion needs to eat, so it kills.

  But his conscience would not let him off the hook so easily.

  You're not an animal! he argued with himself. You're a human being and so was Chad!

  He leaned against the shower wall and turned his face to the water, closing his eyes.

  Davey knew why he'd gotten that card from Jasmine Barny's Rolodex the night before. He wanted to know where Miss Schuman lived so when his hunger returned...

  There had to be another way of feeding, a way that would hurt no one.

  He remembered the thick reddish-brown drink Anya had ordered at the club.

  House special ... for employees and members only.

  What had Walter said about blood being stored at the Midnight Club?

  Stored in refrigerators in the back...

  He would go there for what he needed.

  When Davey turned off the shower, he heard knocking at the door.

  He began toweling off, surprised, after the last few miserable days and nights, at how very good he felt, how strong and clear.

  In his bedroom, he quietly dressed, waiting for the knocking to go away.

  Benedek arrived with a brown paper bag cradled in his arm and caution in his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Benedek asked in the doorway. “I mean, you're not going to..."

  Davey felt a pang of guilt; the man was afraid of him. “I'm okay, Walter. For now."

  They sat in the living room, facing one another.

  “Walter, why are you protecting me from the police? I mean, after your sister was..."

  “You killed a man last night, am I right?"

  Davey nodded hesitantly.

  “Okay. I don't condone that, Davey, even though I know you had to do it, but I—"

  “You don't know, I don't think you under—"

  “I do understand, Davey, things are beginning to make sense. Not good sense, not sane sense, but a kind of sense. You died last night, you came back, and now you need blood, am I right? Like, say, a diabetic needs insulin. Now, if the police catch you, they won't be able to hold you, and if they try to kill you, they're in for the surprise of their lives."